Of Things Gone Astray

by Janina Matthewson

  Robert let his head fall back against his deck chair and closed his eyes. There was something he had to figure out. There was something he was missing.

  He was still sitting there, still but not relaxed, when Mara came up and kissed him. He opened his eyes.

  ‘Your daughter’s become a mermaid,’ Mara said. ‘It’s very important you come and see.’

  Jake.

  JAKE WAS CONCENTRATING. HE WAS drinking milk and concentrating as hard as he could. He was sitting cross-legged in the armchair in the office. The office he almost remembered having been in before.

  There was no one else in the room.

  Jake focused.

  There was no one. Was there? Was there no one else? Maybe there was someone at the big slanted desk. Maybe there was a pencil moving over its surface. Maybe the ruler kept changing position. Maybe there was a voice muttering to itself.

  Jake thought that he could just give up. Just let go. But the girl, Delia, had been so nice and so sure and so likely to cry.

  He decided to try talking to the room’s absence of person. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say, but he thought that if he just started saying something, the something he said would carry him along to the next thing.

  ‘I don’t really like pizza anymore,’ he started. ‘I don’t know when I stopped liking it, but I did and now I don’t think I’ll be able to start again.’

  Jake talked on and on until he was hungry. He didn’t remember much of what he said, but he was almost sure most of it had been true. Sometimes he’d come across something that he really wanted heard and he’d leant forward in his chair and at those times he could swear there had been someone standing in the room. A figure would flash off and on like they were standing on a platform behind a train that was travelling quickly past them. Then he’d find himself with nothing to say and sure there was no one in the room to hear him.

  Jake went to the kitchen and got out a loaf of bread. He made himself a sandwich and poured a glass of juice. He carried them back to the office. He stood in the door for a moment, undecided, then he crossed the room and put the plate and glass on the small table beside the desk. He went back to the kitchen and made another sandwich. He turned to go back to the office with it, but changed his mind and stood eating in the kitchen instead.

  He sipped his juice slowly and picked up the leftover crumbs with his finger. He ran a full sink of water to wash his few dishes. He wiped the bench. He chewed his lip and then decided he needed to go to the toilet. He washed his hands for twenty seconds. He dried them thoroughly.

  He took a deep breath and went back to the office. The plate and glass were empty.

  Mrs Featherby.

  IT WAS THE FIRST TRULY cold night of the season. The air was bitter. Mrs Featherby lay wakeful and shivering. She was regretting putting off Bruno. She’d been foolish and impulsive and for no reason.

  It had been ridiculous of her to feel that she was used to her situation. She had never been used to it. The noise of the plastic, the constant draughts, the cold, the interruptions, all of them had been a drain. That was why she was exhausted now. That was why she felt bleak and alone.

  She thought of the small child who’d pestered her so constantly. She had been foolish, she thought, a sentimental old woman, to think that would continue. That a five-year-old girl would continue to find her interesting. She wasn’t interesting, she knew that.

  It was a relief that she’d not come back, Mrs Featherby told herself, and there was no reason, there had been no reason to delay putting up the wall.

  It was her own fault she was so cold. Her own fault for making herself so vulnerable.

  Cassie.

  CASSIE WAS ALONE FOR ONCE. She wasn’t sure how it could have happened. If anyone had known she was alone, there would have been a panicked race to get to her.

  She was still not sure what the point of all this attentiveness was. She didn’t know if people were worried she’d get lonely, or if they just wanted to make sure someone was remembering her existence. Or maybe they just wanted there to be a witness to her final transformation. Her final moments.

  Cassie watched as a small family came through the gates. The father was giving a piggyback ride to the little girl as the mother pushed a trolley with their things. The girl seemed to be peppering her father with questions. After a few minutes she noticed Cassie.

  Cassie looked away. When she looked back, the father had put the little girl down.

  The little girl came and stood in front of Cassie.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘My name is Bonny and what is yours please?’

  ‘Hello,’ said Cassie. ‘I’m Cassie.’

  ‘I asked my dad why you were a tree and he said he didn’t know and I should ask you, but it would be rude if I didn’t know you. But now we know each other and can I please ask if you are really part of a tree or if you are just pretending?’

  Cassie looked down at the small girl for a moment.

  ‘Um, I’m not,’ she paused. ‘I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the girl.

  Cassie looked back over at the girl’s parents. Now that he wasn’t talking to his daughter, the man looked pale and strained. The animation that had filled his face had bled away. The woman was looking at him. When he noticed her gaze, she rubbed his arm briefly before pressing on with the trolley.

  ‘All right, scamp,’ the man said, approaching Cassie and the small girl. ‘You’ve probably pestered the young lady enough.’

  He picked Bonny up again and swung her onto his back.

  ‘Sorry about this, miss,’ he said to Cassie. ‘I’ll get her out of your way.’

  ‘She’s OK,’ said Cassie. ‘She’s fine.’

  The man looked at Cassie for a moment. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Cassie felt suddenly breathless and sick. She swallowed a couple of times. ‘I’m fine,’ she said finally. ‘I’m OK.’

  He looked like he was about to say something more, which Cassie suddenly didn’t think she could stand. She turned to the young girl.

  ‘Where are you coming back from, Bonny?’ she asked.

  ‘My granddad’s house,’ said the girl. ‘My mum made us go for a holiday. I built five sandcastles and became a mermaid.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Cassie. ‘I haven’t built a sandcastle in years.’

  ‘I’m really good at it. My mum is not very good, but I help her, so it’s OK. You are very beautiful. You are a very beautiful tree girl. I wish I was a tree girl.’

  ‘You would make an awful tree girl,’ said the girl’s father. ‘You’re always running around and rolling over. Trees have to stay standing in the same place.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ said the girl. ‘Maybe I will be another type of girl. Maybe I will be a puppy girl.’

  ‘Let’s hope not. Cleaning up after you is enough of a struggle already.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Cassie, ‘you’re already a beautiful normal girl. You don’t want to be a puppy girl as well.’

  ‘There are lots of beautiful normal girls. But I am going to be a spy so maybe it’s better to look like a normal girl.’

  Cassie laughed.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ said the girl. ‘Being a spy is serious and dangerous and you have adventures and made-up husbands and you get sad.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cassie. ‘Why do you want to be one then?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cassie.

  She watched as the small family walked away. She was still gazing in the direction they’d gone in when Bridie arrived.

  ‘Where the hell is your mother?’ she asked immediately. ‘Why are you alone?’

  ‘I don’t know, Bri, but it’s fine.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Bridie was unusually shrill.

  ‘Jesus, calm it down,’ said Cassie. ‘You’re as bad as she is.’

  ‘It’s just, you shouldn’t be alone, you know?’

  ‘No. Why not?’

  ‘Because
. What if something happens?’

  ‘It is already happening, someone being here or not isn’t going to change that.’

  ‘I know, that’s my point.’

  Cassie felt a spark of irritation. ‘What, are you afraid of the transformation completing itself unwitnessed? You want someone here to take pictures?’

  Bridie burst into tears. She looked as if she wanted to run off. Cassie knew she wouldn’t: that would mean leaving Cassie alone again. She watched Bridie force herself to stay and they both fell silent.

  Cassie chewed her lip and tried not to apologise. She tried to still feel angry.

  Marcus.

  HE WAS GOING OUT TO the theatre. Not Albert’s theatre – Albert’s theatre had faded and crumbled not long after Albert had faded and crumbled. His girl had thought an evening out might be good for him, so her and her boy, her Jasper, had picked a play to see.

  He was finding it harder to leave the house. He’d got lost once or twice, and several times left the house without his house keys. He’d had to wait in the garden until she’d come over to check on him. She was coming over to check on him a lot these days. He knew he was worrying her, and the knowledge of that made him so tired and guilty.

  She’d bought him a few new CDs of his favourite composers, but he didn’t listen to them that often. It was too much like always hearing strangers talking and never getting to say anything himself. He didn’t know how to explain this to her, so he pretended that he liked them and felt embarrassed whenever she turned up earlier than he was expecting to find the house silent.

  She always had excuses for coming round. She wanted to find a book she’d left here. She’d found an unusual tea she wanted him to try. She’d been shopping nearby. Sometimes the boy, her boy, was with her. He was nice and energetic, but baffling. He felt so young.

  He’d always known really he was too old to be a father. Too old to be a good father. He hadn’t expected to be the only one left for her. Albert had been fourteen years younger than him, so, although they were both a lot older than most new parents, it hadn’t seemed so outlandish. And when Albert had died, he’d still felt, not young, but of a normal age. Now, suddenly, so suddenly, he was old and failing.

  There weren’t many people at the theatre when they got there. They’d wanted to be in plenty of time so it wouldn’t be stressful for him. They’d wanted to be able to take it slowly. That’s what they’d decided he needed to be able to do.

  They found a small table in the bar and Jasper got them some drinks. They sat together.

  He’d been staring at it for a while before he realised that there was a piano in one corner of the bar. It was closed and had a sign sitting on top of it. Probably warning people not to touch it.

  He wondered if it would be the same, this piano. If it would be as hostile as his had become. He would have lower expectations; after all, he would know it wasn’t his, or partially his.

  His girl, his Katharine, was busy telling them what she’d heard about the play they were seeing. He didn’t know if she’d realised he hadn’t been listening. He suspected that if she had, she would just have tried to talk harder. He stood.

  ‘Dad,’ she said. ‘Dad, where are you going? Do you need help?’

  He neither turned nor answered. He moved across the room. He didn’t look back until he’d reached the piano, sitting alone with its ‘please do not touch’ sign. As he sat down, he could see that she had tried to follow him and that the boy had stopped her. His restraining hand was still on her arm and she still looked tempted to push the boy aside and go after him. After her one remaining father.

  As he raised the lid of the piano, one of the bar staff, a young girl, noticed him there and started towards him. He raised a hand towards her and she stopped walking.

  He flexed his fingers. Some Schumann to start.

  There were more people around now. All the tables were full and a handful of people were standing. He noticed them start to look, he noticed them begin to listen, and then he stopped noticing much at all.

  After the Schumann, he improvised for a while with some jazz. Then he played some Debussy, which he professed not to like but was always soothed by.

  He didn’t know how long he played for. He kept going until she was standing behind him, with her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Dad,’ she whispered. ‘We have to go in now. The play’ll be starting in a minute.’

  The play was short and odd and funny. He forced himself to pay attention in the way he would have if Albert had been there to talk it over with afterwards. It was the sort of thing Albert would have liked, he thought. Albert would have understood it better than he did.

  His daughter and her lover drove him home and came in for tea. She made him sit in the lounge while she and her Jasper got it ready and brought it through. When she handed him his tea cup he found it impossible to grip. His fingers wouldn’t close over the handle and he had to hold it with both hands. He put it down quickly on the low table beside his chair and looked at his hands. They were swollen and red. He didn’t recognise them.

  Delia.

  THE DOOR OPENED BEFORE DELIA had even knocked on it. Jake stood there. He looked pale.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you. Waiting for ages. He ate my sandwich, I think. I can’t quite remember anymore, that’s why I wanted you to come earlier. I wish you’d been here straight away.’

  Delia felt a flush of guilt. Had Jake called her asking her to come over? No, he definitely hadn’t. She hadn’t given him her number. Probably she should. Almost definitely she should.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jake,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you’d want me to come over again. I was worried, actually. I thought that when I got here you’d want me to leave. What happened?’

  ‘I made a sandwich, I think, and I put it in the office, in his office, I think, and I went away and I think I made another sandwich and ate it, and I think that when I went back to the office, the one I’d put there had been eaten. I think.’

  ‘OK,’ said Delia. ‘That’s good. That’s really good.’

  ‘If it happened,’ said Jake.

  ‘Which we think it did.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Um,’ said Jake.

  ‘Oh. You can’t tell?’

  ‘Well, I think he was here and I’m not sure that he’s left.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me.’

  Delia walked into the house calling for Anthony, Jake walking behind her. She walked into the office. Anthony was standing at his drafting board. An empty plate was on the table beside him. A used glass was on one of the bookshelves. Delia caught Jake’s eye and he gave her a thumbs up.

  ‘Hi,’ said Delia, giving Jake a nervous wink. ‘Oh, did you just eat? I thought we’d have dinner.’

  ‘What?’ said Anthony, turning around. ‘Oh, hi. Sorry, I didn’t know you’d arrived. How did you get in?’

  ‘Wow. You get really distracted when you work, don’t you.’

  Anthony ran a hand through his hair, which was already standing around his head like a dark halo. ‘What? Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘Should I leave you alone for a bit to finish?’

  ‘Um,’ Anthony looked vaguely around him. ‘No. No, I think I’m finished for now. Are we having dinner?’

  ‘I thought so, but did you just eat?’ Delia pointed at the empty plate.

  ‘Oh. No. I don’t think so. That was hours ago.’

  ‘What did you have?’

  ‘Just a sandwich.’

  ‘Great. Nice?’

  ‘Yeah. It had something weird in it. I don’t know what it was.’

  ‘Coriander,’ said Jake. Delia stared at him for a moment, before turning back to his father.

  ‘But didn’t you make it? Don’t you know what went in it?’

  ‘Of course I did. Who else would have made it? Do you want to cook tonight or shall I? Actually, me cooking is not a good idea. Shall we get something in? There’s a
good Thai place near here.’

  Anthony walked out of the room, still rubbing his outraged hair.

  ‘How did you know about the coriander?’ asked Delia. ‘Did you hear him say that about there being something weird?’

  Jake blinked. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I heard everything he said about the sandwich.’

  ‘OK. OK, OK, that’s good. What’s something else you’ve done recently? Could you get some pictures you’ve taken?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to bring things like that to the table.’

  ‘I think we should make an exception this time.’

  Delia walked to the kitchen while Jake ran upstairs. Anthony was just hanging up the phone.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what you’d want so I just got what I wanted,’ he said, grabbing her.

  ‘You could have come and asked,’ Delia replied when she had a moment free.

  ‘I like having you in my house,’ said Anthony. ‘You make my house feel good.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Delia. ‘I like being here. And I like Jake. I hope you ordered enough food for him.’

  Anthony let her go and grabbed two plates out of the cupboard. Delia rolled her eyes and got out a third.

  Mrs Featherby.

  MRS FEATHERBY WAS DOZING IN the chair that was by the window that used to exist. She was not in favour of dozing, and she hadn’t meant to let it happen, but sometimes we are not altogether in control of such things.

  In her hand was a letter on crisp, cream-coloured paper. At the top of the paper was an insignia Mrs Featherby hadn’t seen for years. The letter started with the phrase ‘It’s come to our attention that you are now sufficiently recovered to …’; its contents were all the kinds of things she was used to, or had been, long ago: a time, a place, a list of names, an exchange of phrases.

  The letter had sent her into a stream of worry and memory, which had in turn lead to a confusion of dreams.

  When she woke she was confused for a moment. Her house felt alien and cold, not just because of the plastic, but somehow in a deeper, more real way. She was unnerved, and Mrs Featherby did not like being unnerved.