Half Broken Things

by Morag Joss

  Michael moved silently in bare feet through the house while he pictured her sleeping above, trusting but unaware. He was conscious of the first pleasurable sensation he had felt since before Miranda died, an agreeable certainty that what he was working quietly at now, without her knowledge, would please his mother. From the library he brought first a set of leather-bound volumes with the title The History of Scotland, during the Reigns of Queen Mary and of King James VI dated 1752, and placed them on the tartan rug. Then from the library desk he carried a brass inkstand, a pair of Sиvres inkpots, and two lace and ivory fans from a glass case that contained seven or eight others, and put them next to the books. That would do for the library. Jean would not notice. In the dining room he opened the corner cupboard that held some of the silver. He took a ladle, a sugar shaker and four salt cellars and spoons, and altered the spacing between the things that were left, dozens of them still, so that the losses were concealed. From inside the sideboard he took a porcelain tureen with a ladle and two or three lace cloths, but left the decorated blue and white pieces that stood on the top.

  Back in the utility room he notched it all up. Even at Mr David’s prices there should be at least three hundred quids’ worth here. In fact, he might take the books to a proper dealer and do better. The thought of actually declining to sell to Mr David anything that Mr David was prepared to take was unfamiliar and delightful. He might make a point of doing it. He could afford to, he really only needed to make a couple of hundred to keep them all going. Michael felt a hot, excited bubble of pride rising inside him. He would take care of them; even if he had not been able to save Miranda he would take care of them now. He thought of coming back tomorrow with fresh milk, bread, meat, eggs, vegetables, fruit. Then he pictured Jean taking one of her cakes out of the oven, with happiness written all over her hot face, and told himself not to forget butter, sugar, flour, syrup, dried fruit. Chocolate for Steph. Her huge appetite had vanished since Miranda’s death, but she might be tempted by chocolate.

  Using dusters and newspapers from a pile in one of the sheds he wrapped his haul carefully, arranged the pieces in the back of the van and covered them with the tartan rug. First thing tomorrow he would go over to Bath. If he got off first thing then he might even be back before Jean and Steph were up, and he would make breakfast for them and they would wake to the smell of bacon and toast and coffee. The little smile that had been on Michael’s face all afternoon widened. He closed the van doors and turned to look properly around him.

  The afternoon was wearing to its end now but evening had not come; the earthy, growing smell of the spring day would not leave the air. He strolled out of the courtyard, drawn by the red gleam of the sun going down behind the hills miles away, far beyond the limits of the house. He followed the wide bend where the drive curved round to the front of the house before it straightened out to the half mile that ran down to the invisible road. Steph was walking towards him, though she did not appear to have seen him. Her arms were rigid against her sides, her hands apparently pushing the pockets of her jacket to the ground, and her head was down. Then she looked up and it seemed to Michael, from the angle of the lift of her head and the infinitesimal shake of her hair, that she had experienced pleasure at seeing him, perhaps for her, too, the first sensation of pleasure since before her baby had died. All at once the thought of tomorrow’s grand surprise breakfast seemed inadequate. He wanted Steph to be in on the secret too. How much better it would be if they did it together! He began to run towards her. She would be so delighted when he told her the plan; he would take her with him in the van tomorrow, and they would do the whole thing together. He would include her in everything, even show her off to Mr David.

  ‘Steph! Steph, listen! I’ve had this idea, it’s all set up, I’ve done it all, it’s ready to roll.’ He stopped, gasping. He felt sick and light-headed; it was such a long time since he had eaten properly.

  Steph looked faintly interested. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve took some stuff from the house, not much, nothing we’ll even miss, but worth a bit.’ He took her arm and steered her towards the house as he spoke, as if she had not been heading that way in any case. ‘Listen. It’s in the van, all ready, tomorrow we go and see my contact, you know, I’ve got this contact.’

  ‘Mr David. The one that rips you off.’

  ‘Yeah, well, this is better stuff, more saleable. It’s not the best in the house, so it’s not like it’ll get noticed, right, but it’s nice stuff, small stuff. He’ll take it. It’ll give us enough, anyway, and it’s cash, right? Enough to see us right till the next pay cheque’s due, and there’ll be an extra two hundred quid there, don’t forget. Six hundred instead of four. And if we need to, I can always do it again, there’s loads of stuff. I’ve only touched two rooms. Come with me- we’ll go early before Jean’s up, get the cash, go shopping, surprise her. You are coming, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, Michael. You and your small stuff. I can’t come with you.’

  ‘Why not? We won’t be out that long. If you’re worried about leaving Jean on her own… I mean we can always-’ He stopped, panting, his hands on his hips.

  ‘Aren’t you even going to ask me where I’ve been?’

  Michael looked at her, stricken. Why had it not even occurred to him? She was leaving.

  And she was smiling, actually smiling in a way Michael had not seen for weeks. She placed her hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoe with excitement. ‘I can’t come. I can’t come with you tomorrow ’cause I’ll be at work. ’Cause I’ve got a job, haven’t I?’

  May

  It was all very difficult for a time. As I said, there was a patch when I could not be sure how many days passed. And it hardly mattered except that our supplies, which were low, dwindled to nothing without anyone noticing. Or it’s possible we noticed but just could not consider it important. So by the time Michael took matters in hand it was serious. The only thing we had plenty of was wine (although even the cellar was looking rather emptier than at the beginning). That, and unhappiness. Unhappiness was everywhere in layers, layers all the same colour folded and unfolded over and around us; we carried wads of it everywhere, we left it in every room and then it came flapping after us. I neglected the housework, I will admit, and so after a while I thought I could actually see it, this unhappiness everywhere- it had come to look the same as the coating of dust that flattened all the surfaces.

  But things did get better, starting with some very practical developments. I date it from the day after the one when Steph had not been home for lunch and Michael and I, saying nothing, had sat over bowls of some awful stuff we were trying to call soup. Michael’s silence was kind, as is everything about Michael, and afterwards he shooed me off upstairs for a lie-down. The next morning I decided I would stay in bed. Michael brought me up a cup of tea and said he’d be back later and not to worry. What I did not find out until later that day was that he and Steph had both gone out. If I had known, I wonder if I would have worried (even worrying was beginning to require more energy than I could find). How that day passed I still do not know. I had gone beyond being hungry so it wasn’t that, though at the back of my mind I was aware that this was the fifth or possibly the sixth day when there literally was not enough to go round. We had got to the stage of eating rhubarb from the garden, without sugar because there wasn’t any, and there’s a limit to how much of that a stomach will stand. We had all but finished the potatoes, and there was scarcely another thing except for a tin of anchovies and some dried chestnuts, nor any money to buy anything until my next salary was paid. Steph and Michael for a time had been as unable to care about this as I was, but they kept turning the study upside down looking for a way out of our problem. Michael in particular got to know all about the investments and so on but there was no way of getting ready cash. So nothing more came of that, except that Michael and Steph fell out. That was to do with hunger, I’m sure.

  Anyway, it crossed my mind that day that perhaps if I kept up
stairs in bed and out of the way, Michael and Steph would not feel bad about dividing what there was between the two of them. I felt that perhaps I was the problem. I was dragging them down with me. I was an old woman and the time had come to relinquish my hold. A bleak idea on the face of it, but I swear that just the thought of their survival filled me with joy, even then. I was hopeful, even as I lay there (as I thought dying) that with me out of the way they would find some way to manage. After all, they had done well over getting the oil; that had gone without a hitch and Michael had even managed to relight the Aga without any trouble. My mind wandered in and out of all the things we’d done and said we would do, until I was a little confused between what had really happened here and what had not.

  So by the time it came to afternoon on this day, I’d dropped off to sleep again and was dreaming about food. Surprisingly, not so much the taste of it in my mouth as the sight of it being prepared, and the smells, the savoury air of a good kitchen. The relish of those sensations is not just the prospect of eating but also the homeliness of a prosperous, well-ordered house and somebody generous-spirited at the stove. It makes me happy again to think of it. So in this dream I could see and smell food, and it’s not true that a starving man dreams of a feast. What I could smell was toast. Plain, simple, lovely toast. And then I realised I was awake and Michael was at the foot of my bed. My first thought was oh, my goodness, has the day gone by already, and here’s me still in bed and I haven’t managed to do a thing.

  So there he was, Michael, and he was holding a tray with a pot of tea, some toast and scrambled eggs, which he knew I was very fond of, and some black grapes, and chocolates. Actually, very expensive chocolates. And from his face I could tell there was nothing to worry about. He’d got hold of money from somewhere, he said, plenty to keep us going. He sat on the chair over by the window while I ate (I’m afraid I did bolt it all down, rather). He said nothing, just looked out across the courtyard and down the drive, and refused to taste the grapes.

  I’m not stupid. I was still eating when I said, what did you sell to buy all this? Must be quite a bit, I said, and just to show him I wasn’t cross with him, or even in the least upset, I smiled. So then he told me about the books and fans and bits of china and all of it, and he was surprised at how little I cared. I was surprised myself. All I said was that they were only things, not even in perfect condition. I was thinking to myself that I could always doctor the inventory if the need arose (which I didn’t anticipate) until I remembered that I’d burned the inventory months ago. So there wasn’t even that to worry about. Then he looked out of the window again and said he could see Steph coming, and he would walk down the drive to meet her. Now that did surprise me, because I didn’t know she had gone out, and I said so. Michael just gave me a look and said no, he would explain, and everything would work out. I wasn’t sure he meant it. But already I felt much better so I got up and went downstairs.

  That day, looking out of Jean’s bedroom window while she ate, Michael watched Steph in the distance bending into the wind on her way up the drive, just as she had done the day before. Once again he felt that she was escaping danger by a hair’s breadth; by the merest chance she was being delivered back to him rather than borne away and destroyed. She was oblivious, of course, like a sleepwalker gliding across a motorway. He watched her with growing anger, feeling that he had been dangerously inattentive. How could he have allowed her to go off like that in the first place? If she had no sense of danger, then clearly it was up to him to have it for her, and he should have been more insistent. He had almost forgotten that when he had told her that morning about the risks she was taking she had seemed not so much to disagree with what he was saying as simply not to be hearing him at all.

  They had sat at the kitchen table over mugs of tea and all the time that he was talking, she had appeared to be waiting. And then, without the least hostility, she had patiently drained her mug and declared that she must be off, just as if he had never opened his mouth. Michael had set about adding water to the teapot to get another cup out of it for Jean, feeling so angry and miserable that his hands shook. He had calmed himself down so that he could take Jean her tea without her seeing the state he was in, but he need not have worried. She had been so dopey- just sleepy, Michael tried to tell himself- that she would not have noticed anyway. Back downstairs again he realised that he would have to get a grip on himself if he were to accomplish the tasks he had set himself for the day. He had no choice but to concentrate on those. It was not possible to deal with so many dangers all together; selling the stuff that he had already put in the van, getting cash and buying food were as much as he could cope with. In fact, an agenda of such complexity and risk was beginning to fill him with the kind of depression that in the old days would have immobilised him for a week. Because it was risky: driving the untaxed, uninsured, un-MOT’d van into Bath, selling to Mr David, shopping openly with a large sum of cash. Any one or all of them could go wrong. If something did, if the van were spotted, if Mr David (always of uncertain temper and sometimes malicious) screwed him over, then Michael’s entire new life would fold in upon itself and disappear.

  Michael had never developed the habit of anticipating too closely the consequences of his actions, beyond taking the usual steps to avoid immediate chaos. He had never been convinced that anything he might do could be important enough to have consequences that would matter that much. That had changed. With the knowledge that he now had something worth keeping came a huge fear that he might lose it. He saw that what he was about to do might destroy everything, but he was also looking straight into the blank fact that he had no other options. His existence, and Steph’s and Jean’s, were at risk anyway, endangered by a simple lack of money. He could not make them safe from that without first exposing them all to other risks, and he would have to concentrate. It would not be his fault if, while he was fending off one danger, Steph was out God knows where creating others. He would deal with her next.

  So when he saw Steph trudging along, head down (her mood never was reflected in the way she walked, it was always the same slow tread, hands in pockets) he thought, here it comes, the next thing. She was still making her way up between the fields. The sight of her alone, not yet within the boundary of the garden, appalled him. He watched from the window, timing it carefully until Jean had finished eating. Then, anxious not to hurry or show his fear, he took the tray and reassured Jean that everything was fine. He clattered downstairs and ran outside, his panic rising.

  Steph might be making her way back, but he was not fooled. She was shaking herself loose, moving beyond and away from them. What was wrong with her, that she needed to go outside, to mix with other people? What was wrong with him, that he was tolerating it? Was she blind? As long as they lived quietly, keeping themselves to themselves, there would be no need for actual secrecy, certainly nothing as blatant as outright lying. But if other people came poking in, if other people were actually being encouraged, how long before certain things came out? God knows what she might already have told them, these people she was ‘working’ for. And who, anyway, were they? He suspected that not only did she not really know, she was so blind and trusting that she did not even recognise the importance of knowing.

  She had no right to spoil everything like this. He marched down the drive to meet her. As he drew closer he broke into a run, shouting, and the noise shook a few birds out of the trees at the far side of the paddock. Steph stopped, looked up and watched them rise and fly off, in that moment realising that Michael would reach the point where she was standing within the next ten seconds, and that he was probably going to hit her. She lowered her head and waited for it to happen so that it would be over. She had no firm opinion on the matter, but it had come as a slight surprise that he was turning out to be the same as the others, after all.

  Out of breath and half-sobbing, Michael grabbed her by the arms. His voice was a thin wail. ‘Jesus Christ! Isn’t it enough for you! Isn’t it enough? Don’t yo
u see you’ll ruin it? Look at me! What’s the matter with you?’

  But Steph barely raised her head.

  ‘What’s the matter with you! Isn’t it enough, all of us here together?’

  Steph tried to pull away for a moment and then, throwing him a look of puzzlement, she cried, ‘Together? All of us? Oh sure, all of us, minus Miranda!’

  Surely he would hit her now, after a remark like that.

  ‘Miranda’s dead,’ she said, ‘in case you’d forgotten.’

  He was bound to hit her now. But Michael let go of her and wiped a hand over his face. ‘Oh, look, I only meant- Steph…’

  He raised his arms as if to hug her, saw her face, and dropped them again.