The Last Night

by Cesca Major

  ‘Doctor’s been.’

  She looked at him then, noticing a bloodied hand towel. ‘What’s happened? Is Connie alright? Is she hurt?’

  ‘She’ll live,’ he said, stressing the first part, his eyes dead.

  ‘I should go to her.’ Abigail moved to push past him.

  He stepped in front of her. ‘She’s not here, she’s in the hospital. And we don’t want you scurrying away again, do we? What entices you out of the house, I wonder?’ He went to put a finger to his lips, the finger slipping to one side, tapping his cheek.

  She didn’t answer him, her body rigid, arms thrust downwards, head strained backwards, the brim of her hat bent as she pushed against the wood. Did he know? Had he followed her? It was such a small place, eyes everywhere, had she really expected him not to find out?

  ‘All these secrets.’ He tutted, shaking his head slowly. He drew the bolt across the door, after the second attempt at ushering her in front of him, so that she was forced to move.

  Did he know about Richard? About her visits to see him and his father?

  She cleared her throat, eyes darting to the silver tray in the hallway, hoping that he was lying, that she might see her sister’s key, her distinctive key-ring, a threepence on a chain. There was nothing there, the glimmering surface containing a few pennies, nothing more.

  ‘I should visit her, take her some things, she’ll be scared.’

  He shrugged, eyes crossing. ‘We’ll have a drink first.’

  If she agreed, maybe she would get away from him quickly. She nodded once, unable to look at him now, feeling the weight of him, unsteady by her side, his eyes roaming loosely over her.

  ‘A drink’s allowed, isn’t it?’ His voice mocked her. ‘God knows, I need one. You can tell me where you scuttle off to.’ He lurched backwards before standing up straight, rolling his shoulders back and heading towards the living-room door in as straight a line as he could manage.

  She followed him, not knowing what else she could do, tentative.

  He was pouring whisky from a crystal carafe, the stopper already resting on its side, one glass already half-full. She had never drunk whisky before but took it when he held it out, a little off-centre. She sniffed at it cautiously, which seemed to amuse him. She looked at him as she drank, quickly, the liquid firing down her throat, the urge to cough and splutter it back up all over the carpet overwhelming, but she swallowed, kept drinking. Tears filled her eyes, her face screwed up as if she was drinking a glass of lemon juice. Her head ached with the shock of it.

  He sloshed more into his glass, picking up the tumbler and directing it at her. ‘You’re very different to your sister, you know.’

  Were they? She wondered. She thought of her sister, impeccably turned out in her cotton dresses, the waist cinched in, neat polished shoes, her hair clipped back in a chignon, the rest of it framing her face in pinned waves. The softly spoken women who hosted coffee mornings in her beautiful living room, who had taken her in. She thought of Connie now, in the hospital, knew then what had happened, the hand moving protectively over her stomach in recent weeks, her grey face in the mornings, her trips to the bathroom after breakfast.

  She wanted him to be reminded of her sister, so she asked, ‘How did you two meet?’ realizing as she did so that she didn’t know, vague memories of him appearing, clutching drooping carnations for her mum in Bristol all those years ago.

  Something flashed across his face, the expression gentler, wistful, a whisper and then gone. His mouth moved into a thin line as if he were suddenly afraid the words would tumble out if he didn’t lock his lips tighter.

  ‘I remember your wedding day. I couldn’t believe there was anything more perfect than how she looked that day.’ The dress she’d had hanging in her bedroom for weeks, the veiled hairpiece worn on glossy, dark hair. Her rosy pink lips full, her eyes trained on Larry, never leaving him, blushing as he took her gloved hand, as they posed for photographs on the steps of the registry office in Bristol.

  ‘She was the prettiest girl in Bristol.’ He said it as if it surprised him, clamming up again, then taking another sip of his drink. ‘You were… what? Twelve, thirteen? A little girl, a little flat-chested girl with a posy of flowers and a high laugh.’

  Abigail smiled, one side of her mouth lifting, unnatural. She thought of that girl in her high-waisted dress, a satin sash draping along the floor. How had that little girl ended up here?

  ‘Just a little girl,’ he said. ‘Not so little now, are you.’

  He moved quickly then; she had no time to react as he removed her tumbler before it could slip from her grasp and smash into a thousand pieces. She felt light-headed, the alcohol swirling in her veins, clouding her thoughts, stopping her voice. He had taken both her hands; his felt too small, too smooth. Richard’s hands were bigger, rougher, more welcome. He circled a finger on her palm in deliberate, slow movements, the pressure and feel of him making her momentarily nauseous. Her nostrils were filled with his breath, her mouth with whisky and fear.

  He guided her over to the chaise longue, its cheerful peppermint shade at odds with the moment. He pushed her down onto it so that her face was level with the buttons on his trousers, the bulge of the material forcing her eyes to slide right to left before he took her chin in one hand and held it steady. With the other hand he reached down and undid the buttons one by one, his waistband loosening, the creases in his shirt imprinted on her memory. She seemed unable to move away from him, her breathing coming thicker, her chest rising and falling, her body getting hotter, palms damp, the roar of blood in her ears. It seemed that everything had slowed down then.

  ‘You’ve wanted to do this since you arrived.’

  Where was Edith? She couldn’t hear anything except the sounds in her own head, the room blurred, just him in front of her, this moment. She had to get out.

  He paused, removed his hand from her face, looked down, briefly distracted, and she took her chance, pushed him away, making him stumble as she lurched past him, across the room to the French windows, which had been left open. She imagined him turning to stop her, a hand gripping her arm, his fingers round her flesh, trapping her in that room. She made it into the garden, onto the terrace, weeds starting to peek through the cracks in the paving stones, the scent of lavender overwhelming as she moved to the grass, down to the gate. He followed her, stumbling through the French windows and, as she clicked the latch down on the gate, she dared to look over her shoulder. He had fallen, one knee on the paving stones, half up. Then she was through the gate and away down the path, her head woozy from the alcohol and fear.

  She wasn’t aware of the path, the people walking past her, just her heartbeat and the certainty that she had to get out of there, she had to leave. She knew she was also running away from her sister, but she couldn’t stop herself. With every step she felt the thread that tied her to the house stretched, stretched until, as she looked across at the turquoise strip of sea and the tops of the houses of Lynmouth, she felt it finally snap and she was free again. She couldn’t go back there. How could she go back there?

  IRINA

  ‘You went with Andrew?’ her mother breathed, her voice smaller in the bustle of the ward. Irina had to lean forward to catch what she had to say.

  ‘Hmm.’ Irina was brisk, getting up to pat at the bedclothes, going to fetch the nurse to fill up her mother’s jug. It was the smell that made her remember being there, aged eight, getting wheeled on a gurney, staring up at the strip lights above her, her face burning, her mother’s heels somewhere on the linoleum behind her. Disinfectant. The scent clinging to the hairs in her nostrils, tickling her throat. Layer upon layer of bleach, over blood, over fluids, over the smell of a hundred different strangers. She was back there, men leaning over her with masks, hands tucking her into scratchy blankets, talking all around her, instructions issued, the sound of metal on meta
l. It made her pause for breath, one hand on the wall of the corridor as the signs swam, blurred, Irina’s breathing faster, her chest constricting.

  She returned, fiddled with the lamp by her mother’s bed, moving it this way and that, not wanting to remain still.

  ‘Leave that,’ her mother said, lifting a hand to wave her away, the effort seemingly so momentous, she dropped it again.

  Irina sat, smoothing her skirt, searching her lap for something to say. They didn’t have a game to distract them, a view to look at. She heard someone cough in another room; a beeping, rhythmic but quiet, seemed to grow louder from a machine in the corner of the room. A family were huddled into a curtained cubicle, a bark of laughter and lots of shushing followed.

  ‘I want to meet him,’ her mother said, looking at Irina with her milky-blue eyes.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Maybe, although…’ She trailed off, not wanting to admit to how she’d behaved, to see the disappointed look on her mother’s face as she tried to make excuses for her rudeness. ‘One day,’ she said finally.

  ‘I thought he was out of the picture,’ her mother said innocently, then shooting her a quick look.

  ‘He was.’ She squirmed in her seat. Absurd to feel so uncomfortable talking about it, but they didn’t delve too deeply into things like that; her mother had given up asking after him months ago. ‘We’re not…’ She let the sentence hang, the suggestion clear.

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  A nurse walked in with a trolley and a small plastic cups of pills and handed one to her mother. She felt relieved at the interruption.

  Her mother was smiling at the nurse, thanking her and for a moment she seemed like a different woman. She hadn’t seen her mother around other people for years, hadn’t watched her interact. She was so open, grateful for the pills, asked after the woman’s son. He was fine. Irina blinked as the nurse passed her, smiling and bending down to say, ‘Lovely lady, your mum.’

  ‘How old’s her son?’ Irina asked, watching her mother’s face change, cloud over, the familiar lines between her eyebrows, around her mouth, as she took the pills, sipped at water, let the silence stretch.

  ‘He’s six.’

  They both looked away. It hurt, hearing it.

  ‘I miss them,’ Irina said suddenly, when the nurse had left, overwhelmed perhaps by the memories of the last time she was in a hospital, when she’d asked every nurse and doctor about her brother. Was he somewhere, in another room? Was he with their dad? She was older, you see, and it was her job to look after him, the worry gnawing at her.

  Her mother tutted, just once. ‘Let’s not,’ she said, in her brisk voice, looking over at the family behind the curtain.

  ‘I want to,’ Irina said, picturing Andrew’s face in the car when he’d dropped her off the other day. He wanted to help her and she needed to talk about it, and one of the people she had to talk to was lying there in front of her. ‘I need to tell you something… about that day.’

  Her mother physically reeled, her eyes rolling into her skull so for a second Irina rose out of her chair ready to call for a nurse. Then her mother swallowed. ‘I really don’t think… I’m not sure…’

  ‘Excuse me…’ A head appeared between the curtains and a tall ginger-haired man was staring at her. ‘I’m so sorry, but could you possibly get a nurse? I don’t want to leave my wife.’

  Irina got up from her chair. ‘Of course,’ she said, her voice strained. She went to the door of the room, looked out into the corridor at the nurses station. Why did her mother insist on avoiding things? Couldn’t she see she needed to purge herself of this thing?

  ‘Excuse me, could you come?’

  The nurse who had spoken to her earlier smiled and came over. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s the woman in the bed next door.’

  She walked back into the room, the nurse already over with the family, the curtains still closed.

  Perhaps it was being there in the hospital that made Irina bolder than normal, perhaps it was the weight of the last few weeks, the feeling of unfinished business, the presence in her shop, but she wasn’t keen to drop things, to stay quiet. They needed to talk about the past, she needed to speak about it before the faces and the shapes and the secrets drowned her.

  ‘Mum, I need to talk about it. I need to tell you—’

  ‘Why are you doing this now, Irina?’ her mother said, hands shooting up to her temples, massaging them in small circles.

  ‘Because we never do,’ she said, her voice rising in frustration. ‘We just bloody skirt round things, never bloody talk about any bloody—’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t!’ Her mother was rubbing at her eyes. ‘Don’t swear.’

  Irina’s hands clenched into fists, her skin was sweaty, her breathing heavy. ‘I’m sorry but this is ridiculous. It’s what we do and I can’t do it anymore, Mum.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Her mother’s voice was low, her head nodding from side to side as if she was trying to shake things free.

  ‘Please, Mum.’ Irina felt the fight drop away, her mother in a hospital bed, her anger ebbing as she glanced at the IV drip in her hand.

  There was a long silence, her mother’s hands raised, shielding her eyes. She looked impossibly young as she looked up at Irina.

  ‘We will talk, next time.’

  Her mother’s voice seemed stronger then and for a second Irina really believed her. She was ready to get up and walk away, to give her mother one more day. Then she thought of all the other times they’d ducked out of saying the words, and her eyes filmed over as she nodded, pushing the plastic chair back against the wall.

  ‘Next time,’ she repeated in a hollow tone, knowing that they wouldn’t talk about it next time, that this thing would keep chewing at her insides, burrowing into her limbs, weighing her down. ‘Next time.’

  ABIGAIL

  She hadn’t been sure where she was headed until she found herself climbing the path again, winding round corners, pushing herself on so that her chest felt tight, her breathing heavy, constricted, the rain falling between the canopy of leaves above her, bouncing off the puddles on the ground, droplets dancing in the air, clinging to her face, her hands, resting on her lips, in her hair.

  She had moved through Lynmouth without stopping, not able to face the cottage in the middle of the two rivers, needing time to think without their faces confusing her. She would have to leave and she couldn’t have anything stopping her. Richard’s face, his gentle kiss, swam into view, replaced now by another face, a hand gripping her shoulder, breath full of whiskey and ugly words. She swiped at her eyes, realized she was crying.

  When she approached the abandoned cottage, she startled a rook. It dropped the twig it had been carrying and swept off to her left, landing a safe distance away in the branches of a tree, eyeing her warily. Ducking into the house, she stepped down onto the cobbled floor, dust collecting around the skirting boards and in the corners, lining the cracks in the walls, which bulged inwards so it seemed the house was sinking in on itself. The air was thick with the scent of neglect; she heard something rustling in the corner, turned to see a yellowing newspaper laid out on the floor for a job that had probably never been started. Through the windows, smeared and dotted with watermarks, the outside seemed distorted, the sea and gardens, trees and bushes merging into a single wash of green and blue, the colours duller in this space. What had he seen here?

  She rested her hands on the edges of the butler’s sink, the ceramic cool under her hands, and closed her eyes. She pictured the windows in front of her scrubbed and cleaned, a herb pot stuffed with basil, rosemary, thyme, the smell wafting round the room, a loaf cooking in the range. The light from the kitchen throwing long rectangles of yellow onto the manicured lawn beyond, the border clipped and cut back to reveal the view to the sea, a silvery strip of calm.
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  Perhaps it was possible. She imagined herself then with a purpose. She would be rolling out pastry on a scrubbed pine table, Richard would be bringing in logs from outside. They would have children, rushing around by the range; she would lean down to brush flour from the little one’s face and kiss him or her on the top of his head, before she, yes she, raced off again.

  They would eat in the garden in the summer, looking out across the tops of the trees to the thin line of sea beyond. There would be insects chirruping intermittently and her head would be light with the cider they had made in kegs, syrupy and delicious, that clung to their lips as they kissed.

  Larry wasn’t there in her imaginings and her sister wasn’t in a hospital. Connie would visit, she’d be relaxed, and they would sit on a blanket at the bottom of the garden and watch as their daughters played together. They would do their hair in long plaits and talk about their mum, and about the dreams they’d had before the war had ruined everything. They would walk back up to the house arm in arm, Abigail’s head resting briefly on her shoulder; she would smell of honeysuckle and wine and they would giggle and sing along as Richard played music on a turntable, a lively tune that would make them kick up their legs and twist around the pine table, bringing beads of sweat to their brows, sounding out across the moors behind them, and the whole house would throb with their laughter.

  Standing there now, her eyes open again, she returned to the present, to the walls streaked with damp and the pockmarked wooden beams above her head. Preparing to go, she walked across the stone floor and pushed at the door, felt it give, swing out, the path now slick with heavier rain, large lumps of cloud, fat and full, hovering over the house. And yet, if she turned and half-closed her eyes, there they were in the kitchen, dancing round the table, their mouths open, the light giving them a warm glow, teeth flashing, alive and laughing.