by Janet Davey
Vivienne sat down on a tapestry cushion and waited for everyone to arrive and settle. Jennifer Patterson carried on playing and Dawn sang quietly. She had now joined the circle on the floor. ‘When true simplicity is gained, to bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed. To turn, turn, will be our delight, till by turning, turning, we come out right.’ Hilly had left the door of the flat ajar so that people could walk in without using the doorbell. Shoes were left by the door. The tradition was that there were no greetings, though nearly all the women smiled as they entered. Eventually, when most of the cushions were occupied, Hilly shut the front door and sat down herself. Jennifer brought ‘Simple Gifts’ to a close. There was silence.
This was the part of the evening that Vivienne liked best, after the music had ended and before anyone spoke. The room and the candles and the faces arranged themselves in an impersonal pattern. There was a freedom in the moment that promised nothing. She was reluctant to disturb it; to unleash goodwill into the silence. Wasn’t there something coercive even about goodwill – the need to manipulate, to change? She let the minutes pass without any precise sense of time and, since no one fidgeted, for a little longer still. She heard the lift called to the next floor of the building and then descend. She opened the session with a short prayer and offered the meeting to Jesus.
They began with Becky, who had an eating disorder. She was the daughter of one of Hilly’s friends. Then Dawn’s parents, who had recently retired and were getting on each other’s nerves. Ross, who had the rare cancer, and his wife Julia. They progressed through illness, divorce, financial difficulties. There was an underside to life even for prosperous people. Some of the information given was quite specific and first names were used. Vivienne felt unsure about some of the petitions relating to third parties – whether they weren’t a betrayal of trust. She herself, at a previous meeting, had prayed for her next-door neighbour, Lynette, the one whose husband had left. Even as she had spoken she had regretted it. She had thought that she should have changed the name and some of the details but that had seemed wrong too – to give Jesus inaccurate data. Though, of course, He knew it all anyway. He knew everything.
Gaps eventually opened up between prayers. At this stage certain women spoke for the sake of speaking and it was better to call a halt before that happened. On the other hand there might be someone in the circle who had been summoning up the courage to give voice to a particular problem. Vivienne waited. In two days’ time she would be in Sussex. She hadn’t revisited the subject of Richard travelling down separately. His diary had accumulated even more dinners. He was out at one now. She thought of him, standing by the window during what she thought of as their quarrel after he had kept the girls waiting at the tennis club. She had tried to read his profile; the eye on the visible side of his face moving, scanning the sky – for what she didn’t know. A rescue helicopter, perhaps. Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. The advice seemed not to apply to her enquiries, or at least not to the finicky questions she had asked Richard. Vivienne was prepared to believe that other people managed things better. Paula, for instance, at that very moment returning from Normandy, would have known what to say to Hartley. She would have launched into the conversation in total confidence and in no time they would have been laughing together.
Vivienne cleared her throat. She had to recall all the people they had prayed for and name each one again. She decided that when she reached the end of the list, she would add Richard, out at his business dinner. It seemed to her that she hadn’t been quite fair to him, resenting that he hadn’t taken time off on Friday. She was lucky he was coming to Sussex at all. She felt renewed sympathy for Richard and suddenly – quite separate from the sympathy, sharply disconnected from it – a queasy feeling of love. The silence continued. Vivienne realised that she should speak, should probably have spoken some minutes earlier. She began the closing prayer, but something obstructed her train of thought. For the first time since she had been married, it occurred to her that Richard might not be where he said he was. As she said ‘Heavenly Father’, the words ‘business dinner’, which for her entire life she had regarded quite neutrally, stuck in her throat. Vivienne stopped in mid-sentence and swallowed hard. She saw Richard’s hands resting on a white tablecloth and another woman looking at them. She raised her head and glanced around the circle. She saw Bellsie opposite her, her billowing skirt spread round her, concealing the cushion. Her eyes were wide open, reflecting the candlelight and she was looking at Vivienne with compassion.
Hilly had laid on wine and a selection of carrots, crisps and celery to dip into hummus and taramasalata. She began to bring the dishes through to the living room. The group had resolved to keep the post-prayer catering simple. It was so easy for canapé-making to become competitive. Vivienne usually stayed to socialise but she made her excuses and said goodbye. She found her shoes in the hall and slipped her feet into them. The women were talking and laughing. She went out and shut the door behind her without calling goodbye again. In the lift, she took out her phone and checked her messages. There was one from Paula saying she and Hartley were having dinner at a château in the Pas de Calais. Vivienne erased the message and tried calling Richard but his phone was switched off.
Henka was reading a novel and eating an apple when Vivienne returned. The girl looked isolated, sitting alone on one of the bench seats, with a straight back. All the ceiling lights were on.
‘Henka, you should have made yourself comfortable in the sitting room. You don’t have to stay in the kitchen,’ Vivienne said.
‘Here it is more cosy,’ Henka said.
‘Is that a good book?’ Vivienne asked.
‘Yes. Very good. It is Polish. I may go now?’
‘Yes, of course you may, Henka. Did the girls get to bed all right?’
Henka was strict about bedtime. Eight o’clock sharp. The girls were tired after school. ‘No problem,’ Henka said. ‘Their homework is complete. It is on the kitchen table.’ She stood up and put on the thin jacket which had lain beside her, ready for wearing. ‘I will say goodbye then.’
‘Yes, thank you so much, Henka.’ Vivienne delved into her bag and took out her wallet. She paid Henka by cheque at the end of the month – babysitting was extra. She put a note in Henka’s hand and wished that there were a less obvious way of making the transaction. Henka looked at the note before placing it in her pocket. As if I might be cheating her, Vivienne thought sadly.
After Henka had left, Vivienne went into the study and switched on the radio – Play of the Month – but she wasn’t listening. Odd phrases slipped through her inattention – ‘You wore that dress when you were with my father in Capri, didn’t you?’ – but she failed to pick up the thread of the story. She went over to the desk and opened it. The contents were inert, conveying nothing, not even giving back to her an awareness of her own intentions. She picked up Richard’s wallet and took out the card printed with the feather. She turned it over, wrote down the telephone number on a scrap of paper and put the card back. It was best to do this thing quickly. Vivienne placed the wallet against her cheek. The deep red clematis was flowering, spilling out from its supporting wires; its blooms black against the edge of the window. Lynette’s boys were on the trampoline in the next-door garden. Vivienne heard the thuds and every few seconds the top of a head appeared over the fence. As she breathed in the smell of old coins and leather, she wished she had stayed in the kitchen . . . read a novel . . . eaten an apple.
7
ABE STRETCHED OUT on the swivel chair in his living room, with the portable electric fan whirring beside him. He tried to tune out the road and focus on the sounds that were coming through the landing window at the back of the house; neighbours’ televisions, children screaming and, eventually, the rush of a watering can being filled from the tap. A blackbird began to whistle, as if in response to the sprinkling of water on leaves, then a police siren started up and that was the end of t
he birdsong. The plant waterer was Kirsty. No one else in the terrace went in for suburban behaviour. The first thing she did on returning home was to open the back door and step outside. Abe had got into the habit of wandering down to talk to her on the evenings he was at home. At the sound of the watering he got up from the chair and looked around for his cigarettes. He picked up his keys and went down the stairs. The fan carried on running.
Luka was leaning against a post of the broken fence smoking a roll-up, holding it cautiously, as if it might fall apart. The sun had almost gone from the garden. There was a corner that was still lit up and glowing pink, but Luka was in the shade. He had no shirt on and the waistband of his jeans hung low on his belly, showing the sharp tops of his hip bones. Against the drone of the traffic, Abe could hear the outside tap running. Kirsty emerged from the side of the house, staggering, with a plastic can slopping with water, which she aimed towards a clump of grey-green leaves. She was wearing a T-shirt threaded with ribbon and a tiny, fragile-looking skirt. She ignored Abe standing in the doorway. The drops formed miniature pools in the creases of the leaves, then dripped on to the dry soil beneath the plants. As the can became lighter, she waved it around more freely, cascading an arc of water over random pots and wetting Luka’s feet. Luka shuffled. When the can was empty Kirsty went back into the alleyway. The tap was turned on again and this time Abe heard the force of the pent-up pressure as the water was released. He stepped forward and picked up a football that had landed on the paving and chucked it back over the fence, then he slid down on to the doorstep and put his face up to the sky. Unappetising smells of other people’s dinners drifted out of nearby windows.
‘Isn’t the garden wet enough?’ Abe asked when Kirsty reappeared with another brimming can of water.
‘No, it isn’t. What do you want?’ she said.
‘A cold beer would be good.’ Abe stretched out his legs, making himself comfortable.
‘Beer’s all gone,’ Kirsty said. She rained water down on her plants until the area of concrete between the house and the patchy grass was turning black and giving off a miasma like wet swimming kit. You could smell the chlorine in the London supply in hot weather.
‘Luka needs to get down to the off licence. Keep you stocked up,’ Abe said. He drew his left foot towards him and examined it, showing its grubby underside. He started to pick out pieces of stone and wet grass that had got stuck between his toes.
‘Why not you?’ Kirsty said. She pushed past Abe on the back step and went into the kitchen.
So far Luka hadn’t looked in Abe’s direction. Even talking about him failed to produce a response. Abe listened to the clatter of pans being put away, cupboard doors opening and shutting. Then, at last, a CD slotted into the machine, the volume turned up, the fridge door opened, the sound of a bottle placed on the table.
‘Do you need a hand, Kirstabel?’
‘No,’ she said.
Abe got up all the same and stood in the doorway. ‘I was only asking.’
Kirsty was unpacking the food she had bought from the supermarket and piling it up next to the wine bottle.
‘How are my fish?’ Abe went over to stick his finger in the water.
‘Rallying,’ she said.
Abe walked over to the cupboard and took out three glasses.
‘What are you doing, Abe?’
‘Getting some glasses out.’ He held one in one hand and two in the other.
Kirsty turned round and made a face at him. It was exclusively his and had simplified over the years. There had once been some variations and experimentations. Now, like an artist at the height of her powers, she had pared the ‘face’ down to one or two telling lines.
‘What’s that for?’ he said.
‘Please, Abe, just go away.’
‘Go away?’
Kirsty was taking a tray of chicken pieces out of the bag. She made various decent chicken dishes. Her telephone rang. She picked it up, tucked it to her ear with one hand and carried on unpacking with the other. After listening for a few seconds she said, ‘No, sorry . . . Sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about. I think you’ve got the wrong number.’ She put the phone down.
‘Who was that?’ Abe said.
‘Someone called Vivienne.’
‘Did she want Neil?’
‘No. She said she wanted Richard Epworth.’
‘Richard Epworth,’ Abe repeated. The name seemed familiar. He looked hopefully at the shopping as it emerged, anticipating the wish list of ingredients. So far, no lime or coriander. But there were other promising things. He remembered who Richard was. ‘Ah,’ he said, before he could stop himself.
Kirsty was on to him straight away. ‘That means something to you, does it, Abe?’ She stared at him. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Don’t worry. Forget about it.’
‘So who is Richard Epworth?’ Kirsty asked, separating the names for emphasis. She stopped, poised with a packet of pitta bread in her hand. ‘Abe?’
He looked exaggeratedly blank.
Kirsty’s memory clocked in. ‘Is he the man you went home with in the taxi?’
‘Any particular one you have in mind?’
‘Abe. How did this woman, Vivienne, get hold of my number?’
Abe shrugged his shoulders.
‘Who is she?’ Kirsty persisted.
‘A wife, perhaps.’ Abe laughed. ‘Or a sister.’
Suddenly Kirsty went into reverse. She stuffed the packet of pitta bread and the tray of chicken back into the bag, then the carton of milk, the cucumber and the tub of plain yoghurt. She crammed them all into the bag and tied it in a tight knot at the top.
‘You’ll need scissors for that now,’ Abe said.
Kirsty went to the fridge, opened the door and forced the bag inside. ‘Go away, Abe. Please. Just go.’
Abe stood looking at Kirsty, puzzled. Then, as her mood seemed fixed, he left the room and went upstairs.
In the upper part of the house the air had cooled a little. Abe leant out of the open window to smoke. He looked out at the rooftops opposite and listened to the passing traffic. Vivienne, he thought. He had forgotten that name. She had been skiing and must have been back for months. He remembered a photo of the daughters – the masks and Hallowe’en hats – but he had no picture of their mother. If any had been on display he couldn’t recall one. Richard’s wife had rung up Kirsty. How bizarre was that! He gave a single shout of laughter before taking another drag on his cigarette. Of course, since it was Kirsty’s number he had given Richard, that wasn’t totally remarkable, but the mini-conversation between the two women still struck him as incongruous. If he hadn’t been with Kirsty when Vivienne called, he might never have known about it. He felt, for a moment, disconcerted at the thought of the odd conjunctions and coincidences that happened without his being there. Perhaps that was the essence of a coincidence, that someone in the know was there to take notice. A bus stopped in front of the house. Abe scanned the top deck. Nearly all the seats were occupied. Several people stared back at him. He half expected another example of synchronism but he didn’t recognise any of the gawping faces. It was only when the road was clear again that it crossed his mind that something must have happened in the Epworth household to cause Richard’s wife to ring the number. Without coming up with any specific scenarios, he wondered for the first time if there had been repercussions from his January trip.
8
AS SOON AS Abe had left the room and was out of earshot, Kirsty picked up her phone. She found the number of the previous dialler and called back. The woman who replied was hesitant. She said she was Vivienne Epworth. She confirmed that she had rung a few minutes ago. Kirsty placed one bare foot on top of the other. ‘I think you need my brother, Abe Rivers,’ she said. ‘He’s not here now. I’ll tell you where he’ll be tomorrow, though.’ She gave her Abe’s mobile number and the name and address of Karumi, the sports injury treatment centre in Shoreditch.
After the call, Luka
came in from the garden. He showed no curiosity about whom Kirsty had been speaking to, though her voice had been audible through the open door. She switched off the phone. Luka went across to the small canvas rucksack that he carried around with him. It was hanging over a chair. ‘I’ve bought you a horse. Do you want to see it?’ he said. So far he hadn’t paid for anything, apart from six cans of ginger beer and a packet of economy bacon. Luka put his hand in the rucksack and took out a tiny black-and-white object tufted with yellow hair. He was turning a key on the toy’s underside and placing it on the table. The mechanical horse stuttered a few centimetres and stopped. Its mane covered its face and its tail stuck out like a brush. ‘It was working before,’ Luka said.
‘Let’s go and sit upstairs. I’m fed up with being down here,’ Kirsty said. She was still furious with Abe. The woman’s polite tone and her own abrasive one echoed in her head.
‘Don’t we eat?’ Luka said. ‘No food?’
‘No food. I’ll bring the wine. You carry the glasses.’ Kirsty moved to the table and picked up the bottle, which had now lost its chill. She took her time opening it, turning the corkscrew slowly.
Kirsty went upstairs to the living room, carrying the bottle. She stood it on the mantelpiece and glanced at herself in the mirror above that hung from a huge iron nail. She remembered how she and Marlene used to sunbathe, splayed out on the sports field, their skirts hitched up and their school ties, worn like Alice bands, holding their hair back from their glowing faces. By the end of the summer term her hair and skin were only a subtle shade apart. Now she looked pale and her eyebrows were witchily fierce. She filled the two glasses and handed one to Luka. He was sitting on the floor nursing the toy horse.