by J. A. Baker
“Do you need any help?” My eyes well up at his suggestion. Oh, if only he could. If only. I shake my head and tell him I will be fine. He gives me a weak, helpless smile and my heart melts.
My small box is exactly where I left it. I pick it up and head upstairs to the main bedroom. Every bone in my body aches as I carry it carefully and place it on the floor at my feet. I flinch at the thought of all those grisly removal men manhandling it and give it a quick rub to remove all traces of them. I consider opening it, just having a quick rummage. I do that sometimes - lay everything out, check it’s all intact, read it carefully. Remind myself of everything I’ve been through. Tell myself I’m a survivor. But not tonight. It’s late, I’m tired and we need a bed.
I stride across the room and plonk myself in the middle of it all. The detritus that is currently our life. Luckily, most of the larger boxes are marked and it only takes me two attempts to locate the quilts and pillows. I fling them over the mattress that is laid haphazardly on the floor. The frame is yet to be assembled. All in good time. I briefly wonder if I should make up the spare bed for Martyn or if he’ll sleep with me. It all depends on whether or not his back and leg are giving him more grief than usual. Sometimes we go to sleep together and when I wake up the following morning he’s taken himself off. Too much pain, too many demons. More often than not, by the time I get up he is downstairs, wandering. I have no idea what time he gets up. I’ve learnt to not ask. It’s like tearing at an exposed vein, asking him about his thoughts, trying to get him to let me inside his head. Sometimes certain things are best left unsaid. It hasn’t always been like this. We were happy once. We had a life. A real life, not like now, where I do what I can to get us by and Martyn wanders around all hang dog and soaked in simmering anger and self-pity. We used to do things together, go shopping, go on holiday, have friends around. Now we simply exist. But I’m hoping that by moving here to this house, this oversized and overpriced house, will change all that. Here, I can give life another go, be comfortable with my surroundings and be able to cope with what goes on in my own head. Martyn seems to forget he’s not the only one with a past. We all have our own demons to cope with. Excitement surges through my veins at the thought of it. Being back in my own part of the country, near the water and with the rolling hills of North Yorkshire so close you feel you can reach out and almost touch them. Village life is who I am. City living never really suited me. This is where I really belong and if I am being honest, always have. Just the thought of being so close to the river as it rushes past my house each and every day. I close my eyes and let out a shuddering breath. It will soon feel as if I’ve never been away.
I decide to leave the other bed for tonight. Making one up is enough and I simply don’t have the energy to attempt another one. Martyn can either come and sleep with me or find somewhere else to lay his head. Not that there is anywhere else that will be more comfortable. The old wooden kitchen chairs we have out for convenience are hardly conducive to sleeping and the breakfast stools around the island aren’t even comfortable for sitting. I grab a handful of towels and my bag of toiletries and head into the bathroom. Martyn’s medication plops out into the sink as I empty the bag to look for the soap. It topples over and lands face up, rattling around the sink, an echoing reminder of our daily struggle. My heart begins to pump rapidly as I try to recall whether or not he has taken today’s dose. In all the mayhem he may well have missed it. That would explain his agitation earlier. I pick it up, open the packet, push his tablet out of the blister pack and trudge downstairs. He is sitting staring out of the kitchen window, his shoulders hunched, his eyes glazed over, our exchange of pleasantries a few minutes earlier now just a dim and distant memory. A sliver of ice darts down my spine. I know that look. I know it all too well. I start to sing softly as I fill the kettle, hoping it will make this whole thing marginally less difficult. I have a lot of strategies I employ regularly to deal with my husband. And sometimes they work, and sometimes they don’t.
“You want another cup of tea, love?”
His silence is loaded with a slow festering anger, the air heavy with his fury. I’m able to sense it now but not always able to stop it. If only. As surreptitiously as I can, I open the small capsule and empty its powdery contents into the cup. It’s easier to do it this way. He is too far gone now to reason with and if I try to force it on him there’s no telling what he will do. He still hasn’t responded to my question but then I didn’t really expect him to. I was only trying to fill an awkward silence, to halt his declining temper before it erupts into something unmanageable, something quite ugly.
I stir the hot water into his cup and dip a teabag in it before adding the milk. As unobtrusively as I can, I sit down next to him and slide the mug towards him. More silence ensues. An interminable protracted air of nothingness where I can hear my own blood as it courses through my system, hot and thick with fear and trepidation. He takes a sip and then another, his expression unreadable. I try to relax, to subliminally urge him to do the same. Then turns to face me and the look in his eyes makes my throat close up,
“What?” he whispers at me, his nostrils flaring as he fixes his eyes on the cup, “What’s this for? More bloody tea Phoebe? I didn’t say I wanted any more did I?”
And before I have a chance to stop him, Martyn picks up the cup and hurls it against the wall, the shattering of porcelain an explosion in the heavy silence of the room. A stream of amber liquid runs down the white walls and covers the floor, pooling in the spaces between the tiles turning the cream grouting a murky shade of orange. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have thought it possible for a small vessel of liquid to disperse with such force and cover such a wide area. A couple of drips of scalding hot tea hit my cheek and ferociously burn at my skin. I dab the side of my face with a tissue as carefully and furtively as I can, but obviously not sneakily enough as Martyn sees me and is on his feet, his hands balled into fists at his sides. I watch him through narrowed eyes as he rocks from side to side, his tall, lean body quivering with unspent anger.
“For God’s sake, leave your bloody face alone! There’s nothing wrong with you. Not everything is always about you, you know Phoebe!” He is standing close by, roaring over the top of my head.
With shaking hands I drop the tissue and am up out of the chair to get away from him, begging him, shouting at him to leave me alone, to calm down. In my haste to escape I step on a fragment of the shattered cup and hop about in pain. I inadvertently let out a yelp and clamp a hand over my mouth. Any reactions from me will only aggravate him all the more. I’ve learnt that particular lesson the hard way. A muffled sob escapes as tears sting at my eyes. It’s not just the pain though. Dealing with Martyn isn’t easy at the best of times. And today I am utterly exhausted. I know however, from past experience he mustn’t see the tears. Martyn hates weak people. And usually I’m not, I’m really not, but it’s been a trying time and such a long day. I sniff and swallow hard. I have to keep it together. I have to be the strong one around here, the tough one. Without me, Martyn is incapable of functioning. Without me, he is nothing. As quickly as I can, I limp out of the kitchen and upstairs into the bathroom where I examine my bleeding foot and carefully pick out a small but sharp ceramic splinter, dabbing at the sore spot with a wad of toilet paper. I half expect him to follow me and listen out for the creak of the stairs as he makes his way up. I can hear him below, pacing the floor, up and down, up and down. I visualise his furrowed brow and raging expression. My skin prickles as I brace myself for the sound of his footsteps coming to get me, hobbling up the stairs, his unabated rage fuelling him. But then suddenly all the noise downstairs stops. I sit perfectly still and pray that he has finally calmed down. The sound of my breathing rattles around the room. I let out a tentative sigh and run trembling fingers through my hair. I find myself becoming grateful for the smallest of mercies these days. With any luck, his temper has now dissipated and normality has returned. That’s the thing with his rag
es - they are explosive, unpredictable, but over within minutes. I say a quiet prayer of thanks to whoever may be listening for my reprieve and stand up, slowly putting weight on my injured foot. I won’t try to give Martyn his medication now. It can wait till the morning. He’s always better first thing. More approachable, less volatile. I stand for a little while until the tears stop flowing and my heart stops jumping around my throat, then stagger into the bedroom, over to the mattress and drop onto it with a thump, my eyes so heavy I can barely keep them open. I drag the duvet up over my head and feel a heavy blanket of welcome sleep begin to descend.
Three
“I said it would sell sometime this year, didn’t I?”
“You’ve said it for the last three years Mike. It had to happen eventually.”
Anna moves away from the window and makes an attempt at tidying up, a pointless activity when Mike and the kids are all in the house. She gathers up a pile of magazines and slots them into the paper rack, picks up the rug to give it a shake, then moves back to the window, her curiosity too piqued to look away. What kind of people have the money to buy a house that size anyway?
“Looks like they’ve got plenty of stuff to fill that big old place,” Her stomach tightens as she watches furniture get carried inside. Item after item after item. She has counted at least four Chesterfield sofas being dragged off the van and an oak sideboard so big it would fill her entire kitchen. She always said it would take a lottery winner to be able to afford that house and judging by the gear being hauled off the removal truck, it looks like that’s what they have got living opposite them. Some people seem to have it all.
A clatter from upstairs disturbs her viewing. Anna grits her teeth and races up there hollering all kinds of threats to Mason and Callum who stare at her with boyish innocence. The bedroom is littered with games and leads trailing from Xboxes and PlayStations, the floor covered with magazines and balled up socks where they have pelted each other from their beds. With only a year age difference between them, it’s more like having twins. Neither of them takes the lead when it comes to keeping the place clean. Being the elder of the two at thirteen, Anna wishes Callum would exert a more positive influence over his younger brother, be the sensible one, but most days they both seem to be as bad as each other. Anna rolls her eyes and stares at the mess. She should tidy it but simply can’t face the thought of it. It’s so cluttered with clothes and gadgets and books and general detritus she wouldn’t know where to start. Her heart isn’t in it. Maybe tomorrow. Or next weekend. She gives the boys one last warning look from under her lashes then closes the door and leaves them to it. She is more intrigued by the goings on over the road and finding out who their new neighbour is than sorting out her errant children. She does that on a daily basis and now it’s worse since they’re off for half term. The last two days have been hell. Their behaviour, although sometimes mildly entertaining, is really beginning to grind on her.
“It’s all solid mahogany and oak furniture by the looks of it. I’m pretty certain I saw a solid walnut bookcase get carried in. No plastic or cheap veneer stuff over there. Must have some money to have bought all that lot.”
Mike rustles his paper and stares at her over the top of his glasses, his eyes narrow with exasperation.
“Well obviously. Otherwise they wouldn’t be able to afford a house that size would they?” His laugh is a loud bark, laced with sarcasm and, thinks Anna, perhaps just a touch of jealousy. Mike works hard but even if they saved for a hundred years, the old barn conversion would never have been within their reaches. The previous owners spent most of their time abroad and Anna never really got to know them. She sighs. A house that size and it standing empty for so long. Such a waste. Until now that is.
Anna ignores him and focuses her gaze on the house as a car pulls up onto the gravelled drive, its tyres crunching seductively. Such wealth and luxury. She hopes the new owners appreciate what they have. She knows she would. It parks up with a low grind behind the hedge that surrounds the front of the house and now Anna can’t see a damn thing save for the bobbing head of a woman that she guesses is in her mid to late forties, as she goes backwards and forwards from the car to the house. How annoying.
“This must be them,” she says with a squeak. Her stomach flips and she has no idea why.
“Why do you presume it’s more than one person? Might just be a single person moving here for a bit of peace and quiet away from prying eyes.”
The jibe isn’t lost on her and Anna steps back slightly from the glass, her face suddenly warm. Her voice is quiet as she tries to get a good view from behind the curtain,
“Well for once you might be right. There’s a middle aged lady carrying stuff in from the car but I can’t see anybody else with her.”
Mike coughs and rustles his paper with satisfaction as Anna keeps a close eye on the removal men over the road. How much more furniture can one family have? The car however,is actually quite small. Nothing too flashy. She expected a Mercedes or maybe even a Jaguar. They’re the sort of cars rich people drive aren’t they? Not like her battered old Toyota Yaris that is covered in scratches and has seen better days.
She sighs and moves off into the kitchen. It’s too cold and damp outside to do any gardening and the river is ’s too high to go walking. Bloody rain. This recent prolonged spate of wet weather has put paid to many of their planned walks with the boys and now they’re stuck in the house, bored and driving her mad. They’ve badgered her to go down to the river on their own but she doesn’t trust them to stay away from the edge even when they’re with her. There’s no way she’s about to let them go down there unsupervised. It’s really fast flowing at the moment and the river path is slippery and unstable. The very thought of them wandering close to it. . . She shuts her eyes and swallows hard. As much as they annoy her, she doesn’t want them injured. Or worse. Christ, the very thought. . . Anna opens the cupboard door and stares in at the contents.
“I’m going to bake something and take it over in the morning. I want our new neighbour to know that we’re friendly,” She stares up at bags of flour and sugar. They do it all the time in America. She’s seen it in films. Happy housewives turning up on the doorstep with a basket full of fresh baked bread and homemade cookies. She’s not quite sure she’s up to doing both but a baking a cake is easy enough. No harm in being friendly is there?
“Bloody nosey more like,” Mike says and rolls his eyes behind his paper.
Turning her back to grab a handful of cake tins, Anna makes a point of ignoring his comment. She’s won’t rise to it. Sometimes it’s easier when he’s at work. She leans up and drags a bag of flour down from the top shelf, enjoying the heft of it. On a bad day, bustling around in the kitchen is what keeps her going. And cooking for a new neighbour might be a bit twee but she suddenly feels energised. Useful. A productive member of the family as opposed to somebody who empties the laundry basket and washes their dirty pots every day. She grabs the sieve and thinks back to when they first moved in here. It took her two days just to find the coffee and tea bags and a further week to work out where most of the boys’ clothes were. But it wasn’t just that. There was such a strong feeling of isolation. She still feels it sometimes when the house is empty, when the boys are out and Mike works the occasional night shift. It’s an odd sensation, the first night in a new house, not knowing where everything should go, living in an unfamiliar area surrounded by complete strangers. And then there’s the darkness. Nights round here are unlike any other she has experienced anywhere. The evenings are so intense, so very dark. No streetlights, no light pollution from neighbouring towns, just a huge mantle of inky blackness that weighs down on you, oppressive and relentless. Add to that there is the roar of the river in the distance, interspersed with the occasional hooting owl and crying fox. Anyone new to the area would be right to feel cut off from the rest of the world. That was exactly how Anna felt. Not desperate, not even frightened, but most definitely lonely. Village life can take some get
ting used to, especially this place with its proximity to the river and lack of youngsters. Tranquil and picturesque in summer, the same place takes on a slightly sinister air once the nights begin to draw in. It’s completely bloody amazing to open the curtains every morning to see the rolling hills and beauty of the river as it carves its way through the earth but moving house is a lonely, exhausting process and she doesn’t envy her new neighbour one little bit. The thought of moving house again makes her shiver. She wouldn’t do it again for a pension.
She opens the bag of flour and leans over to turn the oven on. She’ll make a chocolate sponge. Everybody likes chocolate. And she’ll hand it over with a smile. It’s the very least she can do.
All afternoon is spent in the kitchen slapping Mason and Callum’s hands away as they attempt to spoon out large dollops of cake mixture whenever her back is turned. She moves deftly around the kitchen feeling buoyed up as it becomes filled with an appealing sugary, buttery aroma and realises that she is actually really looking forward to meeting this new villager, a woman who looks closer in age to her than Jocelyn next door who’s in her sixties and Doris who lives the other side and is an octogenarian. It will be so nice to have somebody younger to chat to. Jocelyn always has a litany of ailments to reel off whenever Anna sees her, whether it’s her knees or her hip replacement or more recently her prolapse, and Doris is currently undergoing assessments for dementia. She’s fed up of having to feign concern and sympathy every time she bumps into them. It’s wearing, and more than that, it’s boring. A fresh face around the place is just what is needed. As it is, the entire village is in danger of slipping into a coma. It needs shaking back to life.