Bad Behaviour

by Liz Byrski

  ‘I felt an insane sort of rage at the thought of it, and started hitting him again on his legs and then on his hip . . .’ She pauses. ‘And then, as he tried to roll away, the bat caught him on the head. I’d like to say that I didn’t mean that to happen; but it did and I didn’t care. It was terrible, I was terrible. I wanted to kill him. But Greg was back on his feet, and he grabbed the bat and threw it out of reach. Mal was unconscious by then, and Greg’s nose was bleeding and he had a split lip. I felt as though I’d been run over by a truck; the cut on my head was still bleeding, my throat was burning, and my ribs and back and legs where he’d kicked me were in agony, but I knew I was okay.’

  ‘God, Gwen,’ Zoë says. ‘He really could have killed you. Whatever did you do?’

  Gwen takes a deep breath and begins again. ‘Greg sent me inside for some brandy to see if we could bring him round, but it was no good and he said he’d have to take him to hospital. We got a mattress and some blankets, and put them in the back of the pick-up and then we had to lift him onto them. Greg tied the bedding somehow so that it wouldn’t slide about and tied the rope around Mal too so he wouldn’t roll off. Then he went in and cleaned himself up a bit. I filled some water bags and put those and the brandy in the truck. Mal looked terrible and I was scared he was going to die. But, even then, I couldn’t feel any remorse, only hatred, and fear about what this meant for me and Justine.

  ‘“Stay here,” Greg said, “and don’t tell anyone what’s happened, especially not the police. Stick that cricket bat in the furnace, and when the men come back, just tell them Mal’s sick and I took him to hospital. Trust me,” he said. “I’ll fix it.” His father had worked for mine for years, and Greg had started his working life on one of Dad’s farms. He and I had known each other as children but when Mal came on the scene, I thought Greg had switched allegiances. But there wasn’t much I could do except trust him. He told me to stay at the farm until he got back, and that it might be a few days.’ She pauses, recalling the fear of the days that followed; waiting, unable to sleep or eat, alert to every sound, until, finally, almost a week later, she heard the sounds of the truck rattling back along the track.

  ‘So, did he die?’ Zoë asks.

  Gwen shakes her head. ‘Mal had multiple broken bones and damaged kidneys, but, worst of all, brain damage that meant he would spend the rest of his life as a vegetable. Greg had told the hospital that he had found Mal beaten up by the roadside. He managed everything: the hospital, the transfer to a nursing home, the arrangements for everything Mal needed. All I had to do was pay the bills. When I asked him why he was doing it, he said it was because my family had always treated him and his father with kindness and respect, and that Mal had only got what was coming to him. “If it hadn’t been you, it would’ve been someone else,” he said. “Every one of the blokes here, myself included, has dreamed of beating the living daylights out of him.” So, I owe my own and Justine’s freedom to him. I ended up putting the farm in his name. It seemed a small price to pay for what he’d done.’

  There was a long silence. ‘So, what happened to Mal?’ Zoë asked eventually.

  ‘He stayed in the nursing home and I just kept paying the bills. He died there, ten years later, from a chest infection that turned to pneumonia. Greg married and stayed at the farm, he and his wife are still there.’ She hesitated, relaxing slightly now with the relief of having told her story. ‘I’m not proud of it, Zoë. All I can say in my defence is that I believed I was fighting not just for myself but for Justine. I should have been punished for what I did, but by keeping quiet about it I was able to protect her.’

  The breeze had dropped now, and the sun was sinking towards the horizon.

  ‘You did what any mother would do, or want to do,’ Zoë says. ‘I know it was wrong, but no good would have come from you going to prison, only harm to you and to Justine.’

  Gwen nods. ‘I thought so too. And my remorse was really less about Mal than about the rest of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The poison at the heart of it, the way things were, that made it possible for me to be blind to what was happening to a vulnerable child. You know what it was like growing up here back then. Aboriginal people were nothing. When I saw Justine at the convent, I saw something in her that I thought would fill a gap in my life, so I decided I would give her a home. I’m ashamed of that now, it sounds like I was choosing a dog from the pound, but that was the way I’d been brought up. All those children were in misery but I decided to single one out and justified it by telling myself I could give her a better life. But, in my arrogance and ignorance, I ended up letting her down in the worst possible way.’

  ‘I doubt that’s how Justine sees it,’ Zoë says.

  ‘It’s not. It wasn’t how Norah saw it either, but, in the end, Zoë, as I’m sure you know only too well, it’s not what other people think that eats away at you. It’s what you think about yourself.’

  Zoë looks at her for what seems like a long time.

  ‘Yes,’ she says eventually. ‘Of course.’

  The water is still as they wander back along the beach. There are fewer people around now; families are heading home for tea and the sunlight has softened.

  ‘What you’ve told me, Gwen,’ Zoë says, ‘sounds so terrifying. The knowledge of what you’d done and the fear of being found out must have haunted you.’

  ‘It changed me,’ Gwen says. ‘It was like an end to innocence, and I cut myself off from other people. I didn’t dare to have friends in case I let slip anything that might make them ask questions. I suppose we all live with the burdens of our misdemeanours, but some are larger than others. What matters is what we do with the experience. I’ve had a hard time convincing myself that it’s over; a hard time leaving it behind, I suppose.’

  Zoë nods, wondering as they walk on how much of who she is now is still tethered to the past – to Eileen’s rules and expectations, and to her own inability to consign her past to history.

  When they get back Eileen is in the kitchen making a pot of tea. Rosie is feeding Harry pureed banana, while Justine is checking the state of the turkey.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she says. ‘It’ll be just right for seven o’clock. Perfect timing, Zoë.’

  ‘Gabs rang, Mum,’ Rosie says. ‘I told her you’d ring her back. Oh, yuk! Don’t spit it back at me, Harry.’

  ‘Is she okay?’ Zoë asks. ‘Is she enjoying herself?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Archie says, coming in from the verandah. ‘Gaby’s having a wonderful time.’

  Zoë smiles. ‘I’m so glad. I knew she’d love Julia and Tom. I’ll ring her now.’

  ‘Do call,’ Archie says, with an uncharacteristic edge to his voice. ‘And she can tell you all about it; how lovely Julia is, how funny and clever Tom is, but, most of all, Zoë, she can tell you how amazingly brilliant and totally awesome your ex-husband is. Not only is our daughter spending Christmas with him, it seems she’s also going to work for him.’

  ‘Not actually for him, I don’t think, Dad,’ Rosie cuts in nervously, one eye on Harry, the other on her father. ‘I think it’s some company that he owns part of, or something.’

  ‘Yes,’ Archie says, his voice rising now. ‘Or something – who knows what it might be, with that bastard behind it.’ And he picks up the tray of champagne glasses and walks out to the table on the verandah; there is a crash as two, or possibly more, glasses fail to survive their landing on the table. There is silence in the kitchen and the women, with the exception of Eileen, whose poor hearing has caused her to miss this, look awkwardly at each other.

  Zoë raises her eyebrows and shrugs. ‘Male menopause, maybe?’ she says. And they all return to what they are doing.

  2002

  FORTY-THREE

  Rye – New Year’s Day 2002

  While he waits for Richard to finish checking his email, Tom looks in the pantry for the ingredients for the chick-pea and cauliflower curry he is planning for dinner. He has promised
to make it for Gaby, who said it sounded delicious. He makes a list of the things he needs to buy for the curry and the cucumber raita, and for the lemon tart that will be the perfect dessert. He enjoys this sort of domestic pottering, always has done, as long as it’s directed towards a goal. Interestingly, he thinks, he always achieves his culinary goals, unlike certain other works in progress.

  Julia loves the curry too, although Tom knows that he will have a battle to stop her polluting it with some of the left-over turkey she has squirrelled away. If he has to eat another mouthful of dead bird, he’s sure he’ll suffer from fowl poisoning. She’d taken some out of the fridge that morning and left it to defrost on the draining board.

  ‘You and Richard can have it in sandwiches for lunch,’ she’d said. ‘Nice and easy, and it’ll get rid of some of it.’

  She has taken Gaby to Brighton for the first of the New Year sales. It’s madness, of course. Julia is not much of a shopper; she hates crowds and particularly hates clothing boutiques. But she seems to have got into some girlie thing with Gaby; there have been a lot of whispered conversations and giggling. It is, Tom thinks, Julia’s curiosity about motherhood. These days, she’s prone to sigh and say that she sometimes thinks it would be nice to have had a daughter to chat to.

  Tom, as usual, works to his own musical accompaniment; this morning, it is a selection of hymns. He began in populist mode with ‘Lord of the Dance’, then ripped into the tough stuff, ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ and ‘The Church’s One Foundation’, and he’s halfway through a stirring rendition of ‘Jerusalem’ when Richard appears in the kitchen, grimacing.

  ‘Okay,’ Tom says. ‘I know you’re not fond of hymns.’

  ‘No. Nor god, actually,’ Richard says. ‘Although I know you still hold a warm spot in your heart for him.’

  ‘I do, indeed,’ Tom says. ‘He, or possibly she, is a good bloke to have around.’

  ‘Amazing,’ Richard says, shaking his head. ‘It confounds all reason.’

  Tom smiles benignly and unhooks his jacket from the back of the door. ‘That, my friend, is part of the attraction. It’s not necessary for everything to be explained by reason, and we all have our gods.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Richard says.

  And Tom laughs out loud.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  Tom nudges the plastic crate of empty wine and whisky bottles with his toe.

  ‘I just enjoy a drink or two,’ Richard says petulantly.

  ‘Which is why I’m surprised that you’ve never been drawn to a bloke who turns water into wine. Come on, let’s go. I want to pop into the delicatessen in the High Street.’ He picks up the plastic-wrapped frozen turkey from the draining board and they step out into the street.

  ‘Why are we taking the turkey with us?’ Richard asks. ‘Are you planning a picnic?’

  ‘I’m planning a pie and a pint at the pub for lunch,’ Tom says. ‘The turkey is going in the first bin we come to and we’re going to tell Julia that it made delicious sandwiches.’

  ‘It couldn’t go in the bin at home?’

  ‘Absolutely not. She’d sniff it out. You know what a fascist she is when it comes to using up leftovers.’

  It is hard to walk on the cobbles because even the midday sunshine hasn’t been enough to melt the ice. Everything is moving slowly this morning, and people feel their way cautiously along the walls in the mistaken hope that this proximity will lessen the impact of a fall. They totter flat-footed across the street, eyes fixed on the ground, and couples try to decide whether it’s safer or more hazardous to hold hands. By the time they reach the High Street, Tom and Richard have helped an elderly woman into the bookshop, and rescued a much younger one, whose frenetic pace had been so unsuited to the conditions that, laden with bags of shopping, she had skidded off the pavement into the street and landed on her bottom in the path of a slow-moving car.

  ‘We’re heroes this morning, aren’t we,’ Tom says, ‘rescuing women in distress and the like. Robin Hood-ish.’

  ‘Or Batman and Robin,’ Richard says. ‘Who next will benefit from our courage and resourcefulness?’ At which point, he slips, skids rapidly towards the wall of the bank and grasps at a passing teenager dressed in black leather and with multiple piercings.

  ‘Gerroff, pervert,’ the boy yells and shakes himself free, and Richard turns gingerly so that he is back facing in the right direction.

  ‘I think we may have done our dash,’ he says.

  And Tom, grinning, leads the way into the supermarket.

  Richard, still shaken from his near miss with the paving stones, watches as Tom, glasses perched on the end of his nose, browses the shelves. What must it be like, he wonders, to live your life with someone who knows exactly who you are and loves you just the same? If only, he thinks, recalling the dilemma he had struggled with at the time of his marriage to Zoë, if only he had known then what the really important things in life were. If only he had learned it in time to save his marriage to Lily.

  ‘You’re a lucky bugger, you know,’ he says to Tom as they wait at the checkout. ‘I know Jules is a pain in the arse sometimes, but you two have really got it together.’

  ‘Not for want of trying,’ Tom says. ‘It’s a cliché but you really do have to work at it, and both of us have.’

  ‘And it’s obviously been worth it. Love, companionship, a meeting of minds.’

  ‘And lots of sex.’

  ‘Whoa!’ Richard says. ‘She’s my sister, remember.’

  Tom pays for the food with a grin that can only be described as smug and they slither cautiously along the street to the pub.

  ‘What about you, then?’ Tom asks as they lean against the bar. ‘You and Bea?’

  Richard shrugs. ‘Who knows? She’s a terrific woman and we get along well, but you reach a point where you wonder whether you can actually handle the risk of trying to take it further; whether you have the emotional stamina.’

  ‘You mean it takes more emotional stamina to be with someone than to be alone?’

  ‘Yes. For me it does, anyway,’ Richard says, taking a long swig of his beer. ‘I’ve never been good at it. And Bea, lovely as she is . . . the chemistry may not be great enough to justify the risk. Same goes for her, I think.’

  Tom studies his Guinness. ‘Perhaps it’s foolish to think you can get all your emotional and companionship needs met by one person, especially at this age.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Richard shrugs.

  ‘Julia wants you to be madly, irresistibly in love with Bea.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Not going to happen.’ He pauses. ‘“No love beckons me save that which I’ve forsaken; the anguish of my solitude is sweet.”’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Tom says with a frown, ‘I haven’t heard it before.’

  ‘Robert Mitchum.’

  ‘No, seriously.’

  ‘It is. It’s Robert Mitchum, he wrote it to a girl when he was fifteen.’

  ‘Pity he didn’t keep writing. So, I suppose this is about Zoë?’

  ‘’Fraid so, last year made that very clear to me. But, clearly, it’s not going to go anywhere at all.’

  ‘Look, Rich, I didn’t know you or Zoë back then, but, from what Jules has told me not a lot has changed. The things that frustrated you then are still the same. She’s not like Lily, politically driven, passionately involved in causes, fiercely independent. Zoë’s not interested in the things that drive you.’

  ‘No. But just before Daniel was born, I was learning that if you love someone you have to accept them as they are.’ He stops and looks into his empty glass. ‘And then . . . well, Daniel was born, I lost it . . . and when I realised what I’d lost, it was too late.’

  They drink in silence for a few moments, watching the flow of customers in and out, the dancing flames in the fire.

  ‘Rich,’ Tom says eventually. ‘You’re going to need to be careful around Gaby.’

  ‘Gaby? Why? My intentions are entirely honourable. She’s lovel
y, very smart. You know, Tom, she is so much like Zoë, and yet she’s tall. I look at her and think, if Zoë and I had had a daughter, she could have been just like Gaby.’

  ‘Well, she’s not your daughter,’ Tom says. ‘Are you sure that offering her that job was wise?’

  ‘Why not? She wants a job, and she’s just what Gilbert and Linton Productions needs. It’ll be a break for her; she’ll go far. I can help her and keep an eye on her too.’

  ‘She’s here for less than a year, before she goes to university.’

  ‘I doubt it, she’s a London sort of girl . . .’

  ‘Hang on. This might not be such a good idea.’

  ‘Jules told you to talk to me, didn’t she?’

  Tom shakes his head. ‘She hasn’t even mentioned it.’

  ‘I can’t see why it should be a problem. Why don’t you trust me on this?’

  ‘Simply because of that,’ Tom says. ‘Simply because you can’t see a potential problem and so you can’t be trusted not to create chaos. Your friendships and relationships always flounder on the rocks of your own, very singular, view, Richard. You are so full of good intentions but so totally unaware of the bigger picture.’

  ‘But that’s what I do – the bigger picture, making connections, showing how things come together. That’s why I’ve been successful.’

  Tom groans. ‘Professionally, but that’s not what we’re talking about. You crash through your personal life, bumping into people and grabbing hold of them to steady you, like you skidded into Metal Man and grabbed him this morning, then you crash off somewhere else, leaving a trail of destruction. The fact that you can’t see a problem doesn’t mean there isn’t, or won’t be, one. Don’t stuff this up for Gaby, for Zoë, for Zoë’s seemingly very nice husband, or for yourself.’ Tom gets to his feet and feels in his pocket for cash.