The Lover

by Amanda Brookfield

  Felix snorted. ‘I can’t share your conviction I’m afraid. I’ve tried to miss him, to feel the right things, but I can’t.’ He swirled a pebble of an ice cube round his empty glass before tipping it to his mouth. The coldness made his teeth ache. ‘If Dad had been alive,’ he muttered, ‘I wouldn’t have had the guts to leave, I’d have endured three years of misery for him. Is that good or bad?’

  Frances was kneeling on the carpet by the coffee table, fiddling with the tassels on the rug and staring at the patterns on the carpet till the colours ran. ‘I don’t know, Felix, I don’t know. Bad, probably. What do you want to do?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve got some things to sort out first…’ He broke off, clenching his teeth until the image of Sally had receded, ‘then…travel maybe. I always wanted a year off, if you recall. Dad—’

  ‘Yes, I remember. He didn’t want you to. He thought it was more important to qualify yourself for a good job. With unemployment and so on. He worried for your future. He thought time out would be an indulgence.’ Frances delivered these sentences in a monotone, remembering Paul’s arguments as if he had spoken them only seconds before, remembering too her silence and feeling ashamed of it. ‘But he did love you, Felix. I know you don’t – you can’t – believe that right now. But he did. He was trying to do what was for the best, he was scared to let go control for fear you might come to some harm…in a way you could say he cared too much.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ replied Felix darkly, getting to his feet.

  Frances stood up too, feeling suddenly small and impotent beside the lanky frame of her son. He was as tall as Daniel, but much skinnier, still with boy’s flesh on a man’s outline. ‘You’re right,’ she said quietly, ‘I wasn’t brave with Dad. I never challenged him if I could help it. It was my way of being happy.’

  Felix dropped his head and walked out of the room. Going up the stairs he gripped the bannisters, pulling his body after his feet, as if each step required monumental effort. Frances stood watching him until he disappeared round the corner of the first landing, appalled as much by the fresh perspective their conversation had cast on her own past cowardices, as the mounting realisation that she appeared to have mislaid the art of being a mother.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Joseph was wheeling his trolley out of Tesco when he spotted Sally emerging from the chemist opposite. The shopping mall was considerably emptier than when he had entered it an hour before, most of the noisy families having retreated home for tea. She had her hair scraped back into a bedraggled stub of a ponytail and was carrying a violin case as well as a large ruck-sack style satchel. He quickly steered his trolley across the gangway of grey speckled linoleum, waving to catch her attention.

  ‘Blimey, you’ve bought a lot of stuff,’ she remarked at once, momentarily distracted from her own woes by the layers of shopping bags stacked inside his trolley. ‘Are you expecting visitors?’

  ‘I don’t like shopping so I do it infrequently and on a large scale,’ Joseph replied, which was true, but not quite the reason for his extravagance that evening. ‘It means I don’t have to bother with the real world for at least another month,’ he continued, wondering to himself how long these stocks would last, and whether his recent decision to dig his heels in would lead to peace or the ignominy of policemen and bulldozers. With the date set for his eviction now just forty-eight hours away, desperation had hardened into resolve. He would tie himself to the beams in the kitchen if necessary. He had even found chains and a rusty padlock for that very purpose.

  ‘God, I’d give anything to leave the real world,’ Sally murmured, remembering herself and hurriedly stuffing the small paper bag she had purchased from the chemist inside her blazer pocket.

  ‘Come and have tea with me then,’ blurted Joseph. ‘I can offer you more than sweets this time,’ he added, gesturing at the shopping. ‘I’ve got a taxi picking me up in –’ he looked at his watch – ‘eight minutes exactly. Just one more thing to get from the electrical shop on the corner and then my mission is complete.’

  The thought of not having to go home, of being granted a reprieve not just from the hothouse of her family, but from all the unresolved mess inside her own head was immediately irresistible. ‘All right then, I will,’ Sally agreed, falling into step beside him with a determined smile. When they reached the hardware store, she paused to scowl at the window display of power drills and paintbrushes. ‘What do you need in here?’ ‘Just some wire. My electrics are on the blink. The council have given up on me so I have to see to such things myself.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Sally, not really listening. ‘I’ll guard the trolley shall I?’

  ‘That would be kind. I won’t be long.’

  A few minutes later they were speeding towards Leybourne in the back of a taxi, Joseph’s shopping crammed into the boot and Sally’s bags wedged on the seat between them.

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’ enquired the driver, lighting up once they had negotiated the traffic jam onto the ring road and were heading out into the countryside.

  ‘Only if I can have one too,’ quipped Sally. The man laughed and tossed her a cigarette and a box of matches. Sally inhaled deeply, tipping her head back against the seat, dizzied both by the nicotine and the sense of her own daring. Soon her parents would start worrying, she realised, feeling the cruelty start to flood out of her and clinging onto it like a lifeline, knowing that without it there was only shame and self-recrimination and despair.

  Joseph wound down his window a couple of inches, eyeing the girl through the screen of smoke and wondering – as on the occasion of his previous invitation – what he was playing at. The hem of her school skirt had ridden up several inches over her knees, revealing a towering rectangle of pale flesh where her tights had laddered. There was a blob of dried pink nail varnish on the end nearest the knee, he noticed, his heart quickening at the pinpointing of so fine a detail. He blinked and looked quickly away, humming under his breath, marvelling for by no 'means the first time in recent weeks at the vagaries of his unhappiness, how it had begun to trigger the most unexpected impulses.

  It took several trips to ferry the shopping from the edge of the road down the wooded path to the cottage, which crouched, black and unwelcoming, in the dark. Joseph produced a small torch from his coat pocket which he used not only to marry the key to the lock, but also to lead the way into the kitchen. ‘Hang on and I’ll light the candles.’

  ‘You mean…aren’t there any lights?’ Sally shrank back. She had envisaged the warmth and conviviality of her last visit; chocolates and mugs of coffee and watching soaps on the telly.

  ‘That’s why I had to buy the wire,’ explained Joseph, a trace of impatience in his tone. ‘It won’t take long.’ He moved round the kitchen as he talked, stepping over the sea of splurging shopping bags and striking matches at various candles precariously arranged in saucers and mugs around the room. By the time he had finished, the kitchen, so homely and higgledy-piggledy in daylight, had the eerie look of a ramshackle chapel.

  ‘Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea,’ began Sally.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Joseph felt a flutter of panic. It suddenly felt imperative that the girl should stay. ‘In a minute I’ll light the fire. First I’ll put the kettle on. Look, the gas still works.’ He struck a match at the hob, illuminating a ring of blue flame. ‘Unless you would prefer to try some of my mother’s homemade wine? I’ve still got bottles of the stuff.’

  ‘Tea would be great thanks. And could I phone home? So they won’t worry—’

  ‘By all means. And perhaps, when the kettle boils you could see to the tea? You’ll find a new box of Typhoo somewhere in that one I think –’ he kicked at one of the bags on the floor – ‘I’ll go and see to the electrics. The box is down in the basement, I won’t be long.’

  Reassured by his cosy tone, Sally unearthed the old black telephone and dialled home. Thanks to various extra-curricular activities of her siblings, she was greeted by
the answer machine, into which she relayed a vague apologetic message about stopping on the way home for tea with a friend. Her conscience clear on this small score, she then fished out the paper bag from her blazer pocket and studied the pregnancy testing kit she had bought at the chemist. POSITUROR, it said, for peace of mind. Inside was a booklet of instructions and two white plastic sticks with small framed squares of what looked like white blotting paper on one end. With no sign of Joseph and the old copper kettle showing little inclination to absorb heat, Sally took one of the sticks and a candle and groped her way into the broom cupboard of a toilet by the back door. It was as cold as an ice-box and smelt of urine and damp. The door was so warped that it did not shut properly. Being one hundred per cent certain, even of the worst news, would bring peace of mind of sorts, Sally told herself, hoicking up her skirt and squatting awkwardly over the loo seat, anxious not to let any of the icy, cracked wood make contact with her skin. After the deed was done, she held the dry end of the stick between her teeth while she pulled up her pants and tights. It could take up to a minute, the instructions said, before the white square turned pink. Sally stood in the eerie flickering light, her teeth chattering with cold, one eye on the white square and one on the second hand of her watch. After counting ninety seconds with no visible change in the colour, she seized the candle and hurried back into the kitchen to check the pictures in the leaflet, expecting to find that she had misread it and pink meant negative after all.

  A moment later the kettle began emitting an ear-piercing whistle, the fridge whirred into life and all the lights came on. It took Sally several dizzying seconds to get to the hob. As she did so Joseph appeared in the doorway behind her, triumphantly brandishing a handful of chewed wire.

  ‘Do you know, I think I might have some of that wine after all,’ she said hoarsely, ‘if it’s still on offer, that is.’

  ‘By all means. I’ll join you. We’ll need food as well. It’s rather strong. How does baked beans on toast sound?’

  ‘Great. Baked beans on toast sounds great.’ Waves of incredulous relief were still coursing through her. Fatter, without a doubt, but apparently not pregnant. Mars Bars not babies. She had been given her life back. The giddiness in her head mushroomed till she thought she might faint – a euphoric giddiness that felt quite unrelated to the goblet of wine which Joseph had set before her. The liquid, sweet and yellow and moreish, quickly dulled her appetite. When Joseph handed her her food, she merely picked at single beans and toast crusts, absently draining her glass as fast as he could fill it.

  It was only when Joseph asked her to play the violin that Sally realised she was drunk. Aware that a sober version of herself would have cringed in horror at being called upon to make a public exhibition of herself, she eagerly seized her instrument from its velveteen nest and embarked on a whirlwind rendition of her entire repertoire. As she played, she twirled round the kitchen table, sidestepping the still unpacked shopping, her shirt tails flying, fresh strands of hair breaking free from her ponytail.

  Joseph clapped and whistled till dark circles of sweat pressed through his shirt. The girl was mesmerising. He could feel a poem pushing at the edges of consciousness, the first in months. A poem connected to the ladder in her thigh and the rise and fall of her plump breasts as she cavorted round the room. A poem about the precipice of need, about the darkness where only the bravest fell.

  ‘I must go home.’ She stopped, breathless, breaking the spell.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nearly sixteen.’ She seized her glass and drank greedily, emptying it and then wiping her lips dry with the back of her hand.

  ‘Old enough to do what you want, then?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The room was spinning.

  ‘And what do you want, Sally?’ The legs of his chair squealed on the stone-tiled floor as he stood up, steadying himself on the table, his eyes squinting to calm his vision.

  ‘Right now?’ She dropped her violin into its case. A giggle began to ripple through her, turning into a deep yawn. Her eyes watered from the effort of giving in to it. ‘To sleep, I want to sleep…’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Anywhere.’ She slumped down in a chair, dropping her head and arms onto the table.

  ‘Anywhere is fine,’ said Joseph. He took a step closer and stroked the bent head, running his fingers back through her hair until the small blue band holding the last twig of her ponytail slipped out and fell to the floor.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Drained by the emotional exertions of the evening, Frances decided to tidy up the kitchen and have an early night. She worked methodically, grim-faced, wiping down surfaces, returning things to their allotted places, wishing the elements of her life could be so neatly filed away. The showdown with Felix had caused all her anxieties about Daniel to resurface. He was leaving for Cambridge early the next morning and would not be back until late the following night – a once dreaded separation which Frances now found herself regarding as an important breathing space. Closing her eyes, she felt a momentary surge of the old longing for Paul, for a second chance to be stronger and better, to iron out all the imperfections which were so relentlessly obvious with hindsight.

  The tring of the telephone made her start. Her first instinctive thought was of Daniel. But it was Libby, her breathy, clipped tones alerting Frances at once to the fact that the troubles of the day had yet to complete their unravelling.

  ‘Frances – sorry to call so late – only it’s Sally – she’s not come home.’

  ‘Oh no, not again.’

  ‘We’re out of our minds with worry. She was supposed to have a violin lesson – she goes to Miss Laurent in Combe Road – but apparently she never turned up. I’m frantic on a Thursday as you know, the girls have to see to themselves because of late closing and me having to get Pete from youth orchestra. I didn’t get home till seven. There was a message from her on the machine saying she was having tea with a friend, so I didn’t worry for a bit. It was only when Alistair got back at eight I realised how late it was so I rang round and it turns out no one has seen her. I’ve tried everybody in her class. I phoned Miss Laurent who said she had assumed Sally had forgotten – it wouldn’t be the first time – the poor child’s been bullying us to let her give up…’ Libby’s voice dissolved into unintelligible sobs.

  ‘Jesus, Libby, I’m so sorry. Have you phoned the police?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve done all that – though you can’t help getting the impression they’ve seen it all before – fifteen-year-old girl in a sulk with her parents—’

  ‘But I thought things had been much better lately?’

  ‘So did I…’ There was more sobbing.

  ‘Look, would you like me to come over? Just for a bit of support?’ pressed Frances, longing suddenly to prove that she could be worthy and helpful, to do something to validate a friendship which in recent weeks had felt in danger of crumbling to nothing. Since the fateful Sunday night dinner the pair of them had maintained a manner of amicable civility, working side by side in the shop with all the show of companionship but none of the feeling.

  But Libby had already recovered her composure. ‘No need for that.’

  ‘Are you sure? It would be no trouble.’

  ‘Very kind, but no. Alistair is being the proverbial brick, dishing out brandy and regaling me with tales of all our dear daughter’s scrapes in the past. The reason I phoned was because…it’s probably nothing, but I did just want to ask you one thing.’

  ‘What? Ask away.’

  ‘One of Sally’s school friends, a girl called Jennifer Lacy, has just phoned back to say that she thinks she might have seen Sally walking off with Felix after school. I know it’s mad, with

  Felix in the middle of term and so on, but I thought I would just double check with you whether…’ Her voice tailed off, sounding fearful of its own desperation.

  ‘Felix?’ Frances felt her mouth go dry. ‘Well…curiously enough he did turn up on the doorstep earlie
r on this evening – right out of the blue.’

  There was a stunned silence on the other end of the telephone.

  ‘He hasn’t said anything about seeing Sally,’ continued Frances hastily, ‘though, it’s probably only fair to tell you that I think there might have been something going on between the pair of them at one time.’

  ‘Something going on?’ Although no more than a whisper Libby’s voice contained all the shock and anger which Frances had dreaded. ‘Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘It was ages ago, round Christmas time, just a bit of gossip – Joseph Brackman mentioned he had seen them – I thought you had enough on your plate – and I was sure that if there had been anything it was all over—’

  ‘Where is Felix now?’

  ‘Upstairs—’

  ‘Go and ask him. Go and ask him this minute if he was with her, if he knows anything. Jesus Christ, Frances – I can’t believe this – how could you not have told me something like that – how could you – after all these years – to think that you—’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘The fact is you’re just not the same these days, not since Paul and…’ At the last moment Libby could not bring herself to mention Daniel. ‘You’ve changed Frances. I don’t know you any more.’

  ‘I don’t know myself,’ replied Frances hoarsely. ‘I’ll speak to Felix and call you back.’

  But Felix, roused by the telephone, had heard enough of the conversation to make a hasty exit through the front door. It was only delaying tactics, he knew, but he had had enough of showdowns for one day. When Frances raised her hand to knock on his bedroom door she found herself facing the back of an old envelope instead, stuck in place with a strip of Sellotape.

  Gone out for some fresh air – don’t wait up, Felix.

  She wrenched the envelope off the door, peeling away a thick strip of paint with it. Libby was right, she thought miserably, screwing the paper into a tight ball. She wasn’t the same. She was different, worse, weaker, un-coping, negligent. And Daniel Groves was at the heart of it. She had lost the plot entirely, blinded, flattered by the revelatory fact that a man half her age was capable of finding her attractive. If it wasn’t so sad it would have been funny.