‘Exactly.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Why are you surprised you haven’t been told things? You don’t care. You just drop in now and again and pretend you do. You can’t, wait to fuck off again.’
They’d turned and were walking back, Joe now the one with his head thrown back, Louis grimly watching the path. It hardly took them any time to get back to the bridge, and the sudden noise of traffic was a relief to both of them. They found the bus stop and when it came got on and sat at the very back. Joe felt better, Louis worse. As the bus approached the terminus Louis said, ‘I’m sorry I shouted. I shouldn’t have. Sorry.’ He’d always been good at saying sorry. He apologised easily. Not like Joe, who never did say sorry. The best Joe could ever do was try to show he was sorry. The scenes there had been when he was a child trying to get that simple word out of him . . . ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Joe said now, ‘I know I’m a pain.’
‘You’re not. I’m useless. Charlotte says it too. I’m clumsy, I always say the wrong thing at vital moments.’
‘It wasn’t a vital moment . . .’
‘It felt like it. I just blundered on, instead of listening and waiting. Charlotte says . . .’Joe gave a groan. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You just go on about Charlotte as though she were one of the family but you haven’t even brought her home yet.’
‘I know. There never seemed a right time, what with. . .’
‘Me. Thanks. Spoiled a beautiful introduction, sorry, I can’t take you home, my baby brother’s freaked out, it’s all rather unpleasant, too horrid for your tender ears, my darling, let’s wait until it’s all over and my family’s presentable again . . .’
The bus stopped, Joe leapt up and was off it in a flash and running down the street. Louis didn’t bother chasing him. He could have caught him easily but he wasn’t going to. He couldn’t cope with Joe. He felt exhausted and he’d only been with him on his own for an hour. Walking slowly after him, Louis suddenly felt a new admiration for his mother. How had she stood it? All this self-laceration of Joe’s, all this flaring up over nothing, taking things the wrong way.
He couldn’t wait for Thursday and flight.
*
Harriet was proud of herself. She really had managed to treat Tuesday like an ordinary day and had not only gone to work but had worked well. She didn’t even watch the clock and wonder what was going on at the police station. This was the new her, the other side of the turned-over leaf. It amused her to be concentrating on using a four-leafed clover as a repeat pattern on some beautiful silk she had dyed a misty purple. Luck. Hope. She was going to be optimistic and her optimism would surely affect Joe. It was Sheila Armstrong who had the problems now, not her. If this Gary Robinson was the one then he’d be convicted and sent to prison for a long time and Joe could really go forward. Detective Sergeant Graham had been right, the arrest of Joe’s real attacker was good news. There would be room to think about other things in life. Holidays. She and Sam would have a proper holiday, somewhere exotic, maybe the West Indies, where Sam had always wanted to go. It would be an act of faith, faith in Joe being able to do without her. He was seventeen, nearly, and should be treated as independent . . .
It was incredible how different she felt. She hadn’t retreated into the past now for nearly a week – all her fantasies ran into the future and it was such a pleasure.
*
Detective Sergeant Graham rang Mrs Armstrong himself and thanked her for letting him know of her grandson’s reaction to the name of Gary Robinson. In the event, he told her, it didn’t matter so much because Joe Kennedy had made a positive identification. They could now proceed without Leo’s help, even if he could still tell them a great deal which they’d like to know should he decide to speak. She was not to worry herself, he said.
Sheila smiled as she put the phone down. What did the smug Graham know about worry? But she was glad to have been told about Joe identifying that thug. Very glad. His mother would be relieved. There would be a lot in the local paper about it, going over everything again, especially since Gary Robinson was twenty-two and could be named. She would have to brace herself for the stares and nudges. They’d go over the whole thing from beginning to end. Well, she didn’t care about how she was treated, she really didn’t. She was locked into herself, had been for years. It was her father and Alan arid even her sister and her husband who would be resentful, who would talk about not being able to walk into shops for the shame, for the odium attached to them.
She was surprised when the probation officer, the Helen woman, turned up again. She said she’d just come to see how things were, ‘in general’.
‘That’s kind of you,’ Sheila said, allowing a note of sarcasm to creep into her voice. ‘Well, in general, we’re soldiering on, thank you.’
‘And how’s Leo?’ Helen asked. ‘I can’t get much out of him myself.’
‘You’d have to ask those who know,’ Sheila said, quite tartly, ‘and that isn’t me. He looks fit enough, though, doesn’t he?’ Helen hesitated.
‘The thing is, Mrs Armstrong,’ she said, ‘this trial of Gary Robinson might alter things for Leo.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, it was never clear what part Leo had actually played in the attack on Joe Kennedy, beyond being there.’
‘That was enough. And he had a knife in his hand, don’t forget, they found it, with his fingerprints on.’
‘Yes, but it could turn out that Leo did nothing, that in a way he was a victim like Joe, that this Robinson used him.’
Sheila stayed silent. Her head swam – the mere notion that Leo might have been a sort of victim too, which had never occurred to her, or anyone else that she knew of, made her dizzy. She couldn’t help a sudden surge of excitement sweeping through her body, but she was at pains to conceal any reaction from Helen.
‘Joe Kennedy never really incriminated Leo,’ Helen was saying, ‘he just said he was there.’
‘Well,’ Sheila said, trying to convey her disgust.
‘It was the prosecution implied Leo had actually stabbed Joe too,’ Helen argued, ‘because of his fingerprints being on that knife they found and Joe’s blood on his clothes, and when he didn’t deny it, when he would only say he was there and nothing more . . .’
‘That’s right, so there you are. If he hadn’t done anything he would have said so, wouldn’t he? He would have denied it.’
‘He probably can’t actually remember what he did or didn’t do, he was under the influence of . . .’
‘I know what he was under the influence of, thank you. Out of his mind. And how did he come to take that stuff? That’s bad enough.’
‘Anyway, Mrs Armstrong, all I’m saying is that a lot more may come out at this Robinson trial and it may put Leo in a different light. I just want you to be prepared. He may not be as guilty as he seemed. He’s been his own worst enemy, keeping quiet.’
Sheila told no one about Helen’s solicitous visit. She hugged this secret to herself as something both too unbelievable and too wonderful to give voice to. Taking drugs was one thing, especially the drug Leo had taken, even if perhaps only once, who knew, but it was nothing compared to taking part in the attack on Joe Kennedy, actually assisting. She felt suddenly worried that she had never firmly stated her opinion that Leo had done nothing. She hadn’t. What she’d said was that she couldn’t believe he’d done anything. That was different. Maybe if she’d been more confident and sure, maybe if in front of Leo, she had said to the police, ‘Leo never harmed Joe Kennedy, I know he didn’t,’ Leo would have talked. But then, there was the evidence – Joe’s hairs on Leo’s clothes, Joe’s blood on them, showing, surely, the boy had tried to fight him off. The truth was, she had not showh that absolute faith in Leo’s innocence which a mother might be expected to show. She had allowed herself to be persuaded that Leo, in some sort of frenzy, under the influence of drugs, had indeed hurt Joe Kennedy. Oh, the agony if this turned out no
t to be true! If all along Leo had never touched Joe but had kept silent because he feared that in his hallucinating state he had done (and the hairs, the blood . . .?)
The last person she wanted to see was her father, but it was Friday, it was his evening for high tea. God, these routines, these rigid routines, she was so tired of them. If she rang up to tell him not to come that would only lead to further trouble – why, what was wrong, etc. She protected. him, he, who had never protected her. She protected him now from anything unpleasant because he was old.
And he was at his most annoying that particular evening.
‘Something funny going on in the garden,’ he grumbled, shovelling in his meat, ‘half the tatties haven’t come up.’
‘Oh?’ she said, bored, yet glad to be on such a harmlessly absurd topic. ‘Why’s that, Dad?’
‘How should I know?’ he said, aggrieved. ‘Seventy year I’ve planted tatties and they’ve alus come up.’
‘Maybe you planted them upside down.’
‘Don’t be daft, doesn’t matter how tatties are planted, they come up. Any road, I didn’t plant them. Just ask yerself what was the new element this year, just you ask yerself that.’
‘Alan? Did Alan put them in for you?’
‘Aye.’
‘Oh Dad, you can’t be accusing Alan of stealing your potato plants . . .’
‘Did I say so? I did not, niver said a word. But he’s the new element. Leo did them last year, and the year before, and they all come up and they alus come up when I could plant them meself. That’s all I’m saying, that’s all.’
‘I’ll tell Alan.’
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ And he glared at her. ‘You’ll get the back of my hand if you do any such thing. He’s a good lad, your Alan, nowt wrong wi’ him. You leave him alone, mind.’
She told Alan as soon as he came in, after Eric James had left. He laughed. But he had his own preoccupation, equally trivial, equally real to him.
‘The car’s not sounding right,’ he said. ‘I’m worried, it’s a knocking sound, sounds bad, could be something major. When I’m going over forty it starts, this knock-knock in the engine.’
‘Well, take it into the garage.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’ll have to take it in and it might be something major, and then what?’
‘Then you have it mended.’
‘Cost, Sheila, cost.’
‘You just have to pay it.’
‘It could be hundreds.’
‘Then sell it.’
‘Sheila, you can’t sell a car with an engine knocking, see sense, for heaven’s sake.’
She kept quiet, let him drone on after that. What the hell did she care about potatoes or car engines? All this in her, bursting to come out, all this longing to share her doubts about Leo’s guilt, and she was condemned to idiotic ramblings with her menfolk. She couldn’t bring herself to interrupt Alan, to tell him to shut up and listen, because there had been an important new development, that the arrest and identification of Gary Robinson had changed everything, had possibly changed everything. She ate with Alan, she washed the dishes, she watched the news, she went to bed with him and she said nothing at all.
‘You’ve been very quiet this evening,’ Alan said to her before he put the light out. ‘Anything up?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘nothing.’
Chapter Ten
UNTIL LOUIS DEPARTED, the pretence could be maintained, but Harriet knew that was what it was, a pretence, a sham. They all connived, even Joe himself. Sam was the only one entirely taken in. ‘Well,’ he said, with such immense satisfaction on Tuesday evening, ‘that was another pleasant family meal.’ She said nothing. ‘It was, wasn’t it?’ he persisted, no shadow of doubt in his voice, merely seeking agreement. ‘If you say so,’ she said, not wanting to let him see her dismay, but wanting to keep up her own optimism, that tender plant she had only just begun to nurture. She tried again. ‘It was pleasant,’ she said, ‘no arguments, anyway. And after such a day . . .’
‘Did they tell you about it?’ Sam said, anxious now. It was awful that he was used to receiving all news of any importance through her.
‘Not much. You should have asked them, asked Louis, anyway.’
‘I thought maybe I shouldn’t . . . everything seemed okay, I thought I’d leave well alone. What did Joe say?’
‘Nothing really. He just said this Gary Robinson was the one, and he didn’t want to talk about it. So we didn’t.’
‘But was he upset?’
She didn’t know how to answer. Joe had been alone when she got in, but outside, in the garden with Bruno, just sitting under the pear tree, slouching against it, doing nothing. Everything was easier outside, always. She’d gone and got a chair from the shed and joined him. Determined to be open and direct, in keeping with her new resolution, she said brightly, ‘How was it? Was it him?’ and he nodded. She waited, and when he added nothing, when the silence grew and she couldn’t stand it any longer, she asked him where Louis was. He shrugged. She felt annoyed, Louis shouldn’t have left him, not after he’d been through such an ordeal, she wouldn’t have left him, and then she checked herself. There was no reason why Louis should have played nursemaid, keeper. Joe was nearly seventeen, it was absurd. Louis had his own life, friends to see, things to buy and do before he went. She stroked Bruno who moved away, closer to Joe. She laughed, pleased. ‘Easy to see who he likes best,’ she said. Joe didn’t move a muscle. She felt the same old feelings begin to overwhelm her, feelings of panic and misery, and fought them. ‘Right,’ she said, bouncing up, ‘I’ll get on with the supper. We’ll have it outside.’
When Louis came home he was whistling and she could have blessed him for his cheerfulness. She drew him into the kitchen, away from the window through which Joe, still under the tree and motionless, might see them. ‘How was it?’ she asked. Louis told her. He went over the effect of the parade on Joe and then the walk they’d had. ‘So I fucked it up,’ he ended, ‘he wouldn’t tell me and he ran off. So I just let him. I wasn’t doing any good. Sorry.’
‘Not your fault,’ she said, automatically, then, ‘he’s in the garden, not speaking, just lying there.’
‘Let him.’
‘But he doesn’t really want to, he wants company, anything to stop him thinking. It’ll be churning around in his mind . . .’
‘Mum, please.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t do it for him.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, you know.’
Then Charlotte rang, and Louis raced upstairs to talk to her on the extension.
So she didn’t know how to answer Sam. Yes, Joe was upset, clearly. But what did ‘upset’ in this context mean? It wasn’t a case of being upset. He just wasn’t there any more, he was remote, ugly in his self-absorption. His power frightened her all over again. One person only but with the strength of thousands. She had never known misery could dominate in such a way. She couldn’t bear to look at him, couldn’t bear to feel him in a room with her. No comfort was possible and that was the worst thing. Suddenly, hatred stirred in her, hatred for Gary Robinson, and an alarming surge of violence came with it. She saw Gary Robinson in her mind’s eye and she hit him and then she had him stripped and she taunted him and she laughed when she saw the fear in his face . . .
‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘we’ve had a good few days. Good weather, good meals, good chats and I suppose even the outcome of the ID parade was good. Things are looking up. Pity Louis is going off. Joe will miss him.’
‘Only because he breaks up the atmosphere,’ she said, ‘only because Joe doesn’t like being alone with us.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, they get on well, I thought, they seemed quite close. I’m sure Louis helped Joe . . .’
‘He didn’t. He doesn’t. Joe always thinks he will, but he doesn’t. I wish he did.’
‘Pity it wasn’t Joe going off.’
‘You
’re always saying that, wanting to be rid of him.’
‘That’s not true. I mean I don’t want to be rid of him, I want his mind taken off the past, I want to see him giving himself a chance of being happy . . .’
‘And happiness to you is the old thing, activity.’
‘Yes, a lot of it. At least if he were active, with others, there’s a possibility he’d be diverted . . .’
‘Diverted?’
‘Harriet, stop it, you’re doing it again, jeering, treating me like a moron. I know it sounds as if I’m making light of what happened and its effect on Joe, but I’m not. But having him hanging round here all summer with nothing to do but . . .’
‘He’s going to work at the boat yard.’
‘Part-time, that’s all. And not in the evenings. It isn’t good for him, he needs to be forced into company . . .’
‘You can’t force Joe into anything.’
‘Quite. He calls the shots.’
‘Oh, don’t talk in such silly jargon, this isn’t some stupid melodrama. It’s Joe’s tragedy, this strength, it’s what’s got him through all his exams last year, kept him going, when anyone weaker would’ve cracked. But it’s what keeps him from being able to be helped, he can’t show weakness, he thinks he has to deal with it himself . . .’
‘He’s got you.’
‘I’m useless. I make things worse.’
‘Don’t be silly . . .’
‘No, I do. I make them worse. He’s told me. At school, he manages perfectly. It’s at home, with me, that’s when it’s bad.’
‘Because he can be himself. That must be a relief, surely, to . . .’
Mothers' Boys Page 18
