Maker of Footprints

by Sheila Turner Johnston

  Jenna was standing with her arms folded. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to be photographed.”

  He bowed low, twirling a graceful arc with his free hand. “My lady, may I have the honour of photographing you?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad.” He straightened and checked the sky again. He looked around. “Here won’t do. Come along the path a bit. Down here.” He walked away, where the path led along a ridge above the stony shore.

  She didn’t move. “What happened to ‘Sorry I disturbed you. Go back to the library now and finish your work.’?” she called.

  He came back. The edges of his coat swung around his walk. The image imprinted on Jenna’s brain. He is perfect. He stopped in front of her.

  “Yes, I left that bit out, didn’t I? Do you want to go back to the library and finish your work?”

  She looked down at the ground, scuffed a scrawny weed between the paving stones. She couldn’t stop the curve of her lips as she looked up again. “No.”

  He raised his hands in a shrug and dropped them. “I knew that. That’s why I didn’t ask. Now come on. There’s a bench on this grass round the corner. It’s perfect.”

  She tossed her scarf over her shoulder and followed him.

  At first she was stilted and huffy and he used the tripod. She sat with her knees together and her hands in her lap. He chatted constantly, asking about her day, about her mother and father. He told jokes, stupid ones. He made a face and pressed the shutter as her smile broadened in response.

  She began to relax, barely noticed when he freed himself from the rigid tripod and began to move round her. She forgot the constant slide of the shutter in the pleasure of listening to his voice, watching his easy crouch, the top of his head, the spring of his step, the balance of his feet, the quick flash of his eyes as he checked her again.

  She turned round and leaned on the back of the bench as he moved behind her.

  “Let’s see that scarf.”

  She lifted an end of it and spun it round her head, laughing. Fun was trickling through her, tingling in her fingers, brightening her perceptions – of him, of the day, of the sea, of the wind. She lifted the scarf to cover her mouth and nose and wiggled her eyebrows at him. Behind the camera, she saw his delight. Something deep within her flowered. She pulled her knees up and knelt on the seat, arms along the back of it, grinning. She put her chin in her hand; she waved at him; she posed like a pouting model. Always he circled her, the tension in his body betraying his concentration now that she was relaxed and with him in this.

  He crawled full length under the bench and lay on his back, his head and camera emerging from the front. She didn’t need to be told. She lay above him, along the seat and looked down into the lens. His fingers made rapid adjustments; the shutter slid again and again and again.

  She sat cross-legged on the grass. “You look like a frog,” he said.

  She pulled some grass and threw it at him. “Called Fred!” she cried, happy.

  “Thanks for the sandwiches.” He was sitting on the bench again, leaning back with his hands in the pockets of his coat.

  Jenna was sitting sideways facing him, her knees pulled up, her arms wrapped round them. “Well, I didn’t want my cushion eaten when you woke up.”

  “The red bit looked specially tasty. The duvet was good too.”

  “Luke’s.”

  “I raided your cornflakes.”

  “I noticed. Why did you go out into my back yard?”

  White tops broke on the creases of the sea. The cargo ship was a grey ghost on the horizon.

  “I like being outside. I like seeing what outside looks like in different places.”

  She hugged her knees and nodded. “Outside feels different in different places as well.”

  “And smells different.”

  They were silent for a while, contented. Jenna dropped her chin onto her bent knees, thoughtful. “My back yard isn’t exactly the Glens of Antrim though.”

  He laughed. “But the ivy’s great!” He caught her eyes and all the merriment left his face. “Jenna?”

  “What?”

  “You look lovely when you’re asleep.”

  There was enough mischief in her still to retort, “So do you!” He paused to digest that, enough time for her to regret the words and to feel the blush heating across her cheeks. Then he said, “I like your room. And I like where you put my hat.”

  She hid her face in her crossed arms. “Teddy bears need warm heads too,” she said, muffled. She moved a little so that she could peek at his face. He grinned, put out his hand and placed it on her head. She felt him lace his fingers through her hair.

  “But they don’t have to sleep in the bed with mummy bear.” She lifted her head then, looked across to where the tide was creeping up the stones and shingle. With the movement, his hand slid down and nestled at her neck. She bit her lip, fighting the turmoil, the almost-defeat. She pressed her cheek against his hand, trapping his fingers.

  “Dianne,” she said, low. “You’re married. You swore…”

  He stood suddenly, pulling his hand away. She turned and lowered her feet to the ground. He faced her, held up his left hand. For a second time in front of her, he pulled the gold ring from his finger. He held it between his finger and thumb and brought it close to her face.

  “Watch me,” he ordered.

  He walked down the grass and jumped over the tussocks at the edge of the shingle. His coat streamed behind him as he strode down a tongue of beach between the stones. To Jenna, it seemed as if her breath had frozen in her lungs. She was supposed to be in the library, working, forgetting, moving on. Not watching this. How do you fight the irresistible? How do you stop the inexorable?

  How do you make yourself want to?

  The sea was lapping at his feet when he stopped. He lifted his hand, pulled his arm back and threw the ring in a long arc across the lough. Invisible at this distance, nevertheless a slant of sun caught it just above the water and Jenna saw the faintest spark against the grey before it vanished without a ripple. She gasped. When she heard him sit beside her again, she was bent forward, her face hidden in her hands.

  His palm touched high on her back. Fright and fury came to her rescue. She leapt up and sprang to the far side of the path.

  “You won’t lay this on me, Paul! You won’t blame me. Your marriage is your problem. Don’t drag me into it.” She was breathless with the enormity of it.

  He leaned forward towards her. “Listen to me, Jenna. I have left her. She will leave me. The deed only remains to be done.”

  “Why? Why have you left her?”

  He raised his hands and let them drop again. “We’re not in the same place any more. If we ever were. You can take the girl out of Knightsbridge but you can’t take Knightsbridge out of the girl.”

  She came back and stood in front of him. He looked up into her eyes, his coolness making her want to shake him.

  “Listen to yourself!” she said. “Have you any idea how little you understand Dianne?”

  He frowned. “What’s to understand?”

  Jenna took a deep breath at that, let it out and sank to the bench beside him. “She has needs and wants, just as you have. She had friends that you took her away from, places, her father, her whole way of life. How much have you stopped to think about that?”

  “She knew what she was doing.”

  “I don’t think she did. And look at you. You went away, but you came back to where you felt you belonged. You can take the man out of Ireland, but you can’t take Ireland out of the man.”

  He smiled a little. “Touché!”

  “You both want to be where you belong. But it’s not the same place.”

  His eyes seemed very blue in the winter sun, his cheeks pale and his mouth slightly parted as he regarded her. “No. And it’s not the same things.”

  Her hand was along the back of the seat. She picked at the weathered green paint behind his shoulder, looked at a fleck that s
tuck to her finger. Her voice was hesitant. “I know… she doesn’t want children.”

  He turned his head away from her, a gust of wind from the sea almost taking his words. “I don’t want to talk about it any more.”

  She hit his shoulder making him whip round in surprise. “It’s not always about what you want!” she cried.

  His hand came up to grip hers, the one that had hit him. “Yes it is! It’s about wanting and looking and searching and not finding.” She held her breath. He was so close, so intent on her face, on her eyes and then her mouth. “Then it’s about finding and wanting…” he extended a finger to stroke her nose gently “… and not having.”

  They sat like that, suspended in limbo. Jenna knew it was another moment to be remembered, nestled in the deepest parts of her. She didn’t know how long it was until she tried her voice. It was a whisper.

  “But we’re friends.”

  “No, we’re not. You and I could never be friends. And you know it as well as I do.”

  She tried to speak to those soft, intense eyes; cleared her throat and tried again.

  “Why did you go away? Why did you go to England?”

  He set her hand down gently and the moment was gone. “To get away from failure.”

  “Failure? You!”

  He leaned forward and examined the ground between his feet. His glance flicked to her and away again to the sea. He was about to tell her something. She could read him so well. Why was that?

  “I could never please Christopher – my step-father. He wasn’t a bad man. And he really loved my mother.” He sat upright again. “But Adam was his son. He took me on because my mother and I came as a package. But he never accepted me, never loved me as a father would.” He glanced at her again and she didn’t move, afraid of making the door shut. This was another quiet step on the long corridor within the palace. “I would do things, maybe mow the lawn to surprise him when he came in from work. But he would just say something like ‘Glad to see you working for your keep, lad!’” His fists clenched. “He never, ever, called me ‘son’. I used to wait for it every day. Maybe this would be the day. He would introduce us as ‘my son Adam. Oh, and this is my wife’s son.’”

  “But you have his name.”

  “He adopted me.” He turned and gave a small laugh. “He was a church-goer. My mother still is. I threw myself into that.” He gave a genuine smile. “I used to play the guitar at church – leader of the gospel band! Can you see it?”

  The image delighted her. “Yes, I can!”

  “When I was twenty-one, I was working in a studio in Belfast and borrowed his car for a shoot in Fermanagh. I took a corner too sharply and cut a gash right down the side of it on a wonky fence post.” He paused. “Christopher was furious. He shouted that I was half English and why didn’t I go to England and get out of his life?”

  “So you did.”

  “I did. I decided that I’d stop trying. I’d stop even remembering.”

  She touched his shoulder. “You’re still doing that, aren’t you? Forgetting. Just blocking things that don’t please you.”

  He wasn’t finished. “I would have liked to have a child and be everything Christopher wasn’t. To be like the father I lost before I was born.” He looked at her with that rare open gaze when he had betrayed part of his heart to her. “I would have liked that.”

  A thought struck her. “In a way, you were practising on Jack.”

  The look he gave her was bland. “Who’s Jack?” he said.

  Jenna waited for the quirk of his mouth that would show he was teasing. It didn’t come. She wouldn’t mention Jack again. “But maybe you will some day. Have the chance to do it right, I mean. And there’s your mum. I like your mum.”

  His smile was instant. “My mother’s a star. She always stood up for me. Me and her against the world!”

  They were quiet while a middle-aged couple strolled by, hand in hand. They gave the brief nod of strangers as they passed.

  “Now I know why you know so many choruses and church music. My Dad could give you a job.”

  “No thanks. When I gave up on Christopher, I left small gods behind as well.”

  “So what about the big one?”

  He made an impatient movement. “They’re all too small.”

  She chewed her scarf, thinking. “Maybe that’s because we’re too far away. They must be massive up close.”

  His sudden burst of laughter made her jump. He threw up his hands to the sky. “Oh, I love female logic!” he cried.

  She watched him with pleasure. When he was laughing in real delight, his eyes narrowed, his cheeks dimpled and the bridge of his nose crinkled a little. He jumped to his feet and pulled her up after him. Then her face was pressed against the wool of his jumper, his arms tight around her. She was too stunned to move. His voice was at her ear.

  “My God, Jenna, I need you.”

  The first thought that tumbled across her scrambled brain was that she had power. Power to hurt. She had never really experienced that before, not as consciously as now. She took a deep breath and brought her hands up to his chest, pushing herself away from him.

  “Don’t do this to me, Paul.” She felt his grip tightening against her again. She brought her arms down hard and angry against his, breaking his grip. “No! If you want to betray your wife, leave me out of it. Sort out your own mistakes.” She bent to pick up her canvas bag. “I wouldn’t be Adam’s Plan B and I certainly won’t be yours.”

  He stood back, furious now himself. “Run away then! Climb back into your little cage. Go and tremble behind your beloved bars!” He walked away a few steps and swung back again. “You still don’t know who you are, do you? Good, bad? Or just still scared?”

  She hooked her bag over her shoulder and, shaken, gazed at his sudden fury. “There’s a difference between needing and wanting,” she said. There was a mist drifting in across the sea, making the far shore float in a haze. “You said you need me.” She looked at her feet, tears very close. Would she say this? Should she say this? She flicked her hair from her eyes and said it. “I’d like somebody to want me, not just need me.” She swallowed. “Because that’s what I’m feeling now. Wanting.”

  He stepped towards her. She fled onto the grass towards the road. Her steps slowed until she stopped and turned round. Paul had sat on the bench facing the sea. His hands were between his knees, his head dropped, his hair ruffling in the wind.

  “Paul,” she said, just loud enough. She knew he’d heard her by the slightest movement of his head. “I am still scared. Because Adam hurt me. But you would break my heart.”

  Slowly his head turned to her. His face was closed and shuttered. “Go away,” he said, clear as ice.

  She stood for a moment, then turned and left him there.

  23

  LUKE PHONED HER that night. “Hey, Jay.”

  “Hey, LW.”

  “Message from Paul Shepherd.” Curiosity peeped through his words.

  “Oh?”

  “He says he’ll give me your notes when we meet up on Saturday.”

  Thank goodness. She wasn’t going to ask for them. He would have found the file on the back seat later.

  “OK. I’ll get them off you then. Are you staying over in my house on Friday night?”

  “Probably Saturday night as well. Paul wants to go up the north coast.” He paused. “Two questions, Jay.”

  “What?”

  “Why has Paul just rung me to say he can’t meet me at your house on Saturday morning and that I have to catch him at the City Hall instead? And why does he have your stuff?”

  “You’ll have to ask him the first one. The second one’s my business.”

  “OK, keep your hair on… Are you going home this weekend?”

  “No, I’m going to stay up and do stuff.”

  “Mum won’t be pleased. She was hoping you’d help her with shopping on Saturday.”

  She couldn’t face going home to the manse and the village. The
desires and doubts that she had now were too big for the old harbour. She would ride this out on the open sea, alone. “Pity about Jack, wasn’t it?”

  “What about Jack?” Luke asked, surprised.

  “Paul didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?’

  “Jack got caught in a door. Broke his neck and killed him.”

  “Bloody hell! Shit. Poor furball. How’d it happen?”

  “Oh, just an accident. You know kittens. As soon as they find their feet they’re walking suicides.”

  “I bet Paul’s not happy.” After a moment, he asked, “How did you know? And he didn’t tell me?”

  It didn’t surprise Jenna. She was the only one he would tell. “Don’t mention it to him, Luke.”

  His voice sharpened. “You seem to know him pretty well.”

  “So see you Friday night then.”

  “Shit, no. You’ll be asleep when I get in.”

  It was late that evening when Paul dropped his keys on the hall table and listened to the sounds of his house. Footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs. He looked up at his wife, cool and elegant, one manicured hand on the bannister. Her voice was frost-crisp.

  “Why are you not answering your mobile?”

  “There’s no-one I want to speak to.” He turned towards the sitting room. Dianne came halfway down the stairs.

  “Even Toby?”

  Paul swung round, frowning. “Toby?”

  “He tried here when he couldn’t get you.”

  “How’d he get this number?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure it’s not hard – Bella maybe. He wants you to ring him back.” She laughed scornfully. “Don’t tell me he fancies you!”

  “OK, I won’t.”

  Paul walked into the room and, despite himself, looked round the floor. Through the door into the kitchen he saw that the shoebox lined with an old grey jumper in the corner by the back door had gone. She’d probably tipped it into the bin. He flung himself down on the sofa. Dianne stood in the doorway.

  “By the way, Daddy rang also.”

  Paul tipped his head back against the soft cushion and forced his eyes to stay open. “Oh? What did Daddy want?”