by Esther Freud
Neil is in a manic mood. He paces the room, describing a dispute he’s having with a long-stay resident at the hostel where he lives. ‘Summer.’ I feed the word into his ear, and he takes a pencil, and still talking, he draws the pendulous shape of a breast.
Sam limps in, and when I ask what’s wrong, he rolls up a trouser leg to expose a gash. ‘No idea how that happened.’ I lay down a board and wait for him to begin, but half an hour later he’s done.
Soon Donica’s collage is bursting with words. Bless. Almighty. Halleluja. In the centre is a fist. She discards my materials in favour of her own, unwrapping and rewrapping – pencils, rubbers, crayons, chalk. ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways,’ she proclaims to Sam, and she takes out a box and, dislodging the foil and the elastic bands, starts on her lunch.
At half past twelve I call an official break. I’ve packed the last of my mother’s sandwiches and I take them into the yard. Bye, darling, she is waving at the barrier, and I wonder how she’ll take Dad’s news – there were bound to be questions – but of course my father will never say a word. There are no words she can stand to hear.
‘Any supplies needed?’ I have adopted my adopted mother’s voice, and I make a list: coffee for Neil, strong and sweet. ‘Like me,’ he cracks the usual joke. Teas, Fanta, Victoria sponge, although Sam needs nothing. He is sucking on a roll-up, fuelling himself with smoke.
There is a new assistant in the café, cornflower eyes petalled with mascara. I begin my order, but Beck intervenes, sliding me a slab of cake. ‘If this doesn’t help . . .’ His gentleness unnerves me.
‘I’m fine.’ But the treacly denseness, the kick of ginger, swells my throat so sweetly that it hurts.
All afternoon we snip and paste. I keep my eye on Sam, who has glued his dog end to the centre of his page, and Marjorie, who is making a sketch of the mansion where for three decades she lived incarcerated, or, depending on her mood, as mistress of the house. Alec’s serpent is a replica of his tattoo, Jen’s picture has an elaborate link-chain frame, and all the while Donica mutters ‘Praise be!’ in admiration of her work.
At ten to five I issue a warning to leave all boards on the side. Donica protests. She wants to take hers home with her, and she folds her arms proprietorially around it. I wait, anxious, for others to demand the same, but they have learnt not to ask for anything, and on no account to complain.
I’m helping Donica down the ramp when Beck appears. She points her stick at him – ‘God is our refuge and our strength’ – and turning on us both she declares, ‘I have seen your detestable acts on the hills and in the fields. Woe to you, Jerusalem,’ before pulling open the door of her cab and climbing in.
We stand and watch as she sails off into the traffic. I lift my own bag on to my shoulder. ‘Bye, then.’ I turn to Beck, but he is heading in the same direction. For a short while we step along in silence. ‘Woe to you, Jerusalem,’ he says, and laughter bubbles out of us. I’m still laughing as I pass the postbox, and I hesitate, but Beck is telling me about a wedding he’s been asked to cater, a sit-down meal for a hundred, the name of each guest painted on a leaf beside their plates. He blushes at his own enthusiasm and rushes on to say that what he really meant was that he’ll be away for a few days, so if I don’t see him, that’s where they’ll be, Dorset.
The flower face of his assistant swims before me, and I tell him that I may be going away myself.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Ireland.’
Beck waits for elaboration, and when I say nothing adds that he was in Ireland himself, last year. Dublin. With mates, for the craic.
Blood flushes through me. The craic. The good times, is it? My letter burns through my bag. ‘I’ll probably visit Cork.’ We reach my stop as the bus heaves into view. ‘I hope the wedding’s a success.’
Beck looks at me. ‘Let’s hope for sunshine.’ He steps forward, and there’s a fumble as I put out my hand. ‘Take care now.’ He has me in a hug. His shirt smells of biscuit; his neck, familiar, of turps. ‘You smell of paint.’
He laughs. ‘That’s you.’
‘It’s definitely you.’ I ease myself away.
There’s a seat free near the back. My head’s so light I close my eyes, but as the bus gears itself to pick up speed I feel the force of his attention, and when I flick them open there he is, looking in at me. I lift my arm and wave.
THE NEXT MORNING I POST my letter, and I wait. I wait even while it is lying in the hollow of the postbox where I deposited it at twenty minutes past nine. The next collection is at noon, but the waiting twists so tight and painfully I consider running out when the postman does arrive and begging for it back. How will I last forty-eight hours? – I daren’t hope for twenty-four. I imagine my letter’s journey from sack to depot to airport – or was it to go by boat? – picturing its arrival at the sorting office, the cream of the envelope, the address in large letters, EIRE underlined in black. The soft-voiced girl from directory enquiries is there to receive it, smoothing her hands over the known name of the home, and it is she who packs it into a stack and binds it with elastic, for surely I can’t be the only one writing. Dear Mother Superior. Dear Sacred Heart. The post van rattles to a stop outside the convent, and a nun takes hold of the papery bundle, carries it to her office and in deep silence, amidst the waft of incense, flicks through the letters until she comes to mine. Urgent – this should alert her, and I listen for the sound of the telephone ringing, although it is still only half past nine.
THAT AFTERNOON I COLLECT FREYA and take her to the paddling pool on the heath. We stay there until the heat of the day has bleached us and we are sticky with shared snacks.
‘Your mother rang,’ Matt calls as we come in.
Already? I don’t move. And then I catch myself. ‘What did she want?’
‘I don’t know.’ He frowns at Freya, bedraggled, a towel knotted round her neck.
‘I’ll ring her.’ I take the bag through to the kitchen. ‘Can you run a bath?’
Matt has followed and is searching for his keys. He opens his mouth, begins, regretful, but he’s saved by the ringing of the phone. It’s Mum again. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Shouldn’t I be?’ She sounds affronted, and when I turn, Matt is sidling off along the hall. ‘Wait.’ I press the receiver against my side. ‘When will you be back?’
He stops and mimes confusion, and pointing to the phone, from which there is a cry of ‘Kate?’ he edges through the door.
‘Sorry. It’s just . . . how are you?’
‘Fine,’ my mother says, emphatic, as if to clear the question once and for all, and now I’m listening there is a prize-day burble to her voice. Alice has set a date for the wedding, and although it’s not until next spring, she wants to take advantage of the summer sales in July.
I hesitate. Freya will have broken up from school by then. I will be on leave. ‘I’ll have to let you know.’
Her disappointment barrels down the phone. ‘If not then . . . ?’ I hear her deflating.
‘It’s just what to do with Freya . . .’ I can’t stand to make a plan, not now, while I’m so busy, waiting.
‘I would have thought there’s time to make arrangements.’
‘There is, I’m sure . . .’ I do my best to reel her in, make a note of the suggested day. ‘How’s Dad?’
‘Your father’s fine,’ she clips. ‘Would you like a word?’
Such tragedy! But even as I roll my eyes I know, I’ve always known, I have the power to shoot her down, ever since she told me: God chose you for us. Ever since she lied.
‘Hello?’ My father’s scared.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
For several minutes we discuss the weather. How warm it was today, how likely it is that there will be a storm. By the time we say goodbye, I am exhausted.
I trudge upstairs and run the bath, and without waiting for Freya, I get in. I let myself drift under, the tendrils of my hair floating above me, my breath forming small
bubbles. When I resurface she is looking at me, solemn. She dips her sticky hands into the water. ‘How do we even know that we’re not dead?’
Late that night it starts to rain. I wake to the drum of it, the rushing of the wind. Matt is climbing in beside me. ‘There’s something . . . I need to talk,’ I try, but he mutters, unintelligible, and pulls the quilt over his head.
GOD GRANT ME THE SERENITY. I mutter the words as I hurry back from dropping Freya at school, and I stifle a sob as I think how roughly I buttoned her into her mac. God. Grant. Me. I try breaking up the words, but as I reach serenity again I can feel my fingers itching to tear the covers from Matt’s body, to scream at him until he hears.
I slam the door to warn him. ‘Matt!’ my voice shrieks up the stairs, but when I rush into the room, he’s gone. I sit on the bed. Detach with love. The phrase is like a see-saw: detach, and the love flings into the air.
That day no one calls. I’d told myself they wouldn’t, but even so I check the phone to see that it is working, testing the answerphone, switching it off and on again, re-recording the message. ‘Hi, if you’d like to leave a message for Kate, or Matt, speak after the tone.’
‘That’s what it said before.’ Freya speaks when I’m still recording, and I have to start again. ‘For Kate and Matt.’
‘And Freya.’
‘For Freya, Kate or/and Matt. Satisfied?’ I kiss her so hard she squirms.
‘Why did it used to work?’ I ask Matt that evening when I come down from the multiple tasks of settling our daughter to sleep.
‘What work?’
‘Us.’ I notice he’s made himself a cup of tea.
‘You made it work.’
I’m so used to arguing: That isn’t true. Don’t be ridiculous. I have to swallow the words. ‘And now?’ He is moving away from me, out through the door, towards the comfort of the television. He turns to me and shrugs.
I RE-RECORD THE ANSWERPHONE MESSAGE. ‘For anything urgent, try Kate Hayes on . . .’ I leave the number for the centre, imagine Beck summoning me, his face insistent in the square of glass, but Beck is away, the grille of the café pulled down and locked, and I must make my own coffee in the staffroom.
‘Where’s your boyfriend got to?’ Donica eyes me as she unpacks her board, peeling away bubble wrap, snipping at industrial quantities of tape. The others trail in and wait to see what she’ll unveil. ‘All right’ – she looks up before removing a last fine layer of gauze – ‘prepare to be amazed.’
There is a ripple of appreciation as we see each word cut from material. Hallelujah in an orange swirl. Bless in green zigzag.
‘It’s beautiful.’ I put a hand on her shoulder. She flinches, and I remove it fast.
‘It’s not finished, if that’s what you mean’ and she settles herself at the table and begins to unpack embroidery thread, sealed for safety in three layers of tinfoil.
It is raining in short bursts now, interspersed with sun, and galvanised by Donica’s industriousness, we set to work. For anything urgent, try Kate . . . Should I have put Catherine?
‘Miss?’ Sam is calling to me and I spring up, but all he wants to know is whether he can use the toilet. ‘Of course.’ I watch him weave across the room. Some new medication has interfered with his perception of space, and it takes three goes to grasp at the handle of the door.
‘So where’s he gone then?’ We all miss Beck at lunchtime. ‘Given up, has he? Retreated, defeated?’
‘The café is closed, if that’s what you mean. Beck and . . .’
‘Zoe,’ Donica prompts.
‘. . . have gone to cook at a wedding. It’ll be open soon. Next week, let’s hope.’
‘Let’s hope.’ Donica raises her eyes as if she is dependent on Beck’s food for her survival, and the others, who are provided for the most part with sandwiches by the hostels, nod as if much longer, and they’ll perish.
No one calls. They must have thought better of it, decided they’d prefer to leave a message on the machine at home. I close the class up early and run to the bus. I sigh and tap my feet and huff at every stop, standing; even if there’d been a seat, too restless to sit down. What will she sound like? My heart swells, painful, for now it’s not the convent that is calling, but my mother. You made contact! – is that what she’ll say? – and as I scrabble for my key, white fear shoots through me. Keep away, her voice spits in my ear.
‘Hello!’ Celine and Freya are spooning cake mixture into crinkled paper cases.
I push past to the red bead of No New Messages. I press it anyway. There are no new messages. I press it again.
Freya watches me. She has a fingerful of mixture and her eyelids droop in a swoon. There are no new messages. I can’t stop.
‘Celine, has anybody called?’ Celine slides the tray of cakes into the oven and gives a small French shrug.
I forgo my usual questions – will never know how much broccoli was eaten, or whether Freya scratched her head. I pay Celine in silence and show her to the door. ‘Bye,’ she says, perplexed, and a minute later she’s shouting through the letter box. ‘Fifteen minutes, cakes are cook. OK?’
Fifteen minutes come and go, and it is only when smoke seeps from the oven that we remember the cakes. Freya cries as I scrape the molten mess into the bin, sling the tray into the garden where coils of black rise from the scorch. ‘Paddling pool.’ Freya reverts to the language of a toddler, and I tell her, with the strained patience of its mother, that I can’t find the pump, and anyway, it’s raining. Freya empties out her toy box and, resigned, I rummage through the dresser, tug open the coat cupboard, where, tucked behind the broken Hoover, not only do I find the pump, but Matt’s suede jacket, fallen from a peg. I lift it out and shake it. One side is dense with cobwebs, incubating spiders gritted to the sleeve, and as I peel away the sticky mess, I imagine it displayed for exhibition on the very day they hatch. Tomorrow I’ll take it to the dry cleaner’s, and I slide my hand into a pocket. There’s a pen, and a guitar pick, a twenty-pence coin. In the other is a square of foil. Quality. The foil is cold against my fingers. Durex. The lube inside so slick I’m sure it’s leaked. I fling it away and Freya lunges. ‘What’s this?’
‘Nothing.’ I seize it from her and, slipping it back into the pocket, I shove the jacket into the corner as if it was never found.
I DON’T EVEN TRY AND find my river. I have no interest in my tree. There is a damp patch on the ceiling, large, and getting larger, and I stare at it: loose tiles, a dripping tank. I add the repair to the list of things I have to do. I’m still awake when Matt comes in. I hear him shudder the door closed, fail to double-lock it. He stamps into the kitchen, there’s the gurgle of the tap, and now he’s trailing up the stairs.
‘Hello.’ He’s surprised to find me sitting up.
I don’t answer, only look at the clock.
‘There were drinks, at work, and . . . I lost track of time.’ He’s easing out to the bathroom.
‘Matt.’ Our eyes meet, and for a moment I waver.
‘What’s up?’
‘I want you to leave.’
The air goes out of him. ‘Kate!’ He slumps towards me.
‘No.’ I’m fierce, and he staggers as if it’s him that has been stung.
‘But, Katie, don’t be—’
‘If you don’t leave’ – I leap up, wild – ‘then I’ll go. I will.’
‘All right.’ I’ve scared him.
There’s nothing else to say, and it must be what I want, because I wait, silent, as he shuffles down the stairs.
THE NEXT MORNING HE’S GONE. There is no dent in the sofa, no smell of smoke or beer. I take Freya to school, rush to avoid Krissie, walk as far as the corner with the handsome father from Year 1 who can do nothing to distract me, and arrive home to the unblinking phone. I’d like to pull it out of the wall, hurl it into the garden, but instead I climb the stairs and get back into bed.
That weekend we stay inside. The choices are stark – kill myself, or glue pasta on
to card. We make a frieze of The Three Little Pigs, and while Freya forms a wolf from macaroni I attempt the first pig’s house, the one who thinks he can protect himself with straw. I use egg noodles for the walls, vermicelli for the roof. ‘I’ll huff and I’ll puff,’ Freya mutters as she sticks on a spiral tail.
Every half an hour I lift the receiver and hold it to my ear – ‘Hello?’ – and, convinced that I have answered in the moment before it rang, I listen for a whisper, Is that you, Kate?, but there’s only the dialling tone’s dead purr.
As Freya embarks on a house of bricks, I examine the address scrawled on to the pad, and I’m consumed by a new worry: Did I copy it down right? I think back to the pale cream envelope, the dash along the hall, and I’m so busy agonising over whether I remembered to write Blackrock that at first I don’t see it, the number climbing vertically up the page. What if I were to call? I count the digits. Does that include the code? My stomach quakes, my throat is strangled, and I can feel it, how very much they don’t want me to dial.
I move to the back door, and still in my nightie I step out and tilt my head into the rain. It stripes my cheeks and settles on my hair, and I think how I’d be happy to lie down in it and drown. God. Grant. Me. I keep my eyes closed and examine each word. Serenity. Accept. Cannot. Change. And when this only perplexes me, I revert to the Lord’s prayer and reel it off: Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come . . . Soon I’m looking for another. Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender . . .
‘Mum?’ Freya’s voice is small. I feel her hand in mine. ‘Let’s finish our pig houses.’ She’s borrowed my own most practical tone, and she leads me inside and waits till I sit down.
It’s late afternoon when Krissie calls. ‘Sorry,’ I say when she suggests meeting for a drink. ‘No babysitter.’ And when she hears I’m there alone, she orders me to get myself over to her house. ‘Mia would love company,’ she says, adding, with emphasis, ‘We can chat.’