Straight on Till Morning

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  I spread my hands. ‘I’m…well, I’m OK. I’m here. I’m all right. I’m –’

  A door opened just ahead of us and a woman holding a box file came out of it.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘That’s handy, Nick. I was just coming down to see you. Don wants a word if you’ve got a minute.’

  He moved the sheaf of papers he was carrying from one hand to the other and pushed his fingers into his hair. His watch face glinted at his wrist.

  ‘I’ll be right along,’ he said. ‘I was just on my way there now.’

  She smiled and retreated. I remained suspended in wretchedness. I started walking along the corridor.

  He did likewise. ‘Where are you supposed to be?’

  I consulted the letter in my hand. My fingers were shaking. ‘Conference room four,’ I told him.

  ‘Come on, then. I’ll show you where it is.’

  This was simply too painful a situation to contemplate. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘You go off and do whatever it is –’I started flapping my hand in the direction of the office door we’d just passed. He glanced back.

  ‘It’s not on this corridor,’ he said, still striding alongside me. ‘You have to get around to the other side of the quadrangle then take the –’

  I stopped.

  ‘Nick, I’m sure I’ll manage to find my way.’

  ‘Sure?’

  No. No. Not at all. But I knew if I didn’t get away from him now, then I would not find my way anywhere, ever again. I gazed up at him and looked squarely into his eyes. ‘I will, Nick. Somehow,’ I said.

  I left him then, standing in the middle of the sun-flooded corridor. As I turned the corner I glanced back to wave. But by then he’d already gone.

  I bought him a jar of Marmite.

  I recalled little of the morning, even less of the afternoon. Only that by the time I arrived home at six it felt as if the sun – which had burned with such relentlessness all day – was eating its way into my very soul. Jonathan was sitting in the garden when I got there, a glass of beer at his elbow and the Telegraph open on his knees. I felt gripped by an almost convulsive need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  Dogs have many uses. Pausing only to call out a brief hello, I slipped upstairs to change into jeans and then took mine out for a walk. A long walk. We walked down the lane, through the woods, across the edge of the wheat field, down the bridle path that led across to the farm buildings themselves, then on down the lane towards Lingfield, where there was a generally well-stuffed local shop. I hadn’t set out with the Marmite in mind, particularly. Just a card, or something. Just something. But as soon as I saw it, sitting squat on the shelf, I knew I could send nothing else. I bought the Marmite, a jiffy bag, a pack of plain postcards, and a little book of self-adhesive first class stamps. Then I parcelled up the marmite, wrote Good Luck on the postcard. Thought again, added Goodbye and seven tearful kisses, sealed it in the jiffy bag, kissed it, hugged it and put it in the letterbox. It landed with an audible thump at the bottom. Too late for tonight’s collection, of course. But it would go off tomorrow. And he could take it home with him.

  Home. A long way for us both.

  *

  I was just putting my key in the front door when I heard the phone ringing.

  I unclipped Merlin’s lead from his collar and reached for the receiver.

  It was my mother.

  ‘Oh, hello dear,’ she said jauntily, cutting through the fog in my head. ‘Glad I managed to catch you. I just wondered. Have you got any plans for this weekend?’

  I have no plan for the rest of my life, I thought miserably. Bar nursing my heart and being quietly unhappy. Which was a plan of sorts, I supposed.

  ‘No,’ I said eventually. ‘I’m working Saturday, and I think Jonathan’s got a tennis match Sunday. Kate’s away, of course. I imagine I’ll be spending most of it continuing to un-arrange Morgan’s wedding.’

  ‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘I mean, not good, of course, but I was wondering if you fancied a trip down to Eastbourne. I have a bit of spring cleaning to do.’

  ‘Spring cleaning?’ I asked. ‘In July?’

  She cleared her throat and sent a little tinkly laugh down the phone. Her jauntiness sounded rather forced, all of a sudden, even to my heavily dulled senses. ‘Well, you know me –’she began.

  ‘And?’ I said sternly.

  ‘Well, dear, it’s just that my living room’s – well, it’s in rather a state at the moment and I’ll need some help moving the furniture.’

  ‘Mother, can you be more specific, perhaps?’

  ‘Well… it’s just that there’s been a bit of an accident.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, no,’ she added quickly. ‘Not that sort of accident. Nothing to worry about, darling. Just that – well, there’s…um… paint everywhere.’

  ‘Paint?’

  ‘It’s OK. It’s only emulsion. It washes off all right. I’ve already done some. It’s just that, well, it spilled, you see, and there’s…well… rather a lot of it.’

  This conversation was becoming surreal. ‘Mother,’ I snapped. ‘What on earth have you been doing? What on earth were you painting?’

  ‘Er…the living room, mainly.’

  ‘The living room! For goodness sake, what are you painting your living room for? What were you thinking of? If you’d wanted it decorated you should have rung me and asked me –’

  Typical. Off on one of her mad schemes again. Probably been watching too much Home Front. For some reason, the notion made me feel a little bit better. The thought of a day with her a whole lot better. A day away from home. Away from Jonathan. ‘Honestly, Mum!’ I said, tutting back at her. ‘You are priceless, you know that?’

  ‘I know, dear,’ she said, sounding relieved. ‘But, well, there you go. You know what I’m like. Are you free? Could you come down?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, blinking back a new spate of tears. ‘I’ll be there first thing Sunday, OK?’

  Yes. I would go down and help her spring clean. I really needed my mum right now.

  Chapter 30

  ‘Mum, what the hell’s been going on?’

  I should have known. I should have known when she’d phoned me. I should certainly have realised the moment I arrived at the house, because I couldn’t get my front door key to work. I’d still been struggling to get it back out of the lock when she opened it for me, her expression apologetic. I followed her inside with some trepidation. There was no evidence of any decorating endeavours. No stepladder, no roller, no brushes or sponges. Just paint. In quantity. In very pale pink.

  ‘Um..’ she began. I looked around me in horror. There was paint everywhere. On the carpet, the sofa, the bookcase, the coffee table. Crusted on the cushions, pooled around the chair legs, spattered on the pictures, sprayed up against the wall. There was even paint forming an impromptu pink bogie on the face of my gran, whose photo hung by the door.

  ‘God, mum!’ I gasped. ‘What on earth has happened here? It looks like someone has just been in here and literally chucked the stuff around!’

  Which was, it turned out, because it had.

  ‘It was him,’ she said, perching on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Tracey’s husband.’

  ‘What? You mean he just came in here – in your flat – and flung a tin of emulsion all over your living room?’ I was at a loss for words.

  She shook her head. ‘Not flung. He kicked it apparently.’

  ‘What? But why? When? God, Mum, why didn’t you tell me?’

  She folded the tea towel she held in her hands.

  ‘On Tuesday,’ she said. ‘He’d seen her. He was working just up the road, you see, and he saw her come in here. And he followed her –’

  I felt suddenly fearful. ‘What? But what about you? What happened? Was he violent? What did he do?’

  ‘I wasn’t here,’ she said. ‘Tracey had
just –’

  ‘What? What do you mean, you weren’t here?’ I interrupted her. ‘How come Tracey was –’

  She looked aggrieved. ‘I do wish you’d stop squeaking ‘what?’ at me, dear.’ She unfolded the tea towel again.. ‘She had a key. She’d just –’

  ‘Wh – Sorry. But a key, mum? What on earth did she have a key to your flat for? Mum, what possessed you to –’She stood up and started heading for the kitchen. I stomped after her. ‘Mum, what on earth were you thinking?’

  ‘Look, Sally,’ she said, turning around and looking defiantly at me. ‘I know it was stupid. So you don’t need to tell me. And all the locks have been changed, and the police have arrested him, and there’s really no point in going over it all again. I know it was silly of me, but what else could I do? Poor mite. She’s been scared witless –witless – and what with – well, anyway. It looks much worse than it was, apparently. Polly had seen him go in, and she called the police straight away. She was on him right away anyway, and they were there in minutes. And the little ones weren’t there or anything. Megan was at school and the baby was next door. Tracey had only popped in to pick up her library books. It’s done now. At least she knows he won’t be bothering her any more.’

  I wished I felt as confident about that as my mother sounded, but then I thought of Polly and her tattoos and her boots, and felt a little better. I didn’t comment.

  ‘But why?’ I said instead. ‘Why the paint?’

  She shrugged. ‘Just an unlucky coincidence. He’d been on his way back from his van apparently. He was painting in a house up the road. Just my luck, eh?’ She grinned at me. ‘My tapestry went for a burton.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Oh, no nothing. Glad to see the back of the wretched thing, quite frankly. I was getting sick of the sight of it. I was beginning to think it was going to see me out. Besides, I can’t help thinking it wasn’t such a bad thing, as it happens. If he hadn’t had that bucket of paint to kick…’

  ‘You’re making me feel very anxious, mum. What if he comes back? What if –’

  ‘Sally, he’s not coming back. Going to prison by the sound of it. And besides, he doesn’t know me from Adam, does he? It just happened to be my living room he tracked her down to. Could have been anywhere. Anyway, Tracey’s gone up to Northampton now. She’s got a sister up there and she’s taken them in. Best thing, I think. Though why it takes something like this before families actually do something, I don’t know.’ She shook her head and pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan. ‘Anyway, enough of that. Now. Cup of tea before we start? I have some more rather exciting news.’

  Which was true, as it turned out. On Saturday morning she’d received a letter from Collette Carr. Pledging her support and saying she’d be more than happy to help with publicity where possible. And enclosing a cheque.

  ‘Wow, mum! Ten thousand Pounds!’

  Just like that. I made a mental note to go buy her whole back catalogue sometime soon.

  My mum was nodding happily. ‘Isn’t it amazing? And it’s all thanks to you. Polly’s already called her, and she said she’ll be happy to give us a quote as well. Polly’s going to put it on the refuge notepaper.’

  ‘That’s really something,’ I said, feeling full of pride. ‘And not at all to do with me. It was your idea, mum. You who wrote the letter. You who did the work.’

  ‘Yes, but you got it to her. You will thank Ruth as well for me, will you?’ She slipped the cheque back into the envelope. ‘Restores your faith in people, doesn’t it?

  There is nothing like an extended bout of arduous scrubbing to chase all your demons away. Admittedly, there is nothing like an extended bout of arduous scrubbing to rip all your nails out, give you big oozy blisters and take all the skin off your knuckles either, but I considered that a small price to pay for half a dozen precious hours of being otherwise engrossed. Perhaps I should take up scrubbing as a hobby.

  We worked pretty solidly through the day, and true to my mother’s prediction, the paint did, in the main, come off. There were a few casualties, certainly, but the only major one was the sofa, which my mother hated anyway. She would, she said, treat herself to a new one. No she wouldn’t, I told her. Now I had my promotion I would treat her to one. Once the light had begun to fade we decided we’d go for a walk along the sea front and pick up some fish and chips on the way home. We headed off along the promenade, picking pink paint from what was left of our fingernails as we walked.

  ‘God, I’m weary,’ I said, as we reached the front.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. And you’re not looking any better.’ We made our way down on to the shingle so Merlin could have a paddle. ‘How are things with Morgan?’ she said. ‘Is she coping?’

  I was grateful for the direction of her thoughts. I nodded. ‘Remarkably so. You know, it’s almost as if she’s happier now than she was when the wedding was still going ahead. So perhaps Cody’s arrest was serendipity, even. He’s applying to do a degree in Horticulture next year.’

  ‘Horticulture? What on earth would he want to do that for?’

  ‘It’s what he always wanted to do, apparently. He’s hoping to get a place at Keele University.

  ‘Keele? What, in Staffordshire?’

  I nodded. Merlin came back with his hunk of driftwood and deposited it at my feet. I picked it up and hurled it across the beach for him. ‘And if he does, they’ll move. Morgan seems to think she won’t have any problem finding a job up there, so –’

  ‘That’s an awfully long way away.’

  ‘I know.’

  She sighed. ‘It never used to be like this. Families stayed together.’

  ‘It’s not so far. Five hours. Six at the most. But, yes. You’re right. Not popping up for lunch distance. Still, if she’s happy…’

  My mother stopped and picked up a pebble.

  ‘But you’re not,’ she said.

  ‘Mum, I’m fine.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks.’ She stopped and turned to look at me. ‘You’re about as fine as a wet day in Worthing. I wish you’d tell me what the matter is, Sally. I worry about you, you know.’

  She tossed the pebble into the foamy shallows. We walked a little further along the shingle in silence, stooping every so often to throw the stick for the dog. I wondered if maybe I should tell her. But what was the point? What was there to say? It would only worry her even more.

  ‘We used to push you along here in your pram, your dad and I,’ my mum said suddenly. ‘Not down here, of course. Up on the prom. We were always great ones for walking. All the way to Holywell and back sometimes. We used to stay in that little guest house in Cambridge road. D’you remember that?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ I said. ‘I remember the model village.’

  Merlin came back with the stick again, and my mother wrestled it from his mouth, before flinging it ahead of him. ‘I’d love another dog,’ she said. ‘To walk with.’

  ‘You could get one. A small one.’

  She shook her head. Too much of a tie. Besides, I’ve got Merlie here to visit me, haven’t I?’

  I nodded, feeling tearful again all of a sudden.

  ‘Do you get lonely?’ I asked her.

  ‘Lonely?’ She turned to look at me. ‘Why d’you ask that?’

  I brushed at my eyes, grateful for my sunglasses. ‘Dad’s been gone such a long time. Aren’t you lonely?’

  ‘Of course I’m lonely,’ she said. ‘But you learn to cope. I’m not unhappy, if that’s what you mean. Way too busy, for one thing!’ She chuckled.

  ‘But did you never think – never hope –’

  ‘What, that I’d meet someone else?’ She shook her head and scooped another pebble from the shingle. ‘There was never any point. When you’re dad died I knew that was it for me, really. I loved him too much, you see. And when he went, well, that part of me went along with him. I’d never be able to love anyone else like I loved your dad. Didn’t even want to have to try.’ She
lobbed the pebble into the water. ‘So, no,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t have been fair.’

  Jonathan, who had been at a tournament in Horley, rang midway though the evening to let me know that if I wasn’t planning to be back until late he might as well get off up to London as sleep at home and have to crawl up there in the traffic in the morning. So there was really no rush to get back. Would there ever be?

  When it got to ten and I was dozing off on the sofa, my mother decided to take charge.

  ‘Sleep here tonight,’ she said firmly. ‘It won’t take a minute to make a bed up for you, and there’s no point in driving all that way back to an empty house, is there? I can get you up nice and early for work.’

  I thought of her lending me one of her winceyette nighties. Of waking in the morning to hear her pottering in her kitchen. Listening to the dreadful local radio station she liked. Her popping her head round the door with a cup of early morning tea and a Digestive biscuit. I thought I would rather like to be her little girl again. For one night, at least. It would feel safe. Ordinary. Reassuring.

  So that’s what Merlin and I did.

  Chapter 31

  There are lots of safe, ordinary, reassuring things one can do when one is suffering from emotional overload and heartbreak and another of them is the management of curtains. Why had I never considered this? Why had I never realised that the reason ordinary, sensible, dependable people – people like Briony, in fact – did not go off the rails and get themselves embroiled in dangerous passions was precisely because they did the sensible thing and kept themselves busy with curtains.

  I am busy with curtains right now. Briony’s Mum’s room’s curtains, specifically, as they were seriously dusty and she has had to have-them-down. And I have been asked, on this cheerless Monday evening, to help her to have-them-back-up. This is on account of the sprained wrist she sustained during the having-them-down bit earlier in the week, which does indicate that despite my enthusiasm for curtains right now they are not entirely without pitfalls. Briony’s mum’s room smells sweet, faintly sickly. It has little lace doilies over every conceivable surface and a sepia photograph of an unsmiling family group scowling out from her darkwood dresser. There is a large print copy of a Catherine Cookson novel on the bedside table, the cover redolent of a time when women scrubbed their own doorsteps and knew right from wrong. I wonder if and when my own mother will submit to the dictates of old age and stop storming around and getting embroiled in disasters. But then I think about her holed up and doing tapestry in a spare room – my own, most probably, so dust would clearly be an issue – and I send a silent prayer of thanks that it is probably not yet.