The Slow Death of Maxwell Carrick

by Jan Harvey

  I placed the plates back down on the table. I was shaking.

  ‘Please don’t argue, you two.’ I urged them to stop, conscious of Garry coming down the stairs.

  ‘I won’t. Dad’s been too rude. What did you mean by “we old blokes must stick together”? You didn’t even use that in context, just stuck it in for spite.’

  I had never seen them arguing like this, their faces reddening, making their family resemblance more noticeable.

  ‘Sarah, stop it!’ I hissed.

  ‘I’m not standing for any more of this.’ She slammed her hand on the table, making everything rattle, and a knife slid to the floor.

  ‘I think you’re the rude one,’ said Steve flatly, adding fuel to the fire whilst Garry was hesitating at the foot of the stairs. ‘Maybe you’ve been misconstruing what I said.’ That was Steve’s first attempt at reconciliation.

  ‘No I wasn’t.’ Sarah was turning to call for Garry just as he appeared at the door, squirming with embarrassment.

  ‘What’s wrong, love?’ He looked very uneasy as he saw our expressions.

  ‘Please can we go?’ Sarah was fuming. ‘I want to leave now.’

  Garry looked completely thrown. He was shorter then her with thinning hair and thick-rimmed glasses. I couldn’t imagine her with him, even with them standing in front of me, they seemed so completely unsuited.

  ‘I’m sorry, Garry,’ I said nervously. ‘I’m afraid it’s–’

  ‘It’s all about Dad,’ said Sarah interrupting me. ‘He obviously doesn’t like the thought of us being together, and while you’ve been oblivious, he’s been making snide comments. Like when he said you were “two old blokes” that was a jibe.’

  Garry, bless him, tried to be conciliatory. ‘I’m sure that’s not the case, darling. Your dad was just being funny, weren’t you, Steve?’

  Steve said nothing.

  ‘See, you don’t know him like I do,’ said Sarah.

  I had to sit down because my legs felt weak and there was a churning feeling deep in my belly, I felt terribly sick because I hate conflict. ‘Sarah, please don’t say these things, let’s all calm down a bit.’

  Steve was staring ahead of him like he does when he’s really angry.

  ‘I knew he’d be like this, Mum.’ Her voice was getting louder. ‘He’s so unreasonable.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Steve said. ‘I’m allowed an opinion about whom my daughter chooses for a partner.’

  ‘Most people would act politely but not you, you have to say what you think and not only that you make weird jokes. You have no social intelligence at all.’

  ‘Sarah!’ I finally raised my voice because she had gone too far. ‘Don’t speak to your father like that.’

  ‘Mum, you’re too soft, you let him say all these things and you never fight back. It’s no wonder you’ve found yourself another man, for God’s sake.’

  It was like a guillotine had dropped home.

  The silence was unbearably awful; it felt solid like a thick glutinous substance expanding to fill the space between us. The whole horrible moment was happening in dreadful slow motion. Sarah put her hand over her mouth, Garry’s dropped open at the same time, and I heard Inca whimper from her basket.

  Steve pushed the table away sharply. It shuddered like a boat being pushed into the sea from the beach and, as it did so, my mother’s crystal sugar bowl shivered and fell to the floor. It smashed into tiny pieces, but no one noticed because we were all looking at my husband and the white-hot anger in his face.

  He slammed the door so hard as he left that flakes of paint drifted from the woodwork like snow and littered the hall carpet with a sprinkling of white dots.

  64

  ‘Carrick, I have no idea.’ Lewis looked at me blankly.

  ‘It would be too much of a coincidence,’ I told him earnestly. ‘Your friend brings home a French woman, I meet her and then poor George falls foul of her too. It must be the same woman.’

  ‘I do not think we can make assumptions, old man,’ Lewis looked bemused. ‘What do you mean, George has fallen foul of her?’

  I realised my mistake instantly. No one must know, and for a moment I hesitated. Surely I could confide in Lewis? But no, no one must know I told myself.

  For a moment, my mind drifted and was back at Lapston on that drear March evening, the rain sheeting down around us as we lowered the coffin into the grave. The vicar recited his words and the seven of us watched as George was lowered, bit by bit, into his anonymous dark hole.

  I thanked the three undertakers and paid them well for their silence. Ogden and Jim looked at me from under their oilskin coats, hair dripping with rain. They each shook my hand and I knew I had their loyalty. I donated a large sum of money to the church and the vicar played his roll too. They didn’t like to bury suicides inside the village churchyard, he was glad to be let off the hook.

  Mrs Hall clung to my arm as we walked back to the house, whatever she thought, and I knew she didn’t agree with my actions, she kept her own counsel. Money it seems, can buy you anonymity in death, it is good for something.

  Early the following morning, as the sun rose over the house, casting a bright gold light on the lawns after a turbulent night, I walked down to the little church and stood over the freshly turned soil. I had with me a sapling, a yew tree. I planted it at the head of the grave, next to the wall. Yews, they say, prevent witches from entering churchyards and disturbing the sleep of the dead. I wished that George would sleep easy in that silent, secret grave.

  I stood back and looked at the small insignificant little tree, imagining that it would grow steady and true, and that its roots would curl around that coffin and keep George safe.

  ‘Carrick,’ Lewis was concerned. ‘Are you quite well?’ I was dragged back into his office, the colours around me sharp, the smoke of his cigar pungent in my nostrils. ‘Only, just for a second there, I thought you might be about to… you know…’

  ‘I haven’t been unwell in a very long time,’ I reassured him. ‘I have had too much to deal with, there has been no time for illness.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. What did you mean about George falling foul of the Frenchwoman?’

  ‘I simply don’t like her,’ I replied. ‘She and I did not see eye to eye from the start.’ I told him. ‘She moved on to George and he was taken in by her, that is all.’

  ‘I see. And where are they now?’

  ‘I have no idea. There was talk about the south of France, but I have lost contact with them but no doubt they will soon be in touch.’ He looked puzzled but unperturbed. ‘I need to get to Paris, Lewis. How can I do it?’

  ‘No one wants to go to Paris,’ he said, tapping his cigar. ‘Last time I was there they were starving, pitiful. I had cabbage soup three nights running at my hotel.’

  ‘I need to go.’

  He shook his head slowly, then he looked very thoughtful, considering something, but not convinced about it I could tell. He reached for a foolscap file, unwound the cord that held it together and opened it. There was a pause whilst he read the first page and then the next.

  At length, he clasped his hands together in front of him and spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘Look, old man, the thing is, I could use you in Paris.’

  I leaned in.

  He continued, still looking like he was uncertain of what he was about to say. ‘I don’t want to raise your hopes; it would be dashed cruel if you thought this to be true and it simply wasn’t.’

  I had no idea what he meant.

  ‘We have a number of men and a women unaccounted for in France four are in Paris itself. We simply don’t know if they are alive or dead or even somewhere in between.’

  There was a prickle of sweat in the back of my neck. He took a deep draw on his cigar, still looking dubious about what he was going to impart.

  �
��What are you telling me?’

  ‘As I said, it’s absolutely imperative that you do not allow your hopes to be raised, but one of those who we cannot account for is Henry.’

  I let out an audible gasp. ‘Henry?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lewis placed his cigar on the ashtray in front of me. A flickering of ash spread across the leather and he brushed it away with his hand, a thick gold signet ring on it. All these things I remembered as I let the words settle into my mind.

  ‘Not dead?’

  ‘We simply don’t know, we’ve had contradicting reports.’

  ‘But they told us he was, he was…’ My words drifted away, a great stillness overcame me, swamping me and I couldn’t move. If he were not dead it was too cruel that Alice and George didn’t know before they… I couldn’t produce a single linear thought. I felt again the unsettling feeling, the shapes shifting in my mind. I thought of Collins – was he dead, or did I imagine it?

  ‘We have a man over there tidying up, but our energies must be used elsewhere, as you know very well we have a big push on Germany underway. Things are desperate over there, Carrick, make no mistake. If you want to go, I can aid matters if you will help find Henry, or what trace remains, but I think any chance of him being alive is slim. I will organise that you meet our operative, Alec Trevise who has volunteered to stay out there until he’s completed his task. He will help you.’

  I wasn’t actually taking anything in. Lewis’s mouth was moving but I wasn’t hearing a word. Henry might not be dead. The words were repeating over and over in my head. Henry might be alive. I swallowed and gripped the edges of my chair.

  ‘If you are still… unwell… I cannot, in all conscience, send you,’ said Lewis.

  Finally, my brain was homing in on the importance of what he was saying. I sat up straight. ‘No, I’m absolutely fine now, I will go. You can send me whenever you like.’

  ‘You may be hurt all over again when you uncover the truth,’ said Lewis. ‘You must be prepared for that.’

  ‘I am,’ I told him. ‘I am.’

  65

  I sat on the wall by the millstream with my arms wrapped around my knees as I watched the rushing waters below, the powerful force that once moved the large iron wheel. I had seen a picture of it in one of the files. A tangle of weeds and shrubs had grown over the years to camouflage the steep bank, and I could see a plastic carrier bag had been blown amongst the foliage. The Tesco logo looked so out of place and offensively wrong amid the greens and golds. Then I saw the Lucozade bottle half hidden in the soil and an oily rag, and my mind fixated on these three imposters in what should be a perfect, untouched place of natural beauty, but I couldn’t reach any of them, it would have been dangerous to try.

  I’d worked out Rory was coming home that day, but I didn’t know what time. I had slept so badly in my empty bed, Steve had left me and not come back and I had no idea where he was. I had phoned him numerous times, left messages, texted him and now I hated him for making me worry. I also hated him for imagining that I wasn’t faithful, that I didn’t love him.

  I also hated him for not being Rory.

  The hamlet was quiet, no sign of life. I imagined what it would have been like in Carrick’s day with the mill a hive of activity. The carts queuing up to take grain to the station, or would it have been trucks? Petrol was such a scarcity, I decided it would have been carts.

  I raised my hand to shield my eyes, but the road was empty, the line of trees on the hillside a thick ridge of green, verdant and full of life. The same trees Carrick and his sad family had known.

  Inca yawned and made the cute squeak I loved. She was sitting looking up at me, telling me that we were wasting time when we could be walking. It had been a long walk there and my legs were stiff as I stood up; I was getting old.

  ‘Come on, Inca, let’s go and see if he’s home,’ I said and she wagged her tail pulling instinctively towards her friend Scooter’s house, but I yanked her lead and pulled her away. ‘Not today, your mate’s not here. I meant let’s go home.’ I felt my heart sigh.

  We retraced our steps back past Norman’s house and then up the lane, the mottled purple shadows latticed with green light. It was a cool and very pleasant place to be after a hot day and I was soon back in my stride as Inca and I walked up the hill.

  The pickup turned into the road at the junction and Rory saw me immediately and waved. He pulled in and, through the windscreen, I could see how tanned and relaxed he was, he was wearing sunglasses.

  ‘Well, hello stranger,’ he said as the window lowered. ‘What are you doing in my neck of the woods?’

  I was overcome with embarrassment, like some stupid schoolgirl caught waiting for the boy she fancied at the school gate.

  ‘Hi, I was just walking, it’s such a lovely day.’ I knew I sounded terribly false, like we barely knew each other.

  ‘You okay?’

  I couldn’t meet his eyes so I looked away.

  ‘Martha?’

  He was out of the truck in an instant, leaving the engine running, and the driver’s door open. Before I knew it, I was in his arms, the strength of him enveloping me. He kissed the top of my head and then my forehead and then my lips. The taste of his mouth was divine, the roughness of his chin against my face and the tang of sea salt in the crevices of skin in his neck.

  ‘Rory.’ I felt like every muscle in my body had weakened as if, at that moment, I gave in to it all; my broken marriage; my angry daughter; my terrible retirement; my increasing lack of self worth, and yet, at the same time, I was so lucky compared to Carrick. I was suffering so little compared to that old man who sat day after day at his window staring out at that little bird table.

  ‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’

  ‘Everything,’ I told Rory as I pressed my face to his chest, the firmness of it comforting against my cheek. I needed him so much right then.

  ‘Come on, back to mine, I’m seeing a very great need for a cuppa here.’

  He helped me to climb into the pickup and then lifted Inca into the footwell. Her tail was wagging madly and it was obvious she thought it was all a very fine adventure.

  As we drove, I wrapped my hands around myself defensively, self-hugging, as if it might protect me from my own feelings. Rory glanced over at me but said nothing.

  In two minutes, what had been my walk of nearly quarter of an hour, we were back at his house. He didn’t bother with his luggage, instead we walked straight to his door and I noticed he fumbled as he slid the key in the lock.

  In his hallway, I stood like something washed up on the seashore, a piece of debris that had no earthly use, just a faded memory of a past.

  He led me to the sofa and, instead of kissing me and making a move on me which he could so easily have done, he put his arm round me and held me to his side, pressing my head to his shoulder as you would a child who needed consoling.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Steve’s gone, I don’t know where. He won’t answer his phone, though I’m pretty certain he’s at his mother’s place. Sarah and he had a bust up, she’s got herself a man who we don’t really like and he’s too old for her and I feel completely lost. I don’t know how anything works anymore.’

  ‘Works?’

  ‘You know, me. I don’t know who I am, or Steve for that matter, and I thought I knew who Sarah was but she’s got no taste in men and she hates us.’ I sniffed, tears forming in my eyes, the room blurring.

  ‘I see,’ he said, a finger was stroking my temple, rhythmic, soothing.

  ‘And I missed you,’ I said. At that point the tears flowed. I wiped the back of my cardigan sleeve across my face. ‘And I shouldn’t do.’

  ‘No,’ he said, kissing the top of my head. ‘You shouldn’t.’

  He was silent, as if waiting before speaking, then after a moment or two, he continu
ed. ‘And I shouldn’t have been pining away in Spain, staring into every glass of San Miguel and trying to see your face in it. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, not for a single moment. I’d have given anything to have you with me.’

  I was motionless, the sound of my own breathing seeming to fill the whole room.

  ‘So there were no hot Spanish floozies fawning over you then?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Loads. I kept batting them off saying “Go away Spanish floozies I’ve met a lovely lady who makes me feel all fuzzy inside.” It didn’t stop them of course, but it held them off for a while.’

  I smiled, I turned towards him. ‘Fuzzy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I was looking directly into his face. He was tanned, his eyes were bright and even his teeth looked whiter. He looked so healthy and handsome and so alive. Rory was not trapped; he was a free spirit, and not a bit like me.

  I leaned forward, pushing myself up a little and kissed him. He turned and pulled me to him until I was on his lap then he kissed me again. I could hardly breathe as his hand curled around the back of my head. There was an urgency between us, a feeling of time rushing in and forcing us together, making it happen. He slid his hands under my shirt at the back, unfastening my bra, so that it was loose under my clothes. I felt my nipples harden under his hands as he cupped my breasts. It had never felt like this, the absolute truth. It was as if I’d asked the question all my life and here he was, right here, answering it. I pulled off my clothes uncaring that the big windows made me visible to anyone outside. I was woman in her sixties and I didn’t care.

  He kissed my shoulders, my arms, my breasts, and then he ran his fingers down my back setting off sparks in me, small at first and then bigger, brighter until my body was alive with them. He pushed me down onto the sofa, the cracked leather cold against my back and then he was undoing his jeans, and before I could take it all in he was kissing and licking my stomach.