Serious Intent

by Margaret Yorke

  ‘Not Terry,’ Justin said, laughing at her. ‘He can take care of himself.’

  ‘But you don’t know who’s out there . . . perverts . . . sadists . . .’ Verity began, and soon she was well away, weeping first, a tragic figure. Next, she’d start drinking and the rage would follow. Justin sighed, resigned. Perhaps some food would distract her.

  ‘Let’s get something to eat, Mum,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of the lamb we had at lunch. I’ll put some potatoes in the microwave. Terry will be back before they’re ready, you’ll see, and he’ll be starving.’ He spoke reassuringly, like a nurse, and took her arm, leading her out of the room.

  His tactics briefly worked. She stayed reasonably calm and went with him to the kitchen where she sat at the table while he gave two fair-sized potatoes a token wash, punctured their skins and put them on the turntable, pressing the timer for ten minutes. He thought they would take longer, but by then Terry or Cat, or both, might have come home.

  ‘You’re a good boy, Justin,’ his mother told him. ‘At least you haven’t run out on me. You won’t, will you?’

  Justin hated talk like this. She’d get soppy and emotional.

  ‘Course not,’ he said gruffly, going to the fridge to find the lamb. It wasn’t quite his choice of supper; he’d rather have a pizza or some chips, but it needed little preparation and he knew his mother had had nothing much to eat that day. If she was going in for a drinking session, she ought to have some food to mop it up. This was one of Cat’s precepts which Justin supported. If she started to moan about not killing little lambs, refusing to eat it, he’d put a hunk of cheese on her potato. Sometimes she forgot her vegetarian principles, and she ate fish, which he thought was inconsistent. Surely fish had souls and feelings, if sheep and pigs did?

  But Verity couldn’t sit there idly at the table. She got up abruptly and left the room, returning with a glass half-full of either gin or vodka; they both looked the same. Justin’s heart sank. He hoped Cat would be back before she was fully launched into what must surely develop.

  It didn’t take her long to get maudlin, and in that mood she telephoned the police. She was still emotional, not yet angry, when they came to the house. They presented a touching sight, the weeping mother with the mane of tinted wild hair, and her attentive son, who had thrust her glass of alcohol, which she’d refilled after telephoning, into the fridge where the police would not see it. She’d need it later, after they had gone. Justin knew there was no point in pouring it away for she could always fill it up again. Justin liked taking care of her, but he found it difficult. If it wasn’t for the money Cat provided, they’d be better off without him. Justin had never liked seeing them together in that big bed. When he and Terry were smaller, they’d clambered in with Cat and Mum on Sunday mornings. Cat usually got up almost immediately and the two boys were left, smug and gleeful, alone in warm intimacy with their mother.

  Cat arrived while the police were there, and Verity at once turned on him, demanding to know why he had gone out when Terry wasn’t home. Why wasn’t he searching the streets for him?

  Richard managed to make the police officer understand that he had gone to the park trying to find Terry and had walked round the town looking for him before going to church. Verity, winding herself up from woe to wrath, rounded on him for this but one of the police officers, quite a young man, managed to calm her down, saying ‘Now then, Mrs Gardner, we won’t get any nearer to finding Terry if we argue, will we?’ in a soothing voice.

  Richard said that the boys had been told to come home before darkness fell, but that he thought Terry must be with his friend Mark.

  ‘I rang what I thought was Mark’s mother’s number,’ he said. ‘There was no reply, so I decided he must have gone to the family who look after him when his mother’s working. I’m afraid I don’t know who they are. Shall I try the number again now?’ he suggested, and as the police officer approved, he went off to do so.

  There was still no answer.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the wrong number, but I thought Mark said he lived in Grasmere Street,’ said Richard.

  ‘We’ll try some other Conways,’ said the policeman. ‘But I’m sure Terry’s safe. He’s just lost account of time. It’s easy at that age.’

  Richard was hoping that Terry had not led Mark into mischief. He thought about the floodwater in the fields below the garden; that could be tempting to a boy. But they had been intent on playing football.

  ‘Perhaps someone saw them in the park?’ he suggested.

  ‘Most likely,’ said the policeman, not adding that it would be difficult to find such a person now, when those who might have been about would have gone home.

  At that point in their discussions, the second pair of officers, seeking the vandal, arrived. Immediate concern for Terry’s safety disappeared as the reason for his absence became clear.

  ‘That other boy, Mark, must have led him into doing it,’ said Verity. ‘Terry’s a good boy.’

  While they were talking, Justin had quietly left the room and gone upstairs, taking refuge in a bath, his radio on. Luckily it wasn’t the community officer who had called, and the two police officers had not got in touch with him; when they did, the next day, they learned that Justin was one of several boys suspected of spraying graffiti on hoardings and who had been seen loitering near cars in the station yard, though none had been actually caught in the act of breaking into one.

  The police went off at last, and Verity, who had maintained some control until then, turned on Richard with a torrent of abuse. She flew at him, her fingers aiming for his eyes. Richard caught her wrists and flung her away from him. One of these days, she’d fall against a cupboard, hit her head, be hurt and accuse him of attacking her.

  ‘I’m going out,’ he said. ‘I’ll look for Terry.’

  He put his waxed jacket on again and found his cap and a torch.

  I’m driven from my own home, he told himself, striding off into the night. There must be something about him that provoked this hostility – not that Karen, rejecting him, had been exactly hostile. But Verity and her sons despised him. He was used to Justin’s veiled enmity and expected trouble from him; if the police had called to question him, Richard would not have been surprised, and there had been warnings from school, where his performance was disappointing.

  What could he do? Was he to turn away from Verity and her problems? Reject them all? If he did, what would become of her and the boys? A divorce would be difficult and expensive. But not impossible. The thought of escaping from his present situation seemed very attractive as he contemplated it, walking along in the now heavy rain.

  And there was Caroline.

  6

  Richard walked round the churchyard, shining his torch among the tombstones and the sombre evergreens which grew near the walls. This was the sort of place where a child might hide; there was cover. It was very wet, however; if Terry were here, he would be so cold. Silly boy! What had made him want to throw a bottle at a window? And why that window? Why that house? The police hadn’t been too clear about why he was suspected of being the guilty vandal.

  They might have searched here already. They were making door-to-door enquiries, they said, and they would trace Mark Conway, unless he, too, had disappeared. There was not much that they could do tonight, however, though facts about the missing boy would be broadcast on the local radio station. People might look in sheds and outhouses.

  Richard toured the park, trying the doors of the cricket pavilion and the scout hut, but both were securely locked and no windows had been broken to admit a fugitive.

  Terry couldn’t have run away. He’d had no money on him, as far as was known. He was avoiding retribution.

  Eventually, Richard’s peregrinations took him along Clement Lane, out of which led Bevan Road and so he reached the end of Grasmere Street. He walked down its length, and passed the house, Number 38, where S. Conway lived. A police car was parked outside it.

  So this was the
right address. He contemplated calling in; the mother must be very anxious. But the police were there: they’d deal with her, fetch a neighbour in, someone who knew her. There was nothing he could do. He’d better get on home, face whatever situation had arisen in his absence.

  Deciding thus, Richard nevertheless walked back by way of the street where Terry, allegedly, had broken a window. He saw the afflicted dwelling, where boards had been nailed across the broken pane. Was it impossible to get a glazier out to make an emergency repair on a Sunday night? The houses among which this one stood were solid, well-built and mostly semi-detached, with short driveways in which cars were parked. On the opposite side of the road, much of the Victorian terraced row had been modernised. Glancing across, Richard saw empty milk bottles on several steps; people here still patronised the roundsman. Verity had stopped, saying it was cheaper to buy in bulk from the supermarket, but the result of this was that they were always running out because she forgot to get it or was too wrapped up in her painting to go shopping.

  Cold and very wet when he reached home, Richard shed his coat and cap and went in search of Verity, who was in the drawing-room, a leather-bound album on her knee, looking at photographs of the two boys when they were very young. She was not crying now but was crooning under her breath; her face was red and blotchy, and Justin, looking terrified, was sitting beside her, trying to give comfort.

  ‘He’s dead. I know he is,’ she said, when Richard appeared. ‘Justin and I have been planning the funeral. What hymns to have. The flowers.’ She turned her distraught face up to Richard and sudden colour flooded it. ‘And where have you been when I needed you?’ she hissed at him. ‘Not here, by my side. Oh no! Out you go, seeing some fancy woman while my Terry lies dead and mutilated. Church, indeed! What an excuse! And lasting all this time, the service? You must think I was born yesterday.’

  In seconds, she had summoned up energy which Richard was amazed she still possessed, considering that she had drunk a vast quantity of gin. Richard picked up the bottle, which stood on the coffee table in front of her. It was empty. A glass smeared with lipstick and greasy finger-marks was on the floor near her feet. He rescued it, wondering if she had been swallowing pills as well as alcohol.

  Verity had wound herself up again.

  ‘And now you’re going to hit me! I knew you would. See, Justin – he’s got the weapon ready – he’ll hit me with that bottle,’ she cried. She was standing now, jutting her hips forward at him, her small, sagging breasts loose beneath her sweater, which was spotted with stains.

  Before he could reply, she flew at him, scratching his face while he was powerless, glass in one hand and bottle in the other, to prevent her.

  ‘Mum, don’t,’ said Justin, ineffectively. ‘Mum, give him a chance.’ He caught her arm, but Verity threw it off as if he had no more strength than a baby.

  Richard dropped the bottle and the glass and seized her upper arms.

  ‘Stop it, Verity,’ he said. He shook her, not hard, longing to slap her but aware that she scarcely knew what she was saying. ‘Terry’s missing. He’ll be found. What use will you be to him in this state? Pull yourself together.’

  She was beyond doing that. Suddenly, mercifully, she swayed where she stood, rolled up her eyes and passed out. Richard caught her as she fell. He laid her on the sofa.

  Justin looked at him and shrugged.

  ‘She never drank before she married you,’ he said, and slouched out of the room.

  Richard picked up the bottle and the glass again, and took them out to the kitchen. Then he went upstairs and fetched a duvet, which he spread over Verity. After that, he made another trip to get a towel, which he put beneath her face. He turned her on her side, to prevent her choking if she vomited.

  He could do no more. He went upstairs to bed where, in unaccustomed solitude, knowing that Verity would not be capable of another outburst for several hours at least, he read for a while. Lately, on the train, he had been reading Trollope, and he had just begun The Small House at Allington. It was a soothing read, and, not a witty man himself, he appreciated humour in others.

  The whole household was asleep when Terry, cold and exhausted, unaware that he was the subject of a major police operation which was focused on his safety, not his punishment, got out of Richard’s car in which he had been hiding until the fuss died down, and let himself quietly into the house, using the emergency key, which was kept in a tin on a high shelf in the garage among jars holding paintbrushes and cans of paint.

  He went up to his room, undressed, and climbed into bed, pulling his duvet, which was covered with vivid prints of dinosaurs, over him, and was soon asleep.

  Richard woke up in the small hours. Going to bed alone, knowing he was safe from persecution, had been such a treat. Usually he tried to time things so that Verity was already in bed or had embarked on a studio session of either painting or drink, or both, so that he could feign sleep when she came to bed, but often she would wake him, seeking an audience for whatever was her current mood. Now, roused by a feeling of unease, he remembered that she had passed out downstairs and he had left her on the sofa. Was she all right?

  Part of him did not care a jot; however, habit and prudence told him he must find out.

  He got out of bed, shrugged his arms into his green towelling robe and went quietly downstairs, anxious not to wake Justin, who had had a bad time with his mother the previous evening. If it was heartless to go to bed while Terry was missing, it was also sensible, Richard told himself: wakeful vigil would not bring the boy home. A long day lay ahead, for sure. He had appointments at the office, but could he, in conscience, abandon Verity in order to keep them? Perhaps he could get a friend to keep her company, he thought, padding down the stairs. But had she any friends? There had been a few, from time to time, but, one by one, they dropped her, worn out by her moods.

  She was just as he had left her, snoring a little now, her mouth half open, not attractive and not even pitiful, just a squalid sight. He tipped her further over on to her side; she did not stir.

  Once he had loved her, or thought he did. Once he had loved Karen, his first wife – and still did, in a sense, or, nostalgically, the idea he had of her.

  He glanced at Verity’s flushed face, streaked with sweat and tears. She looked ugly, yet a few years ago he had found her pallor – she was seldom pale now – and deep-set eyes, which looked as though they would soon brim with tears, appealing. He had longed to make her smile, but all too often she had wept and wailed. He had never seen her truly happy.

  I’ve failed her hopelessly, he thought, treading up the stairs again. I’ve failed to give her what she needed. It did not occur to him that Verity’s inability to experience pleasure was nourished by her desire to make others suffer.

  On the landing, he paused at Terry’s door, then opened it, his head full of unanswerable questions about the boy’s state of mind. Light shafted into the room and he could see the bed, the rumpled duvet, and, incredibly, the dark hair above it. Blinking, sure that he must be imagining it, Richard went into the room and laid a hand on the firm outline in the bed.

  It was no mirage. Terry was back.

  Richard did not wake him to demand an explanation. That would mean dealing with what must follow – telling Verity and informing the police. Apart from patrols keeping an eye out for him, there would be no real search until daylight. It would be time enough to discover that Terry had returned in the morning. Richard went back to bed.

  At six o’clock, his normal time, Richard woke again. It was still dark outside. He stretched, remembering that he was alone: there was no risk of accidentally touching Verity. Every night he set the alarm, but every morning he woke before it buzzed at him, always determined that Verity should not be disturbed.

  He remembered childhood breakfasts – those before he went away to school, and later, in the holidays. His mother laid the table every evening after dinner. Cereal, marmalade and honey would be on the table with the blue and w
hite striped Cornish crockery; butter would appear next morning, and she would fry or scramble eggs, cook bacon and tomatoes, or sausages – perhaps there would be fried potatoes. No one worried about cholesterol then, and, he thought, people were much happier. Every day his father went to the office – on the train, just as Richard did now – with a good hot meal inside him. Now, Richard would have two Weetabix with milk and a mug of Gold Blend, while the boys swallowed fruit juice and whatever cereal was their current favourite. That had to last them until their midday meal at school, which might be good and nourishing, but might, according to their choice, be neither.

  If Verity had put eggs and bacon before him, Richard knew he would consume them and would not be pining for coffee as soon as he reached the office, nor ready for his lunchtime sandwich long before one o’clock. There had been a time when he went to a pub in his lunch hour, and drank a pint of beer, which staved off his hunger, but he had begun to put on weight and, with Verity already drinking too much, he saw danger ahead. He had cut out drinking except with Caroline, and an occasional half pint in the evening at the station if he reached it with enough time before his train.

  There were other men who did this, some knocking back double gins or whisky. He saw familiar faces at the bar and would nod to them, perhaps exchange small talk with a few regulars. He wondered if any of them were eager to get home. He saw men buying flowers from the station shop; were these peace offerings or spontaneous tributes? Who could tell? He’d bought flowers too, often enough, hoping to win Verity round from sulks to smiles. It was the same motivation that led him to buy her expensive presents: a brooch, a ring, even an exercise bicycle when she decided, rightly, that she was unfit. She soon abandoned it. He used it now.