Shape of Snakes

by Walters, Minette

  "I'm not surprised if you had no clothes on. She probably thought you were a rapist."

  "Ha-bloody-ha!"

  "I suppose you shouted at her?"

  He rolled over to face me, propping himself on one elbow. "I told her I'd have her guts for garters if she didn't learn to tell the difference between liebfraumilch and a priceless sauvignon blanc. Matter of fact, I nearly asked for her birth certificate in case we got raided. She didn't look more than twelve."

  He had a pleasant face, my husband, with laughter lines raying out around his eyes and mouth, and I thought how well he wore his years and how little he had changed in the quarter of a century I'd known him. He had the kind of temperament that people felt comfortable with because he was slow to anger and quick to pacification, and his face was the mirror of his geniality. Most of the time, anyway.

  Now, he eyed me thoughtfully. "How was your day? Did the Reverend Stanhope tell you anything useful?"

  I shook my head. "I hardly spoke to him."

  "Then why so late back?"

  "I talked to his wife," I explained. "She kept a photographic record of their time at St. Mark's and she's lent me pictures of some of the people who were living on Graham Road in '78."

  He studied me for a moment. "That was lucky."

  Perhaps I should have seized the opportunity to be honest, but as usual I couldn't decide if then was the right time. Instead I just nodded.

  "I suppose she knew all their names?"

  "Most of them," I agreed.

  "And could tell you every last thing about them?"

  "Bits and pieces."

  He pushed a strand of hair off my forehead with the tips of his fingers. "There can't be many vicar's wives who photograph their husband's parishioners."

  I shrugged. "She was semiprofessional, used to cover the weddings of the poorer couples. It grew out of that. She's rather good actually. If she was forty years younger, she'd have made a career out of it."

  "Even so"-he let his hand drop to the counterpane-"you could have driven all the way to Exeter to find some dumpy little homebody who'd never done anything more interesting than bake cakes for the Mothers' Union. Instead you come up with David Bailey. That's pretty amazing, don't you think?"

  I wondered what was bugging him. "Not really. At the very least I knew she must have some photographs of Annie's funeral. Don't you remember her taking a picture of us with Libby Williams? She's a very striking woman, tall and gaunt ... like a vulture ... rather difficult to miss."

  He shook his head. "How did you know she was the vicar's wife and not a press photographer?"

  "Julia Charles told me. Apparently, Wendy-Mrs. Stanhope-took pictures of Jennifer's christening so Julia knew her quite well." I paused as he shook his head in unhappy denial. "What's the matter?" I asked.

  He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, disbelief crackling out of him like small electric charges. "Larry came to see me this afternoon. He says you're stirring up a hornets' nest by asking questions about Annie. He wants you to stop."

  "I hope you told him it was none of his business."

  "Quite the reverse. I sympathized with him. Apparently Sheila nearly had a breakdown the last time she got involved. She was hauled before the BMA after your precious vicar accused her of neglect. It was all rubbish, of course-she was cleared immediately-but Larry doesn't want a repeat."

  He walked to the window where sounds of laughter drifted up from the terrace. I kept my fingers crossed that Tom wouldn't choose that moment to power up his sound system to full volume, which was the one thing guaranteed to drive his father 'round the bend.

  "What else did Larry say?" I asked.

  "He wanted to know what brought us to Dorchester. Claims he's not much of a believer in coincidences." He frowned at me in hurt recrimination. "I told him he was wrong ... that it was a coincidence ... that there was no way we could have known in advance where Sheila was working. So he accused me of being naive. Your wife knew, he said. She went into the surgery the day after you moved here to register specifically with Dr. Arnold, then asked for a copy of Sheila's work roster so that she could be sure of getting her."

  I frowned back. "Where would he get a story like that?"

  "He asked Sheila's receptionist if Mrs. Ranelagh had known in advance which doctor would respond to her request for a home visit."

  I sat up and crossed my legs. "I thought that kind of information was confidential," I murmured.

  He waited for me to go on and when I didn't he stabbed a finger at me. "Is that it?" he demanded. "You make me look a complete idiot, then talk about confidentiality."

  I gave an indifferent shrug. "What do you want me to say? Yes, I knew this house was in Sheila's practice, and that's why we're renting it."

  "Why didn't you ask me?"

  "Ask you what?"

  "If I was happy about it."

  "I did. You said Dorchester was as good a place as any."

  "You didn't tell me there was a hidden agenda, though, did you?" He was managing to keep his voice under control, but I could feel the tremors of a major tantrum building inside him. And that, of course, is the trouble with people with equable temperaments-once they lose it, they lose it big time. "I might have felt differently if you'd told me you were planning to resurrect Annie Butts. Jesus! Don't you think we went through enough bloody misery at the time?"

  I suppose everyone has a pet subject that triggers their anger-with me it was my mother's wicked talent for stirring, with Sam it was his fear of Mad Annie and everything her death represented: the mask of respectability that overlaid the hatreds and the lies. He always hoped, I think, in a rather free interpretation of the karma principle, that if he refused to look beneath a surface then the surface was the reality. But he could never rid himself of the fear that he was wrong.

  I took a moment to reply. "It wouldn't have passed the 'so what' test, Sam. I'd have come anyway."

  A look of incomprehension crossed his face. "Without me?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  It was such a little word but its interpretations were endless. Why would I think of deserting him? Why was I being so devious? Why didn't I trust him enough to tell him the truth? If he cared to, of course, he could answer those questions rather better than I could as he'd had a great deal longer to think about them. Admittedly, I'd never challenged him with them directly, but there must have been occasions in the small hours when he prepared his explanations in case I did.

  I answered straightforwardly. "I chose Dorchester because I guessed Sheila had more information than anyone else," I explained, "though to be honest, it wouldn't have mattered where we went. The diaspora from Graham Road has been so widespread that we'd have had this conversation whether we'd come here or"-I gave another shrug-"Timbuktu. Paul and Julia Charles are in Canada ... Jock and assorted others are still in London ... Libby remarried and lives happily with her second husband and three children in Leicestershire ... the Stanhopes are in Devon ... the coroner retired to Kent ... John Hewlett, the RSPCA inspector, is in Lancashire ... Michael Percy, the son of Annie's immediate neighbor, is in prison on Portland ... Bridget Percy, nee Spalding-one of the girls who lived opposite Annie-works in Bournemouth..." I ran out of names and turned to plucking the dowdy candlewick bedspread which was part of the fixtures and fittings and filled me with loathing every time I looked at it.

  I'd shocked him to the core. "How do you know all this?"

  "The same way you know that Jock lives in Alveston Road. I kept in touch. I have a file of correspondence from my father, who's been writing letters on my behalf for years, and Julia and Libby drop me a line every six months or so to keep me informed about people's movements."

  He looked horrified. "Does Jock know you've been talking to Libby?" He used the sort of tone that suggested I'd been party to a nasty piece of treachery. Which was pretty rich, all things considered...

  "I doubt it," I said. "They haven't spoken since the divorce."


  "But he's always believed we were on his side. Dammit, I told him we were."

  "You were half-right then," I said, absorbed in teasing the bedspread with my fingernails. "You've always been on his side."

  "Yes, but..." He paused, clearly grappling with some new and unpleasant thoughts. "Does your mother know your father's been writing letters for you?"

  "No."

  "She'll go apeshit," he said in alarm. "You know bloody well she thought the whole damn mess was dead and buried twenty years ago."

  I yanked a particularly large tuft out of the candlewick and poked it back again when I realized I'd made a hole. I wondered if he remembered that my parents were coming to stay with us the following day, or whether like all the other disagreeable things in his life he had pushed it out of his mind. "I wouldn't worry about it," I murmured. "She won't be angry with you ... only with me."

  "What about your father?" he demanded, his voice rising in pitch. "She'll tear strips off him for going behind her back."

  "There's no reason why she should ever find out."

  "But she will," he said pessimistically. "She always does."

  I thought of my father's advice on the lesser of two evils. If nothing else, Sam's inability to hide his feelings would start my mother on a hunt for hidden secrets. "She might be cross for a day or two," I said, "until she persuades herself it's all my fault. She's programmed never to blame men for anything. As far as she's concerned, Eve corrupted Adam"-I held Sam's gaze-"when she ought to know that Adam almost certainly took Eve without permission."

  He had the grace to blush. "Is that what this is all about? Getting your own back?"

  I didn't answer.

  "Couldn't you have told me?"

  I sighed. "Told you what? That I was pursuing something that was important to me? As I recall, the last time I used those words to you, you accused me of being a neurotic bitch and said if Annie's name was ever mentioned in your presence again, you'd divorce me."

  He waved a despairing hand. "I didn't mean it."

  "Yes, you did," I said flatly, "and if I'd been half as confident then as Tom and Luke are now, I'd have told you where to stuff your pathetic little divorce. I only stayed with you because I had nowhere else to go. My mother banned me from going home and none of my friends wanted a loony parked in their spare bedrooms."

  "You said you wanted to stay."

  "I was lying."

  Sam lowered himself gingerly onto an unopened box of wine. "I thought this was all over a long time ago. I thought you'd forgotten about it."

  "No."

  "Jesus," he muttered, dropping his head into his hands and lapsing into a long silence. He roused himself finally. "Have you ever loved me?" he asked bitterly.

  I wanted to tell him it was a childish question, that if he didn't know the answer after twenty-four years then nothing I could say would make a difference. Did he think anyone could live indefinitely with someone they didn't love? Could he? But outside on the terrace Tom's boom box roared into sudden life, causing the walls and floors of the old farmhouse to thump in sympathy, and I was spared the necessity of replying.

  I went into the bathroom to change and left my rucksack on the bed for Sam to explore. It was a cowardly way to impart information but I didn't feel badly about it. As the old adage has it-you reap what you sow-and Sam's harvest was well overdue.

  E-mail from Mrs. Julia Charles, formerly next-door

  neighbor to the Ranelaghs at 3 Graham Road,

  Richmond-now living in Toronto, Canada-dated 1999

  M. R.

  From: Julia Charles (juliac@cancom.com)

  Sent: 11 February 1999 18:50

  To: M. Ranelagh

  Subject: The Slater children!

  You won't believe the trouble we've had just to locate one of the Slater children! Not the one you wanted, I fear-being the youngest (Danny)-but he may be the most amenable to persuading his mother to answer your letters! I won't bore you with full details of the swings and roundabouts-suffice it to say that Jennifer's preschool chum at number 6 (Linda Barry) kept in touch with another preschool chum (Amy Trent) who was at art school with Danny and still keeps in touch with him. We really did bust a gut to find Alan but got nowhere, I'm afraid. Word has it that he married six or seven years ago and is living somewhere in Isleworth, but I don't know how accurate that is. It might be worth trying international directory inquiries to see if there's an A. Slater in that area, but it's a common name and you may come up with several.

  Anyway, Danny Slater is living somewhere in Brixton (no address or phone number) and teaching graphic design at a college there. The name and address of the college is: Freetown Community Center, Brixton, London. However, the really good news is that he has an e-mail address-michelangelo@rapmail.com-and collects his messages regularly via an Internet cafe near Waterloo station. Jennifer's game to make the contact if Luke and Tom don't want to, but it would speed things up, I think, if you approach him direct. NB: Your idea to say it's an IT project using e-mail and Internet only is a good one and worked well with Linda and Amy.

  So glad to hear Sam's on the mend. I know what a shock it must have been for you!

  Speak soon, love Julia

  Part of the e-mail correspondence between Luke

  Ranelagh and Danny Slater during the first six months of 1999

  DANNY SLATER

  From: Luke Ranelagh (beachbum@safric.com)

  Sent: 22 February 1999 15:12

  To: Danny Slater

  Subject: Babes in bikinis

  How about these? Mine's the blond babe on the right. Word pictures of Graham Road will do if you don't have access to a scanner. I'm an ex-pat, for Christ's sake! I have an aesthetic appreciation of all things English. Cheers. Luke.

  LUKE RANELAGH

  From: Danny Slater (michelangelo@rapmail.com)

  Sent: 20 February 1999 20:50

  To: Luke Ranelagh

  Subject: IT Project-Database: Graham Road

  Listen, mate, anyone who wants to build a database 'round a black hole like Graham Road needs his head examining. Okay, so you're on the other side of the world and you don't know shit about the UK. It's an excuse of sorts-and I guess I can accept it on that basis-but do me a favor and send me some pictures of babes in bikinis. I'm an artist, for Christ's sake! I have an aesthetic appreciation of beautiful women. Word pictures will do if you don't have access to a scanner. The truth is I am DESPERATE to forget I ever lived in Graham f*****g Road. If you'd met my mother you'd understand! Cheers. Danny.

  Extracts from an educational psychologist's report on

  Alan Slater, 32 Graham Road, Richmond. Requested

  by his head teacher-re: permanent exclusion from

  school-dated April 1979

  ...Alan' shows a pattern of bullying behavior. He employs his strength to intimidate others through unprovoked violence, and uses abusive language toward children of different ethnic groups. He has a history of discipline problems and reacts aggressively toward teachers who attempt to control him-particularly the females ... His academic performance across all subjects is poor and this has resulted in feelings of inadequacy and low self-esteem. He regards himself as isolated from his peer group and becomes enraged by seemingly minor slights. He feels rejected by family, peers and teachers, and seeks further rejection through disruptive behavior in order to provide himself with a reason for why no one likes him. There is evidence of violence at home. He speaks about his hatred of his father and refers to his mother as "a vicious bitch." He has a close bond with Michael Percy, a near neighbor and classmate, whom he regards as similarly disaffected...

  ...In conclusion, I have real concerns about Alan's dangerous sense of alienation, which may already have led to criminal behavior. I believe rapid intervention is required to prevent matters from becoming worse. There are problems at home and at school, but permanent exclusion is not a solution. He requires intensive "special needs" teaching to improve his self-esteem, and he should be encou
raged to form strong and positive bonds with adults-either inside the school environment or in the broader community. He needs to feel valued: Only then will he have the necessary motivation to correct his aggressive and antisocial attitudes...

  *8*

  I found Luke, my elder son, straddled across a chair in the kitchen. "Your man's outside smoking a spliff," he shouted into my ear over the cacophony of sound from the terrace. "I told him not to make it too obvious in case Dad saw him, so he's lurking behind a hedge at the bottom of the terrace steps." He handed me a can of lager, then stood up to steer me toward the French windows. "He's a bit of a whinger," he warned. "Keeps saying we must be loaded to afford a place like this, then goes on and on about how he's never had any luck in his life."

  I nodded.

  "So Where's Dad?"

  "Upstairs," I shouted back.

  Luke smiled guiltily. "He's not still angry about his Cloudy Bay, is he?"

  "No, but he's going ballistic about the noise."

  "Okay." He pushed his way through the crowd and turned the volume down to bearable proportions. When he came back he had a wiry, dark-haired man in tow, about age twenty-five, with a nervous frown on his face. "Danny Slater," he said, introducing us. "He's one of the guys who's been giving me gen on Graham Road ... teaches art at a community center in Brixton. He's on Portland for the summer learning to carve stone at a workshop in Tout Quarry. I couldn't believe it when we end up in a house just a stone's throw away ... seemed like a good opportunity to get acquainted."

  Luke spoke for Danny's benefit rather than mine. It was hardly tactful, as he'd pointed out several times, to spend months making friends with a bloke, only for him to guess the first time you meet him that there was a hidden agenda behind the friendship and that the reason you're living less than ten miles from his holiday hideaway is because you want to get close to his parents. "I'd be sodding mad if it happened to me," he'd told me firmly, "so we take a bit of trouble. Okay? I like him ... he's cool ... and his e-mails are funny."