Laying the Ghosts

by Catherine Thornton

  “What would have happened if your mother hadn’t died when she did?”

  “I don’t know. Not a lot probably. They could only have had a reasonable relationship if they had taken the time to sort out whatever is was that was wrong between them. If my father could have been more affectionate, not just locked himself away and ignored us all the time. But my father just stuck his head in the sand and pretended nothing was wrong. I suppose that in the end my mother just lost heart. She got on with what she had to do and never grumbled and kept all her unhappiness and loneliness locked inside. When she was killed I couldn’t help feeling that it wasn’t entirely accidental. I don’t mean that she committed suicide or anything like that. I just think that her sense of self-preservation wasn’t as strong as it might have been if she had more to live for. I suppose I held my father responsible for her death in an oblique sort of way. Still, as I say, I don’t suppose that he can help being an insensitive, thick-skinned bastard any more than my mother could help being too timid to make him face up to things.”

  “Do you take sugar?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “I forgot.”

  There was a moment’s silence as they both sipped their coffee.

  “Shall we take some coffee up to my family or let them sleep it off?”

  “Let them sleep it off. We can take ours upstairs and sit under my duvet. It’s cold down here.”

  “Alright.”

  Alex listened to them retreating upstairs. He sat motionless, cold with sweat. He was appalled at what Rupert had said. He had put into words all the niggling, guilty suspicions that he had taken such care to ignore. So Rupert had disliked him all this time! Hadn’t Mary said that there must be a reason why his son avoided him? How had he failed to notice that his son actively resented the way he had treated Alice? Probably by never thinking about his relationship with his wife. But had he really been all that bad a husband? After all, he had never been unfaithful to her. And they had never argued much. But even as Alex tried to convince himself that he had not behaved badly, memories of one of the few times when there had been angry words between him and his wife came rushing into his mind. It had been a few weeks before Alice died and he had walked into the bedroom to find her crying silently on the bed. As soon as he saw her he felt angry. It always made him angry to see Alice in tears.

  “What’s the matter with you now?” he had said.

  She looked up at him with big, wet eyes.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  “Well, if it’s nothing go and wash your face. You’ve made your eyes red.” He hadn’t meant to be unkind and he knew that he had said the wrong thing, but knowing this just irritated him more. Alice reacted with a rare flash of anger.

  “Is that all you can manage by way of sympathy? Is that really the best you can do?” She had glared at him for a second and then burst into renewed sobs.

  “For goodness sake, Alice! Pull yourself together. What on earth is it that you want from me?”

  “What do I want?” She gulped and wiped her nose on a hanky. “Oh, nothing important. Just a bit of kindness. You won’t even talk to me properly. Not much to ask, is it? All I want is some affection. When do you ever kiss me or put your arm around me?”

  “You’re talking rubbish. You know I do.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean in bed. There’s no lack of touching and holding in bed. But that’s not love! Half the time I don’t believe that you even know that it’s me you’re making love to.”

  “Alice, you don’t know what you are talking about. You are over-emotional. I think you just imagine things. You know I’ve never been unfaithful to you.”

  “I know that, Alex, but that’s not the point.”

  “Well, what is the point?”

  “The point is that you don’t love me.” The tears streamed down her face.

  “Of course I love you. You are my wife.” He wanted to give her the reassurance she seemed to need so that she would stop her dreadful weeping. As it was she gave a harsh, almost hysterical, laugh. He heard the front door open and shut downstairs.

  “Now, Alice, that’s probably Rupert. You knew he was coming home for the weekend. Why choose now to make a scene? You’d better dry your eyes and tidy yourself up. You mustn’t let him see you like this.” He was relieved to see that she made an effort to stop her tears and he left her drying her face whilst he went to tell Rupert that his mother would be down in a minute and that she had a bit of a headache.

  Alex recalled this scene vividly and he recalled it with shame. Alice had cried because she had wanted him to show that he loved her. The problem was that, when he saw her there, red faced and weeping, he was unable to ignore the fact that he quite simply did not love her. He felt guilty for not loving her but this guilt just made him angry and drove out any kinder feelings that he might otherwise have had. At the same time he was angry with Alice for forcing him to recognise this dilemma.

  Perhaps Rupert was right in thinking that he had treated Alice badly. But if Alex felt any shame at how he had treated his wife once they were married, he felt even greater shame at the thought of the reasoning that had led him into the marriage in the first place. It had seemed so straight forward at the time. He wanted a wife. He had finished at university and was taking up his first job. So he had needed someone to keep house for him. Of course he could have done that for himself, but there was another reason why he wanted a wife. His religious upbringing had only one lasting effect on him and that was to make him prejudiced against sexual immorality and to despise people he judged to be promiscuous. Unfortunately this was about as far as his understanding of morality had extended at the time. So he did what he considered to be the proper thing: he found himself a wife. The thought that she might make demands of her own did not occur to him. He and Alice had been friendly and they had shared an interest in music. It had seemed so simple. It was only when he discovered that she had emotional needs of her own which he could not satisfy that he knew that he had made a mistake. Alex thought again of the accusation that Emma had made. She had said that the only thing that he seemed able to respond to was lust. Perhaps she had been right. He wasn’t certain that he even knew what love was; although he was pretty sure that he had never loved Alice. Their years together had instilled in him a fondness or affection for her that it had sometimes suited him to equate with love, but he never quite succeeded in fooling himself that it was so. As for the other relationships he had formed, there was no doubt that those were entirely based on lust. Perhaps he had other feelings for Emma but he had no way of distinguishing between love, lust or any other emotion come to that.

  Alex was sitting in the same chair when Mary walked into the room.

  “There you are! I looked into your room thinking that you were still asleep. How long have you been in here?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  “I am actually.” His limbs had become almost numb with cold.

  “Are you alright, Alex?”

  “I’ve got a bit of a hangover.”

  “No, I mean really alright. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Mary sat on the arm of a chair. After a moment she took his hand. “You’re freezing!” she exclaimed.

  “I’m alright, Mary.”

  “I’ll get you some coffee.”She got up and walked towards the door, but he called her back.

  “Mary?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you tell love from lust?”

  “Goodness! What an extraordinary question. To be honest I’m not sure that I know. Don’t the two go together, if you’re talking romantic love?”

  “Do they?”

  “Well, perhaps not always.” She thought for a moment and then said, “I suppose that if you like the idea of jumping into bed with someone but you wouldn’t care to have a conversation with them afterwards then it’s pure lust. If you’d like to spend as much time with them as possible and the sex is just the
icing on the cake, then it’s probably love.”

  “I suppose a combination of the two is possible?”

  “I’d have thought so. But why on earth are you asking me such things at this time in the morning?”

  Alex took hold of Mary’s hand. “Purely academic my dear sister. Now, what about that coffee?”

  As soon as the Grahams’ second wave of guests had departed, Alex realised that the time had come for him to consider the implications of his resignation. After the initial impact of learning his son’s opinion of his past conduct had worn off he had slipped back into the post-Christmas routine of family walks and visits without considering anything more important than whether to take Anne, his second sister, wine or chocolates when he paid a visit on the first Sunday of the year. Alex was as phlegmatic as ever in his son’s company. He was not angry with Rupert for speaking of him in so critical a manner, but neither did he use his increased knowledge of his son’s feelings in an attempt to reach a better understanding with him. The two remained bound by the ties of duty but divided by their individual memories of Alice Dowding. They parted with the same polite indifference as always. Thus, on the day when Alex should have returned to school he found himself alone with his sister.

  “When are you planning to leave us?” Inquired Mary as Alex helped her to dry up the breakfast things. “Not that I’m in any hurry to get rid of you. It’s only that I need to know how much food to buy.”

  “I was tentatively thinking of looking for a property down here. I might pop into the estate agent this morning and see what’s on the market. Then I suppose I’ll have to return home and set about selling the house there.”

  “Well! That’s not what I was expecting. Will you be looking for a job down here as well?”

  “In time. To be honest there’s no real hurry. I never touched the money father left me.”

  “Goodness gracious! My share seemed to evaporate on contact with my bank account.”

  “That’s the penalty of having a large family.”

  “Well, you are welcome to stay here as long as you like until you find somewhere to live. I’ll be delighted to have you for a neighbour.”

  “I’m afraid I have every intention of taking you up on that offers, as long as Brian doesn’t object. I’ll probably return next weekend and sort out the house. I’m not in any hurry to return, if that’s alright?”

  “I’ll be pleased to have the company.”

  “Mary, you really do have the patience of a saint.”

  “That’s another side effect of having a large family.”

  Alex was not sure when he had determined to leave his home of nearly twenty years, but having made the decision he saw that it would have been impossible to carry on living there. Searching for a new house also gave some impetus to his life, at least for the immediate future. If it hadn’t been for this self-appointed task he would have been at a loss as to what to do with the empty days that now stretched out before him. His intention was to buy somewhere in need of renovation. He would do all the work himself. This newly found interest occupied a considerable part of Alex’s mind. The other thought that occupied him was how Emma would be coping. Had Jean Jones been to see her? He knew that he had treated Emma deplorably, but there was nothing he could do to remedy that fact. What he hoped was that there was someone there to give her the support she would need. Perhaps there was some relation after all.

  Alex, try as he would, could not rid himself of his concern for Emma or the niggling feeling that he was himself partly responsible for the difficulties she now faced. Eventually he decided that the only way he could entirely forget Emma was by finding out if she had someone to help her overcome the grief of losing her mother and to help her make plans for the future. Once this idea had entered his head he could not rest until he had acted on it. Jean Jones would almost certainly have kept herself informed about Emma and his concern may seem quite appropriate to her. Nonetheless it was with considerable apprehension that he phoned the headmistress. Jean’s voice sounded shrill and unfamiliar over the phone.

  “Jean Jones speaking.”

  “It’s Alex Dowding here.”

  “Hallo, Alex. How are you?”

  “I’m well, thankyou. Listen Jean, I really phoned to find out how Emma Tomlinson is. I was thinking about what you told me about her mother’s illness. I don’t suppose that there is anything I could do to help?”

  “I’m sure Emma would appreciate your concern. I have spoken to her a few times and I went to see her just before Christmas. She didn’t seem to want to talk much at the time but it seems that her mother’s condition is deteriorating. I have tried to find out when she intends to return to school but she seems rather vague.”

  “Do you think it would be a good idea if I phoned her?”

  “Emma did actually ask after you. She wanted to know if you’d found a new teaching post. It might be a good idea for you to go and see her. She may respond better to you than to me.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’m in Devon at the moment.”

  “Oh well, a telephone call would suffice. I think any gesture of support would be important to Emma at the moment. I’ll find you her number...ah, here it is.” She recited the number to Alex and he wrote it down. “Have you got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you sorted things out now Alex?”

  “More or less.”

  “Keep in touch.”

  “Yes. Well, goodbye for now, Jean.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Alex put down the receiver. There was no doubt about it, the prospect of phoning Emma unnerved him. He dialled the number quickly without stopping to consider what sort of reception he might get. After all, she might not be in. A female voice answered.

  “Is that Emma?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Alex Dowding here.”

  Silence.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine thankyou.”

  “I meant your mother really.” He had never before realised how difficult it was to address a plastic receiver.

  “No better.”

  The awkwardness of the ensuing pause made him say more than he had intended.

  “I just wanted you to know that I was thinking of you.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Well, goodbye Emma.”

  “Alex! Don’t go yet. Tell me where you are?”

  “I’m in Devon. At my sister’s house.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “No.”

  “So I won’t see you again?”

  “No.”

  “Goodbye then Alex.” She put the received down. Alex did likewise but remained seated for a few minutes. Rather than reassuring him, the brief conversation had left him more dissatisfied than before. The telephone was such a sterile form of communication. And Emma had the knack of disturbing his peace of mind. He wondered if it was a calculated move on her part. The way she used his name. And did she know that tears and accusations would drive him away but that small, sad voice would stir him? He drummed his fingers on the telephone table in agitation.

  Alex left his sister on Sunday afternoon having warned her that he would be back as soon as he had put his house on the market. He also mentioned the fact that if his neighbour had tired of feeding Dahlia and Daisy they might accompany him on his return journey. It was the cats who greeted him as he opened the front door to his house. They wound round his legs and purred vociferously, seemingly oblivious to his thoughtless absence. He obligingly scratched their ears for a moment before he picked up the pile of post that had accumulated on the doormat. He took the letters into his study. The room was cold, but he did not feel inclined to fetch logs in the dark, so he went to the bedroom and collected the electric fire. He found the cold, empty house depressing. Now that he no longer taught at the local school the place had lost its relevance. He would be glad to move away.

  Alex sat down to open his post, permitting Dahlia
to climb onto his lap as he did so. There were several Christmas cards and a few bills, but what immediately caught his attention was a scrap of white paper which had been folded in two. He quickly unfolded it and read the familiar, untidy writing .

  My dear Alex - I wanted you to know that my mother died this morning. I wish you had been here.

  Yours, Emma.

  It was typical of her: brief, evocative and uninformative. For a second he pictured Emma standing on the doorstep in her shabby, blue coat, her dark hair loose and her face pale. Had she come hoping to find him here? What in God’s name had she expected from him? She certainly had no reason to hope for either love or kindness. He had already proved himself incapable of any decent behaviour. Alex put his head in his hands. Was he so afraid of his confused motives for being interested in her that he could not even allow himself to offer her a little support at this crisis in her life? My god! What had he done to the girl? And yet, for what it was worth, he knew that he did actually care about her. He looked at the letter again. She had not dated it. When had he telephoned her? Tuesday. The note must have been delivered in the past five days, perhaps even that same day. He had no idea where Emma lived and his note of her telephone number had been left at Mary’s. The only thing to do was to call the school the next morning. Jean would know when the funeral was to be. He decided to have a night-cap. If he felt the same in the morning he would telephone the school.