by Thorne Moore
I felt as daunted as I had back then. With better reason, probably. Here I was, after Ruth had specifically ordered me not to come, and I had resurrected a ten-year-old’s terror of defiance. I forced myself forward and knocked on the door. A very ordinary door, on a very ordinary house, brick and pebbledash and a bay window.
No response. It was a Saturday, which meant she most likely wouldn’t be at work, but she could still be out. The house could be shut up for a week. The family might be on holiday.
I noticed the bell and pressed it. Then I saw, through the bubbled glass, someone coming down stairs. The door opened.
A woman. Forty-five, like me. I wouldn’t have recognised her – except that somewhere in that frazzled, middle-aged housewife with the deep-etched frown lines, I could still make out nervous little Ruthie with the precision parting and the purse on a strap and the pure white socks that never fell down.
‘Hello, Ruth,’ I said.
Her chest rose and fell three times, before she said, ‘Karen Rothwell. I said not to come, didn’t I? I haven’t got time for this.’
‘I won’t stay long, I promise.’
‘Oh fuck it. You’d better come in, then.’ With a huge sigh of irritation, she led me through to her living room. ‘I might have guessed you’d turn up, whatever I said. Stubborn little cow. Always were.’ She was groping for cigarettes, lighting one, offering the packet to me. ‘No? Well, go on then. Might as well take your coat off.’
‘Thanks.’ I slipped it from my shoulders.
‘Shit!’ She was looking me over. ‘You’re a skeleton. What’s it with you? Some sort of anorexia, I suppose.’
‘No, nothing like that. I’ve been ill. In hospital. I lost a bit of weight.’
‘A bit? Christ. So what was it then? Your illness. Nothing serious?’ She was asking because it was the way conversation was obliged to go, but she didn’t really want to be told. There are many people like that. I could recognise the symptoms at a glance, so I didn’t bother her with details.
‘Nothing serious. All fixed now.’
‘Right.’ She sat down, then jumped to her feet again. ‘Since you’re here, I suppose I’d better make some tea.’
I could recognise the symptoms of prevarication too. She escaped to the kitchen, and I shared the relief. I thought I’d got it all straight in my head, while I was on the train, what I was going to say. But now I was there, I could feel the tell-tale racing of my heart, and the twinges of panic that could turn me into a gibbering wreck on the floor if I didn’t take care. I breathed deeply and slowly, looking round the room.
It was like the garden, horribly neat. Nothing out of line on the mantelpiece. Books perfectly aligned on shelves. Magazines precisely stacked under the coffee table.
It didn’t make sense, the contradiction. Her father could be in charge of this house, still governing her life, yet little mouse Ruth with her parade of dolls had left school in disgrace and pregnant, and turned into a strangely sour woman, who talked like a fishwife. Rebellion and conformity hand in hand.
But then I suppose life with Mr Jefferson would lead to some sort of collapse, sooner or later. Because he really wasn’t what he pretended to be. We could all bear witness to that.
*
‘Come here, boy! Yes, you, boy. Come here, I say!’
Mr Jefferson, camera round his red, swollen neck, is roaring, one arm raised, like a German salute, summoning Kenneth Dexter. Kenneth has kicked a hole in the fence. Kenneth is for it now.
Kenneth comes, loping. Other boys lope like that when Mr. Jefferson summons them, dragging their feet because they’d much rather run away, but they daren’t. If even their fathers and Mr Cutler, the headmaster, are afraid of Mr Jefferson and jump to attention when he calls, how can they disobey? But Kenneth lopes because that’s the way he always runs. Like a wolf.
He runs right up to Mr Jefferson, like he’s obeying, and then he hits him. Doesn’t stop running, just slogs him straight on the nose, and then he runs on.
Mr Jefferson swells up, and up and up, like a bullfrog, his face dark red and his moustache sticking straight out and he turns to roar at Kenneth again, and Kenneth turns to come back, fists up, right up to him.
And Mr Jefferson collapses, like a burst balloon. He puts up his hands to defend himself and he cringes, with a noise that sounds like a whimper.
We all see it. We hear it.
Kenneth puts his face right into Mr Jefferson’s, and says ‘Perv!’ and Mr Jefferson cowers again. Then Kenneth lopes off, backwards, shouting rude words and laughing.
He’s not the only one. There are titters and giggles, from schoolchildren. From their parents too.
Mr Jefferson swells up again, but no one believes in him any more.
*
Ruth must have stopped believing in him too, I suppose. Enough to let her socks drop.
She returned with a tray. Tea and a shop-bought fruit loaf. She handed me a mug and a plate. I felt I was being tested, so I took a bite of the cake. Too dry, too sweet, but I’d finished it, just so that she wouldn’t get the wrong idea.
‘I heard you married,’ I said, swallowing painfully, reaching for the tea to wash it down.
She laughed, not very humorously. ‘Yeah, well. I expect the whole world heard. Yes, I got stuffed. The wages of sin, always catch up with you, apparently. Didn’t have to be so bloody quick about it, though, did they? We’d only done it once. I ask you. One grope in the bushes for curiosity’s sake and the next moment you’re up the aisle and stuck with a screaming baby and gas bills.’
She was watching me as she rabbited on. Smoking rapidly. She was nervous.
‘How did you hear, anyway?’ She carefully flicked her cigarette into a glass ashtray. ‘You moved away. Don’t know why we didn’t. Staying here, in godforsaken Lyford. Stupid, isn’t it? Marriage, children, I don’t know. Suck the fucking life out of you.’
Fucking. She slipped in obscenities, but it was obvious they didn’t come naturally to her. She was forcing them. Playing the hard woman. She drew hard on her cigarette. ‘Where did you go? Manchester, wasn’t it?’
‘Liverpool. Then Coventry. I live in Yorkshire now. That’s where my mother came from. She wanted to go back there when my father died, to be near relatives.’ I knew she wasn’t remotely interested in my life story, which sounded unutterably dull as I recited it, but that was the point. I wanted to play down any drama and reassure her that I wasn’t going to eat her. She was watching me as if I might.
‘Anyway, I met a man who used to teach in Lyford. At the VI Form. I asked about people I used to know and he remembered you.’
‘A teacher? Can’t say I remember any. Who is he?’
‘David Lamb. Taught English.’
‘I didn’t do English. How would he… Oh, you mean he remembered the scandal. Well, at least I stirred the place up. Had them all queuing up to tell me what a disappointment I was. None of them came to the wedding. Thank God. Fucking awful. Full humiliation or nothing. Had to be in church but he wouldn’t let me wear white.’
She didn’t need to explain who she meant by he.
‘So you had a child.’ I had to say something. What I wanted to say was, never mind you, where’s Serena Whinn? but I was sufficiently self-controlled to stop myself. I glanced round the room again for clues, but there were no photographs. None. No weddings, no babies, no holiday snaps or Christmas gatherings. Which was odd, considering we never saw her father without his camera, capturing evidence of all our sins.
‘Child! Four of the bloody things.’ Ruth stubbed out her cigarette and drew out another. ‘You’d have thought I’d learn, wouldn’t you. Hanging one millstone round my neck after another. Still got Emma and Lee living here. You’d think once they were adults, I’d be rid of them but oh no. Emma’s got herself a job in town, but claims she can’t find anywhere to rent. And Lee’s just finished uni, so is he out looking for a job? Is he fuck. Can’t be bothered to get off his arse. Just plays that bloody guit
ar all day. Lee!’ She was at the door, shouting. ‘Keep it down!’
Since she’d mentioned it, I could detect, very faintly, the thump of a bass line. How she heard him was a mystery. Except that it wasn’t really a mystery at all. She was just determined to be aggravated about something.
Was it me, doing this to her? Setting her on the prowl, looking for things to snarl about? Perhaps I should try to smooth things over. ‘Four children,’ I said, lamely. ‘How lovely. Do you have photos?’
‘No I bloody don’t! Why would I want photographs, when I’ve got the bloody brats themselves? Why does everyone go on about photographs, all the bloody time? Christ, haven’t we had enough of all that?’ She stabbed her cigarette into an ashtray.
I heard the thump on the stairs, far louder than the music. A cheerful looking boy poked his head round the door. ‘Sorry. Too loud?’
‘Yes! Can’t hear myself think.’
He was looking at me, smiling, brows raised. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’
Ruth flapped a hand in my direction. ‘Karen. Someone from way back. No one you know.’
‘Not a friend!’ He pretended shock. ‘Mum doesn’t do friends. She hates everyone, don’t you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
He laughed. ‘Anyway, I’m off into town. Do you want me to get anything?’
Ruth sighed. ‘Oh, don’t bother yourself. Well. Milk. You might as well get another couple of pints. The amount you get through.’
‘And you’re not made of money and we’re eating you out of house and home. Okay. A couple of pints it is. See you!’ With another smile at me, he was gone.
Ruth scowled. ‘He’ll get the wrong sort.’
I was willing to bet that he’d get exactly the right sort. The dynamics of this situation were obviously way beyond my comprehension, but then each insane family is insane in its own way.
‘Kids,’ said Ruth, bitterly. She lifted the tray to wipe an invisible mark on the coffee table. ‘So. Let’s get this over with. I don’t suppose you really came here to find out about my failed family-planning schedule.’
‘Well…’
‘You’d better not be here to rake over the past.’
‘Um.’ What was I to say? That was exactly what I wanted to do. ‘Not exactly. I was just thinking about school days. You know.’
She stared at me. ‘You are joking.’
It was obviously a negative topic in her mind, but then, everything seemed to be a negative topic in her mind. I couldn’t gauge if she was confirming my suspicion that something bad had happened back then, or pouring out bile on life in general. There was nothing for it but to go on as if I hadn’t heard. ‘School days at Marsh Green. All of us. You know. Angela and Denise and Barbara – and Serena. Remember?’
She was groping for another cigarette, her hand shaking. ‘What do you mean, remember? What sort of a stupid fucking question is that? Of course I fucking remember. How could I bloody forget?’
‘Forget what?’
‘Jesus!’ She looked at me as if I were demented. I wasn’t. Not yet. But I would be soon at this rate. ‘You ask me that? Don’t bloody ask, because I don’t want to talk about it, right?’ As I opened my mouth, she repeated ‘Right?’
So what could I say? ‘Do you ever see anything of – of any of them?’
‘Christ. Do you think I have time to go chasing round after old gangs from thirty-five years ago? You might have, but I don’t.’
‘I just thought I’d like to look them up.’ And hope one of them might be less unhinged.
‘If you want to track them down, fine, but it’s nothing to do with me. Do whatever you want, but leave me out of it. Can’t be that difficult for you, can it? You found me. Barbara. She’ll be in a solicitor’s directory, won’t she? Or something like that. Just don’t come asking me.’
‘Did she become a lawyer, then?’ A painfully obvious question, but I needed to keep calm – keep her calm. Keep talking. I’d had enough people in my life trying to calm me down. My turn now.
‘Yeah! Or… I don’t know. Something. Maybe. Look.’ She was pacing round the room, then she turned to confront me. ‘Why? Tell me. Why have you come? Because if you just want to rake all that business up, that would be just sick. I mean, seriously sick. I don’t want to think about it. I’m certainly not going to sit here talking about it. None of it, the murder or any of the rest. So just leave it.’
‘Murder!’ The word screamed in my head, but nothing came out of my mouth. Black wings flapped around me. The terror pounced back to my shoulder, hissing in my ear. ‘Murder!’
My expression must have revealed something. It must have, because I could feel myself cracking, like a windscreen suddenly crazing into a thousand pieces that were just waiting to fly apart. I could feel my heart pumping, the roar in my ears, the sweat on my lip—
But Ruth saw none of it. She wasn’t seeing me at all. She was caught up in her own words. ‘It’s over. Okay, she died. It was horrible. It’s over. I don’t want to know, right? If you want to—’ She stopped. Now she was seeing me. Seeing something that made her turn pale and take a step back.
‘Who?’ I managed to whisper. ‘Who was murdered?’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, what d’you mean, who? If you, of all people, don’t know…’ She was screeching, venting an anger that was a defensive shield for her to hide behind. ‘Look, I don’t know what your game is, Karen Rothwell, but I want nothing to do with it. Just go, will you? Get out. Asking who – that’s sick.’
She was beyond reason and I was beyond pretence. I needed to get out, as much as she wanted me to go. I grabbed my coat and let her usher me out of the house. I walked away, listening for the slam of the door. It didn’t come. She must be standing there watching me. I didn’t dare look back.
— 6 —
‘Don’t slam the door! Christ, you know what it does to my head.’
‘Sorry. Thought I’d shut it quietly.’ Lee sauntered into the kitchen, glancing at his mother as he stowed the milk in the fridge. ‘Friend’s gone?’
Ruth scowled. ‘What’s it look like? She wasn’t a friend, anyway. Just someone I knew at school.’
Lee watched her, scrubbing. ‘At school. Is this something to do with, you know, Grandad?’
Ruth clenched. ‘Why does everything have to be about your grandfather? It’s nothing to do with him. Why do you have to keep going on about it?’
‘Mum.’ Lee took the nailbrush from her. ‘Stop it. Your hands are clean. Leave it. Please.’ He handed her a towel and a bottle of hand cream. ‘You’re going to take the skin off again.’
‘Leave me alone. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Go on. Get back to your bloody music. I’ve got things to do.’
‘Okay. Just as long as you promise to stop scrubbing.’ He hugged her from behind.
Why did her family have to be so bloody understanding and caring and good-humoured, all the time? Why couldn’t they snarl and be resentful for once? Then she would have good cause to bite back. Bite and scratch and spit, and get it out of her system.
She pushed him free. ‘You can stop treating me like a bloody child.’ She dried her hands, moving away from the sink.
It was enough to reassure him. ‘Okay then.’
She watched him trail upstairs, then she retreated to the living room, pulling the door shut behind her. She rocked on her heels for a moment, then picked up the phone.
Put it down.
Picked it up again. Dialled.
‘Ruth. Yes,’ said a clipped, disembodied voice.
‘Barbara.’ She stopped to catch her breath.
‘Yes.’
‘Something’s happened. A woman. She came here. I told her not to, but she came anyway. Where did she come from? She’s not supposed to be alive.’
‘Who? Stop babbling, woman. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and this really isn’t a very convenient time.’
‘Oh, but—’
�
��I am sitting by Mother’s hospital bed, waiting for her to pass away. I doubt she’ll last the night, so I don’t want to listen to babble. If it’s something serious, just spit it out.’
‘Karen Rothwell. She came here.’
There was a brief pause. ‘Good God.’
‘Yes!’
‘She’s dead. Well, obviously not. What did she want?’
‘To talk. I can’t. I just can’t.’
‘Calm yourself, Ruth. So she’s keen to talk. Well, that makes a change from refusing to open her mouth, at least. What did she say?’
‘She claims she doesn’t remember anything.’
‘Very wise. The less remembered the better. What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing! I told you, I can’t. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Well then.’
‘But I think she might be coming to find you.’
Another brief pause. ‘Does she know where to find me?’
‘I sort of let drop—’ Mutterings down the phone.
‘Well, I have nothing to hide. But I don’t have time for this, right now. A pity you didn’t keep your mouth shut.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ Ruth scrubbed furiously at a fingerprint on the sideboard, and caught her own reflection in the polished mahogany. She winced. ‘Sorry about your mother, too.’
‘Yes, well.’ An irritated sigh.
‘I didn’t want to speak to her at all. She just showed up. I told her not to come. I don’t want anything to do with it.’
There was a short sharp laugh on the phone. ‘Sorry, Ruth. Too late for that, don’t you think? Too late for any of us.’
— 7 —
I sat on the train, quietly disintegrating again, all Dr Pearce’s patient work unravelling in a moment. Why wouldn’t Ruth say more? Or why had she said so much? One word? Murder. To say that, to open a trapdoor beneath my feet and then deny me any explanation. Electric jolts and sparks were flying within me, trying to make connections. Trying, trying, trying to grasp the memory that wouldn’t come.