Katherine staggered out to the bathroom mirror. The huge eyes which stared back at her were the eyes of a stranger, a very old woman. Not the child she had seen reflected in the morning: there would never be a child reflected in this face. All an illusion, this sense of safety. She was an old woman, not allowed to go back in time. Downstairs was the child and the man who was murdering them both.
‘Well, why should she behave like that, why?’ Jenny had attempted to debate the Allendale behaviour patterns with her husband on the way home and then again in bed. The first attempt had been futile: the second met with better response since he was mellow but tired enough to fall into sleep after the second paragraph. Compassion, such as it was, remained Jenny’s contribution to family life along with concern and neighbourly kindness: he wanted no part of either and besides, there was work tomorrow. Stupid idea to have a dinner party on a Tuesday: you could tell how many people never really worked or they would know that Wednesday followed. Jenny was accustomed to such shutting off and could not argue with a man who was to all intents and purposes, bar the breathing, dead. She courted the same state in self-defence, thinking ahead to the day after and the few after that. But almost as soon as sleep intervened, the little one, Emily, came to wake her. Their bedroom door was shut and in reaching for the handle, Emily bumped and scraped on the bottom panel with the doll she carried. Jenny hardly registered the sound until the child stood by the bed, feigning distress but really wanting to play, pursuing no nightmare but lack of company. Theirs was a big bed: she could never see why she should not share. Jenny knew she should follow the books, get up herself and make the child resettle to ensure herself an easier longterm life, but she let Emily clamber beneath the duvet instead, sure that the other half, whose objections were always more strenuous, was in no position to notice until morning. Dolly was abandoned on the floor. As child fell back into sleep, Jenny remembered the scraping at the door, the dyspeptic duck and the kittens which had heralded the dinner party fiasco. The memory, along with indigestion, was profoundly disturbing. She hugged Emily close for comfort and vowed to do something tomorrow.
David cleared the kitchen systematically to the sound of the ‘1812’ overture, suitably triumphant for the time of night. First he assembled all the glasses and washed these in soapy liquid, rinsed them in clear, hot water and stood them on towels. Neither glasses nor silverware could be entrusted to the dishwasher and Katherine would polish tomorrow. All other crockery was rinsed and stacked in the machine. He left behind him on the table a tray with all the bishop’s pattern cutlery. Although slightly angry at the early demise of his evening, the irritation was gone and he regarded it as more of a success than failure, whistled idly as he worked, not in tune with the music which moved from one crescendo to another. Mechanical tasks, conducted with precision, pleased him: he could subdue to these the whole of his concentration, filling the sink with more hot, soapy water for the remaining silver. Wash, rinse, stand upright like the glasses, no short-cuts to the final shine. What mollified him most about the evening was the way the table had glowed, the gasps of admiration almost orgasmic: David had liked that, a seal of approval for all those lovely things, arranged with care. He had never wanted anything which other people did not envy: there was no point. Nothing ugly after Daddy, nothing fat, nothing unsafe. Daddy tidying up like this after a bout of rage was something which had long since passed from mind. Turning to the table to fetch the last cutlery, he was pleased to notice out of the corner of one eye that the cloth had not been stained, only rumpled. More so than before.
By Katherine’s hand, bunching a corner of heavy cloth into her left fist. She was paler than the colour of the material: her other hand held a carving knife and she had been moving on her bare feet towards his back, the right hand raised, her face serene with determination, the thin body still dressed in crumpled skirt and blouse, the gold collar twisted round her neck. Two feet, three feet, progress steady, dragging the cloth after herself. ‘Now, now, darling, don’t be silly.’ Cutlery clattered to the floor, released from the cloth which she seemed quite unable to relinquish. ‘Now, now,’ he repeated carefully, but she still came on with an even pace. The knife was sticky with the grease from the duck: the dirt offended him. David retreated almost into the sink, risked turning his back for one whole second. He lifted the half-full washing bowl, flung the contents in her direction.
The ‘1812’ crashed to a finale.
CHAPTER 21
Sophie was learning cunning from her cat, a creature with many other advantages. Kitten kept at bay all those vast wastes of insomnia which had led to such exhaustion, and because he, she, or it appeared to grow by the minute, mimicking the antics of a lion at play with a lot of delightful running and snarling, Sophie had convinced herself that the presence of the cat would deter any burglar who was not a giant. ‘You just growl at him, dear,’ she said in admiration. ‘You know, the way you do when I pretend to take away your food. Oh, look at that, kitty, you were spitting. Ever so fearsome. Was your mother a tiger, then, must have been. Funny colour, though.’ Sophie giggled, watching the kitten stalking a ball of wool. ‘No sense of smell,’ Sophie scolded. ‘You can’t tell pink from white.’
Granny was aware that she talked to herself and the cat more than to anyone alive, pushed the thought out of her mind. There was no one else more thoroughly disposed to listen when she was frightened much of the time, and the cat seemed so fearless, as well as providing every excuse to delay her departures from the house and hasten her own return. This morning she had contemplated taking kitty to the hairdresser; she could not see why on earth they should mind, but some dull instinct told her that they would. So she stayed at home, becoming vague on the subject of the hour, even vaguer than she was on what day of the week. Her memory slipped out of gear with such ease, as it had done for more than a year. Nobody seemed to notice or mind while she dwelt for much of the time in a tunnel of apprehension she could not confess, but beginning with the brainstorm which had made her pick up the cat, the selectivity of her recollection no longer dismayed her.
She concentrated on doing as she pleased, shedding onerous tasks whenever she wished. David’s face, David’s figure, never quite became blurred, but the thought of him and his wife and his children was a profound pain in her chest which was only cured by picking up the cat and cradling it. She did so now. ‘Should have gone,’ she said to the cat, ‘should have gone, you know, for his birthday. Only he wouldn’t have you indoors, you should see what he does to cats.’ She pointed to the wall with her spare hand and held the fingers as if they were a gun. ‘Bang, bang. And anyway, he didn’t ask, so he doesn’t get a present. Lovely socks, silly boy.’ The luminous pink socks were sitting on the sofa beside her, along with a number of other items, only the socks garishly wrapped with the sellotape very prominent, making the whole parcel gleam stickily. ‘But Jeanetta would like you, she would so. We’ll go tomorrow.’
When the phone rang, she was reluctant to move. The afternoon sun was so pretty through the window and the kitten had gone to sleep on her lap. With a slight start, she realized she was not wearing a skirt, only an underslip, which was why the kitten felt particularly warm and tactile and the juvenile claws so sharp. The thought of being caught thus, in a state of déshabillé, made her move. Remembering the phone was only the phone, not attached to a television, slowed her down again and she did not answer with the alacrity which had once been her hallmark.
‘Sophie? Is that you?’ Sophie turned and grimaced at the cat, which sat at her feet, discomfited and looking for entertainment.
‘Course it’s me. Who else would it be?’ Sophie smoothed the pieces of fur from the underskirt, noticing without caring that the fabric was grubby. The sight of her own hair in the hallway mirror over the phone was not encouraging either, so she simply moved away. There was a little difficulty remembering the voice on the other end of the line which was over-familiar and one she did not like.
‘How are you, de
ar?’
‘I’m not dear. I’m cheap. And I’m fine. Thank you.’ Mary Fox, never the most sensitive, began to appreciate the call was not entirely welcome. ‘Oh, good,’ she said, lost for words. ‘Listen, won’t keep you, you must be busy . . .’ Sophie nearly spat down the phone. Of course I’m busy.
‘. . . Did you go and see David and Katherine? Like you said?’ The voice always assumed this sort of wooing she had never realized she could not abide. Not at all like Katherine, who listened rather than spoke, although you wished all the time she would.
‘No. I spec they had a party, they usually do. I didn’t go round. They’d be clearing up. Changing the towels. I know I said I would go, but then I thought I wouldn’t. Mustn’t impose,’ she added meaningfully. My word, the wits were sharp today, she’d cut herself. There were no cares left in the world: only annoyances. ‘Just checking,’ said the voice. ‘Any other news?’ Sophie hesitated, not yet immune from the desire to speak. ‘We . . . ell, I didn’t get my hair done. They wouldn’t let me bring the cat.’ Mary paused at the other end of the phone, breathed out slowly. Another one for the social services. ‘All right,’ she cooed, ‘see you soon.’
Sophie went into her bedroom and put on a skirt, the brightest she could find, covered in mossy roses and flimsy for the time of year. Then she turned on the radio and settled down.
Right, right, action stations. Mary was not used to guilt, found the sensation acutely uncomfortable. It was all after waking with that unaccustomed stiffness of limbs which created the sensation she had spent half her life avoiding: introspection rampant as she rolled out of bed very carefully and very late, one foot moving after the other in slow motion to the bathroom. No conscience about the lovely sex which had created such complaints among the joints, the removal of the sticky diaphragm from between her thighs a positive pleasure, but guilt on the subject of sisterhood, suspended from the night before to return like a hangover and play havoc with breakfast. Mary phoned Child Action Volunteers. There was no real anxiety about Katherine’s children: there never had been on her part. Yes, they had had the report since Tuesday afternoon and could say now there was nothing wrong, absolutely nothing: Mr Mills had been quite emphatic. Would she like to enlarge, for the record, why she had thought there was? No she would not. Mary felt guilty about asking for that shabby man. Not a serious guilt on that score. Any bossy intervention minimized guilt, but somehow it had returned in dragon shape the next morning. So in the afternoon, having failed to digest the beast, she phoned first Sophie and then David. She was mildly alarmed by the first call, infinitely more so by the second.
‘Hallo, David. Mary here. Happy birthday for yesterday.’ She could not resist a small hint about being excluded from any celebration. Duty had dictated she send him a card, which he did not mention.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Katherine there?’
‘No, as it happens. Gone to the gym.’
‘Should she?’ Mary bit her tongue, not wishing him to guess any secondhand knowledge she might have about Katherine’s alleged condition since she sensed David would not approve this clandestine contact with his mother. ‘Why not?’ said David. ‘She finds it helps with the tiredness. I made her go. Such a lovely day.’
Made her go. This caused Mary to bristle: so did the fact he did not say, How are you, not seen you in ages, so bloody impersonal as befits a mere spinster sister. They would see: her blood was up. ‘Kids OK?’ she persisted.
‘Fine, fine. Jeanetta’s staying with her granny.’
The last information was dispensed without any great enthusiasm, a piece of news often repeated, so much so that Mary almost took the statement at conversational face value, until her heart missed a beat and her hand clutched the receiver in mute recognition of a downright lie. Instinct forbade her to contradict. ‘Oh. What time is Kath due back?’
‘Don’t know really. Five-ish. I’m spring-cleaning just now.’
‘I’ll be round then.’ To leave no possible chance for an excuse she replaced the phone as soon as she spoke, stood there, shaking with anger, then looked at her watch. Three-ish. Go now.
Mary always knew the way to everything: Katherine did not, but the route she followed that afternoon was followed blindly. She had been told to go out so she was going out. There was no hope for anything unless she did exactly as she was told and she had no will to do anything else. Down road, cross road at zebra crossing one hundred yards on left, take train at one of two possible tube stops, or not if she fancied waiting for the bus, which she did not since movement was a must and standing still for all that uncertain time absolutely impossible, so she walked to Edgware. Got on one train then another, led by the same familiarity, clutching the bag which contained all the things for the gym, ready packed as ever. Went down the steps to the place, changed for mid-afternoon class half an hour early, smiling the same smile at mostly the same people. But all that precious orientation went when she started to move: the music’s pulsation seemed not to reach the ears or if it did, to enter each orifice out of sequence in order to jumble in the middle, her mind fixed on sounds more rhythmic than heavy beat. In the studio mirror, she noticed her hair was lank, dulled by washing-up water which would not quite dry, patted and smoothed her own locks with one uncertain hand while the others shook their legs. Then she participated as best she could. Stretch, flop, obey orders, at first roughly following the routine but gradually slipping further and further away, lagging behind or speeding in front. The class went on, each of them staring fixedly in the mirror to avoid looking at her, preternaturally pale, thin girl in the front corner, lacking any sense of coordination whatever. A newcomer smiled secretly to her friend, eyes raised to ceiling with a Look at that, we aren’t so bad after all, who does she think she is? The friend shhhed her. Classes were slightly sacred, interruptions not popular, and if anyone could not take the pace they usually left and besides the occasional weirdo was not unknown. Classes included manic anorexics, hyperactive fatties and others more obviously in a world of their own.
Only when Katherine began to dance all by herself with a particular if clumsy grace, skittering across the floor with her arms in the air and her ballerina legs all over the place, did serious alarm set in. She sidestepped the barre, flung one ankle across with agile ease and lowered her chest to her knee with such abandon they could hear the sinews creak, removed the offending leg, replaced the other, removed that and danced on into high kicks, the rest jogging on the spot in time to the music, goggling with embarrassment. Then she twisted and fell heavily, stayed where she was. The beat was drowned in the sharp intake of breath, the sudden paralysis which was not broken until the teacher turned off the music and called for help.
They put a dressing gown round her shoulders and led her away. Babies, she kept on saying, I must have more babies. ‘But you already have two, Katherine, don’t bother about it for now,’ said one of the mothers who knew the vague background details from changing-room chat where all mothers at least remembered the names and ages of each other’s children as well as remembering to compliment each other on any loss of weight. ‘Babies,’ repeated Katherine; ‘I’ve only got one.’ ‘Two,’ the mother corrected. ‘You always told me you had two.’ ‘One,’ Katherine repeated vehemently. ‘Only one. Just one. I want to go back to the class.’ Spoken while the remnants of the class stood around her in a group of leotarded dummies, gaping at the code of words which only the mother could begin to understand. When Katherine was finally beyond her burbling speech, they decided the blanket was not enough and called for a doctor. Someone looked in her purse, surprised to find no money bar one fifty-pence piece, no trace of an address and nothing to define this woman at all.
David was indeed spring-cleaning. Mary could see that at once since she recognized all the symptoms and they were difficult to miss. He had led her into the kitchen only when her insistence on the doorstep grew louder and louder, having tried to shut the door on her with politeness: with equal insis
tence she had repositioned one foot and remained as she was, repeating how she would come in and wait. All right, he grudged, not long though, I’m busy. Shut the door behind you. Intent on following the sound of a radio speaking a play, Mary merely pushed the front door with one foot, the leg behind the foot still stiff. Katherine would be home soon, no matter if the door did not actually slam and some half-formed feeling in her preferred it not to be tightly shut.
She noticed on first sight how the contents of the cupboards were out on the floor and surfaces were covered with detritus from other regions of the house. Three grey plastic sacks were stacked by the sink: protruding from one were the heads of lilies, browned to imperfection but far from dead. ‘Why are you chucking these?’ Mary asked. ‘Plenty of life in them yet.’
‘Past their best,’ David said cheerfully, the smile on his face masking visible irritation. ‘Look, I’m in the middle of this . . . sorry about the mess. Do you want to come back later, when my wife, Katherine, I mean . . .’
The Playroom Page 32