Maker of Footprints

by Sheila Turner Johnston

He swung himself down to sit on the edge of the bridge, his feet hanging above the water. He was exquisitely alone, alive to the end of every nerve. He swung his legs. Yet he was restless, uneasy at that deep point where solitude slips into loneliness.

  In a hollow of the steeper bank, some leaves stirred. A flash of black nose, a scuffing of paw, a flick of fur and all was still again. His hand flew to his camera; relaxed again. What was that? A mink? A stoat?

  He ran his fingers through his hair. His ears were cold. No hat. Was she wearing it? Absently, he turned his wedding ring round and round, his sight blurring as the pictures in his mind took over. Jenna came towards him on the beach, her hair flying from the rim of the hat that he had just pulled onto her head. Her nose was pink, her cheeks glowing in the salt air. He liked the cream coat. It suited her, the way the fur skimmed her knees and circled her wrists. Her hair was the colour of the moist dark sugar that his mother used when she was making coffee cakes.

  Jenna was gentle, peaceful company. His eyes focused again on the straight trunks of the trees rising around him, the slice of the stream through the forest floor. She would not disturb this. She would love it as he did and, loving it, she would blur the line where solitude became loneliness and all of him would be content. He wanted her here now and the impossibility of it became a small ache. Even if he was a bad bastard who made up the rules as he went along, she would play by her own rules, not his. She was a woman of her time and yet above it also. She was vulnerable in her security and innocence; stronger than she yet knew in the untested boundaries of her mind.

  Luke was like her. Paul smiled. Luke was Jenna with testosterone. Bright, underestimated, determined to mark his difference. He liked Luke.

  He felt something drop onto his hand. He put the back of his hand to his nose and sighed. Not again. Blood trickled across his hand and dripped onto his coat. He rummaged in his pocket and found a tissue. He unhooked his camera from his neck and set it carefully beside him. Then he lay back until he was flat on the wooden planks, his eyes on the swaying canopy of trees above him. The breeze made patches of light wink through the branches like tilted diamonds. He held the tissue to his nose and felt it grow warm with blood. The red sweet wine. Drops began to seep down his throat. He recrumpled the tissue and coughed.

  After some minutes he sat up again. He should head for home. Jack would be hungry. He and the kitten had decided they could get along and Jack followed him everywhere, sitting on his shoulder, sleeping on his bed, playing with the strap of his camera. Most of all, Jack loved to sit on the arm of the chair while Paul strummed his guitar. Its ears turned in the sounds, perking forward for the higher notes and dropping back for the lower ones. Eventually, the kitten’s mouth would stretch into a wide pink yawn and the soft body would drop into a small circle on his master’s knee, the purr of pleasure slowly fading into sleep. Paul loved the blue-black of the fur, the miniature perfection of the single white paw curled over the nose.

  He lifted his camera and stood up. He hooked the strap over his head, patted his pocket – notebook, pencil, phone in the back pocket. Vaguely he remembered his phone vibrating earlier. He dug it out and checked it. One missed call. It was Dianne’s number. What day is this? He stabbed the phone with his thumb. Tuesday. He was eighty miles from the airport.

  20

  THE TAIL LIGHTS of the taxi accelerated away and left Dianne at her gateway in the soft mizzle of rain. She pulled up the handle of her suitcase and hauled it up the drive. There was no car and the house looked empty. Where was he? How could he do this?

  Her father had come with Luther to the airport. His last words stayed in her mind.

  “You belong here, Dianne. Come back soon.”

  She waved to him from the departure gate. He looked forlorn, smaller than Luther who stood, unsmiling, beside him.

  Now here she was, back at an empty house, in a city she did not like, in the rain, and the person who was the only reason for her being here had let her down – again. It was almost as cold inside the house as outside. She left her suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. Paul could take it up for her. That was what he was supposed to do: look after her, carry things for her. Pick her up at the airport, damn it!

  The Christmas decorations were still up. The tree still stood in the window, dull. Dianne looked around, temper flaring higher. This should all have been put away by yesterday at the latest. It probably never occurred to him. She yanked a piece of tinsel from the tree and threw it on the floor. A mug with dregs of coffee in it sat on the small table. She snatched it up and went into the kitchen.

  Unwashed dishes were piled beside the sink. She counted. The mug she had in her hand was number five. Toast crumbs littered the ledge. She stopped. There was something curled up in the sink. It was black and had eyes. It was looking at her. She stared at it, transfixed. The green eyes blinked. “Miaow,” it said, and stretched a white paw lazily towards the tap.

  Dianne’s hand flew to her mouth. A cat! There was a cat in the sink. She set down the mug carefully and backed out of the kitchen, shutting the door firmly.

  Arabella wasn’t sympathetic. “Well, what do you expect if you leave him alone for days? He’s a man. And a kitten might be fun.”

  “But the place is a tip, Bella! And he left me alone.”

  Bella’s deep chuckle came down the line. “Well, darling, you weren’t exactly alone now, were you?”

  Dianne pouted. “Whatever happened was Paul’s fault.”

  “He mightn’t see it that way. Some old fogies might say you and Luther getting jiggy again is adultery, you know.”

  “Oh, Bella! That wasn’t adultery. That was just Luther. Jason or Alex or Toby would be adultery…”

  Bella’s giggle interrupted her. “Toby wouldn’t be adultery. Toby would be a big disappointment, darling.”

  “OK. Maybe not Toby. But Luther and I…”

  “… go back a long way. I know.” Bella paused. “You never should have left him, Di.”

  Dianne’s voice was brittle. “He’s still there, isn’t he?”

  “But for how long?” Bella’s tone was serious. “Luther’s like you, ruthless when he wants something. If he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t give up. He just stops wanting it.” Dianne fiddled with her hair. Bella’s next question slipped into her ear, quiet. “How long has he given you?”

  “Till Easter.” It was almost a whisper.

  There was a silence on the line. Then Bella said, “Say you get Paul to come back to London. Then what?” She paused. “Then what, Di?”

  “I don’t know, Bella. I don’t know.”

  “You shouldn’t have given in to Luther. You should have let it die. You’re getting yourself into a ghastly pickle.”

  Dianne put her hand to her head. “It was Paul’s fault.”

  “It was your choice.”

  “It’ll not happen again.”

  Bella snorted. “Tell that to Luther! You can’t keep doing that to a man, you know. Loving him and leaving him.” She sighed. “Paul was probably right, darling. You shouldn’t have come back for Christmas. He knew what would happen.”

  “But he’s supposed to love me.” That sounded pathetic.

  Bella chuckled again. “The only person Paul Shepherd loves is Paul Shepherd.”

  When Dianne hung up, the sudden absence of Bella’s husky tones was like a door slamming. In the kitchen, a spoon fell on the floor with a clatter. She looked at the Christmas tree, out of place and out of time. It seemed to mock her. Bella was right. Luther and she were alike. When he doesn’t get what he wants, he just stops wanting it. Dianne’s chin set firmly. I can do that too.

  She decided not to be sorry about the fit of pique and self-indulgence that had sent her back into Luther’s bed. Her last few days in London had been unsettled by an undertow of guilt. This home-coming washed guilt from her and left her back on the high ground, the victim.

  She hugged her arms around herself in the cold sitting room.

  Je
nna was watching a film on television. She had just taken the first bite from an apple when her doorbell rang. It couldn’t be Luke. He would just barge in using his own key. Wary, she turned off the television and went to the window to peep through the curtain.

  It was Paul who stood on the footpath, gazing up at her door as if willing it to open. He must have seen her slight movement because he turned his head quickly. He put out his hand to the wall as if to steady himself as he met her eyes. He didn’t smile, didn’t frown, didn’t speak. He stood, hand on the wall, looking at her.

  When she opened the front door, he walked past her, into her house, into her sitting room, without a word. She walked after him. In the middle of the room he swung round. He looked pale.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” she asked.

  He was studying her. After a moment he bent and threw the red and black cushion onto the floor and sat in her chair as if he owned it.

  “Why do you keep spoiling my pictures?” he grumbled.

  She walked round in front of him. “What pictures?”

  “My pictures of you.” He threw a hand up to indicate her hair. “You’ve done something. Changed.”

  She put a hand up to her face, swept her hair back. It was shorter now, cut and shaped round her cheeks.

  “I can’t help it if you think in stills,” she said. “I’m a movie.”

  He laid his head back against the chair. “It’s OK. But I liked you anyway.”

  So much for the change of image. She sat on the sofa and curled her legs up.

  “Is something wrong?”

  He took so long to answer she thought he was ignoring her. He stared straight ahead at the curtains. Finally he looked round, focused on her.

  “I got a great shot of a squirrel today. A red one. I waited ages.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Gortin Forest.” He wasn’t restless, she noticed. His arms were relaxed along the arms of the chair. “When I was getting into the car to leave, I looked up and there was a hawk…” he pointed upwards “… hovering high up. The sky was blue, a sharp, clear blue and the hawk was still, watching, waiting.” His eyes stayed fixed on Jenna. “And I thought of the squirrel. My squirrel. I knew that there were thousands and thousands of creatures below that hawk. But it seemed to me that it was watching my squirrel.” He stopped, but Jenna waited. He had more to say. “I thought: God! don’t let it see that squirrel. Silly, isn’t it? I wondered what your father would say. And then I thought: it’ll make no difference. It isn’t God who’ll decide whether that squirrel lives or dies. It’s the hawk.”

  There was a long silence. Then Jenna smiled a little. “It’s late for deep theology.”

  He sat forward. “Will you come to Gortin with me some day?”

  Surprise made her pause before she replied. “OK. If you and Dianne are going some day, I’ll tag along.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then no, I won’t. I told you.”

  He sat back again. “Oh, what a good girl am I!” he rhymed, mocking.

  There were shadows beneath his cheekbones. She put her feet to the floor and leaned her elbows on her knees, chin on her knuckles.

  “Paul, what’s wrong?”

  He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the razor shell. “I rescued that from the bin.”

  “Why was it in the bin?”

  “Dianne came back from London today. I forgot to pick her up at the airport.”

  “Clever of you.”

  “She found this in our bedroom. She said it was putting sand all over the dressing table.”

  “It probably was.”

  “So she threw it in the bin.” That would have hurt. Jenna didn’t reply. “And she found Jack asleep in the sink.”

  She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Hadn’t you told her about him?”

  “No.”

  “In the sink?”

  “Yes.”

  She couldn’t help the tickle of laughter at her throat. She began to chuckle. Then she was laughing aloud at the picture in her mind. Paul watched her, the shell still in his hand. Then a smile tugged at his own mouth. As her laughter subsided, Jenna said, “I’ll take him back.”

  “No. He’s a buddy now. Dianne’ll have to get used to him.” The apple with the bite out of it was on top of a book she had left on the floor. He picked it up and began to eat it. She remembered his hand on the wall as he stood at her door. She looked again at the hollows on his cheeks.

  “When did you last eat?” she asked sharply.

  He stopped crunching and cocked his head to think. “Some toast this morning.” He began to chew again.

  “This morning!” She sat for a minute, considering. Dianne was just back. It was obvious they had had a row. She remembered their meal on New Year’s Day and how much he could eat when he was hungry. Was that the last proper meal he had? She stood up. “I’ve got some beef burgers and chips. I’m going to cook you some calories before you keel over.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, his mouth full of her apple. “Got any Coke?”

  “No, but I’ll make you tea.”

  He wrinkled his nose derisively as she left the room. It took her nearly fifteen minutes. She didn’t like cooking at any time of the day. Cooking when she would normally be going to bed was very strange. She turned the burgers under the grill. Around Paul, nothing ever seemed to be predictable. She set the plate of steaming food on a tray and carried it through to the sitting room, pushing the door with her foot.

  He wasn’t in the chair. His coat was thrown over it and he was lying on his side on the sofa. His head was against the end nearest the window, resting on the red and black cushion. He had taken his shoes off; they were tossed askew on the floor. His legs were drawn up to fit his length to the other end. He was sound asleep.

  Very quietly, she backed out again. She threw the chips in the bin and covered the burgers with a plate. She came back and stood looking down at him. Then she lowered herself to the floor so that she sat by his sleeping head. She tilted her own head to view his face. His lashes swept his cheeks, black on almost white, lashes that she would have loved to have on her own lids. His forehead was broad, his eyes widely spaced. His mouth was relaxed, slightly open, his teeth just visible behind the red curve of his lips. Hair twined on the pale patch of skin behind his ear and there was a slight shade of darkness dusting his chin. One hand was open beside his cheek, palm up, the long fingers curling a little, the wedding ring neat in its place. His breath was even and deep. She noticed a small patch of something at the corner of his nose. She looked closer. It seemed like blood. He must have scratched himself on his rambles.

  It was late, that time of night when the imagination is loose and strong, when restraints are weakened by the need to let go of the day and dream along the path to rest. Silently, Jenna rose and switched out the light. Then she sat on the floor beside him again and, very gently, put her hand on his body, near the hollow of his waist. Beneath her hand, his side rose and fell evenly. He must be exhausted.

  She wouldn’t fall for a married man. She would protect herself from that. It had happened to a friend at university, who had spent her days yearning for her lover to have time for her, to evade his wife. In the end he had dumped her, the girl had failed all her exams and her heart was still broken. Everything in Jenna rose up to protect herself from such a fate. Besides, it was wrong.

  And yet. He had come to her tonight; he had left his wife and fled to her. She felt a small triumph in that, and was ashamed. He did not accept self-denial as a virtue, and therein lay his danger. Small patches of thought spilled from the shadows and laid themselves around her. His voice, challenging: “You’re afraid of what’s in you, Jenna. You’re afraid of what you could be and what you could do.”

  Yes, I am afraid. Afraid that there will be a struggle and that you will win, and that I will lose and win and be lost and found, all on one battlefield. When even the hollow of your upturned hand captiva
tes me, what is goodness, badness? Where is the bastion that has guarded me all my life?

  In the colourless room, she watched the slight tremble of his mouth in sleep. Her midnight thoughts took hold and she travelled to places she would never go in daylight. His eyes moved behind his lids. He was dreaming. Of squirrels, maybe. And hawks.

  Something woke Jenna in the early morning. She stirred in the bed and raised her head from her pillow. The front door. The front door had just slammed. She sat up and felt something in her hair, behind her ear. She touched it and heard the rustle of leaves. She pulled it out. It was a sprig of ivy. She recognised it as being from the rampant climber that crawled over the wall of her tiny back yard.

  She pulled her knees up under the bedclothes and dropped her head onto them.

  He has been here, in my room. He has bent over me. We have watched each other sleeping. Those dreams, those midnight dreams, they must not stay with me in the day. They must not.

  Like a small boat fleeing to harbour, Jenna went home that day, back to the village, the manse, where everything was ordered and sure, where the smell of baking was the same as it had been when she was a little girl, where her father’s study was still a refuge of tranquillity and wisdom.

  In the kitchen, Cora stood back and looked at her daughter with approval. “When you described your hair on the phone, I couldn’t quite imagine it. But it suits you.”

  She turned back to the scales and weighed some flour. Jenna was beating eggs. A missionary was home on furlough from Zambia and he was speaking in the church the following night. There was going to be a special supper for the congregation afterwards. Cora’s contribution was four dozen traybakes. She nodded at a tub of cherries.

  “Chop those cherries for me, would you?” She sifted the flour into a bowl and conversation stopped briefly while the mixer roared. She glanced at Jenna. “We don’t normally see you on a weekday. You look well. Considering what’s happened.”

  The cherries were sticky and Jenna tried to stop herself licking her fingers. “It was for the best, Mum.”

  Cora turned and put a floury hand on her hip. “I thought you got on well. Your Dad liked him.”