‘During the war I came here with my fiancé Peter. We talked about how many children we would have when the war ended. We named them. When I heard Peter had died I think I mourned those babies almost as much as I mourned him. Silly, eh?’ Turning back to the view, she said, ‘Sometimes in crowds like this I imagine other lives I might have lived – if Peter had lived, if I hadn’t met Simon, lots of ifs. But then I always come back to you and Ben and know I would choose to live my life just as I have, because of you and your brother. I hope Annette would have approved of the way I brought you up.’
‘Of course –’
She had taken his hand and squeezed it briefly. ‘I wanted you and Ben to be close.’
He’d tried to laugh. ‘Personality clash, I’m sorry –’
‘Oh, it’s not your fault, no one’s fault.’ Briskly she said, ‘Anyway, you’re both grown up now, living your own lives, successful…it’s enough for me that you respect and care for each other.’ She’d searched his face, wanting to be reassured that he did care for his brother, and he remembered being unable to meet her eyes, feeling only the intense shame of his affair. But shame was a constant in his life. Only when he was with Susan did he feel defiant enough to overcome it, to believe that nothing mattered but his love for her.
Outside the gallery he’d forced himself to smile at his mother. ‘Shall we go in and see the paintings?’
She’d nodded and linked her arm through his.
In December 1983 she’d found him begging outside Victoria tube station. Begging was all he was fit for, haunted as he was by nightmares of sinking ships, of dead men rising from the sea still burning. He had begun to see the dead on the streets; they hailed him, hearty, pleased, although their skin hung off in ragged, black sheets. They stank of burning engine oil and he couldn’t get their stink out of his mouth and nose. And sometimes, if he turned around quickly, he would see Danny, and the dead would recede into nothingness, and the streets would become still, although he was racing: his heart, his blood, his thoughts – all speeded up as though his body was set on fast-forward. He would crouch down and cover his head with his arms. He would close his eyes tightly and pray. Slowly the streets would return to a normal pace, feet hurrying past him, ordinary, living, contemptuous feet, and he’d dare to look up and eventually hold out his hand for pennies.
But Joy had followed the trail he’d left at hostels and Salvation Army kitchens and, by some miracle, found him. She’d sat down at his side, and for a moment she didn’t speak, as if they had only been apart for a few minutes instead of months. At last she said, ‘It’s so cold, isn’t it? I rather wish I’d worn my warmer coat. Feel my hands – like ice!’ She’d held his hand between her own, rubbing his fingers that were numb with cold. ‘Shall we find a café and have a cup of tea? Shall we?’ She stood up. ‘Come on. We’ll have toasted tea cake, too.’
Mark drained the pasta. The doorbell rang and he frowned at his watch. The boy was exactly on time, almost as if he’d stood outside the door waiting to press the bell just at the moment the hand of his own watch jerked on to the hour. It was the kind of thing he himself would do.
Going out into the hall, Mark glanced at himself in the mirror by the coat stand, a full length, unforgiving mirror that had hung in the same place since he first came to this house. It was no more than a glance. All the same, he saw that he looked terrified. He shook his head, exasperated with himself.
Steven said, ‘This is delicious – you’re a good cook.’
Mark pushed the half-empty dish of macaroni cheese towards him. ‘Have some more.’
‘Sure? You could save it for tomorrow…’
Mark laughed. ‘It’s all right. I’ll force myself to go shopping tomorrow. Finish the salad, too.’
The boy did as he was told. He seemed to be starving but Mark remembered when he was his age that there never seemed to be enough food in the world. He’d pushed his own meal around the plate with his fork and the few mouthfuls he took tasted of nothing and were too stodgy. He concentrated on the salad, noticing that the boy ate the mixed leaves with no dressing at all. Steven liked bland dishes then, like a child. He wondered what he should give him for dessert and thought of the tinned peaches and carton of custard in the pantry. That would do. Steven would enjoy the cloying sweetness, no doubt.
Mark finished his own meal and fetched the tin of fruit. He opened it swiftly and emptied half its contents into a cereal bowl. Snipping off the top of the custard carton he said, ‘I hope Jade didn’t get too soaked in the rain.’
‘No – she was fine. Her mam went on a bit about me forgetting her coat. I told her it was blue skies when we set out.’
Taking his cleared plate, Mark set the bowl of peaches and custard in front of him. Steven smiled. ‘Aren’t you having any?’
‘No, I have to watch my weight.’
‘You? You’re dead slim.’ He began to eat, but more slowly, as though aware he’d wolfed his main course. When he’d finished he set his spoon down gently in the bowl and glanced at him. ‘That was lovely. Thank you.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?’
‘I’m all right for a minute.’ He smiled shyly. ‘You keep springing up. You should let your meal settle.’
Mark laughed. ‘OK. Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘It’s your house.’
He lit a cigarette. ‘I’m going to have to spring up again and fetch an ash tray.’
‘I’ll get it.’ Steven was on his feet at once. ‘Where is it?’
‘There, beside the fruit bowl on the dresser.’
At the dresser Steven picked up a photograph of Kitty and Ben on their wedding day. He squinted at it then took a pair of glasses from a slim case in his pocket. Putting them on he studied the photo before turning to him. ‘All the nurses said she was really pretty.’ He put the picture down again and took off his glasses. ‘They look really happy – suited. And they’ve got a baby boy? Nathan? That’s right, isn’t it? It’s a nice name – unusual.’ He sat down again and placed the ashtray between them. After a moment he said quickly, ‘I’m nervous, that’s why I talk too fast – do everything too fast…I’m not usually like this. I’m quite a calm person, really.’
‘I suppose I’m nervous, too.’
‘Yeah? You don’t act like you are.’
‘No, I’m dead cool, me.’
Steven looked down at the empty bowl in front of him, straightening the angle of the spoon. ‘I know I talk rough – real Teesside.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to take you off.’
‘But you did.’ He looked up at him. ‘You’re a good mimic.’
‘I used to have the same accent, remember?’
‘Danny’s a good mimic.’
Mark exhaled cigarette smoke. ‘Yes. I remember.’
‘I am here to talk about him, aren’t I?’
‘Do you want to talk about him?’
‘Do you?’
Mark drew on the cigarette deeply and wondered how he would appear to this boy if he got up and poured himself a large scotch. Affected, he thought – like he was a character in a play trying to disguise the fact that he’d forgotten his lines. But he needed a drink. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have a scotch, will you join me?’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Could I get you a soft drink? Would you like that tea –’
‘No, thanks.’
He poured himself a small scotch, noting that the bottle was almost finished, that last night Simon and Iain had been generous with their measures. He would have to buy another bottle and thought about how long he would be staying in this house to drink it. Perhaps Simon would prefer it if he went home and left the house to its own devices. But he knew he wouldn’t do that, not until Simon was safely out of hospital and settled.
As Mark sat down Steven said, ‘Do you drink a lot?’
Mark laughed, surprised. ‘Yes. Far too much.’
‘Really?’
‘No, not r
eally. I stay sober, most of the time. You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?’
‘Making up for lost time.’
‘Is that what we’re doing?’ Mark sat back in his seat, regarding him carefully. ‘You don’t drink at all? Why?’
‘Dunno. Hate feeling drunk? Hate not being able to think clearly? Lack of cash? Lots of reasons. My mam drank, when I was a kid. It puts you off, a bit. Well, it put me off.’
Mark found himself gazing at the boy. He was astonishingly pretty, such fine skin over such good bones. He had Danny’s big dark eyes fringed with the same long lashes, Danny’s full, soft mouth and straight, white teeth. Even his nose, which looked as if it had once been broken, was Danny’s. He felt the rush of fear he got when waking from nightmares of drowning; or the nightmare of Danny, come to fetch him back – the more usual nightmare, lately. He sipped his drink, concentrating on its taste and the way it warmed him. He knew the boy was watching him, considering his own resemblance to their father. He made himself meet his eye.
‘Do you live with your mother, Steven?’
‘No – I have my own flat in the tower – right at the top. Dead cheap. No one wants to live there. It’s quite big – big enough for a family – that’s who they were built for, after all – families.’
‘My mother – Annette – she used to tell me that one day we’d live in a tower. She used to make it sound like something out of a fairy tale.’
‘He talks about her quite a lot.’
‘He shouldn’t.’
Steven glanced away. ‘Can I wash up for you?’ He stood up and began clearing the table. Mark got up too and began to help him. Running the hot tap, Steven said, ‘I’m really tidy, I can’t stand mess.’ He squeezed washing-up liquid into the water. ‘I tidy up Nicola’s flat when I’m round there. She thinks it’s great, thinks I must be soft in the head. She’s a slut,’ he smiled at him as if to soften the word. ‘But she looks after Jade really well, she’s a good mother. She says she’d rather play with her than hoover under her bed. I say maybe she could do both – she just tells me to fuck off.’
Mark laughed. ‘When did you split up?’
‘We were never together.’ He rinsed a soapy plate and passed it to Mark to dry. ‘Not living together. I don’t think I could live with Nicola. She says I’m her best friend but that she couldn’t live with me, either.’
‘But you had Jade together.’
‘Yeah, well, you don’t have to live with someone for that to happen, do you?’ He frowned at him. ‘You think I should live with her for Jade’s sake?’
‘No.’
‘No – you’re not that old. It’s only my grandad’s generation that thinks that.’
‘Are your grandparents still alive?’
‘Yeah. They think Jade is fantastic, although neither of them was happy when they found out she was on the way. Grandad asked me why I couldn’t stick with my own race. Mam told him he was a shocking old man. Big, screaming row they had.’
‘That must have been difficult for you.’
‘Not really. The rows Mam’s family have are more comic than anything – all sparks and noise and daft insults – never darken my door again stuff. They’ve made up the next day. It’s not like, well, you know…not like Danny.’
They finished the dishes in silence. The boy worked efficiently with a look of single-minded concentration on his face that reminded him of Ben. He remembered how he and Ben had to take it in turns to wash up after a meal. Joy wrote out a rota of jobs to be done before the allotted two hours of homework and the hour of TV they were allowed each evening: Blue Peter or Magpie or Scooby-Doo – they could choose. Neither of them thought to complain or argue. When he’d first arrived to live with his new parents he had thought that this was how all normal families behaved.
Steven washed the last fork and plate and emptied the washing up bowl. Handing him a towel to dry his hands, Mark said, ‘Shall I show you around? Come on – you can have the guided tour.’
I wanted to say to him that it was all right, we didn’t have to talk about Danny if he didn’t want to, we could talk about anything but. I remembered what Ben had said, that Mark could be difficult and I was to tread carefully, making me think of minefields. Grandad said that during the Second World War his platoon had driven sheep and goats over land where they thought mines were buried. I felt like one of those goats, only I was driving myself forward, so how stupid did that make me?
I followed him along the hallway and into the big room at the front of the house where this Simon had his study. There were books everywhere but no novels, none of Mark’s books that I could see, just great heavy medical and science books, all dusty and faded so that I imagined how brittle their pages would be. There was a skull on one of the bookshelves, a gibbon’s, Mark said. He said it was very old, a Victorian gibbon. He smiled that gentle, wry smile of his. He took the skull down and moved its hinged jaw so that it looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy talking. ‘Poor thing,’ he said. ‘One day I’ll give it a decent burial.’
There was another animal skull on Simon’s desk and a stuffed stoat in a glass case. The stoat was baring its teeth and its jet-like eyes managed to give it an expression of fear and viciousness in one snarling look. I put my glasses on and peered at it. The bit of tree it stood on had clumps of moss stuck to it, fern, too; it all looked so real that you could imagine the stoat was about to move, that if you lifted the glass it would jump up and bite you.
Mark said, ‘You need glasses for close work, like me.’
I took my specs off and put them back in my pocket. I’m vain about them, I think they make me look geeky, and I have enough trouble with the way I look than to go around inviting more.
Stepping toward the desk, Mark pretended to look at the stoat too. After a bit he said, ‘Ben calls this stuff the relics. Most of it belonged to Simon’s father. Simon was very close to his father.’
‘Are you close to Simon?’
He looked at me. ‘I love him.’
‘But?’
‘But Simon and I got off on the wrong foot.’
He picked up the little skull from the desk and held it out to me on his palm. ‘This is a cat’s skull. Ben found the cat run over on the road outside and begged Simon to help him dissect it. Mum was horrified but Simon said it would be educational. He wanted us to be doctors, you see, like him.’
‘But the cat must have been someone’s pet –’
‘But it was dead.’
‘Even so!’
He put the cat skull down and touched my arm gently. ‘Out of here, now, it’s depressing.’
We went upstairs and I couldn’t help thinking of Carl, how he’d lead me up his stairs to bed. At the top of the house, in the attic that looked right across the cemetery, we stood side by side at the window and Mark said, ‘Quite a view, eh?’ He laughed. ‘When we first came to this house Ben would tell me that all the dead people would cross the road in the night and come and get me.’ Turning to me, he said, ‘What do you think of Ben? He’s impressive, isn’t he?’
I shrugged, unsure of what he expected me to say. I remembered the first time I spoke to Mr Ben Walker. He had a reputation for being off-hand, of not suffering fools, but one afternoon he approached me and said, ‘Are you any relation to a Daniel Carter?’ and he seemed nervous and unsure of himself, shifty even, as though we were about to deal.
Mark turned back to the view. Dully he said, ‘He is impressive. Always was. Brave. Danny absolutely adored him. Simon did, too. They thought he was a proper boy. Someone they could play with.’
I looked at him from the corner of my eye, wanting to judge his mood so as to say the right thing, but he caught me out and smiled. ‘You must have guessed that Ben and I don’t get along?’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘But he is impressive. A real man’s man.’
‘He’s all right.’
He laughed.
I turned to him. I blurted, ‘Are you going back to
London?’
‘Eventually.’
‘Would you take me with you?’
I hadn’t meant to say it. He looked at me, this sad, concerned look that made me want to die of shame for sounding so needy. I stared out of the window and thought of all the dead people who had lived their lives without blurting stuff out, men and women lying in the ground regretting their silences. He was standing quite close to me and my skin bristled because I thought he was going to touch me again, but he only shoved his hands into his pockets and gazed out over the graves.
He said, ‘What about your little girl? What about Nicola and your mother and brothers?’
What about me, I thought. I said, ‘I wouldn’t abandon Jade, London isn’t so far away.’
‘Doesn’t she need her father close by?’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ I smiled at him to show I was OK. In my best bright voice I said, ‘I’d best be off – work in the morning.’
As we got downstairs I said, ‘Thanks for the meal.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Do come again?’ I hadn’t meant to sound so hurt. I glanced away. ‘Sorry. I’m a cunt sometimes.’
‘Don’t use words like that about yourself.’ He took a step closer to me and frowned as if he was seeing me for the first time. ‘Look at me! Stand up straight!’
‘What?’
‘You cringe, you don’t look at me directly. I don’t know if I can trust you.’
‘Trust me with what? I don’t cringe!’
‘When I was your age I –’ He stopped himself. Incredulously he said, ‘Jesus. I sound like Dad.’
‘When you were my age what?’
‘Nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Come on – say it! When you were my age you were fighting a war – you think I should join up!’
‘Of course I don’t! I don’t think you’d last five minutes in a barracks.’
‘I would!’ I sounded like Jade when she knew she was losing the argument over bedtime. I felt my face burn. He reached out and placed his hand flat against my cheek and I had that weak-kneed feeling you get when someone you’ve fancied for ages unexpectedly takes you into his confidence. It was disgusting and disturbing and it took at lot for me not to grasp his wrist and kiss his palm. He held my gaze, giving me this tender, loving look so I felt myself become hard and it was appalling and fantastic and sick as can be.
Say You Love Me Page 21