Tread Softly

by Wendy Perriam

  He picked up a strand of her hair, ran it through his fingers, pressed it to his lips. Then he took her hand and kissed her broken thumbnail. Every part of her became precious when he kissed it: the sole of her foot, the tiny bruise on her left thigh, the space between her shoulder-blades. Their faces were so close she could see the pores of his skin and the individual hairs in his eyebrows. She adored each pore, each hair.

  He sat up at last, disentangling his body from hers. ‘I’ll fetch the wine.’

  ‘No,’ she said, wrapping her legs round his again. ‘I want you just … here.’ She put her arms around his neck and drew his head down, to her breasts. He was the bulwark against her fears. If he moved they would flood back.

  Gently he loosened her arms. ‘I’ll only be two seconds.’

  When he’d gone she pulled the nylon sheet up to her chin. What was she doing lying naked in this bed? She had come to tell him it was over and that he mustn’t get involved now she was thinking of leaving Ralph for good.

  But who need ever know? Ralph was hardly likely to track her down to a shabby council flat. No, not shabby – resplendent. The grey walls seemed to glow, and the saggy single divan had become a damask-hung four-poster. Even the balding hairbrush on the dressing-table was an object of fascination. Just because it was his.

  The door opened softly and he came in with the wine. ‘See? I’m back already.’ He handed her a glass – a cheap thing, with garish coloured fruits stencilled round the rim (Waterford crystal once he’d touched it). It was she who had brought the wine, to ease their parting, but now it was for celebration.

  He leaned forward and held his glass teasingly between her breasts, cold against her flushed skin. ‘To my beautiful lady,’ he whispered.

  ‘To my beautiful man.’

  ‘You look happy now.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Not sad and stern like when you first arrived.’

  ‘Was I stern?’

  ‘Terribly!’ He moved the glass against her nipple.

  His voice was so languorously caressing, just hearing it made her want him again. And his penis was still stiff, she noticed with surprise, with pride. She pulled him down beside her, moving over to make room for him. ‘Is this your brother’s bed or yours?’

  ‘Oh, mine. I wouldn’t dare use my brother’s. He might find a wisp of your toco-hair lurking in his sheets.’ He kissed his fingers and leaned forward to plant the kiss on her bush.

  There was a sudden awkward silence. He seemed embarrassed all at once, for no reason she could fathom. He was no longer looking at her, but staring down at his glass. ‘I … I have to speak to you about my brother,’ he said, in a completely different tone – defensive, almost terse.

  ‘Oh dear. Is he cross that I’m here? I know he doesn’t like me.’

  ‘It’s not that. He has a … problem.’ Oshoba put his glass down on the wooden box that served as a bedside table. ‘He has to go back to Nigeria. Our sister is ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Except it’s serious. The thing is, he hasn’t any money for the fare. He keeps saying I‘ve got to pay.’

  ‘You? Why?’

  ‘Because he’s lost his job.’

  ‘Heavens! When did that happen?’

  ‘Last week. They gave him the sack.’

  ‘But you said he was working – tonight, I mean. You told me to come at seven, so he’d be gone.’

  Oshoba looked confused for a moment. ‘That’s … only a temporary job. Just for a day or two. He has to fly out as soon as he can.’

  ‘But if you haven’t got the money, Oshoba …’ She wondered why he wasn’t going. Surely a carer in a nursing-home would be of more practical use than a chef? ‘Why does Olu have to go, not you?’

  ‘He’s the eldest and we can’t afford two fares. We can’t even afford one unless …’

  ‘How much is the fare?’

  ‘Seven hundred pounds return.’

  ‘That sounds a lot. Can’t he get something cheaper from one of those bucket shops?’

  ‘Maybe. But he’ll need money while he’s there as well.’ Oshoba seemed increasingly nervous. He went over to the window and stood fiddling with the curtain. ‘I was wondering, beautiful lady, whether you … you might be able to help.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, I know you’re selling your house.’

  She stared at him, incredulous. Was he trying to turn their sex into a sordid cash transaction? ‘But it’s not sold yet. And most of that money’s earmarked anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s a big house, isn’t it? It must be worth a lot.’

  Don’t say any more, she pleaded silently. Don’t spoil things.

  They were already spoiled. Irredeemably. As they were between her and Paul. (Paul hadn’t demanded cash in return for sex: he had demanded sex in return for dinner. And as he’d admitted having several other girlfriends she wasn’t keen to join the harem.) ‘Oshoba, the money’s tied up, mine and Ralph’s. We have a joint account.’

  ‘But you said you were divorcing him.’

  ‘Not yet. Things are very … uncertain.’ Uncertain all round. They did have a prospective buyer for the house, but he had put in a depressingly low offer. Should they accept and get Bowden off their backs, or hold out for the asking price?

  Oshoba looked thoroughly wretched, his brow creased, his fingers drumming on the window-sill. Perhaps she was being unfair. If he was genuinely worried about his sister’s health he might be forced to take desperate measures. And yet it did seem an awful cheek to expect her to shell out. ‘I’m not working at the moment myself. Money’s very tight.’

  ‘But your aunt’s house – the one she left you in her will. That should bring in a good bit.’

  All the things she had told him in good faith were now being turned against her. She heard her voice, listless and dejected. ‘We have to wait for probate to be cleared.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  No, he didn’t understand – only the needs of her body. Had he planned it all deliberately? Shag the woman till she’s stupefied, then stand over her while she signs the cheque? But how could he have faked his own excitement? That noisy, shuddering climax? And what about the last time? He hadn’t asked for anything then. In fact he had always been gentle and caring; a giver, not a taker. She sipped the wine to allow herself time to think – expensive Chardonnay that tasted flat and sour. ‘Oshoba, I’d like to help but I … I can’t. Things are very difficult financially.’

  ‘My brother says your house is worth a million.’

  She flung the covers aside and stood up. ‘Well, he’s wrong – completely and utterly. And what does he know about it? Unless you’ve been talking, of course.’

  He grasped her arm, so tight it hurt. ‘You know I wouldn’t do that. But he’s always asking questions, and then I found that he’s been checking up on you.’

  ‘He’s been what?’

  ‘Don’t be angry, beautiful lady.’

  ‘I’ve every right to be angry.’ She wrested her arm away. ‘It’s a bloody cheek!’

  ‘But he’s angry too, you see.’ Again he tried to touch her, clutching at her hand this time, as if by maintaining physical contact he could overcome her resistance. ‘Because I slept with you.’

  ‘What the hell’s it got to do with him?’

  Oshoba bit his lip, said nothing.

  ‘Is it because I’m white?’

  ‘Maybe. He’s had some bad experiences over here. So now he’s prejudiced. And perhaps he’s jealous too, a bit. He’s never had a girlfriend.’

  ‘Well, that’s his problem.’ She was already struggling into her clothes – the clothes Oshoba had removed so sensuously and slowly, kissing the insides of her thighs as he drew down her lacy tights, tonguing her breasts as he unfastened her bra.

  ‘Please don’t rush off. I hate it to be like this when before we were so close.’

  Torn all ways,
she sank down on the bed. Perhaps he simply wasn’t strong enough to withstand his brother’s demands, his dislike of her, his prejudice. For all she knew, Olu could be a brute. And yet the story didn’t quite ring true. Why had the sister never been mentioned before? And why was he avoiding her eyes? ‘Oshoba, I didn’t even know you had a sister. How come she’s suddenly ill?’

  ‘We only heard last night. My father rang.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have been more upset then. If I’d just heard my sister was at death’s door I don’t think I’d feel like jumping into bed with anyone, even you. And it certainly didn’t affect your performance.’

  He slipped his hand between the buttons of her blouse. ‘That’s because I find you so exciting.’

  ‘I don’t want flattery, Oshoba. I want the truth.’

  ‘It is the truth. When I see you naked, everything else goes out of my head.’

  Could she believe him? Or had the whole thing been a sham from the start? Perhaps he had latched on to her at Oakfield in the hope of financial gain, sensed her vulnerability, seen her as a soft touch. According to Kathy, some of the carers did blatantly tout for cash. But Oshoba hadn’t seemed the mercenary type. Unless he’d been biding his time, of course. The problem was, she would never know – which meant that things between them could never be the same. Even now, while his thumb caressed her nipple, her body was responding while her mind warned, ‘Stupid fool! He’s only after your money.’

  ‘Lorna, you don’t seem to realize it’s you I’m worried about.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, Olu says if you won’t help he might have to ask your husband.’

  She sprang up from the bed. ‘Oshoba, if you or Olu dare say a word to Ralph …’

  ‘But how can I stop him?’

  ‘Oshoba, this is blackmail.’

  ‘No, of course it isn’t. I just want to save you from trouble. But I’m worried for myself as well. I don’t want your husband knowing that we’ve …’

  ‘A pity you didn’t think of that earlier.’ She seized her jacket and buttoned it with shaking fingers. ‘And you can tell Olu that he won’t get a single penny from either me or Ralph. Is that clear?’

  ‘No, wait, please. We have to talk.’

  ‘We’ve talked quite long enough.’

  ‘At least let’s finish the wine.’ Desperately he pushed the glass into her hands.

  She hurled it to the floor. ‘It’s over, Oshoba, don’t you understand? Buy your own wine in future. And pay your own bloody fares.’

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  ‘An absolute disgrace!’

  Aunt Agnes’s voice exploded in Lorna’s head as, nervously, she approached the grave. It was overgrown with weeds, the headstone cracked and leaning to one side as if drunk, like her father. And the graves around it were similarly out of kilter, some half sunken, some tilted at perilous angles, many crumbling or broken. A marble angel lay helpless on her back, one wing snapped off, her face streaked with green. Groundsel and chickweed had invaded the stone slabs; coarse tufts of grass sprouted between cracks. Was her father so powerful that even after death he could leave this trail of devastation? When she’d visited as a child, the plot had been well tended, the gravestones upright, the whole churchyard neat and trim. Agnes would never have allowed insolent weeds to encroach or rapacious ivy to choke her beloved sister. Instead, pristine white lilies or sprays of scented lilac would be arranged in vases and forbidden to droop. Lorna used to wonder why the dead should even want flowers, when they could no longer see or smell them. As an adult she had avoided the place and all its traumatic associations, preferring to keep her father exuberantly alive, not confined in a box, shackled by a stone.

  On impulse she put down the heavy carrier-bag, knelt on the ground and started grubbing up the weeds with her bare hands. How could she leave Agnes’s remains in such a wild, disorderly spot? Soon her nails were filthy and her wrists scratched, so she searched for a piece of flint to dig out the obstinate roots. Then she used it to scrape the lichen off the headstone and finally sat back on her heels and stared at the formal names: Garret Michael David Alexander; Margaret Anna Martha Rose. She had never known her parents as they really were. And perhaps the few memories she had of them were coloured by her craving for a perfect, problem-free family.

  She shivered, although the day was unseasonably warm – the fields and hills beyond the churchyard shimmering in a heat haze, the recent rain and gloom purged in a convulsion of new growth. Polished celandines carpeted the ground, interspersed with young, keen, sappy nettles, and a white bridal veil of cow-parsley foamed along the hedgerows amid a luminous gauze of green. All around, trees and plants were uncoiling, budding, sprouting, while swifts and swallows painted darting black hieroglyphs on the becalmed blue sky. Living here as a child, she had been too forlorn to notice the beauty of the countryside. Her focus was on her parents (where might she find them? In heaven? Under ground?) and on her hated boarding-school. Nor did she remember the place being as lonely as today. There had always been people – grown-ups mostly, telling her what to do; not just Agnes but busybody villagers. Now, however, the area seemed abandoned, tenanted only by the dead.

  She took the heavy cardboard box out of the carrier-bag. How grotesque it was that the person who had brought her up and had loved her most in the world should be reduced to a bagful of ashes. At Clare’s, she had kept it under the bed, unwilling to confront it, and indeed the very sight of the oblong box brought back an image of Agnes in her coffin, her nails still varnished strawberry red, in contrast to her old-fashioned clothes. She had kissed the stiff white brow, repelled by its marble coldness and by the vase of artificial flowers standing on a plinth beside the corpse – dusty roses in a hideous shade of mauve. And at a time when daffodils and tulips were running riot in every garden, on sale in every florist’s. Were the undertakers too mean to buy a bunch or two? The artificial had no place in Agnes’s life.

  Ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach, she peeled off the tape that sealed the cardboard box. Inside she found a tall, screw-topped jar, and inside that a polythene bag of silvery cinder-dust. Box, jar and bag all bore identical labels, giving Agnes’s name, the date of her cremation and the cremation number: 804. But no, this couldn’t be Agnes – in a plastic bag in a plastic jar …

  She drew the bag from the mouth of the jar and undid its plastic tie. Never before had the difference between life and death seemed so chillingly stark. A corpse was at least recognizable as human – clothed and three-dimensional, the person you had known – whereas this gritty grey stuff might just as well be the debris from a bonfire or the sweepings from a grate.

  She had no idea how to proceed. The scattering of ashes surely required some form of ritual – a priest intoning solemn words, backed by organ and choir. But, like the village, the churchyard was deserted, basking in Sunday lunch-time stupor. Birds provided the only choir: raucous jays, brash thrushes, a cacophony of rooks.

  Kneeling in a respectful posture, she held out the bag and slowly trickled the ashes on to the grave. Some settled there; some lifted in the breeze, dispersed. Was she reuniting the sisters, or simply casting Agnes to the winds?

  Tears slid down her face. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, knowing her aunt would disapprove. Coming out without a clean cotton handkerchief was a capital offence. (Agnes couldn’t abide paper tissues.) ‘Dearest Aunt,’ she whispered, ‘I promise not to sniff. There’s no need to worry about me any more. Your work is over now.’

  She pressed some of the fine granules into the engraved letters of her mother’s name. ‘Rest in Peace’ was written underneath in Gothic script. Had her mother ever known peace?

  Suddenly she saw her father coming down the path. She and Mummy had been watching for him, waiting on the doorstep. She ran to meet him, her summer sandals hurting on the ruts. Her head was level with his legs. Pin-striped legs. Unsteady legs, lurching towards her. He bent to kiss her. A dribbly, nasty-
tasting kiss.

  ‘Look what I found, Daddy!’ She held out the feather. A magpie’s feather, blue-glistening-black.

  He didn’t take it, though. He didn’t even seem to see it. His eyes were funny, with little streaks of red in them.

  ‘Don’t bother me, Lorna. I’m tired.’

  His voice was wrong: a fuzzy growl. Her mother’s voice was wrong as well. Scared and shrill. And her face too tight.

  They went inside. He sat at the table, but he didn’t eat his meat or apple pie. He just drank some brown stuff from a bottle. Mummy tried to stop him, but he banged his fist on the table and the cups and glasses shook. Mummy cried. He laughed. No one noticed her, so she slid down from her chair and hid behind the door. She’d lost her magic feather. She wished she had feathers too, to fly away.

  She screwed her eyes tight shut. Better not to look. Or make a noise. If she wasn’t quiet he’d bang the table again.

  ‘I will not be quiet!’ she yelled, wheeling round to face the grave. ‘Not any more. To hell with you, Daddy! You ruined our lives. Smashed yourself up. Killed Mummy.’ She kicked out at the head-stone, hurting her foot on the granite. ‘I was born brave and you destroyed that, you selfish, drunken pig …’

  The rooks’ voices mocked in echo, but she shouted louder still. ‘And that awful school … It was like another death. You and your pretensions! You can’t imagine what it was like, being treated as if I smelt. Just because I had no parents. And all the time I kept thinking, What if Agnes dies too? Nothing was safe. Or permanent. How dare you be so …’

  Her voice was getting hoarse. What was the point of ranting? It was over. Her father was dead. Her mother was dead. Even Agnes was dead. She had to accept it, let them go. Life wasn’t safe, not for anyone. It was full of risk and uncertainty. So be it – she’d survive.

  Somewhere in the distance she heard the throb of a tractor. People working, purposeful …

  She stood looking out across the patchwork fields, although the combed brown furrows and the green glaze of wheat remained a featureless blur. Her attention was on the past, flashing by in fast-forward: her childhood here, first with her parents, then with Agnes; the prison years of school; the wild affairs; the breakdown; the safe harbour of marriage; the recent squalls and shipwreck.