Shivaun is friendly, though, and she smiles a lot. Finn is very pleased with her. I remembered not to ask what her father did. It’s OK to ask her where she lives, but not anything to do with her parents’ occupations. It turns out she lives not far from Judith, in one of those side roads I pass through. Unlike Finn, she wants to go to university and has a provisional place at Warwick, if she gets the grades. So, she’s bright. I asked if she had any idea what sort of job she’d like to do after university, not expecting that she would have. She said she wanted to be a psychotherapist who specialised in grief counselling. I said, ‘Good God!’ before I could stop myself, and Finn said, ‘Mum,’ in a warning voice. I tried to excuse myself. I said it was just that it seemed an odd ambition for a young woman, that I couldn’t see what attracted her. She said, ‘Grief. It’s everywhere, but it gets so little attention.’
What? Should I laugh? I stared at her. Was I frowning, scowling? Probably. I wanted to tell her – oh, all kinds of things. Not to be so insufferably virtuous, so absurdly prim. Not to refer to grief as though it were a sickness. And I wanted to ask her what on earth she could know about grief. But I didn’t. I got up and fussed about and cleared my throat repeatedly. My discomfort was obvious and she clearly thought she had to acknowledge it. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Roscoe,’ she said, her friendly, pretty face suddenly anxious. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I know you’ve had a lot of grief, you know all about it, and so does Finn, and you’ve dealt with it on your own, and it must have been very hard, but …’ I stopped her. I couldn’t bear her to go stumbling on. I smiled and said I was sorry too, and that I was sure that in time she would make a very good grief counsellor, and that it was a very worthy ambition. Oh, and a whole lot more lies. I can’t remember, I was just prattling, trying to lighten the now awkward atmosphere.
Finn was no help. During this little interchange he said nothing. In fact, he went into the kitchen and boiled the kettle again, quite unnecessarily. But when he came back, he had an expression on his face which reminded me of his father. It is a look Don lost, afterwards, a mixture of pride and admiration. I’d never seen it on Finn’s face before, and it made me think I didn’t understand my son at all. He told Shivaun that they should go, they were going to be late, though he didn’t say for what. Shivaun said it had been a pleasure to meet me. I said it had been a pleasure to meet her. Out they went. I felt – I feel – so depressed. The fond amusement has all gone. I don’t want Finn involved with a girl like that.
*
‘Oh, her!’ Molly said, when I told her. ‘I knew her sister, she was in our class once. The whole family are do-gooders. Her mum is a psychotherapist and the dad is religious, I forget what, no, not a vicar. Can’t imagine what Finn sees in her. It won’t last.’ I said he’d seemed very taken with her. ‘She’s pretty, in an obvious way,’ Molly said. ‘A bit sort of sugary-pink, but he’s only starting, he’s young, she’ll do for a while till he wants a serious shag.’ They all talk like that, my children and their friends, it’s no good objecting. I said that it hadn’t seemed shagging possibilities were what attracted him so much as her noble aspirations.
What does Molly know about shagging, anyway? Have things changed? Has she got a lover? I wouldn’t dare ask her. I didn’t dare ask Miranda, when Alex appeared on the scene. Don wanted me to. He thought I should ‘talk to her’. About what? ‘Taking care of herself,’ he said. As if I hadn’t done that years before, as if she wasn’t living in the twenty-first century. But he was very agitated when Alex became serious, and Miranda was always either in his company or waiting to be. He was convinced that the boy was not making her happy. And it’s true that there were plenty of tears when Alex failed to pick her up when he’d said he would, or rang, cancelling some date at the last minute. ‘He doesn’t appreciate her,’ Don fumed. ‘He doesn’t deserve her.’ Even though he’d given up trying to stop her, Don didn’t want her to go on that sailing trip. ‘Look at her,’ he said, the night before. ‘She’s all tense.’ I said she was just excited. ‘Excited?’ Don said. ‘It doesn’t look like excitement to me. It’s as though he has some sort of hold over her and she has to please him – a beautiful girl like that, wanting to please him.’ I pointed out that she was probably in love with him and that love could sometimes be painful. Don snorted with disgust.
Don thought we failed her. He thought that I, especially, failed her. Going back and back, rewinding all the time, it was one of the madder conclusions he came to. But he did not exonerate himself either. He went on torturing himself with the fact that he had let her go sailing with Alex when he should have prevented her. I asked how he could have done that. We had the same conversation again. I repeated that she was eighteen, she had earned the money she needed with her Saturday job, how could he have stopped her? That was when he changed tack and said I could have stopped her, or Molly could have. He alleged that we both knew she had ‘set her cap’ – that was the quaint expression he used – at Alex and that he took her for granted. She was making a fool of herself over him. We, Molly and I, should have pointed this out, for her own good. It was as though he hadn’t known his own daughter. He thought she was like him, and yet couldn’t see that she had just his stubbornness, and that all argument would have been futile. We were to blame, all of us. That was all he could think of. The only blameless one in his opinion was Miranda.
*
I didn’t look at the clock so I don’t know exactly what time it was when I was wakened, but it was somewhere around two or three in the morning. I was deeply asleep anyway, because it took me a long time to realise that the bell wasn’t being rung in a dream. It’s a shrill doorbell, which I’ve meant to have changed but never got round to it. I want a soft buzzing tone, not this harsh, insistent sound. It frightened me. Who rings a doorbell in the middle of the night? I waited. I remembered that Molly was here, I was not on my own. I listened, wondering if she too had heard the bell and had got up, but there was no sound of her moving about. The bell was rung again, someone’s finger jammed hard on it. Whoever it was was not going to go away.
I got up, wrapped a robe round me, switched on a lamp, then quietly tip-toed along to the door where the intercom is fixed. Should I answer at all? Was it wise? Was it sensible? I told myself that I was perfectly safe here on the second floor, surrounded by other people and with my own daughter sleeping nearby. Whoever was ringing my doorbell couldn’t possibly threaten me – and so I decided it was foolish not to find out who they were and what they wanted. I lifted the handset and pressed the button and said, ‘Hello? Who is it?’ ‘Me,’ he said.
*
I held the door open and waited for him. He came up the stairs stealthily, his shadow moving ahead of him, huge on the left-hand wall, and then, when the timed light switched off and the shadow had gone he was just a blur until he arrived. I couldn’t see his face properly – I hadn’t put the light on in the little hall – and I seemed to hesitate, as though I still wasn’t sure it was him, and he said, ‘Lou.’ I put my finger to my lips and whispered, ‘Molly’s back, she’s here, asleep,’ and then led the way into my bedroom, where I’d put the lamp on, and closed the door. He sank down onto the bed immediately, dropped his bag on the carpet, and then swung his legs up and lay back, his arms covering his face. I should have taken him into the sitting-room or the kitchen, but I’d returned without thinking to where the light was on.
I felt helpless. There was nothing for me to fuss over in my bedroom. I couldn’t make him some coffee, or find him a drink or offer him food. Should I go and put the kettle on, ask him if I could get him anything? But I didn’t. I stood looking at him, waiting, noticing everything about him. His shoes were dirty. I vaguely worried about them, lying on my white duvet. His trousers were wrinkled and there was a small tear in one knee, as though they had caught on a nail. The jacket I recognised. It was an old, very old, reefer thing, much too heavy for the summer, but he had it buttoned up to the neck. The arms had always been a little too short, and now, wi
th the way in which he was shielding his face, they rode up and showed his thin wrists. I took in that he wasn’t wearing a wristwatch.
I couldn’t stand there for the rest of the night. He was clearly exhausted. I should leave him to sleep, but where would I go? ‘Don?’ I said, but there was no reply. I touched his foot. He didn’t move. I could hear that his breathing was deeper. I undid his shoelaces and gently slipped off his shoes. One of his socks had a hole in it. I wouldn’t touch the socks. He was lying on the side of the bed where I had been lying, and as I’d got up I’d thrown the duvet aside so that it was now bunched up alongside him. Gently, I pulled it over him up to where his jacket began, just covering his feet and his legs in their thin trousers. Then I put out the lamp, and left the room, closing the door.
Still Molly hadn’t stirred. I opened her door and peeped in, almost wanting her to hear me and ask what was going on, but she didn’t, she was sound asleep. I padded quietly into the sitting-room and, without putting on the light, lay down on the sofa. It was too short to be comfortable for sleeping on but I propped my legs up on a cushion so that they hung over the end and tried to settle myself. But I felt cold, and had to get up again and go and find a coat to drape over me. I thought: I can get into my own bed, with Don. Why not? He was asleep, fully clothed. We could have been side by side, for the first time in many months. The idea of this made me want to weep, but I forced myself not to. I needed instead to be alert, to face whatever was going to happen when Don woke up. There must not be a scene, I told myself. We must not get upset. We must be calm, I must be calm. And he must go.
Then I suppose I drifted off into a sort of sleep. Not a deep sleep because I heard the traffic noises beginning outside and a door banging in another flat. And then, later, I heard Molly. I heard her get up and go into the bathroom and then I heard the shower. Hurriedly, I got up and straightened the cushions on the sofa and went to hang up my coat. There was a hairbrush on the chair beside the hook where I hung my coat and I picked it up and brushed my hair vigorously. Then I began to make myself some coffee. That was how Molly found me. ‘You’re up early,’ she said. ‘It’s only 6.30. I was hoping not to wake you.’ I muttered something about not sleeping well and asked her if she wanted some coffee and she nodded and went back to her room while it was being made. Why didn’t I say, straight out, that her father was here? I don’t know. I thought Don would come out and I’d have no need to say anything. But it was crazy. I should have said that Don was asleep in my bedroom, that he had turned up in the middle of the night and hadn’t said a word to explain why. It would have been natural.
I knew Molly had a very early appointment on the other side of London and needed to leave soon. She came for her coffee with her things all ready, looking very fresh and organised and eager to go. She’s always been good in the mornings, like me. ‘You look rough,’ she said, ‘what’s up?’ I repeated that I hadn’t slept well. When she asked if there was any particular reason I let another opportunity go. I just shrugged, and yawned. It was as though I were trying to hide a lover. The thought made me smile, cynically, but Molly didn’t know it was a cynical smile. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘at least you can smile about it.’ And then she was off.
*
I drank my coffee, wandering aimlessly round the room, pausing again and again to look out of the window as if expecting to see something helpful there. Then I opened my bedroom door, needing to get my clothes and get dressed, ready for school. ‘Don?’ I said. Still no reply. Was he faking sleep? I hesitated, wondering if I should go over to the bed and shake him awake, but then I thought why do that, why not just leave him asleep and go off to school and maybe he’ll be gone when I get back. It gave me such a feeling of relief to think of that. So I took my clothes and closed the door again and went into the bathroom and showered and dressed. It was still too soon to set off for school, but I wanted to go. I decided I’d walk a long way round and when I got there I’d plenty I could get on with till the children arrived. It would be better than staying in the flat, knowing that Don might emerge at any moment.
The thought panicked me. I wasn’t ready for whatever Don was going to tell me, if there was something, if it wasn’t just a case of being desperate and having nowhere else to go. But what I dreaded even more was a distraught Don at the end of his investigations because he’d finally realised they were pointless. I was suddenly in a rush to leave, but as I put my coat on – I’d seen it was raining outside – and looked for my umbrella, I thought that I couldn’t just abandon him. I would have to leave a note. I sat at the kitchen table, biro in hand, paper in front of me, not knowing what to write. All I needed to tell him was that I was off to work and wouldn’t be back until after four, and that Molly was out too and didn’t expect to be back until six. I wrote this, and then stared at what I’d written. Such a cold little note. I added that he should help himself to food and make himself comfortable, and then I crossed out making himself comfortable. Once crossed out, it looked bad, as though I’d written something I regretted, which of course I had, but not anything significant. I screwed up the paper and started again. Best just to be matter-of-fact, even at the risk of sounding cold. I thought about leaving him a key, in case he wanted to come and go, but decided not to. Leaving a key was the opposite of sounding cold and it was just as unwise.
Then I left. All the unnecessarily long way to school that I’d chosen, I fretted about leaving him asleep. Suppose he was ill? Suppose he wasn’t in a normal sleep? And then, if he was just worn out, what about when he woke – there was no one to look after him, he might not have the energy to make himself something to eat. I should have left a snack beside the bed. My steps slowed as I thought that and I almost turned and went back, but pulled myself together just in time and walked on. It was absurd to be fussing like that, and a big mistake to want to go back to cosseting Don. I mustn’t. I would get sucked in again.
It was a hard day at school. I was distracted the entire day and it is impossible to be distracted in charge of a Reception class. The children sensed it at once and responded by being extra demanding and growing noisier and noisier. Jeremy asked if I had a headache, and I said yes, because it gave me a simple justification for my vagueness. He tried his best to help by telling the children this and appealing for their sympathy – disastrous. Children of that age don’t respond to pleas for compassion. They don’t know what it is. ‘Poor Miss’ lasts a second, and then they expect complete attention. I had to resort to an audio-tape – we had three stories, one after the other, before I could do anything interesting with them and even then I was watching the clock.
At lunchtime, I almost rang my flat. Don might not answer of course, I knew that, or he might already have left, but I thought I should try to reach him. It would show my concern, and I wanted to show it. I honestly did. But then I thought of having the afternoon to get through and that if he did pick up the phone and talk he might upset me and I’d be even more useless as a teacher than I’d been in the morning. So I didn’t ring. I didn’t go to the staff room or have anything to eat either. I told Jeremy I’d just take some paracetamol and sit quietly in the classroom. He kindly brought me a cup of tea, but unfortunately Margot Fletcher saw him bringing it and came to enquire if I was ill, did I need to go home? No, no, I said, my headache was lifting. I’d be fine. She said she’d take my word for it but that I shouldn’t struggle on if I was not up to it. ‘It won’t do the children any good,’ she said. As if I didn’t know that.
I managed better in the afternoon and the noise died down. By home time, I was exhausted with the effort but in no hurry to leave. I invented all kinds of reasons why Jeremy should go at once and why I needed to stay. And go he did. I pottered about, taking things off the walls, pinning other things up, and then, as the cleaners started to appear, I couldn’t put off going home any longer. Again, I took a circuitous route, and once in my street, thought of several things I needed to buy in the shops. If Don were still there, he would need feeding. Mol
ly wasn’t eating with me that night, and I’d only been going to have an omelette. I bought steak and mushrooms and some potatoes and green beans. At least I could cook a proper dinner for him. It would give me something to do. I wanted my hands to be busy.
I stood outside my block of flats for a while and stared up at my sitting-room window, wondering if I could see anything different. Had the curtains been as far apart as that? Or had Don pushed them further along their track? But why would he? He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t touch the curtains. And during the day they were always pulled as far apart as possible to let in the most sun, if there was any. I groaned at my own absurdity. Best to march confidently, briskly, into the building and up to my flat. I must not creep in apologetically, or look anxious or fearful – no, I would be calm, calm. So I almost ran up the stairs, swinging my bag of food, and when I’d opened my door I shouted, in what I hoped was a cheerful fashion, ‘Hello? Don?’ There was no reply, but somehow I sensed he was still there. I hummed deliberately as I took off my coat and hung it up, and then I went into the kitchen and began emptying my bag. I wasn’t going to go looking for him. He would have to come and find me. Which he did, eventually. I heard his slow footsteps coming along the little passageway from my bedroom and I heard him coughing, and then he was there, in the doorway.
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