Undercurrent

by J. A. Baker

  I shrug on my coat and pull on a pair of old wellies then step outside. The stillness hits me as I stride over the back step and look around. Wherever there is a group of young lads, there is noise. Except at the minute there isn’t. It is completely silent. The distant roar of the river greets me as I make my way over to the sage green summerhouse with its fading paint and dirty windows, but it is the only sound for miles. No voices, nobody there at all. I tentatively creep around the side of it expecting to be greeted by a wave of surprised faces and perhaps even a fog of cigarette smoke. Nothing. They are here somewhere. They have to be. There’s nowhere else for them to go. They are here in my garden and I will find them. I turn and start to make my way back up towards the house and that’s when it happens. It doesn’t hurt too much. Not really. But as the clod of mud hits the side of my face, a red mist descends and I find myself marching over in the direction from where it came, my anger rising by the second. I find them huddled down the side of the old coal bunker, a pair of spotty teenage miscreants. They look up at me and slowly creep out from their hiding place, two acne ridden gangly youths caught in the act, a supercilious smirk on their faces that riles me even more.

  “What the hell do you two think you are doing?” I am absolutely incensed by their lack of guilt and in no doubt that it shows in my face. I briefly close my eyes try to disguise my rage and do my best to look authoritative.

  “Just having a laugh grandma. Lighten up will ya,” the smaller one says and they both fall about laughing, clutching their sides in an exaggerated manner like a pair of overgrown toddlers. Such immaturity from boys who, less than a century ago, would have been put to work in all manner of hazardous conditions. That’s what’s missing in this day and age. Discipline and a healthy helping of fear.

  I observe them carefully. They are kids, no more than twelve or thirteen years old. I keep my gaze steady, watching their every move as very slowly, I begin to back up towards the house. The smaller one nudges the other and they start to follow me, thinking it’s all a big game, and completely unaware of what they are about to be faced with. I have no doubt that they’ll cave in when they see a six-foot tall man standing in wait for them. Six feet four inches to be precise, with hands like shovels. Compared to Martyn, these two delinquents are mere babies. I continue backing up, taking it carefully, watching my step so as to not fall. I am almost at the door when I hear Martyn behind me, feel his hot breath on my neck. I hear the sharp grating sound as he grabs something from the kitchen. My stomach plummets. I run inside to try to stop him, to wrestle it from his grasp, but it is too late. He’s too far gone to do anything and I’m left with no option other than to watch, fear pulsing through me as I see him step out towards the boys, his hand thrust forward, primed and ready. I look down, already aware of what I will see. He is brandishing a knife, a large jagged bread knife, its blade glinting as it meets the glare of the low, late winter sun.

  “Shit!” The boys stagger backwards and slide over, one of them falling on his rear end in the mud. He scrambles to get up but Martyn is faster and I stare open mouthed as my husband kneels over him, the serrated blade just centimetres from the young lad’s face, so close that the boy’s hot rapid breath mists up the steel of the knife.

  “Jesus! All right. It was only a bit of a laugh! Christ almighty, we’re really sorry!”

  His friend is rooted to the spot, his eyes wide with fright. A small spot of saliva trickles down the corner of his mouth and he snaps it shut and rubs at his chin with the tattered sleeve of his dark blue sweatshirt. Martyn looks at them both and speaks slowly, enunciating every word,

  “Leave. Us. Alone. Don’t ever come here again. Get out of my garden and tell nobody about this, you understand? Nobody. You never speak of this again. Not even to each other. And if I catch you hanging round here anymore I will take this knife to your throat and slice it in two. Is that clear?”

  The smaller of the two looks over at me, fear oozing from every pore, “Jesus! Yes, it’s clear! Fuck, we were only kidding missus.”

  Martyn continues, untroubled by their fear. Unstoppable. “Nobody. Understand?” His voice is barely audible, deeply sinister and wholly intimidating.

  “Nobody. We promise! Don’t we AJ?” The other boy nods and as I look, I see a small wet patch begin to form on his crotch, a dark spread of terror for all the world to see. I wince, my own initial anger now diminishing, too aware that yet again, Martyn has taken it too far. His anger has won and gotten the better of him. And yet at the same time I feel. . . What is it I feel? Apart from my own rage beginning to slowly dissipate, somehow I now feel vindicated. These boys with their stupid antics could have seriously hurt me. What’s to say they would have stopped at hurling mud? What next? Small stones, shards of glass? Boys of this age don’t always understand the consequences of their actions. They need to be taught what can happen if you let yourself be led by your friends. And now they have been given a salutary lesson on how to behave around other people. And hopefully it will stay with them for many years to come.

  I push Martyn back in the house and watch as the youngsters scramble up awkwardly. One of them turns to face me, his face wet and streaked with tears.

  “We’re sorry missus. Please don’t. . .” His eyes drop to my hand and I look down to see that I am now holding the knife. I don’t remember taking it or Martyn handing it to me but it is there, cold and heavy, my fingers curled around its smooth, solid handle.

  “Remember,” I say coolly, “Not a word to anyone and that way you won’t get arrested for trespassing.”

  He nods violently, a river of snot and tears running down his face. He catches up with his friend and together they dart out of the garden, onto the path and round back into the village. They gallop away at an almighty pace and keep on running until they are two small specks disappearing into the distance. I stand and watch, hoping they keep to their promise to stay silent because if they don’t, we are well and truly done for. Then I slowly pad back into the kitchen and heave a sigh of relief.

  Back in the house, I rummage in my bag and find a couple of headache pills. My temples pound as I throw them in my mouth and hold my head under the tap to rinse them down. I turn to see Martyn watching me. I want to shout at him that it was all too much but am not sure if he has calmed down enough for me to reprimand him or whether or not he will turn his mood on me. I am too tired to take any chances so remain silent and wait for the incessant drumming in my head to ease up. This isn’t the way I planned to spend my day. I so wanted us to be happy in this place and already he has tainted it. Will this nightmare ever end?

  We continue watching each other, a curtain of silence separating us until at last he speaks,

  “I was only trying to protect you. They could have seriously hurt you.”

  I am taciturn. Always the best way. When in doubt, say absolutely nothing. My eyes travel down to his walking stick. It’s laid on the ground at his feet. He must have dropped it in his haste to get out there and ‘help’ me. I bend over and pick it up, feeling the familiar curve of its handle under my palm,

  “Here. Don’t try to walk for too long without it. You’ll only damage yourself and suffer in the morning.”

  He nods and takes it. Behind him, the knife sits on the oak dresser where I have placed it. I will get it when he later when he isn’t around and this time I’ll hide it away at the back of a cupboard. Somewhere he can’t reach. I stay still, not wanting to distract him, to tip the balance. Because that’s what it’s all about. Balance and a certain amount of delicacy. Knowing when to speak and knowing when to say and do absolutely nothing at all.

  “I might go for a nap if it’s okay with you? I didn’t sleep too well last night,” he says. This is his way of calming down, escaping from a situation he has created and doesn’t know how to solve. I tell him I think it’s a good idea and wait till he is out of the room and heading upstairs before I take the knife and hide it away.

  And so it continues. Just when I thou
ght we could start afresh, Martyn goes and does it again. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, my nostrils flaring as I inhale great lungful’s of cold air. This simply isn’t fair. And although I’m no saint, I don’t believe for one minute that I deserve this.

  I stare around the kitchen, my eyes eventually landing on something bright and eye catching. Anna’s cake tin. I should really take it back. And while I’m there, I can apologise, start again, be friendly. God knows this day needs some improvement.

  I am still in my wellies. I pull them off and slip into my favourite loafers, slip my arms into my coat, then reach up and grab the tin. Before I have chance to change my mind, I charge out of the house and lock up. I stand at the end of the drive and cast my eyes along the village, still impressed by its beauty, even after all these years. To one side a sweeping village green, manicured and lush, with the river beyond, and to the other side an array of houses, all different in style, each boasting their own unique charm. Cottages, large villas, small villas, bungalows, houses restored to their former glory and then those newly built in keeping with the village ‘look’ so only a trained eye would spot the difference between them. Fields huddle the perimeter of the village green and continue for as far as the eye can see. I breathe deeply. Seeing this is so far removed from the redbrick houses and countless buildings I used to live near that I’m not sure I’ll ever lose an appreciation of it. I count along and stop at the Victorian style villa even though there is really no need for me to. I could find my way to it blindfolded. There is a scribble of wrought iron running around its perimeter and two hanging baskets sitting either side of the front door. Not much has changed. The front lawn has been paved over and the fence replaces the hedge that used to house sparrows and blue tits and blackbirds but apart from that, everything is pretty much how I remember. I march over and knock at the door with the phrase, no time like the present rattling around in my head.

  My heart leaps up my chest when I first see him. It takes a few seconds to realise that this is a different boy from the one lurking around in the garden earlier. He is the same height with the same type of greasy looking, lank hair that hangs in front of his eyes and admittedly, when it comes to teenagers, I am guilty of thinking that they all look the same with their low slung tight jeans and floppy hairstyles. I am so relieved I almost laugh out loud. I hold out the tin and smile,

  “I just wanted to give this back to your mum.”

  He doesn’t respond but continues to stare at me, a glazed expression on his face. My heart pounds and I begin to worry that I’m mistaken and it actually is one of the other boys. I’m about to make my retreat when at last he speaks,

  “Oh right yeah. Sorry, she’s not in at the moment. I’ll let her know when she gets back,” he watches me carefully and bites his lip, obviously unsure how to respond, “Er, do you wanna come in and wait? Not sure how long she’ll be though. She’s out with dad looking at floor tiles.”

  I shake my head and smile at him. He seems quite sweet. And nervous. Especially compared to those two earlier. Rapscallions my mother would have called them. I can think of far worse names for boys of that ilk, most of them too disgusting to say out loud.

  “Tell her thank you and that the cake was delicious. I’m sorry she caught me unawares earlier. I was just a bit snowed under with unpacking and everything.”

  The boy twists his lip slightly to indicate his confusion and nods, “Yeah, no problem. I’ll let her know.”

  There is a distinct chill in the air as I leave Anna’s house. Despite that, it’s bright, the sun hanging lazily over the horizon, a reminder of spring close by. I feel a slight stab of disappointment at not getting to see the inside of the house and find myself wondering if Anna is the type of person to go for the minimalist look; knock walls down and tear the very heart and soul out of the house, or if she has decided to retain its inner charm. I really hope it’s the latter but remind myself that it is no longer any of my business.

  I decide to have a stroll through the village. Martyn is sleeping, for a few brief minutes I am free from his demands, able to do as I please. I head past the village green where I stop to stare at the line of undulating hills opposite. The copse of trees is still the same, a small huddled shape in the distance, like an old man stooping. That pleases me immensely, the thought that nature has held fast in my absence. I let out an audible sigh. It really is quite breath-taking. I feel a stab of pity when I think of Martyn. Stuck inside, day in, day out. Such a miserable state of affairs when you consider what an active, intelligent man he used to be and now life is simply passing him by.

  The road narrows as I walk past the row of houses until it’s no more than a lane running through a series of fields to the next village. With just one post box, it could hardly even be described as a village. More of a hamlet. I continue on down the lane, a different place entirely without fog; pretty, not at all sinister. On a whim, I stop and lean back against a fence that is rotten and leaning so badly I worry it might collapse under my weight. Delving deep into my pocket I rummage around until my fingers land on it, cool and inviting. I lift out a battered cigarette packet and flip it open. Three in there along with a lighter. My secret stash. It’s been so long and I shouldn’t really. Before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I put one between my lips, light it up and take a long dizzying drag. Shrouded in a haze of bliss, I rapidly inhale again and look up, my eyes drawn to the cornflower blue of the sky. The sun emits a trickle of warmth as I inhale once more. I blow a long line of smoke out and watch as it curls around and disappears into the air around me leaving a lingering white haze in its wake. Three puffs. Enough to keep me going. For now.

  After five minutes or so of picking my way through puddles and flattened slabs of cow pats I decide to turn around and walk back home. I think of Tillie and how she would have loved this and then remember how it would have taken twice as long while she stopped to sniff every blade of grass and pee on anything that didn’t move. It’s quiet, nobody about. No teenagers with parents trailing behind or worse still, police in tow, ready to file a complaint. A low, constant drone fills my head at the thought of it. With any luck they will be too frightened to say anything. Who would believe them anyway? Our word against theirs is what it would come down to. Anxiety flutters around my brain, tapping at my temples with a relentless, rhythmic force. I do my best to ignore it, and stare off into the distance as I pick up my pace. I suddenly feel exposed as if all the eyes of the village are upon me, scrutinising my every move, knowing about the events of this morning. Knowing about Martyn. Knowing about me. Before I can stop myself I’m almost running, hurrying along, needing to get back into the safety of the house.

  When I return, it is silent. Martyn will probably be fast asleep by now. I switch on the radio, make some tea and enjoy the solitude, resting back into the comfort of the sofa surrounded by the sound of classical music in the background. I love times like this but am acutely aware that they’re as rare as hen’s teeth, so I always make the most of them while I can. A little piece of heaven is what it is. I take my time, determined to enjoy it. Somehow I manage to clear my head of everything - Martyn, Suzie, the awful carry on earlier - and close my eyes against the rising tide of misery that permanently threatens to engulf me. My tea is almost cold by the time I finish it but that’s fine. I feel better than I have in a while. I put my cup down beside me with a light clink. And then, as is always the case with good things, my peace and quiet comes to an abrupt end.

  Seven

  I wish she had been in when I called earlier as I would much rather be sat at her kitchen table than have her sitting at mine as she is now. I like to plan before I have visitors you see. Especially after that awful debacle with those boys earlier. That particularly unpleasant incident has upset the stability of the house, put me on edge around Martyn. I had my peace and quiet, my little bit of utopia, managed to settle my nerves and now I’m now on tenterhooks again, listening out for him above us. That’s the thing. I don’t kn
ow how he’ll respond if he wakes and comes down to find a stranger sitting here with me. He really isn’t good with uninvited guests you see. They make him nervous which in turn makes him unpredictable. And as this morning’s carry on clearly shows, an unpredictable Martyn is a dangerous one. I wanted to be able to pre-empt her visits, prepare my husband, get him in the right frame of mind. But here she is, pretty, bubbly, charming. Sitting opposite me. In my house.

  I try to look away from her face. Ignore the way her hair bounces around as she talks, not stare at her slightly upturned nose. God, it’s like having Suzie sat here with me. Except of course, it couldn’t possibly be. Suzie isn’t here and hasn’t been for a long, long time. She died thirty-eight years ago, and I need to keep reminding myself of that fact, which is so very hard to do when it feels like only yesterday.

  I try to banish all thoughts of her and listen to this lady, this vision of the past as she tells me all about her life, about her sons and husband, her life in the village, even about the death of her sister a few years back. About how much she misses her. Her mouth moves in slow motion, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears , and the more she talks, the more I want her to stop. I have a vision of slapping my hand over her mouth to stop all sound coming out and feel a small shriek begin to build inside my head. I have to exercise all my self-restraint to prevent it from escaping. A pain travels down my neck as I twist to listen to a creak above me. I quickly finish my tea in the hope she’ll take the hint and finish hers. Instead she continues to chat about things - her hobbies, her house - just things, nothing of any substance. But the resemblance, it’s making me lose focus, setting my nerves alight. I give myself a stern talking to. The way she looks is something I am going to have to become accustomed to. I have only just moved in and Anna and her family aren’t going anywhere. Avoiding her simply isn’t possible. I listen out for more sounds of movement, the tell-tale noises that will tell me Martyn is up and about, but it has gone quiet up there. I rotate my frozen shoulders and try to relax and join in with the conversation. After all, this is what I wanted isn’t it? More contact with people, to be able to make new friends, perhaps even get out of the house a bit more and leave Martyn to potter around here on his own. How fantastic would that be? How bloody amazing. To be free of him. To be me.