How It Was

by Janet Ellis

  She had loosened her long hair from its ponytail. It was parted in the centre and hung straight down on either side of her face. The man stared at her. Sarah stared back.

  ‘A St Thomas’s girl?’ he said. Above the childish, cosy footwear – a long way above, her skirt was very short – Sarah still wore her school uniform. She came and stood beside me. She was taller than me now. It had been a long time since we had measured her growth against the kitchen door. ‘Then you’ll know my daughter,’ he said. ‘Bobbie. Bobbie Cavanagh.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Bobbie. Yes, I know who she is.’ Sarah looked awkward.

  The man continued to stare, his expression one of pleasurable indulgence. Perhaps he was imagining Sarah and his daughter cheek to cheek or running about in the playground together. ‘What do you make of it, then, your place of education?’ he said.

  ‘St Thomas’s?’ Sarah made a straight line of her mouth. She shrugged. ‘All right,’ she said, glancing quickly at me.

  I felt uncomfortable. Sarah liked her school, didn’t she? We’d never discussed it, of course, but it seemed to suit her. It would be disloyal if she said it didn’t, especially to this virtual stranger. It cost Michael a sizeable sum to keep her there and she should at least pay him back with her gratitude.

  ‘Pretty much what Bobbie says,’ the man said. ‘But I’d love to hear what you really think, when you girls are alone.’ He smiled at me.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ I said. I thought he’d say no. But he took off his large raincoat and came further into the room. I retrieved my treacherous shoes. He watched me as I pulled the heel of the shoe away from my ankle, trying to ease my feet into them without wincing at the patch of raw skin.

  He was tall, the kitchen table and chairs looked too small for him. ‘Here?’ he said, not waiting for a reply and sitting down where Michael always sat, smiling at the plate of bread and jam. He hung his coat over the chair. It looked like a theatrical prop – a vast cape flung over a fake throne. I got an already opened packet of biscuits out of the cupboard and tipped them on to a plate. Several were broken. ‘Chocolate!’ Eddie said and grabbed one jagged, not-quite-half without asking.

  The man held one large hand out over the table. Dabs of paint striped his fingers, and one thumb was tipped with green. ‘Look at me!’ he said. ‘May I wash?’ He got straight up and went to the sink, turning the tap on too hard so that water sprayed up at him and over the floor. Eddie giggled and the man laughed too. He squeezed a generous squirt of washing-up liquid over his hands and rubbed them together energetically, then cupped them and ran them from side to side under the flow. ‘Towel?’ He held his dripping fingers out in front of him.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, handing him a tea towel. Despite his enthusiastic display, he’d missed his coloured thumb and I watched him smear green paint as he wiped his hands on the cloth. He flung it on to the draining board and sat back down.

  ‘What a feast,’ he said. ‘Bread and jam.’ He reached across Sarah for a slice. They touched, his arm to her shoulder. It was as if I felt the pressure, too.

  ‘Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘I’m Marion.’

  He nodded as if that were exactly what he expected me to be called. ‘Adrian,’ he said.

  Eddie took advantage of the situation to help himself to another biscuit.

  ‘Your boy Eddie came across me when I was just about to pack up,’ Adrian said. He bit a chunk out of a crust as he spoke and chewed with his mouth open.

  Eddie stared at him, as fascinated as if he were watching a wild animal wearing a hat and riding a bicycle. I hoped he’d leave before Michael got home. I didn’t want to have to explain this oversized visitor to him. When Sarah was little, she would make a den out of blankets and chairs and invite me inside to share make-believe tea. We would crouch in the gloom, pretending to drink out of toy cups, miming eating invisible cakes from little saucers. Adrian looked as if he were playing house with us now. He sipped his tea with an exaggerated inward gurgle. Sarah sat watchful, her hands in her lap.

  ‘What’s your name, then, Miss Classmate?’ Adrian brushed his hands together to remove stray crumbs, his fingers swished over his palms. His soft palms.

  ‘Sarah,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Sarah,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell Bobbie we’ve met.’ He regarded her carefully. ‘Can I do something?’ he said. He got up and stood behind her. He took her hair in his hands, gathering it into a mass at the nape of her neck, giving her the illusion of a shorter style framing her face. It was an imitation of my serviceable bob. He looked from each of us to the other. ‘Like mother, like daughter,’ he said. ‘I’d like to paint you two together one day.’

  He stood close to her. Both of them were looking in my direction, but it was her gaze I could not look away from. There was no plea for my help to free her from his hands or divert his attention. I understood the challenge of that moment and I thought she understood it, too. ‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘Sarah has very little free time, though. She should be doing her homework now, really.’ I knew she heard the brisk cruelty in what I said. I was reducing her to a little girl who had to follow my orders.

  She blinked and shook herself away from him. He let her hair go. As it fell from his grip he looked as if he were going to touch it again, to smooth it flat.

  ‘Paint me, too,’ Eddie said. He scrunched his features.

  ‘Could you sit still for long enough?’ Adrian asked him. ‘For even five minutes? I had better go.’ He drained his tea. He pulled his coat from the chair, sending it rocking against the table. The china rattled.

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ I said. I watched him walk to the gate with purpose, as if he weren’t going to turn round. As if he were emptying his head of us as he left. I was overwhelmed with a need to prolong his departure, to think of a reason to hold him back before he slipped away.

  ‘Can I see your paintings one day?’ I said.

  He turned round and tipped his head back a little and regarded me from beneath hooded eyes as if he hadn’t seen me properly before. I recognised in my reaction a tiny, specific flash of desire. Attraction to someone else lies coiled, waiting, until the high frequency sound of its partner wakes it and it stirs. It can respond to the most unexpected, or unwonted call, shocking you with your reaction. That one, you think, that person, are you sure? But you have no choice. I had no choice. I stood rooted to the spot in front of him.

  ‘If you want to,’ he said. ‘But you’d have to forgive the fact that they’re frightfully amateur.’

  ‘I’d forgive that,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I would.’

  ‘We’ll make it happen, then.’ He frowned. ‘Did I have a scarf?’ he said, turning back. ‘Wait here, I’ll check.’

  You didn’t, I thought. I know exactly what you were wearing. Before I could say anything, he was turning away. I wanted to walk back into the house with him but instead I waited. My heel began to hurt again, as though the anaesthetic of his presence was wearing off. I watched them through the open door but I couldn’t hear what they said. He mimed the swirl of a scarf around his neck. Sarah shook her head.

  ‘No, it’s not there,’ he said, walking back towards me. His voice was suddenly bright and energetic, the way you speak to an anxious dog who has doubted you’ll ever return.

  I watched him fumble in his trouser pocket; his hand went in a long way. They must be very deep pockets to conceal such large hands, I thought. My arms would go in up to my elbows if I were to slide them in there. I flushed a little, as if he’d suggested I try. When he found the keys, he threw them a little way into the air, turning his hand quickly to catch them, closing his fingers round them like a claw.

  ‘I’ll knock on your door next time I’m here and if you’re in, and if you want to, you can come and see what I’m up to.’

  When? I wanted to ask. Soon? But instead I said, ‘Well, I hope I’m here.’

  He opened the car door. ‘I hope so, too,’ he said. He lowered h
imself into the car and was instantly distracted by the key in the ignition and the handbrake. When he looked up and saw me still standing there, he raised his eyebrows.

  I watched him reverse all the way back down the lane.

  Chapter 23

  Eddie had had to revise his prayers. Once, they were as familiar as a nursery rhyme. He’d hardly had to think about their order, and they’d filled the space between lights out and his sleep very neatly. His mother used to listen to him while he prayed, but she was obviously reassured now that he’d mention her, his father, Sarah, his teacher, his toys, a contemporary crisis and anything he was especially bothered about – like not catching impetigo from the Johnson twins – without her prompting. She’d be yawning by the end of reading him his story anyway, and he suspected that his petition to God had a similarly soporific effect.

  It had become more complicated now. His mother and father would always be included, of course. His faultless teacher. The famine in Biafra. But Sarah? He thought God wouldn’t actually punish her, he knew that divine punishments were always harsh and fierce, but did she really warrant the Almighty’s special attention? Eddie suspected God looked a bit like Alf who cleaned their windows, because he had first seen Alf on high, perched up a ladder. He used to ask God to look after Truck. After the burial, Eddie was determined to try to forget him, but his name often slipped into his list anyway, out of habit, and tripped him up, so that he’d have to start again.

  Mostly, he did include Sarah. And he’d added the painting man in the big coat to his list, too.

  Chapter 24

  21.00 hours. Michael would much rather the time was written down in words, if it couldn’t be told from a clock’s face. Nine o’clock sounds a lot less clinical, less military, than its twenty-four-hour equivalent. He doesn’t need Marion’s carrier bag of photos to prompt his memory. Images, random and often unfamiliar, jostle into his thinking like a slide show. It isn’t always pictures of people that appear. Sometimes, he sees objects: his fountain pen, the nib bent slightly to the left with the force of use. A pair of driving gloves, made of such soft leather that they held the curled shape of his hands when he wasn’t wearing them, as if they were still holding the steering wheel. He wonders at such trivial things being offered to him from the entire repository of his memory. Today, it is a snatch of flowered fabric, a coverlet for Sarah’s dolls. She used to put them in a little metal pushchair, bouncing its occupants along pavements at a frankly unmaternal speed. She’d accidentally run it into the back of his heel once and the pain was so sudden and savage he’d wanted to hit her.

  He remembers bringing the wounded dog home. He’d found it lying by the side of the road. It was a long time ago, when Eddie was only about five, and it was Eddie who first saw him with the animal cradled in his arms. He’d pointed at the blood leaking on to his father’s mackintosh and Michael had told him not to worry about the mess. The sounds of the dog’s shallow breathing and Marion’s voice, half-whispering, urgent, as she dealt with finding newspaper to lay on the floor and mollifying the children, looped over each other in Michael’s head, tangling and fluttering like ribbons. Hit by a car, I should think. Nothing you could do. Daddy found it in the road, Eddie. He couldn’t leave it there. It’s beyond help. No, no collar. Sarah asked if it was a boy dog or a lady dog and Marion said that was the least of its worries. She’d spread the newspaper and the dog allowed Michael to place it on the floor without protesting. It shivered and lowered its head. The newspaper sighed underneath it. Sarah had retrieved the doll’s old coverlet from a basket of lengths of cloth and spread it so that they couldn’t see the red, wet pouch that protruded from its stomach. They’d all gathered round, kneeling like figures in the Nativity. The dog’s eyes were as blank as eggs.

  What Michael also remembers, an image that is accompanied by a sort of rushing feeling in his chest, is Marion’s arm around his shoulders, her voice warm and his free hand on her knee. You couldn’t have done more, you’re so kind to animals. I’ll ask in the village tomorrow if anyone’s lost a dog. It looks quite peaceful now, it knows you’re caring for it; most people would have left it to suffer. Oh, darling. Poor thing. Oh, darling. The dog died with its eyes open. Marion said it was the driver’s fault. Who was driving the wretched car? that’s what she’d like to know. Next time we have a bonfire, Michael had said, we’ll put that little sheet on it.

  He wonders how long Marion will continue to visit him here. The arrangement seems to suit them both, but it is hung from a flimsy hook. The presence of others could disturb it. The photographs she brought in move him, not so much the actual images but the way she sheds years looking at them herself. The letters and cards are a puzzle. He was brutal in his evisceration of the past, consigning everything to fires and bins. They had an unspoken agreement that they would not discuss what he destroyed, but she must have gone ahead of him, squirrelling things away so quickly she made no judgement about what she took. He recognises the occasional name, although he is surprised by their continuing appearance. He’d imagined a scything of all such connections. Among the few that resonate emotionally are many more mundane documents. Physical evidence of long-ago, long-forgotten appointments and acknowledgements. A history he has no part of – her attachments to local volunteer groups, the friendships that sprang from them and the plans made or broken – unrolls as she speaks. She has managed to sustain all this without any apparent break in her stride. It is impressive that very few of the letters refer directly to what happened to her. He knows that it is a matter of pride that no one can tell by looking at her, or even during a conversation, how wounded she is and how much she hides. He wishes he could convey what he feels about this achievement. Although, if he’s honest, he’s not quite sure whether to admire or pity her.

  Chapter 25

  25 September

  I signed the swimming book yesterday. They hang it from a hook on the general noticeboard which means everyone can see you do it. It’s weird how everything else about having the curse is all private, but if it’s the reason you can’t swim you practically have to shout out loud about it. The first day I signed it was the day Suze got the knitting needle stuck in her stomach. We all have to knit squares for Oxfam in domestic science. They are going to be sewn together to make blankets for Africa. Suze had taken to knitting in a big way, she was at it all the time and she managed neat, tight rows. Mine always gape and sag. I feel sorry for the Africans who get my squares; it would be very easy to catch your toenails in the loose threads. She was sitting on a bench in the playground, with a large ball of wool beside her. It followed her like a cat after a bird as she jerked the needles backwards and forwards. When the bell rang, she reached for her bag and one needle spun from her hand. As she caught it, she pulled it towards her and the pointed end slid right through her shirt and jumper. It was stuck fast even when she tried wiggling it free. She sort of laughed. There wasn’t much blood coming out, just a red circle on her shirt. Obviously, they made a fuss and took her to hospital. When she came back to school next day she was pale and woozy, even though there wasn’t a spike sticking out of her any more. She doesn’t like talking about it now.

  Eddie came into my bed last night. He hasn’t done that for ages and I know he thought I’d kick him out but I let him curl up next to me. He said he felt sad but he didn’t know why. I couldn’t cheer him up, partly because I wasn’t sure of what to say but mostly because I was crying and I had to concentrate on staying still so I didn’t make the damp patch on my pillow any bigger.

  Chapter 26

  I had watched Adrian’s car reversing away until I couldn’t see it any more.

  ‘You were ages,’ said Eddie as I came back into the kitchen. He sat in front of an empty plate. He’d obviously eaten all the biscuits. ‘That was em-barr-a-ssing.’ He licked one finger and applied it to the plate to pick up the last sweet crumbs. ‘Grabbing your hair. Ugh.’

  Sarah tipped her head back so that she could actually look down her nose at h
im. ‘Shut up,’ she said, and Eddie heard the ice in her voice. He looked to me for a response.

  I hadn’t the energy to divert their quarrel. ‘Right,’ I said, sliding my apron over my head and wishing I was alone. I turned my back on them and opened the larder. ‘I’ll call you when supper’s ready,’ I said. I felt oddly nervous about Michael’s imminent approach, sensing his arrival as if he were a giant, making the ground tremble at each step. Nothing was out of place, but I felt unsettled and light-headed. I couldn’t make sense of the array of tins and packets I stared at. We’d just have to have a late supper, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I put potatoes in the sink, one each and one for the pot, flushing the soil from them, turning them over and over under the tap.

  I heard the soft scuff of Sarah’s suede soles in the hallway then the thump-thump as she ran upstairs, two at a time. I hacked more from the potatoes than I intended, slicing chunks of flesh away with the peel and gouging greater circles than was necessary to remove black eyes.

  When Sheila knocked at the back door, I definitely frowned before I smiled, and I know she noticed. She wore a dark pink lipstick and the tips of her two front teeth were striped pink, too.

  ‘Apologies,’ she said, without a trace of sorrow in her voice. ‘Still peeling?’ She inspected the saucepans and tins lined up in readiness, laying a manicured finger on top of the can of peas. ‘Do carry on,’ she said. ‘Don’t mind me.’

  ‘I’d better.’ I heaped the potatoes on to the draining board. ‘Running a bit late.’ I slopped too much water, splashing myself.