Unravelling

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  She laughs. ‘Yes, Gerald. I do.’

  He grins. It’s different from his usual smile that often has some ulterior motive or hidden message. This one is how he used to smile when he was satisfied with the way a piece had gone: a grin of pure delight that held some hint of the little boy’s face that once was his.

  ‘This is a brilliant place, Nessa. I can see why you like it here.’

  Over lunch Gerald tells her about his walk along the river. He’s even managed to get as far as the beach.

  ‘You mustn’t do too much.’

  He cuts himself another slice of bread and some cheese. ‘That almost sounds as if you care about me.’ He studies the bread as if it’s the most fascinating slice he’s ever seen.

  She wipes her mouth with her napkin. ‘Of course I care. Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Do you really want a list of reasons? There’s – ’

  ‘No. Don’t go through it all. It’s in the past.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘It was all a long time ago.’

  ‘But you haven’t forgiven me.’

  ‘You’re here, Gerald. I’m here. Isn’t that enough?’

  He reaches across the table and takes both her hands in his. She starts to pull away, but he tightens his grasp. He stares at her palms and then he turns the hands over and studies the backs. She’s conscious that in a couple of places her freckles have grown into ugly age spots and the skin is thin and lined with blue veins.

  ‘Do you remember when I gave you this little ebony ring?’ he asks.

  ‘The day Cordelia was born.’

  ‘All these others. What do they mean?’

  ‘Who says they mean anything?’

  ‘I know you, Vanessa. They mean something. Tell me.’

  ‘Gerald, there’s no point – ’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She points to the biggest one on the middle finger of her right hand. ‘I bought that one in Buenos Aires.’

  ‘You went to Buenos? What for?’

  ‘I was sourcing yarns.’

  ‘When?’

  She tries again to pull her hand away. ‘If you’re going to give me the third degree on each one … ’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. It’s Buenos Aires. I wondered if you went to look for me.’

  ‘I told you; I was sourcing yarns.’

  ‘Yeah, yes, you did. Yarns. Tell me about the others. What about this little fellow here?’ He points to the silver snake.

  ‘I got it in Venice.’

  ‘Venice. I always thought I’d be the one to take you there.’

  ‘Gerald.’

  ‘Have you been across to Torcello?’

  ‘It’s one of my favourite places. I love the mosaic Madonna in the cathedral.’

  ‘Who did you go with?’

  ‘I’m not doing this, Gerald. I’ve got to get back to work.’

  He still doesn’t let go. ‘Sorry. I can’t help it. I need to know stuff.’

  She rushes through the background to the remaining rings: the Celtic one Jake gave her for her sixtieth birthday, the silver ring from Lizzie that she wears on her little finger, the gold circlet with a tiny diamond that was a gift from a grateful customer …

  ‘And the emerald?’ Gerald asks, when she stops. ‘You haven’t mentioned that one.’

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘Let me guess.’

  ‘It’s not a game.’ There must be something else she can say to stop him before the past erupts like a concealed landmine.

  ‘It was from Andrew, wasn’t it?’

  She nods.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ he says. ‘Lovely.’

  When Vanessa gets back from the shop, she calls hi to Gerald who’s in the living room and goes straight up to her room. She pulls the curtains and lies on the bed. After a while she hears Gerald moving around on the landing.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he calls up the stairs.

  ‘Just a headache.’

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll be down to make supper.’ She listens as he goes into the bathroom and then back downstairs, imagining the slight pout of his mouth, the way his shoulders will have sagged at her refusal.

  She drifts in and out of sleep, enjoying the draught as the fan plays on her face. The phone rings a couple of times, and she stirs but then thinks better of it; the answer phone will pick up any messages.

  When she goes downstairs, Gerald is watching television. He switches it off as soon as she appears.

  ‘Carry on with your programme. I don’t mind.’

  ‘I was only watching for something to do. You know I could never stand the box. Feel any better?’

  ‘Much. Ready for a glass of wine in fact. What about you?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me! You know alcohol doesn’t agree with me at the moment.’

  She goes to the kitchen and takes a bottle from the fridge. She inserts the corkscrew and starts to turn it.

  Gerald comes in and leans against the doorframe watching her.

  ‘Supper won’t be long,’ she says. ‘I thought some salmon and – ’

  ‘Why haven’t you told the girls I’m here?’ he asks

  She pulls at the corkscrew and it flies out of the bottle, taking only half the cork with it. ‘Damn,’ she says, trying to unscrew the broken end of cork. It crumbles in her fingers. ‘Damn,’ she says again.

  Gerald takes the bottle from her hands. ‘Let me.’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable – ’

  ‘I know, but I want to help.’ He twists the corkscrew into the remaining bit of cork in the neck of the bottle. ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘What question?’

  ‘Vanessa, stop prevaricating. Why haven’t you told the girls?’

  ‘How do you know I haven’t?’

  ‘Because Esme phoned a while ago. She nearly had a heart attack when she heard my voice.’

  ‘What the hell were you doing answering my phone?’

  ‘I was trying to get it before it woke you up. Now are you going to answer me?’

  Gerald pulls the remaining bit of cork out of the bottle. Vanessa snatches it from him and pours herself a large glassful. She glares at Gerald over the rim.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with them.’

  ‘Of course it is. Their parents are living together under one roof for the first time in God knows how many years and – ’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Esme. Who else?’

  ‘She was fine with it once she got over the shock. She wants to come down to see us. But she said Cordy would go mad.’

  ‘Cordelia.’

  ‘That’s what I said, Cordelia.’

  ‘You didn’t. You said Cordy.’

  ‘Cordy, Cordelia. What difference does it make?’

  ‘But that’s just it,’ she snaps back at him.

  ‘What’s it?’

  ‘Cordy was your name for her. She never let us call her Cordy again after you left. Her heart was broken and you didn’t even know or care.’

  He stares at her for a few seconds, his mouth open, and then he comes towards her. He puts his hands on her shoulders. ‘My darling, tell me, say these things to me. This is what we need to clear the air.’

  She raises her hands and throws his off her shoulders. ‘Get out of the way,’ she says, and pushes past him.

  Up in her room, she presses the numbers for Cordelia’s phone.

  Cordelia answers on the first ring. ‘I knew it would be you.’

  Esme has got there before her. Vanessa was afraid that would happen. ‘Let me explain – ’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘You mean you’ll listen to what I’ve got to say?’

  At the other end, Cordelia laughs. ‘I can’t wait to hear what gems you come up with this time.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave hi
m in London on his own.’

  ‘Why? He left you.’

  ‘He’s ill, Cordelia.’

  ‘Ever heard of social services? Isn’t it their job to look after sick old people who haven’t got anyone else to care for them?’

  The receiver is wet and slippery with perspiration. ‘That’s a bit cruel about your own father.’

  ‘I must have inherited it from him.’

  ‘Cordelia, I know it’s terrible when fathers leave little children.’

  ‘It wasn’t only when I was little though, was it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He came back. Remember that?’

  ‘It was a difficult – ’

  ‘Promised he was back for good this time.’

  ‘But what could he do? I was with Andrew.’

  ‘It was always about you, wasn’t it? You were with Andrew, so what was the point in him staying? There was me, and there was Esme. Why couldn’t he stay for us?’

  There’s a catch in Cordelia’s voice, and for a moment Vanessa thinks she’s going to break down. The terrible barrier of anger she’s erected might crumble.

  ‘Perhaps he would have done,’ Vanessa says. ‘We’ll never know. When Andrew died …’ There was the bloodied head, she remembers, massively swollen, tubes everywhere, and the machine monitoring his heartbeat, silent. Her hands cover her face. All she can hear is the sound of her screaming. Then she realises the noise is in her ear; it’s coming from the telephone …

  ‘He left again, didn’t he?’ Cordelia’s voice shouts down the phone. ‘Too chicken to handle the fallout. But me, stupid me … I carried on meeting him – ’

  ‘What? You mean you saw him afterwards?’

  ‘ “Don’t tell, Vanessa,” he’d say. “She’ll only stop us.” And I fell for his flannel all over again. Ask him about those meetings. Ask him what happened when I came back from the States and he promised to take me out for lunch. Ask him. Go on, ask him … ’

  It takes Vanessa a moment to realise that Cordelia’s tirade has stopped. There’s silence on the other end of the line, and then a long continuous hum.

  Vanessa climbs into bed. Her hands won’t stop shaking. Her chest feels so tight, she can hardly breathe. She pulls the duvet over her, and curls into a ball. She shuts her eyes and waits for the nausea to subside. She doesn’t want to face Gerald; she doesn’t want to ask him about the past. Andrew died; Gerald left. It’s not a place she can bear to go back to.

  Vanessa straightens her shoulders and wipes her palms against her trousers. Taking a deep breath, she pushes open the door of the living room. It’s empty. Gerald must have gone up to his room without her hearing him. She goes into the kitchen to get the wine she poured earlier.

  On the worktop is a note in Gerald’s writing.

  My darling – I heard raised voices and I thought it best to make myself scarce. I expect you’ll want some time to yourself. Hope the phone call with Cordelia wasn’t too awful. I’m sorry I’ve caused all this trouble for you.

  I’m going for a walk. I’ll try to get to the Cobb. I want to be able to see what you see. If you love it, I’m sure I will. You always did have a good eye.

  When I get back, I’m going to ask you to marry me. I know I’m not much of a prospect, but the one thing I’ve got is money, and I want you to have it. I know you don’t need it – you’ve made a success of your business without my help – but do whatever you like with it. Sorry if that’s not the most romantic proposal you’ve ever had. I could do all the love stuff, and Christ knows, I’ve got enough of that for you, but I don’t think it’s what you want to hear right now.

  By the way, the other phone call was from some guy called Charles Miller. Said he’d ring again tomorrow.

  Gerald

  Nineteen

  The pilot’s voice came over the tannoy: ‘Cabin crew, prepare for landing.’ The seat belt signs were illuminated and the main lights dimmed. The atmosphere on the plane changed: seats shifted to upright; books and newspapers put away; bags in overhead lockers consulted. As they circled Heathrow, Vanessa couldn’t believe only a week had passed since she’d set off across the Atlantic in the opposite direction. The phone call came out of the blue. ‘Vanessa, Mammy’s had a stroke. The hospital say it’s serious.’ She hadn’t recognised the voice, deep and throaty, the accent a strange mingling of an Irish lilt with a harsher American drawl. ‘Who is this?’ she’d asked. ‘Catherine,’ the voice said. Catherine? Her little sister, Catherine?

  Meeting the slim young woman at the airport in Boston, Vanessa had a jolt of recognition. It was like looking at herself ten years ago, but a braver, bolder, more beautiful self than she had ever been. Vanessa still struggled to tame her hair into straightness: Catherine’s auburn frizz had been allowed to grow into a wonderfully wild Afro.

  They’d gone straight to the hospital. Vanessa leant over the bed. ‘Mammy, it’s me.’

  Her mother’s eyes opened, and her mouth twitched in what Vanessa thought was a smile.

  ‘She hasn’t spoken since it happened,’ Catherine said.

  Vanessa glanced at her. ‘I’m sure she knows me.’

  ‘Of course, she does. She’s always talking about ‘our Nessa’.’

  ‘But why didn’t she … ’ What was the point asking the question? The years had passed. Vanessa’s brother and sister had grown up on the other side of the world, the man her mother had married had died two years before. Her mother was old. Faced with this little wizened woman, almost unrecognisable as the force that had been her Mammy, it didn’t matter why her mother had chosen not to see her again after she married Gerald. She took her mother’s hand in hers. It felt clammy.

  What if she’d known how it would turn out? What if she hadn’t gone to Gerald’s that day, if she’d stayed at Mrs Cochrane’s as her mother wanted, finished her course, gone to Ireland in the holidays, perhaps even moved to the States with the rest of her family? What if … Vanessa felt her mother’s fingers move against her palm. Her eyes stared into Vanessa’s. What was she trying to say?

  ‘I know, Mammy,’ Vanessa whispered. ‘… but only for if, we’d be happy today.’

  Her mother lips lifted again for a moment.

  Vanessa was asleep when the phone call came. At two am her mother had suffered another stroke. She and Catherine took a taxi to the hospital, arriving to find their mother’s breaths becoming shallower and less frequent. Until they stopped.

  Vanessa’s brother, Daniel arrived the next day. He was a law student in Pennsylvania. His long curly hair, beard and heavy dark-rimmed glasses showed nothing of the little boy Vanessa remembered. She felt tongue-tied. With Catherine, it was different. Arranging the funeral, sharing memories of their mother, the time when their father had been alive and they’d lived together as a family, it was as if the intervening years had never been. The age gap, which had yawned between them when they were younger, didn’t seem significant.

  Catherine was studying textiles and design. ‘Do you remember all those bits of material you had in the bedroom?’

  ‘My store of fabrics?’ Vanessa said. ‘It was the nearest I could get to fashion.’

  ‘I used to play with them when you weren’t there,’ Catherine said.

  ‘But I kept that suitcase locked.’

  Catherine screwed up her face. ‘I knew where you hid the key. I made a coat for one of my dolls from some of your red velvet.’

  Vanessa laughed. ‘You cheeky thing.’

  ‘I was scared you’d find out, but you didn’t even notice.’

  Vanessa glanced round the cramped living room of the family’s apartment. The material on the arms of the sofa was wearing thin, and the drop-leaf table and chairs were made from chipboard. ‘How’s it been, Catherine?’ she asked. ‘Did it work out coming over here?’

  Catherine shrugged. ‘Mammy and Joe had to work hard.’

  ‘Mammy went out to work?’

  ‘She had
a job in a convenience store to help with our school fees.’

  ‘Was she happy with Joe?’

  ‘I guess so. But she was always talking about you and Da.’

  When the time came for Vanessa to leave America, she felt sad she hadn’t been able to connect with her brother, but even sadder she’d connected so well with Catherine, only to lose her again.

  ‘I’ll write,’ she promised, as they hugged at the airport.

  ‘Call me,’ Catherine said.

  ‘I will. And try to come to London. You could meet the girls.’

  ‘My little nieces.’

  ‘They’d love you. I know they would.’

  Vanessa phoned Lizzie from the airport to say she’d landed.

  ‘The kids are asleep,’ Lizzie told her. ‘No point waking them. Pick them up after school tomorrow.’

  ‘Are they all right?’

  ‘Fine. High as kites when they heard you’d soon be home.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see them.’

  ‘They’ve missed you, and so have I.’

  The house seemed cold and strange. She went from room to room, reaffirming her bit of security in a tilting world. Lizzie had put the post on the table in the hall. The corner of a thin blue airmail letter stuck out from the browns and whites of the rest of the pile. Later, she would read that later.

  In the front room, Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook lay face down on the glass coffee table. Vanessa had been reading it the night Catherine rang. It was one from Lizzie’s list. The main character, Anna Wulf, keeps four notebooks. ‘That’s what we’ll do, Vanessa,’ Lizzie had said. ‘We’ll both keep notebooks. I’ll have one for Alan, miserable little prick, one for my sociology class, one for my women’s group. You can have one for your knitting stuff, one for books you read with your comments, one for … ’ Lizzie caught Vanessa’s eye. ‘All right, one for Gerald, but you’re only allowed to write in it occasionally!’

  Lizzie organised Vanessa as if she were a campaign. When Lizzie stood up to address a meeting, Vanessa felt a sense of awe: she would never have that belief in herself, that assurance. Since Alan had gone off with his latest PA, Lizzie’s confidence had soared. She couldn’t understand how Gerald’s departure had left Vanessa broken and bewildered.