by Bryony Doran
Edward drags the rubber-clad end of his stick along the polished floor as he makes his way back to the pale-green waiting room. He feels suddenly angry, disempowered, as if the doctor has stripped him of his shell.
The pharmacist shakes her head as she reads his prescription. ‘I’m sorry Mr Anderson, I’m waiting for some more Prozac to come in. Can you call back later?’
‘No. I can’t.’
She shrugs her shoulders and hands him back the prescription, ‘Sorry, seems to be a run on them today, already done 19 prescriptions this morning.’
When he gets outside, Edward puts the prescription in his pocket and, closing his hand around it, crumples it into a ball. He takes it out of his pocket and crumples it some more and, as he passes the doctors’ car park, he throws it under a car and watches it go scurrying away into a puddle.
Walking home, he shuffles his stick through some scattered leaves on the pavement. He feels better now, as if he has taken charge of his own life. However painful his new feelings are, for the first time in many years he is experiencing emotion. Emotions that he’d forgotten, and some that he’d never believed existed. He is not depressed. He is the opposite of depressed. But no, not elated. He wonders what the word is for his condition? Happy? No, alive, maybe.
He must use his sick leave to get away. Clear his head. When he gets home he phones the archaeology study centre. There is a dig starting the day after tomorrow just outside the city walls at York and yes, they still need volunteers.
Edward feels pleased with himself and decides he deserves a proper cup of coffee. He pours the beans into the grinder and places his hand on top of the clear plastic cover. He feels the throb of the beans grinding through the palm of his hand. He lifts off the top and smells the oil of the beans. Coarse ground, just right.
He carries the mug and then the jug and cafetière through to the sitting room and seats himself in his rocker. He waits four minutes then places the centre of his palm on the gold plunger. It is warm to the touch. He gently pushes down until all the coarse grains are crushed to the bottom. The coffee is exactly as he likes it. He can tell by looking at it. It has that slight grainy froth settling on the top.
He watches the sunlight dancing on the pale apricot walls. He will go to York today. By the time he gets there the sun will be so high in the sky that the sandstone of the walls will be turned to the colour of honeycomb. He will see if they have rooms at that B&B just outside the city walls. He will pack now before he changes his mind.
He turns the key in the lock and puts it carefully in the zip pocket on the flap of his bag. Tabitha brushes round his legs and Edward coaxes her to jump up onto the side wall where he rubs his knuckle under her chin. He picks up his bag and taps his stick on the metal floor of the walk way. I’m feeling better already, Edward thinks to himself.
But he stops and turns back towards his flat. He can’t go away, what about the cat? He can’t leave her for a whole week.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Angela pokes her head round the door at the bottom of the stairs. Alex is sitting alone at the kitchen table with yesterday’s paper spread out before him.
He grins, ‘I thought it was Aunt Hilda. You look wonderful.’
‘Can I have a bath?’
‘Okay, as long as you leave the water in for me.’
‘Yuk.’ Angela turns up her nose.
‘There’s only enough water to run one bath. I don’t mind bathing in your soup, so knock on the floor when you’ve done.’
Angela lies back in the bath and closes her eyes. She thinks of the night before, feels half-ashamed. A shame that brings warm blood to her belly. She laughs to herself and, spluttering, submerges her head under the water.
She gets out of the bath and sits on the mat with a towel draped around her, like a white island in a sea of turquoise lino. The door opens and Alex enters.
‘I didn’t say to come up yet.’
‘I’m sorry, I thought I heard you knock on the floor.’ He comes in and closes the door. ‘Do you mind?’ he says, nodding towards the bath.
‘No, I’ll watch you undress.’ She looks at him, daring him to back away and out the door but he unbuttons the top two buttons of his check shirt and pulls it off over his head. His flesh has an uncooked texture about it, like a pie waiting to go in the oven. His stomach muscles are flabby, his belly slightly protruding. He grasps his forearms, flexes his muscles and laughs. His arms are thin and have a fine covering of black hair.
‘Carry on,’ she says.
He undoes the buckle on his brown leather belt, breathes in to undo the metal stud of his jeans and lets them slip to his ankles. He is wearing tight fitting grey boxer shorts.
Not bad, she thinks, then ‘Go on,’ she urges.
He turns his back and pulls down his shorts, wriggling his nonexistent bum. Sheepishly he turns round, covering his genitals with his hands. She feels an overwhelming urge to laugh.
She pulls her towel tighter. ‘Get in the bath, will you.’
She smears her hand over the mirror, sees a blurred vision of herself, and hears Alex lowering himself into the water.
‘You know?’ Alex turns on the tap.
‘What?’
‘Most artists end up making love to their models. It’s a natural part of the creative progress.’
She laughs into the mirror. ‘Nice try.’
‘I didn’t particularly mean us.’
‘Good.’
‘I was just thinking about it, that’s all.’
‘We talked about it before, don’t you remember, you were going on about the pre-Raphaelites, said it was a different era, that they weren’t their pupils. Remember?’ She squeezes someone else’s toothpaste onto her brush. ‘What do you mean though, it’s part of the creative process’?’
He sits up in the bath. ‘Not sure really, I suppose it’s like when you get two actors working together they have to form a bond to make it work.’
‘And what if a bond doesn’t form? I suppose that explains why artists always choose beautiful models.’
‘Interesting question, I think you’d find that the work lacked a certain something.’
‘Expand.’ She puts her toothbrush to her mouth.
‘Intensity, I suppose. I dunno, that unexplainable ingredient.’
She uses downward strokes to clean the inner sides of her teeth. So if Alex is right, what happened between Edward and her had been inevitable, and was her work improved by it?
‘Ange?’
She turns, toothbrush in mouth.
‘I don’t think I can go back tomorrow. Mum had a bad night and I want to wait and see if I can find a doctor in this Godforsaken place.’
She turns, frowning, ‘I think I’ll go back today then.’
‘There’s no way I can make it today.’
Trapped here with Alex for days, even weeks? God, she’s got to get away.
‘I’ll get the train then.’
‘Do you have to go today?’ He asks, a plaintive note in his voice.
‘Yes.’
‘But surely you can wait until I go back.’
‘No, I can’t. You forget. I’ve got my work to complete.’
‘Oh well,’ he sighs. ‘I’ll find out the train times then.’
Hilda is standing in front of the Rayburn stirring a saucepan with a wooden spoon. Angela observes how closely her steely grey hair is shorn into the nape of her neck. She turns, and as she does so her fringe falls across her face. Like Alex, Angela thinks. Even the teeth are the same. Hilda continues to stir the pot using graceful, swivelling motions from her wrist, ‘Would you like some porridge?’
‘Porridge? I haven’t had porridge for years. I’d love some.’
‘You must be hungry after your little session in the bathroom.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t get your meaning.’ Angela says pulling a chair out from the table.
Hilda pours porridge into two bowls and places one in front of Angela. ‘Does t
his mean he’s won you over? That you’re now one of his women?’
‘Have you got any brown sugar?’
Hilda nods to the cupboard behind Angela.
Angela swirls the brown sugar into her porridge until it all becomes a dull brown. ‘You probably won’t believe this, but there is nothing between me and Alex and nothing,’ she looks upwards, ‘happened upstairs.’
They hear Alex coming down the stairs. He pokes his head around the door.
‘Would you like some porridge, dear?’ Hilda asks, rising from her seat and turning towards the Rayburn.
‘Yes, please.’ He rumples Angela’s wet hair. ‘What have you two been talking about?’
‘We were just discussing how you’ve got the hots for me.’ Angela watches him turn bright red. She tries not to laugh.
He pulls a face at her and looks over at his aunt to gauge her reaction. Hilda is standing with her back to them, reheating the porridge, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Alex pushes back his chair, ‘I’m going for a walk.’
The sun has already warmed the top of the garden wall. Angela has said goodbye to Hilda and now she is waiting for Alex. Pressing her palms into the slate she lifts her bottom and swivels round, stretching full length along it; absorbing the warmth into her back. Shading her eyes, she looks up at the cottage. The green curtains in the sick room are closed, but the window is slightly open. Angela can hear the low murmur of Hilda’s voice; on and on it carries in the same tone. She must be reading to Alex’s mother. Angela strains to catch a word, but the breeze coming in off the cove is against her. She is almost tempted to stand on the wall and peek in. To see if, propped up against the pillows, there is a female version of Alex listening to Hilda read. She sits back up, and starts to bang her heels impatiently against the wall.
Below her, the beach is a spread of wet pebbles, the tide lapsing slowly outwards and then, as if changing its mind, rushing back again. No sign of Alex yet. Where can he have got to? She spots him up on the headland; a small figure silhouetted black against the sun. He is standing by the house on the cliff-top, the Sherlock Holmes house. She waves. He sees her and turns away. ‘Shit.’ She slips off the wall, throws her red holdall into the garden and starts to make her way up the cliff path towards him. She stops half way up and looks back. The sick-room window is now fully open, the green curtains flapping in the breeze. Smoke is drifting lazily from the chimney. It all feels so serene. Angela thinks back to Hilda telling her about the fishermen being drowned at sea. The place did have an other-worldly quality about it. A feeling of both sadness and tranquillity, and she knows now why Alex’s mother wanted to return. It would be a good last resting place.
‘Alex!’ she shouts. He hears her and turns away, peering in through the diamond-paned windows of the house.
‘The rooms are quite small, aren’t they?’ She says, coming up behind him.
‘How do you know?’ He turns away from the window.
‘Oh, um, Hilda told me.’
He puzzles for a minute. ‘That dried up old prune.’
‘Actually, I rather like her.’
‘You would. Two bitches together.’ He turns back to peer in the window.
‘Witches?’ she says, her voice rising.
‘I said bitches, bitches,’ he repeats. ‘You’re a bitch.’
‘If you find my company so distasteful, you won’t mind running me to the station then, will you?’
Shading his eyes, Alex sits down and gazes out to sea. ‘Why were you discussing me with her?
‘Listen idiot, I wasn’t. She thought we were having sex in the bathroom. I had to dispel that notion,’ she pauses. ‘I mean, it would have seemed really callous, us fucking, with your mother ill across the landing.’
He peers up at her, shading his eyes from the sun. She offers him her hand and pulls him up.
‘You ought to see it up here when the sea-thrift is out. Everywhere there are huge clumps of pink, and back there against the wall, Foxgloves and Campion.’
‘Do you like the smell of Foxgloves?’
‘They don’t smell, do they?’
She smiles, ‘Not sure.’
‘How do you know there’s a train?’ he asks.
‘Hilda has a timetable. There’s one at twenty past twelve.’
He looks at his watch, ‘We’ll have to hurry.’
They slip and slide their way back down the steep path. Angela leans over the garden wall and pulls her holdall out from among the catmint.
‘Aren’t you going to say goodbye?’ he asks.
‘I already have.’
‘I’ll just see if they want anything.’
‘Hurry up, I’ll miss the train.’
The station is inland, hidden from the main road by a mass of rhododendron bushes. Everything is quiet, polished, and painted in brown and cream.
They sit on the platform bench in silence, waiting. Alex takes her hand. She lets him.
‘I wish you could have stayed,’ he says, studying her palm.
The track begins to vibrate. Angela stands up. ‘Alex, don’t go there, okay? Thanks for the break. It’s been good.’
‘Good? It’s been wonderful.’ He leans towards her and kisses her lightly on the cheek. He smells of stale cigarettes. She remembers the smell of Edward, Imperial Leather, a warm, clean smell, comforting. She jumps into a carriage and clatters the door shut.
Alex holds an imaginary phone to his ear. ‘I’ll ring you,’ he mouths. She looks at his teeth. When he smiles, both his bottom and top set are revealed. Like little tombstones; slightly protruding, weather stained tombstones.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The auction boards were already up when Rachel arrived. Her aunt asked her to stay on to help her sort out the house and reluctantly she’d agreed. She had wanted to get back for Edward. He was in his last year at school and she had hoped that he would come with her to his Great Uncle’s funeral. He’d been twelve years old the last time he visited the farm. When she’d pointed out to Edward that Uncle Jack was of his own flesh and blood, he seemed to get angry. He’d refused point blank to speak to her, even when she was leaving to catch the train.
She had wanted to go to the Chapel of Rest to see her uncle, but her aunt had already instructed that the coffin be sealed. To Rachel it all seemed too sudden: The nailing down of the coffin, the house up for auction. It all felt like a chapter in her life snapping shut before she’d had time to finish reading it. Her aunt’s sister lived in a bungalow in Bournemouth and she was going to live with her.
‘I thought you’d want to stay on a while,’ Rachel said, as they stacked the crockery on the dining room table.
‘Stay on? Why ever should I want to stay on here? What has this farm ever given me? My little boy drowned. What was left for me after that? We could have sold up and gone. He could have got another job. But oh no, he wouldn’t hear of it. So we stayed and soured each other with our memories.’
‘Did you never want any more children?’
Her aunt snorted, ‘Your uncle wasn’t capable, not after Robert died. It seemed to, I don’t know, take away his manhood. He never said but I think he felt that Robert dying was a punishment for him marrying a gentile like me. And anyway, I felt so bitter towards him.’
‘Why?’ Rachel asked quietly.
‘For making me stay. And now here I am at seventy and too old to do all the things that I thought one day I would. So, no, I don’t want to stay, and the sooner I am out of here the better.’
Around her waist her aunt wore the bunch of keys that Uncle Jack had always carried. It was strange to see them jangling on her hip instead of his. They tried nearly every key before they found the one for the padlock on the cabin trunk in the attic.
‘I’ve always wondered what he had in here,’ her aunt said as she twisted the rust from the lock.
‘Did you never think of looking?’
‘Did you ever know him not to have his bunch of keys with him?’
Rachel shook her head and waited as her aunt lifted the lid. Inside was a shallow tray that sat around the rim. It was divided into little square compartments, most of which were empty but in some were neatly folded packages of yellowed tissue paper. Her aunt carefully unwrapped one: nothing. It was the same with all the rest until she got to the last one and as she opened it, out fell a shower of small twigs of orange.
‘What on earth?’ her aunt said.
‘I think it’s coral.’
Her aunt laughed, ‘Plastic, more like.’
‘Can I have them?’
Her aunt looked at her. ‘Whatever would you want rubbish like that for?’
Rachel picked a piece up off the floor. ‘Look, each one has a tiny pinhole. I could make a necklace.’
‘Umph! You’re welcome to it.’
Rachel picked up all the bits that lay scattered on the floor. One long bit, maybe even the centrepiece, was wedged between the floorboards. She carefully prised it out with one of the keys on her uncle’s chain. Her aunt lifted up the tray. The trunk was empty, except for a sheet of old newspaper in a strange script lining the bottom.
Rachel stared down at the newspaper. ‘This must have been my Grandmother’s trunk. I think this newspaper is Russian.’
Her aunt struggled to her feet, ‘That can go in the auction, along with its contents.’
‘Aunt? Would you mind if I had it?’
‘I suppose not. Is there anything else you want?’
‘No, nothing.’
The next day strangers came and took away the contents of the house; trampling with their muddy feet, not having a care for what had been before. All those years they had kept their secret, and now it was gone. She could still hear her mother, every year it would be the same, even after she was married. ‘Why do you always want to go trailing off to your uncle’s farm for your holidays? Why don’t you go on a proper family holiday?’
Why, indeed.