Redemption Road

by Lisa Ballantyne

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be so late,’ Hazel muttered, chin to her chest. ‘If the potatoes are too dry I can make some fresh.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Angus, brushing past her. He went to the porch and changed out of his work shoes into his wellington boots.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Hazel, suddenly appearing before him, her hands clasped before her.

  ‘What are you talking about, woman?’ Angus spat at her.

  ‘Do you mean you’ll wait and see what the potatoes are like, or I should boil some fresh ones now?’

  ‘Is that all you care about? Are you gormless?’ Angus took a single step towards her and she shrank from him, defensive but accepting, like a dog. ‘Boil some fresh potatoes if it pleases you. Day after day the same tripe you serve up; I’m sure I will notice no difference.’

  Hazel and Angus’s courtship had been pleasant enough, but it was after they were married and the children came that Angus became disheartened by her company. He had enjoyed both of her pregnancies, and liked to put his hands on her stomach to feel the child move. He had urged her to rest and eat well and had been delighted that his second-born was a son. Yet Hazel lacked strength as a mother, and it had fallen upon him to enforce discipline. She was a poor cook, yet had a tendency to put on weight. She failed to learn from the lessons he tried to teach her.

  Angus marched out to the barn, striding, his boots leaving large indentations in the mud. The night was quiet and dark, strung with stars, and away from Hazel he felt blessed and chosen.

  In the barn, Maisie seemed uncomfortable; off her food and letting out low pitiful moans as soon as Angus entered.

  ‘It can’t be long now, my girl,’ he said, a hand smoothing her swollen flank. ‘Only a few days at most and I’ll help you. I’ll be with you all the way, and you’ll be chasing that calf right across the paddock before you know it.’

  Maisie turned to him dolefully, black eyes so large that they could reflect Angus’s whole face. He scratched the space between her ears and watched her tail whip in appreciation.

  ‘You’re my beautiful girl,’ he said, running his hand from her head to her rear.

  He put extra feed and fresh water into Maisie’s trough, then returned to the house. It was freezing although it was only autumn, and Angus remembered the small Henderson child out alone at the mercy of the demon. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Inside, he pulled off his wellingtons and went into the kitchen in his socks, to find Hazel spooning potatoes on to his plate. The sight of her sickened him. She was so proud of herself for those fresh, boiled potatoes, he could tell, and he wanted to let her know that these paltry offerings of hers were nothing to be proud of. He sat, prayed, and then raised his cutlery, ready to pass judgement on her culinary efforts when he heard something… forbidden. It was so faint that Angus could not be sure, but it sounded distinctly like music. He threw down his knife and fork and headed for the stairs, but by the time he had reached the banister all he could hear was the sombre tick of the grandmother clock that hung in the hall.

  Convinced that he had not misheard, Angus bounded upstairs, his short legs taking the steps two at a time. Rachael was the most obvious culprit. Angus threw open the door of her bedroom to find her standing strangely by her bed, her chin down and a flush on her cheek.

  Angus folded his arms as he walked into the room, checking for signs of disarray.

  ‘What are you doing in here, young lady?’

  ‘I was about to do some homework,’ she said, avoiding his eyes, and her voice so quiet it was almost inaudible.

  ‘Speak up and look at me when I’m talking to you.’

  His daughter’s eyes flickered up towards him. She was as sly and weak-willed as her mother. Suddenly he noticed that the frill of the valance around the bed was protruding strangely. He got down on his knees and peered under the bed.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, a flush of vindication filling him. ‘What have we here?’

  It was the tape recorder, which was normally kept in the loft. In the past, the children had used it to help them recall scripture. There was a tape inside, which Angus removed with forefinger and thumb. It was a self-recorded tape on which someone had written in biro: Madonna – Like a Virgin.

  ‘I knew it,’ Angus bellowed. ‘You brought this filth into our house?’

  ‘I was only, I was only…’ said Rachael, before her father took her firmly by the upper arm and led her out of the room.

  Hazel was fretting at the top of the stairs, whispering his name over and over again: ‘Angus, please… Angus, Angus?’

  ‘Ach, take a tablet, woman,’ he said as he dragged Rachael into the bathroom. The child was whimpering but he paid no notice.

  He took a fistful of her hair and forced her down on to her knees so that she was kneeling by the bathroom sink, then took the wooden scrubbing brush that Hazel used to get the mildew off the tiles.

  Hazel stepped into the bathroom, her arms rigid at her side and her fists close. ‘Please calm down, Angus, you mustn’t…’ Her voice was vibrating in her throat. She was shaking, and he wondered if she was daring to question her lord and master.

  ‘Mustn’t what?’ said Angus, wide-eyed at Hazel, feeling his daughter’s cold fingers at his wrist, asking him to release her.

  ‘You mustn’t hurt her.’

  ‘Hurt her?’ he shouted. ‘I’m educating her.’

  ‘Do you like listening to that filth?’ said Angus, twisting Rachael’s face towards him. She was crying now, without sound, her eyelids fluttering in expectation of violence. ‘I-will-not-have-you-listening-to-that-filth,’ said Angus, as he rasped the stiff bristles over her ears. She screamed and tried to pull away from him, but he held her fast, rubbing one ear and then the other until he drew blood. The sight of the blood calmed him.

  He stood up and let go of her hair, suddenly aware of his wife fretting in the doorway. He held the brush up to Hazel, so that she shrank from him, and then he tossed it behind him on to the bathroom floor and went back downstairs to finish his dinner.

  7

  Margaret Holloway

  Saturday 14 December, 2013

  The Holloways were walking in Epping Forest near their home, taking an easy three-mile circular route that they had done many times before. It was Saturday morning – the last before the school Christmas holidays. They were going to drive up to Rugby to visit Margaret’s father in the late morning, and it had been Ben’s suggestion to go walking first thing, to get some fresh air before the drive.

  It was icy cold and the sky was heavy with snow clouds, but so far it had been dry. The snow on the ground had frozen and crunched under their feet.

  The children were running ahead, tagging each other. Paula was fast and would catch her brother quickly, but Eliot was retaliating with hard snowballs.

  ‘Mum!’ said Paula, when an icy snowball hit her between the shoulder blades. ‘Will you tell him not to do that?’

  ‘The snow’s a bit hard for snowballs, Eliot,’ Ben called.

  Ben and Margaret were walking hand in hand. Her nose was cold and her ribs still ached a little, but physically at least she felt better than she had earlier in the week. The pines were expansive and blue-green against the white snow. Margaret was wearing dark blue skinny jeans and boots, and found that her body and feet felt warm, while her legs were cold. It was the same with her mind: she was functioning as normal, apart from one important part of herself, which felt frozen.

  It had been a hard week at work. She was not sure what was happening to her, but things were not all right. She had told Ben about shouting at Malcolm and breaking down in her presentation, but she had not mentioned her visit to the hospital and finding the burned man. She had not talked to Ben about what was happening to her because she didn’t fully understand it herself. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to explain it to him. The doctor’s diagnosis didn’t seem to explain how she felt inside. It felt as if she was separating, precipitating. Things were
rising to the surface that had previously been invisible.

  The memory of being in her burning car haunted her. She could still smell the petrol, and hear the roar of flames. For some reason, it was the fire that had shaken her most, and it was the fire that was causing her to reach into herself and sift through fractured memories and feelings she had not considered for a long time.

  When she was alone, Margaret found herself alternately ruminating on her childhood then fixating on the burned man: who he was and why he had saved specifically her. It was five days since she had visited him at the hospital, but she had called the ICU twice to ask after him. He was stable, but still in a coma.

  It had been her suggestion to go up to Rugby to visit her father. Her mother had died fifteen years ago – when Margaret was at university, not long after she met Ben. Her father was in his late sixties, and she wanted to see him before Christmas. The crash had filled her with a strong desire to go home. The roads were clearer now, but Ben had still thought the trip could have waited because of the weather. Even if there had been a blizzard, Margaret needed to see her father. Ben had acquiesced – whatever you want – and she knew he was worried about her – you want to see your dad, we’ll go.

  There was another reason. She wanted to go to Rugby to get a box from the attic. She couldn’t wait until the weather was better. She could visualise exactly where it was, packed in a corner beside her mother’s things.

  Ben squeezed her hand twice to jolt her from her thoughts. ‘You OK sweetheart?’ he said, leaning down to speak through the flaps of her woollen hat.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said, looking up at him, her eyebrows raised.

  The children ran back towards them and tugged on either side.

  ‘Mum?’ Paula asked, breathless, pink-cheeked. ‘How’s Stephen getting on? He’s not been round in ages.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Eliot, using his father’s elbow for leverage as he did long jumps in the snow. ‘How’s Stephen?’

  Paula had been just six years old when Margaret had begun to teach Stephen how to read and write. After she had taken the deputy post, Stephen had still visited to tell her of his progress. He had stayed for dinner when he came round to show her his GCSE certificate.

  ‘He’s doing not too bad, love,’ she said, wincing at her lie, putting a hand on her daughter’s face. ‘I don’t see him so much with my job now.’

  The children ran off and Ben took her hand. ‘What will happen to him?’ he asked.

  ‘I really don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference, but I think that if I hadn’t had the accident I could have stopped Malcolm excluding him. Stephen’s whole life’s been about exclusion… I would have fought it all the way.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Ben. ‘You helped him get back on track. He might surprise you yet.’

  ‘I hope so, but I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t get hung up on this. You’ve achieved so much. Think of all the kids you’ve helped, and now you’re at the top you’re helping the whole school change for the better.’

  Margaret sighed and leaned into him gently. ‘It’s just he was my success story. I get so angry that kids can go to school and leave without even learning the basics. Stephen was another of those kids with so much potential that no one else could see.’

  They walked in silence for a while, until Ben squeezed her hand.

  ‘You started to relax yet, after your week from hell?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She sighed, taking the cold air into her lungs and then letting it go. ‘You were right after all, I suppose. I should’ve stayed off.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Ben, breaking free of her hand and patting the pockets of his jacket. ‘Can I have that on record?’

  ‘What on record?’

  ‘You saying I was right.’ He bit his glove off with his front teeth and pulled his phone from his pocket. He flicked to the recording tool and held the phone up to her, his eyes shining. ‘Go on, say it again… Ben, you are right.’

  ‘You’re an idiot!’ It felt good to be teasing each other again.

  ‘It’s OK, I won’t cast it up, like. I’ll just play it back to myself when you’re at work… y’know, to build my confidence.’

  She laughed despite herself. He had always been able to make her laugh. When she was pregnant with Eliot and her blood pressure was too high, she had been made to stay in bed for a whole month. Only Ben had kept her sane.

  ‘It’s all right laughing, but I want it on record.’

  The children were quite far ahead now and Margaret smiled at the recognisable shapes of them chasing each other.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, stopping and leaning close to the phone’s microphone. ‘Ben, you are right, on this one occasion…’

  ‘Oh no no no,’ he said, putting the phone away, ‘no qualifications are necessary, thank you very much.’

  ‘On this one solitary occasion,’ she continued, ‘you were right, however you’ve a way to go before you get to be like me… right almost all of the time.’

  She hadn’t finished her sentence before Ben pulled on the strings of her woollen hat, yanking it over her face. While she was blinded, he slipped his hands under her winter jacket and began to tickle her. Margaret shrieked with laughter, and tried to wriggle from his grasp. Together they fell down into the snow. Margaret knocked her hat off and then climbed on top of Ben and pushed lumps of hard snow down his neck.

  ‘Mags, give over.’

  When they got up, they had left indentations of themselves in the snow. Ben brushed the snow from her jeans and jacket, kissed her then put her hat back on her head.

  They kept on walking and he put his arm round her shoulders. They were both breathing hard. ‘You could take the rest of the term off – hardly any time now till Christmas,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh, I’ll make it through.’

  He stopped again and stood in front of her, hands resting on her shoulders. She felt the weight of them. ‘It’s not about making it through.’ After being so playful, his face was serious. She hated it when he was serious – it was so rare. ‘You’re my girl. I need you to be OK. I want you to take this seriously and give yourself some time to get over it. I don’t know what you went through, but if it happened to me I’d be a mess.’

  She nodded and swallowed.

  ‘I mean I’d take a month off, at least,’ he said, grinning expansively.

  Sometimes just looking at his face was enough to comfort her.

  ‘What would that be about for you?’ she said. ‘Not going into your study… you’d never manage it.’ It had been hard at first, but Ben had become very successful in the past five years. He regularly wrote for the New Statesman and sometimes the Guardian. ‘You’re a bigger workaholic than me.’

  ‘Ah, don’t you turn this back on me now,’ he said.

  They linked hands and started walking again. Paula was a hundred metres up ahead, turning like a ballet dancer.

  Margaret couldn’t see Eliot. She frowned, but they were near the corner. She quickened her pace and Ben matched it. Around the next bend, she still couldn’t see her son.

  She let go of Ben’s hand.

  ‘Eliot?’ Her voice echoed among the trees.

  The path was empty of other walkers and he was nowhere to be seen. Margaret jogged to catch up with Paula, hearing the crunch of Ben’s feet behind her.

  ‘Where’s your brother?’

  ‘Em…’ Paula lifted up her fringe and looked around. ‘He was here a minute ago, he was saying…’