The Kindest Thing

by Cath Staincliffe

  Things weren’t up to scratch for a long time but I’d seen my brother successfully use the excuse of incompetence to get away with doing nothing in the house so that wouldn’t wash. We taught each other and weathered the ridicule of friends and family: You the one wearing the apron, Neil?

  He became competent at cooking and cleaning and laundry. No more than that, but no more was expected. And I became a dab hand at DIY.

  Chapter Two

  The prison van comes for us at eight in the morning. We’ve eaten breakfast and are waiting in the reception area near the main exit. Four of us. A couple of the girls, who don’t look much older than Sophie, are smoking and laughing, their nerves making them talk quickly. The other woman is silent. She wears Asian dress, a salwar kameez in a pale green. There’s grey in her hair. I wonder what she’s charged with.

  The van is the sort you’ve seen countless times on television. Rectangular and white with the row of distinctive small windows. Any high-profile case and the news shows the van swinging towards the court and photographers running along, arms upstretched, cameras held to the windows, hoping for that lucky snap. I wonder whether anyone will greet my arrival. It’s likely. The case, the ins and outs and the moral twists, have fed the papers and the discussion programmes for weeks. It appears mine is a cause célèbre. Not what we intended at all.

  We climb into the van up metal steps located just behind the driver’s cabin. The narrow corridor is lined with doors, a little cubicle each. Bare metal walls, a reinforced galvanized-mesh seat. The guard sends me into the first and locks me in. It is April and all I can see out of the little glass window is bleak grey sky. Nine months I’ve been in prison.

  The journey takes about twenty minutes. Styal is a few miles south of the city centre. Before all this, it was somewhere we came walking, a place with woods and a river, an old mill and tea rooms. Where the kids played Pooh-sticks and Adam got stuck on a tree over the river and had to be rescued. Where Sophie got stung by a wasp and her ear puffed up and we worried it was an allergic reaction. The prison is less than a mile away from the country park.

  Will they be there? Sophie? Adam? At Adam’s last visit, I told him it didn’t matter. That it would be horrible for all of us and I’d understand if he stayed away. I haven’t seen Sophie. She’s staying with Michael and Veronica.

  Adam’s looking after our house. That might be too strong a phrase. I expect he’s treating it with benign neglect at best. If he’s off the rails again, who knows? He might have trashed the place and sold the lead from the roof.

  When I was first arrested Jane asked Adam if he wanted to move in with her. There’s a box room in her flat he could squeeze into but he was happier at home. I asked him, too, just in case he was acting out of misplaced politeness. But he was quite clear: ‘Jane’s great, but move in? No way. I couldn’t relax, you know?’

  I nodded, picturing Adam sprawled on the couch, a game on the screen, dirty plates and discarded items of clothing strewn about. I’m glad he’s comfortable at home, that there’s some remnant of our family still there, that the house is not deserted. Jane keeps in touch with him; he can call her if need be. Adam likes Jane. I love her. She has been a constant for me, from those undergraduate days till now. A fast friend, someone I’ve shared my life with.

  The vehicle speeds up and there are shouts outside, then a hard thump on the side. For me? For one of the others? Then we swing to the left and the van slows, the engine stops. We must be at the court. A ripple of panic courses through me. My skin chills but blood runs hot in my limbs. There’s a rushing noise in my ears. The guard unlocks the door and leads us down the steps and into the holding area beneath the courts.

  I don’t want to be here. Anywhere else but here.

  The summer of my graduation we went island-hopping in Greece. I’d studied photography at uni but, as the course went on, found myself less and less interested in the act of taking photographs and more and more fascinated with creating material to photograph. Concentrating on still life and found objects, I would spend weeks building up an environment or a collection of items or a scenario complete with figures, maybe a sense of narrative. The photographs became a way of documenting the creative process. Drawn to different themes and cultures, I researched avidly, reading everything I could find on Mexican and Aztec culture for a project entitled ‘Day of the Dead’ or experimenting with early dyeing techniques for a photo-essay on colour. Using my own urine to set dyes was one of the more scandalous elements of my second-year project.

  Graduating with a 2:2, I knew I didn’t want to work as a photographer. Perhaps I should have considered animation, though my drawing skills were average at best, or becoming a stylist, but at the start of the eighties there were precious few jobs for arts graduates.

  Neil, who’d finished a year ahead of me, had gone on to do a teacher-training course. Jobs in history weren’t ten a penny either. By rights he should have started a teaching job that September. But I’d talked him into our Greek trip. We both worked for a temp agency through July and August to raise the money, then had two months away.

  We arrived in Athens in the middle of the night. The air was hot and full of dust, which left our skin feeling gritty.

  There was no bus to the port at Piraeus till dawn so we sat in the scrub on the airport approach road waiting for sunrise. At one point a car drew up, airport security, and a man in a crisp uniform and peaked cap harangued us until we got up and dragged our rucksacks back to the building. There was nowhere to sit and nothing to eat or drink.

  When the bus came we repeated the word ‘Piraeus’ to the driver, who took some drachmas and motioned us down the aisle. The front windows were framed with coloured fringing and sprigs of plastic flowers. Central on the dashboard stood a large plastic glow-in-the-dark Madonna, and rosary beads dangled from the rear-view mirror.

  ‘My mother’d love it,’ Neil murmured.

  The bus juddered its way along winding roads and through the crowded jumble of the city, the muddle of apartments, small shops and businesses, to the port. When we got off, the place was quiet. Nothing open. I wondered where all the fishermen were. Hunger and lack of sleep were making me grumpy but then a corner shutter rose and a small, round, wrinkled man plonked a table and two chairs outside. We made our way over and stepped inside. There was a garish menu with photos of sickly-looking food. I pointed to a cheese roll, treacle cake, coffee. Neil nodded for the same. We ate outside at the rickety table and watched the gulls swerving down for debris on the quayside. The day was already warm and the food set me right. The sea was a pure deep blue and I took a long breath of air and watched Neil. Early on, I often feared he would leave me. That was what men did. I hid it well. He never realized. Of course, I imagined he’d betray me for another woman. Instead it was neurones crumbling and muscles wasting away that stole him from me.

  We were the only tourists on the ferry. Well off the package holiday routes, Syra was, according to the guidebook, a thriving ship-building island with a strong local economy and deserted beaches. It was also several hours on the boat from Piraeus. The Greeks on board were all laden with parcels and packages. Most of them wore black or black and white. They seemed curious about us, eyes sliding our way. As they chatted, I wondered if we were the subject of their conversation – the scruffy hippies with their backpacks.

  We set off with a clamour and the smell of diesel in the air. The engine clattered loudly and made it impossible to talk. But after an hour or so, the roaring noise cut out abruptly. One of the crew, a man with skin like an old satchel and grizzled hair, climbed down into the hatch. For several minutes he and the captain exchanged words. He emerged now and then to throw up his arms and grimace. One of the older women, dressed all in black, remonstrated with the captain.

  How long were we going to be stuck there? My dreams of lunch in some small taverna followed by a swim and sex in the shade of a beachside eucalyptus tree shrivelled as the minutes ticked by. The sun was high and fi
erce now. There was no land anywhere in sight, no rocks, no other vessels, no lighthouse or buoys.

  The crewman emerged, wiping oil from his hands onto a rag, and another noisy debate erupted with several of the passengers chipping in. After a few minutes of this the crewman spat over the side of the deck and lit a cigarette. The captain and a young lad, who I guessed was his son, began to lower a dinghy into the water. The crewman climbed into it and, after a few attempts, started the outboard motor. Most of the passengers retreated to the shade in the lounge area in the middle of the boat.

  ‘He’s going for help,’ I said to Neil. ‘Will he go to Piraeus?’

  ‘Think so – there’s nowhere nearer.’

  I sat back down and closed my eyes, my face tilted at the sun. I savoured the heat. I could feel myself sliding into sleep, but struggled awake, aware of the hard iron struts on the bench biting into the bones of my back. ‘I’m so tired,’ I murmured to Neil.

  ‘We could go over there.’ He gestured to a corner under the stairs. It was in the shade and dry. There’d just be room to lie down. We left our rucksacks where they were and moved over.

  We lay side by side, facing each other. The floor was hard; my hip bone soon ached. I used a hand to cushion my ear. ‘I wish I could teleport.’

  Neil smiled.

  ‘Click my fingers and we’d be in our room.’

  ‘With a very cold beer.’ His T-shirt was crumpled from the journey, his chin dusted with stubble.

  A picture of us making love formed in my mind: Neil prone on white sheets, me riding him, his gaze blurred with desire. ‘Touch me,’ I whispered.

  His eyes danced. He brought his face close to mine, I tilted my body towards him – I had my back to the few passengers on deck and hoped the run of the stairs and my position would shield them from seeing anything untoward.

  He touched my lips with his, moved his arm slowly, brushing my nipple with his knuckles. If anyone was peering at us they would surely see my buttocks tighten and my back stiffen. Neil responded to my intake of breath. He kissed me again and shifted, trailing his hand down my body till it rested between my legs. My cheesecloth skirt was flimsy, my underwear close-fitting and I could feel everything as he made tiny circling motions with his thumb. The proximity of other people gave an added edge to my excitement. After only seconds I came, the sweet release rippling down my thighs and up into my throat, flooding me with heat. I tensed my muscles hard so I wouldn’t flail about and managed not to cry out.

  Opening my eyes, I stared at Neil. His face was flushed and sultry. I ran my tongue between his lips while I felt for his crotch and found the smooth curve of his penis, thick against his jeans. He stayed my hand. ‘Later,’ he whispered. I smiled. And closed my eyes.

  The return of the dinghy woke me. I’d no idea how long I’d slept but my bum was numb and I’d pins and needles in my arm.

  Whatever spare part the man had brought back did the trick and we were soon roaring and clanking our way onwards. By the time the island came into view, night was falling and a warm breeze came up, riffling the water and whipping our hair about.

  The harbour was small. Coloured lights ran along the quayside in front of a row of tavernas. On dry land, we walked along the front, catching sight of shoals of fish close by, their scales flashing iridescent when the light spilled onto them. The smell of barbecued meat and fish and onions made my mouth water.

  At the end of the drag the road forked; the right-hand turning led uphill and the other circled the bay. A few streetlights illuminated the buildings, many with boards advertising rooms. We’d started along the beach road when a voice called to us; ‘Room? Room?’ The woman was a few doors down and beckoned us closer. We reached the whitewashed block as she laid down her hose. The place was festooned with geraniums in oil cans and she had been watering them, the aroma of damp earth and vegetation strong. I caught the whine of a mosquito close to my ear.

  The room was one of four on the first floor, overlooking the bay. With a location like that we’d have said yes to a cardboard box. It was clean and simple. Very simple. Bed, two rickety wooden chairs and a small table. A wardrobe that smelt of wax and contained heavy blankets. An ancient fridge, no fan, no kettle. Shower and toilet. Shuttered doors led on to the small balcony. We thanked the woman and asked the daily rate. It was reasonable. We asked her if she needed our passports and she shrugged. We weren’t going anywhere. ‘Kalispera.’ She left us and Neil shut the door. We grinned at each other in excitement and relief.

  The bed, in a dark wooden frame, squealed as I sat back on it and eased off my rucksack. I used the bathroom; the water stuttered out of the tap as though it hadn’t been used for a while. I’d caught the sun already, my nose and forehead bright. While Neil had a wash, I went out on to the balcony. The sea was close: I could hear the crashing sound of waves and just make out the water’s edge.

  Neil came out of the bathroom.

  ‘I’m ravenous,’ I told him, as I walked back in. He switched the light off. It was very dark. He cupped his hand round my neck and then walked me back until we reached the wall. The plaster was cool on my arms. His breathing, harsh and eager, mingled with the noise of the surf outside. He kissed me and then he fucked me, gripping the fabric of my skirt in bunches at my hips, his jeans puddled round his feet. I was ridiculously, sentimentally happy. I must remember this, I told myself, whatever happens. I must remember. He gasped when he came.

  ‘Now take me out and feed me,’ I whispered.

  ‘Okay.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘Then I’ll fuck you again.’

  ‘Promise?’

  My solicitor, Ms Gleason, is here. She reminds me what the procedure will be in court today, what is likely to happen. It’s hard to concentrate. Several times I find I’m agreeing with her and have no idea what she has been saying. It reminds me of a dream I have – they’re quite common, most people dream something similar. In my version I am on stage and the curtain is about to go up and I have forgotten to learn my lines. I don’t even know what the play is but I have a very big part and there is no time to find my script. It feels exactly like that as we wait for the usher to call us. And I know there’s no waking up from it.

  Chapter Three

  The weeks of our Greek idyll passed in a daze of cheap local wine, fresh food, hot sun and sex. We were both constantly aroused. I was on the pill so we had no need of condoms. Those happy days before AIDS came stalking.

  We travelled to Crete and went to Knossos, King Minos’s palace; Neil told me all about the legend of the Minotaur. The site was vast, impressive, but what captivated me was the frieze of the dolphins, the vibrant colour, the energy in it, and the mosaic floors made of thousands of tiny tesserae, I loved the sophistication and elegance of the images, the harmony of composition.

  We sailed to Rhodes, entering the harbour where the Colossus once stood. On the island of Kos we got the bus up to the Asclepeion, the first hospital in the world, built on wooded terraces. The place had an atmosphere of peace and tranquillity that not even the clusters of tourists could disrupt. Down in Kos town we sat beneath the plane tree where Hippocrates was said to have taught his principles of healing. Neil filled my head with stories of Greek gods and monsters and heroes. I came to share his fascination with the myths and legends.

  Between our excursions to ancient sites we would walk up into the hills where the air was thick with the scent of pine resin and sizzled with the chirrups of crickets and the hum of bees. He would put his hand round the nape of my neck, a gesture that had surprised me at first but by then had become familiar, comforting. He would catch my neck and pull me close for a kiss or hold me like that as we strolled along. I was a head shorter than him.

  ‘Deborah.’ He’d stop me, circle my waist with his arm and steer me to a tree, the place dappled with shade and insects flittering in the golden pools of light. To the sound of cowbells in the distance, he would make love to me. His passion for me, his appetite, fed mine and the lust showed
no signs of abating. On the beach, reading, swimming, roasting in the heat that softened my muscles and darkened my skin, my thoughts turned repeatedly to sex. Remembering what we had just done and what we might do next. Soon I would turn to him and whisper filthy words and sweet entreaties, teasing him until one or other of us caved in, stood, hand shading our eyes, and said, ‘Let’s go back for a bit.’

  Neil had been dead for sixteen days and we still hadn’t been able to make the funeral arrangements because the coroner’s office hadn’t released the body. The whole country baked in a heatwave. I barely slept, barely ate, close to nausea much of the time. But the warm nights meant I could roam about the house or my workshop and wait for sunrise. I’m an interior designer; my workshop is a converted double garage at the side of the garden. Most of the work I did myself: insulating the roof, dry-lining the walls and laying the floor, though I got contractors in to sort out the plumbing and electricity. I’ve a free-standing stove at one end that heats the place perfectly in winter.

  The part nearest to the drive is an office and meeting area. Clients occasionally come to the workshop to check me out or go over some ideas. The rest of the space is for practical work, drawing table and plans chest, a messy area where I can experiment with paint and other materials: cork, plastics, ceramics. There are shelves lined with reference books and folders stuffed full of research. Some of the books I’ve had since university; others I acquired for particular projects, like the huge volume of nursery rhymes that I return to again and again when I’m considering children’s rooms, or the Gardens of Egypt tome I’d bought when working for a couple who’d met at the Pyramids and wanted an outdoor room with the flavour of the Nile.