Downward

by White, Bethan

  ‘Mrs Harris.’ For all that she had spent a good amount of her adolescence in the woman’s house, Sam could still only find it in her heart to be barely civil.

  ‘I thought you might be here.’ Margaret Harris was a past mistress of the unspoken undertow in any statement and Sam didn’t miss this one. She wasn’t ready to leave Megan yet. They hadn’t really talked things through, practical things that needed to be said. Like, how was she going to survive, financially? She was near the wind as it was; with nothing coming in apart from child benefit and the pittance from her job, Sam couldn’t see her managing on her own for long. And going back to this cold woman was not an option. But it was clear that Margaret Harris thought the kitchen was too full of people to the tune of one, so she drained her mug and left, pausing in the hall to give Megan one last hug.

  Hands washed and grace said, Chris sat down at the vicarage kitchen table and looked out down the dark tunnel in front of his eyes at what it held. There was cake, there were sandwiches, there was even, God forbid, little triangles of toast spread with anchovy paste. What was this meal? It was three o’clock in the afternoon, for God’s … heaven’s … Chris’s head already hurt with the effort of keeping his thoughts as Mike would like to find them.

  ‘Tuck in, darling,’ his mother said, brightly. ‘You need feeding up. You’re too thin. Mike and I were saying, weren’t we, when you were over with … erm … were over last. You’re too thin.’

  Please, Chris thought, please, will you use Megan’s name? Will you say the word ‘Kyle’? I’m not an invalid. They’re not dead. Out loud, he said, ‘I’m comfy this size, thanks, Mum. I was a bit chunky before, don’t you think?’ But to keep her quiet, he took one of everything on the table. The anchovy paste was just as disgusting as he remembered it, but washed down with a mouthful of tea and a bit of lemon drizzle cake he managed to swallow it without gagging.

  ‘Your mother is a marvellous cook, isn’t she, Chris?’ Chris wondered what it was about vicar’s voices. Did they have lessons in that tone? He sounded as though he was announcing the first lesson, not complimenting his wife on the spread. And, to be fair, it was amazing.

  ‘Do you do this every day, Mum?’ he asked. ‘I should think you get fed up with cake at the café.’

  ‘Well, not every day, dear,’ she said, with a vicar’s wifely smile. ‘I did put on a bit of a spread for you, to welcome you to our home.’ She and her husband exchanged a secret glance that swept the table like a lighthouse beam. ‘We want you to stay as long as you want to. Until you feel …’

  She stopped, but Chris knew she almost said ‘better’. He bit back his riposte. ‘Less separated’; ‘less unemployed’; ‘less’ he had to face it, ‘less bloody suicidally unhappy’? He settled for the banal. ‘Thanks, Mum, Mike. It’s good of you.’ He bit into the lemon drizzle and was almost sick. Suddenly, all the food tasted of forced good humour, it had the taint of the good deed well done. He wanted something bitter, something that matched his mood of dark despair. Something he could feed the dog.

  ‘I thought Sam would be here,’ Megan’s mother told her as she came into the lounge with a cup of tea, following Megan and Kyle. Megan, kneeling at the Lego box with her son didn’t bother to reply. Most of her mother’s statements didn’t need an answer. ‘She’s always here when anything goes wrong. Like a storm crow, she is. There’s never a crisis but what …’

  Megan kissed the top of Kyle’s head and murmured to him, then pushed herself wearily to her feet and went and sat down opposite her mother. ‘Mum,’ she said, in a voice worn out by much repetition. ‘Sam is my best friend. I mean, probably, my only friend. She isn’t just here for the bad things. We have girls’ nights in, we have girls’ nights out. She has bad times too, you know. When she breaks up with someone …’

  Her mother snorted, but she ignored it.

  ‘… I’m there for her. I wanted her to come and to be quite honest, I am rather angry that you drove her away.’ Her voice showed the strain of speaking like that to her mother. All her life she had had to be careful what she said or retribution would be swift. Her mother had never struck her, not even tapped the back of her legs, but her tongue could lash like a whip and, although there was little enough to begin with, her love would be withdrawn until further notice. And of course, she wasn’t disappointed this time.

  ‘My goodness, Megan. I’m only speaking as I find.’ Margaret Harris was the epitome of hurt and outrage. ‘I do what I can, goodness knows. I take your child for days on end – and, frankly, Megan, he isn’t easy – and then you insult me.’

  ‘I’m not insulting you, Mum, or if I have, it wasn’t my intention. I’m very grateful that you’ve had Kyle for me and I won't ask again. I have a lot of rearranging to do in the next few days and that will include work, all the rest of it. It may mean we have to move.’

  Her mother reeled back as though stung. ‘Move? Where to?’ To hear her talk it would be easy to imagine that she and Megan were joined at the hip. Chris and Megan had fallen into the habit of speaking of Margaret as though she was the devoted grandmother they both wished for, but in fact she would have been quite content if she never had Kyle to look after again. She liked tidy and he wasn’t tidy. ‘When would I see you and …’ The pause was too long.

  ‘Kyle? I’m not saying we’re going to the moon, Mum, just somewhere less expensive.’

  The look on her mother’s face said it all. What could be less expensive than this poky little place?

  ‘So, I tell you what, Mum,’ Megan got up and went over to Kyle. ‘Kyle and I are going out to see the ducks on the river. We could do with a blow of air, couldn’t we, Kyle?’ She had looked out of the window and seen the sun shining hot and yellow and was surprised – it had seemed to her that it must be raining.

  The boy jumped around, scattering Lego bricks far and wide. ‘Ducks! Ducks! We’re going to see the ducks!’

  ‘Go and get a juice, poppet and we’ll be on our way.’

  The child ran into the kitchen and soon there was the sound of doors opening and closing as he searched for his favourite drink. His voice echoed down the little hall. ‘Mummy. Do we have any apple ‘n’ ba’currant?’

  ‘Blackcurrant,’ his grandmother muttered under her breath. ‘Apple and blackcurrant.’

  ‘Mum. He’s a little boy. Leave him alone, just for a while. In fact,’ Megan had to fight down her temper. ‘Leave me alone. Just for once.’

  Her mother smiled her little how-you’ve-hurt-me smile. Chris always said she smiled with her nostrils and Megan was flooded with a sense of loss as she remembered that. And how right he was. Margaret Harris had developed gathering her things and making an exit into an art form and she did it now. She called ‘Goodbye, Kyle,’ from the doorway.

  ‘’Bye, G’amma,’ he shouted back, voice echoing because his head was in a cupboard, seeking the elusive apple and ba’currant.

  Megan watched her mother’s lips move silently, correcting him and raised an eyebrow. Her mother got the message and clamped her mouth shut firmly. But she couldn’t resist her parting shot.

  ‘Are you going to leave those toys strewn all over the place?’ she said, screwing up her nose as though the Lego smelt. ‘This house is a … pigsty.’ And she swept out.

  Megan leaned against the door when she was gone and bowed her head. Well, if she could see her mother off the premises with no blood shed, she could do anything. Come on world – Megan Harris and Kyle Rowan are ready for you. Do your worst.

  Tea was cleared away with almost supernatural speed. Chris had gone upstairs to unpack his bag and when he got back, everything had disappeared. It was like a scene from Beauty and the Beast although his mother bore next to no resemblance to Mrs Thingie, the teapot played by Jessica Fletcher. Chris was aware he was mixing his media, but he knew who he meant. Somehow, Mike didn’t bring to mind any cartoon characters, so he let the analogy slide. He was aware that he was deliberately thinking about other things to stop Megan’s voice
ringing in his head. Every time he let his attention wander, he could hear her, calling him. He wandered into the sitting room to find his mother. He needed company, chat, meaningful conversation, Antiques Road Trip even; anything to keep that voice quiet.

  His mother was sitting, knitting. He hadn’t been far wrong in his prediction. It wasn’t an antiques programme she had on, it was one where for some reason, a couple were looking at loads of homes they couldn’t afford and subsequently didn’t buy. He knew as an estate agent … as an ex- estate agent, he should perhaps be interested, but he could tell at a glance that to have a property like that at that price meant the programme had to be older than Kyle, so what was the point? But he had to silence the calling.

  Sarah Green was never still. If she wasn’t baking, she was knitting. If not knitting, she was sewing. But she put it aside when she saw her son’s face and switched off the television. ‘Sit down, darling,’ she said, and patted the seat of the sofa next to her, pushing her wool and assorted blanket squares aside. ‘We need to talk things over, don’t we? No recriminations. No rehashing it all, just a bit of planning for the future.’

  He plonked down on the cushion and the sofa sank in the middle. It was the only thing she had brought from her old house and it comforted him. ‘I love you, Mum. Do I ever say that?’

  She looked at him, sitting there, thirty-two, going on twelve. ‘No need to say it, darling. I know you love me and I love you, too.’

  ‘How many miles?’ It had been a while, but the old mantra was never far away.

  ‘To the moon and back.’ Her eyes filled with tears and only she knew exactly what for. She mourned for a life she had lost, with her husband who was the love of her life, who she still cried for every day, alone in the shower, turning her face up to the hot water so the tears wouldn’t dry on her cheeks and give her away. She mourned for the children who had grown up too fast, for the woman she had once been. Surely, she had used the odd bad word, once upon a time. Had had a bit too much to drink when occasion demanded it and even when it didn’t. But now, here she was, the vicar’s wife, knitting blanket squares in the vicarage. And she was also an ungrateful bitch, for not being as happy as a pig in shit. Sorry, she said to herself in her head, I just said ‘Shit’.

  ‘Let’s try not to cry, Mum,’ Chris managed to get out without his tears actually falling. ‘I might not stop once I start.’

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Not crying. Just a bit watery.’ Another quote from his childhood. Many more of these and they would be in pieces. ‘So. How long do you think you might be here? You can stay as long as you want, of course. But I’m doing an online order shortly and I need to know what to get.’

  ‘Mum! Online order? You?’

  She swatted him with her hand. ‘Cheeky. I’ll have you know I am a bit of a dab hand. So … do you have any idea?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Mum. Can I just leave it open for now? Not too long, I hope. I need to talk to Dave Stanley. I have a feeling I can still pull something out of that particular fire, if I’m lucky.’

  ‘And Megan …?’

  ‘No.’ He bowed his head. ‘I think the fire has reached the roofspace, Mum. That house can't be saved.’

  There was nothing more to be said. He leaned against the back of the settee and closed his eyes and after a moment or two, she reached for her needles. Knitting could keep a whole pack of dogs at bay.

  In the Air

  *

  That Tuesday morning was not a good time to be in the offices of Stanley Associates. Jacintha sat bewildered and soggy with tears in the midst of a gaggle of twittering women. The men in the office herded in one corner, like wildebeest who smell cheetah on the wind. Cassie ignored it all. Although he had given her the brush-off, she had a very soft spot for Chris Rowan and suspected that knives had been, if not exactly placed in his back personally, definitely and resolutely twisted and rammed home by the self-serving little madam so as far as she was concerned, she had got all she deserved and not a moment too soon. She sat at her corner desk and got on with her invoicing, earphones in ears, eyes on the screen.

  ‘… And it’s not as if I didn’t do anything he wanted,’ Jacintha was sobbing, with artfully broken voice. She rolled her eyes up towards the door behind which Dave Stanley was lurking, keeping his head down. ‘And I mean anything.’ She dropped her voice on the last word and to the male contingent’s annoyance, what followed was largely inaudible. It sounded good though; at least one of the twitter sisters said ‘Pig!’ several times.

  The phones were beginning to ring and, one by one, the women drifted off to do what they were paid for. Soon, Jacintha was on her own, her face strangely unblotched but a soggy hankie in her hand still betokened her distress. One of the wildebeest wandered over and whispered something in her ear. She looked up at him appraisingly and after a second or two’s thought, wrote her phone number on his hand. He didn’t have much power and influence, it was true, but if half the rumours were accurate, he would be able to give her a much better time than old ‘let’s leave it a minute, see what happens’ Stanley.

  She bent her head to the letters on her desk and soon had them divided into two piles. One pile was to be distributed amongst her colleagues, the other pile, for Dave Stanley’s personal attention, would be going with her to the Ladies’ later, for some serious wiping. She had been planning to leave this dump anyway, so she might as well go out with a bang.

  Her phone rang. ‘Stanley Associates,’ she said, mechanically, clicking her fingers at the girl at the nearest desk and waving the first pile of letters at her, her eyebrows up in mute appeal.

  ‘Oh, Jacintha.’ Chris had decided a phone call rather than a visit might work best. Then there would be no embarrassment if it didn’t all pan out.

  ‘Chris. Hello.’ She didn’t say more. She knew the dead reply made people feel awkward; they didn’t know how to proceed.

  ‘Ummm …’

  Yup, it had worked again.

  ‘Ummm … is Dave about?’

  She looked about her ostentatiously, with the phone away from her ear. ‘No.’ She spoke into the mouthpiece from a distance, then closer. ‘No, sorry. I don’t know where he is.’

  Cassie, the only person who might care what Jacintha might be doing, didn’t hear or see a thing.

  ‘Oh.’ Chris felt bad. He was probably out, doing his viewings. ‘Can I leave him a message?’

  ‘You can leave him a message, yes.’ There was no sin of commission there; she didn’t say she would pass it on.

  ‘You’ll be seeing him later, I expect.’

  Bastard! It was probably him who put the boot in with Dave, made him feel bad about their affair. ‘Squalid little fling’ he had called it at three that morning. After they had been in bed since ten, that was, she reminded herself; she felt more justified that way. ‘No, I don’t expect I shall.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Yes, that’s it, my lad, she thought. Rub it in. You knew all along what he was planning. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she hissed into the receiver, ‘you’re not the only person leaving Stanley Associates. My resignation will be on his desk by coffee …’

  Two of the wildebeest put their heads together and one of them guffawed. Jacintha didn’t know for certain which euphemism the other had used for the part of her that was usually on Dave Stanley’s desk, but she could guess.

  ‘… and then I shall be on my way.’

  ‘Jacintha,’ Chris said, finally having regained the power of speech. ‘I really am sorry. I … well, I don’t say what you were doing was right, but there was no need for Dave to be …’

  ‘Dave isn’t being anything,’ she said loftily. ‘I got fed up with him and his limp dick and his excuses and reasons he couldn’t leave his wife. I got tired of creeping around, only every eating at mine or in such crappy restaurants that only other people screwing around would want to go there.’ She was on her feet now and scre
aming more at the closed door than at the phone. ‘I don’t know why his ugly, fat, horse-faced wife wants him anyway, but she’s fucking welcome to him!’ The last words were at a high-pitched wail and as she said the last, she threw the phone at the front door of the office. By much more luck than judgement, the potential landlord who had just pushed it open avoided serious injury. He stood there irresolute as the phone whizzed past his ear. It looked as though he would be continuing his search for a good agent, but on the other hand he didn’t want to miss the fun. No harm in hanging around. One of the wildebeest hurried over and took him across to a desk in the corner, away from the chaos. But Jacintha had snatched up her bag and coat and was out of there, running wailing down the street.

  Cassie looked up, aware for the first time of something amiss. ‘What was that?’ she asked, mildly.

  As if it made perfect sense, the woman on the neighbouring desk filled her in. She was so used to writing copy based on the number of words, she had it in a nutshell. ‘Dave has screwed Jacintha, in as many ways as the word covers. Jacintha just threw the phone out of the door and has now run home, one assumes, to mother.’

  ‘Who was she on the phone to?’

  The neighbouring woman shrugged but the junior wildebeest filled in the gaps. ‘Chris Rowan.’

  Cassie jumped up and ran into the street to retrieve the phone, which had skittered across the pavement and was leaning against the wheel of a parked car. ‘Chris?’ She was speaking before she had it to her ear. ‘Chris? Are you there?’

  But she was too late. Chris had gone.

  Sarah Green had rung in to the café to tell them she had a family emergency and wouldn’t be in. Her call was greeted with amazement and not a little resentment. Sally, who was briefly back from her childcare crisis but had an appointment for her nails later that day and wasn’t planning to be there after two, turned to the other two helpers and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Well!’ she said. ‘I like that! As bold as brass, says she has a family emergency! Leaves it all to us!’ Sally lived her life as a series of lurches from one drama to another, with brief pauses in between to dismiss the sufferings of others. Her colleagues that day were more generous.