by Alice Jolly
Ludo, I’m sorry, she says. I’m so sorry. It was my fault.
No, Mollie. No. My type of person is always accused of something.
Their voices echo back at them, disturbing the dripping bricks, the water below.
We need to go, she says. You need to pack. If we don’t hurry the train will go.
She hears the smallness of her voice, listens as it is absorbed into dampness.
Mollie, please. You need to go home now. And then tomorrow you must say to the police whatever you need to say, whatever it takes to make everything right.
No. No. I won’t do that. You need to pack. We planned it all.
Mollie, please. You can’t go to London. You need to go home.
No. No. I’m not going back – ever.
He moves towards her, stares down at her through the liquid grey light.
Why not?
Mollie stares back at his varying shades of darkness. She wants to find the words but there aren’t any. In their place is just unease, discomfort, stifled horror. How can she explain? In that house, something struggles unseen, something terrifying which is tied up in a black bag but whimpers and struggles and tries to get out. But it’s silenced, pushed back into the cellar, stuffed under sacks of coal. She longs to say this to Ludo and make him understand. But even trying to find the words makes her feel the ground slide away below her feet, makes her step back against the slimy wall so that she can take hold of it and stop herself from sliding into the canal water. Ludo would save her if she could speak but she can’t.
This situation, Ludo says. Your mother. She’s allowed you to do this. For five months she’s asked you no questions, made no enquiries. Anything could have happened to you. Any man could have—
Including you.
Yes. Including me. But why?
The creature inside the bag struggles and whimpers, is pushed back into the cellar.
We need to go, Mollie says.
No.
I’ll go to London alone then.
No. You’re too young.
I’ll have to – because otherwise they’ll make me say something and then you will go to prison. And I won’t allow that.
Ludo nods his head and she feels the air between them soften, grow mellow. They both know that this story of sacrifice is fiction but Ludo will allow her this because otherwise they’ll need to speak again of Langley Crescent, and he’ll ask about her mother and her stepfather, and the black struggling thing in the sack will be with them again. The narrative of sacrifice is more exciting, less dangerous, necessary.
If you’re really going then I should give you some money, he says.
No.
But he takes his wallet out of the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out notes. She’s seen him do this often before but now he pushes them towards her. She takes several five pound notes but divides them and pushes half back at him. She wants him to insist, to push all the money on her, to tell her that he’s worried about her safety, to make some payment for the sacrifice that she’s making. But he surrenders easily, puts some of the money back in his wallet. Her mind decides not to understand this as a measure of her worth.
But you will come and see me in London?
She feels him take a breath, harden his jaw, prepare himself for brutality.
No. No. You must understand. We must never see each other again.
But I need a job. You have theatre contacts.
Mollie, you have a beautiful voice.
Again that booming sound echoes along the canal, disappears into the blunt silence. Everything is evaporating. She should love him less now but loves him more. She raises her hands to her face. A thousand glasses are shattering inside her head. She thinks briefly of the house up above them. It’s made of sheets and flaps in the wind. It has no stability at all. It isn’t even there. And neither is the solid, red-brick city below, or the school. All of it is untethered, drifted from its mooring, carried away by the River Severn. With its floods and rages.
We will still go to Austria?
There his brutality fails. He raises his hands uncertainly, pushes his hair back from his eyes, shakes his head. The world of the house by the lake is so close, they need only pull the veil aside and they’ll be there. His hands twitch again and he looks away along the canal, sighs.
Mollie, there’s no one there for me to visit now.
No.
Yes. No one.
There is. I know there is.
No.
She wants to touch him, to take hold of his hand but if she does he might crumble. Mollie knows now what happened to the house in Austria because she’s read about it in books. The crystal smashed, the pictures slashed, the wardrobes pulled open, fur and silk held in grasping hands, the down from feather bolsters spread like snow, other people’s boots tramping across the parquet floors. Those images sting but in a way that’s half pleasurable. She prefers them to some simpler loss – getting married and moving away, bankruptcy, the passage of time.
I know what happened, she says.
No. You don’t. Ludo is brutal again now. Don’t make me a victim, Mollie. Don’t allow me that excuse. It insults those who really were.
She’s breathless now, fighting tears. But still she must know the worst.
Ludo – why did you never?
He considers this question, shrugs wearily.
I always knew that sometime I’d have to do something good.
Mollie watches him, shakes her head. So she has inspired goodness? The improbability of this touches a nerve of laughter. Oh what a fool Ludo is. Why did he have to be good? He clearly has no talent for it. And yet she can’t help feeling glad because she knows that he feels satisfied, occupies a position of moral superiority just for once. The air between them has lightened and she should leave it like that. But still she must poke her finger into the wound.
You never loved me?
He steps back from her as though she’s smashed her fist into his face. Silence holds them both hostage. But then the air expands, the night releases its grip. He moves forward, touches her cheek, leans down to look into her eyes.
Yes. I did. Far more than you can know.
She stands shocked. His smallness is almost worse than his cruelty.
And that is why you must leave, he says.
Then he moves forward, takes hold of her and kisses her as he never has before. She moves close to him, slides her hands inside his coat, his jacket, wraps her arms around him, feeling the starch of his shirt, the warmth of his skin beneath. But his mouth is cold and tastes of cigars, his teeth snag against her lip. The kiss is finished and still she clings to him, although she doesn’t want him to kiss her again. He moves her aside, picks up her suitcase and carries it out of the mouth of the tunnel, places it on the tow path. She has no choice but to move towards it. Inside she’s pulled tight, ready to break.
She looks at him blindly – the furrows in his carefully combed black hair, the worn collar of the velvet jacket, the scarf wound tightly around his neck. Already he’s become a mere smudge in the blue-grey air. The kiss should turn the toad to the prince, not the other way around. Some part of her is glad to be leaving. There will be plenty of others. He was only a small man, after all. With his beautiful shirts, his handkerchiefs, his fine cigars. A flower in his buttonhole and presents for the girls – stockings, exotic notebooks and powder cases. She’ll survive this but he will not – or she certainly hopes he won’t. The great occasion has come and he’s failed to step forward to meet it. Beside them the black waters of the flooded canal reflect the dull lights of the night.
43
NOW
Lara – Brighton, May 2003
Lara is crying like a waterfall, tears spouting from between her fingers, dripping from her chin, soaking into her shirt. She snorts and sobs, pulls a hand back from her eyes so that she can wipe her cheek with her sleeve. Martha pulls a tissue from a box while Wilf eases the telephone from her hand. Lara tries to speak but is engul
fed in another bubbling sob. She takes a tissue from Martha, shudders.
I just didn’t know what to say, she says. So little time and I didn’t know.
I’m sure you said the right thing, Martha says.
He misses the rain, Lara says. And you probably heard – I said something stupid about how I could put some in a flask, send it to him.
Lara sobs and half laughs, takes another tissue.
That was a lovely thing to say, Martha says. Lovely.
I just had no idea he would call.
No, of course.
Most of the time he was just saying – are you still there? Because he couldn’t hear properly.
And she had wanted to say, I’m here forever now. Here all the time. By your side. But he’d had to get off the phone before she could speak. Now she looks up and sees a shadow moving on the stairs beyond the door. Something about the shadow, the slow weight of it, its particular blackness, is familiar. Critics have always said that his timing is faultless. The shadow forms into feet in battered brogues, crumpled suit trousers, a rounded belly held together by the button of a jacket. Red hair, sprouting eyebrows. Rufus moves into the room. His hangover-eyes consume the scene in one gulp. Bad moment?
Jay called, Lara tells him.
Oh. For a moment his cynicism cracks. Is he OK?
Yes. For now. Yes. The line was bad. We both kept speaking at the same time. But I said— I didn’t say—
Right, Rufus says. I see. He’s looking around now at the spider plants, the cardboard box containing the skinny dog with bad nerves, the thick pipes across the ceiling, the high window framing snapshots of feet that pass in the street. He nods briefly now to Martha and Wilf, puts his hands in his pockets, assumes an air of one who has popped in while passing, is merely browsing. But his bull head swivels back to Lara. Perhaps for once I don’t need an audience. Maybe you and I should walk?
Yes, Lara says. Yes. She hurries to pick up her coat and bag, wondering why she still jumps to attention for her father. At the door, she turns back. Thank you, she says to Martha and Wilf. Thanks very much. Both of them have been silenced by Rufus’s presence. Even the back of Ahmed’s head – white collar stiff and clean – seems to have shrunk to half its normal size. Lara takes another tissue, wipes at her eyes, follows Rufus out of the office. The hall above is empty except for a shrivelled lady in a wheelchair, parked in a corner, babbling desperately, a purple fleece rug sliding from her knees. Lara wonders briefly if she should rescue this old lady, offer to push her somewhere. If she fails to do that will Jay die?
But Rufus has gone, out through the glass doors and into the lane. For a moment Lara hesitates but then turns and follows. Even when she’s caught up with him, in the lane that runs along the side of the church, he doesn’t slow his pace. This is what he always does, stalks on ahead as though he’s in a furious hurry, leaving Mollie, or Lara, or whoever else, to trail behind. She waits to see whether he will turn towards the Guest House but instead he heads towards the seafront. Above the chimneys and television aerials of the houses opposite, the clouds are stacked up, in a pearl-grey sky. A persistent wind pulls at Lara’s coat, catches in her hair, stings against her damp cheeks.
So, he says, turning back to her. You called me?
Lara buttons her coat against the wind.
Yes. You heard my message.
You want me to come back?
Please, Dad. Don’t play games.
He waves his hand with a theatrical flourish, a gesture from a Molière play.
Well, I’m just saying.
They’ve stopped now in the street and Lara stands close to the railings, feels herself backed against them, trapped. Yes. It’s what I said in the message. It’s Mum. I can just about do all this – with Jay and everything – but I can’t cope with Mum as well. She’s just – going mad. Talking all the time about the past. I don’t understand.
Rufus shrugs, walks on. They come to the seafront and he stops to cross the road, nearly puts out an arm to usher her across. It seems that he needs to reach the beach, the sea, despite the ripping wind and the occasional drops of rain flung down from the glowering clouds. Lara feels the pebbles of the beach sliding under her feet. Rufus comes to a stop in the shelter of a closed-up deckchair shed. He takes cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket, holds the packet out to Lara who refuses only because she doesn’t wish to suggest that companionship might be possible.
So what was it that you didn’t say to Jay on the phone?
Well, I didn’t say—
The wind comes in a sudden gust, blows Rufus’s lighter out, flips Lara’s coat collar and hair into her mouth. She turns to shield herself from the blast and manages to force the words out.
I didn’t say that I love him.
That was the one thing you needed to say?
Dad, please.
Well, was it, for God’s sake?
Rufus pushes himself in closer to the peeling orange paint of the deckchair shed, succeeds in lighting his cigarette, stares along the beach past Lara, his face as forbidding as the sky above. When he speaks he makes each word separate, like the sound of gunfire. So you didn’t tell him to come home?
No.
Rufus laughs bluntly, lays the palm of his hand on his forehead, sighs.
Dad. Please. Look. You need to understand. I’m trying to do things differently. I’m trying to listen to him. I’m trying to be honest because I’ve thought a lot and there’s always been this thing between him and me. Look, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? When I was first pregnant. You remember?
No.
Yes, you do. You were trying to help me and I’ve always treated you like someone who wanted to murder my child.
What?
You remember.
No, Lara listen to me. Actually I really don’t remember. Strange as this may seem, large parts of my brain have gone. That’s what alcohol does. And as you well know, I don’t do the past.
Lara stares at him, looks straight into his clouded, shallow eyes, realises that he genuinely doesn’t remember. So much of their lives have been about that night, and much of what is happening now. It’s taken her so long to work that out. And he doesn’t remember.
Listen, Lara. Listen. Please. We’re in the wrong play here, the wrong film, the wrong bloody television miniseries. This is not the scene where we all face up to our mistakes in the past and then that paves the way for a happier future. For Christ’s sake, girl. Wake up. Use your brain. You’ve at least always had a good brain. What’s happening here is that your son – who you love and who I love – is in a country which is blowing itself to pieces. And so there’s only one thing you need to say, which is – come home. Get the fuck out of there. Now. Right now. And yet you didn’t say it. What in God’s name are you doing? Getting involved with all this anti-war rubbish, turning into some flakey-loony-liberal wittering on about the past and inner peace and reconciliation. That’s what your mother does. Do we need another bleeding heart in this family?
Lara feels as though he has hit her but in another part of her mind she’s starting to laugh. Looking at her father, she sees that he’s similarly struggling to remain entirely serious. Do you want a drink? he says. I didn’t – but I do now.
Lara nods, feeling the salt wind washing tears down her face. Rufus turns and strides along the beach. He’s heading for the King’s Arms in Rack Street, one of his regular haunts. As they walk the rain thickens, moves in a grey curtain across the seafront. Somewhere in the distance a siren blares. As they cross the road, a drunk sitting on the pavement waves a bottle and shouts, Fucking cunts. Rufus and Lara turn into Rack Street, walk up past the Chinese takeaway and the bookies, past a pink painted sex shop. Feather dusters bloom in the window and pots of wax are piled high in order to shine your stick.
The pub is on the corner, ancient and grimy with smoked-glass windows, a revolving door, patterned carpets. Lara sits down in a window seat of green velour while Rufus goes to get the drinks
. In the corner a slot machine flashes and somewhere in the sepia distance men lean over a pool table. The air smells of sweat, bacon crisps, spilt beer. Lara considers Rufus’s spacious back, wonders whether his absence might have been about something more than Sarah on box office, or Lisa in make-up. She’ll never know. Rufus has always made her feel cramped, a person desperately trying to have an existence but constantly crowded out, swamped, silenced. But despite the fact that he’s always occupied all the space with his ceaseless me-me-me, it’s impossible ever to know him. Now he returns with a pint of beer and a glass of white wine as big as a goldfish bowl. He sits down, drinks from his pint. A line of white froth appears along his red moustache.
I’m sorry, love, he says. But I mean what I said. We just need to get him back.
Lara looks at him across the table. He’s aged since she last saw him – the skin of his face sags, his neck is fleshy, the whites of his eyes are yellow, veined with red. Usually he makes an effort with his clothes – bow ties, cravats, a check tweed suit, gold cufflinks – but now he looks like a bookie who’s spent several nights on a park bench. She feels herself turning to liquid, fears that she might cry again. How quickly Rufus can demolish whole worlds. But the worst of it is that he’s right.
Must say, the lad’s got guts. I would never have thought it of him.
Rufus drinks again.
Look, I’ll deal with Mollie and you get Jay back. Is that a deal?
Dad, I’m not sure there is any way.
Try. Do everything you can. Insist.
There is this Spanish journalist, Patricia.
OK. Good. Well, that’s a start. You’ve got to do all you can. And I’ll deal with your mother. Not right now. I’ve stuff in London to finish with first. But I’ll definitely come home by the time Jay is back.
I’m just not sure.
