by Kathy Shuker
She had been looking forward to Laura’s return from university for the holidays but her daughter had rung up at the last minute to ask if she could delay her arrival in Bohenna. There were a couple of parties going on in Oxford after term ended and a college friend had invited her back to Surrey for a few days. They would go up to London, do some shopping, see the lights.
‘Do you know her well?’ Claire had asked.
‘Of course. She’s all right mum. Her father’s a doctor. You don’t need to worry about me.’ Laura hesitated. ‘Is that OK? Do you mind? I’d love to go.’
So Claire had said yes, had been glad that Laura - at eighteen - still thought to ask, but warned her not to stray from the busy thoroughfares and insisted that the girls always stayed together. She was fussing, she knew, but she couldn't help herself. And now the much anticipated reunion with her daughter had been put back until Christmas Eve.
On the last Saturday before Christmas, Claire was working at V and C alone, a recording of Carols from King’s playing yet again. She had just sold a man a nine carat gold ring set with a garnet. His wife had seen it the day before so he had come in to buy it for her as a surprise Christmas gift. He had been excited, apparently thrilled with his own subterfuge.
‘Happy Christmas,’ he’d said as he was leaving.
Claire returned the greeting and smiled but she wasn’t feeling very festive. The day before she had received the Decree Nisi in the post. It had never been in doubt, her lawyer had said, but still it shocked her to see it in black and white and it felt a little unreal, a sort of emptiness. In six weeks she could apply for the Absolute, or she could wait. But the marriage was over and the sooner the details were finalised, the better.
The music had stopped while she had been day-dreaming but it was already four twenty: she would be closing soon. She bent to take the CD out of the machine just as the bell tinkled over the door. She straightened up. Jane had come in, the habitual fringed shawl thrown tightly round her neck.
‘Jane.’ Claire smiled warily. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’ She approached the counter. ‘I’m having one of my sessions next week.’ She handed Claire a card, identical to the ones in the pub. ‘I thought you might like to come. You might find it helpful.’
‘Helpful?’ Claire avoided making eye contact and stared at the card. ‘When is it?’
‘Wednesday evening. In a private house at the top of the village. I’ve scribbled the address on the back. There’s just a small admission fee.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t. Sorry. Laura’s coming home for Christmas.’
Claire offered the card back but Jane shook her head.
‘Keep it. You might want to use my services another time. Think about it.’ Jane smiled, fixing Claire with her magnetic gaze. ‘Of course, Laura could come too. I’d love to meet her.’
‘I’ll tell her about it. See what she thinks. She’s quite shy.’
‘Is she? What a shame.’ She looked disappointed.
‘I hope it goes well.’ Claire tried to sound like she meant it.
Jane paused, frowning. ‘By the way, have you seen Adam today? He hasn’t opened his studio at all.’
‘No, I haven’t seen him.’
‘I just knew something was going to happen. I could feel it and I’m never wrong. I hope he’s all right.’
Jane moved towards the door. On an impulse, Claire leaned forward. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come to my place sometime over Christmas? Maybe have a drink with us?’
Jane turned back. ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’
‘Do you still drink alcohol?’ Claire asked doubtfully.
Jane grinned suddenly – a refreshingly normal grin - and Claire was reminded of the friend she once knew. It was reassuring to know she was still there, buried somewhere inside.
‘Yes, I do drink. Wine usually.’
‘I’ll give you a ring then and we’ll fix something up.’
Jane nodded and left and Claire immediately wondered if she’d done the right thing.
*
It was pitch dark by the time Claire left work and a miserable intermittent drizzle hung in the air. Even so, with her mind too active to allow her to relax, she changed into her jogging kit and trainers and went straight out again. She headed into the village, cutting through the back lanes, narrow tracks barely greater than the width of a car which twisted and looped round to yet another lane, then another. Going out further than usual, she reached a field gateway on the far side of the village and paused, gasping, enjoying the cleansing rush of blood thumping in her veins and the charge of electricity in her system. She had been passed by only two cars so far. By the light of her head torch, her watch read six forty-five so Nick Lawer would probably be safely in the pub by now too. She didn’t want to risk bumping into him, especially in the dark.
Breath easing, she set off back through the middle of the village and, reaching the stone bridge, stopped as she so often did and walked to the wall, staring down into the water. The clouds had lifted a little and the water looked steely grey in the wispy moonlight.
A dark figure was sitting on the bank by the footpath from the green. A man. She’d assumed he was a fisherman but she watched him put a bottle to his mouth, tip it right back, curse and then toss it away. Now he was groaning and throwing himself backwards, arms out to the sides till he was spread-eagled across the path, eyes staring vaguely to the night sky. She recognised that shaven head and looked harder. It was Adam.
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake,’ she muttered.
To the side of the bridge was a low stile. She climbed over it and walked down the path till she stood looking down on him. His eyes were closed and she wondered if he was asleep - or maybe unconscious. He was breathing at least, slowly and heavily.
‘You’re blocking the path,’ she said tartly.
There was a brief pause but he didn’t move. ‘You could step on me,’ he said, a little indistinctly. ‘Why not? Everyone else does.’
She almost smiled. ‘Everyone?’
He grunted, grimaced, then opened his eyes as if with effort. After staring at her a minute with questionable focus, he closed them again.
‘Yep.’ He waved an indolent hand. ‘Feel free.’
She hesitated a minute then sat down beside him. The ground was damp. The man was an idiot.
‘Are you doing this for your image?’ she enquired drily. ‘Starving artist gets drunk because no-one understands his work. I’m not sure it’s a good tactic for selling paintings.’
Showing surprising vigour, Adam sat up suddenly and leaned his head towards her. She could smell the beer on his breath and maybe whisky too.
‘No-one understands me,’ he said. ‘End of story.’
‘Crikey, Adam, how much have you had to drink? You smell like a brewery. And, ugh, this ground is wet and freezing. I’m getting cold.’ She scrambled to her feet and brushed her leggings off. ‘Get up and go home. You’re making a fool of yourself.’
He shook his head and attempted a shrug though only one shoulder seemed to move.
‘No point. My girlfriend’s left me.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
Still, he worried her. His speech was slurred and his head had dropped limply forward. He did look as if he might pass out.
Claire glanced up and down the path. Of course there was no-one else stupid enough to be hanging around the river in the damp and the dark, though maybe it was just as well since this wasn’t likely to improve Adam’s reputation with the majority of Bohenna’s residents. She bent over, grabbed him under the arm and pulled. Nothing happened except that his arm lifted. ‘Come on, Adam. You’re far too heavy for me to get you up unless you help. Let’s go back to my house and I’ll make you some coffee.’
He peered up at her. ‘Coffee?’ He snorted derisively. ‘Haven’t you got anything stronger? I’m out of money and I’ve got nothing left to drink.’
‘I might have something but you’ll never know i
f you don’t shift yourself. Get up.’
He grunted again, then made an exaggerated effort to get to his feet and, with her help, finally made it and, supporting him as best she could, she guided him back to her cottage. The movement seemed to have brought him round. She pushed him in the direction of the sofa and went into the kitchen to make two mugs of coffee. Handing him one, he took it reluctantly and looked at it with distaste.
‘I thought we were going to have a drink,’ he said.
‘I’ve only got one bottle of wine in the house and I was saving it up for a special occasion. This isn’t it.’
‘Oh? Don’t you get freebie bottles from the vineyard - for old times’ sake or something?’
‘Nope. I don’t have a cheap and continuous supply of alcohol and, frankly, even if I did, I wouldn’t be giving you any now. You’re already smashed.’
He grunted and sipped at the coffee, then sat back, still cradling it. His eyes, though glazed, were at least open.
‘So this girlfriend,’ said Claire, ‘she’s the one you were buying the perfume bottle for?’
‘Yes. Zoe. But I never had a chance to give it to her. Her birthday isn’t till Monday.’
‘And what happened exactly to make her go?’
‘We had a row. I accused her of seeing another man.’
‘Ah. And that didn’t go down well.’
He shook his head exaggeratedly. ‘But it’s true. I followed her. And when I told her that, she completely lost it. Spying on me, she said. What kind of a man goes spying on his girlfriend, she said. The kind who knows that she’s not telling him everything, I said. Then she denied it. Said she’d just been talking to a friend and I was using it as an excuse to give her grief.’ He moaned, drank some more coffee and pulled a face. ‘Can’t we open the wine? I’ll pay you for it.’
‘No. So why were you following her?’
‘Because she’s been behaving oddly, going away, not turning up to things when she said she would. Just being…weird.’
Claire nodded. ‘How long have you been together?’
He frowned. ‘Eight years, more or less.’
‘Eight years and this is your first bust-up?’
‘Yes. No. It’s the first time she’s walked out.’ He hesitated, rolled bleary eyes to look at Claire. ‘She keeps banging on about having a family. Thinks I don’t want one and I’m just making excuses.’
‘And do you want one?’
‘Yes. Of course. We just need to be more settled first. I keep telling her that.’
‘How old is Zoe?’
‘Thirty-five nearly.’
‘So she’s worried the clock’s ticking. I had my first child at twenty-four. Everything about it gets harder as you get older. Are you sure you’re not making excuses?’
‘What do you know about me?’ he said crossly. ‘Nothing. I love Zoe.’ He drank another mouthful of coffee then looked at her, eyes narrowed. ‘How do you do it?’
‘How do I do what?’
‘Cope. You’ve had all this gut-wrenching stuff with your daughter and now your marriage and you seem pretty cool with it all. How d’you do it?’
‘Pretty cool?’ She stared at him then began to laugh and found she couldn’t stop.
Adam was both smiling and frowning at her, bemused. She got a hold of herself.
‘Believe me, Adam, I’ve never been cool about anything. Ever. I just…’ She snorted and shrugged. ‘…muddle on somehow. When I was young I thought I had it all sorted. I was happy. I was married to a guy I adored and we had plans. I lived in a village I adored. But life turns round and kicks you, doesn’t it? Nothing works out the way you expect. What’s that joke: if you want God to laugh, tell him your plans?’ She shrugged again and finished her coffee.
Adam stared at her dumbly, mouth open.
‘Zoe said I was selfish,’ he muttered. ‘Said I dragged her down here where there’s nothing going on and I didn’t care that she hated it.’
‘And did you?’
‘What?’
‘Do all that?’
‘No.’ He bristled indignantly, then sighed. ‘When I first suggested moving down here she seemed keen. I think she saw Cornwall as all big surfing beaches and wall to wall sunshine. Bohenna wasn’t what she had in mind.’ He paused, rested his head back and allowed it to loll side to side. Claire got up and took the mug from his hands. It was still half full and she put it on the table. ‘But in the summer she seemed happy for a while. We did stuff, travelled around a bit. Then when autumn started…’ His speech was getting slower. ‘Can you imagine? She’s from Manchester. It’s in the north. Doesn’t it rain every other day up there? But she said it was never like this: moist and misty and gloomy. I said that’s only because there was so much smoke in the air that you couldn’t see anything anyway.’
‘Maybe not a good move.’
‘I was only joking…sort of.’ His eyes closed. ‘I went up there with her once…God, it was cold…’ He fell silent; his breathing slowed.
‘Don’t sleep, Adam.’ Claire stood up and put a hand to his knee, trying to shake him awake. ‘Adam?’
He’d gone.
‘So much for the coffee,’ she muttered.
She didn’t like the angle of his head. If he was sick he’d maybe choke on it and she didn’t fancy him being ill on her sofa either. She found a plastic sheet and stretched it out on the sofa to his right, covered it with a bath towel, then tipped him over onto his side with a cushion under his head. She took off his shoes and heaved his legs up onto the sofa too. Finally she covered him with a travel rug, looked at him and resigned herself to leaving him there. He’d have to sleep it off.
*
When Adam came to his neck hurt. And his mouth felt like he’d swallowed the contents of his car battery. Whoa - and his head… He didn’t want to think what that felt like. He tentatively opened his eyes but it took him a minute to focus. He was looking sideways at a small fireplace and a rusty old woodburning stove, burning dully. There was a chunky wooden mantelpiece over the top where a clock ticked much too loudly. Twenty past eleven. Was it? Had he read that right? He moved his eyes cautiously because that seemed to make his head hurt more and saw the bright glow of a lamp, then someone’s legs. Following them up, he saw that someone holding an open book and then Claire’s head.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You OK?’
He pulled a face and pushed himself slowly into a sitting position, then put a hand to his head and rubbed it. He rubbed his neck too. And he felt queasy.
‘Everything hurts,’ he mumbled.
‘I can imagine.’
Upright, he suddenly realised his bladder felt like it would burst.
‘I need to pee,’ he said, struggling to his feet.
‘The bathroom’s through the kitchen.’ She pointed. ‘There are paracetamol in the cupboard in there and I’ve put a fresh towel out for you if you want to freshen up.’
It sounded like an order but he felt too ill to care and stumbled through the kitchen to the bathroom. It was small but clean and smelt of bath lotion - something like vanilla - and he immediately thought of Zoe and groaned, flooded with self-pity. After relieving himself he washed his hands and threw some cold water over his face, then enjoyed the softness of the towel on his skin. It smelt of fabric conditioner. Every smell reminded him of Zoe and every scent seemed to be heightened. Shit. Two paracetamol later, he dragged himself back into the sitting room and eased himself gently back down onto the sofa. He shifted his gaze to Claire who appeared to be watching him with amusement.
‘I’m glad you find this funny,’ he said acerbically.
‘Funny isn’t the word I’d have used. Not when you passed out on my sofa.’
‘Sorry.’ He rubbed ineffectually at his forehead again.
‘Can I get you something? Tea, coffee, water? Maybe you should try eating something. Neil always had dry toast when he was like this.’
He pulled a face.
‘You should have
something,’ she insisted.
‘Maybe some tea, thanks. Black.’
She put her book down and went out to the kitchen. When she came back she had a tray with two mugs on it and a plate with two slices of dry toast. He’d certainly give her full marks for persistence. She handed him one of the mugs and dumped the plate of toast on the table in front of him. He sipped the tea but it was too hot and he burnt his mouth. He put it down next to the toast.
‘So this is why you didn’t open the studio today,’ said Claire.
He shook his head, then wished he hadn’t.
‘Wasn’t any point. I wouldn’t have done anything useful anyway.’
Claire drank some tea. Hers had milk in; presumably it was cooler.
‘Jane was worried about you. Said she could feel that something was the matter. Had you told her about your issues with Zoe?’
‘My issues?’ He pulled a face. ‘No. But Jane sees trouble everywhere she looks.’
They sat in silence. A couple of minutes passed.
‘When Gilly disappeared,’ said Claire slowly, ‘everyone told me that work would help to keep me going. Those that didn’t think I was the one to blame in the first place, that is.’
‘And did you? Work it off, I mean.’
‘No. I couldn’t concentrate.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘In any case I beat myself up for working when I should have been watching her so…’ She shrugged. ‘…I suppose I blamed the work and then punished myself by not doing it again. It was a pathetic little sacrifice but then the whole association of painting with Gilly was too painful anyway.’ She shook her head and stopped talking.
He frowned but said nothing, picked up the plate and nibbled at the corner of one of the pieces of toast. It tasted surprisingly good and he tried a bit more.
‘The point is, I’d suggest you don’t leave it too long to get back in the studio,’ she said, ‘because it gets harder, the longer you leave it.’