The Poets' Wives

by David Park

  ‘Every day, Francesca. Every day.’

  She felt her daughter put her arms protectively around her and hug her tightly. Then almost as quickly she let her go again as if embarrassed. A thick swell of water shucked up against the wall and a fine shiver of spray landed near their feet.

  ‘When I was a girl we used to fish for crabs here and I was always a little frightened that a wave would come and snatch me. Sometimes when it’s very stormy it’s not safe to stand here. Do you think about Rory, Francesca?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes. I miss the way he would come and stay a night or so at the beginning or the end of one of his trips. I used to tease him that he thought I was a hotel that never charged for a bed. I still have some of his things – a few books, some postcards and drawings, a couple of maps, even a bit of climbing equipment.’

  ‘What climbing equipment?’

  ‘Just a few bits and pieces – I think they’re called carabiners. Things for hooking yourself on.’

  ‘You wouldn’t throw any of it out, would you?’ she asked, trying too late to edge the concern out of her voice.

  ‘No, Mum, I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘If they take up too much space you can send them to me.’

  ‘Would you like to have them?’

  She nodded then turned her face away in case she might cry but she fixed her eyes on the distant cargo ship and forbade herself. There was only the restless sound of the sea. Why had she ever allowed her son to be buried in his father’s black suit? Why had she allowed him to be clothed in the vestments of death and buried under the earth when all his life he had sought to be in the light of distant mysteries? But it was her daughter who needed her now as she heard her say, ‘Why was Dad always so disappointed in me?’

  ‘If there’s disappointment, Francesca,’ she said, taking both her daughter’s hands as if they were about to share the first steps in some dance to silent music, ‘then it should be yours because if he didn’t realise that he had the most lovely of daughters who’s kind to everyone who crosses her path and who is talented and creative and who’s worked so hard to make a successful business, then he didn’t deserve to be your father.’

  ‘Sometimes we talk about him as if he’s still here and it matters what he thinks,’ she said, sniffing and breathing deeply as if suddenly there wasn’t enough air. ‘But he was disappointed, wasn’t he? He was always disappointed.’

  ‘There was something in Don that grew bitter over the years. Maybe he felt his talents were overlooked, maybe he didn’t feel as if he’d completely fulfilled them – I don’t know. It wasn’t anything that was your fault and you shouldn’t think that even for a moment.’

  She pulled Francesca into her embrace and as she nestled her head on her shoulder she felt the shock of hearing her crying. ‘Francesca, Francesca,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ She rocked her a little as if she were a child again and as if the motion might free the pain. ‘Soon we won’t have to worry about what he thought, and there was no one who disappointed him more than I did.’ She gently prised her daughter free from her but only so that she could see her face. ‘Francesca, we don’t need to care any more. And tomorrow morning it’s all over for good so please don’t punish yourself. Please don’t.’

  Francesca nodded but wouldn’t look at her and she felt suddenly angry, angry with him but also with herself for letting him do this to her child. Then taking her hand she moved them both closer to the edge. ‘Look, Francesca, this is where it ends.’ A light wisp of spray dark-spotted their coats and they stepped back again. ‘In the morning we’ll do as he wanted and put his ashes in the sea and pray it doesn’t throw them back at us.’

  Francesca pretended to laugh before she said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you this. I don’t know why I’m saying these things – it’s really stupid. Let’s go back before the sun goes in again.’

  They walked back along the pier separated by their silence but uncertain about what should be said and whether too much had already been spoken. On the beach now there was a jogger, a couple of dog walkers and a mother and father shepherding a toddler away from the water. Francesca lifted her face again to the light and breathed deeply as if inhaling all the freshness of the morning. Her eyes closed for a second.

  ‘You wouldn’t mind if I sold the cottage, sure you wouldn’t?’

  ‘No, you must do whatever you think is best for you now. It’ll probably take all your time keeping up one place without the cottage as well. But the market’s not good now, so Anna’s right, perhaps you should wait a while and see if it picks up. And you’re all right for money, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, there’s enough to get by on if I don’t go crazy.’

  ‘Maybe, Mum, you deserve to go a little crazy – live a little.’

  ‘Francesca, even if I wanted to go crazy I wouldn’t know how.’

  They nodded as the dog walkers passed them and watched as the dogs were sent scampering after balls that were thrown by a plastic stick. The jogger was a young woman who ran along the water’s edge and puffed out a red-cheeked ‘morning’ to them when they crossed. Out at sea the cargo ship had disappeared as if it had simply fallen over the edge of the horizon.

  ‘You could go on a cruise – lots of single people take them.’

  ‘There is somewhere I’d like to go,’ she said, hesitating for a second. They were almost stepping in the footsteps they had made earlier. ‘I’d like to go back to Morocco and visit the village, make a small donation to the school – they were kind to me.’

  ‘Are you sure, Mum?’

  ‘I’m sure, Francesca. I’m going to go before the end of the year.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘That’s good of you but I want to go on my own.’

  They followed their prints back across the beach talking about inconsequential things but she was conscious of everything that had passed between them and had surprised herself by saying that she would go before the year’s end. It was as if the decision had been finally and impulsively made during their walk and the words spoken before she had time to allow doubts to consolidate. And she’ll take a brand-new map with the world’s countries marked as they really are and just maybe they’ll give her theirs in exchange. She’ll give them money to buy new books and things they need for the school and she’ll take a guide and walk in the mountains. The decision filled her with new determination and all that seemed to stand between her and its fulfilment was the required ritual in the morning.

  When they returned to the cottage Francesca said she wasn’t used to so much fresh air and was going to lie down for half an hour. Anna was still sitting at the table at her laptop and talking to someone on her phone and it sounded as if she was speaking to a child, trying to reassure them about something, making promises. She went into the kitchen and made some new coffee and when it was ready took one up to Francesca who had got under the duvet.

  ‘It must be the travelling,’ Francesca said, ‘and all that fresh air out there.’

  She set the cup at the side of the bed and briefly stroked her daughter’s head before telling her she deserved a rest and to stay there as long as she wanted. As she walked back down the stairs she told herself that it was like having a child again who was feeling unwell and there was a pleasure in being there to look after her. She took Anna a cup, Anna who never seemed to need any nursing and always appeared to be imbued with an inner strength. The phone conversation had ended but her mobile rested on the table close to her hand and as she drank the coffee she lifted it from time to time and turned it in her hand like a worry stone before setting it down again. Her daughter’s restlessness made her uneasy but she didn’t know what to say so instead she sipped her coffee and waited silently for whatever conversation, if any, might begin.

  ‘I suppose I should get a walk on the beach and blow some of the London air out of my lungs.’

  ‘You’ll have your chance tomorrow morning. I hope i
t’s a day like this and not stormy.’

  ‘Is Francesca all right?’

  ‘I think she’s just a bit worn out. She’ll be all right when she gets a rest and we get this over with.’

  ‘Why is he making us do this?’ she asked, lifting her phone, almost as if she was going to ring him and demand an explanation.

  ‘Because he was selfish and always insistent on what he believed was his entitlement, I suppose.’

  ‘Selfish in life and selfish in death,’ Anna said as she set the phone down again. ‘I don’t know how you stuck it all those years.’

  ‘It wasn’t always like that.’

  ‘So what was it like?’

  She looked at her daughter who was scrutinising her intently in a way that made her uncomfortable and which made her feel as if she was about to be interviewed professionally rather than personally. She felt too that if she were to be weighed in her child’s judgement then she would be found wanting. It wasn’t judgement she wanted now so she said, ‘I suppose like most marriages it had its ups and downs.’

  ‘So there were ups?’

  ‘Yes and as I said to Francesca my marriage gave me three children I’m very proud of. That’s something I’m grateful for.’

  There were a few seconds of silence while Anna appeared to be pondering her mother’s words and momentarily unsure of what her next question should be so she took advantage of the hesitation to ask about the story she was working on.

  ‘I’m doing a series of articles on human trafficking – it’s the most important thing I’ve been given to do so far. It’s an ongoing piece of work and I’m investigating how illegal immigrants are farmed out to various industries where they work for minimal wages, often in appalling conditions, and then get most of the pittance they’ve been paid taken off them for the privilege of being allowed to live in some doss house.’

  ‘It’s a terrible thing. But how do you go about finding out about it?’

  ‘It’s not straightforward because everything’s controlled by fear so it’s not easy getting someone to talk to you. I’ve had to do a little undercover work a few times and I have a contact in the Met who’s allowed me to follow some of their investigations first-hand. The sex trade is the worst – what happens to some young women who think they’re coming to decent jobs and better lives.’

  ‘God help them. But it sounds dangerous, Anna – you’re careful, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m careful, Mum. It’s not a world where you can afford to take big risks. There’s too many dangerous people who have too much to lose by being exposed. But there’s experienced people in the paper advising me and I have to get their approval for everything I do. So I’m not about to disappear at any moment or anything.’

  She was frightened for her child but knew that if she were to show it or make too much of a fuss then she would be told nothing more.

  ‘Was that someone you were talking to on the phone who’s helping you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s a young Chinese girl who’s labouring for a gang-master on farms. Back-breaking work for less than the minimum wage and sleeping in a Second World War Nissen hut. She’s educated, paid the equivalent of two years’ salary to come and this is the life she’s found. I’ve got to know her as much as that’s possible. Given her some money and a phone.’

  ‘I didn’t hear what she was saying but I guess from the way you were speaking to her that she was frightened.’

  ‘Yes she’s frightened but frightened even more of what might happen to her in the future.’

  ‘Anna, you’ll take care of her, make sure no harm comes to her, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, Mum.’

  ‘And take care of yourself as well.’

  Anna stretched her hand across the table and patted her arm but it was like the half-hearted reassurance that might be given to a child by a weary parent and she took no comfort in it. She was glad when her daughter closed the laptop and slipped her phone in her pocket as if to signal that this world of potential danger had been set aside. However it was difficult after what she had heard to know how to make further conversation without it sounding like inconsequential and even insensitive small talk so she got up from the table and busied herself about the kitchen. She heard Anna go into the front room and then her voice asking, ‘Was the Don working on anything?’

  She turned from the sink and watched her daughter perusing his writing desk.

  ‘I suppose he was always working on something but there was just bits and pieces. I’ll send whatever there was to his agent.’

  There was something forensic about Anna, in the way she touched things, the way she lifted objects and looked at them. She wondered if that was a good thing in relation to love and thought that it might be in that it would prevent her ever being taken in by the false but also that she might never be able to see beyond the flaws, the fine cracks that veined most people’s souls.

  ‘If you see anything you want please take it.’

  ‘You didn’t find a diary or a journal, did you?’ Anna asked as she examined a fountain pen.

  ‘No, as far as I know Don didn’t keep a diary and if he did I’m not sure I’d want to read it. I suppose the poems were his diary.’

  She watched Anna sit at his desk and place her arms on the wood at right angles to her body as if weighting herself while she saw what her father saw when he looked through the window.

  ‘Did he ever read any of my pieces?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know for sure but my guess is that he did. Even though he liked to pretend indifference or that he was too preoccupied I think he was always curious about things so I think that he probably read them all.’

  ‘He never said once.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Anna, I’m truly sorry.’

  ‘It’s not for you to be sorry.’

  ‘It feels like I should be.’

  Her daughter said nothing but lifted the pen up to the light before asking, ‘Can I keep this?’

  ‘Of course but is there nothing else you’d like?’

  ‘No, just this pen.’

  The light streaming through the window illuminated the side of her daughter’s face and glinted the thin streaks of red into life. She saw for the first time that she seemed older, older and a little tired. She wanted to go to her but in the passing seconds where she weighed up whether her daughter would want it or not the opportunity slipped away.

  ‘Let’s go out for lunch,’ Anna said, suddenly standing up. ‘Let’s all go out together. Why don’t we go round to the Ramore? Is it still there?’

  ‘It’s still there but I’ve lots of stuff in if you just want to stay here.’

  ‘No let’s all go out and have a change of scene. Whenever Francesca comes down,’ she said as she slipped the pen into the pocket of her trousers. ‘I’ll go and check on sis.’

  ‘Don’t waken her if she’s sleeping. I think she’s a bit drained.’ Anna smiled at her and she knew she’d told her something that wasn’t necessary. Wanting to redeem herself she asked, ‘What’s the girl’s name – the Chinese girl?’

  ‘Jiao.’

  ‘What age is she?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘I know it’s a stupid thing to say but if there’s ever anything I can do to help her, with money or anything, I’d like to.’

  ‘It’s not a stupid thing to say – it’s a nice thing – but I’m hoping the paper might be able to pull some strings when we publish,’ she said as she paused at the bottom of the stairs.

  Her hand held the banister and her new rings caught the light. The sun coming in through the porch window nestled against the side of her face and revealed the first fine lines beginning to linger at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Strangers were good to Rory when he was in a different country,’ she said, her voice shaking a little. ‘So if there’s ever any way we can help this young woman we should.’

  For a second she thought that Anna was going to come to her but ins
tead she simply nodded and then went upstairs, her steps muffled by the carpet.

  She went back to the kitchen and pottered aimlessly about trying to calm herself through being busy. It would be best to go out and escape the confines of the cottage. And if neither of her daughters did nostalgia then it might still be nice to retrace some of the places they had frequented as a young family. She heard both their voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. In the riad where they had stayed there were two young women who did all the work, cooking and serving the meals. Working from early in the morning. When she woke their voices talking quietly in the small kitchen close to her room was the first thing she heard. Unobtrusive, moving like whispers through the courtyard and with whatever was their own lives entirely hidden from public view. She wanted to ask if they too had children but knew they didn’t wish to have conversation beyond what was the polite necessity. When on that morning the younger of the two brought her a breakfast unasked to the roof terrace where she sat looking at the distant mountains she wondered if she knew she had a dead son. She thought of asking her name but hesitated because when so much of her was hidden it seemed like an intrusion. She had made herself eat what little she could of the breakfast but without taking her eyes away from the mountains.

  When Francesca eventually appeared she seemed restored to her former self and Anna was close by her side as if in custody of her younger sister.

  ‘So, Mum, are we going to do a tour of the north coast’s exciting attractions?’

  ‘Can we get ice-cream in Morelli’s?’ Francesca asked as she pinned up some wisps of her hair.

  ‘Yes and you can go on the dodgems in Barry’s if you want and eat candyfloss,’ Anna said.

  ‘I would think the dodgems are out, girls – from memory it’s closed now for the season. But if you’re serious we can go to Morelli’s,’ she said. ‘When you were children you used to think it such a treat except you used to drive your father mad because you took so long to make up your minds about what flavour you were going to have. But let’s get lunch first. It’ll be good to get out and you can see how things have changed, if they have of course.’