Unspoken

by Sam Hayes

  JULIA

  Grace Covatta looks like an angel. I stare at her and fleetingly imagine Flora, all grown up, lying in her place. I shudder and close my eyes for a second to erase the image. It’s difficult to trace the thin line between the white hospital sheets and the edge of Grace’s frail body. She didn’t used to look like this in my classroom – she was always a happy, outspoken, gutsy girl with lots of answers.

  She doesn’t know I’m here. She’s been given her own room on the trauma ward and I’m staring at her through the observation window. A policeman guards the entrance to her room. When I arrived, a couple of journalists were trying to get in to see her. They were sent away. This is Grace Covatta’s new world. I wonder where her mother is, knowing that if it were Flora tucked thinly between those sheets, I would have already climbed in beside her. Nothing would make me leave.

  I show the guard the pass that Ed, my brother-in-law, gave me. He’s a detective in the CID. The police have finished questioning me, for now, and until an arrest is made, it’s unlikely they will want anything more. The guard glances at it and stares back at me. ‘I’m her English teacher,’ I say in case he mistakes me for her mother. ‘The one who found her,’ I add in a whisper, almost shamefully, as if without my discovery, none of this would have happened. The guard nods and lets me through.

  ‘Grace,’ I say gently. She’s awake. Staring at the ceiling. Her chest rises and falls beneath the sheets. ‘It’s Mrs Marshall. From school.’ Grace blinks. ‘How are you feeling?’ It’s a ridiculous question when half of her face is swollen and mashed with bruises. The parts of her body that I can see – her neck, her hands and forearms – are similarly decorated. None of this showed up in the frost. When she was lying in the ditch, she appeared shrunken, pale, corpse-like to combat the cold.

  ‘We’re all thinking of you, sweetheart.’ She doesn’t reply. The ward sister told me that she still can’t speak. She points at the jug to ask for water and makes gestures when she wants to be turned. The words are still stuck behind her enlarged tongue. She hasn’t been able to tell anyone exactly what happened. ‘I would have come to see you sooner but my mother’s not been well.’

  I want Grace to know that I care. I want to tell her that Ed will catch whoever did this and get him put away for a long time. ‘But I’m here now,’ I add in a lighter tone. ‘Milo sends his love and lots of licks.’

  Grace turns her head to me. She blinks three times and opens her mouth. Her tongue falls out, swollen and patterned with black stitches. I close my eyes and shiver through a single breath.

  ‘Oh, Grace,’ I say, and drop my head on to the bed. ‘They’ll get the evil bastard, don’t you worry.’ Yet I wonder how likely this really is. Ed told me the forensics team is hard at work but so far there has been little conclusive evidence. Grace has been thoroughly examined and swabbed for DNA but the results aren’t back from the lab. I wonder how much Ed would tell me even if he knew.

  I take her hand, surprised at how warm it feels. Grace Covatta, my grade A student, is still alive. She stares at the glass of water on the table over her bed. ‘You want a drink?’ She nods and I put the straw between her lips. She holds it in place with two fingers that are strangely normal.

  ‘How are your feet?’ I ask when she has finished sucking.

  Grace’s hand quivers on the bed. She is trying to tell me something, trying to be brave. Sister said the surgeons spent four hours reconnecting the tendons of her left foot and setting the tiny bones on her right so that after months of physiotherapy, she may be able to walk without much of a limp.

  ‘I hope they heal soon,’ I say and then I’m stuck for words. ‘Oh, and everyone in JM1A did this for you.’ I delve in my shoulder bag and pull out the card that the kids in her year have all signed. One of Grace’s friends organised it and got her mother to drive her around collecting signatures. Heartfelt wishes and lines of pity and hope are scribbled into a large card with an elephant on the front. Don’t Forget to Get Well Soon it says in inch-high blue lettering.

  Grace will never forget.

  Just for one night I want to escape Grace’s beaten body, my mother’s silence and the fact that Murray still hasn’t signed the divorce papers. I haven’t been on a date for twelve years. I’ve been married to Murray ever since I can remember so there’s been no need. But now that we’re separated, nearly divorced, there is a need. I admit that it takes my breath away, the thought of someone wanting to be with me, to find out about me, open doors for me and perhaps hold my hand. Of course, I’ve had dates before. Murray was my first but we broke up, got back together, broke up, got back together, countless times.

  Until now. Where the break-up is punctuated with a final full stop.

  In between the Murray interludes, there was Mick Hopkins, a mild-mannered lad who used to follow me around with a traffic light lolly stuck between his teeth; Damien McRory, brain of Britain, who only liked me because of my grandfather’s immense collection of books; James Eaton, who was the best looking – I’ve since heard he’s gay; and finally, the one I thought would be mine for all time, Pete Duvall, sports champion, good all-rounder, who managed to kiss me with tongues a whole six months before Murray. Even now, my heart flips at the thought of Pete Duvall.

  But in the end, it was Murray, my forever Murray – me aged seventeen, him aged twenty-two, and we declared undying love for eternity. Seriously, we did. We believed it was written in the stars – our very own constellation up in the heavens mapping and planning our future. Sometimes I think it’s fallen out of the sky.

  I have two hours before my date and I’m panicking about what to wear. I feel guilty even thinking such thoughts, what with poor Mum and Grace the way they are. I tear through my wardrobe, flinging long-forgotten clothes on to the floor before collapsing, exasperated, on to my bed. It’s not at all like me to become agitated over something as simple as choosing an outfit for a date. And as I lie with my face buried in the pillow, I realise that just for now it feels good not being like me.

  After my visit to Grace yesterday, Flora and Alex went to Nadine, their adored aunt’s house. That was when I dashed back home to our place in Ely to grab some clothes for my evening with David. Plus it was a chance to check up on things and fetch the mail. Brenna and Gradin were content exploring the farm and promised not to leave the property. I’ve been staying at Mum’s house way longer than the planned Christmas Day afternoon.

  My small house was cold, slightly damp-smelling, and in the short time the kids and I had been away, my perception of where home was had altered. Walking through the fusty-smelling rooms – the small sitting room, the tiny dining room where Alex and Murray used to twang on their guitars and play Clapton CDs so loud the neighbours complained – I struggled to remember the happy times.

  ‘Things move on,’ I said to myself. ‘Change is OK.’ I dragged my finger across the top of an antique sideboard. It was nothing special – just a nineteen forties piece – but when Murray gave it to me, I melted with happiness. He used to notice the tiniest things, how I’d spotted it at the antique shop, how I’d mentioned it on the phone once, briefly, to Nadine. Murray was like that. Was.

  Back at the farm, after a desperate dash to the shops, armed with new clothes and the kids tagging along, bribed with sweets and toys, I find that Nadine has left me a message. She can’t baby-sit again tonight because she has to work at short notice. Nadine is a nurse and I have to understand.

  I hang my head as the answerphone beeps at the end of the message. ‘Murray,’ I whisper desolately and close my eyes for a beat as I serve spaghetti on toast to my children.

  It shouldn’t be like that. It shouldn’t be that when I think of my husband – the children’s father – taking care of them for an evening, my heart is filled with worry. He loves them, of course; that’s never been in question. I see the way he watches them as they’re lacing up their shoes when he’s come to pick them up, the broken, deeper breaths he takes as Flora runs up to him and hugs his w
aist or when Alex takes a manly swipe at his shoulder. Murray loves them all right. It’s just that he’s grown to love the bottle more.

  ‘What’s this?’ It’s a trick question. Alex speaks through a disgusted look but really he is thanking his lucky stars he’s not got a plate of broccoli in front of him.

  ‘Pan-fried monkfish served with a salsa of vine tomatoes, chilli and coriander.’ I dry my hands on a tea cloth. ‘Eat it up then.’ I give him a wry smile. I never usually serve up spaghetti on toast. But tonight is different. I’m in a rush and the lack of vegetables on their plates is a small price for a few hours of . . . of letting go.

  ‘You know I don’t like chillies.’ Alex grins, forking in the orange hoops.

  I laugh, and pretend to take away my son’s plate. Flora struggles to cut up her toast. I curl my arms around her and help her saw the soggy bread. I kiss the top of her head and believe, when I think of the evening ahead, that I’m seventeen and starting all over again. I then realise that’s exactly what I need to do if I’m to move on from this mess. I owe it to the children to find some stability. Someone strong, someone reliable, someone who really loves me.

  Before I leave, I clean my teeth twice. Just in case.

  The first time I smelled alcohol on Murray’s breath was when I was eight. I didn’t know what it was. It was sweet and grown-up and reminded me of summers at the pond when he was put in charge.

  I had no idea why he lolled in the grass with his mates, why his eyelids drooped, why he laughed at the silliest things, why he allowed Nadine and me to do as we wished while he swigged the diluted liquor from a Coke bottle. It made him fun. It made all the days fun.

  Then, when I was twelve and Murray was old enough to know better, he brought me my own mix of rum and blackcurrant.

  ‘It tastes like Ribena,’ he said. ‘Drink it and see how you feel. If you don’t like it, no harm done.’ I stared at him. I wanted to please him and prove to him that I wasn’t a kid. Murray had been in my life since I was born – almost like a brother to me. The thing is, I knew you weren’t allowed to fall in love with your brother. I knocked back the drink and grinned at Murray. He laughed at my purple lips.

  Whether it was the rum or a virus, I don’t know, but I spent the next three days being sick. I’ve never touched alcohol since.

  ‘Wine?’ David offers.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say, my hand trembling as it shields the glass. ‘I don’t drink.’ I pour water instead and David doesn’t insist or make me feel guilty. ‘Besides, I’m driving.’ Of course I’m driving, I think. I didn’t need to say it. If I wasn’t driving, it would mean David would be driving me somewhere. And what does that bring to mind?

  ‘Oh God,’ I whisper because of what I was thinking, not meaning it to be audible.

  ‘Pardon?’ He smiles warmly, dissolving my angst. Everything about David Carlyle is calm and together and held in place by an aura that bursts with confidence yet is quietly compassionate. The nature of a GP, I assume.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about the children.’ I’m lying, of course, although this in itself makes me think of them and wonder if they are playing on the towpath while Murray drinks himself into a stupor.

  ‘Are they with their . . . father tonight?’ He hesitates and frowns over the word father.

  ‘Yes.’ I nod and gulp my water so I don’t have to say anything else. Mixing Murray into our conversation so soon has thrown me. Thoughtfully offering me a reprieve, David insists on fetching me something more interesting to drink from the bar. He brings back two menus and a pineapple juice.

  ‘Have you been here before?’ He glances around, seemingly satisfied with the choice of venue. It’s busy, warm, cheerful and filled with the smell of home cooking. Just the kind of place I can really get to know David. Now I’m alone with him, I’m stating to sense there really could be something special between us.

  ‘Never,’ I admit, and for a moment I see Murray sitting beside the fire instead of David, his features highlighted by the flames, his neck arced over the menu, his finger running down the meals.

  ‘Their steak melts in the mouth. But the whole menu’s good here. You can’t go wrong.’

  ‘Do you own shares in the place?’ I joke.

  Now we are out of Northmire, now he’s not visiting Mum, I don’t know what to say to him. My conversation feels awkward. I am a soon-to-be divorcee on a date with a man who I have met only half a dozen times. I try not to notice his razored hairline as it dips beneath the collar of his shirt or the way his eyes narrow when he smiles. His hair is speckled with grey and sits in a slightly tousled, longer style on the top. He clearly takes care of himself and his clothes are stylish. I wonder if he notices how many women in the room have glanced at him since we’ve been here.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ He laughs. ‘I just like eating out and discovering new places.’ He sips his wine, barely letting any into his mouth. Murray would be on his third glass by now; thinking about ordering another bottle. ‘Besides, it gives me somewhere to bring beautiful ladies.’ He passes me a menu.

  I press my toes into the soles of my boots, the only things I am wearing that aren’t new. I can’t help but smile.

  ‘Ladies,’ I tease. ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Aha.’ He laughs and gentle lines flicker around his eyes. ‘Hundreds,’ he jokes. ‘Seriously, though, I’m not seeing anyone. No one special.’ He looks at me intently. ‘To be honest, when I’ve finished work there’s little time for socialising. I expect I’ll meet lots of lovely women in the area soon enough.’ He sips more wine. ‘Hey, I already have.’ He gestures at me and I’m not sure if I can swallow any more compliments for the time being. He’s trying to tell me that he’s available, that he’s interested, that he wants to take things further.

  ‘I’m going to have the crab cakes. Have you decided?’ I change the subject.

  ‘The fillet steak, of course. And it must be rare.’ His eyes twinkle at the thought.

  Suddenly, all I can think of is Grace Covatta lying in the field, covered in blood. There is a moment’s silence, broken only by the crackling log on the fire. I must look miserable because he’s staring at me quizzically, wondering what’s wrong. ‘I’m sorry if I seem maudlin from time to time,’ I explain before he has the chance to ask. ‘It’s been a strange couple of weeks.’

  ‘I understand completely,’ he says, resting a hand on mine. But because it’s not Murray’s hand, because it’s an unfamiliar hand, I freeze – feeling guilty for liking it – and my whole body tenses.

  David squeezes my fingers and goes to place our order at the bar. I watch him standing there – at least six feet tall, maybe more – telling the young waitress how he likes his steak, ordering more drinks. I also notice the way his body language suggests to me that he could be flirting, making her giggle, knowing exactly how to get his steak the way he likes it. It’s harmless, I tell myself, and stare at the flames as he returns to the table.

  ‘All sorted,’ he says, placing a new drink in front of me. I want to ask if he knows the young girl but that would be rude. He’s a doctor; he’s bound to know people of all ages in the community.

  We chat nonstop. About where we’ve travelled, what our favourite books and films are, what sport we like – a kind of skirting around each other’s lives in a mix of genuine laughter and warmth but so far at a safe distance. Our meals soon arrive. We eat, glancing up at each other with food balanced on our forks – me trying not to spill anything and David tucking into his rare steak. Conversation flows as if we have decades of catching-up to do.

  ‘So am I your first?’ he asks. The crab falls off my fork and splats into the salsa. ‘Meal out since you and Murray separated,’ he says, underlining what I should have known. He didn’t say date, I notice; no implication of any strings attached. I feel slightly empty.

  ‘Yes.’ It sounds as if I’m confessing to having no experience at a job interview. ‘Murray and I have . . . well, we were together for a lo
ng time. Meeting other people isn’t so easy when you’ve . . .’ Do I admit Murray was my first and my only lover? ‘When you’ve only had . . .’ I can’t do it. ‘Murray and I were childhood sweethearts.’ David seems intrigued by this bit of news. ‘You can understand that it’s hard for me to . . .’ I’m trying to let him know I see this evening as a date – the first of many, I hope. But I just can’t say it outright, in case he doesn’t feel the same.

  ‘Of course I understand.’ His eyes say it all. They are full of compassion. ‘So, I imagine that Murray would know you better than anyone else.’ He rests his knife and fork down.

  ‘I guess,’ I reply, drenched in my husband once again. A deep breath, half a glass of pineapple juice, a visit to the ladies’ – it all helps me not think about Murray. I have to concentrate on why I am out with David, and really, it shouldn’t be so hard.

  ‘He’s gorgeous,’ I say to myself in the mirror above the washbasin. I wipe off the remainder of my lipstick. I don’t want it to smudge. ‘So stop being so bloody stupid.’

  One glance at him across the room rights my feelings as I return to our table. I get on with my meal – him offering me a mouthful of the legendary steak on his fork; me tentatively asking if he’d like to try a crab cake. We laugh when it falls on to the table. All the while I can’t help wondering how the evening is going to end.

  An hour or so later, David helps me into my coat and we leave the warm pub for the windswept street. The cold air is welcome after the crowded bar. Anything to blow away the moment when we part, don’t part, kiss, don’t kiss. ‘Look, do you fancy a ten-minute walk?’ He’s drawing it out. He starts walking anyway, as if it’s a given.

  ‘Sure,’ I say too quickly and he hooks his arm through mine when I catch up.