Torn

by Gilli Allan

  ‘Well, I think he was the one with dreadlocks,’ Jessica amended.

  ‘You think? Not hard to spot. It wasn’t that dark outside the pub.’

  ‘But it’s not like I spent the evening studying them. Anyway, by the time he’d come outside he’d pulled on one of those woolly hats with ear-flaps, like a Bolivian Indian. His head looked swollen and lumpy.’

  The young man in the stretched knitted hat had stooped to pick up Jessica’s coat from where Sean had flung it. ‘What a wanker,’ he remarked, conversationally. ‘Are you all right? You’re really white. Did he hurt you?’

  Suddenly incapable of speech, Jessica shook her head. Fear and fury had fuelled her resistance. As the adrenaline drained away, shock was sucked into the vacuum, turning her limbs to jelly, leaking the sour fumes of nausea into the back of her throat. She accepted the coat wordlessly and sat abruptly on the rim of the stone drinking trough, subliminally aware of the protesting throb echoing up her spine from her bruised coccyx. Stooped and rocking slightly, her hair straggled forward, veiling her face. Through waves of shivers she managed to utter, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘There’s nothing for you to feel sorry about.’

  ‘What he said … about good in bed …’

  ‘Forget it. He’s talking rubbish.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ a female voice asked. ‘After a shock like that she ought to come inside, sit down for a bit, have something to drink.’

  ‘Jess. I’ll be …’ Her head was still bent, unseeing eyes directed to the bundled coat embraced in her lap. ‘I’ll be OK. I’ve got to get home, pick up my little boy.’ The energy summoned to form the words dwindled.

  ‘Is there anyone who could come with you, Jess?’ the first man asked gently, taking the coat from her unresisting hands and draping it round her shoulders. ‘The woman you were sitting with in the pub?’

  ‘Sheila?’ Surprised he’d even noticed her, let alone her companion, Jessica lifted her head and pushed back her hair. Even that slight rearrangement ignited a protesting fiery buzz across her scalp.

  ‘Her burglar alarm … she had to …’ From barely being able to speak a few moments before, a scarcely coherent gabble had erupted from her mouth. ‘… had to check. Look … so kind of … I … I … I’m sure I’ll be … Thank you … Don’t know what …’ Before his intervention he was just one of the amorphous band she’d lumped together dismissively as ‘new-age’ types. She could see little of his face, pallid under the street-lights but supposed he must be the individual from the pub singled out by his Rastafarian locks. The patterns of his knitted hat were stretched and distorted over his enlarged head; on the crown a sprout of wool stood comically upright like an apple stalk. A droopy beard and moustache obscured mouth and chin. The hat’s tasselled earflaps hung over his cheeks.

  They were all eccentrically dressed in multi layers of ‘ethnic’ clothing – jackets over cardigans over waistcoats over shirts, the girls in droopy skirts and concertina leggings, the men in baggy trousers and untied, sagging boots. Though the man in the knitted Bolivian Indian hat still regarded her with concern, most of the group were now talking amongst themselves; one hit a rolled up document into his palm.

  ‘… And don’t forget that a new road will need tons of hard core and gravel, which they’ll bring in from the cheapest, i.e. nearest, source. As soon as the road’s agreed, whichever route’s chosen, don’t think our “Lord of the manor” will be slow to bang in an application to extract gravel from his land. Or worse. I’ll take bets on it.’

  Jessica had seen something about plans for a by-pass in the local paper and read of a growing protest movement. But she’d so recently arrived that the locations of fields, farms, and copses of trees mentioned in the protest letters meant nothing to her. She didn’t know these places, had already forgotten the names, and anyway, had no spare emotion to care. If asked her view, she would probably have said that Warford High Street was so polluted by the noise and fumes of heavy container lorries trundling through its centre that a by-pass would be good for the town and its inhabitants. Still, people had a right to their opinion. And the fact that someone from the ‘alternative’ end of town had stood up for her endeared him, and therefore his friends, to her. They all look fairly impoverished, and she fumbled in her bag.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough. But I’ve got to get home, to my son. Please, buy yourself a drink or …’ The young man looked at the note she held out with an expression bordering on disdain.

  ‘Keep your money. I’d’ve done the same for anyone. People behaving like that just piss me off.’ There was a murmur of support from those around him. Not only had she insulted him by her clumsy attempt to show gratitude in some material way, she’d put herself firmly in the camp of the bourgeois middle-class who thought everything could be solved with money.

  ‘You coming, Planks?’ someone said to the man in the comical knitted hat, and they all began to move off.

  ‘Why do the young want to look like clowns these days?’ Sheila now commented. ‘I didn’t pay them much attention on Friday, I had my back to them, but I have seen a lad in town once or twice, straggly blonde beard, mousy dreadlocks that stick out in every direction … like an explosion in a rope factory.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jess laughed half-heartedly, still bothered by her crass offer of money. ‘Sounds like the same character.’

  ‘He’s been with a girl, red hair done in braids, stripy leggings, and rings in her nose.’

  Jessica raised her hand defensively to her own nose.

  ‘Not pretty and tasteful like your stud,’ Sheila amended quickly. ‘There are noses and noses. Yours is small and fine boned, like the rest of you. Your stud adorns an already good-looking face. Did you get your rescuer’s name?’

  ‘No. I was so shaken all I wanted to do was rush home to cuddle Rory. But of course he was fast asleep when I picked him up from next door.’ She had carried him home and tucked him up in bed. Then, for the first time since leaving Sean and London, Jess broke down and wept. Ironic that the incident that had at last released all that pent up emotion came only after she’d begun to feel secure in her little rented house.

  Still feeling a complete newcomer to the place she hadn’t even known where the Prince Rupert was when Sheila had first suggested the evening out, but it had been easy to find; set back from the High Street in the old part of town. And as she’d left the premises later she recalled thinking that, even without snow, it was a scene far more evocative of the traditional images of Christmas than the commercial glitz of London’s West End. Easy to imagine crinolined ladies, carollers with lanterns, and the arrival of the post coach, its caped driver pulling up his team of horses beside the ancient drinking trough. Then suddenly …

  ‘I really believed I was safe.’ Her voice thickened, her eyes blurred. ‘I’d convinced myself all that was behind me. I’m so stupid.’ She impatiently wiped the back of her wrist across her eyes. Her voice wobbled. ‘But … it was so bloody humiliating to be dragged along by my hair!’

  ‘So the first thing you did on Saturday morning was to make an appointment at the hairdressers,’ Sheila said brightly, as if to lighten the tone. ‘Don’t you feel it’s a profound psychological statement to have long hair cut short? Like a transition from femininity to feminism?’

  ‘No!’ Jess half laughed. ‘Sean liked it long. And I just never want to be that vulnerable again.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s a statement of independence … of empowerment, even if only on a subconscious level.’

  ‘Whatever. Though if it’s subconscious how can I know?’

  ‘And with it you’ve turned a tragedy into a triumph.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s too short?’

  ‘No way. You’ve a classic-shaped skull. Yes, it’s radical, but it’s stunning. The style really suits you … like a dense, dark velvet against your fair skin.’

  ‘I’m just about getting used to it now, but when Rory first saw me he was utterly distraught. T
hen he was bolshie for the rest of the day.’

  ‘He was punishing you.’

  ‘Funny aren’t they, little kids? Us leaving home and leaving Sean, hasn’t been without its up and downs. You know about the broken nights and behavioural problems. But there have been no out and out tantrums. Then I have my hair cut and he has hysterics!’

  ‘I guess it’s a kind of sublimation. He can’t express his feelings about losing Sean, but you …? By changing your appearance he’s experienced another loss. He’s lost the person he’s become used to. But at the same time, he knows you’re still Mum and feels safe to express his distress to you.’

  ‘I should have realised, should have tried to prepare him. Thanks for confirming my worst fears. I obviously am a bad mother.’

  ‘The problem with becoming a first-time parent is that you get no rehearsals. It’s the same for everyone. Sink or swim. You’re a swimmer. Don’t feel guilty for not being perfect. No one is. Talking about hair, make sure you check Rory’s regularly. We’ve a bit of a plague of head-lice at the moment.’

  ‘Yuk! Thanks! Just what I wanted to hear!’ Raised cries interrupted the conversation. Pounding feet, then small hands dragged at the hand of the nursery leader.

  ‘Sheila! Sheila! Jude’s taken the dumper truck. I was playing with it first!’

  ‘All right, Aaron. No! No fighting!’ As Sheila went to deal with the problem she looked back at Jess and mouthed the word ‘coffee’ with a raise of the eyebrows.

  Up till now the children who yelled, jumped, and skipped in front of Jess’s eyes might just as well have been a projected film for all the attention she’d been paying them. But now that she was temporarily alone she needed to divert her thoughts and what better diversion than to watch children play?

  The variety amongst them was marked. Some were clustered around the tables engaged in constructive play. Many, unable or unwilling to remain focused, had given up. The free-ranging boys were generally louder and more boisterous, their attempts to seek attention more direct. Some marched about as if competing for the most exaggerated, convulsive gesture. They turned, they twisted, they flailed the air. Only Rory stood apart from the general activity, an observer for much of the time. If and when he did join in he was quick to take offence at some over-boisterous play. Too often his elbows would come out, his brow darken, his mouth compress. And he was not above giving tit for tat.

  After a typical altercation she observed him squaring up to Jordan – a boy with light tufty hair and chipmunk cheeks. They looked like a couple of gunfighters from an old style western. Both were scowling deeply, Rory with his arms folded belligerently above his pot tummy. Of the two, Jordan looked the best equipped for the shoot-out. In the absence of a toy gun, forbidden in the nursery, a complete set of plastic construction tools were tucked gunslinger style into the waistband of his joggers. For no apparent reason, Rory gave up on the confrontation, stomped over to the Wendy house, and kicked it. The girls inside, pottering happily with their miniature domestic appliances – like a coven of Stepford Wives – gazed out imperiously at the vandal. Bianca shooed him away. Rory froze, hands clenched into fists, his narrow shoulders raised spikily. Jessica held her breath. But instead of striking back at the offender he turned and ran to where his mum sat, head butting into her ribs. She raised her arm to allow him access.

  ‘Mummy! B’anca hitted me!’ he mumbled against her sweater.

  ‘Poor boy.’ She stroked his straight dark hair. ‘But I expect she was just busy and didn’t want to be disturbed, you know? Like me sometimes. I’m sure she didn’t mean to hit you.’

  ‘What’s all this about hitting?’ Sheila had come back with a tray of mugs and a plate of biscuits. She put the tray down on a side table, well away from the mêlée of activity, and waved to the other women in the room indicating the freshly made coffee. Rory still stood, his face pressed against Mum’s bosom; as damp breath warmed her ribs. Jess shook her head at Sheila.

  ‘He’s fine. If there was any contact it was unintended. Bianca just flapped her hand at him,’ she whispered.

  Sheila called out to another girl who seemed at a loose end. ‘Sasha, why don’t you show Rory how good you are at painting?’

  Rory raised his head from its humid nest and stared at Sasha suspiciously.

  ‘Come on!’ Sasha said, imperiously, ‘You can look at my painting of Bluebell.’

  ‘You sure he’s all right?’ Sheila queried.

  ‘Just being over sensitive.’ It was impossible for Jess to resist making the boy/girl comparison as her son followed Sasha over to the easels. Rory was shorter and sturdier than his willowy companion and though similarly dark, the girl’s jaw-length hair was curlier than his.

  ‘How is he generally these days?’ Sheila handed over a mug. ‘Be careful, it’s hot.’

  ‘Much better than he was.’

  ‘Sleeping any better?’

  ‘Seems to be … touch wood.’ She smiled but felt her cheek muscles grow tight. ‘He does still plague me with questions sometimes. But there’s no doubt he’s more relaxed, more accepting. I just have to remember to count my blessings.’ Her teeth bit into her bottom lip as she stared into the coffee mug. ‘I so wish Sean hadn’t put in his surprise re-appearance! I just want to forget about the guy. Oh, that sounds lame … stupid. How can I forget someone who was part of my life for four years?’

  ‘Not stupid at all. It’s perfectly understandable. About Friday … I blame myself for rushing off.’

  ‘Hardly your fault.’

  ‘The bloody burglar alarm’s always going off for no reason. The sensor was probably tripped by nothing more threatening than a cat on his nocturnal prowl!’

  ‘It could have been a real emergency.’

  ‘You had the real life emergency to deal with … on your own. Thank God you had someone there willing to step in and help you. These days that’s rare. Too many prefer not to get involved. If only I’d known. You needn’t have had to rely on the kindness of strangers.’

  ‘Stop beating yourself up about it. If I’d had the slightest inkling my ex was lurking outside planning to kidnap me, do you think I wouldn’t have left with you?’ Yet again a flinch of remembered emotion kicked her in the gut. The lights of the Christmas tree sparked and jumped, doubling then quadrupling into a fuzzy network of stars. Jessica blinked away the momentary blurring.

  Though Rory and the other children had made many of the decorations which now adorned the room, they’d not seen them go up. Since Friday, their lick and spit paper chains had been looped across the ceiling and the irregular gold and silver shapes they’d laboriously cut out with blunt-nosed scissors had found their way onto the walls, representing a starry sky. Christmas was still so new, so magical to Rory, he was stunned by the transformation. Even the tree with its tarnished baubles and thin, moulted tinsel seemed to him to have arrived from wonderland. It had choked her up to witness his wide-eyed awe.

  ‘There’s no need for you to stay, you know. I’ve enough help today.’ Sheila nodded towards Lynn, Sara, and Jan who were assisting.

  ‘I’ll only brood. I’m better with company. All weekend I felt really paranoid, imagining Sean really did know where I lived. That he was skulking around somewhere, just waiting to pounce and force us to go back with him.’

  ‘But he can’t make you. Not even if you were married.’

  ‘Brute force and intimidation are hard to resist.’

  ‘Men!’ Sheila exclaimed. ‘And people ask why I don’t allow them in my life. They’re all chameleons. They wait till they’ve got their feet under the table, and you’re starting to trust them, before turning into Mr Hyde.’

  It was a valid point. ‘Story of my life. In future it’s me calling the shots. I’m not dancing to anyone else’s tune ever again!’

  ‘Right on, sister.’ Sheila said, with an approving smile.

  ‘I’m really going to take my time before …’

  ‘Before what? You’re better off without. Wh
o needs ‘em?’

  ‘Quite right. Why swap independence for the dubious benefits of permanent coupledom?’

  ‘Enslavement you mean.’ Sheila stood up abruptly, hands on hips. ‘Yasmin! Don’t grab! I want to see you share with Chanel.’

  ‘I’m not planning to rule men out of my life altogether,’ Jess continued, ignoring the interruption. Sheila sat down again, but her eyes were on the squabbling children.

  ‘Give me one unarguable reason why not.’ She sat straight-backed, alert to what was happening in the room. Lynn intervened in the dispute between the two little girls who both wanted to use the pink glitter. Sheila sighed, pushed her fingers back through her curly, mahogany red hair, then turned and smiled at Jessica.

  ‘Tell me just one thing they’re good for?’

  ‘Putting up shelves? Oh, and I’d miss the sex.’

  Sheila grimaced. ‘Get a vibrator! And a power drill. You can put up your own shelves.’

  Though Jess laughed, she couldn’t join wholeheartedly with Sheila’s condemnation.

  ‘I rather like men, really. Some of them, anyway. And there’s got to be someone out there, somewhere, who’s kind and sensitive.’

  Sheila grunted dismissively. ‘If there is he’s bound to be gay.’

  ‘You’re such a cynic,’ Jess said. ‘All I ask, expect in a relationship, is to be treated as an equal.’

  ‘Equal? We’re their superiors. Anyway, kind and sensitive ain’t sexy … apparently.’