by Imogen Clark
Unable to lie still any longer, he gets up and goes to take a shower. How many more showers will he take in this bathroom, he wonders, as the droplets rain down, plastering his dark hair to his head like seaweed. Twenty, maybe. Twenty-five at the outside. Barely worth counting. He turns the taps up high so the hot water sears his skin and then, when he can bear the heat no longer, he flicks it back down to cold so that his body screams out from shock.
‘What are you doing in that shower? I’m not made of money, you know.’
Michael hears his father shouting and ignores him. He turns the water back to a normal temperature and stands under the jets, not moving. He watches the wasted water gush down the plughole. Steam billows up around him and soon he can barely see his hand in front of his face.
‘If you don’t turn that shower off,’ comes the voice from behind the door, ‘then so help me God . . .’
Leisurely, Michael turns the water off and steps out of the shower. He wraps himself in his towel and opens the door. His father is standing so close that he almost falls into the bathroom.
‘Then so help me God what?’ asks Michael, pushing past his father and strolling across the landing to his bedroom.
‘You’re not too big to take over my knee,’ warns his father.
‘Oh, but I am,’ says Michael. ‘You touch me, old man, and I’ll break your neck. I’ll snap you like a twig.’
Michael is enjoying himself. His freedom is so close that he can almost taste it. It is making him reckless.
A door opens and Cara appears on the landing. She has clearly only just woken up. Her blonde hair fizzes out around her in a halo. She seems about to complain about the noise but then picks up the tension and changes tack.
‘Michael, don’t,’ she says, her eyes imploring him to rein his behaviour in, but Michael is invincible today. Even just wearing a towel he knows that nothing can touch him.
‘You watch your mouth,’ says his father.
‘Or what?’
‘Or you’ll be out in the street as fast you can say “Jack Robinson”.’
‘Suits me just fine,’ says Michael. ‘If you think I am going to spend a second longer than I have to under this roof then you’re badly mistaken.’
With that, he saunters into his room, closing the door with a satisfying slam.
‘This is my house,’ his father is shouting through the door. ‘And you will abide by my rules.’
Michael pulls on pants, tracksuit bottoms, a T-shirt. Outside he can hear Cara doing her best to placate their father. He opens the door and strides over to where his father is still standing and shouting the odds. He is taller than his father – not by much, but it is enough. He stands closer to him than he feels comfortable with but he needs to make sure that his point is made.
‘Your days of telling me what to do are over,’ he says, his breath bouncing off his father’s face and back to his own nostrils.
He doesn’t shout like his father. He speaks quietly, calmly, each word carefully enunciated so there can be no misunderstanding.
‘I have put up with your shouting and your bullying for twelve long years. I can’t understand why you think you have the right to speak to me the way you do. Especially after what you did. Any power that you think you had over me was forfeited years ago. You may technically be my father but it’s just a title. You’re not fit for purpose. Not since then. Probably not ever.’
When he’d pictured this moment in his head, Michael had wondered whether he would need to be more explicit, but it seems not. His father’s face, puce just a moment ago, blanches. He looks suddenly diminished.
‘Oh, what’s the matter, Daddy?’ continues Michael. ‘Did you think I didn’t know? I’m not stupid. I pieced it all together a long time ago. I’ve just been biding my time until I was ready to leave.’
For a moment, it crosses his mind that he should just let it all come out, here and now. Those beans are surely ready to be spilled. He has dragged the burden of them around with him for long enough. But then he looks at Cara. She is standing there on the landing in her checked pyjamas, her narrow feet bare on the well-worn carpet, her forehead wrinkled because she hates that they are arguing again. She puts a hand on his arm and shushes him, trying, as ever, to keep the peace.
He must not do it. He must not say anything else. Once it is spoken, it cannot be taken back and Cara doesn’t need to shoulder the burden as well. He knows what happened. His father now knows that he knows, but Cara never can.
She looks at him, questions written all over her face.
‘What are you talking about, Michael?’ she asks him. ‘What do you know?’
‘I know that I have a ticket out of here,’ Michael says, diverting her question. ‘I am going to university in London as soon as I can and there is nothing you can do to stop me.’
Cara keeps her gaze fixed on him, her hazel eyes filling with tears. She looks so much like their mother. More so with each year that passes, he thinks. Their father must see it too, although he never passes comment.
‘What?’ she says. ‘What do you mean, you’re going? You can’t go.’
Michael steps away from his father and puts his arms round his little sister, not so little anymore. She melts into him and he feels her start to shake.
‘I’m sorry, Ca, but I can’t stay here. You never expected that I would, did you? You must have known that as soon as I got my results I’d leave.’
‘But how . . . ?’ Cara whispers.
‘It’s today. I’m going to get my results now and then I start in London in three weeks. It’s all arranged.’
‘You can’t go,’ she says again. And then, ‘Take me with you.’
He shakes his head slowly.
‘I would if I could. You know I would.’
His father, recovering his voice, starts up again.
‘Well, if you think I’m paying for any pretentious university crap then . . .’
Michael lets go of Cara and turns to look at his father. He sees a man, broken beyond repair, entrenched, through years of lies and hurt, in a hole from which there is no escape. Michael doesn’t care. He turns and heads down the stairs and out of the front door into the grey day outside.
When the main door at the school opens at nine o’clock, Michael is first in the queue. He strides through to the hall, ignoring the headmaster, who is standing in the foyer with a clipboard. He scans the table for the envelope bearing his name. He picks it up and slips it into his tracksuit pocket.
‘Aren’t you going to open that, Ferensby?’ asks Mrs Glaser, the deputy head.
‘No need,’ Michael says. ‘I know what it says.’
He turns and leaves the hall, stalking back down the corridor and out of the door. There is a gap in the clouds and the smallest sliver of blue sky peeps out. Michael turns left and heads up towards the moor. The strip of paper nestles in its envelope in his pocket. It reads ‘A A A A’.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Cara, 2018
When I wake up, it takes me a moment to identify the regular pace of Simeon’s breathing next to me. The duvet rises and falls gently on my shoulders as his chest expands and contracts. I change position as gently as I can. I don’t want to wake him, not yet. I’m happy to lie here for a while, replaying the evening in my head. Gratefully, I find that I haven’t lost any of it. This was not a drunken mistake. Our progress from sofa to bed was swift but not rushed and we definitely didn’t end up here accidentally.
I check my alarm clock. It is seven fifteen. Under the duvet my stomach growls. The pasta and chicken never made it as far as a pan. I suck my tummy muscles in, trying to make it stop, and hope he doesn’t hear.
And then it happens, as it always does. My mind takes me from the present moment, in bed with a man I like, to a darker place occupied by ‘what if’s and ‘maybe’s. The confidence with which I led him to my room last night drains away until I am left, a nervous thirty-three-year-old, lying next to a total stranger who will see t
he parts of me of which I am less proud and smell my morning-after breath.
And, as if the gods are toying with me, it is at this exact moment that he stirs and then opens his eyes. My cheeks flush at having been caught staring at him in his sleep.
‘Happy New Year,’ he says, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand and stretching luxuriously. He does not touch me, as if sensing that, despite our current location, I need some space.
‘Happy New Year,’ I reply. ‘Are you okay?’ My voice sounds distant, aloof even. He lifts the duvet and looks down at his naked body.
‘All seems to be in working order,’ he says, but he drops the duvet back down so that I retain my dignity.
I think I might really fall for this man in time but already I can feel myself retreating. Keep yourself safe, Cara. Don’t let anyone penetrate that steely shell, says the voice in my head. It’s a bit late for that, I tell myself, but still I feel my natural defences rising into formation.
‘I have to get up,’ I say. My voice is abrupt and I’m aware that he must be thinking I want him to leave. This is not what I want. ‘My Dad,’ I add, a genuine explanation but which sounds like an excuse. ‘He gets a bit confused when he wakes up. I like to be around to give Mrs P a hand.’
Simeon is pushing himself to a sitting position. I reach for my robe and slip out of the bed.
‘I completely understand,’ he says. ‘I’ll get out of your hair. Just give me two minutes to get dressed.’
This is not panning out the way it ought to. I want to tell him to stay where he is, that I’ll just check that everything is all right with Dad and then come back. I bought croissants, for goodness’ sake. But what I say is, ‘Okay.’
Just that. I do not even look at him so I can’t see if he’s at all disappointed.
‘Pass my kecks,’ he says. His clothes are on a chair in a neat pile. I scoop them up and pass them over.
‘I . . .’ I try but he interrupts.
‘No worries,’ he says, raising a hand to silence me. ‘I understand.’ But he doesn’t. He can’t possibly. I don’t understand myself.
He pulls his pants on under the duvet with a show of modesty that belies our recent intimacy and then stands up to put the rest of his clothes on. I drop my eyes but not before I catch a glimpse of his torso, the trail of dark hair that leads down from his chest. I know that I need to do something to make this right before he slips out of my reach.
‘I had a lovely evening,’ I manage. Is it my imagination or does his smile look sad?
‘Me too,’ he says as he buttons his shirt. ‘I really enjoyed it, Cara Beloved. Can I see you again or is this the brush off?’
I wince. I don’t want him to think that he’s being brushed off but something in the way I hesitate before I speak makes it seem like that is my intention. When I go to contradict him, my words sound hollow, even to me.
‘No. Not all. That would be lovely. It’s just that I’m going away and there’s Dad and . . .’
Why can’t I just tell him how I feel, that he’s the best thing to happen to me for as long as I can remember? Somehow the words just don’t come. He shrugs.
‘I’ll leave my number,’ he says. ‘Just in case.’ He takes an old receipt out of his wallet, scans around for a pen and scribbles his number down. He places the paper gently on my pillow.
‘Cara! Cara!’ Dad is shouting for me from his room. I look to the door and then back to Simeon.
‘I have to go. I’m really sorry.’
He nods. ‘You go,’ he says. ‘It’s okay, Cara. I get it.’ But he doesn’t. He doesn’t get it at all.
As I cross the corridor to Dad’s room he follows me. I turn to say goodbye but he’s gone down the stairs. A moment later, I hear the front door open and then gently close behind him.
Dad is lying in bed. He stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t turn to look at me as I approach his bed.
‘Let’s get you up,’ I say.
My voice has none of the softness of tone that I usually adopt when I’m talking to him. Right now, I have no affection for this man, my father, who has turned my life upside down and is still managing to spoil things for me even now.
‘Happy New Year, Dad,’ I add without a smile.
I put my arms around him to haul him up. The sodden pyjamas stick to his spindle legs.
Later, after we have got through breakfast and I’ve put Dad’s bedding on to wash, I go to get dressed. Simeon’s number is still resting on my pillow. I pick it up. I should just ring him, explain that I’m an idiot and that the last thing I want is to drive him away, that I’m not much good with people being nice to me through a lack of practice. That’s what I should do, but I know that I won’t. I do pick the paper up, though, and slip it carefully between the pages of my book.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I leave for America on January 2nd. As the train pulls out of the station, bound for the airport, I don’t allow myself to think about leaving Dad or Mrs P living in my house or what Michael will say when he finds out where I’ve gone. Or Simeon. I particularly don’t let myself think about Simeon.
While I’m waiting in the airport, I accidentally google Captain Haddock, just to see if he looks like I remember, with his unruly black hair and piercing blue eyes. Sadly, Hergé’s drawings don’t have any eyes at all, just flesh-coloured circles where eyes would be. My comparison of man and cartoon seems to have been misplaced. I decide to close my mind to blue eyes.
The flight is uneventful and the queue to clear Immigration long. Eventually I find myself a taxi and as we crawl into San Francisco I sit back in my seat to enjoy my first view of the city. A thin mist rises like steam from the water to my left and the tops of the skyscrapers are hidden by clouds. Through the fog, I spot the iconic Golden Gate Bridge. It’s smaller than I expect and while I’m processing this information, I realise that it’s also white and not red. Wrong bridge – I’m such a tourist. My cheeks burn and I’m thankful that I hadn’t passed comment to the taxi driver. A few blocks further on, the red bridge appears, the tips of its towers lost to the mist. As we pass the neatly numbered piers, I realise that what little I know of San Francisco has mainly been gleaned from reading Tales of the City. Isn’t there a supermarket with a singles’ night somewhere?
This thought sends my mind skipping off in search of Simeon again. I tell myself that I don’t have room in my life for any more complications just now, although I’m not really sure why I think he would prove to be one. He seems quite straightforward so far.
For just one moment, I allow his ready smile to infiltrate my defences – but then I pull the drawbridge of my mind back up and lock him out. I’ve probably blown any chance I had with him anyway but, rather than tearing his number into small pieces and putting it in the kitchen bin where soggy teabags would render it illegible before I could change my mind, I have kept it. Right now it’s safe in my purse, nestling between a book of first-class stamps and a money-off voucher that I’ve saved but will probably never use. Of course, he won’t be interested in me anymore, but I take the number out and add it to the contacts in my phone. Just in case.
When I look up again, we are passing Pier 33 and I notice the signs for the ferry to Alcatraz. I try to catch a glimpse of the island but the buildings are in the way. It doesn’t matter. There’ll be time enough for sightseeing, particularly if I can’t track Ursula down.
The taxi pulls off the road that follows the bay round and turns left, into the city, and soon we’re pulling up outside the hotel. I tip the driver and wheel my little case up the ramp into the reception, where I am greeted with the enthusiasm that only the Americans can make sound genuine.
My room is an anonymous, corporate cell. When I walk in, the TV is already on, displaying pictures of the bay. The Englishness in me balks at the waste of power. I try to turn it off but can only find a standby option. I drop my bag on one of the huge beds. Disappointingly, the view through the muslin curtains is of the street outside. That’s pro
bably what the TV images are all about. It occurs to me that I’ve been allocated a room without a view because I’m a young woman travelling on her own and unlikely to make a fuss. I suppose I could object but what would be the point?
I remove the detritus of a long-haul flight from my handbag, rip off the luggage tag and take a quick glance at the street map that I picked up in the reception to get my bearings. Ursula’s gallery is very close and so, ignoring my need for coffee, I set off in search of it.
I find it, as I knew I would, just around the corner from the hotel. It’s small and discreet, the signage quiet, a classy font on a deep-blue background. The window display is simple, just three easels, each holding a small, abstract canvas. None of them look as if they might be Ursula’s. From the street, there are few clues about what is inside. The doorway, like the opening to a cave, is dark, deep and slightly threatening.
I spot a café across the road, Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. It looks nice enough, the signs written in friendly white chalk. I could just go and get myself a cup of coffee while I work out the lay of the land. Or, I could gird my loins, go in and ask about my aunt. I give myself a little pep talk. I haven’t come halfway round the world to go and drink coffee. I’m here right now, so what’s stopping me? Whatever I discover here will help me to work out what happened to my mother. Reluctantly, and with my heart banging in my chest, I step across the threshold.
Inside, the gallery is dark. The air smells lightly of vanilla and it reminds me that I haven’t eaten since the plane. The pictures are displayed on wires, spotlights throwing sharp circles of light that highlight parts but not the whole of each one. It’s an odd way to display art. The urge to flick a switch and throw light into the space comes over me. This darkness feels smothering, claustrophobic even.
The gallery goes a long way back, its depth emphasised by its narrowness. Because of the strange lighting effects, I can’t actually see all the way to the back wall and I feel exposed and vulnerable as I peer into the dimness.