The Mountain in My Shoe

by Louise Beech

  She realises how cold she is. The coat is no longer too heavy and the tips of her hands are blueish white. Her anticipated tears have proved too shy to show.

  She goes inside and puts Richard’s things on the coffee table to worry about later. There is a message on the machine – Anne’s tired voice lets her know Conor is fine and they are on their way home if she needs to get in touch. It’s ten-fifteen. Where has all the time gone?

  Bernadette picks up the phone and calls Anne’s house, imagines it disturbing the soft, safe calm there.

  When Anne answers Bernadette doesn’t know how to word it. Paul is dead? Richard is dead? Conor’s father is dead?

  ‘They found him,’ she finally says.

  ‘Oh goodness.’ Anne’s voice is joyful. ‘You must be so relieved.’

  Bernadette feels bad for accidentally misleading her friend. ‘No, they found his body.’

  Anne doesn’t speak for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. Oh goodness, so sorry.’

  ‘I just identified him.’

  ‘On your own? Oh Bernadette, I’d have come.’

  ‘No, Conor needs you there,’ insists Bernadette. ‘I did what I had to; it’s all recorded, official and everything.’

  ‘Oh goodness,’ says Anne. ‘Shall I come now?’

  Bernadette shakes her head even though she knows Anne won’t see. ‘We have to tell Conor … I should help you.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ says Anne. ‘You must look after yourself. Have you eaten? Slept? Is there anyone I can call?’

  ‘I couldn’t eat if I wanted to,’ says Bernadette. ‘I’ll call my parents soon. Can I see Conor later?’ She doesn’t tell Anne Richard’s final intentions; she couldn’t voice it if she wanted to. But seeing Conor will erase the darkest lines of this ghastly day.

  ‘Of course. Promise me you’ll eat first? Lie down even if you can’t sleep.’

  Bernadette promises, knowing she probably won’t.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ says Anne.

  ‘There isn’t much to say, but it means everything to me that you tried.’

  Bernadette hangs up after Anne says she’ll go and tell Conor now. She turns and looks at the creased drawing of Richard, his damp wallet and the locket, all next to Conor’s Lifebook and Ruth’s empty glass on the coffee table; frozen in time, as if they’re waiting to be photographed as evidence.

  She sits in front of them but can’t bring herself to look at the locket again. Should she stick the drawing inside the Lifebook? Should she write something now on a fresh page for Conor? It will be good to have purpose, something to do with her hands.

  Bernadette makes a strong tea and places it beside the glass on the coffee table. Steam rises, somehow comforting. Autumn sun filters through the window. Though it lets in light, Bernadette is still cold, still feels like she could float above the sofa, the table, the pictures, the locket.

  Now is the perfect time to write in the Lifebook. Everything has just happened. That’s what social worker Yvonne suggested when filling it in: it’s best to write up what you’ve done with Conor right after you get home.

  But what on earth should she write?

  She looks for a pen in Richard’s desk, ignoring the familiar aroma of his half-empty aftershave bottle. Then, feet tucked beneath her on the sofa, she opens the book like a child might before bed. Writing in it might help her sleep.

  She flicks through the pages; they crinkle like old parchment paper under the weight of all the handwriting and stuck-in notes. She finds a new page and pauses there. Sometimes it helps to read previous entries, as you might reread the lines of a book’s last chapter to remind yourself where you’re up to.

  So she does.

  Bernadette finds a letter three pages long. An entry that wasn’t there the last time she looked. Why is it familiar even though she’s never seen it before? The writing is tall and angular with no dots over the i’s. She knows it. She looks at the date – last night.

  Where was the book last night?

  With Richard.

  The entry is his. Bernadette shuts the book again. It’s Conor’s and surely he should read whatever Richard has written for him first. But she can’t wait. She has to know Richard’s last words. What if they were intended for her too? Doesn’t she as his wife have the right? Isn’t she, as his widow, having discovered he’d cheated on her for three years and threatened to kill her if she ever left him, allowed to read his final thoughts?

  She finds the page again and reads.

  When she is done the reluctant tears finally arrive.

  56

  The Book

  19th September 2012

  Dear Conor,

  I hardly know where to start as my life has changed in the space of twenty-four hours.

  I haven’t met you but I feel like I know you. It seems like I’ve been reading this book for days but I’ve just been sitting here for an hour or two.

  I found it by accident yesterday. I was looking for our wedding album, which is also yellow, and found this instead. I read a few pages but had to put it away when Bernadette got out of the bath. I know from her entries that you know Bernadette. I’m stunned that I didn’t know about her relationship with you. It seems I don’t know her at all.

  But I was even more shocked to learn about my relationship to you because I didn’t know you existed. Sorry if I’m rambling. I’m sitting here in the semi-darkness while Bernadette is sleeping, digesting all the pages. I’ve read over and over the part where I realised who you are to me. A son. I keep looking at the letter your mum wrote to you in 2004. You may not have read it because I don’t know if you’ve seen this book. Your first social worker, Jim Rogers, didn’t seem to think you’d get it until you reach eighteen.

  There’s a note stuck in that you wrote when you were eight. I’ve just looked at it now. The writing is so similar to mine at that age. I wonder how else we are similar.

  In case I’m not around when you grow up – which I fear I might not be – I want to write some things down, so you know me a bit. I’m trying to understand this huge coincidence whereby Bernadette has known you for five years, but I haven’t had a clue. She won’t have known you were my son. There isn’t anything that would have told her. She doesn’t know I knew Frances.

  The part in your book where I realised you were mine was in Frances’ first letter to you. She said we walked by the water and talked about The Blues Brothers film. Her photo confirmed it all. I don’t know what Bernadette might have told you about me. I understand from her entries that there are boundaries she must obey when with you and this includes not talking about her own life.

  Things have been difficult sometimes in our marriage. I imagine some might think I’ve been unkind to her. But I love Bernadette very much. Some might call it old-fashioned how Bernadette loves being at home and looking after my needs while I go out and earn the money. We will never be parted.

  Frances and I only knew each other a short while. My time with her began a curiosity with women who work nights. I’d hear my mother’s voice say, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Frances kept me company when I was new to Hull, after moving from Islington. She comes from a tough family, but there was something about her that made me want to rescue her. That’s my weakness. I want to rescue such women. They have lost God and themselves. I like to try and help them see how they might find it all again.

  Frances was in the Minerva pub, an old place on the Marina. I was meeting a man about a flat and he didn’t turn up. Frances came and chatted to me. I don’t like pushy women, but she had a very sincere way about her. When I realised what she did to earn money I was surprised. Jesus forgave such a woman once.

  I didn’t give her my real name. I panicked, regretted within hours giving a false one but couldn’t then retract it. I felt it might be better that I was a stranger. We met at the Minerva a few times. I’d finish work and she’d be starting. She wanted a man that would make it all better. I knew that wasn’t me
and I didn’t mislead her, but I think she hoped I would be.

  I walked away after a week. It was because she told me she’d had a baby (Sam) four months earlier. She didn’t look after him because of her issues. As a boy who had an absent father, this angered me. We argued and I left. I’ve thought about her sometimes, wondered what she’s done with her life.

  When I read about you being bullied at school I was angry. I felt alienated at school too. I always had my hair cut differently to the other boys and wore cheap clothes. It wasn’t my mother’s fault that she had little money. I got picked on for going to church and because we said prayers before our tea. But she loved me and just did her best. She’s dead now and I miss her.

  I’m angry too that I’ve missed out on knowing you. My father left my mother when she was pregnant. He had a wealthy family that owned land and big electrical companies. My father was training to be a psychiatrist and they expected him to marry someone from a good family. So when he met my mum they were disappointed because she was from a poor Catholic family. Apparently my father loved her and they were going to elope. Then she found out she was pregnant. At first he was delighted.

  But his family hounded him. They threatened never to speak to him again. He chose his own family, even though the baby growing inside my mum was also his family. My mum was alone at six months pregnant. Her family weren’t happy either, so she was left with just a baby and God. In some ways God was my dad when I grew up. He was the only other man in the house.

  I’m thinking what I should do. I’d like to meet you. It says where you go to school and where you live. I should be the one to tell you who I am. I always longed for a son and to be the kind of father mine never was. I hope I can do that before.

  I hope I can do that.

  Your Dad.

  57

  Conor

  This doesn’t feel like when my brother George died.

  I think it should feel the same cos I only seen George twice, just an hour each time. I didn’t know him much – and I didn’t know Paul much neither. My dad I mean. Still hard to call him that.

  But Dad Paul (that’s the best name I reckon) did come and lie on my hospital bed for a bit, all wet. So I saw him twice too. I think it’s more about what you do with your time than how much time there is. Like with my mum there’s always someone else so our time is shared. With Dad Paul it was just us two for our bit of time. That’s when people are their proper own selves.

  It feels like someone is standing on my chest in them big workman boots.

  It feels like when Shana died. Shana was a dog at Georgina’s. I loved being at Georgina’s cos I met Mark there. I miss Mark. I took Shana for a walk when I was real grumpy and wasn’t concentrating proper and she got off her lead and went on the road. This black car hit her and there was this horrible yelpy sound and Shana’s legs were mushy red and I was sick. They all hated me for that. Mark said he didn’t but I know he did. I never went back there.

  I hated me too.

  I didn’t cry when Anne told me Dad Paul is dead. I’m not a baby now. She came off the phone and got me to sit next to her and put her arm around me and so I knew it was something crap. Like when she hugged me and said George wasn’t with us no more. She said it’s okay to be sad cos everyone gets sad. I know that. I’m not a twat. She was being nice but adults talk shit sometimes.

  I wanted to know the proper stuff. Like how did he die and what did he look like and did it hurt lots. Anne didn’t know all the answers and she just said he had drowned and only Bernadette had seen the body. I know she’ll tell me what I want to know cos she doesn’t talk to me like other adults. So I pushed Anne off me and told her I wanted Bernadette.

  Now I feel bad about that.

  Anne’s downstairs on the phone to someone and her voice is wobbling. I’m up here with my bed against the door. Don’t want no one. Don’t need supervision. She tried to come in. Said she’d leave a cup of tea and some cake outside the door but I’m not stupid, it’s just to get me to open it. So I didn’t. Not hungry. My belly’s churning loads, like a washing machine.

  Today started so good too. I always get happy too quick. Won’t next time.

  Right after I won a big prize George died.

  Should have known.

  Anne’s outside my bedroom door again.

  Conor, just let me in, she’s saying. I’m really worried about you.

  I tell her she doesn’t need to worry. I will come out tomorrow. On TV they always talk about how they need space and that’s what I want. There’s lots of it in my bedroom.

  I hear her go back downstairs. Maybe it’s not so good being on your own with your space. I don’t like hearing the watery sound in my ears. Maybe the river is still stuck in there. I don’t like how loud my Muhammad Ali alarm clock is ticking either. Someone turned it up to annoy me. I don’t like how small I feel when I sit on the bed or how high the ceiling is.

  I wonder how Bernadette feels. She knows Dad Paul too. I think Anne said his name is Richard to her. She must be sad. She must be in her haunted house, behind the trees, all sad.

  It’s my fault. He went in the water cos of me. Just like Shana died cos I let go of her lead. Bernadette might not want to see me again. She might hate me too. Bet she tells them volunteer idiots that she wants to cancel me. I’m not bothered. I’m not. I’ll be eleven soon and won’t need her. Won’t need any of them soon. They can all fuck off with their boundaries and supervision and reports.

  I’ll move to Bournemouth with Sophie.

  But it hurts. My chest hurts so bad. Reckon I’m having one of those heart attacks. I might have to open the door to be resuscitated.

  Anne’s back. Except it’s not her. It’s that social worker Yvonne. Don’t like her. She talks to me like she’s a teacher. Bet she’s got that folder with her. She always has it.

  She says, Conor, I know you’ve had some very sad news but we just need to know you’re okay.

  I tell her I’m just having a nap.

  I hear her and Anne talking quietly. Then Anne says, We don’t mind you sleeping a while but will you promise to come out when you wake up? I’ll make some lunch and you can have it when you’re ready.

  I tell them I might and they go back downstairs.

  I bet Yvonne is writing it all down. I bet I’ll have to go and see one of those head doctors again. Last time I made all sorts of stuff up. I didn’t go for long so I reckon they knew. But I don’t lie to Anne. Feel crap that I’m ignoring her now.

  I go in my desk and get out my biggest sketchpad. It’s as big as my desk. Got it off Anne’s daughter Rose for Easter instead of an egg. It’s lasted ages cos I only use it for my best pictures. I get out my pencils, proper art ones, all soft. Sometimes my fingers tingle just holding one. I only ever told Sophie that cos I reckon even the head doctors would laugh. I don’t always know what I’ll draw.

  All I know is that when I do it my heart jumps.

  So I pick up a pencil. It’s like the big workman boot lifts off my chest and I can breathe again. So I put the pen to the paper and wait with my eyes closed. I could draw in the dark. If I see it inside my head it goes on the paper.

  I smell something cooking but I don’t know what it is. Maybe noodles. I move the pen a bit. Always love the sound it makes. Not scratchy like Yvonne’s pen but kind of like how it sounds when Anne sweeps up in the garden. I only open my eyes to swap colours.

  Clock’s gone quiet now. Water in my ears has melted. The ceiling isn’t miles away anymore.

  When I’m done I look at the picture and start to cry. Not cos it’s crap but cos it’s so real. It doesn’t matter about crying cos no one knows I’m being a baby. I’ve drawn George and Shana and Dad Paul. Dad Paul has his arms around George and Shana is sitting next to them with her tongue out. They’re sitting on a rock near the river. The water’s blue like it’s got Anne’s bubble bath in it. And it’s like they’re really there and I can hear the water swishing and Dad Paul is saying, Don’t you kno
w? Can’t you feel it?

  I can feel it now. He was my dad.

  I cry a bit more.

  Didn’t realise I’d fallen asleep. It’s cold. My head hurts. Someone is tapping on the door. Am I dead? Feel like I am. Feel like I’ve been in the freezer with the chicken.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Who is it, I ask.

  It’s Bernadette, she says.

  So I get off the bed and my legs are a bit shaky. I’m not in the right place. The desk should be over there and the window should be next to the bed but it’s moved. Then I remember. I pushed the bed up to the door so no one could come in. I move it back where it goes and open the door.

  Bernadette is there, wearing this coat I’ve never seen her in, and she’s got two cups of tea. Don’t like the coat. It makes her look too tall and she doesn’t smell like she usually does. Reckon it’s been in some stinky old cupboard. She smiles at me even though someone has died and holds out one of the cups and says it’s got lots of sugar in how I like.

  Suddenly my legs go all crazy and I fall in a messy lump on the landing. Bernadette sits right down next to me. Anne comes into the downstairs hallway and looks up, but Bernadette tells her we’re okay and she goes back in the lounge.

  I ask Bernadette what the body looked like. Can’t help it. The words just come out like swearwords sometimes do.

  She says it was just white. Then she says she can’t think of a better colour word. I don’t mind. She gives me a cup of tea and tells me to drink it cos the sweetness will make me feel better. I drink some and it does. It goes right down to my toes.

  I remember when I first saw Bernadette. When she came into the front room with this other lady from her voluntary place and she talked lots to me. She talked and talked and talked. I was in a real bad place then and didn’t want to like anyone. So I was listening and I wanted to answer all her stuff about TV shows when she was little but couldn’t open my mouth. It was stuck shut.