Torn

by Gilli Allan

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘Do we have to have this conversation now, over the phone?’

  ‘Yes! What about the others in the row? Ethel Dell and the Thornhills? The Harpers? And Maggie Spry on the end?’

  ‘Most of them are old, Jessica.’

  ‘Oh, I see! You’re waiting for them to die. Or hoping for them to die? Most of them, with luck, have another ten or fifteen years!’

  ‘Or more. I’m not hoping for anyone to die! But they probably should move on to retirement homes or …’

  ‘I don’t suppose any of them want to. And Maggie’s only middle-aged.’

  ‘I expect they’ll want to move once the roadworks start.’

  ‘It is definite then? I never know if the men in yellow coats are still just surveying the land or an advance party.’

  ‘It looks increasingly likely. Though a final decision has yet to be made … or communicated to me.’

  ‘Who is going to want to buy a house here while a herd of bulldozers tear up the landscape? Not to mention the inevitable stand-off between demonstrators and police?’

  ‘I shan’t sell straight away. I’ll probably wait until the road is a fait accompli.’

  ‘You’ve had all this planned for a long time?’

  ‘Only since I first heard about the possibility of the by-pass. About two years.’

  ‘I see. So that is yet another favour the road will have done you? The likely departure of your tenants. These houses are far more valuable to you with vacant possession aren’t they?’

  ‘Jess! Please! I’m not an ogre. I didn’t conceive the idea to put a by-pass in front of your house. I’m an innocent party in all of this too.’

  ‘But it won’t stop you taking maximum advantage of the situation.’

  ‘You worked as a derivatives trader … did considerations of the greater good weigh with you when making your decision to hit the buy or sell button?’

  ‘Touché. But it was my job to make a profit for the bank.’

  ‘And bugger the rest of the world?’

  ‘You sound like Danny.’

  There was a brief silence. At length he said, ‘Coming from you I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Actually, I’m glad you phoned. I wanted to ask if you’d like a day in London. I’ve a meeting coming up a week on Friday. It shouldn’t take much more than an hour out of the day. You could go shopping, or whatever else you want to do, then we could meet up. Do an exhibition. Dinner. Perhaps we could stop over?’

  ‘Sounds nice but …’ A night in London? Would she resist? Could she resist the temptation to share a hotel room? ‘But what about Rory? He finishes at lunch time.’

  ‘Gilda or Edie could pick him up, look after him for an hour or two till Sasha gets home. For that matter Daniel could keep him entertained. Dan’s good with the kids, and they seem to adore him. Don’t know what it is he’s got that I haven’t.’

  Jessica ignored the throwaway line about his employee. These pin-prick jibes were growing more frequent.

  ‘Jay? Do you never worry that you’re exploiting your mother?’

  ‘No. She always wants to do what’s best for me. She loves me.’

  Rory told her what had happened in the playground at break time, but as for the rest of the morning it was as if a mist had come down.

  ‘I don’t know. We played,’ he said irritably, unwilling to engage in any further post-mortems. This wasn’t a surprise; he’d been the same about nursery. Occasionally he would speak of a singing game which he’d enjoyed, or a particularly delicious biscuit offered at break time, but otherwise his memory of events was more likely to focus on an insult from another child, someone pinching him or muscling in on the stickle bricks. There was a hesitant tapping at the door.

  ‘You stay there and drink your milk.’

  To find Maggie Spry on the step was a strange coincidence. Less than an hour ago she’d figured in Jessica’s conversation with James, yet their relationship had never been more than the ‘Hello, fine day today’ variety.

  ‘Maggie! Nice to see you. Um … would you like to come in?’

  ‘I won’t, Jessica, thank you. Actually, I think I’ve some sad news for you. I only discovered it because I’ve got some time off and planned to do a bit of gardening. Not that I’ve been able to do anything with all this rain. But you’ve been looking after Freda’s old tabby cat, Tiggy, haven’t you? Only I think I’ve found him under the ribes bush in the back. He looks like he might have been hit by a car. He’s dead, I’m afraid, Jessica. Sorry. But I wondered if you would dispose of the body? I’d rather not touch it, if you don’t mind. There may be maggots.’

  Rory hadn’t heard the muttered conversation at the front door and now was happy to be left for a few minutes in front of Midsomer Murders. Hardly suitable viewing for a four year old but he gave it little of his attention as he fitted together Lego bricks to make into a pretend mobile phone. It looked as if it might start raining again any time. Jessica put on her hooded waterproof then fetched a robust plastic bag and some rubber gloves from the kitchen. She followed Maggie the short distance to her end cottage. Overnight rain had held off since the morning; the air was fresh and cool, but not cold. Jess realised that she was shaking. I’ve turned into a wimp, she thought. What’s happened to that brave, pro-active woman I used to be? I’m on the verge of tears about Rory starting school. I’m on the verge of tears over the man I never wanted to see again in this life or the next. I’m on the verge of tears about losing the cat I didn’t want and didn’t like. And now I’m shaking like a leaf because I have to collect his body and dispose of it.

  The carcass was not as gross as she feared. There was some evidence of dried blood around his tattered ear, but otherwise no gruesome wounds or exposed bones.

  ‘I wonder who did it,’ Maggie said. ‘Everyone knows where he lives. I can’t imagine anyone from the lane hitting Tiggy and then not telling you, even if they didn’t see where he ran off to.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a stranger.’

  ‘We hardly get any through traffic along here, but the lane was swarming with vehicles last week when they came to survey the fields again.’ Maggie went on to bemoan the prospect of the by-pass, but Jessica stopped listening. A week? It was a week since Sean arrived on her doorstep, a week since the cat disappeared. Could it have been him? Even had he been aware of hitting a cat, he wouldn’t have known who it belonged to. Had he inadvertently cut yet another tie to her life in this house?

  ‘Two phone calls in one day. I’m honoured, Jess. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’

  She’d taken the hand-set into the kitchen and closed the door. ‘About?’ She heard his sigh.

  ‘London. It’s obviously of so little significance to you, you’ve already forgotten.’

  ‘London?’ she repeated blankly.

  ‘You still want to come?’

  ‘Sorry! Yes. But James, I’ve something … to ask you.’ Why had she phoned him? What could she say? It suddenly seemed so pathetic, so weedy, that she should need to turn to a man. ‘No. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It patently does matter. I can hear you’re upset? What’s happened?’

  She imagined him sitting at his desk, perhaps dreaming up ideas for Piers’ latest ad campaign, or composing another of his tongue-in-cheek confessions of an inadequate countryman for the local rag. He could be revising the first few chapters of his thriller for the umpteenth time, or perhaps struggling with book-work for the farm.

  ‘No, I’m being stupid. It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have bothered you.’

  ‘Jessica! Will you tell me what’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Tubs.’

  ‘Tubs?’ he queried, as if he must have misheard.

  ‘Our cat. He’s dead. Probably hit by a car. But you’re probably busy.’

  ‘Very, as it happens. I’ve a lot of stuff to prepare for this meeting. So … why are you calling me? I’m sorry, of course, if you wer
e fond of the animal …’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘It isn’t my condolences you want, then?’

  ‘I haven’t got a spade. I need to dispose of the body.’

  He had sounded genuinely perplexed, but now appeared to grasp what she wanted.

  ‘That’s no problem. Don’t worry about burying it. Put it in a double layer of bin bags, tie it up tight, and take it to the tip. You know where that is?’

  ‘But?’

  ‘If you don’t want to do it I will, but I won’t be able to get over and pick it up till tomorrow sometime.’

  ‘No. I don’t want him … just thrown away. I want to bury him here, where he lived, make a ceremony of it.’

  ‘But it’s a dead cat, Jess. Not a close relative.’

  She felt close to tears. He obviously didn’t understand. She didn’t really understand herself. Why the death of this unlovely old cat had touched so raw a nerve was a mystery.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Forget it. I shouldn’t have phoned you.’

  ‘If you can wait till tomorrow I can come over then with a spade.’ His tone was still uncomprehending, but at least now willing to humour her.

  ‘No. Don’t bother. I’ll see if I can borrow one.’

  She had no confidence that the next number she dialled would be picked up. It was. The voice on the other end sounded exactly like a juvenile version of her grandmother.

  ‘Danny’s phone. Sasha Warwick speaking.’

  Jessica came into the sitting room to find her son lying full length on the sofa. The Lego had now been abandoned and he was watching children’s TV.

  ‘Rory, sweetheart, I’ve something really sad to tell you. But I want your help. If you are brave, you’ll help me to be brave?’

  Together they went through the kitchen and out into the lean-to, where they kept their boots, and the other odds and ends there was no obvious place for in the house.

  ‘There’s a good box, Mummy,’ he said. It was a six-bottle wine carton.

  ‘I think that one’s a bit small. Is there a bigger one?’ The half-used packets of fertiliser, envelopes of seeds, and bottles of weed and bug killer, reproached her as they rummaged. Not only had she failed to clear away this evidence of her predecessor’s green fingers – much of which was probably poisonous, and all of which, like the flea powder, was definitely well beyond the use-by dates – but she’d added nothing new. Her intention to dig the earth, to grow and to harvest, had come to nothing more than the tub outside the front door. Even the glass demijohns, the tubes, airlocks, and boxes of corks she’d actually purchased in anticipation of wine-making were unused and unopened, gathering dust and spiders’ webs amongst the gritty old seed trays, mud-encrusted implements, and broken flower pots.

  Eventually they’d emptied a large, if slightly damp and cobwebbed, carton. They put on their wellingtons and hand in hand went out into the garden. Rory was sent off on leaf-collecting duty. The flat area of the garden might be tiny but rising above it was a hillside of trees; there was no shortage of shed leaves.

  Soon a bed had accumulated in the bottom of the box and Jessica fetched the surprisingly heavy bag. When Rory asked to see Tubs’ body she hesitated before folding back the thick plastic. Rory squatted beside the dead animal and gazed at him for several seconds. He stretched out his hand. She nearly said ‘Don’t touch’, but stopped herself. Sometimes it was better to allow instinct priority over the layers of civilisation which enmeshed you. Hands could always be washed. He stroked the slightly matted fur.

  ‘Poor Tubs,’ he said. ‘Mummy? Do you think he’s gone to Heaven?’

  The concept of an afterlife, even for humans, was one she had problems with, but now had no qualms about answering ‘yes’. It had begun to rain again. Big heavy drops ran down their necks. They zipped and buttoned their coats up tight, then continued to search for more leaves to scatter over the bag, once it had been retied and placed reverentially in the leaf-lined box. Ten minutes later a thick wet quilt of green completely obscured the mauve carrier bag. Footsteps crunched down the side path.

  ‘Danny!’ Rory screeched in delight and rushed to him. ‘Did you know? Tubs is dead! He’s in the box. We’re going to have a fruneral!’

  There was a spade in his hand, but Danny didn’t say he already knew. ‘That’s really sad. What happened to him?’

  ‘He was runned over!’ Rory was still clinging to his legs. Danny ruffled his hair. He must have set off before the rain; although he was wearing wellingtons he had no jacket on, just a long grey hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head.

  A spot was selected and Danny started digging. It took a while; though the ground was soaked it was also compacted and stony, and the hole needed to be large. With his own seaside spade, Rory dug at the earth already thrown up, with the intention of flinging it further, but managed instead to scatter most back into the hole.

  ‘Thanks, Rory,’ Danny said. ‘You’re being really helpful.’

  Though it continued to rain steadily it didn’t become any heavier, and no one, not even her child, complained or suggested they stop till it eased off. From recent experience there was not much hope of that. At last the hole was deemed large enough. The box was now soggy and in imminent danger of falling apart. It wouldn’t have been the end of the world. Its only real purpose was to lend some dignity to the occasion, and the only loss would have been that dignity. But instinctively Danny seemed to realise this; he scrambled out of the hole to help Jessica carry the dangerously sagging carton and then lower it down into the grave with due solemnity. At her instigation some of the Michaelmas daisies she’d picked while they were digging, were now tossed onto Tubs’ coffin by Rory. The three of them stood, looking down.

  ‘Let’s say goodbye,’ Jessica said. ‘Goodbye, Tubs.’

  ‘Bye bye, Tubs,’ was echoed by her son. Then, ‘Have a nice time in Heaven.’ Danny’s face, as he looked across at them, was wet with rain; he smiled slightly at Rory’s addition. Jessica knew there were tears mixed with the rain which wetted her cheeks. Slowly he began to shovel the wet earth back into the grave, again with the help of Rory and his sandcastle spade. Jessica found a jam jar in which to put the remaining daisies, and a craggy lump of limestone to serve as the headstone.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The quantity of mud on the two gravediggers was hard to credit, but at least Rory had been wearing a coat.

  ‘I’ve a mind to put you both in the bath,’ she said, then regretted her flippancy. Her son was delighted by the idea and wouldn’t let it drop.

  ‘Yes! Yes! I want a bath with Danny!’

  ‘I wasn’t being serious! At the very least you must wash your hands very thoroughly, straight away.’ But when Rory’s wet and muddy rainproof jacket was stripped off she found yet more mud caked as high as his elbows, his jogging pants were damp and earth smeared from calves to waist. As for Danny, he looked like a drowned and very muddy rat.

  ‘It’s OK. I can cycle home. I can’t get any wetter. Then I can have a shower at the farm.’

  ‘Don’t be daft! Anyway, you’ve the spade to transport.’

  ‘I got it here. I can get it back.’

  ‘Just a minute … does James know you came over?’ He shook his head. ‘You bunked off? Presumably it’s his spade? Fine. So either you, or I, or both of us are likely to be in trouble. Well, in for a penny … We might as well fully deserve the rollicking. Would you like a bath? Then I can get your clothes washed and dry in a couple of hours.’

  ‘And me, Mummy? A bath with me?’

  ‘Oh no, Rory! Poor Danny doesn’t want to share a bath with a wriggler like you.’

  ‘I don’t mind. And it’ll take less hot water.’ Danny was smiling now, a teasing glint in his eyes. ‘But if you’d rather not see me stark bollock naked, I promise to be “Mum” and make sure that Rory washes behind his ears.’

  Hot water was a consideration. The small tank would be hard pressed to deliver two baths immediately. And
, it was at least a year since Rory had seen a naked man in his home. Would he take garbled stories back to school? Did she care about possible tittle-tattle? More importantly, might she be exposing her son to danger? There’d been so much hysteria about paedophiles lately. Did she trust Danny?

  His expression became serious. He slid his hand under her elbow and escorted her rapidly from the kitchen, pushing the door to behind them.

  ‘You don’t think I’d do anything to him, do you?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘How did you …?’

  ‘I’m not a hermit, Jess! I hear the news. And I saw it in your face. That sudden doubt. I would never do anything to hurt you, Jess, or your son. Surely you know that? Surely you believe me?’

  Belief did not require evidence – that was the trouble. What did she know about him above and beyond the fact that he was a good-looking boy? What she’d heard implied a serious mental deficiency. What she saw was someone who was straightforward, certainly unsophisticated and to some degree illiterate, but not stupid or crazy. How did you recognise a paedophile anyway?

  He was holding her hands now, staring into her eyes. She saw no offence or hurt in his expression, just an intense effort of will to convince her.

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘Yes you do! Of course you know!’ His hair was still stuck spikily against his forehead, his hands still damp and cold. ‘You do, don’t you? I’m not into children … not girls, not little boys! I’m not gagging to share a bath with Rory! I didn’t suggest it! But it sounded like fun … and sensible. But if it bothers you, that’s cool. I’ll go home now. But I just can’t bear you to think that of me, when surely you must know …?’ His face tilted slightly, pupils widening as if the room had suddenly darkened. His face moved fractionally closer to hers. ‘You do know. You must know –’

  ‘Don’t, Danny.’ She released her hands from his and spread them against his chest. The hoodie was gritty and saturated. ‘Please don’t do this.’

  ‘Do what?’