Filthy disgusting whore! You like that, don’t you Alfred? That your wife is a whore.
It was a voice Alfred didn’t recognise. It wasn’t one of the voice-women, he was sure of that. But it was inside his head. He grabbed Isobel’s wrist.
But he’d rather be stuffing Alice, wouldn’t you, Alfred? Right up her tight Jewish arse.
‘What is it, Alfie?’ Isobel whispered. ‘I’m sorry, I thought – ’ She pulled her hand away.
Alfred couldn’t speak. His pulse was racing. He tightened his hands into fists and pushed his knuckles into his temples. What was happening? Who was talking to him? He increased the pressure with his knuckles until the pain seared through his skull.
Finally, Isobel turned away. Alfred lay awake for many hours, drifting off only when the first dull light of dawn stole into the room.
They reappeared the next morning while Alfred was shaving.
HEY!
His hand slipped and he nicked his skin with the razor.
You stupid good-for-nothing pathetic excuse for a man.
The blood dribbled down his cheek and into the sink.
‘What do you want?’ he whispered.
But there was no answer.
Over the next three days, they assailed him remorselessly. Loud, crude, taunting him, mocking him. In hindsight, three days out of a man’s life seemed like nothing, the blink of an eye, and yet these three days brought Alfred to a point of desperation he’d never experienced before. They didn’t let him sleep; they didn’t let him eat. Conversations with Isobel were interrupted by comments so vulgar – you want to suck those ripe tits, you can smell her cunt, you want to stick it in there – they shamed him.
‘Are you all right, Alfie? Is it your chest?’ Isobel asked him once at the breakfast table. It was the morning of the third day since the new voices had arrived. ‘You look very pale.’
He’d be all right if you wrapped those soft lips around his cock, he would!
‘I – I’m . . . ’ He couldn’t finish his sentence.
Isobel frowned and put her hand on his. ‘Go and lie down, Alfie. I’ll bring you a cup of tea in bed.’
Oooh, she wants you in bed, the randy whore.
Alfred bit his tongue so hard he drew blood. He stood up. ‘No. I . . . I think I’ll go outside. Some fresh air.’
And before Isobel could object, he rushed out through the back door. He crossed the sodden lawn – trying, failing, to block out the laughs and shouts – and locked himself in the shed. He stood there motionless, taking uneven shallow breaths, and waited. His eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, and his glance fell on the gardening shears he’d sharpened and cleaned the previous week. A week ago, before they had come. Before he had renounced his voice-women. He took a step forward and picked up the shears, running his finger across the cold blade.
Go on, Alfred. Do it. Or are you not man enough?
The blade was sufficiently sharp. He would only need to apply a bit of pressure to slice through his carotid artery. He would haemorrhage within a few minutes. He trembled as the cold touched his skin.
Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.
He held the blade at an angle across his throat. But a sudden brush of air to his left and a soft moan in his ear made him stop. He could feel a familiar presence there in the shed. His heart lurched and he dropped the shears.
‘Where are you?’ he whispered. ‘Are you there? I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ignored you. I’m sorry I wanted you to go away.’ He fell onto his knees and found himself weeping. ‘I’m so sorry.’
A fizzing, then a crackling.
Goodness me, Alfred! You can be so silly at times.
Don’t be too hard on him. It can’t have been nice.
He got to his feet on shaking legs. ‘Where have you been? I’m . . . I don’t – ’ Again, his voice failed him.
Shhh, Alfred. No need to cry. We couldn’t possibly leave you to the Others. We’ve been through too much together, haven’t we?
Yes. Now wipe that face of yours and go eat your breakfast. Isobel’s waiting.
He nodded and wiped his face on his sleeve. They were back. They had given him a second chance. And he couldn’t have been more grateful.
Nineteen Eighty-Eight
It’s freezing cold today so your mom is wearing a woollen cap. And a long coat with a fluffy collar. You look around, but there are no other kids here. Opposite, on the other side of the big hole – the grave – some people are crying. Two men are holding hands. It’s cold. You shiver. Your mom reaches down and clasps your gloved hand. She’s crying really hard now. Her nose is red and puffy. You think you should feel sad, too, but even though you try, you don’t. Not really.
Afterwards, when the men have lowered the coffin into the hole, people gather around you and your mom. A woman you’ve never met comes over.
He was a great guy.
I’m sorry for your loss, kid, someone else says and pats your head.
You need to pee. When are we going home, Mom? you ask. You tug at her hand but your mom is talking to the people.
Yeah, your mom is saying, I only found out on Thursday. Josh called. She lets go of your hand and covers her face. Starts crying. He just left, you know. Left us sitting in California, without a word. And since we came here, Brynja and me, I’ve been looking for him everywhere. If I’d known Josh knew where he was, I would’ve – She stops to blow her nose – Now I’m going to have to, you know, get tested. Her voice is nearly a whisper, but she’s stopped crying. And Brynja too. His own child!
You turn away. Some people are leaving already. You see a tree, almost black, the branches like arms, the twigs like fingers reaching up into the sky, the kind of tree that’s fun to climb. You study it for a while, trying to memorise its shape and energy, so you can draw it when you get home. Is it an ash tree? Or a beech? In the fall, you went on a school trip to Prospect Park to learn how to tell the type of tree from its leaves. But it’s January now, all the leaves are gone. Most of the trees here in Brooklyn are different anyhow. A lot of things are different. You hated it at first. Hated the cold. You still hate the cold. You still need to pee.
Your mom is talking to the people. Their breaths form white smoky clouds on the air. You pick up a small twig from the ground and pretend it’s a cigarette. You pretend to suck and puff. Your breath is white and smoky too. Then you hear someone crying, close by. A kid. There are a couple of gravestones huddled together near where you’re standing. It’s where the crying is coming from. You step closer, a bit spooked, then the crying stops. You take another step forward and realise you’re standing on one of the graves. Beneath your feet, some dead person. You jump quickly to the side. The crying starts again.
Oh, oh, oh.
A little girl. You creep forward. The sound is coming from behind one of the gravestones.
It’s not fair. It’s not. Oh, oh.
Hello? You speak softly. You don’t want to frighten the girl. You touch the stone, pull your hand back quickly. The mossy, spongy feel grosses you out. Your wipe your hand on your coat and look around the back of the stone.
Nothing.
Hello?
The crying stops. There is no little girl behind the stone. Your mouth is dry and your heart is bouncing wildly inside your chest. You shiver, and hiss-whisper Go away, even if there’s no one there. You suddenly feel very, very scared and so you run back across to your mom.
There you are, liebling! Your mom hugs you. Come here, it’s time to say goodbye to your papa. She kneels down. You do too. Your heart has stopped bouncing; now you can just feel it skipping. The coffin with your papa is in the hole. Here. Your mom gives you a white flower. Throw it down, liebling. You let the flower drop onto the other flowers lying on top of the coffin.
You can’t remember what your papa looked like. You try to remember but you see Dave’s face instead. Dave lives with you and your mom now on Himrod Street. Your mom met Dave when h
e came to the house to fix the front of the roof, where the rain was coming through. You like Dave, because he takes you for hotdogs even though your mom says that it’s wrong to eat meat. And sometimes, when your mom doesn’t wake you on time and you miss the school bus, Dave drives you to school in his pickup truck and you listen to country music on the radio.
You like going to school. All days start at the same time, Monday through Friday; all class periods are the same length, except double periods. The teachers say nice things to you when you try hard. And you try hard most of the time. You are already reading third-grade books – Charlotte’s Web and Pippi Longstocking – even though you are only in first grade. You would like to read the books you bring home from school, but your mom says you’re too clever for them, because she didn’t teach you to read and write before you even started first grade for nothing. Instead, she reads to you from her favourite book by a man called Hermann Hesse. You don’t understand the story, and Dave says, Are you reading her that book by Hermann the German? You both laugh – you and Dave. But your mom doesn’t laugh and says it’s not Hermann. It’s pronounced ‘Hairmann’, so it doesn’t rhyme with ‘German’. But then Dave puts his hands through his hair to make it stand up and says Hair-man, watch out Brynja, Hair-man’s comin’ to getcha, and chases you around the room and you have to laugh so hard you think you’ll pee your pants and your mom gets mad and shouts a word you don’t understand and leaves the room and slams the door, hard.
In spring, you come home from school and Dave isn’t there. Your mom says I don’t want to talk about it and you don’t see Dave again after that.
1969- 1972
Alfred’s life was back to normal. He returned to work, still a little weak from his illness, but strong enough to concentrate on the herb garden, which was taking on ever larger proportions. Daffyd took over the heavy physical work, while Alfred experimented with various herbs, planting a knot-shaped kitchen garden with a soft, scented chamomile lawn in the centre, surrounded by rosemary, parsley, sage, thyme. Beside this, he also created a psychic garden inspired by his reading, experimenting with the curative properties of various herbs against headaches, stomach upsets, skin abrasions – testing them on himself first, and then with increasing confidence, preparing different teas to drink and dried roots to chew.
All the while, his voice-women treated him with particular kindness and affection, as though they were as relieved as he was that their brief separation was over. Despite this, the ‘Others’, as Alfred came to call them, had bruised him badly, and it was many months before his fear that they might return abated completely.
Then, in May 1969, Alfred came home one afternoon to the sound of Isobel laughing. His first – hopeful – thought was that John had emerged from one of his black moods and was chatting with his mother in the kitchen. But when he entered, he saw a woman sitting beside Isobel at the table. She had very short hair, and wore a chocolate brown shirt and mustard yellow flared trousers. She had a look – a kind of defiant stylishness – that was quite unusual, certainly for the women that lived in the village. She turned in her chair as Alfred came in.
‘You must be Alfred,’ she said cheerfully. Then, giving Isobel a wink and a smile, added, ‘I’ve heard all about you. And it’s all terribly wicked.’
Isobel let out a giggle. ‘I told her nothing of the sort,’ she said.
‘I’m Amelia, by the way,’ the woman said to Alfred. ‘At number twenty-two.’
Alfred wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘Alfred,’ he said, changing his mind about offering his hand. ‘Alfred Warner.’
‘Well, Alfred Warner, nice to meet you too. Now, I must be off. The movers will be here any moment.’
‘Well, it was lovely to meet you,’ Isobel said. ‘And are you sure you’re free for dinner on Thursday?’
‘Sounds lovely, Isobel.’ She nodded at Alfred. ‘I’ll let myself out. See you on Thursday.’
‘She’s just moved in,’ Isobel explained when Amelia had left. ‘And I thought it would be nice, you know, to cook for someone new for a change.’
Amelia arrived on Thursday evening with wine and some LPs, which they played while they were eating.
‘We don’t normally listen to music at dinner,’ Isobel said, while Joan Baez’ honeyed voice sounded in the background, ‘but it’s nice. We should do it more often.’
John, who had showered and shaved in time for dinner (by threat or bribe, Alfred suspected), agreed. ‘Yeah. We normally eat in front of the telly.’
‘We do no such thing!’ Isobel said, glaring at him.
‘Silly me,’ John said in a flat voice. ‘Of course. We do no such thing, Miss Fairclough.’
Isobel lowered her fork. ‘It’s Mrs Fairclough, John.’
Amelia shook her head. ‘Actually, it’s neither, really,’ she said, and then added by way of explanation, ‘I’m divorced. And anyway, please call me Amelia.’ She put a hand on John’s arm and he turned bright red.
‘So,’ Alfred said, changing the subject. He didn’t want Isobel’s evening spoiled by John. ‘What brings you to Checkley, Amelia?’
She waved her hand vaguely. ‘Oh, I thought it would be nice to live in the country for once. After the divorce and all that. I’m just renting the place though, until I find something more permanent in Uttoxeter. I’ve got a part-time job there. Receptionist at the vet’s.’
‘My mum’s never had a job, have you Mum?’ John said.
Isobel smiled selfconsciously. ‘Well, you know . . . ’ she trailed off.
Amelia said, ‘Raising a child and cooking and cleaning for a family may well be considered a job, John. Even if she doesn’t get paid for it.’
John blushed again and said nothing. Alfred was pleased she had set him straight.
When they had finished eating, Amelia leaned back in her chair and lit a cigarette. ‘That was delicious, Isobel,’ she said, tilting her head back to blow the smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘It was a pleasure having you,’ Isobel replied, and then got to her feet and began clearing away the plates. Amelia got up to help, but Isobel shook her head. ‘Please sit down. You’re the guest.’
‘Nonsense,’ Amelia said. ‘It’s much quicker if I help. But I’m not staying to do the washing up.’ She laughed.
Alfred turned to John. ‘Come on, lazy bones, help the girls clear up.’
Amelia put down the plate she was holding. ‘We’re not girls, Alfred. We’re women.’ Her tone had an edge to it, but when Alfred looked across at her, she was smiling.
Alfred failed to warm to Amelia in the same way Isobel evidently had.
She’s rude, that what she is.
Nonsense. She’s very self-assured, that’s all. And it’s good for Isobel to have a friend. Don’t you agree, Alfred?
‘Mmm.’ Alfred was pinching out the side shoots on his tomato plants. The voice answered in sing-song –
Alfred doesn’t like her, Alfred doesn’t like her . . .
‘You’re wrong. It’s not that I don’t like her, it’s just – ’
It’s just what?
He straightened up and felt a pulling in his lower back. He stretched to loosen it. ‘It doesn’t matter whether I like her or not. Isobel likes her. And you’re right, it’s nice that she has a friend.’
But?
‘But what? That’s enough about Amelia.’ He didn’t want to talk about the sharp, fizzling edges Isobel brought home with her every time she’d met with Amelia. Best to just ignore it, he thought. He went back into the house. The smell of roasted meat unfurled into kitchen. Isobel turned from the stove and gave him a smile.
‘I’ve made a roast,’ she said, bending over to baste the meat. Her hair was tied back and covered with a blue scarf. Small beads of sweat formed on the back of her neck. She shrugged. ‘I didn’t think it was going to be so hot today.’
‘Smells delicious,’ Alfred said, stepping out of his boots. He grabbed a teaspoon from the draining board and
began to scrape the mud from the bottom of his boots.
‘Alfie?’ Isobel said.
‘Yes?’
‘I just wanted to say that from now on, you’re going to have to make your own tea every Tuesday. Amelia and I are taking an evening course,’ she said. ‘At the college in Stoke.’
‘Really?’ A pebble was lodged tight in one of the grooves. He worried it until it came loose and the spoon went flying. Isobel went to pick it up.
‘Are you listening to me?’ Her voice was suddenly edgy, challenging.
Alfred put his boot down. ‘Sorry, love. You were saying – ’
‘Political philosophy. Every Tuesday from seven till nine.’
‘Political philosophy?’
Isobel went to the sink and began washing the teaspoon under the tap. ‘Yes. Don’t sound so surprised. Do you think I’m too stupid, or something?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘You’ve just never shown an interest in that sort of thing before.’
‘Perhaps that’s because you’ve never asked me. Perhaps that’s because you never ask me my opinion on anything.’
Alfred shook his head. He didn’t want to argue. ‘If you’re looking for a fight,’ he said, heading into the living room, ‘pick someone else.’
That summer, John surprised his parents – and presumably himself – by passing his A Levels with half-decent grades and receiving an offer to study geology at Manchester University. Isobel took the news tearfully but bravely. The day after John left, in late September 1969, she went up to the bedroom that had been his for the last few years, and Alfred stood and watched her packing up the remainders of their son’s childhood – story books, a Captain Scarlet figure that had been disfigured with a lighter, stuffed toys, a collection of rocks and fossils, discarded LPs. She packed the things into cardboard boxes, carefully, like a museum curator, as though these were items of priceless value that would one day be reclaimed by their owner. At one point, she held a stuffed pale blue bunny to her nose and sniffed, smiling – a very private reminiscence. Alfred was suddenly overwhelmed by how quickly his infant boy had become a man.
The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days Page 28