by Penny Kline
*
If I stood on a chair by the bedroom window I could see his car, parked fifty yards down the road by the turning into the cul-de-sac. When we were together we had used the path at the end of the road as a short cut up to the suspension bridge, passing the graveyard with its thirty or so stones, speculating about the plague victims who had been buried there over three hundred years ago when they ran out of space in the churchyard. Nobody tended the graves any more, or even scythed the grass. Ivy and buddleia grew everywhere and in the summer the place was full of red admirals. The wrought-iron gates were padlocked but the railings on either side had been pulled out of the ground and twisted over. Stray dogs wandered between the graves. Every so often a group of small boys from the nearby estate played hide and seek amongst the crumbling headstones and statuettes.
With the light from a street-lamp I could just make out the back of David’s head. It was moving slightly to the rhythm of one of his CDs. Music while you wait. I had no idea how long he had been parked there. It was twenty to nine and I doubted if he would have arrived much before eight-thirty, probably later. I went downstairs, counting. If I reached his car before I had taken a hundred steps everything would be all right. Another stupid anxiety-reducing ritual. I tried to confuse myself, ran a series of jumbled numbers through my head, but it made no difference. Sixty-seven, sixty-eight. I walked towards his car, trying to look as relaxed as possible. Seventy-three. He must have seen me in the driving mirror but he pretended to be lost in the music and when I tapped on the window he jumped slightly, then looked up and smiled.
While he was climbing out of the car I glanced up and down the street, half expecting to see Rob, although there had been no sign of him since the incident outside the supermarket. I decided to tell David about it, and about the card. Then I changed my mind, remembering how he had once accused me of encouraging my clients to become totally dependent, then fall in love with me.
We walked up the road, not touching, not saying anything. David was humming whatever he had been listening to in the car. He was wearing grey cords and a black sweater, and carrying a jacket over his arm.
Back at the flat he waited silently in the small hallway, behaving like a guest, not wanting to appear too much at home. Then he followed me to the kitchen, rubbing his hands together.
‘I brought you a bottle. Left it in the car. Shall I go and fetch it or would it seem too much like softening you up?’
‘With a bottle of wine?’
‘Oh, come on, don’t start — ’ He broke off. ‘No, go ahead, be exactly the way you want to be. I deserve it.’
He was half-way to the front door. ‘As a matter of fact it’s rather good wine, won’t give you a horrible hangover.’
I found two glasses and went and sat in the living room. Where did Iris think he was spending the evening? I decided not to ask. He might say he had told her the truth. I wouldn’t believe him.
The front door was on the latch. I hurried to the bedroom to make sure the curtains were drawn, and to move the chair away from the window. I had no wish for him to find out I had been standing, craning my neck, praying for a glimpse of the green Citroen. Not that David would be coming in the bedroom.
I could hear him returning with the wine, clearing his throat, looking in the kitchen, then the living room, but not calling my name.
A few minutes later I joined him. He was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed. He stretched out a hand.
‘My father’s going to Australia,’ I said.
‘Really? For good?’
‘No, of course not. To visit Steven and Jane. I’m glad. He’ll enjoy seeing the boys. They must both be at school by now. It’s amazing. Time goes so fast.’
I was talking too much. David started making small squeaking noises, like a dog who wants a piece of biscuit.
‘Come here.’ He held out his arms.
I sat down on a chair and cleared my throat.
‘David, I want to know what this is all about.’
‘How d’you mean, what it’s all about?’
‘When we had lunch last — ’
‘You got my letter.’ His voice was relaxed, almost sleepy, but he was pretending. He had expected me to fall into his arms. I was spoiling things.
‘Look, we’ve got to be honest with each other.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll open the wine,’ I said, going to the kitchen to find a corkscrew, then returning with two glasses.
David stood up and came towards me. He didn’t kiss me, just put his arms round my neck and rested his head on my shoulder.
‘God, I’ve been such a fool. I suppose it was because of Sian. I felt guilty. No, it wasn’t Sian. I was confused, needed to get away. Only it doesn’t work like that, does it? Anyway, I don’t blame you not trusting me. I shall just have to be patient, stick it out, and hope one day … ’
The pulse in my neck was throbbing. It was difficult to breathe properly.
‘David.’ I tried to put a laugh in my voice but it didn’t sound very convincing.
‘Anna.’
He kissed me lightly on the lips. ‘Come on, just be glad we’re together. I love you, you know that. No, don’t say anything. That’s better.’
‘I think we should talk,’ I said feebly.
‘Not now.’
He sat on the sofa, pulled me down next to him and started whispering in my ear. ‘Oh, God, I’ve been waiting for this moment for … ’
For how long? A week, an hour? But I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t speak. His hand was stroking the back of my knee, his finger moved slowly up the inside of my thigh.
‘David — don’t. Please.’
My head was tipped back. His lips brushed against my throat and one of his nails drew a line down the soft skin behind my ear. I shut my eyes and wondered if Karen Plant’s eyes had been closed when the pillow descended on her face — or had it been a cushion? Had she trusted her assailant or had her death been the culmination of a violent quarrel that had lasted for an hour or more?
‘D’you love me?’ David whispered.
I made a half-hearted attempt to wriggle away but he held me like a vice, pushing me down hard.
‘I know you do. Oh, Anna.’
Then nothing mattered. The pain of the past few months, the uncertainty about the future. None of it made any difference. All I knew was what was happening now. I closed my eyes and the darkness enclosed me like a warm protective blanket. My body seemed to flow as though it was boneless, melting. I could feel his breath on my cheek. He raised his body for a moment, then crushed hard against me. I clutched at his hair, twisted it in my hands, and a deep shuddering spasm ran through my body, making me cry out and gasp for breath. David shouted out loud, a shout of triumph. Then he rolled free and sat up, eyes wide open and a big grin on his face.
‘That was nice. Bit quick, but if we give ourselves a moment or two we can do it all over again.’
Chapter Nine
Jenny Weir sat a few feet away from me, head down, fingers locked together. She was my last client of the day and I was feeling pleasantly tired.
Now and again she drew in a breath and opened her mouth as though about to tell me something, then changed her mind. She was teasing me, keeping control.
Most of the time we both remained silent but every so often, in order to relieve the tension I made some comment about how I thought she might be feeling. She was dressed in the same outfit she had worn on the previous two occasions. Perfectly good clothes for a twelve-year-old but Jenny would soon be seventeen.
I decided to give her a summary of the few pieces of information I had acquired, most of them passed on by Dr Ingram in his brief note.
‘You were ill during your summer term in the fifth year, but you went back to school in September and were hoping to take some exams at Christmas.’
She glanced at me with an expression which indicated that I didn’t understand at all.
‘Correct me if I�
�m wrong, Jenny, but the reason Dr Ingram wanted you to come and see me — he thought you might be depressed or worrying about something. You haven’t been eating very well and you have difficulty getting to sleep at night.’
I paused but she sat quite still, her face as near expressionless as she could manage.
‘Of course,’ I continued, ‘many people don’t realize that anxiety and depression are often accompanied by minor psychosomatic symptoms. Headaches, stomach pains, aches in the joints.’
She sighed and I could feel myself becoming a little irritated.
‘If you don’t tell me there’s no way I can understand what’s on your mind.’
‘You could ask my mother.’ The words had slipped out against her better judgement.
‘I could, but I’d much rather hear about it from you.’
Silence.
‘Are you an only child?’
She nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Yes, I see. Your father then, what does he do?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Why on earth hadn’t Dr Ingram told me? ‘It must be hard for you and your mother.’
She shrugged. We were making progress of a sort.
‘Was it a long time ago — your father?’
‘I forget.’
‘Does your mother have a job?’
No response.
‘Anyway, I’m very sorry about your father. I didn’t realize.’
When had the father died? Recently? But surely Dr Ingram would have told me about it. Of course, it could have been ages ago, when Jenny was a baby.
‘Look, I know you find it difficult to talk. Lots of people do. They’re not used to it. Just tell me about something ordinary. How you spend your spare time. What kind of books you like reading, what television programmes you — ’
She stood up and yanked her anorak off the hook. She couldn’t take any more. I was talking too much, asking irrelevant questions. I felt angry — with myself for not handling the situation better.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. You’ll come again next week, I hope. Would this time on Tuesday be all right?’
She might have nodded faintly. Really it was impossible to tell.
‘The thing is, Jenny, I don’t want us to leave too long between appointments.’
But already she had her hand on the door. She stared at me for a moment, then left, returning briefly to make quite certain the catch had clicked. After a brief pause I heard her walk quickly down the stairs.
I waited a few minutes until I knew she would have left the building, then I ran downstairs to look for Martin. I wanted to catch him before he left, ask if he had any ideas as to how I could persuade Jenny to feel safer and start telling me what was on her mind. Or did I just want someone to talk to?
Heather was coming out of her office with a bundle of folders under her arm.
‘Oh, Anna.’ She extracted a slip of paper from her pocket. ‘Someone phoned from the university. I’m afraid I couldn’t catch the name and he rang off before I could ask him to repeat it.’
‘Dr Hughes?’
‘Could have been. I said you’d ring back.’
‘Thanks.’
What did he want? To tell me he had been thinking about my project and it wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted to supervise? If I liked he might be able to put me in touch with someone else in the department, or maybe someone at another university…
I picked up the phone in Heather’s office and punched out the number. It barely rang before a voice barked: ‘Owen Hughes.’
‘Hallo. This is Anna McColl. You left a message — ’
‘Only to let you know — of course you may know already — they have a list in the library. Charitable foundations that occasionally provide funding for research. I don’t hold out much hope but there’s always a chance.’
‘Oh, thanks. Thank you very much.’
‘So you’ll let me have your proposal as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, I will. Thanks.’
But already the line had gone dead.
*
I left work just before six. David was coming round at eight. His daughter, Sian, always spent Thursday evening at a friend’s house and Iris was attending a special reception for credit-card holders at one of the department stores.
David had volunteered the information, along with the news that he was moving back into his friend’s house at the weekend. Did Iris know about it? Of course. What had she said? Surely, I didn’t want to hear the sordid details. But if Iris knew he was moving out why bother to choose an evening when she and Sian would both be out? I didn’t ask. It was frustrating, but I knew it was better to leave him to sort things out in his own way.
We had managed to spend the whole evening together without arguing, but also without discussing Iris or Sian. Later we had made love again, slowly, gently, and when David announced around eleven-thirty that he was going home I had made no protest and didn’t even complain about the use of the word ‘home’.
It was arranged that he would call round the following evening, tonight, and maybe we would go out for an Indian meal. There was no need to make definite plans. We would wait and see what we felt like. On Wednesday we had enjoyed just being together again. Today we would talk. All I knew so far was that although things hadn’t worked out between him and Iris and although he loved me passionately, he realized he couldn’t just move back in and that, in any case, it would be best for everyone if he lived on his own for a time.
When I reached home I tidied up a bit, checked that there was enough in the fridge to concoct some kind of meal if we decided to stay in, then settled down to work on my research proposal. I needed a definite outline, something I could take into work the following day and type out on the word processor.
I wrote Hypochondria at the top of the page and immediately started wondering if it was a sensible topic to have chosen. The doctors I knew hardly ever mentioned the word, although they complained long and loud about what they referred to as ‘frequent attenders’, and wondered what was the best way to help them — or get rid of them. Perhaps I should forget about hypochondria and do research into the factors leading to frequent attendance. Most doctors would be only too willing to co-operate with such a project.
Jenny Weir had been a frequent attender, still was as far as I knew, although I had made a decision to talk about her medical symptoms as little as possible and concentrate on other aspects of her life.
With a ballpoint that kept threatening to run out I crossed out Hypochondria and wrote Frequent Attenders. Then I started making sub-headings. One: A definition of what constitutes a frequent attender. Two: Different types of frequent attenders. Three: Frequent attenders broken down by age, sex, and social class. Four: The prescribing of drugs to frequent attenders. It was all rather vague, but it was a start. I could show it to Owen Hughes and ask for his comments and suggestions. Surely that was the whole point of having a supervisor. He wouldn’t expect me to have worked it all out in detail on my own.
I wrote a new heading. Frequent Attenders at an Urban Health Centre. It sounded quite good. I knew the attendance figures. Men consult their doctor an average of three point two times per year. For women the average number of consultations is four. The figures had been used to suggest that women worried more about their health but already I could think of plenty of other reasons for the sex difference. And what effect did people like Jenny and Diane Easby have on the figures? As far as I could tell Jenny had visited Dr Ingram at least once a fortnight, sometimes more often, during the last couple of years. I felt some sympathy for him, but it didn’t last more than a moment. After all, he had failed to tell me about her father, and probably about other important events in her life, and his main reason for referring her seemed to be to prove that she was impossible to help. I would serve the purpose of demonstrating that he wasn’t the only one to give up on her. Her appointments with me might mean that she eased up on visits t
o the surgery, but quite soon she would be back demanding blood tests, referrals to specialists, just the same as before.
But he was wrong. In spite of Jenny’s reluctance to talk I felt certain I was starting to get through to her. Eventually she would tell me what was on her mind. It was just a question of being patient, building up trust.
I stood up and stretched my neck which was stiff and painful after sitting hunched up over the coffee-table while I wrote. Crossing the room I pulled back one of the curtains and glanced down at the pavement below. Someone moved quickly out of sight. A man wearing a dark jacket and a knitted hat.
I shouted, ‘Wait!’ but the window was closed, and in any case whoever it was would be unlikely to hang about waiting for me to go down. If it was Rob I might just manage to catch up with him. I raced to the front door, then realized I had forgotten my key. I could leave the door on the latch, but how long would I be gone? In no time the figure would have disappeared into the darkness. I would have to guess which way he had gone and while I was searching for him anyone might walk into the flat — or David might turn up and wonder where I was.
As I reclosed the door my foot slipped on a piece of paper. I bent down, picked up the picture post card and turned it over. The writing was in neat block capitals. YESTERDAY AT TWO FIFTEEN YOU PARKED OPPOSITE THE OLD PEOPLE’S HOME. AT TEN PAST SIX YOU BOUGHT A CARTON OF MILK AND A LOAF OF BROWN BREAD.
So he was following me. Walking round the area where I worked, watching out for my car. Then turning up again outside my flat, hiding near the supermarket, checking his watch, making a note of the time and the place. Just a few minutes ago he must have crept up the outside stairs, pushed the card through the door, then waited in the shadows to see if I came out and looked for him.
I turned over the card and found a reproduction of Rembrandt’s Anatomy Lesson of Dr Tulp. A group of Dutch surgeons were bending over a dissected corpse, whose arm seemed to have been neatly skinned, revealing muscles, sinews, and blood. It was typical of Rob Starkey to have chosen such a picture. Or was it? Where was he buying the cards? They were the kind only obtainable from major art galleries. Had he really taken the trouble to travel up to London, and if so how had he been able to afford the fare?