Mr Todd's Reckoning

by Iain Maitland

  WEDNESDAY 26 JULY, 2.57AM

  It is in the early hours, these nights I cannot sleep for the heat and my tortured mind, that I go back over the turning points in my life. Those events, moments sometimes, that led me to where I am now.

  I see things more clearly in these long minutes as they turn slowly into hours and I finally fall asleep for a short while. How things were. What happened and why. How it came to this.

  I think it is time now, as I am still awake and cannot sleep, that I write about what I’ve kept hidden, deep inside me, for a while. It – she – poisoned me from within my heart and inside my mind.

  I have only talked about my wife with one person. The GP. He asked me directly about her during one of our talks and I could not ignore the question. I had to answer him. I simply said she had left me. No more. No less. He paused and I could see his mind thinking things through. He had a pen in his right hand and he clicked the top of it over and over again, in and out, in and out, five, six, seven times in all.

  He then asked if I thought she might come back. I said no, never. He paused and thought again – and clicked, eight, nine, ten – as I screamed silently inside. He asked me a final question, whether I wanted her back. I shrugged my shoulders. “Bit late now,” I answered and could not help but smile as I said the words.

  He looked at me – ‘putting on a brave face’ – for a while. Then suggested I should write about our relationship and what led to what he called, “the marriage break-up”. I said we’d been together for almost 30 years and it would be hard to remember every little thing. “So many,” I said, almost jovially. He said I should write about those things that led to “the end of the marriage”, to list them and mull them over. I just smiled and nodded at this, as if agreeing.

  He then turned to the subject of medication, which I declined, thank you very much. I certainly don’t need pills. Never have done. Never will. He also made one or two vague references to group meetings where everyone sits around in a circle wailing about their woes and wringing their hands.

  No, I said firmly, not for me. He then talked about one-on-one meetings with a psycho-something-or-other. I shook my head firmly. The cheek of it. And then I think he ever-so-slightly shook his head and I had the sense that he sighed as he agreed to my suggestion that I would come back in again some time soon.

  Adrian came back later than expected in the afternoon. He did not take me by surprise. I had been listening out for his arrival either at the front door or at the side gate. I had come in from the garden when I heard a rat-a-tat-tat knocking on the glass of the front door. And then a louder banging. He wanted to know why the front door was locked and the side gate bolted. I said I had done it without thinking, an instinct when I’m on my own. “Can’t be too careful,” I said.

  He asked what I had been doing. Gardening, I replied, things to be done. He said that it was too hot to be working outside and gave me one of his sly, sideways looks. I added nothing, other than to say I was going to shower and that I wanted to talk to him later.

  He answered that he was going out, had just come back for his things. When pressed, he said he was staying at a friend’s. I could not help but stare at him with incredulity. The thought of Adrian having a friend, let alone staying with one. He gave me a funny little smile, part-embarrassed, part-triumphant, and went into his room.

  I waited as he came back out and went to the kitchen to get a carrier bag from under the sink for his clothes. I observed him as he went to the bathroom to collect toiletries. As he stuffed everything into the bag as he walked to the front door, I asked when he would be back. I said again, more firmly this time, that I wanted to talk to him. “Later… in the morning,” he said, and I could hear a laugh in his voice, as he closed the door behind him.

  I do not know where he is now, what he is doing, or when he will return. I should be worried, I know, I should really alert the police, but I dare not do that. I must sort it out myself. And I have other, more pressing, things on my mind right now. Adrian and whatever it is he is doing can wait until the morning. I will be ready for when he returns.

  What do I write about my wife, the marriage, the end of it; in summary, in just a few paragraphs? Thirty years compressed into a page or two? I do not want to write in detail, not now, not yet. Maybe never.

  We met as 21-year-olds at the Inland Revenue, both in desk jobs. Went out in a group one night a few weeks later, to see a film, some silly romance, and I somehow found myself walking her home as she lived near me. It was not planned. At least, not by me.

  Young and inexperienced, we seemed to drift into being a couple. I don’t know why but I had never had much luck with girls and she was tidy enough and always readily available, at least in the early years.

  We went out for two years, became engaged for one and then got married at the local registry office. Her father looked daggers at me all through the reception. I don’t know why. I think he felt she could do better.

  We had a baby early on, not long after our marriage. By then, I knew all of it, everything, was a mistake. I was steady, reliable, regular. She was not; she paid me little attention and was more interested in her artwork. She saw herself as creative.

  There were many times when she would rebuff me, drawing her legs and knees up into a tight little bundle and saying “not now” over and again. “When?” I would ask but she would not say. I would always ask, most nights for a while. Sometimes, she would relent, giving me what I wanted.

  The baby died at three months. At night. The wife screamed when she found it. Thought it had slept through. In her sleep, they decided in the end. Sudden infant death syndrome is what they call it these days. One of those things that happens. It was a girl.

  She didn’t pay me any more attention, closed in on herself, shutting me out. Eventually, she seemed to get a little better, talking to counsellors and what have you, and our marriage, such as it was, continued. She made herself more available to me for a while, although having her staring into space most of the time was offputting to me. I took to calling her a slab of meat, my jokey way of trying to gee her into life, but it made no difference.

  There was another baby. A boy. He died the same way. Unexplained. No reason. Our relationship was all but broken by this time, but then she became pregnant with Adrian and we tried to make another go of things.

  She did not want me physically though after that, saying I had forced myself upon her once too often. But she stayed, not having much choice as her mother had died and her father had remarried soon after and they, her and his new wife, did not get along.

  She held Adrian tight, watched him, stayed with him for hours, shutting me out, locking themselves away in the other bedroom as they slept. And he survived. When she finally came back into the bedroom, it was to separate beds and lives. A façade of a marriage, not much else. We muddled along and, after a while, after years and years, it became tolerable. You get used to things, however awful they may seem to outsiders, finding something in routine and familiarity. Habit, that’s the word. Not much else.

  Stay at home, that’s what she wanted to do, painting and what not, while I went out to work. Not much of a salary at the Revenue, never is in public service, so she got a part-time job as a teaching assistant at a primary school to keep our heads above water, looking after Adrian and doing her art around that.

  She never amounted to much, exhibiting and selling one or two paintings at local amateur exhibitions. Bought by friends and friends of friends mostly. She wrote poetry too and had a few published in a local group’s pamphlet, ‘Cabbages & Things’. I think she had a photograph in the local paper once. And she sketched and did lino-cutting, searching for success, the recognition that always eluded her. She never found it.

  She always said she was an artist, but just didn’t know what type exactly. We did not find out for years until, in her 40s, as ambition and hope gave way to regrets and failure, she drank more than she should so that, finally, I used to tell her that she
had found her forte. As a piss artist. She never laughed.

  A great yawning expanse of years followed where we stayed together; out of habit, a lack of money and no other choices. Living together, but largely separate lives, me with my books and crosswords, her with her sketches and photography and evening classes. We soldiered on in our passive misery.

  And then she met someone. Him. At work. Another useless teaching assistant spending his days cleaning up after dirty children. And everything changed. I think it is this – this affair – that I need to write about really. This is the thing that I have to set down, to get things clear in my head, before I take the words and sentences and paragraphs and pages and burn them all.

  I have kept this to myself – inside me – for too long. I think it was this – my marriage, the long ending of it, and what happened – that made me do what I did at work.

  Looking for love. Solace. Comfort. And the anger and frustration. The arguments. The ill-feeling. The fighting. It was not me, not really. It was out of character.

  She made me what I am today and where I know, at some stage or other, this will all now end. There is no turning back for me. No way to avoid the ending I know is coming.

  WEDNESDAY 26 JULY, 11.07AM

  I do not know how long I have been in this bed. It must by now be 20 hours since Adrian came and went. He has not yet returned. I wonder where he is. What he is doing. I have been lying here for so long, nodding on and off, in an uneasy, fractured, sweating sleep. I have written some of my diary. That calms me a touch. Steadies me a little. I have been to the toilet twice to urinate. I lie here now but know I must get up soon and go about my usual daily routine. Be ready when Adrian returns. Have it out with him. Whatever it may be. Sort it out once and for all.

  Get up. Wash and wear fresh clothes.

  Eat.

  Be normal. Get out and about.

  But I am in pain. I feel safe in bed. And, although the heat still torments me, all about me is quiet. It has been the quietest I have ever known it through the later part of the night and into the morning. Or perhaps I’ve just not noticed any noise. I have more important things to worry about. I could lie here forever. On my own. Not troubling anyone any more. No one bothering me. I could just turn my face to the wall and stare into space until the day I die.

  And then I jump, startled. A knock at the door. Two.

  Brisk. Authoritative. Not Adrian.

  Expecting, demanding to be answered.

  I sit up. Check my blinds are closed. Shift them carefully, reaching out to slowly close the window. Adjust them back again. I slip out of bed. Reach for my glasses. Settle my hair. Put on my shirt from the chair by the side of the bed. I feel vulnerable in sweat-dampened pyjama bottoms. Don’t want to be discovered like this. I have my dignity.

  I move to the bedroom door, listening carefully. I hear the murmur of voices. The police? I wait for the porch door to be opened, to hear them step into the porch, the knock on the main front door becoming a loud, repetitive bang and then, as I hold my breath, the turning of the handle that opens the door into the bungalow. I’d be standing there, stained and ramshackle in my appearance.

  But there is silence.

  Whoever they were, they have gone away. Jehovah’s Witnesses? Gypsies wanting to cut the trees? Charity-tin rattlers? The police?

  I am not sure if – or when – they will come back. When, I think, not if.

  After a few minutes, to be sure they’ve gone, I open my door slowly, check the hallway and walk to the bathroom. Urinate again. I then wash my hands, rough and grazed from yesterday afternoon, at the sink. The side of my left hand is badly bruised and may need wrapping – I am left-handed, what used to be known as a southpaw in boxing terms.

  As I wash my face, I look at myself in the mirror. Old now. Lines criss-crossed across the forehead, deeper than I’ve seen them. My cheeks sagging. The white of my stubble showing as I turn my face from one side to the other. When did I get so old and wretched? How did I not notice until now?

  I walk slowly into the bedroom, looking out to the road. Waiting for Adrian to return, to tell me where he has been, what he has been doing. I fear for him and me, bringing trouble, police, to the door. I have to stop him before it is too late. If it’s not already. There is no sign of him. I turn to the left; further up and across the road, there is a cul-de-sac. I step back. Then move forward, pressing my face close to the blinds, peering through.

  I see a blue Honda Civic parked, facing this way.

  His car.

  It is there, no more than 30 yards away from my bungalow.

  Should I stay here, ignore it? Pretend I have not seen it? That it has nothing to do with me. Just carry on as I am. But for how long can I do that? Before there is a knock at the door. Was that the knocking and banging earlier? Or should I go out to the car? Striding across? Deal with it?

  I do not know what to do.

  Have to think.

  Decide on a plan.

  As I stand here, torn by indecision, and the minutes pass, I suddenly see Adrian appear, from the right, where he must have got off the bus further down the road and then crossed and worked his way back up. He looks tired and dishevelled, with his carrier bag bulging with clothes and toiletries. He looks strangely happy, smiling to himself and swinging the bag backwards and forwards.

  I open the front door. Step back.

  He enters. We face each other in the hallway.

  “What’s going on?” I say straightaway.

  He drops his bag on the floor, glances at me and looks away. He’s always been like this. Never been able to look someone straight in the eye for more than a moment or two.

  He looks up.

  Down.

  To the sides.

  Anywhere but meeting your eye. He might as well throw his head back and roll his eyes around. Look at me! I’m mad, I am! I have told him, when he was younger, that it makes him look shifty and dishonest. In fact, it makes him look insane. There are times when I think he does it to annoy me. It angers me so much.

  “Well?” By God, I could shake this out of him. And I will. If I have to.

  He says nothing, looks down again, turns away, tries to brush by me. I move sharply to the wall so he cannot pass. We are going to have this out now. He has something awful to hide, I know.

  Something wicked.

  Evil.

  I think of all that he has done.

  Stealing from washing lines. The sauna. The business in the department store toilets. Yesterday, at the children’s playground. It’s all been building up to this point.

  “What’s going on then?” I can hear the anger rising in my voice. I must try to subdue it, stay calm for the moment.

  “I’ve met someone,” he replies, looking at me at last, holding my gaze, defiant. He hurries on, “I was about to tell you, ask you. Later. A woman… Josie she’s called… she likes me. A lot,” he adds for emphasis.

  We both look at each other, and I don’t quite know what to say. I had expected to have to press him, push him hard against the wall, force him to talk until he admitted to visits to playgrounds, dancing around, grooming, playing with little girls, following them until he got one alone. Yesterday. Last night. And then I would deal with it. But I did not expect this.

  I am taken aback.

  I had decided what to do with him.

  I now have to think again.

  He carries on as I look at him. “She’s the same age as me, Josie.” He swallows. “We were at school together. But different classes. She was the year above, born in August, she was. We met in town and we got talking. She talked to me first. She’s my girlfriend now… my proper girlfriend.”

  “So, what, you were with her last night, at her place?” (Dear God, wonders will never cease.)

  He nods, confirming, “She’s staying in a women’s hostel for a few nights while she sorts her housing stuff out.” He then goes on, growing in confidence, “She’s my girlfriend. We love each other. We want to be
together.” He says this bit as if he has rehearsed it, getting the words and the phrasing and the nuances just so in his head. As if I will be impressed by this stupidity.

  “Be together,” I echo, thinking, what to say next to the ridiculousness of it all. “What, where? Here? We’ve no room for her here. It’s barely big enough for the two of us. No room for anyone else.” I pause. “I suppose you could get a job and move out. Try and be normal for once.”

  “She has her own place, rented from the council, it’s just that…’ He tails off as I stare him down, him and his five-minute wonder of a girlfriend. Like everything else in his life, it won’t last. He will mess it up somehow. He always does. He ruins everything. That’s why he’s still here. At home. A fully grown man. All 6 foot 3 of him.

  “What does she see in you anyway?” I say, louder than I mean to. “You’ve not got much to offer, have you, no prospects, no job, nothing. What will you give her, a 50-50 share of your benefits?” I feel the anger surging again, at the madness of it all. A girlfriend. Really. I step back, trying to stay calm. “What’s the bloody point?”

  He leans against the wall, his bubble burst. I see him struggling for words, close to tears, but still defiant, standing up to me. “She says… I’m kind…”

  I snort, I cannot stop myself, the folly of it. “Well, that will pay the bills, won’t it? Your kindness. That’ll go a long way, that will.”

  We stand there.

  Both of us lost for words, momentarily.

  And then he speaks up, gulping slightly between each sentence.

  “I wanted to ask you… to say to you… if she could come for tea this afternoon, four o’clock. She’d like to meet you… you could get to know her. She’s a nice person, you’ll like her. She’s gentle… and funny… and…” His words tail off again.