I pretended not to hear. Of course, it was that girl who’d put them up to it. It was obvious.
The next day, I’d forgotten all about it. So when I discovered that I’d run out of cat food for Bathsheba, I quite looked forward to my trip into town. I smiled as I neared the park. It always did me good to hear them playing. But as soon as the children saw me, they stopped what they were doing and turned to face me. They didn’t say a word—they just stared. And of course, she was there, hands on her hips and a cruel smile on her lips.
I just kept walking. But I hadn’t gone far before the shouting started. “Witch!” they jeered. “Hag! Dirty old crone!”
Hot tears stung the corners of my eyes. How could they be so hurtful? But of course, I knew. They’d never have said those words if she hadn’t whispered them into their ears in the first place.
When I’d finished my errands, I caught the bus back. It meant I had to go rather out of my way to get home, but at least I didn’t have to walk past the park.
By the time Monday came around again, I’d convinced myself I’d been fussing over nothing. It was just a bit of silly teasing. It’s what children do. But they weren’t in the park. They were right outside my house. As soon as I opened the door, they started hissing and shouting. I slammed the door shut and stayed inside for the rest of the day.
***
Now they’re here again. And it just won’t do.
I take the polished wooden box from the drawer and set it down on the table by the window. The lid doesn’t make the slightest sound when I open it. The box is so beautifully made. Inside, the rag doll lies on a bed of crumpled tissue paper. I wrap my fingers gently around the doll and lift it up. I pause and peer through the lace curtains. And when I fix my eyes on that little callous madam, I pick up the needle, place it exactly where the doll’s heart would be, and I push hard.
A LONELY ROAD
Mary’s cottage stood on its own at the very end of the lane. Beyond it, an unbroken quilt of green fields spread out in all directions. No television or phone. Only the radio, an old friend that she kept tuned to a classical station. Mary’s eyes had always been weak, and as her sight faded and her world became a soft blur of shadowy shapes, she’d quickly learned to cope. Her peaceful solitude was almost perfect. Almost.
There was only one thing, one tiny irritation that spoiled her otherwise blissful tranquillity. The youth. She could hear him coming from half a mile away. Mary sometimes wondered at the power of his portable stereo. Surely it must weigh too much to carry around. The booming bass speakers certainly sounded heavy-duty to her ears. But every weekday, almost without fail, the youth announced his approach with an insistent rhythm—a repetitive cacophony of crashes and thuds. Mary was tempted to put her hands over her ears. But why should she? That would be giving in. Better to grit her teeth and wait for the so-called music to fade away over the fields.
Sometimes, when her patience wore thin, she’d mutter, “What are you doing out there every day?” After all, there was nothing out there but empty fields. Up to no good, Mary generally concluded. There was no doubt about it.
Every Friday, Mary walks to the village shops, and this Friday, as she puts on her coat and scarf and finds her stick, the wind is whistling in the chimney, so she hunts out her wool hat and warm gloves. Bad weather does not deter her, and there’s always something faintly adventurous about walking through a wild wind—something thrilling. She smiles as she lets herself out the front door. A deep breath. Yes. There’s a tang of autumn leaves in the air. A hint of wood smoke. Delicious.
Mary closes the garden gate behind her and sets off along the lane, battling against the wind. Her empty shopping bag fills with turbulent air, tugs against her arm and threatens to fly away. Mary grips the handles tighter and carries on, head down. The icy wind stings the skin of her cheeks and finds the tiny gaps between the collar of her coat and her scarf. The shop will be warm, she thinks, and hurries along the lane as fast as she can, beating out a rhythm with her stick, secure in the knowledge that she knows every dip, every crack in the tarmac.
Usually, as she rounded the corner where the lane led onto the main road, Mary slowed down and took her time. But today is not a day for dawdling—that autumn crispness is nipping away at her cheeks, fingers, toes. Mary presses on, the wind at her back now, flapping at the hem of her coat, urging her forward. All right, all right, Mary thinks, I’ll get there soon enough. She is ready for anything.
But she isn’t prepared for the cracked paving slab, broken only that morning by a thoughtless driver and an eighteen-ton delivery truck. Suddenly, her right foot finds only thin air instead of solid ground, and then it’s too late. Mary misses her step, her shoe slips against the uneven slab, and her weight comes down awkwardly, twisting her ankle. A white-hot jolt of pain shoots through her leg and she feels her ankle turn and give way. Mary flails her arms to keep her balance, dropping her bag and stick. She lets a hiss of air escape from between her teeth, and that’s as close to an outburst as she gets.
At least I didn’t fall, she thinks. She’d saved herself from that indignity. But what now? Mary tries to put weight on her right foot, but her ankle has other ideas. I need a little rest, she thinks. I need to get my breath back. Yes. A moment to pull herself together and then she’ll be all right. She’ll pick up her things in a minute, when she’s got her strength back.
Limping, Mary crosses to the garden wall that borders the path and leans against it. Just half a minute, she thinks. That’s all I need, and then I’ll be right as rain.
Mary takes a breath and feels it shaking in her chest. Don’t you cry, she thinks. Don’t you dare. But then something grabs her attention: an echo carried by the wind. She listens, but she already knows that sound all too well. It’s unmistakable. The youth.
And he’s coming closer. The hideous booming music grows louder and louder. Mary pulls herself up to her full height as best she can without putting weight on her injured foot. She purses her lips. He’ll pass her by; there’s no reason for him to do otherwise.
The music is unbearable now, almost deafening. And it stops. Suddenly there is no sound but the wind in her ears and the grating of hesitant footsteps against the paving. Mary juts her chin forward, presses her hand against the coat pocket that holds her purse, and waits for the inevitable.
But when the youth speaks, his voice is soft, nervous. “Here,” he says, “you’ve dropped your stick.”
And Mary feels the handle of her white stick pressed gently against her gloved hand. She wraps her fingers around it. She clears her throat. “Thank you.”
“You know, there’s a loop, to put on your wrist. So you don’t drop it.”
“Yes,” Mary says. “It doesn’t fit well over my gloves.”
“Right. Maybe put it on first yeah?”
Mary forces a thin smile. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
A pause. “Is that your bag over there?”
“Yes,” Mary says. “Probably.”
“Hang on.”
The footsteps recede and Mary breathes a sigh of relief. He won’t be back. It’ll be too much bother for him. She’ll find her bag by herself. Somehow. But within seconds, the footsteps return.
“It’s a bit muddy,” he says.
Mary reaches out and sure enough, her bag is being held out to her. “Thank you,” she says. What else is there to say? “Very kind.”
The youth sniffs loudly. “That’s all right.”
Mary tilts her head to one side. What is he waiting for—a reward?
“So,” the youth says, “are you... you know, all right?”
“Yes thank you,” Mary says. But then she hesitates. It had been a genuine question. She’d heard the concern in his tone of voice. “At least... I think so.” She transfers some weight to her right foot and winces.
“No you’re not,” he says. “Here—take my arm.”
She feels him standing next to her. Too close. “No,” she says, more sharply
than she meant to. “Thank you for your help, but I’m fine.”
She hears him step back. “Suit yourself,” he says. And then the music blares again, and he is gone.
Mary waits for a minute or two, catching her breath. I’m all right, she tells herself. No harm done. She tries her foot again, and this time, with the aid of her stick, she feels strong enough to carry on. It isn’t far to the village shop. She’ll be fine.
***
On the way home, Mary takes it slower than usual, even allowing herself a couple of short rests. She’s especially cautious when she approaches the place where she’d slipped, tapping around the broken slab with her white stick, committing the feel of it to memory.
Safely back at the end of the lane, she closes the garden gate behind her, takes a breath and allows herself a smile. Yes, her ankle aches, but she’s done it. She’s overcome adversity. As always.
And she’s learned something. She shouldn’t be so quick to judge others. I’ve been on my own too long, she thinks. I’m too set in my ways. She’s always thought of herself as a kind person. Generous even. And now she’s shocked at how readily she’d dismissed the young man and doubted his motives. I should try harder, she thinks. People can be very kind. Perhaps, there was, as people often said, a bit of good in everyone.
Mary is lost in thought as she makes her way along the path to her front door. Automatically, she reaches into her bag and feels for the zippered compartment where she keeps her keys. That’s odd. She tries the other side, digging through the contents of her bag. Were the keys hiding among her shopping? Did they slip out when she’d dropped her bag? No. She’d fastened the zip securely. And her key fob was large and easy to find. She’d know if it was there.
Mary steps forward and reaches out toward her front door. Of course it’s hanging open. Of course it is.
And in the distance, across the fields, she hears the faint, mocking echo of loud music.
FOCUS
For Gary, Sunday evening meant meditation. It wasn’t his age. Definitely not. It was just that, by the time Sunday rolled around, he needed to recharge his batteries and empty his stress buckets. He needed to focus. It was all part of his preparation for work, for the creative challenges he faced every day. People didn’t realise just how stressful his job was. The problem was the word blogger. It made his profession sound like a hobby. He preferred to call himself a writer, but whenever he’d tried that job description out on other people, it backfired. People tended to assume he was a novelist, and then he had to explain what he really did while watching their eyes glaze over and their enthusiastic smiles slowly fade into expressions of complete disinterest. A couple of people had been rude enough to laugh in his face.
Even his friends tended to accuse him of spending all his time messing about on Facebook and watching YouTube. And that wasn’t true. It really wasn’t.
Sure, he did occasionally engage in those activities, but that was vital research. How could he comment on the state of society, how could he pick it apart and satirise it, if he wasn’t abreast of all the latest trends on social media? He couldn’t.
As he often said to his wife, Helena, social media wasn’t entertainment—it was a tool, a societal barometer. It was his window onto the world. And all that research took time. Time in which he needed to focus with a forensic level of precision. And for that, he needed to be in his study, away from Helena and the kids.
Saturday was Family Time. On Saturdays, he was at their disposal, their beck and call, from one o’clock until five. By then, he’d have missed four hours of tweets, posts and updates. And in the world of social media, four hours was a lifetime.
So naturally, on Sunday afternoons, after his lie-in and his run and his roast lunch, he had a lot of catching up to do. And then, in the evening, he’d retire to the attic room that he’d fitted out as his relaxation space.
And none of this was just a matter of routine. It had to be worked at, maintained. It was his Productivity Regime. And it was sacrosanct.
But on this Sunday, lunch was barely over before the Regime was threatened.
“Gary,” Helena said as she started clearing away the empty plates, “I was thinking about taking the kids up to the country park this afternoon. Do you feel like coming along—make it a family walk?”
Gary stared at her in silence. Was she serious? He looked at the kids’ faces. Johnny was beaming up at him as if he’d just been promised a trip to Disneyland, but Sarah, their oldest, was watching him with a sad frown. Smart kid, Gary thought. She was only eleven years old, but already she’d learned to manage her expectations. He looked back to his wife and shook his head. “You do know I can’t do that, don’t you?”
Helena stopped in her tracks and looked down at him. Her lips tightened. “You’ve forgotten haven’t you?”
“Forgotten what?”
Helena took a breath. “It’s the half-term holiday,” she said. “The kids don’t have school tomorrow. I’ve taken some days off work so we can do things as a family.”
“So?”
“So we might as well make the most of it. We can all go out this afternoon. Get some fresh air.”
Gary shook his head. “I have to do my research,” he said. “I mean, you wouldn’t expect a stock broker to buy shares without studying the markets, would you?”
“No,” Helena said. “But then a stockbroker might make lots of money.”
Gary tutted. He wouldn’t grace that snide remark with a reply.
“Go on, Dad,” Johnny said. “It’ll be fun. We could take my bike up on the bike trail. There’s some ramps and I’m getting really good at jumping over them now. It’ll be great.”
Gary glanced at his son. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to work today.”
Johnny’s face fell. “Aw, Dad,” he moaned.
“It’s all right, Johnny,” Helena said. She gave her son a warm smile. “We can still go. We can still take your bike.”
“Don’t patronise him,” Gary said. “He’s not a baby.” He turned to Johnny. “You understand, don’t you, Johnny?”
“No,” Johnny said. And he pushed his chair away from the table and stormed out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. Sarah didn’t say a word. She just stood up slowly and followed her brother, closing the door on her way out.
Gary sighed. “Now see that you’ve done.”
Helena placed her palm across her chest. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” Gary snapped. “How will they grow up to be independent if you keep inflicting your needy attitude on them?”
Helena ground her teeth together. “They’re kids,” she said. “They need their father. They need you to spend some time with them.”
Gary stood up. “I haven’t got time for this,” he said. “Enjoy your walk.” He turned away from his wife and marched out of the room before she could start an argument. Honestly, he thought, why doesn’t she try to understand? He shook his head as he let himself into his study. It’s almost as if she hasn’t read those parenting books I gave her.
He sat down at his desk. “That’s an idea,” he murmured. He nudged the mouse to wake his computer and opened his journaling app. Write articles on parenting, he typed. Yes. He’d be great at that. And he could turn it into a book. He smiled to himself. It wouldn’t even take very long.
Gary settled into his work, switching rapidly between his social media management apps and scrolling through the updates. “Wow,” he breathed. “This is gold dust.”
Gary clicked on link after link, scanning through the articles and comments and chuckling to himself. The fun had started in France and was rapidly developing into an interesting situation across the globe. Guillaume Bertrand, the French government’s foreign affairs spokesman, had been secretly recorded by an undercover tabloid journalist. In the recording, which was widely available online and remarkably clear, Bertrand made an astonishing number of lewd remarks about the President’s wife, Giselle Favager. Madame Favager was an attractive wom
an and the darling of the fashion world. She appeared regularly on the cover of glossy magazines and championed Paris fashion wherever she went. But Madame Favager was no mere mannequin, no glamorous trophy wife. When she’d found out that she was unable to have children, she’d talked about her feelings openly and done everything she could to break down taboos and stereotypes. She’d started a trust to fund research into infertility and attracted many wealthy investors. And then, when that was up and running, she’d thrown herself into charity work, striving tirelessly to support a charity that helped children with physical impairments across the world. As far as the international media were concerned, Madame Favager could do no wrong.
Now, here was Bertrand, daring to wonder what passions lay beneath her calm and poised exterior. On the recording he went into some detail about what he’d like to do to her. His sexual desire was inflamed, he said, by her deep, dark, exquisite eyes. He could think of little else. He was driven wild by the merest mention of her name.
And had Bertrand stopped talking at this point, he may have escaped with only a little damage to his reputation. This was France after all. But no. By this point, he was unstoppable, almost raving. The boundaries of good taste and decency meant nothing. He went on to make a number of unpleasant allusions to Madame Favager’s olive skin and dark lustrous hair. She must have, he’d said, a trace of the Middle East in her ancestry. But that was fine with him because it added a certain spice to her allure. And then, as if he hadn’t said enough already, Bertrand made a crude comparison between the First Lady of France and an Arabian racehorse. He went so far as to use the term “breeding stock”.
In the course of a few minutes, Bertrand had shown himself to be a vile racist and simultaneously offended every woman on the planet. There was an immediate storm of outrage online. But that was just the beginning. Bertrand had inflamed racial and religious tensions not only in France, but around the world. In towns and cities across France, protesters took to the streets. And it wasn’t just campaigners for racial equality who were angry. Thousands of women from all walks of life were determined to stand up and make their voices heard. Both types of protest attracted huge crowds of supporters. Others marched to demand social justice or to express their disgust with a political elite that had no knowledge of the ordinary people that they were elected to represent.
A Dark Assortment Page 3