Undercurrent

by J. A. Baker

  “I think I’ll hang around here and sort out some boxes in the study if it’s all right with you?”

  I nod and smile at Martyn’s comment. Like he was ever going to come with me anyway. It’s a game we play - pretending we have a normal life, pretending he is normal. It’s what keeps us together. It’s what keeps us sane.

  Martyn is picking his way through the mountain of containers stacked up in the living room as I clip Tillie onto her lead and pull on my wellies. The boxes stand so high we can’t even see out of the huge bay window. It’s going to take us forever and a day to unpack so I guess the sooner we start the better. I nod and rummage in my pocket to check I’ve got some doggy snacks and poop bags. I feel the familiar oily sensation of plastic between my fingers and delve further down to the bottom to check for snacks. They are there, dry and crumbly and probably months old but it’s better than nothing and right now chances of finding dog snacks amongst this lot is practically zero.

  “No problem,” I say, “is there anything you want bringing back?”

  He shakes his head and looks around. “A team of servants to help us with this lot?”

  He’s right. I laugh and roll my eyes. Even a team of servants would have the devil’s own job unpacking this lot. What were we thinking when we bought it all? At the last count, we had eight tea-sets, five large cutlery-sets and four teapots. And for some bizarre reason we also have two large coffee machines and two bread makers, neither of which actually work. Too much stuff. Far too much. I exhale noisily and shake my head as Martyn shuffles further into the pile of cardboard boxes the rustle of his movements the only indication he is still present as he disappears out of sight, swallowed by our wall of belongings.

  A mist is rising from the ground, grey and opaque, concealing the grass beneath my feet as it climbs its way up, wrapping itself around my ankles. I make my way over the field towards the far end of the village. Icy clouds swirl around me in ghostly wisps like a vapour trail almost enveloping Tillie completely. She jumps up and down, aware I have treats in my pocket. Her legs may not be as good as they once were but her sense of smell is as acute now as it was when she was a pup. I reach in, snap one in half and hold it in my fingers. She takes it from me, crunching on it greedily before we continue on, the fog slowly thickening to a real pea souper by the time we get there.

  You could call it quaint I suppose; the local shop is a throwback to the 1960’s. Barely touched by the passing decades the exterior boasts a peeling facade and a window littered with faded posters and handwritten cards selling fridge freezers and washing machines along with a section of desperate pleas to find missing pets. I stare down at the dusty windowsill, my eyes drawn to the array of dead flies laid frozen, their spindly black legs pointing skyward. A bell above the door tinkles lightly as I go in, announcing my arrival in the gloom of the place. The noise echoes around the empty aisles, eerie and anachronistic, reminding me of my childhood. A memory jars me. This shop; a group of friends stuffing items in their pockets they hadn’t paid for, them goading me, shouting at me because I point blank refused to steal at their behest, her face behind them, grinning, drinking in my misery. I force the memory down, squash it like an annoying insect and look around, trying to take it all in. Such a stark contrast to the shops I usually frequent and yet so familiar. Stirrings in the furthest recesses of my mind threaten to swamp me as I make my way up and down the narrow aisles. A shopping list scrunched up in my tiny hand, fear eating at me at the thought of what might lay in store for me when I get home. The arguments, the endless accusatory looks. . . I blank them out and focus on what I need. The shelves are covered with patterned oilskin cloths that remind me of the tablecloths my grandma used to own. They have a sad looking handful of working class vegetables sprawled over them. Cauliflower, turnip and a handful of mangy looking carrots stare up at me. I imagine they still sell powdered custard and packets of Angel Delight as well. Maybe even some Arctic Roll ice cream. I suppress a smile and wander through the rest of the narrow, towering aisles. The whole shop has a certain smell to it. Not exactly musty but neither is it fresh. It’s exactly as I remember it, just smaller and older. I don’t mind. I would rather shop here than push a trolley round some slick, overpriced supermarket that’s full of plastic produce. Especially a supermarket that employs staff who are forced to wear badges with smiley faces on them that proclaim how delighted they are to serve you. This is real life, how shops should be. Full of real produce, served by real people. I clear my throat and begin to fill up my basket. It’s as if I’ve never been away.

  “Looking for anything in particular?”

  The voice seems to emerge from thin air. A middle aged woman with short blonde hair and a blotchy complexion rises up from behind the counter. I find myself staring at her reddened skin, at the tell-tale patches of rosacea that have been left undiagnosed, untouched by the range of readily available creams and potions that could cure it with ease. She groans as she straightens her knees and dusts down her legs with gnarled hands that proclaim a hard life full of solid graft. Her nails, I notice, are bitten to the quick.

  “We’re a bit low on fruit and veg at the minute. Delivery man can’t make it till the morning but you can ‘ave what we’ve got at a lower price. And if it’s eggs you’re after we only sell fresh. Straight from the farm over the back they are. We all do our bit round here to support each other.”

  I smile as she places a tissue over her finger, runs it around the inside of her nostril, sniffs, and then pushes it back into her pocket. She steps out from behind the till and follows me down each aisle as I load my basket up with eggs, some bacon, a tub of butter, a slab of cheese and half a dozen bread buns, her eyes never leaving me. I’ve read somewhere that you can analyse somebody’s entire life just by looking at their groceries. Perhaps that’s what she’s trying to do with me, work me out, get inside my head. I wish her well with that one. Her proximity begins to unnerve me as I lean over to reach for the Lurpak at the back of the fridge and she leans forward too, chatting all the while about how I’m her final customer and how she is just about to close up for the evening.

  “Just something for a quick snack eh?” she says as she steps back behind the counter and rings each item in the till before putting them in a bag. I nod and hand her the correct money. “Not seen you in here before. You staying at one of the holiday cabins down the road are ya?”

  I slip my purse back in my bag and shake my head, “We’ve just moved in further down the village. Today actually. Just getting something for our tea.”

  I can feel the sudden curiosity in her demeanour. I’m the new kid in town. A person of interest. I imagine people moving into the village is about as exciting as it gets round here.

  “The Peterson place over by the edge of the woods?” she says, trying to keep her voice low key. She looks around surreptitiously and I want to laugh at her attempts at being discreet. This is the quietest shop I’ve ever been in. Walls really must have ears.

  “Bit further afield,” I reply as I sling my bag over my shoulder and hoist one of the carrier bags off the counter.

  “Oh, right. Not the Peterson place. So which way you headed then?”

  For some reason I am reticent to tell her everything. Being cautious is part of who I am now, an inclination I can’t seem to shake. It’s a form of self-preservation. Besides which, in a village this size, she is bound to find out anyway, “Back over that way,” I say, nodding my head to indicate the route behind her.

  She narrows her eyes, trying to work it out. I’ll bet she knows every house, every villager, everything that goes on around here. If I need to know anything about anything, she’ll be the lady to come to. It takes her a while to work it out. When she does, her eyes light up with sudden recognition.

  “The big old barn conversion next to the green?”

  I tell her that’s the one. She raises her eyebrows, gives me a look and purses her lips,

  “Nice big place that one is. Heard it’s got ri
ght good views out back as well,” she says haughtily.

  “It certainly has,” I reply, placing the bag on the floor. My hands are tired and already it’s slipping out of my grasp, “We overlook the river.”

  “And t’ footpath too,” she sniffs as if to emphasise her point.

  I nod, already used to this reaction. Many thought me mad when I first said I was considering moving into a house that had a public right of way cut straight across its garden. The solicitor advised me to take out insurance to cover against any injuries incurred by people passing through. I politely declined. Even Martyn had his reservations about it but I stood my ground. Properties in this area that overlook the river don’t come on the market that often so it seemed like the right thing to do, the obvious thing. It was now or never. Truth be told, the house isn’t that important to me and nothing like the property we moved from. Our big old semiis a far cry from this place. It’s a bold move for us and I do realise how fortunate I am to be able to live in such a grand old place. And it is grand - the kind of property estate agents brag about having on their books, the kind of house most people only ever dream about living in. But that’s not why I bought it. You see, it’s the river I really want to be near. The river is what brought me back. Having to put up with a damn silly footpath is worth it just to be back where I really belong.

  “That’s why it took so long to sell you know. ‘Cos of the path. Nobody wants a load of strangers traipsing through their garden do they?”

  Her face suddenly colours up, aware of her blunder. I shrug my shoulders and smile. She seems nice enough, this lady. I’m not about to defend my position; get all bristly and territorial and make her feel uncomfortable. I’m new around here and need all the friends I can get.

  “Guess I’m not like other folk then. It really doesn’t bother me. In fact once the weather picks up, I’m looking forward to seeing them all.” The lies trip off my tongue with ease. Years of practise.

  Her relief is palpable. She continues, her voice lighter, contrived,

  “Supposed to be a cracker of a summer this year as well. So it’ll get used plenty.”

  “I hope so,” I say and pick the bag back up, trying to keep an air of friendliness in my voice. Exhaustion is threatening to engulf me and I’ve yet to make it back home; dog, bags and all.

  “You in that big old place on your own then? Or you got family living with you?”

  I stop and my breath catches in my chest. This is the bit I hate. The explanations. Having to tell people about Martyn’s injury and subsequent lapse into depression, about how he relies on me for everything, about how I pray day in and day out that he’ll miraculously get better and not need me to be his main and only carer. I feel a small veil of darkness descend at the reality of it all. Some days it’s like a long and endless route. Then other days, well, there are other days when I feel glad to be alive. Still, at least he didn’t find the move too traumatic. In actual fact he has probably handled the whole thing better than me. I’ve been a bag of nerves, pre-empting everything, creating problems that aren’t actually there whereas Martyn sailed through the whole procedure with aplomb, not complaining about the drive here, not minding at all when he had to wait in the car while I shifted small items into the new house. I wouldn’t want him to risk further injury by carrying anything. When I think about it, he’s been marvellous throughout. Not once did his temper get the better of him. Not once. A small tic takes hold in the corner of my eye. I flick at my lashes to bat it away and wiggle my jaw to relieve myself of a headache I feel coming on.

  I pretend I haven’t heard her question and begin to walk towards the door. It’s easier that way. I haven’t the energy or the inclination to go through it all.

  “I’ll see you around then?” she says to my back, her small, bright eyes boring into me.

  I turn and give her a generous smile. “Absolutely,” I reply, before heading outside to collect Tillie who is sitting waiting patiently for me. Such a good girl she is.

  “Come on my lovely. Let’s head home,” I say quietly. I lean down and unhook her lead from the railing that is now damp from the mist. “We’ll get sorted in that new kitchen of ours and make some supper.”

  I look up to see a crop of blond hair and a ruddy face watching me through the door, the expression serious and her gaze immovable as she scrutinises my every move and all the while a voice in my head screams, she knows. . .

  Two

  I got lost on the way back. Silly really when you consider how well I used to know the place. It was the fog you see. Somehow I took a wrong turn and ended up on what appeared to be the other side of the river. Except it wasn’t the other side at all. In my confusion and rising sense of panic, I had followed it round an oxbow and could see the house from where I was standing. A large Tudor style barn in the distance, hovering high above the mist in a world of its own, untouched by the elements. The whole detour unnerved me slightly, but somehow I managed to find my way back and now stumble in the front door; exhausted, damp and dishevelled. I drop the bags at my feet and heave a sigh of relief as I wipe the back of my hand across my face and push my sodden hair back out of my eyes. Droplets of water drip from my eyelashes and chin onto the tiled floor in tiny splashes like baby tears. I try to kick off my shoes but they’re so filthy and damp I end up slumping down on the floor to remove them and am in a complete sweat by the time I’ve managed to practically tear them off my feet. They sit next to me, a heap of mangled fabric and mud.

  Martyn is standing in front of me and he is livid. He had been worried, he says. What if I’d fallen and drowned in the river? Been overpowered and dragged away by the current. What then eh? I smile at him and haul myself upright. I drag the bags into the kitchen and begin to unpack the shopping, doing my best to make light of the whole situation. I try to dismiss his concerns and tell him it was a silly mistake on my part but the air is thick with his anger. My hands tremble as I fill the kettle and get out a couple of tea bags. Mugs. I need to find some mugs. Hunger gnaws at my stomach, now empty after such a long walk, and I feel a growing sense of unease at Martyn’s deteriorating mood. I do my best to draw him out of it but he remains resolute in his stance. Sometimes I think he even enjoys it.

  “Don’t ever do this again Phoebe. Are you listening to me? You having an accident is the last thing we need right now. Jesus. As if our life isn’t difficult enough. . .”

  I turn to face him and nod, hoping he can see my concerned expression, the way my cheeks colour up when I’m anxious, how a spasm takes hold in the corner of my eye when he speaks to me like that. Today had all been going so well and then I go and ruin it with my stupid sense of direction. He continues to stare at me, his eyes unblinking as he follows my movements around the kitchen. I dart about, trying to radiate a sense of lightness, give the impression I am unperturbed by his mood. That’s the only way to deal with it - to show him that I am busy and that I refuse to get dragged into a completely avoidable row. I hum quietly as I open a box and get lucky. Two cups are sitting at the top of it. I fish them out and continue through the process of making tea, taking as long as possible, waiting for the moment to pass. My tactics work. By the time I’ve finished, he has calmed down and I feel myself relax. I even manage a nervous smile as I stir in his milk and look his way. I understand his plight. Of course I do. He feels emasculated by his disability and his reliance on me for everything. I’m almost certain I would be just as angry if I was him so I completely get it. That’s why I let things go. Acceptance is easier than resentment and anger. So is forgiveness. And I have that by the shed load. That’s just how it is.

  My pulse begins to settle as I place Martyn’s cup in front of him. Steam billows out of it. Earl Grey. A particular favourite of his. He sits at the island in the centre of the kitchen, his shoulders dipped as he carefully sips at the steaming liquid, pale and tinged with a grey hue compared to my ordinary breakfast tea. I have no idea how he does it. It’s like drinking perfume. I drag a chair over and
join him and we sit in companionable silence drinking and staring out at the hills in the distance. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when he was able bodied, less prone to flare-ups, able to face the world with a smile and not perceive everything as a threat or see it as a sign of imminent danger. Perhaps we’ll have those days again, although I very much doubt it. It’s just a silly pipe dream I have. I know deep down it won’t ever happen but I keep it, store it in my head, use it as a little teaser, something to keep me going through the dark times. And god knows we have plenty of those.

  “Some ramblers came by while you were out,” he says, his eyes refusing to meet mine.

  He keeps his gaze fixed on the misty, darkening countryside beyond. He is always ashamed of his outbursts. He’s not by nature, a violent or cruel man. They’re fuelled by his lack of mobility and lack of contact with the outside world. I nod at his words and quietly sip my tea unsure what it is he wants to hear, so I play it safe and say nothing. I don’t want to lose it, this piece of tranquillity. Times like these are rare, fleeting. So I snatch at it greedily and savour the moment.

  “I suppose we’ll see quite a few of those now won’t we?” he continues, the colour starting to seep back into his cheeks.

  “I suppose we will,” I reply quietly hoping it was all just a blip and is now behind us. Perhaps seeing the odd walker will help him now we’ve moved here; provide him with a crumb of comfort in his tiny, insular world. I watch him for a while, see how his eyes crease up at the corners as he speaks, and admire how tenacious he is in the face of such adversity, how he battles on against all odds without question. I clear my throat and stand up, “I need to go and make the bed up.” I grimace at the thought. I have no idea where the sheets and duvets are so the sooner I start the whole arduous process, the better. It might take me minutes, it might take hours. Depends if I get lucky with opening the right container. I’m almost certain I labelled them but am almost at the point where I can no longer think straight.