The Backs (2013)

by Bruce, Alison

  Goodhew started reading. The actual correspondence space on each card was typically small, and Mary Osborne seemed to have had difficulty reducing the size of her handwriting to fit. The loops on her letters remained disproportionately large, so that the smaller characters – such as a, c and e – were almost lost amid the tangle created by the ls, ts and gs.

  Don’t forget to visit Becca. Just so you know, I think of all our kids. Time it was your turn – Mary.

  And the other read:

  All’s fine here. I think of Cambridge from time to time, but know I did the right thing when I left. Sorry if you still hate me – Mary.

  They’d been sent to the house on Pound Hill without any addressee’s name but they had clearly been meant for Gerry. ‘Why do you have them here?’

  Dan had stepped back to give Goodhew space to read. He was now leaning against the wall, with one hand resting on the Car-Hits-Cow sculpture. ‘Dad rented out the house after she left, and had the post redirected here until he worked out what he was going to do next.’

  His fingers drifted across a seam on the sculpture, where the metal joined the leather.

  Despite its basic outhouse appearance, the room was dry and the ceiling high, with glazed panels fitted in the roof for natural light. ‘Does he do this work in here?’ As soon as Goodhew said it, he registered the absence of any tools.

  ‘No, his current home address is his studio . . . or, to put it another way, he dosses in a corner of his workshop. We just store this item here.’

  ‘Does it have a name?’

  ‘That’s your polite way of saying What is it, right?’ Dan waved an upturned palm in front of the piece. ‘This thing is the infamous Singular Fascination.’

  It took Goodhew a second before he realized. ‘The same one he smashed?’

  ‘I brought the bits back here. At first he wasn’t interested, but he repaired it eventually.’ Dan pointed to a scuff and a dent in the metal. ‘Of course, some of the damage was tricky, and in a couple of places Dad chose not to replace the parts. Since its whole dynamic had arisen from us losing Becca and from his divorce, I suppose it was fitting that his later reaction to Jackson getting paroled has left its mark too.’

  Goodhew tilted his head slightly. He’d seen art critics do the same and wondered whether this slightly new angle of view would help at all. It didn’t.

  ‘You don’t have to “get it”.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Think of it like the catwalk where the fashion models wear apparently extreme designs. Those designs showcase the designer; they are a calling card for the inspiration, the Zeitgeist of the creator, and it’s from there the high-street collections are born.’

  ‘So some form of this object ends up being a commercial product?’

  ‘From this particular exhibition, Dad received several commissions: a sculpture for a company headquarters, work for private collectors, even the design installations at a London casino. You’d be surprised.’

  Goodhew was inclined to agree about that. He stared at the sculpture for a few more seconds. ‘You work for him, don’t you?’

  ‘Only since Becca. I’m surprised that’s on record.’

  ‘I guessed, actually. I noticed how your tone changes when you talk about his work.’

  ‘I was writing copy for a staff magazine in town, and offered to help my dad in my spare time. I started with the correspondence and accounts. Eventually he needed more assistance, so I decided to “make the leap”, as they say. The biggest risk in that was wondering whether we’d be able to work together.’

  ‘And you can, I guess?’

  ‘My father’s spent more time in the eye of the media than most, therefore talking about him openly with complete strangers is part of my job. I know he appreciates my perspective.’ Dan thought for a moment. ‘If you find my mum, would you let me know? I think I should speak to her.’

  ‘Despite your father’s point of view?’

  Dan patted the sculpture forcefully, then moved away. ‘I was hugely into sport when I was a teenager: rugby, cricket and rowing at various times. But sport isn’t on Dad’s radar, so he didn’t want to know. He’s pretty egocentric. I don’t think he would try to stop us from contacting her, but he would probably take it personally if we did. Mum’s gone from his life now, and he’s never been good at seeing any viewpoint apart from his own. I won’t be telling him, either, if you do manage to track her down.’

  ‘Your sister wants to contact your mother, yet she won’t see her father?’

  ‘Her choice.’ Just the two blunt words but, for a moment, Dan’s expression sparked with far more complexity than that, as though a flash of intangible memory was reflected on his face.

  ‘Have you seen Jane yet?’

  ‘We have met up a couple of times, briefly.’ Goodhew realized it was the first time he’d seen Dan smile. ‘It’s strange,’ Dan continued. ‘We’ve both changed, and sometimes it feels as though I’m talking to a complete stranger, then at other times I have moments when I could almost forget everything else that has happened in between.’ He paused, thoughtfully. ‘She hasn’t met Reba yet.’

  ‘You didn’t give her any help in finding her mother, though. She told me that.’

  Dan’s smile remained, though it dimmed. ‘I argue with my father but in general I agree with him, too. I suppose I find it hard to let him know that.’

  ‘And, despite this, you still want to speak to your mother?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll tell her to stay away from Jane.’

  FOURTEEN

  University Grocers had been the local shop of Jane’s childhood, a home of sweets, magazines and ice cream in the summer. Beyond lay the bridge into the city centre, making the small shop even more tempting.

  Today its draw was Heinz tomato soup, bread, eggs, milk and a copy of the Cambridge News. She glanced over towards Magdalene Bridge, but the upwards slope towards the house appealed to her more.

  He’d been standing at the bottom of the hill again.

  She’d checked the street outside before leaving the house, and spotted him. He’d been on the opposite side of the road to the Punter, making a poor attempt to stand discreetly in the rear gate of Westminster College. Perhaps the act of loitering outside a centre of theological study had made him squirm; it had certainly had that effect on her in the past.

  She’d watched him for a few minutes as he leant with one shoulder up against the wall, rhythmically elbowing the brickwork. Next he had pushed away, walked a few purposeful strides, then returned to the same spot. Whenever his feet were still, another part of his body wasn’t. And this level of distraction was more than enough to allow her to slip out through the side gate and skirt around the back of her house.

  After almost ten years of running and hiding, she reckoned she’d become proficient at it, but by the time she’d reached University Grocers she felt angry with him and furious with herself. Now she strode the quickest route home, head down, with her clenched hands anchored by shopping bags. And there he was, in the same spot, staring down the hill at her and talking or maybe just mouthing words.

  She raised her chin. ‘I can’t hear you,’ she shouted.

  His weight shifted and he made a couple of small steps forward.

  Neither of them spoke until the distance between them had closed to less than ten feet. ‘What’s your problem?’ she asked.

  ‘Guess.’

  She curled one corner of her mouth into a smile. Deliberate and taunting. ‘I’m sorry, when I said “What’s your problem?” I meant, realize you’ve got one and take it somewhere else.’

  His hands moved up to rest on his hips. His feet were planted wide. Little man trying to look big. ‘I want to know what you’re hiding,’ he said.

  She felt her own expression lock down, become impenetrable. ‘So you stand outside my house, trying to intimidate me?’

  ‘I’m waiting to talk to you.’

  ‘No, you’re trying to scare me. Won’t happen, Gregory
.’ She paused to let the sound of his unabbreviated Christian name cause him maximum irritation. ‘I know you, remember?’

  ‘And I know you. You’ve always despised me. I bet you threw a fucking party when I went down, didn’t you?’ He stepped closer and circled his index finger close to her face. ‘See, I’ve learnt plenty since I’ve been away.’ He smiled, one as forced as hers had been. ‘A change in breathing, the smallest flush of pleasure, you can’t hide it all, Janie. You can pretend you were at the other end of the country and never saw a newspaper, but you knew I’d gone to prison. I can see it in your face. But I’m telling you, I didn’t attack your sister and I never touched Genevieve Barnes. So you tell me, who did, eh?’

  Here they stood, in the middle of the street, and yet she felt cornered. Just like the first time she’d ever faced up to a bully and been smacked so hard she’d felt her little-girl spirit hit the ground first. Only, then, she’d been unprepared and there had been many years in between. ‘I don’t know anything.’

  He reached out and grabbed her arm, his grip firm but not painful. Not yet. She saw his other hand flatten, palm upwards.

  ‘Why don’t you just slap me? That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  She didn’t fight the pressure on her biceps, his thumb now digging into the bone, the tendons jumping aside with a small popping sensation. She focused on his face, watched his slow self-questioning of whether she was bluffing, whether she wanted him to strike her – and why. Her arm was throbbing, the nerves sending light-headed signals to the brain, but she held still. Would he really risk forfeiting his probation over her?

  The answer never arrived.

  From somewhere to her right, Campbell’s reedy tones reached them. ‘I’m going to call the police, you know.’

  Jackson’s grip loosened to merely painful and he turned his head towards the other man. ‘I don’t think you should.’ His voice took on a hoarse quality as he shouted. He continued to stare, and Jane noticed his lips twitching and recognized the shapes of numbers being counted. Was he counting down to something, or just cooling off?

  She didn’t even need to look at Campbell. He had to be at his upstairs window to be so outspoken, leaning out by a daring six inches, yet careful not to disturb his row of model E-Types on the window ledge.

  ‘You’ve been warned,’ he bleated, and then pulled the window shut.

  ‘He won’t phone the police,’ she whispered. ‘He’ll call my dad.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit.’ But Jackson released her then. ‘Fuck you,’ he hissed, still hoarse.

  ‘Sorry.’ She stepped away, kept her head up and showed no sign of hurry. ‘You may have fucked my mother, and fucked my sister, but I’ll pass.’ Another couple of steps backwards, then she turned and followed the straightest line possible towards her door.

  No footsteps followed. None walked away either.

  She felt his eyes on her as she placed her shopping by her feet and unlocked the door. The key trembled, skating several times round the metal plate before slipping home. The tips of her fingers throbbed Burgundy red and white bloodless bars scored her palms from carrying the plastic bags for so long. Now her hand was starting to shake in earnest.

  His hoarseness reached her. ‘I haven’t finished. Don’t forget that.’

  She hauled the bags over the threshold, then straightened and paused in the open doorway, long enough for him to witness her hatred.

  ‘I’m not giving up, Jane. Someone. Has. To. Pay.’

  FIFTEEN

  Once inside, Jane sank to the floor, with her back to the door. There she waited – for Jackson, for Campbell, or even for her father. The dusty nothingness of the hallway soothed her; no one would lie on such a floor through choice. She was that no one for a minute, then: invisible, invincible even. The evils of her life could pass her by. Like a game of tag, shouting ‘home’, and being safe until the moment came to run again.

  Run or home, therefore, but not both.

  Her mind drifted like this for a while, then circled and regrouped.

  Later there came a knock at the door: a sharp treble rap. She kept very still until she sensed they’d moved away, then carefully slid the bottom bolt into place. Even her father, with his own key, couldn’t come in through that door now.

  She moved from room to room, securing every possible entry point. Then finally she smiled.

  Home.

  She drew a long slow breath.

  Her home. She turned the words over in her mind. Accepting them. Letting the implications open up to her. She’d stopped running now. She felt it without understanding why it had happened; all she knew was that these two trains of thought had been shunting each other back and forth. Pulling her away. Pulling her back. But now, without complaint, the two of them had fallen still and silent.

  The memory of Cambridge returned: the familiarity of this house, the mess of her life that she somehow knew could only be re-anchored here. Self-preservation had propelled her away; maybe it was the same instinct that wouldn’t let her do it again. It didn’t matter why. She’d finally stopped running, and in that moment came the certainty that she would never run again.

  Jane unpacked the shopping and soon after took a bowl of soup and mug of coffee into the playroom. Tomorrow she’d check her bank account, see what was left. Buy food with it. And some other basics.

  She ought to make a list. There was a pencil in the kitchen.

  She wrote on the back of an old envelope: Item 1 – buy a notepad and pen. Joke.

  She wasn’t really a list person but she then jotted down the basics.

  Tins and dried food.

  Toilet rolls and Tampax.

  Tea and coffee.

  Emulsion and brushes.

  Speak to Dad or just refuse to move?

  She contemplated this last point, doodling a pyramid of regular bricks. And, as for the paint . . . adding emulsion to the list had been nothing more than a wry observation of her present surroundings. But why shouldn’t she do something about it? She ran her hand along the wall where it met the skirting board. The paper was heavy, already layered with paint. Another coat would at least freshen it. She tapped it with her fingertips and heard the hollow tip-tap of paper that had separated from plaster.

  She lifted the edge with her nail, worked her finger under for a better grip, then tore the paper from the wall. In places it came away in fat panels, crisp with age; in others she removed it, inch by inch, with the rounded tip of her only spoon. There was no plan until, with just a single panel remaining, she knew she had to stop.

  Sleep came swiftly and, as it overtook her, she truly believed that nothing was going to wake her again before mid-morning.

  SIXTEEN

  The rain brought her back to the surface. It drove in at an angle that hit the patio doors with a sharp rattle that made it sound like hail. On other mornings the daylight slid up between the curtain rings and threw bright triangles on the ceiling. Right now there wasn’t even enough light outside for her to know where the top of the curtains met the wall. She guessed at 2 a.m., then checked her phone. It was 4.30. She felt tired but another five or six hours’ sleep still seemed viable.

  She dozed . . . off and on.

  The downpour continued unabated for another couple of hours then, within the space of five minutes, subsided to a drizzle. She imagined the weatherman pointing to the front of higher air pressure, and the isobar completing its invisible fly-past. The post-rain silence would have been complete if it hadn’t been broken by constant dripping. Amplified dripping at that. This dogged plunk-plunk-plunk was about as soothing as a cold finger tapping her in the forehead.

  She burrowed further under the covers and finally succeeded in blocking it out. Except, like a catchy melody that wouldn’t let her go, she could hear it even when she couldn’t. She knew it was still there, and at 7.24 a.m. she gave up and pulled back the curtains. Only then did she find that the leaky guttering at the rear of the house was trickling silently. Sh
e opened the patio doors: everything outside was sodden but equally soundless.

  She listened carefully, then slowly turned back to face the room; the dripping had been inside the house all along. Years before her family had owned this house, the cellar entrance had led from the scullery. Walls had been moved, purposes of rooms changed, but no one ever moves a cellar. No one had ever blocked it off either, and that narrow, half-height door in the corner had mostly gone unnoticed. Unless the cellar happened to flood.

  She now stood ankle-deep in wallpaper debris, deciding she needed to add everything from dustbin sacks to cutlery to her original shopping list. It was tempting to add wellies and a bucket, and simply leave the leak until later. She resolved to take a peek; perhaps there would be some way to muffle the sound and ignore the problem. Who are you kidding? She pulled on her trainers and switched her mobile phone over to torch mode. She had no intention of doing anything less than fixing the noise. She then grabbed her trusty spoon and unhooked the gate-style latch that held the cellar door shut.

  The cellar wasn’t a full storey deep, but the stone steps leading down were shallow, and there were as many as in a normal staircase. They were worn away in the centre, so Jane found it hard to keep her footing. Cellar steps always seemed like this: the least used but most worn. She stumbled on the last couple, and was thankful when she stepped on to solid flagstone rather than into water.

  As far as she was aware, there had only been one very serious flood. That was back in the early nineties, when a burst water main had overwhelmed the natural advantage of living on a hill. Even so, this cellar had always been prone to dampness. It smelt damp now and she had no doubt that there would still be sections of brickwork around the walls that were silky green with it. She shone her torch and found them, the patches seeming too vivid to belong here in the dark.

  She found the dripping too, moisture falling from the saturated moss and wet bricks in the furthest corner. It kept hitting the base of an upturned enamel bucket. She smiled to herself, because she knew that bucket. According to her long dead great-gran, it had boiled countless nappies – they’d been simmered on the oven top and prodded with a stick. Gran had never been much of a cook, but the bucket would be handy.