The Blind Light

by Stuart Evers

  ‘What a relief,’ Gwen said. ‘We’ve been watching it all morning.’

  ‘We’ve had the World Service on. Sounds like no one knows what’s happening.’

  ‘That’s what it sounds like,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I just wanted to make sure you knew, so you weren’t worried.’

  How many calls like this; how many placed from the deck of her Spanish swimming pool, a glass of wine for the nerves, though not even eleven o’clock, the white stucco walls and the terracotta cooler, Carter in the water no doubt, swimming to the moon and back. His new thing, swimming.

  ‘Is it hot?’ Gwen said.

  ‘Sweltering,’ she said. ‘You?’

  ‘It’s warm,’ she said. ‘Balmy.’

  Talk of the weather now, on the phone at least; long conversations about weather, about the heat and its lack. How had they got to this? Two old women, all conversation worn away, talking about the weather. No more Wednesday afternoons or Friday lunches; no more gentle back and forth, no more confessional. How it only hits sometimes how much you ache for someone’s company.

  The couple who rented the Carter house had a young family; they were scientists, uninterested in her and Drum. Hadn’t even asked them to babysit; instead a slew of teenagers arrived in their daddies’ cars. Their children seemed scared of Gwen, and of Drum. They sometimes crept towards the farm, but if she saw them, they ran away before she could offer them lemonade or cake.

  ‘It’ll be hotter when you come out,’ Daphne said. ‘You can forget all about warm and balmy.’

  ‘I need to go,’ she said. ‘Something in the oven.’

  ‘Molly coming over?’

  ‘Yes. Carrot cake.’

  ‘Well, I’ll let you go. Call me on the weekend.’

  Gwen put the phone in the pocket of her yoga pants and went into the sitting room, Drum’s gaze not averted by her coming into the room, eyes only for the latest scenes from King’s Cross, from Edgware Road.

  ‘Looks like at least four,’ he said. ‘Minimum of four. No one’s claimed responsibility, yet.’

  ‘That was Daphne,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s safe.’

  He looked up at her, a moment’s confusion, then thought catching up with expression.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘You’ll turn this off when Molly comes over,’ she said. ‘I don’t want her seeing this.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want her to see this either.’

  He wouldn’t though. It would still be on when Nate and Molly arrived. He’d inch towards the kitchen, only hitting the remote as he reached the sitting-room door.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m going to make that cake now.’

  *

  She made the carrot cake. Nate’s favourite and Molly’s too, Molly not allowed too much sugar, so carrot cake ideal, easy to make too, and fuck the cake, the cake, what, making cake when people are dead and dying? All that and you make cake? Grate the carrots as Anneka dies, as Robin dies, as Femi dies? No, not Femi.

  She put the cake in the oven. The phone was silent; sirens from the sitting room, amateur footage of amateur bombs, the rotor blades of helicopters. She took wine from the fridge, put it back. Wouldn’t do, not with Molly coming over. The look on Drum’s face, on Nate’s face; Molly understanding something not right.

  From charity shops Gwen had bought Molly games and toys, kept them in a shopping bag she called Granny Gwen’s Magic Bag. Cheap entertainment, cupboard love. Surprising the competition between the grandparents. Three sets to navigate, Molly knowing the choppy waters well, knowing who was best for what. Gwen for puzzles, for books; everyone else for fun. Why aren’t you more fun? Molly said. Why don’t you play? Why won’t you dress up?

  Count blessings. Could be a fourth set, five conceivably. Molly’s father, biological father, disappearing before Molly born; Nate adopting her officially on her first birthday. Raised as his own, but not his own. Not really his; not really Gwen’s. Not a real grandchild. A dark-haired thing, thick-limbed and bouncing with energy, hopped up on music and dance, beautiful but not really her own.

  When Carlie finally left Nate, Gwen thought she might never see Molly again, thought she might become one of those women who rang up radio phone-ins to complain about grandparents’ scandalous lack of rights. No rights with Femi, either. A true grandchild. Horrible to say that. A true grandchild. Molly, love, forgive me.

  She took the cake from the oven, set it to cool. She called Ray again. Straight to voicemail.

  Drummond wandered into the kitchen, stuck his finger into the frosting.

  ‘They’ll be here any minute,’ she said. ‘Have a shower.’

  ‘I’m fine as I am,’ he said.

  ‘Have a shave then.’

  ‘Molly likes to scratch at my whiskers. Like I’m a cat or something.’

  He came up behind her, put his arms around her, rested his hands where her apron was sashed around her middle.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘She hated London. No way she’d be there.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But you get to wondering . . .’

  ‘Shush,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.’

  2

  In accordance with the new Thursday ritual, Nate met Carlie and Molly by the renovated play area at the park. The structures were futuristic: wheels, spokes and tyres hanging from wires; abstract ladders leading to floating platforms; the flooring beneath spongy from a seam of impact-absorbing rubber. He saw Carlie, and then Molly at the top of the spiral slide, watched her as she slid down, dress hitched, exposing knickers, face sombre. Already having the measure of the slide, already knowing its meagre thrills.

  ‘Daddy!’ Molly said at the slide’s lip. She ran to him, bounced into his outstretched arms. For his benefit; for the benefit of upsetting her mother. Carlie sat on a pine bench, at her feet a carry bag and a small rucksack which Molly always packed though she knew she was not spending the night.

  ‘Hey, Carlie,’ he said.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Push me on the swing, Daddy,’ Molly said.

  ‘Let me talk to Mummy first,’ he said. ‘You go swing yourself and I’ll be right there.’

  Molly smiled, scowled at her mother, so effortless the shift; effortless, also, Carlie’s roll of eyes.

  ‘She’s been a perfect little shit for me,’ Carlie said. ‘So she’ll probably be good as gold for you.’

  She wore no make-up, there were grey stains on the sleeve of her black top, chips in her pedicure, dusty feet in flip-flops. Less effort each time they met, like when she stopped wearing thongs and switched to bigger knickers. Too old now to have something in my ass-crack all day, she’d said.

  ‘Did you hear about the bombs?’ Nate said.

  Bombs a safe subject. Something even those at war could discuss without it leading down dark and personal pathways.

  ‘Someone I know was on one of the trains,’ she said. ‘The King’s Cross one. He’s fine though. Vanessa called me to tell me all about it. I didn’t know they were still in contact.’

  ‘Who was that?’ he said.

  ‘No one you know,’ she said. ‘A friend from school. Haven’t seen him in years.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad he’s safe,’ he said.

  Carlie knew so many people, had always known so many people. There wasn’t one person he knew who would have been in London; not a one for him to worry about. When the IRA did Warrington in ninety-three and Manchester in ninety-six, there were conceivable casualties. Those he knew who worked there, shopped there. Billy was there, in Manchester. Nate had called him and Billy had answered, then Nate had put down the phone.

  Bombs were always so far away, until they weren’t. The Warrington one the worst; close, Warrington, but so insignificant; nationally probably only known for its Rugby League team. The bomb there was just to say no one was safe. To remind everyone, if we can do somewhere as pointless as Warrin
gton, we can do anywhere. Look out. Be prepared.

  ‘What you doing this afternoon?’ he said. She laughed. He missed her laughter; the laughter that said he knew nothing, did not understand anything; not a malicious laugh, no bite to it, just something she did.

  ‘Washing, tidying, cleaning and, if I’m lucky, after that I’ll get twenty minutes for myself.’

  ‘I could always take—’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean thank you, but it’s too soon.’

  She handed him the small rucksack, the large bag.

  ‘You understand, right?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course I do. And I’m trying. I really am.’

  She huffed out. He had not wanted to say this, the same thing he said every Thursday, but he said it anyway.

  ‘I look at you,’ Carlie said, ‘and it’s impossible to tell how you’re doing. You don’t look any different. I can’t see inside that head of yours.’

  ‘One day at a time,’ he said. ‘That’s all I can do. I have a meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘Always tomorrow, the meeting,’ she said. ‘Always tomorrow.’

  ‘Friday’s a good day for meetings,’ he said. ‘Weekends are the most difficult for some.’

  True this. The stories told in the group sessions so often started with last Saturday, or it were Sunday and the men would shake heads as they unburdened themselves. The things they said. Encouraged to be as truthful as they could, use the words they had used, the things they had struck, punched or kicked. It didn’t matter how minor. A confessional without possible absolution. A strange push-me-pull-you in the room, the truth carefully stacked and weighted. Men he knew who’d had a punch up the weekend before would not mention it, but tell complicated allegories of the incident. Some he suspected were in some kind of Fight Club. There were old warehouses in the town; abandoned farm places nearby. Perfect for it. A chalk circle, money changing hands.

  Years back, he might have made enquiries. Before Carlie came back with Molly; before he moved into her little place, the smell of nappies and nappy sacks and Johnson’s baby lotion. A few years back, yes. Call it the nineties. Call it a decade of cows and fights and the odd excursion into the clubs. Last night at the Haç; the foray into Flesh. An AIDS test one morning, a blur that night, a damage to himself, he was. At Billy’s house, the last time. Quiet, beautiful Billy. A rekindling, three months, a dinner or two, not just fucking. Scary, those months.

  The last night, after a fight, after make-up sex, in his Manchester apartment, smoking an imported American cigarette, looking up and putting his hand on Nate’s chest, Billy said, ‘You’re just waiting for the woman to come, aren’t you, my dear? And when she comes, you’ll come running, won’t you?’

  He’d wanted to say no to that. He’d wanted to say Billy was wrong. But Carlie had come running and he could not say no to her. No matter what had happened, could not say no.

  Carlie picked up her bag.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Well keep it up. I’ll see you at seven. No later, right?’

  ‘Seven at the latest,’ he said.

  ‘PUSH ME,’ Molly shouted. And so he pushed her in the hard shine of sun, watched as Carlie walked away, waving without turning.

  *

  Nate drove them home. As always, Molly waved as they passed her house. Hard to look on the house now. A couple of years of walking up its stairs, taking a bath with Molly, washing the back of her neck, playing with a wind-up penguin. Not to think on that. Eight hours with her now. Up to see the cows, ice the cake with Granny Gwen, sit on Grandpa Dum’s lap and read books the way he’d never done for him. The same as they had every Sunday before the crack-up; the same but minus Carlie; the same but something essential sucked from the day, like daylight-saving hours in the wrong season.

  ‘Look, cows!’ Molly said, pointing to the bored munch of them. Still excitement at that, the move from town to countryside. The strangeness of being on a farm, like a funhouse just for her. He saw the house bathed in light, saw the happy faces of those inside, the joy of her crossing the threshold, the transformative power of her little feet and girlish screams. Something his mother said – this house has never known a child – and this true, not a small child, not a toddler. A Boxing Day Christmas around the fire, Molly tearing wrapping paper from a seemingly endless tower of boxes. The look on his parents’ faces, the smell of the roasting turkey, the gentle arm around Carlie. A picture-book idea of Christmas, perfect, and frozen now in time, never to be repeated; perfection happening once and once alone.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All the cows are out today.’

  ‘Can we go and see Jemima?’

  ‘After we say hello to Granny and Grandpa.’

  Nate parked and unbuckled Molly, kissed her on the curl of her dark hair. Smelled of Carlie now, smelled of once home. He put on her long socks and pink wellies, pushed them over her delicate ankles.

  ‘They okay?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said and jumped down from the car, onto the still-muddy grass, the sun not having dried out the downpour of the previous week.

  ‘It smells of poo,’ she said, as always, and loped her way through the mud to the farmhouse. He locked the car, watched her negotiate the squelch, bang on the door.

  ‘Granny Gwen! Open up, Granny Gwen!’

  His mother opened the door, picked up Molly, held her as a trophy, took her inside, ignoring Nate, not even looking at Nate. He crossed the threshold and watched his parents fuss Molly, kiss her and take off her muddy boots, anointing her feet with the slipper socks they’d bought for her.

  He poured tea from the pot on the kitchen table. There were sandwiches, a plate of pork pies, two bowls of raw vegetables that Carlie insisted Molly liked, but never ate when at the farm. Cake cooled on a rack, a bowl of frosting. A different house with a child in it. A different house entirely.

  3

  Molly was in his arms. His arms hurt these days, the ache in the joints, the pills he took for it doing nothing; cod liver oil at least better than when a kid, when it was a spoon of liquid, the stink of dissolved fish. In his arms, Molly heavy, so heavy these days. On his lap and him reading The Lorax, the rhymes she loved, Molly rubbing her hands along his stubble, sometimes upsetting his glasses. Had his surname, but not his genes. What genes to have anyway. Busted knees and twisted guts. She laughed, and her laugh giggled his belly, her riding it slightly, the weight gain from retirement, the odd shift now, no longer up all hours.

  ‘What shall we read now?’ Molly said and he shook his head.

  ‘Dinner time now, Molly,’ he said.

  She jumped up, ran from him, a ride ended and off to a different attraction. He turned on the television, muted the volume, then turned it up slightly, just enough for him to hear. Leaned forward, the same text on the ticker. Still no one claiming responsibility. Remember the Angry Brigade. The bombs of theirs. Carter mentioned them in Rules that time. Another bunch of crazies. Sane now in comparison. None of them were ever Angry enough to blow themselves up for their cause.

  New bombings these, new for that reason. How many people to cause so much death. Four. Five maybe. Not thinking big enough though. Why not the trains? Why not shopping centres? Why not football grounds? Only a matter of time. No matter the level of alert, the state can’t suppress that. Enough will, enough ordinance, and they could bring the country to its knees. Find enough warriors, they’ll bring enough war.

  Times like this, he missed the bomb. Its certainty. The uneasy peace brokered on the assumption that both sides did not want to die. This a different proposition. The opposite of mutually assured destruction: a war fought for the afterlife and nothing else. Had there been a Red heaven, the bombs would probably have dropped thirty years before.

  Turn it off. Watch your blood pressure. Reduce stress. Do not eat fatty foods. Take plenty of exercise. Rest yourself. Take these tablets three times a day. Do not rise your ire. Take it easy. They flew planes into a building. They bombed London. They are not
scared to die and you want me to be calm?

  ‘How many dead?’ Nate said. Like a football score. Like asking who was winning.

  ‘Still uncertain,’ Drum said. ‘Hundreds by the look.’

  ‘One of Carlie’s friends was on the King’s Cross train. He’s okay, apparently.’

  ‘Well that’s good,’ he said. ‘One of the lucky ones.’

  There had been eyewitness interviews. The young mainly, astonished by their proximity to death. The audacity of it. The old seemed less willing to share; less staggered by it. He would like to know how they felt. Whether they were more worried about their hearts and their bowels than being blown ten feet in the air.

  Nate sat down next to him on the sofa.

  ‘What’s up with Mam?’ he said. ‘She’s acting strange again.’

  ‘She seems okay to me,’ Drum said.

  ‘She’s all sort of rushy, like she hasn’t eaten or something.’

  ‘We had breakfast same as always,’ he said.

  ‘I know, Dad, I was there.’

  ‘So what are you talking about then?’

  Drum looked at his son. The mess of that. Forty years old and staring down divorce, a child not even his own, back working the farm after Les sacked him. A wife, a child, a job, gone in an afternoon. No more company car, no more overseeing conservatories and loft conversions for his father-in-law. Forty and in his same old room, back in the same old routine. Drum had missed him in those short years of gainful employ. Missed their gentle routines, his hand on his back at end of day, like the two of them had a hundred years of farming in the genes.

  After Carlie kicked him out, they’d talked, perhaps the only time they’d ever talked of feelings. All Drum could think to say was, you make it right. After what you did, you have to make it right. Nate had cried. In his arms, his son crying, the last time when Nate had scabbed up his knee, blood running down his leg, nine years old and his tears dampening the collar of his father’s shirt.

  ‘I’m taking Molly to see the cows after dinner,’ Nate said. ‘You coming?’

  ‘With these knees?’