by Sarah Wray
Detective Fisher had passed me their number as she left the caravan.
‘I probably shouldn’t even be giving you this,’ she said. ‘But, just give him a ring. And if anyone asks, you didn’t get it from me.’
It was his wife – Margaret, she told me to call her – who answered the phone. She introduced herself when I told her who I was. Called me dear. ‘Brian, it’s her,’ I heard her whisper, loudly, even though I could tell she had her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.
Brian took a while to get to the phone. I imagined him sighing, putting his paper down, struggling to get out of his chair.
‘Hello, love,’ he said. He sounded more amiable than I expected. I was so nervous about calling. ‘I thought you might ring sooner or later. You better come over, love. It will be better in person, I think. Do you mind, love? I can come to you, if you prefer.’
When I knock, Margaret answers. She’s wearing a pink velour tracksuit, cosy-looking – and fur-lined slippers. Her dyed blonde hair is perfectly tonged into place away from her face, and her make-up is old-fashioned but precise – turquoise eye shadow and a metallic pink lipstick.
‘Come on in, pet,’ she says, touching my upper arm to pull me inside.
The bungalow is cluttered but tidy and immaculately clean – the cream carpet looks barely walked on, so I remove my shoes.
When we go into the front room, Brian is fiddling with the reclining armchair he is sitting in, putting it upright again. Horse-racing is on the TV.
‘Eeeeh, turn that off, Brian,’ Margaret says, already pressing the ‘off’ switch. It’s an old TV – the picture shrinks to a tiny square in the centre before disappearing.
‘Fancy a cup of tea, love?’ Margaret asks. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ she adds, without waiting for an answer.
Her eyes lock with Brian’s. I can see they’ve discussed how this will go before I arrived. He’s awkward, nervous. He doesn’t know how to handle the situation.
Behind, there’s a dark brown cabinet, a half-drunk bottle of brandy, egg-yellow advocaat and a dusty bottle of ouzo. They have crystal-style glasses like Mum used to have at the house. Lots of ornaments: a china Labrador, a wicker swan full of dried flowers.
There are family pictures. Brian and Margaret next to a woman in a wedding dress with big, puffy, 1980s sleeves. Their wedding photo is there too, black and white.
I’ll start.
‘So, I understand you saw my husband, Chris, by the river.’
‘I did, love, that’s right. Listen… I’m really sorry for everything that you’ve been through. I… I feel bad about the whole thing now. When I rang the police – I didn’t know what we know now – you know, about the young lassy. Terrible business,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘But Miss Fisher rang me, she’s very nice. She told me what had happened. She said would I talk to you about when I saw him… Chris.’
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me,’ I say, trying to spur him on.
Margaret appears with the tea – china cups and a teapot with a tea cosy on a tray, a plate of biscuits. A fluffy white dog scampers at her feet.
‘I… I… I just don’t know if I should be saying anything. I don’t know if it feels right,’ Brian says.
Margaret shoots him another look. ‘Just talk to her. She’s his wife, Brian,’ she says, firmly but kindly.
Brain nods, resigned. ‘I saw him up by the river, back in the summer when all this happened. That day,’ he says. ‘He wasn’t right.’
I can see it’s paining him.
‘I was walking her, wasn’t I?’ He points at the dog, scrunching her fur. ‘He was upset. Your husband.’
‘Where was he? I don’t understand why he was there,’ I say. ‘Was he going to jump?’
I see Margaret put her hand up to her mouth.
‘It wasn’t that, love. He was just sitting on one of the benches there. It were a sunny day. Do you remember that week, in July? Well, ’course you do. Sorry, love, I weren’t thinking. ’Course you bloody remember it. Anyway, he were reading. It was this one that went over to him.’ He gestures at the dog. ‘She’s always wanting attention, aren’t you?’
The dog looks up, its tongue hanging out.
My chest feels bruised to think of him out there alone, trying to pass the days when he should have been at work. Why couldn’t he tell me?
‘But when I went over after her, I could see he was upset. He were sitting there in a shirt and trousers. Work gear. Summat were off, you know? So I asked the lad if he were OK. Actually, silly old fool I am, I asked him if he were reading a sad book.’
A fresh pain blooms in me, at the idea of Chris upset.
‘I didn’t expect him to answer, really, but he did. He looked sort of a bit dazed, you know. He told me he lost his job.’
‘Yeah, I didn’t know about that at the time. But I found out, of course. After… after everything.’
Margaret tuts and shakes her head.
Brian shifts in his chair. ‘I didn’t push it but I thought as much. He said he had been sitting there pretending to go to work. Just reading and sitting there every day.’
He pauses and looks at Margaret. She doesn’t nod this time but she doesn’t take her eyes off him either.
‘As I say, he was upset. It feels like a betrayal repeating this.’
‘I need to know,’ I say without emotion.
‘Brian,’ is all Margaret says. She is pouring the tea.
‘He said he’d got himself in a mess. And that he’d done something he couldn’t change.’
My throat throbs.
He takes a deep breath in through his nose. ‘He said he’d gone too far. Betrayed someone in a way he never thought he would and he didn’t know if he could ever make it right again. Yeah, them were his words. I don’t want to embroider it.’
‘Did he say what he’d done?’
‘No, love. As I say, I didn’t feel like I should push him. He didn’t know me at all. I felt like he just needed to talk to someone, so I listened. That’s it.’ He shakes his head.
A betrayal. Something he could never make right again. I think of the emptied bank account, of Mum’s ring. Her twisting her hand under the light to admire the stone.
‘So you didn’t say anything?’
‘Well, I just said there’s not usually anything you can’t make right again. Especially with people you love. I’m old enough and ugly enough to know that – eh, Margaret? But that was the end of it.’
‘Are you OK, lovey? You look a bit peaky.’ Margaret is thrusting a box of tissues at me.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ I take one to be polite, and remove my scarf.
‘I mean, listen, love, I feel awful.’ Brian leans forward. ‘It were just when I saw him on the news and that, when they were appealing for information. And when I thought about what he’d said, I felt I had to go forward and tell ’em what I’d seen. Even if it were nowt. She were such a wee lassie, you know?’
‘It’s fine, I understand. You’re right – you did what you had to.’
‘But Margaret will tell you, and I told the police – I couldn’t marry the idea of him doing anything that awful. He seemed like a nice lad.’
‘He is,’ I say, feeling a rush of warmth, pain.
‘I mean I don’t know what the police made of it, I don’t – but I feel bad if it built a case against him, especially when we know now he wasn’t involved with that poor lassie. Rest her soul. I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry,’ he says. I can hear the anguish in his voice. ‘Don’t get upset.’
Margaret reaches over and takes his hand between both of hers, kissing his fingers.
‘I shouldn’t have left him, I knew at the time I shouldn’t. I felt it. I’m sorry. I don’t like to see a young lad upset like that and I don’t like to upset you.’ He shakes his head again and strokes the puppy with his free hand.
‘Do you think he jumped?’ I blurt it out. There’s no other way.
Margaret releases his hand, giving a little
start, and sips her tea sharply.
‘I can’t answer that, pet. Maybe he went away somewhere. Maybe he will come back. Maybe no news really is good news.’
It hangs in the air.
Margaret sits on the arm of the chair and puts her arm around me. Usually I would shrug someone off, shirk them away, but I let her. I even reach up and pat her arm in thanks, feeling the softness of the velour.
She says, ‘Only you can know, love, what’s best for you. It’s OK to have hope, but you’ve got to look ahead to the future for yourself as well.’
We sit for a while, until the silence becomes heavy in the air.
‘I should go.’ I stand up. ‘Brian, thank you for talking to me, for allowing me to come here. I know you didn’t have to. I know it was hard.’
‘Hey, don’t thank me, love. This is… I mean this whole thing. Who knows what to do? You look after yourself, love. Really. You take care.’ He touches my cheek. His hand is cold and rough, although the room is hot.
Margaret says she’ll see me out. I can see Brian sitting back in his chair, massaging his temples.
As I am about to leave, Margaret puts her hands on my shoulders, looking me straight in the eyes. Darker green lines across her eyelids where the eye shadow has sunk in. Her tone is almost as if she is giving me a telling off. ‘You don’t be hard on yourself now, love, you hear me? You can’t second-guess other people and you sure as hell don’t know what’s around the corner. Believe me, we oldies know that.’
I wonder what she is referring to, what pain she’s suffered.
‘And, hey now. If ever you need something, you want to talk to Brian or whatever, you come back here. Or give us a call. Any time, you hear me?’
I tell her I will. It’s a nice idea. I like the idea of drinking tea with Margaret and Brian. Perhaps watching a film or playing cards. This bungalow, it’s a nice place to be. But we both know I won’t come back.
It’s getting dark outside, some of the street lights starting to stutter on, and the wind is picking up, the paper windmills flipping round at speed.
Forty
Friday, 25 December
‘It is true that the world has had to confront moments of darkness,’ says the queen gravely. She seems to be finding it hard to think of many positive things to say about this year. I know how she feels. I dunk a fifth chocolate biscuit into cooling tea – my attempt to get into the Christmas spirit. I can at least keep some traditions, get on board with the gluttonous part of it, the staying in pyjamas all day.
I know I shouldn’t, but I flip through my phone, back through weeks and months of thoughtless snaps. Last Christmas. It is unfathomable to me how much has changed. Chris in a green party hat, proudly offering up the turkey. The first we cooked together and far too much for just two people. This time last year, we had our first Christmas in the new house. We drank fizzy wine in our pyjamas, not opening our presents until after midday. I thought it would be the new Christmas tradition.
The sky is a cold, stark grey. It will be dark soon.
I have a few cards up on the table. One from Jeannie, Dan, Ellen and Sam; another from Sandra and Geoff, promising to visit in the New Year. Jeannie bought me a new swimming costume to use at the site pool. Ellen gave me a cup with pictures of caravans on the side when I went round for tea last night.
A knock at the door makes me jump. I ignore it; it’s probably Julie trying to get me to go down to Barnacles – she said she didn’t like the idea of me spending Christmas alone. ‘Especially not this year.’
Another sharp rap.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Simon.’
‘Give me a minute! I pull jeans and a jumper on over my pyjamas. There’s a bobble in the jeans pocket and I twist my hair into a bun.
‘Let us in, will you? It’s freezing out here.’
‘Has something happened to Mum? Is she OK?’ I shout, fiddling with the lock to get the door open.
‘She’s fine. See for yourself,’ he says, stepping back.
‘Oh my God. What are you doing? Are you mad?’
Mum is in her wheelchair, looking down, and Simon stands there shivering.
‘We thought you might like some company?’
‘Erm, I don’t know if I’m a good person to be around at the moment.’
‘Don’t be daft. Just ten minutes, let your mum get warmed up? She wanted to see you... It’s Christmas. And I did too,’ he adds, mumbling.
I sigh and help him carry Mum’s wheelchair in. It barely fits through the door.
Mum looks around the caravan, wide-eyed.
‘Does it remind you of holidays, Mum? When I was a kid?’ She’s never been to the caravan before. ‘I’m not even going to start explaining,’ I say aside to Simon.
‘That’s fine,’ he answers. ‘No need today anyway, eh? Christmas dinner?’ He is holding up the half-pack of chocolate biscuits that remains.
‘You could say that.’
‘You should have stuck around this morning. I saw “Santa” had been with some presents and a card for your mum but there was no sign of you.’
‘I was in and out very early. Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. We’ve had a busy old day – Chrimbo dinner. We had a music group in this morning – playing ukuleles and singing carols. It was well good. Anyway, we’ve come to see you now. And we’ve brought some goodies! Haven’t we, Averil?’
He begins to unpack the bag. Tupperware, a bottle wrapped in paper.
‘You taking your coat off, Averil?’
I help her out of the camel-coloured woollen coat.
‘That jumper’s a cracker.’
Mum’s wearing the jumper I took her for Christmas – it’s more her style. Neat-fitting: navy, white and red stripes.
‘Looks good, Mum.’
She runs her hands up and down the sleeves.
Simon unwraps the bottle. Port. ‘Averil’s favourite, I hear?’ He gestures at Mum.
‘Yeah, she always used to drink port and lemon when were younger.’
‘Voila,’ he says, producing a small plastic bottle of Sprite.
From the Tupperware, he unpacks three cheeses, some crackers and a jar of chutney. ‘Made it myself,’ he says, tapping the jar.
‘You must have plenty of time on your hands.’
‘Says she!’ Simon nudges me.
I get some glasses and uncork the port. It makes a pleasing popping sound. It’s getting warmer in the caravan – Simon removes his scarf and hat, his face getting pink.
He rubs his hands. ‘Hey, it’s alright in here, isn’t it? Pretty cosy.’
The port is thick, rich and warming. ‘Just a drop for Mum,’ I say when I see Simon pouring her a drink. ‘She isn’t used to it.’
He shoots me a knowing look. I shouldn’t interfere. He pours Mum a glass of lemonade with a drizzle of port – the pink is barely perceptible.
‘So, how are you holding up?’ he asks. I notice he lowers his voice slightly.
‘I’m OK. You know. I’ve never been all that bothered about Christmas anyway.’ A lie. I used to love it.
‘I brought some music if you fancy it?’ he asks, reaching into his bag again.
‘No Christmas music, please.’
‘I’m not that much of a twat... oops sorry, Averil!’ But Mum hasn’t noticed. ‘I do know this is hard for you, you know. I’m not trying to be really insensitive and throw a Christmas party. Well, not a proper one anyway. I just thought you might want to mark the day in some way. Do something, have a bit of company. I don’t want to intrude either…’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you came over.’
‘Picky tea?’ he says, gesturing at the cheese. I can’t think of anything I fancy less after all those chocolate biscuits, but I take a piece anyway, grateful for the gesture.
‘I declare this spread officially open! Get stuck in.’
I feel a pang as I think back to family Christmases with Mum. I go over and give her a hug in
her chair. Her cheek is warm and soft against mine, and I stroke it as I pull away.
Mum points at the cheese.
‘Pickle?’
She nods.
I eat some too. It’s dense and pungent, heartburn fizzing in my chest as soon as I swallow it.
Simon holds up one of his CDs. ‘Or we could just be quiet. Or watch telly. I don’t mind.’
‘Erm, OK, go ahead. The player is crap, though.’ It’s a cheap one, which has a built-in radio, tape player and CD player on top, which usually skips at the slightest movement. I haven’t used it in a while. I pop the top and take the CD from him without looking at what it is, being careful to hold it in the centre.
‘Oh God, what are you doing now?’
Simon pulls a length of sparkly red tinsel from the bag and a string of knotted lights. ‘May I?’ he asks.
‘Oh, I don’t know… It’s a bit… I’m not really…’
‘I’ll take them away with me again, I promise. Let’s just do half an hour, forget all the other stuff for a bit, yeah? Go on…!’
I tut and shake my head, smiling, and he starts arranging the lights around the condensation-soaked window. He puts the tinsel around the edge of the table. ‘I even brought my own tape.’ He beams, a piece of Sellotape between his teeth.
‘Are you warm enough, Mum?’
She nods, mouth full of cheese.
It feels strange to have music filling the caravan. In such a small space, the song consumes the environment. It feels like something solid in the air that you could grab.
‘Rose Garden’ plays out, decisive strings.
‘Mum used to play this one when I was little.’
‘Yeah, she likes the old stuff when we play it back at our place. Got myself a pretty good DJ gig back there. Sea View is rocking on a Sunday afternoon.’ Simon is reaching for the CD player. ‘Sorry if it’s a bad choice of song. Am I being insensitive?’ he says.
Mum is tapping her feet to the music.
‘Don’t worry about it. You can leave it on.’
I recognise the opening strains of the next one, but I can’t put my finger on it. Mum is bobbing her head completely out of time.