by Elisa Lodato
‘Wow. What’s the significance?’
‘A quote by Virgil. It’s just stayed with me: “It never troubles the wolf how many the sheep may be”.’
‘Why didn’t you have that tattooed on?’
‘Too many words.’
‘Right.’
He tapped lightly on the door of my grandmother’s room, waited a few seconds and then opened it wide. She was sitting in an armchair by the window. There was a small table at her knees and another armchair opposite, presumably for me. I assumed that during the ten minutes I’d been waiting, somebody – perhaps Wolf man – had placed a tray with a teapot, milk, a bowl of sugar and two cups on the table in front of her. That’s what you get in an expensive care home: service from a tattooed orderly, versed in the classics. Her room was on the ground floor, and commanded a view of the bleak and blown garden.
‘Hi Jean!’ The orderly filled her small room with manufactured cheer.
‘Good afternoon, Neil,’ my grandmother said, stiffly.
‘Your granddaughter’s here!’ he shouted.
‘Yes, I can see that. Thank you.’
He backed out and smiled at me with an apologetic look, as if to say you’re on your own now.
I approached the waiting armchair and sat down. My grandmother continued to look out the window.
‘Hi, Granny.’
‘Good afternoon.’
‘I’m Laura. Katharine’s daughter.’
‘I know who you are.’ She turned to me and smiled. ‘I remember you from the wedding.’
‘Do you mean funeral? I was at the funeral.’
‘Yes, the funeral. That’s right.’ She looked down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap.
‘Katharine’s funeral. Do you remember?’
‘Kathy’s dead. Yes, I know. They came and told me.’ She began twisting her wedding ring. ‘How did she die, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘She fell down the stairs.’
‘Yes. That’s right. I always told her, “Go down on your bottom!” That way if you fall you won’t hurt yourself, you see.’
‘Yes. But Granny, she was fifty-one. She was an adult when it happened.’
‘Oh yes, I know that.’ She raised her fingers to her lips, considering what I’d just said. ‘How old did you say she was?’
‘Fifty-one. She was born in 1961.’
‘Yes, exactly. The twentieth of January. They kept me in for a week, I remember! Do you have children?’
‘No. I don’t have any children.’
‘Such a shame for you. It’s all I ever wanted, to have children.’
‘Yes.’
‘But I only had the one. Her name was Katharine. I used to take her for walks in the park. In the pram. She was such a quiet baby, never used to cry.’
‘That must have been nice for you.’
‘I wanted her to speak.’
‘What do you mean? When she was a baby?’
‘Babies don’t speak, dear. No, when she went to school. I wanted her to speak up for herself. And not let others do it for her.’
I reached out to lift the teapot. ‘Do you mind if I pour?’
‘What?’ And then she remembered the tea. ‘Oh, damn. Yes, pour it now, please. Oh, it’ll be stewed—’
‘That’s OK. I don’t mind. Look, it’s fine, Granny.’
She looked at me warily and sat back in her armchair.
‘What did you mean just then, about not letting others speak for her?’
‘Speak for whom?’
‘For my mother. Sorry, for Katharine.’
‘Who is speaking for Katharine?’
‘You said that when she went to school, you wanted her to speak more. That you didn’t want others doing it for her.’
‘I didn’t want Helen doing it for her.’
I put my cup down on its saucer. ‘Did Helen speak for her?’
‘All the time! Kathy hardly said a word in infant school. That girl spoke for everyone.’
‘They were very good friends, weren’t they?’
‘Kathy didn’t have any friends.’
‘But she had Helen?’
‘Oh yes, she had Helen. She was always there. I used to say to Paul, if you want to find Katharine, look for Helen.’ She nodded at me, as though this were sage advice.
‘Is that why you sent her away?’
‘I didn’t send anyone away!’
‘Sorry. I just wondered if you knew why Helen went away, when they were at the grammar school.’
‘The grammar school. She should never have been there. Couldn’t behave herself like the nice girls.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She raised her hands to her eyes. I could see I’d gone too far. That the effort of remembering was too troubling.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to upset you. I’m just interested in my mother’s life.’
‘Kathy. She is your mother.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re my granddaughter.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Laura.’
‘Exactly.’
‘When is Kathy going to come to see me?’
‘She’s dead. She died.’
‘How did she die?’
‘She fell down the stairs.’
‘I always knew that girl would come to no good.’
I always knew that girl would come to no good. My grandmother’s words were ringing in my ears as I walked back to my car. She didn’t make friends with the nice girls. She got herself pregnant by someone she hardly knew. She didn’t go down the stairs on her bottom. My mother. The failed flesh.
I got home around 5 p.m. and, without taking my boots off, lay down on the sofa. The flat was so quiet. And empty. I looked at my phone and thought of Tom, willing him to call. I locked the screen and put it on my chest. I still had a couple of hours before I had to think about food, so I decided to close my eyes. I don’t know how long I was asleep for but I was woken by the sound of a phone ringing. It was familiar enough to pull me back into consciousness, but it wasn’t my mobile. It was the landline. I never used it – I’d purchased the service purely for the purposes of broadband. And the only person who had ever phoned me on it was my mother. I got up and walked across the room; it was on one of my bookshelves, tucked behind some old batteries I’d taken out of the remote control once and a container of paperclips.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello. May I speak with Laura Rowan, please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Hello, Laura. May I call you Laura?’
‘Yes. Who is this, please?’
‘Detective Constable Jane Marsh. I’m with the Metropolitan Police. Do you have a moment to talk to me?’
‘Yes, of course. What’s the matter? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened, and I don’t want you to worry, but I’d like to have a little chat with you if I may. I called round earlier this afternoon but there was nobody home.’
‘Yes, I was out. Visiting my grandmother.’
‘OK, that’s no problem. Will you be around tomorrow morning, say around ten?’
‘Yes, I can be. Sorry, what’s this regarding?’
‘It’s regarding the accident your mother had in her home back in …’ I heard the sound of papers being shuffled. ‘February. Yes. Some new information has come to light.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘It’s better if we speak in person, I think. I’ll come and see you tomorrow morning at ten. If that’s OK.’
‘Yes. See you tomorrow.’
Jane was around five foot five inches in height, a little shorter than me, but quite stocky. She looked like she went to the gym a lot – the sort of person who drinks a kale and spinach smoothie before running to work. She was wearing a grey trouser suit with a white shirt underneath. She smiled warmly as I opened the door and lifted her warrant card in greeting. ‘Laura?’
‘Yes, come in.’
‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ I said, showing her to the sofa.
‘No, thank you. I’ve just had a coffee.’
I pulled a chair over from the dining table. ‘What’s this all about?’ I asked, sitting down.
She sat down as I did, but the sofa cushions were too soft and deep. She nudged herself forward so she could perch on the edge and straighten her back.
‘As I said to you last night, we’ve had some new information come to light.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Your mother’s neighbour, a Mrs …’ She began flicking through the pages of her notebook. ‘A Mrs Harris, got in touch with her local neighbourhood team to say she had reason to believe your mother was not alone in the house the morning she died. She said she tried to get in touch with you herself.’
‘Yes! Shit, I never got back to her. It’s just that she spoke to the estate agent we appointed. Not to me directly. And then I broke up with my boyfriend.’ It all sounded so feeble.
‘Listen, don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. She’s coming in tomorrow to give a written statement, but before she does, I just want to ask you a few questions.’
‘OK.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have been with her that morning?’
‘No. As far as I’m aware, she was alone.’
‘And, I’m sorry to ask, but you’re in the process of selling the house. Do you stand to gain financially from the sale?’
‘Indirectly, yes. But I’m selling it on behalf of my father.’
‘And why can’t he do that himself?’
‘It’s complicated. He lives with his partner and she’s pressuring him to move to Guildford. I think he just thought it would be easier if I managed the sale.’
Detective Constable Marsh began writing quickly and then flicked back through her notebook. ‘That’s Richard Rowan and Jenny Warren. They’re not married?’
‘No. My parents never divorced.’
‘And why was that?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my dad about that.’
‘OK. I think that’s all I need for now. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something more for you. Try not to worry – things like this happen all the time. It doesn’t mean anything untoward has happened. We just have to investigate, that’s all.’
‘Of course.’
‘What’s the best number to reach you on?’
The spinal cord had been transected by dislocation of the atlanto-occipital joint.
On 12 February 2012, the last morning of my mother’s life, I slept late and deeply. I opened my eyes, looking for the terrible thing I’d done the night before, and there beside me was David. Heavier and hairier, his mouth was open, tired and sour from the night before, offering a light snore in his defence. On my bedside table was the opened condom packet, thrown there in an attitude of spontaneous protection.
He had emailed me at the newspaper a week earlier. Seeing his name appear suddenly in my inbox had hit me hard. I stared at the screen in an agony of disbelief. I told myself I didn’t have to open it, that I could delete, or read and delete, but my heart gave me away. It was already thumping to a delirious new beat. One with David back in my life.
The email itself was classic cut-and-cover, roofing over the depth of our estrangement with shallow, commonplace enquiries. He congratulated me on my blog and column, and professed himself an admirer of my writing, and, without any reference to his wife and daughter, asked me if I’d like to meet for a drink.
I read it several times before forwarding it to Andrea with the preface: This is the guy I was telling you about. The one from Cambridge.
Her reply was swift and to the point: Isn’t he married with a kid?
Yes. What do you think? I wrote, ignoring the obvious.
Andrea, not one for evasion, forced me to confront the central problem: I think you should ask him how his wife is.
I knew Andrea was right, and over the next few days wrote several versions of a suitable response. They varied significantly in length and tone. The first one, stirred by the excitement of first contact, was pleasant and self-consciously humble, loaded with references to my own success and independence. Another draft, written one evening after several glasses of wine, was full of nostalgia and longing. A longing that gave way to a penultimate paragraph full of anger at how our friendship had ended. Finally, a week after receiving his email, I replied with the following: Hi Dave. It was a surprise to hear from you after such a long time. I understand you and Sarah got married and are now parents. Congratulations. All going well this end – work is busy and I live in Balham now. A drink would be nice – let me know when you’re around and hopefully we can catch up properly. Laura.
He replied within an hour and suggested Saturday night. He even offered to come to Balham. His eagerness vindicated Andrea’s caution. I should never have replied, but the thrill of his impatience to see me was intoxicating. It made me feel both frightened and delirious. Every action, every movement, was an indistinct event compared to the one on the horizon. The one I could accept at a moment’s notice. His email made me feel wealthy and assured in the most perilous way.
We arranged to meet in a wine bar just off Garrick Street at eight o’clock. As I got on the tube at Balham, I thought of that summer’s day back in 2001 when I’d last travelled by underground to see him, full of desire and optimism. I looked up at the map, silently counting down the stops, and felt the dry pain of that afternoon rise up again. I wanted to go back; back to my second year, back to Balham, but the tube hurtled forward, fixed to a black line that led inexorably to a bar near Leicester Square where David waited, suddenly and unaccountably keen to see me.
He was sitting at the bar, his shoulders hunched, his scalp lit mercilessly by the overhead lamps. He was stockier than I remembered, but unmistakably him. I walked up to the bar just as he turned round. He stood up, forcing his feet into the narrow gap between his bar stool and me. We were too close, his chest unnervingly near my eyeline. It was wide and self-consciously heroic. I fought the urge to laugh and instead took a step back. I smiled and he tried to smile back, but I saw the look of panic in his eyes. I made eye contact with the barman behind him and said, ‘A glass of white wine, please. Would you like another?’
The question disarmed him, provided an urgency that took the pressure off our reconciliation. He looked at his pint glass and ordered another. ‘Please. Sit down,’ he said, indicating the stool next to him. ‘It’s great to see you.’
‘And you. Have you been waiting long?’
‘No, not at all. Just got here,’ he said, looking over at the barman as though he might contradict him.
‘How are things?’
‘Good, thanks. Living in Buckinghamshire now.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, noticing the absence of a pronoun. ‘And where do you work?’
‘Near Marylebone, so it’s really handy. You get a lot more for your money out there.’
‘So I hear.’
‘How about you? You’re in Balham, did you say?’
‘Yes, I bought my flat there about three years ago now, 2009. Pretty small, but it’s mine. I’m too old for housemates now.’
‘I know,’ he said, rolling his eyes in understanding.
‘How’s Sarah?’
He swallowed hard and put his glass down. ‘She’s fine. Yeah, really well, thanks.’
‘And your daughter? How old is she?’
‘Bea’s seven. She keeps us busy.’
‘I bet.’
‘How about you?’
‘Do I have any kids? No, no kids. I’m not married either.’
The noise of the bar rose up and into the silence, parading itself before our defeated attention. I sipped my wine and looked down at my fingers. Our conversatio
n had grown thick and inert. He asked about my work, what had made me start my blog in the first place and if I was still in touch with people from university. We drank quickly, picking at people from the past, amusing ourselves with stories made funny by wild and careless recollection. As we got away from the reserve that had circled us at the beginning of the evening, I asked him if he still thought Robert Browning was a fucking bellend, and we laughed hard. All that was predictable and mundane fell away as we chewed over our lives, jostling and nudging, renewed to wit and banter by a connection that hadn’t waned with time or distance. It was exquisite and without pain. A last chance for both of us. And we took it.
We left the bar and walked to the Lamb and Flag, a small, stuffy pub that promised greater intimacy. The new venue threatened to break the spell, but with a touch, a smile, a story, it was quickly re-established. We avoided any mention of Sarah and his daughter, aware that they would turn our clumsy joy to sordid betrayal. But we both knew what was going to happen.
By ten o’clock we were drunk and hungry. He looked to me for answers and I suggested an Italian restaurant in Soho. He nodded his head and, in answer, grabbed my hand and kissed my palm with his eyes closed. I watched him hold my hand gently, splaying my fingers on the back of his, and knew I would have to make a decision. With the other hand I reached out to stroke his face in silent forgiveness.
Buoyed by agreement, we left the pub and hailed a cab on Long Acre. Our hands entwined on the back seat, we stared straight ahead at the dark road and the driver who couldn’t get us back to Balham soon enough.
The following morning I got out of bed quietly and walked down the hallway, into the living room. Too hungover to process emotion, all I could do was survey the wreckage and pick a path of least resistance. I walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle, confident a cup of tea would sort me out, but as I poured the milk onto the tea bag and watched it balloon into the brown water I felt my stomach retract in disgust. I left the cup where it was, put the milk back in the fridge and went to lie down on the sofa.