by Penny Thomas
As they began down the drive to the house, he gave no sign of surprise at its majesty. But then he had no idea of her relationship to the house, she might have been a live-in skivvy for all he knew and lived in a caravan around the back.
‘Here it is.’
He stepped in and looked around.
She had almost stopped seeing how grand the hall was, but now she could see it reflected in his gaze.
‘How many people live here?’
‘Just me.’
‘Just…you?’
‘I’m the caretaker.’
He seemed relieved to hear that. She smiled. How easily the lie had come to her.
‘Well…’ she began, but then she sensed a presence near her, very close by, and a fleeting touch of something cool and very slightly moist on the back of her hand. A quick glimpse and there they were, fading and drying already, two bare footprints that seemed to be waiting, hungry for attention.
‘You okay?’ he said.
‘Yes, just tired. Let’s find you a room, eh?’
When they were halfway up the stairs, he said, ‘You won’t get in trouble will you?’
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘As long as nothing is damaged or whatever… We’re not going to have wild parties are we?’
‘God, no.’
‘Okay, that’s my room,’ she indicated the closed door opposite the bathroom. ‘How about you have this room, next to it?’ She led him into the master bedroom. It was a big room, high-ceilinged, 22 feet by 18, with three tall sash windows, each with the original wooden shutters. There were long yellow brocade curtains that pooled on the floor and were faded in places. The bed with its walnut headboard stood in the centre of the room, the bare mattress was indecently pink and shiny.
Lawrence put his bags on the floor, then unrolled the sleeping bag and laid it out along one half of the bed. It was one of those high altitude sleeping bags, a black cocoon that was narrower at the feet than the upper body, like a sarcophagus.
‘There’s plenty of bedding; pillows, blankets, sheets, eiderdowns,’ she said.
‘This will be fine’ he said.
‘But…’
It looked so temporary and so out of place, that sleeping bag on the luxurious satin of the mattress. He does not mean to stay, she thought, he can’t wait to escape.
He busied himself with his stuff, going through the bags, not unpacking but searching for something. Eventually he came to a limp looking roll of faded purple towel and a striped nylon wash bag.
‘Would it be ok if I had a wash? Need to shave,’ he said, rubbing a hand over his bristly chin, so that a faint rasping sound could be heard.
‘Yes. Yes, of course. The bathroom’s just here. Have a shower.’
He went in and she hovered at the open door.
‘We’ll have to sort out some money for bills,’ he said, as if in answer to her watching him.
‘Plenty of time,’ she said,
He turned on the shower and held a hand under, testing it, then steam began to gather and rise and he withdrew his hand. Smiling awkwardly, he crossed the room and closed the door in her face.
At college, as the days went by, he behaved towards her exactly as he had always done. He did not sit beside her in lectures, nor share a table in the refectory. They did not walk to college together and after the last lecture of the day he always seemed to be caught up in a laughing conversation with one group of students or another.
To punish him she had not yet given him his own set of keys.
Yet each evening they ate together. She had an allowance, she explained, for expenses, and this covered all the bills, even food. She bought ready meals from Marks and Spencer and heated them in the oven, decanting them onto the best plates and adding flourishes like side salads and steam-in-the-bag vegetables. There was always wine too, though he professed at first not to like it. She put fresh flowers on the table and lit the candles in the silver candelabra.
They started, from desultory beginnings, to have real conversations, though the focus was always weighted towards him, she, having much to hide, used a subtle sleight of hand to keep herself in the shadows.
Only two years before, he had been an outstanding athlete; excelling at cricket, rugby, long distance running, swimming and basketball. Then he’d had his ‘accident’ while rock climbing.
‘But I was lucky,’ he said, and she thought it would be luckier not to fall at all, though did not say this. ‘I could have been paralysed. I could have been dead. Instead, a year and a half in hospital and I’m as right as rain. Just out of shape. Look!’ He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, took out a newspaper clipping. There he was, a god of a man in Speedo swimming trunks, every muscle toned and lean; pecs, biceps, abs, quads. His face, stripped of the plump cheeks and double chin, was that of a Hollywood film star, a young dimpleless Robert Mitchum crossed with Jake Gyllenhaal.
She passed it back to him quickly, afraid to linger over this image, to betray her feelings.
He’d also revealed more about the quarrel with his father who’d left the family when Lawrence was too young to remember. The father who had promised to pay his rent, but hadn’t and wouldn’t answer his calls.
Term broke up for Easter and without saying anything to her, he disappeared for three weeks. She had bought enough food for the two of them for the coming week and a turkey crown for Easter Sunday and a chocolate egg each.
In his room the sleeping bag still lay on the bare mattress and there were a few of his things scattered about, but his rucksack was gone. In the weeks before this she had barely noticed the little naked footprints. Perhaps with him there she had been too distracted to notice them. Perhaps he scared them away? Whatever it was, throughout Easter they were back with a vengeance. She saw them in the bathroom, the hall and landing, in the kitchen, bedroom and living room. Very often they were side by side next to her own feet and sometimes seemed to disperse her loneliness, at others to distil it, making it far more potent.
The doorbell rang on the last Friday of the holidays at eight o’clock.
She opened the door to find Lawrence on the threshold. He was tanned and seemed to have lost the last of the excess fat. He wore flip flops, khaki shorts and a white T-shirt.
‘Hi,’ he said, hefting the rucksack from his back and onto the floor. Not wanting to look at his face, she found herself concentrating on his feet. There were grains of sand still visible between his toes. She hated him for that, for making her remember long ago summer days when she had come home from the beach, sand everywhere and the sea pulsing in her head, the waves still visible when she shut her eyes to sleep.
‘Hello,’ she said as coldly as she could, but he seemed oblivious.
‘Think I’ll have a shower,’ he said. ‘Is there anything to eat?’
She turned sharply on her heel, went to the kitchen and crashed about with pots and pans, browning meat, chopping onions, garlic, mushrooms, chillies.
She heard the creak of the floorboards overhead and the rattle of the pipes as the shower was turned on.
She boiled rice and poured half a bottle of Claret into the sauce. Drank the other half, then opened a second bottle.
The little feet beside her seemed to wobble unsteadily. Her little ghost was drunk, she thought, as she sloshed more wine into a tumbler and drank deeply.
‘Smells great!’ He was standing in the doorway, his hair still wet, his face gleaming, a pair of loose white linen trousers covering his lower half, while his chest was bare. She turned away quickly, afraid to let her gaze linger over that taut, muscled skin, the black hair that gathered in the centre of his chest and ran in a line over his flat stomach.
‘Can I have a glass?’ he asked and when she looked up, she saw that he had put a T-shirt on.
He began to potter about, putting cutlery on the table in the adjoining room, lighting the candles. Then he put music on; soft swirling pipes and insistent drums, the sound of a night far away in Morocco or Tunisia. Hand cl
aps and a woman’s voice, a rhythmic ululating lament.
She slopped the food onto plates, splashes of tomato everywhere, rice spilled on the stove top, the floor, the counter.
‘Can I help?’ he asked.
She shook her head, unable to speak. A plate in each hand and the wine bottle tucked under her arm.
‘Oops,’ he said, coming closer, reaching behind her so that she thought for one moment he was going to put his arms around her. ‘You left the gas on.’ The pan that had held the rice was blackening and fizzing.
She lurched unsteadily forward and made it through to the dining room without a mishap, tipping the bottle so a little wine sloshed out on to the tablecloth. He filled their glasses and she drained hers immediately. Being this drunk, she thought, is like being in deep water. At the bottom of the ocean with all that weight above you.
‘This is great!’ he said. ‘I’ve really missed this.’
She half closed one eye in order to focus on him across the table.
‘The food?’ she said, slurring horribly.
‘The food, the house, you and me chilling. Everything.’
By candlelight, even through her drunken haze, he seemed to shine like a Greek god, Apollo or Eros or Dionysus. She tried to shrug, wishing to show him that she couldn’t care less if he was there or not. She should just let herself drown she thought, pour more wine down her open throat, let the tides consume her.
Her glass was wet as if a small damp hand had touched it. All around the table, she seemed to see stumbling little footprints as if a child had run around in giddy circles, revelling in this new sensation, this drunkenness.
‘So, where did you go?’ he asked.
‘Huh?’
‘Where did you go while they were here?’
‘Who-oo?’ she said thinking guiltily of the little ghost.
‘The owners. You said they’d be back for the holidays.’
Had she said such a thing? Even sober it was hard to keep track of all her lies.
He was watching her face, waiting for an answer.
‘They come and go,’ she said. ‘Like little ghosts.’
He laughed.
‘You’re funny,’ he said. ‘I missed that. I missed you.’
This was too much. She rose to her feet, swayed for a second, then walked, her upper body tipping forward perilously, from the room.
Upstairs, she collapsed on her bed fully clothed, then passed out. In the night she drifted in and out of watery dreams and at times awoke to the sounds of rattling pipes and gurgling water. At dawn, with her bladder full and her head throbbing, she tiptoed to the bathroom, relieved herself and drank handfuls of cool, clear water from the tap. The house was silent and still, the door to his room was closed. He had said he missed her, she remembered; that she was funny. He’d laughed and smiled and lit the candles and put on that mysterious and strangely seductive music.
She stood in the hallway gazing towards his room. Should she go in there? Silently climb onto the bed beside him? But there was no soft duvet to lift so that she could snuggle under. He would be in his cocoon of a sleeping bag, the mattress beside him, pink and bare, slippery, cold and unyielding.
In the morning she would make up his bed properly, take away that sleeping bag, put it in the wash or at least turn it inside out and put it on the line to air in the spring sunshine.
She might also confess her lies.
She took a few steps closer to his room, wanting to sense his nearness, to hear his breathing. Then smiling to herself, she returned to her room, undressed, got properly into bed and in seconds she was asleep.
She was awoken by the front door slamming shut and ran to the window in time to see Lawrence jogging down the path towards the gates. She could just make out the thin white wires of an MP3 player trailing from his sweatshirt.
She took a long shower, shaving her legs, then applying body lotion. She had neglected herself for too long. She put on her dress she’d found in one of the wardrobes. It was worn soft with age and there was a tear beneath one of the arms, but it was a pretty print and a flattering style.
She made up the bed in the master bedroom and hung his sleeping bag on the line to air. She was in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, when a sudden breeze fluttered at her bare legs, preceding the slammed front door.
‘Do you want lunch?’ she called.
He came and stood beside her, gently touched her shoulder. ‘This is nice. You look pretty in a frock.’
He paused a moment, then kissed her cheek.
‘I need a soak,’ he said. ‘Not used to this much exercise. Won’t be long.’
She switched the radio on, turned up the volume and fairly danced about the kitchen, washing lettuce, chopping tomatoes, cucumber, spring onions. She fried mushrooms, leftover potato, onions and ham, then set them to one side, meaning to add the eggs at the last moment. They grew cold in the pan as the minutes went by. She sipped her tea and went to the window, the apple tree was in blossom and the rhubarb was unfurling its giant leaves. His sleeping bag was hanging on the line like a great bat, its wings folded and its head down. Lifeless.
How long had he been upstairs? Too long, she thought, and her heart seemed to flutter inside her chest, to quiver like an insubstantial jellyfish. She raced up the stairs, the bathroom door was shut and no sound came from behind it. As she looked she saw a trail of watery footsteps stepping from the bathroom and crossing the landing. Each print evaporated as a new one appeared.
He did not drown. It had been something to do with his fall from the cliff two years before, a small bleed seeping slowly into his brain that the doctors had missed. There was no water in his lungs, they said, it could have happened at anytime, anywhere, but she knew better. A wild creature such as the one that haunted her house could go anywhere, do anything, it could transmute itself, seep through the skin, invade the veins and arteries of the body, make a lake in the lungs or the heart or the brain. Do its damage then evaporate without a trace. All of us are 70 per cent water. The rest is love and hate.
The View From Up Here
Carly Holmes
I’ve got your hand, you can’t break loose, so don’t even bother trying. Just relax and enjoy the ride. Sorry to disappoint but we’re going up, not down. Up through the clouds. See how wet they are, and feel how soft. If I dropped you now you’d plunge straight through, straight down, and arrive on earth soaked to the skin and worse. But I’ve got your hand, I won’t let you fall.
Here’s where I spin. It’s going to make you queasy but it helps with the moving between this week and last, and it’s last week that we have to get to. I just need to show you something then I’ll leave you alone. Pop you right back on your cliff-top perch with all still ahead of you. Hang on tight. Unless of course you really are determined to end it all and then letting go will be easy.
Not that tight! That’s better. Now, if I’m right we should be at last Thursday. Let’s go over the edge and see what we find. Shall I speed this up? Give you an idea what it feels like to drop towards the rocks like a dislodged gull egg and no going back?
You can open your eyes now. We’re here. Last Thursday. Same cliff, different day. He landed an hour ago and he died twenty minutes later. Not much left of him, is there? It was a long twenty minutes. He’ll be found before the tide comes in; the traffic here, though always one-way, is depressingly regular. Ha! And so the weary men and women whose job it is to scrape him up and reassemble the pieces will be dragged from their homes and their complicated lives. They’ll curse and grumble but they’ll wield their spades with tenderness.
Do you want to know what he was thinking when he jumped? I know what they all think, and it’s generally the same. Why not? Too real for you? Too raw? But this is it. Take another look. When flesh hits a hard surface at tremendous speed, that right there is the result.
Okay, let’s spin forward just a few hours and go east. About twenty miles, give or take. We’ve got to rise above the clouds
again though, because I need plenty of room, so up, up, up we go. We don’t want to be banging into the cliff at a hundred revolutions a minute. Though I’d be fine if we did, it’s just you that wouldn’t and that would render this whole exercise pointless.
Now, she’s making this easy for us, running around the garden. All we have to do is hover. So can you guess who she is? Surely it’s obvious? Limbs twitching every which way, mouth stretched thin and wide.
That’s right, mother of the deceased. She’s just been told. Look at her go! What despair! She’ll fall in a moment and that’s when it’ll hit her. The frantic energy gone and just the pain left. Ouch. There, told you! Over she goes. Someone will come soon and pick her up and take her indoors. Then she’ll be placid and hollow. Just a doll with the insides all gone. Do you think she’ll ever get them back? My mother hasn’t got her insides back yet and it’s been a few years since I took them away from her. I visit her occasionally but it does strange things to my form, cold spots and hard spots and things going off kilter. Too much emotional energy. I’m not supposed to have substance, being a ghost, but with her I can feel the old human frame pushing to break through, trying to stiffen my arms to reach out to her. If I stick around for too long I think there’s a danger she’ll see me, or see what I once was, so I only pop in and out occasionally, and never on the big dates. You know…the anniversaries and suchlike.
Don’t worry, just a couple more stops then I’ll take you back. I just want you to think things through a bit more. A bit more than I did anyway. A bit more than he did. Not much to ask really, once you’ve seen the horror movie that keeps on playing for other people after your credits have rolled. Right, back up again, but we can stay below the clouds this time because we’re only crossing miles, not time. Have to get above the electricity wires, though, or we’ll short-circuit the whole area. I made that mistake once and had to leave the woman I was with, she was in the same frame of mind as you, tangled in the wires forty feet above the ground. Fried to a crisp. Now that had everyone puzzling, I can tell you. The conspiracy theorists had a field day!