Living with Shadows

by Annette Heys

  Jim threw the letter down onto the table, concerned by such a frank account of a life so obviously disturbed. What was Kate playing at? Surely, she shouldn’t be encouraging prisoners to tell her their life stories? He would have to speak to her about it, tell her she ought to be more careful about the sort of relationship she had with these people. Kate could be so gullible at times.

  The discovery of this letter gave him an opportunity to criticise his wife’s behaviour and offered him some relief about his own. He hadn’t been completely honest with her lately. He thought he would have been able to handle things without troubling her but now he wasn’t so sure. At the start everything had run smoothly but he hadn’t realised how easily it could all go terribly wrong when a job didn’t get finished on time or he needed a new piece of equipment. On top of that, his van would have to be replaced before long yet he could see no way of doing that in a hurry. He’d thought about asking Kate for a loan but when he considered the implications he rejected it. This was his venture and its success depended on him alone. He didn’t want to have to run to his wife for help.

  He flung himself back into the soft fabric of the sofa and closed his eyes as if shutting out the light would somehow erase his problems. It was useless. The morning’s events cluttered his mind; the bank manager’s mealy-mouthed explanation as to why he couldn’t grant him a loan; his loathsome apology as he shook his hand on the way out, leaving him as a man in the wilderness without hope or direction. The money he’d put into his account from Mrs. O’Grady’s job meant nothing as it was instantly devoured by his overdraft. When he told him of all the months of work that was guaranteed at Helen Duncan’s place, it was met with stock phrases: ‘economic climate’, ‘not part of our policy at this moment in time’.

  Without working capital how could he buy the equipment he needed for the jobs? He would have to tell Helen Duncan that he was unable to do the work for her after all. The job would be impossible to complete without the money to buy materials. It would be humiliating to explain his reasons for not turning up yet there was no point in making excuses. If he thought it would serve any purpose, he might try but it would only prolong the agony and possibly jeopardise his business further. He turned his phone over and over in his hands before finally plucking up courage to call her. She answered too quickly and he felt unprepared even though he’d gone over what he was going to say a dozen times.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, it’s Jim Stuart. Sorry I didn’t call earlier but there’s a problem.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I went to see the bank manager this morning . . . he wouldn’t . . . I wasn’t able to extend my credit so I’m afraid I don’t have the cash to buy materials.’ His words seemed to tumble over each other and he wondered if he even made sense. The silence on the other end of the phone was worse to him than his frank admission and he waited for her to berate him for wasting her time.

  ‘Why don’t you come over? Maybe we can work something out.’

  Her voice was gentle and reassuring yet it seemed pointless to hope there could be a solution and he began to tell her as much when she interrupted.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve changed your mind. The work’s too much for you?’

  ‘No, of course not . . . it’s just . . .’ Something made him think twice before refusing her offer altogether. ‘OK, I’ll come round and talk, but . . .’

  ‘I’ll expect you within the hour.’

  Jim looked at his phone in disbelief. She’d rung off and left him wondering if he’d dreamt the whole thing. Could she really still want to employ him knowing he was broke? It wasn’t very professional, but if she was prepared to put the money up front then, yes, he could do the work, no problem, and still make a good profit. Also, it would save him having to mention anything to Kate.

  Though he was not certain how things would turn out, his mood had lifted and some of the anger he had felt towards her after reading Michael’s letter had dissipated by the time Kate came into the room. Even so, the sensation of being crushed like an insect under the shoe of his bank manager still rankled and had generated in him a need to reinstate a sense of superiority. The expression on her face when she realised the letter had been moved made this desire all the easier to orchestrate and he gave her a serious look before launching into his half prepared homily.

  ‘What’s this?’ He sat forward and waved the letter in front of her.

  ‘Oh, it’s just something I asked one of the lads to do. He’s not very good at expressing himself verbally, so I asked him to write a bit about himself.’

  ‘A bit personal, isn’t it?’ Again, he saw a flash of embarrassment cross her face.

  ‘I think he got a bit carried away. Probably hasn’t had the opportunity to open up like that before.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s in your remit, is it, Kate . . . to have prisoners “open up” to you. I’d have thought that was a psychologist’s role, if anybody’s, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘It’s more of an exercise . . . a way of checking his literacy. Mind you, it’s a bit more than I bargained for.’ She made a surprised face and gave an awkward chuckle.

  He smiled inwardly at her attempt to make light of it, knowing she was secretly annoyed he’d read the letter. He would make her squirm just a little longer before letting her off the hook. ‘You don’t want to encourage this sort of thing, Kate. These people, well . . . this person is obviously looking for sympathy.’

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea after all.’ She took the letter from him and shoved it into her bag as if wanting to hide it from sight along with her bad judgement.

  ‘I suppose you meant well.’ Jim pulled her down beside him, the memory of his own recent defeat rising in him, tempering the inclination to taunt her further. ‘And I expect it helped pass a few hours. It would make a change from playing pool or watching telly.’

  She sat up suddenly and moved away from him. ‘Jim, you’re such a cynic. In spite of what you may think, it isn’t an easy life in prison.’

  ‘Then they shouldn’t get into trouble in the first place, should they.’

  ‘It isn’t always their fault. Some have bad homes, or get into the wrong company. There are all sorts of reasons why people end up in prison.’

  ‘And I suppose you think he’s one of those.’ Jim pointed at her bag.

  ‘Well he certainly hasn’t had a privileged life.’

  ‘You don’t want to be listening to any sob stories from anyone, Kate.’ Jim got to his feet and walked across the room, annoyed that she really did feel sorry for this guy. ‘There’s usually a good reason why people are locked up and it isn’t up to you to question it; that’s not your job.’

  ‘I do know that, Jim. I’m not totally stupid.’ She pursed her lips and ran a finger along the gold chain around her neck.

  He studied her for a moment before going over and kissing her on the cheek. ‘I’m just trying to look out for you, that’s all. You’re new and they’re bound to try and take advantage, especially a beautiful woman to boot.’ He felt her body stiffen at his clumsy attempt to make amends but he hadn’t the time or the inclination to pander to her. He got to his feet and tried not to show his displeasure by stating as casually as possible, ‘I need to go and see Mrs. Duncan, sort out what’s needed before I start tomorrow. I won’t be long.’

  Before closing the door he looked back over his shoulder to see her reaching for her bag. As he took down his coat from the peg in the hall he thought to himself that he really had to nail this job. Failure was too big a word to contemplate right now.

  One of five white panelled doors lay at the far end of the landing to the west of the house. It was no different from any of the doors along that stretch of landing except it held prominence over the others because of its location, and it was always kept locked. Helen had chosen that room as her work place because
of the light, the quiet and soothing aspect.

  She carefully laid down her brush and walked over to the bay window where she rested her hands on the white sill and looked out over winter-scarred countryside. In the distance a river meandered between fields and woodland, the trees just beginning to show a hint of green. Often, when she grew impatient with her work, she would stand at the window and drink in this scene until she felt the tension drain from her. Below, bright yellow daffodils gently swayed in the spring sunlight. The garden had been neglected by its previous owners but she would rectify that over the coming months. It would be filled with colours and scents compatible with the seasons. Nature helped inspire her work. Choosing whatever plants she desired and organising the garden was something that would give her immense pleasure.

  There was much to do in this new house. She thought of Jim, certain he would turn out to be reliable because he needed the work. He was already in her debt—a promising start, she thought. There was no rush. As long as she had her workplace, cut off from the disruption and chaos of the impending renovation, she would cope. In any case, in two weeks’ time she would be in New York. If everything went well maybe she would stay on a while longer than the planned three weeks, seek out some new contacts. By the time she got back, the kitchen should be finished at least.

  She wet her finger and rubbed at a spot on the windowsill. The moment she looked away from the tranquil scene, a sense of bitterness washed over her. This move to a new area, this re-assessment of her life, this . . . loneliness was at times unbearable to her. Having someone around, even if he was only a workman, would help. Better, also, someone she knew nothing about; more importantly, someone who knew nothing about her. A fresh start meant not having to talk about the past. She had already told him a lie, albeit a necessary one.

  Helen looked at her watch. The hour was almost up. Jim would be here any minute. She returned to her easel, dipped the paintbrush into a pot of water and scudded the pale blue cloud with a quick swirl. Closing the door behind her, she took the key from her pocket and locked it. She hurried to the bedroom, quickly ran a brush through her thick blonde hair and pulled it into a tousled pile before pinning it in place with a long sparkly comb. After applying mascara to her lashes, she pouted at her reflection and ran ‘warm red’ lipstick around her full mouth. Picking up the glass bottle next to her hairbrush, she gently pressed the top and released a fine spray of cologne to the inside of her open neck shirt.

  The coffee had just finished percolating when Jim arrived. She invited him to follow her through to the kitchen. He hesitated and wiped his feet on the coconut mat by the door and then waited to be asked before taking a seat at the table. Helen set a tray down between them with coffee and biscuits.

  ‘Help yourself. By the way, is it Jim or James?’

  ‘Oh definitely Jim . . . Jim Stuart. I eventually dropped James after endless jokes and bad impressions.’

  Helen laughed. ‘I can imagine. Though James Stewart was a fine actor. I loved his films, especially Vertigo. I’m a Hitchcock fan. It comes from being brought up by grandparents.’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve seen it.’ Jim poured his coffee, remembered his manners and offered to pour Helen’s.

  ‘I have the DVD somewhere. I’ll dig it out for you before you leave.’ She waved a hand over her cup as he held up the sugar bowl. ‘Anyway, you haven’t come here to talk about films. You need some working capital.’

  Jim cleared his throat. ‘If I could just have enough to cover materials, that would be a great help.’

  ‘And what will you live on?’

  He threw her a puzzled look. ‘Things aren’t as bad as that. There’s Kate’s wage . . .’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean for you to justify yourself. Just tell me what you need and I’ll see you have it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly sure off the top of my head.’

  ‘You’re starting Monday, aren’t you?’

  ‘If I can get hold of the materials, I should think so.’

  Helen got to her feet and went out of the room. She returned with a cheque in one hand and a DVD in the other. ‘Let me know what you think of it.’

  ‘Yes, sure.’ He hadn’t finished his coffee but it was plain he was dismissed and so he took the items and pushed them into his pocket without looking at either of them.

  ‘I’ll see you Monday, then. What time?’

  ‘Eight OK?’

  ‘Fine. Eight it is.’ She closed the door softly behind him and went back into the kitchen. Workmen usually smelled of their trade but not this one. Helen breathed deeply of the lingering smell of aftershave as she gathered up the cups and wondered what Kate did for a living.

  God, he could be so condescending at times. Kate was still seething at Jim’s careless remarks. He had little compassion for ‘inadequate’ people.

  As soon as he’d gone, she read the rest of Michael’s letter, conscious that Jim had also read every word. She could understand how he might get the impression Michael was looking for sympathy. Anything written was open to interpretation but having met the writer, Kate felt she was better equipped than Jim to judge Michael’s intentions.

  Whatever Jim thought about it, she knew she had to respond to Michael’s letter, but how could she? It would be impossible to talk to him in class—too many prying ears—yet she couldn’t just ignore it. He’d written so much.

  Kate read through it again and jotted down some of the mistakes. She could go through these with him, but just correcting his English wasn’t enough. She would have to say something about the content. The only thing she could do was put it in writing. Besides, she was curious. Why had he never told anyone about what was happening to him when he was a child? Surely there must have been someone he could have turned to, a family member or neighbour, priest or vicar?

  She considered Jim’s warning but chose to ignore it. It would be heartless just to give Michael a list of corrections without any reference to the very personal things he’d told her. Of course, she would have to give careful thought to whatever she put in a letter. She wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea, or anyone else for that matter should they get their hands on it. It needed to be somewhere between friendly and formal, sympathetic yet hopeful.

  Well, Michael, I was really surprised at the amount of writing you did for me. The account of your life before you came into prison appears to have been very unhappy for the most part and I was quite saddened by some of the terrible things you suffered when growing up in Belfast. The bullying you endured as a child must have been dreadful. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you living in constant fear of people in your neighbourhood, not daring to go out. Even your teacher was brutal to you.

  From what you say, it seems that things went from bad to worse and even though you tried to escape from the bullying, you ended up finding more disappointment in your life. No wonder you don’t trust people! I expect it was difficult to know who to turn to.

  I can understand your wanting to meet your father. If you hadn’t, you would probably have always wondered what he was really like. It doesn’t matter what other people tell you, it’s something you need to find out for yourself. (I know this from experience.) All the same, it must have been a big disappointment to meet him and discover he wasn’t the person you’d believed him to be.

  As for your holiday, I wonder if you really would have been happy living in Greece. A holiday is one thing but I imagine living there would have had its problems, like understanding the language or finding decent employment. Still, I realise how disappointed you must have felt having your dream of starting a new life dashed again. It was obviously the last straw for you, and so I can understand why you tried to end your life. However, I don’t believe that is the answer to anyone’s problems,—for one thing too many people would be hurt and I believe that no matter how bad life gets, you can turn it
around.

  I know it must be difficult for you after all you’ve been through, but perhaps you ought to think about what you’ll do when you get out. There are lots of training courses in prison, like painting and decorating, car maintenance as well as studying for exams. It might make life in here more bearable if you have something to aim for.

  I hope you aren’t offended by my asking this but there was something you wrote that made me think. You say you were ‘shocked’ at what you’d done after stabbing the man on the street and that you ‘thought you knew you were doing the right thing’ in giving yourself up. At that point you didn’t know he was going to die and no one saw you attack him. Do you think you would still have gone to the police if you’d known you’d killed him? You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.

  Anyway, Michael, I’d better go and get some work done. I’m impressed by how much you wrote! You write well.

  Take care.

  Kate