Bells

by Jo Verity

  She turned towards him. ‘If you thought Kingsley left home because of me, I can see that you wanted to punish me. That’s a reason, mind, not an excuse.’ She was right, of course. ‘And maybe I was too hard on him but I couldn’t bear to watch him under-achieving. He’s probably the brightest of the kids, but he was always so bloody lazy. And he let himself get distracted so easily. Whenever I read the riot act, he’d carry on regardless. I assumed it was water off a duck’s back. I didn’t realise he hated me for it. But isn’t that what parents are supposed to do? Keep after their children. Make sure they succeed.’

  Jack was surprised how calmly she was dealing with his criticism, especially as self-reproach wasn’t her style. To offer reassurance and, to some extent, excuse his behaviour, he volunteered, ‘King didn’t say much in his emails.’

  ‘I know. Neil showed me.’ She tapped the back of his hand urgently, ‘And did you know Neil got a postcard from him today? From Kefalonia.’

  ‘He told me. He seems to think King might be coming home to join this crazy band of his. We musn’t get our hopes up, though, until we have something less airy-fairy to go on.’ What a futile thing to say – as futile as telling someone to ‘take care’ or ‘drive carefully’. He felt compelled to add, ‘Perhaps I’d better warn you, love, the music they’re planning to play is based on Morris tunes.’

  She nodded, ‘That’s probably why he’d come. There’s nothing he liked better than to get right back up my nose and he knows that’s a sure way of succeeding.’

  So far they’d only spoken about Kingsley, but Fay seemed to believe that he was their only problem. He’d hoped to discover if his wife was happy – or happy enough; whether the thirty years they’d spent together had been fulfilling and what she hoped to achieve in however long she had left. These were huge, huge, questions. Questions he could ask a stranger on a train but couldn’t broach with her, because it would be like asking for her verdict after a thirty-year trial. Since his flirtation with Existentialism was over – he couldn’t make the philosophy fit his circumstances nor put up with the itchy polo-neck – there were several dilemmas he’d have to face alone. Insubstantial though tonight’s conversation had been, it was a start and, as they drove home, he felt relieved that they might, after five destructive years, be able to mention Kingsley without engaging in silent but undermining conflict.

  The house was in darkness and they tip-toed up the stairs, giggly and intoxicated with the absurdity of sneaking into their own home. How odd that they were having most success, feeling most at ease, when they were unable to see each other clearly. The shed episode couldn’t be classified as a success, of course, but what had taken place there might prove to be less of a disaster than it at first appeared.

  He wasn’t quite ready, yet, to surrender the other Jack Waterfield and he suggested, ‘Look, love, why don’t you have the bed to yourself for another night or two? You need to catch up on your sleep and you know how restless I am.

  She paused, ‘That’s very considerate.’ He couldn’t make out her features in the gloom – couldn’t tell from her voice if the comment was ironic.

  Fay must have come in to the room during the day because his bed had been made up properly and he wondered if it had been an excuse to snoop around. What if it had? There was nothing to find. He was about to put out the light when he spotted one of the family photograph albums, lying on the bedside table. It hadn’t been there last night.

  The plastic pockets, containing the white-bordered prints, had become brittle and lost a little of their transparency, giving the impression that the world they captured was enveloped in a light mist. He prised the photos out of the pockets and the mist cleared, revealing his family, beaming and standing to attention, bathed in endless summer sunshine at Saundersfoot or Bristol Zoo or in Fay’s parents’ garden. He turned the pictures over. Nineteen eighty-five. Caitlin, lanky and big-toothed, would have been ten or eleven; sturdy, olive-skinned Dylan, just seven; Kingsley, features yet to emerge from the layer of pudge, a beguiling toddler.

  One particular picture held his attention. He and Fay, twenty years younger, leaned against promenade railings – Weymouth or Aberystwyth? – his left arm curled around her shoulders and her hand, reaching up, held his. The horizon dipped at a mad angle – Caitlin or Dylan must have taken the photo. Next to Fay’s bare feet, a stripey beach-bag bulged with towels and picnic things. Taking the picture closer to the light, he studied their laughing faces, noting their natural intimacy and marvelling at their teeth, startling white against the seaside tan. At some point those carefree young parents, who squinted and waved and dug dams to hold back the tide, had grown complacent and allowed this stash of gold to trickle through their fingers.

  Although it had gone midnight, he phoned Laura, trying to make up his mind if it would be wise to leave a message, should she choose not to answer. He was unnerved when, after a few rings, a man’s voice replied, ‘Yes?'

  He remembered that her son still lived at home. This must be Cassidy Ford. ‘Ummm. Is … is Alan there, please?’ He had no idea where ‘Alan’ came from but he was proud of himself for such quick-thinking.

  ‘No Alan here, I’m afraid. You must have the wrong number.‘

  'Yes. I must. Sorry to disturb you.

  It was some time before he fell asleep.

  36

  The consultant confirmed that Harry would be discharged on Monday and they spent the weekend sorting out a car for Neil, then ferrying his few possessions up the valley. Jack had, rather generously Fay thought, lent him the money for a four-year-old Fiesta, to be paid back ‘as and when’.

  ‘I’m going to get Neil one of those chauffeur’s caps with a shiny peak. Then, watch out… Rest Bay. McArthur Glen. Lidl’s. The world’s our oyster,’ Vi proclaimed, revealing a woman that Fay didn’t recognise – skittish and ready for anything.

  The ex-lodgers couldn’t wait to establish their new household, behaving like children embarking on a new adventure – getting keys cut, making lists of favourite meals and planning jaunts. Neil and Vi had only lived with them for three weeks but they had been anxious, turbulent weeks. No one knew how the new regime would pan out and Harry’s health was still precarious but, until the next crisis, she and Jack were on their own again.

  On Sunday evening they were sitting in companionable silence, catching up on the papers, when the door bell rang. ‘Sod’s law,’ Jack sighed.

  It was Caitlin. ‘I spoke to Neil this afternoon and he said that the move went smoothly. Gran was too busy baking a fruit cake to come to the phone. I’m afraid she’s going to force-feed poor Grandad when he gets home tomorrow.’

  While Caitlin was in the kitchen making coffee, Fay whispered to Jack, ‘Should we tell her about Kingsley’s postcard? I wouldn’t like her to think we’re keeping anything from her.’

  ‘Let’s tell her what it said and let her draw her own conclusions.’

  ‘You’re right. I keep forgetting the children are grown-ups.’

  Fay told Caitlin about Neil’s card, reporting Kingsley’s exact words and no more. Caitlin obviously understood the implications but seemed unconvinced and negative. ‘Don’t set your heart on it, Mum. He might be winding you up. He was always good at that.’

  ‘What about that Anya girl he used to talk about? And the child. D’you think that was that a wind up too?

  Caitlin shrugged. ‘Who knows? All I’m saying is that he’s been pretty callous over the years.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s seen the light,’ Jack suggested. ‘Or not “seen the light”, that’s too instant. Maybe he’s weighed things up and realised that there has to be some give and take – the grass isn’t always greener…’ He glanced at Fay. ‘Sorry, love.’

  Caitlin cleared her throat. ‘I’ve never said this before because it seemed rather like speaking ill of the dead, but Kingsley’s no saint. We’ve got into the habit of talking about him in whispers, as if he’s a holy man. And he’s perpetuating the myth, with his
snide emails and obscure messages from Australia or Greece or wherever. You can’t have forgotten how he used to play us off against each other? Stirring things up whenever he had the chance. It was unforgivably cruel not to come to Dylan’s wedding. And I hate what he’s done to you two. Okay, he’s my brother but there comes a moment when he’s got to do something to regain my love. Sorry, but that’s how I feel.’

  Fay was shocked by her daughter’s outburst. She’d always imagined that Caitlin sympathised with her younger brother; that it was Caitlin’s desire to conceal her disloyalty to her that prevented her from talking about him.

  Watching Jack pour a small measure of brandy into each mug of coffee, she could see that he was equally shaken.

  After three days of being an invalid, Fay was ready to get back to school. Her hand was healing well. The nurse at the surgery had confirmed that the stitches were the dissolving kind and replaced the unwieldy bandage with a neat dressing, making it possible for her to use both hands. On Monday morning she was in the staffroom a good fifteen minutes earlier than necessary.

  ‘You’re keen,’ a colleague remarked. ‘Trying to make a good impression?’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘The job. I assume you’ll be going for it.’ Seeing her bewilderment, he filled her in on the unexpected resignation of the deputy head. ‘Applications have to be in by half-term. Seriously, Fay, you’d stand a pretty good chance and it would be a great way to round off your teaching career.’

  ‘Why’s he going?’

  ‘Rumour has it that he’s left his wife…for another man.’

  That wasn’t the only disclosure. Having decided to wait a while before dealing with Darren’s disconcerting essay, more pressing matters had occupied her and she’d forgotten about it. She was checking the examination syllabus, when Linda Judd, the school secretary, approached her. ‘Fay, I hear that you were asking about Darren Taylor?’ Linda never missed a trick.

  ‘That’s right.’ She was reluctant to give too much away, knowing that whatever she said would be all around the staffroom before the end of afternoon school. ‘I was looking for a bit of background on the kids, before I do my half-term assessments. No one had much to tell me about Darren.’ Was that convincing enough?

  Linda folded her arms. ‘The Taylors used to live down the road from us. Nice family. I remember Brian Taylor was a very neat bloke. Always tied the tops of his rubbish bags with garden twine.’

  Fay waited patiently.

  ‘Three children. A girl and two boys. Darren is – was – the middle one.’ She lowered her voice, although there was no one within earshot. ‘One day the girl, Anne-Marie her name was, got hit by a car. She was on the pavement with a crowd of her friends. The inquest said the driver had a heart attack or a stroke and lost control. The car mounted the kerb and ploughed into them. The other kids were okay but she was killed outright. I’m surprised you didn’t read about it. It was all over the Echo for weeks.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Oh, five or six years. She was only twelve.’ That was around the time that Kingsley left, the time Fay wouldn’t have been interested in anyone else’s tragedy.

  ‘But she didn’t attend this school?’

  ‘No. The Taylors moved up this way a few months after the accident. Trying to make a fresh start, I expect.’

  Regular progress reports from the ‘ménage à trois’, as Neil insisted on calling them, sounded positive, and when they visited Harry on his first evening at home, initial impressions were that it might work. It wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind for Neil Bentley. She’d hoped to find him a trainee-ship in a reputable organisation with a decent career structure, a stepping off point for better things. But he seemed ideally suited to the role of carer and the arrangement was very convenient. Perhaps one day, when the situation changed, he could get some formal training. With people living so much longer, there had to be endless opportunities in the caring professions.

  Despite the almost party atmosphere, it was clear that her father-in-law wasn’t a well man. It took two pill-dispensers to accommodate his medication and he had a string of out-patient appointments for various consultant clinics. Displaced from the security of the hospital, he looked anxious and much smaller than she’d remembered, but, sitting in his favourite armchair, swathed in blankets, he put on a brave face. ‘A few lamb stews and suet puddings and I’ll be my old self again, won’t I Mum?’

  Before they left, Neil insisted on showing them around, as if they were prospective purchasers who had never set foot in the house before. ‘There’s a great view down the valley from my bedroom window. And stacks of storage space under the stairs.’

  Fay had been feeling guilty that, having offered Neil a temporary home and assistance in finding a worthwhile job, they’d done nothing but taken advantage of his good nature and willingness to help. The speed at which he’d made Kingsley’s room ‘home’, followed by his readiness, a mere three weeks later, to up sticks and start again was unnatural, but he seemed content with the way things were panning out. Then again, she wasn’t convinced that he was capable of showing displeasure. Things would have been very different, of course, had Harry not been hospitalised but, now she knew the boy better, she wasn’t sure where his future lay or whether she would ever have found him the right job. Amiability, Neil’s defining quality, didn’t qualify him for much.

  In odd moments, Fay reflected on the sad story of Darren’s sister. Fay wasn’t trained in that sort of thing but she wondered if his poignant essay and the palpable agitation that followed could be connected with Anne-Marie Taylor’s death. It had to be. A teenage girl is killed in appalling circumstances – her brother fantasises about dressing as a teenage girl and returning to the family home.

  A few days later, Fay spotted Darren, loitering on his own outside the gymnasium. She hadn’t seen him, or the rest of his English set, since they’d handed in their homework. ‘Darren. I’m glad I caught you. Have you got a moment?’

  He checked both ways, as if not wanting to be seen with her, then stared at the floor. ‘Yes, Miss.’

  Her lecture on making eye-contact, standing straight and taking hands out of pockets, could wait until another day and she said gently, ‘I liked your story.’

  He glanced up nervously then resumed his study of the vinyl tiles.

  ‘It was well written. Excellent use of language. A few spelling mistakes but …’ she was sounding too much like an English teacher and he looked longingly down the corridor. ‘I know that it’s a…very personal story. A poignant story.’ If she were too subtle, too oblique, he wouldn’t understand what she was getting at, but she continued warily, ‘It’s about your sister, isn’t it? About Anne-Marie. I know you miss her dreadfully – and you always will. Your story is about bringing her back to life, bringing her back to the family, isn’t it?’ Her throat tightened as she watched the boy, face still averted, drag the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘Don’t say anything now but I wanted you to know two things. First, I promise not to read your story in class, although I’ll be giving it my highest mark. Secondly, if you ever need to talk about Anne-Marie, what you feel about her death or anything at all, I’m always here. And Darren, it’s perfectly natural to feel anger and guilt, as well as sadness, when someone dies.’ Or when someone chooses to leave.

  A string of clear snot dangled from his nose and she handed him some tissues from her bag. ‘Thanks, Miss. C’n I go now, Miss?’

  ‘Of course.’ He slouched off down the corridor and when he reached the corner he turned to look back, but she was too far away to see the expression on his face.

  She could see that Jack was trying hard. A rosemary plant and a monstrous vase, shaped like Nelson’s Column, had appeared like ritual offerings on the kitchen window sill, and twice during the week he’d brought her flowers. They were both on their best behaviour, courteous and considerate towards each other. They ate together, discussed the latest on the loca
l road-widening scheme, whether Fay’s car needed a service, and exchanged news of work – Jack thought she should certainly try for the deputy headship. However, they were still occupying separate bedrooms and each evening, as bedtime drew nearer, a ‘will-we-won’t-we’ tension built up, defused only when one or the other found a plausible reason for keeping it that way. Anything would do. An incipient cold. Restlessness. The heat. It was as if they were half way through a Sudoku puzzle, unable to proceed until they’d fathomed out the one elusive number that would unlock the grids.

  It was still September but the shops were already full of coats, boots and chunky jumpers so, when Jack was at Morris practice, Fay decided to assess her clothes and see what she was short of for the coming winter. Oxfam bag at the ready, she took everything out of her wardrobe, heaping the clothes on the double bed, horrified to see how, once released from captivity, their volume doubled. Out, too, came shoes, hats and bags, until the bed and half the floor was covered with things she scarcely knew she had. Before the guilt became overpowering, she began the reverse process, determined to make her sacrifice the Third World’s gain.

  Some decisions were clear-cut. She couldn’t part with the outfit that she’d worn to Dylan’s wedding, although the turquoise was quite harsh and she doubted whether she’d wear it again. It had cost hundreds of pounds and charity shops never priced anything at more than twenty, so back on the rail it went, along with several evening dresses, a fake-fur jacket and a trouser-suit which she’d never worn because there was something odd about the lapels. She thought hard about the camel coat – the sleeves too long and the shoulder pads passé – but it would be a godsend if the coming winter turned out to be as cold as the papers were predicting.

  Jeans. Smart black trousers. Tailored jackets. A genuine Burberry. Straight skirts and cotton shirts. All went back in.

  She worked her way down the pile, coming eventually to silk and linen, symbols of her failure to become the Mrs Robinson of the Cardiff suburbs. How pathetic she’d been – planning intimate lunches; imagining meaningful glances and lingering looks; tearing across the country on the off chance of a kiss on the cheek. Was it merely a menopausal fantasy? Given the opportunity, she certainly would have taken Cassidy to bed, and even now, she wasn’t wholly confident that she’d be able, or want, to resist. She shook her head, struggling to dislodge improper thoughts but, in doing so, released explicit memories of her wild night with Jack. Was there something wrong with her?