Unspoken

by Sam Hayes

  David’s university room was not how I imagined. Firstly, it was furnished with antiques and was actually more of a suite than a room. Already a cut above the average student. He had a living area, a bedroom and his own bathroom. It was all decorated in deep rich colours and two entire walls were lined with books, many of them antique.

  ‘Courtesy of my parents and their contacts.’ He grinned when he saw my mouth hanging open. ‘That’s just how they are. By furnishing me like this, by dumping funds into my bank account each month, they believe themselves to be . . .’ He paused. Another stroke of my back. ‘. . . parents. Rhomboideus minor. Arising from the seventh cervical and first thoracic vertebrae inserting into the spine of the scapula. And you are very tense.’

  I sensed he had issues with his family but didn’t pursue it. It was a neat explanation for his flash outbursts of anger. I understood perfectly. ‘Shall we have tea?’ I suggested. He was right. I was tense. I perused his books, trailing a finger over their spines, as David had just done to me. ‘You still smell of death.’ I turned and grinned at him but his smile dropped away.

  ‘I’ll make you tea,’ he said, approaching me, leaving a tiny imprint of his lips on my bare neck. It’s still there all these years later.

  We sat in the bay window of his room sipping on a Chinese blend, watching student life from the first floor. For that hour, I felt special, part of the elite group I had obsessed about for years. ‘I’d got it all figured out,’ I told him, but David didn’t seem particularly interested.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘My career. Veterinary science. Astronomy. Philosophy. Classics. History of Art. God, I didn’t really care.’ I laughed away the pain that spiked through my heart and counted myself lucky that I was at least taking tea with an intelligent, cultured and privileged young medical student at Corpus Christi. Second best; all that was left for me. ‘But still, I like my job.’

  ‘You’re a waitress,’ he said flatly, and pulled out a packet of Embassy. He lit one.

  ‘Maybe I’ll open my own café some day.’ Smoke rolled through the sunlight and tumbled over me. It was the same air that had just left David’s lungs. I sucked it up in case there was something of him to be had.

  ‘Why do you like me?’ he asked. Through squinting eyes, through a confident demeanour that a young man of his age had no right to possess, he appraised me. I knew he wanted me.

  ‘Well,’ I said, trying to keep things light. I was way out of my depth. I dabbed tiny drops of sweat from my top lip. It was hot in his room, a hot day everywhere. ‘You have nice eyes.’ That was true. Crazy dark irises swam behind a mop of hair that had been hand-picked to match. ‘And you’re intelligent. I like intelligent men.’ Yes, it was flirting. Yes, I crossed my legs one way and then the other, and yes, the fabric of my pretty skirt fell from my knees. ‘I have great admiration for intelligence. I find it—’

  ‘Sexy?’ He was grinning again, switching flawlessly from indomitable to childlike. That’s what I liked about David. Traversing the depths of his psyche had become an impossible yet enchanting puzzle. ‘I like older women,’ he confessed. I smelled his smoke again. ‘It’s all about experience, isn’t it?’

  I remembered my vow and crossed my legs away from him. I respected David and I wanted him to feel the same way about me. I was an older woman and I wasn’t about to take advantage of the situation. I knew better. That was not what our relationship was about. For me, it was way deeper than that. I wanted to learn from him; absorb by osmosis the life I should have had. ‘Is twenty-seven old, then?’ Suddenly, I felt like his big sister.

  ‘Terribly,’ he confessed, and leaned forward so that his shirt stretched across his shoulders and his sleeves hoisted up his elbows. He dropped the cigarette into an ashtray and it continued to burn until it went out at the filter. I watched the smoke wind up to the ceiling. ‘That’s why I like you.’ And suddenly he was on his knees in front of me, trying to press his lips on to mine and fumbling with the tie of my top.

  I dropped my cup to the floor – china smashing around my ankles. I pushed him away. ‘David, no!’ My voice was smothered by his lips.

  It all happened so quickly. Fear told me to fight him off, yet it was fear of our friendship ending that made me want him to continue. His hand was on my breast, the hot cup of his palm sending a wave of lust to my brain.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ As quickly as it had begun, it was over. David was back in his chair, his cheeks flushed, his eyes smoking like the dog-end dying in the ashtray. For a second, I felt eighteen again myself.

  It doesn’t really matter where I sit. Here, at home, in the past. It’s all the same to me. The nurse has brought me to a clean white room where, even though it’s dismal and raining outside, everything makes me believe I’m on the verge of heaven. I sit and stare at a wall, just catching a whiff of all the smoke from the past that’s somehow seeped into the present.

  It was only the shower curtain that smouldered. And apart from the smell and the black on the tiles, you’d never know that there had been flames or fuss at all. But because the window only opens an inch, the stench will take days to clear. It was the clothes that I’d wanted to burn, not the hospital.

  Julia is visiting. I couldn’t look her in the eye when she arrived because of where she’s heading with her life. It’s hard to watch your daughter fall over the edge of a precipice; hard not to be able to tell her. But I hear her voice, shrill and seeking, cheerful yet veined with sadness, and here I sit, unable to answer. She mutters something about clothes and the hospital gown, and suddenly little Flora is climbing on to me, rocking what’s left of my world. Julia walks off.

  Hello, Grandma. I don’t like it here. Flora shakes her head and her curls bounce against my cheek. Her hair smells of vanilla and I wish I was her. Everyone understands her reason for silence. When will you come home? Milo is missing you. She wriggles and positions herself better, wrapping and unwrapping the string of my gown around her fingers; effectively silencing herself.

  Don’t you want your animals any more, Grandma? Did you lose your way home? Mummy says that your brain is sick and you might die. I heard her talking to Daddy. Flora’s hands whittle the air into wisps of words and I understand her perfectly. Saliva pools in my mouth.

  When Flora was born, no one knew that she was deaf. Alex, instinctively acting as big brother, spoke for her as they grew up, so even before the doctors broke the news, it never seemed that Flora was without a voice, without comprehension. If she wanted something, she’d somehow communicate it to Alex through expression, crude signing or perhaps just a sibling sixth sense. Despite her disability, Flora never seemed different, never an outcast, never blamed or judged for living in her silent world.

  Alex stands across the room. He looks so like his father – his body lean and pliable with the awkwardness of youth that never quite left Murray. His blue eyes poke from beneath messy brown hair that refuses to lie flat. He bends to compensate for his gangly limbs and precocious height. Bored, Alex walks off, despite his mother’s instructions.

  It’s just Flora and me now, stuck in our mute worlds. My granddaughter rests her head on my chest and her quick child breaths fall into line with mine. She raises her hands in front of my face.

  Isn’t there anything in your ears either, Grandma? Is everything hollow too?

  She searches my face, desperate to communicate any way she can. She is allowing me into her mind through those pretty blue eyes, offering a helping hand like Alex did for her. Flora is safe, silent, a locked cabinet for my thoughts.

  Yes, it’s all hollow, I tell her with fingers that bend from the first knots of arthritis. There’s nothing left.

  Flora nods and rests her head on me again, as if my communicating with her had simply picked up from our last chat. Are you sad, Grandma?

  No, I sign quite clearly. Just very, very sorry.

  Before Julia leaves the hospital, she takes me back to my room, but we are intercepted by a nurse because they have mo
ved me to another, less salubrious wing of the building. My new room doesn’t have a view of the chestnut trees, rather a tiny window about eight feet off the floor. There is no private bathroom, the floor is covered in linoleum and the bed is a metal-framed cot. A tiny smile catches the corner of my mouth but, thankfully, nobody sees. This room suits me perfectly.

  ‘Why is my mother in here? Her last room was much nicer than this.’ Julia’s voice is caught on the sharp point between tears and yelling.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Marshall, but we don’t have unlimited facilities.Your mother set fire to the last room, and until we have cleaned and redecorated, she will have to stay in here.’

  I sit on the bed, the middle of it sagging under my weight, and absorb the heat from Julia’s eyes as she stares at me. Suddenly she is on her knees in front of me, nothing coming out of her mouth except a thousand unanswerable questions.

  JULIA

  It’s Brenna who eventually persuades me to stay on at the farm. When she wants to, she can turn on the charm, and for a mixed-up teenager she doesn’t do a bad job.

  ‘Oh please, Mrs M. We like it here.’ Simple words strung around her imploring face and they get to me. Then she hoists a surprised Flora up on to her hip, although the weight of my daughter soon sends her sliding down Brenna’s side again. But the girls keep hold of each other and Flora is touched by the teen’s attention. It’s clear that my daughter craves something that I’ve not been providing.

  Want to play with me? Flora signs, but Brenna just stares dumbly at her.

  ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘That’s amazing when you look at it.’ Brenna stoops down to Flora’s height and says, ‘It’s crazy cool! Teach me something, Flora.’ I translate what Brenna says and she stares intently at Flora’s hands as they shape words in reply.

  ‘She says she’d like you to play dolls with her. She wants you to help dress them. Now she’s asking if you like dolls.’

  ‘I love dolls,’ Brenna says overenthusiastically, clearly lying. This is an easy scam compared to the rest of her life; easy to worm her way into my heart via Flora. It doesn’t do for me to think about the abuse and suffering she’s put up with. That would make me treat her differently, and what Brenna needs now is to be dealt with like any normal teenager – praise, love, an occasional reprimand dished out fairly and consistently. Whatever her past holds, she’s doing a marvellous job of speaking with Flora without knowing a single word of sign language. Maybe I can encourage her to apply the same aptitude to her schoolwork.

  Three times the head teacher has called because Brenna didn’t turn up at school. Each time I conjured a hurried excuse why Mum couldn’t get to the phone – busy with the goats; just popped out to fetch something for tea; in the bath. If the head suspected that Mum wasn’t home looking after the kids, she’d have to notify social services. Brenna and Gradin would be whipped away before I could put the phone down, and I’m not entirely sure that’s what I want.

  Stupidly, as I watch Brenna mess about with Flora, making her giggle, I realise that I have grown fond of the pair. Against my better judgement, I decide not to turn them in. When I think of all Mum’s hard work and dedication, the years of love and effort that she has unconditionally donated to her foster kids, I can’t waste it all by giving up so easily.

  I tip the last of the coal from the scuttle on to the range and sigh as I remember Mum doing this a thousand times a year throughout my childhood. I wonder where her devotion to me, the farm and her foster children, came from. It was a place inside her mind that she never allowed me to visit. Of course, she was always a loving mother to me. Strict at times, yes. Evasive and stubborn when I questioned her about my father, certainly. From an early age, I learnt that probing the subject raised a taut anger that no good little girl wanted to provoke. The result was a seamless erosion of any desire to delve into the past. ‘Never look back,’ was Mum’s motto.

  ‘OK, OK.You win,’ I say, even though I know it’s only a matter of time before we are found out. ‘But you’re going to have to pull your weight around here. Make it worth my while.’

  ‘Oh, we will, Mrs Marshall. We will.’ Brenna licks her finger and sticks it in the sugar bowl.

  ‘That means going to school and staying there,’ I add. ‘And don’t do that. It’s disgusting.’

  She gives me a wry smile as she studies her frosted finger. ‘Come on, Flora. Let’s go and find those dolls.’ Amazingly, Flora seems to understand, and the two girls trot out of the kitchen. I hear their footsteps tread the creaky stairs and my heart dares to warm by a degree. For just a moment, I feel like my mother.

  It’s only later that evening, as I am creeping around the house checking the doors and windows are secure before I go to bed, that I wish I had called social services after all.

  The old oak floorboards give away my presence. The youngsters’ accommodation is above the hay barn but accessed through the farmhouse up its own winding staircase. The area is cross-hatched with beams and a mix of old painted furniture that I remember from my childhood. Just the smell and sight of it evokes dusty memories, of Murray, and of long, carefree days.

  Mum has put feather-filled mattresses on the brass bed frames, and with the old sofa, several rugs, and posters on the whitewashed walls, it makes a comfortable teen retreat. There have never been any complaints. In fact, the kids love the independence that the loft provides.

  The first thing I smell is the alcohol. The sweet vapours tingle my nose before I even reach the door at the top of the stairs. I’m calibrated to sniff out even the most secretive of drinkers. The loft-room door is open a few inches.

  I stop suddenly, my heart an axe inside my chest.

  The kiss – from a boy aged sixteen who wears teddy bear toggles on his coat – lands clumsily on Brenna’s mouth. I stumble from shock and the floorboards creak beneath me. Gradin slowly looks up, whereas Brenna is on her feet quick as a hunted doe.

  I burst into their room. ‘No, no, you mustn’t kiss your sister like that, Gradin,’ I say as if I have caught him stealing biscuits. ‘It’s not what we do.’ My voice is shaking.

  ‘It’s OK, missus, because Brenna likes it. She says that makes it all right.’ Gradin is on his feet, stomping towards me, intimidating me. The boy is at least six feet tall. From the corner of my eye, I see Brenna shaking and bowing her head.

  ‘Brenna is your sister,’ I tell him. My eyes flick to her. She is shovelling her way through her school bag, searching for something. ‘And we don’t kiss our sisters or our brothers or mothers or fathers. Not like that, anyway. It’s nature.’ I’m flailing in the dark, not having a clue how to handle this. I can’t bear to think what would have happened if I’d not interrupted.

  Gradin smiles. He believes he hasn’t done anything wrong. He takes my arms and grips them tightly, one in each hand. I don’t move. ‘It’s just a kiss,’ he tells me. ‘It’s nice.’ His eyes bulge, and it makes me wonder, frozen in his grip, what else he is capable of. I smile weakly, hoping it might make him let go.

  I turn slowly, not wanting to startle him. Brenna has lit a cigarette. She is sitting cross-legged on a pile of cushions, squinting at me through black eyeliner and smoke, elbows propped on her knees. Quite different to the girl who enchanted Flora earlier, she doesn’t say a word.

  ‘No, no, it’s not nice, Gradin . . .’ His grip on me grows until I can feel the bruises pushed into my skin, until his eyes look fit to explode, until I stop talking, until he makes me promise that I never saw him.

  If it wasn’t for Murray, who had been passing, seen lights on at the farm and come to investigate, I don’t know how far Gradin would have gone.

  ‘I think you’re blowing this out of proportion, Ju.’ Murray is incredulous. He hardly believes me.We are in the kitchen, hovering around the fireside chairs, no one daring to sit.

  ‘The boy was kissing his sister. His hands were about to grope her by the looks of it. He was kissing her, Murray. Full on the lips. More than just a “good night, sis
” kind of kiss.’

  ‘What about Brenna? Did she protest?’

  ‘She didn’t look very happy about it. She was sullen and wouldn’t speak. And she was smoking up there.’

  Murray laughs. ‘God, Julia. Don’t you remember what we were like?’ He paces away and then paces back.

  ‘What you were like,’ I add quickly. ‘You were the one who rebelled at every chance.’

  Murray sighs and makes a decision. ‘In that case, if you really think it’s serious, I don’t want them in the same house as Alex and Flora. Gradin needs help, and you’re not qualified to give it.’ From his expression, I can tell that he’s not sure whether to go or stay.

  ‘Look, Julia, your mother’s in a psychiatric hospital. A girl you teach has been brutally attacked and the man you are clearly falling in love with has been charged with GBH. And that’s not to mention the mess that is us.’ He paces around some more to lend weight to the ‘us’ part. ‘Get rid of Brenna and Gradin, Julia. They’re bad blood. You don’t need them.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ I say quietly.

  ‘Is what obvious?’ Murray asks. He stomps to the back door.

  ‘That I’m falling in love with David,’ I whisper. And even though it makes things worse, even though I’m temporarily grounded with guilt from the expression of sudden and deep loss on Murray’s face, I clap my hand over my mouth. He looks as if he’s just found out about our divorce all over again. ‘However much of a mess we’re in, Murray, you’ll always be . . .’ I stop. I’m just making it worse. I didn’t mean to admit my feelings to myself, let alone Murray. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says when it’s obviously not. ‘I’m glad you can still be honest with me.’ I swear there’s a tear beading in his left eye. ‘Do you remember when we were kids and we said that if we ever had a secret, it wouldn’t be a proper one until we shared it with each other?’