A Life Between Us

by Louise Walters

  Tina knew what he meant. To be fair, he had a point. He truly did. She listened to her husband shower, then she watched him get dressed. She remained seated on the edge of the bed. Keaton did not try to speak any further to her. He finished dressing. He left for work after kissing her quickly on her head. She did not return the kiss. She heard him open the front door and close it behind him. Come back, come back, were the words she could only think and not say.

  Later, mechanically, Tina made herself shower, dress, eat toast and drink coffee. After her lonely breakfast, she tidied the kitchen and made the king-size bed that she and Keaton had shared every night for the last eighteen years. Hard to believe they had been married for that long and had been a couple for even longer. It was inconceivable that so much time had passed. It was her fault there was so little to show for it. No children. Not one. But there could still be a child for her and Keaton. It wasn’t too late, not yet. The change had not quite come upon her, not in its entirety. She had only skipped the one period, that one time, and now they were almost regular again. She was fortunate, even if the cycle was drawing out a little, becoming less noticeable, much less painful. It was not too late to fulfil Keaton’s dream of becoming a father and in truth, she owed it to him.

  In December, her doctor had been keen to explain the issues with pregnancy for the older woman. Tina had listened politely, then eventually, she had managed to get her doctor to concede that it was possible for her to become pregnant and give birth to a healthy baby. Her doctor was a nice woman really and was trying to help, doing her job, and she had printed off a leaflet for her, and urged her to take her time and think about it. Tina thought about it for a day, then made an appointment to have her coil removed. She’d bled; it had been uncomfortable. But only for a day or two.

  Keaton would make a wonderful father, she knew. He had never been anything but patient and kind, if not fully understanding. How could he understand her when she didn’t understand herself? The fantasy she had spun around her life was unfathomable. Often she felt she was a mere butterfly, small and helpless, unable to struggle free of her chrysalis, caught up in the silk and frass of her imagination. Her life was a mockery of something, she felt sure. But of what? Was it grief? Did she just not know how to handle it? Was it guilt? Guilt that her sister was dead and she was not? Survivor’s guilt perhaps? Or the guilt of the wrongdoer, because she had done wrong. She’d read about child murderers, of course, furtively borrowing books from various libraries; looking articles up on the internet and deleting them from the search history. Mary Bell. Pauline Parker. Juliet Hulme. She’d watched Heavenly Creatures alone, in fear and fascination. Was there another name to add to the infamous list? Christina Thornton? Children were capable of horrible acts, just like adults. If only she could see clearly, stand apart from the things that had happened on that day and watch; be a silent observer among the leaves, listening, listening, her eyes and ears attuned to all that was said, all that was done. There was a sequence; there always was. This happened, that happened – one led to the other. Logic was ever present. But there were no watchers, no witnesses, just participants – Lucia and her nieces. Meg, dead, and Tina, shocked and frightened into a lifetime of silence, an inner reverie of blame.

  ‘Tina? What have you done?’ Those were the words. The pale, accusing face, eyes wide and haunted, looking up at her, the rain drip-dropping onto the leaves, the clouds heavy at last, opening up. The only words until everything sprang into action, until the rain began to hammer down properly for the first time in weeks; until Lucia ran off, shrieking and calling for Uncle Edward, for Granny, anybody, leaving Tina alone in the tree looking down at her sister, coffin-still on the ground, willing her to move, open her eyes, stand up. And Meg did open her eyes and stand up. Meg looked up at her and waved – weirdly that was all she had done, just waved, smiling up at her. And then she was gone, but Tina felt she hadn’t gone far, and then the men had come running, farm hands summoned by Lucia’s wails, and eventually Uncle Edward had come too and he’d gently touched the dead Meg – the one still lying on the ground – turning her head towards him, his shirt wet with big spattered raindrops. And then the ambulance men and firemen had come across the fields and Tina had sat, wet and forgotten for a while in the rustle of the green canopy, where she was alone, truly alone for the first time, knowing that her life had changed irreparably, and forever. And the words, musical in their monotonous refrain: What have you done, Tina? Tina, what have you done?

  Keaton slammed his office door behind him and took off his coat. He put his deli-bought lunch in the fridge. He’d skipped breakfast. He placed his bag carefully under the desk and turned on his PC. So this was it, another day. Another day of work. Another day with a mad wife made madder by becoming less mad. Or something like that. He’d thought yesterday had seen a breakthrough. But today there was no breakthrough, just more of the same. Today, the long-dead Meg was back, alive and kicking. Damn her! So he was going mad too. Was he becoming as crazy as his wife? No, actually, nobody was as crazy as her. Those that were, were locked up somewhere, and one never encountered them.

  Keaton tried to stem this tide of irrationality and nastiness, but it was hard to do so. He was being uncharitable. But he’d lived with this for years; he’d known before he’d married Tina that she fantasized about her dead sister and imagined her to be alive, if not well; he knew Tina visited her sister’s grave weekly, and he’d been able to establish what he’d long suspected, that Tina blamed herself for Meg’s death. That Lucia woman was involved too, somehow. She had some kind of hold over Tina, Keaton was convinced, but it was impossible to get Tina to talk properly about it, to get her to understand she had been a little girl and even if it had somehow been her “fault”, she was not to blame. She had not been old enough to blame.

  Keaton’s office door opened and Sharanne entered, proffering Keaton’s customary cup of morning coffee. Sharanne looked spring-like and fresh.

  ‘A penny for them?’ she said, a favourite phrase of hers that had annoyed him on several occasions, but today did not. Keaton took the mug from her. She positioned her hands on her hips. Keaton carefully placed his cup on his desk. Sharanne was wearing a pretty shade of pink lipstick. It was frosty, shimmery. It suited her.

  He wanted to kiss her. There was no doubt. Something opened up in him. In the silence they regarded each other, Sharanne’s breathing becoming quick and shallow. Keaton stood up. He walked around his desk. Sharanne stared at him, her eyes wide. He had two options. He could go to the door, open it, and politely usher his assistant from the room, and then the temptation would be gone, and probably forever, because he would go, leave this job and get another. Something had to give. His whole life was in the balance, and he knew it.

  His other option was to take this last step towards his assistant, put his hands in her hair and pull her towards him. This is what he did. He reached the crossroads and took the most enticing turn, knowing it was the wrong one, knowing it was unfair on two women, one of whom he loved as much as ever, despite everything. Sharanne’s lips were not frosty, they were moist and grasping. There was little pre-amble. The sex was reckless and clichéd and dreamy. It was Perrinesque, like lots of things in his life. Even as he indulged himself and felt his body convulse and Sharanne’s hands greedy on him, he knew it was hopeless – a huge mistake. He wondered, somewhere in his muddled mind, how they must look – silly, of course. And anybody could have knocked on his office door and entered, but that was half the charm of it. It was all rather shocking and nauseating. But it was uncomplicated. Sharanne was uncomplicated. Except it wasn’t. She wasn’t. These were actually the most complicated moments of Keaton’s life. And it was his own fault, because he had a choice. Sharanne’s body was firm and compact. Her vagina didn’t feel like Tina’s vagina. Tina’s body was soft and gracious and giving. Sharanne’s was hard and ungenerous – taking, taking, taking. Sharanne was the same age as Tina, but how different
they were in every way. Keaton considered stopping. He ought to stop, he realised; he ought to recover his senses, and apologise. But it would be stupid, he would look childish, and it was too late, so he hurried. He blotted his wife from his mind and heart and gave himself up to the lust of the lost for a few frenzied minutes – giving, giving, giving – lost in Sharanne’s firm flesh, her clawing hands, her new rhythms. Quite soon, it was over. Possibly Sharanne was disappointed. Probably it was a good thing if Sharanne was disappointed. Afterwards Keaton trembled and he could not face her as she pulled her appearance back into shape and fiddled with her hair. Her cheeks were now as pink as the lipstick which had gone from her lips. He wondered where it had gone and he could taste it. What had he done? How was this helping? He hastily tidied himself, tucking his shirt back in, doing up his trousers. He longed for a mirror. He had been faithful to Tina throughout all the time he had known her. Now that spell had been broken and very likely his marriage was broken too. He just didn’t do this sort of thing. And yet, he did, clearly, because he just had. Self-loathing seeped through him like an infection he knew he would not be able to fight off.

  Sharanne, tidy at last, and not obviously disappointed at all, smiled at him, and moved to kiss him – he now sat primly behind his desk – but he turned away. The kissing was over. He couldn’t. He was being a pig, even a prig, but he couldn’t kiss her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, for want of saying something – anything. The whole encounter had been wordless, harsh, hard, not at all his sort of thing.

  She left his office and closed the door, not looking at him. Keaton sat alone and lonely, and leaned across his desk, lowering his head onto his arms. He felt like he might cry. He ought to cry, but this day, and it was still early, was already beyond him, out of reach and irretrievable. He wished he could begin it again – go back to bed and wake – and not find Tina sitting in the foggy morning air at the open window. What a moment that had been, a sudden fall and crash onto hard ground. He was scared. He was hurt. He was a helpless flailing creature. He couldn’t help Tina, he knew that now. She was impenetrable.

  Twenty-six

  August 1976

  Tina wept for her books, her poor lost books, the remains charred and ragged, curling wisps of paper and words. Some fluttering, anchorless pieces had made their forlorn way up the chimney and had floated down into the garden; strange unintelligible messages from on high. Meg was furious, and she was sympathetic; seething, muttering, ‘She’s a bitch!’ Tina wasn’t shocked any more by that word. She allowed herself to be comforted by it. Tina wrote a letter. Later, Meg said she was bored and begged Tina to play hopscotch again. They asked Uncle Edward, very politely, if he could move his car. He apologised, and moved it. He seemed at a loss to know what to do with himself. The girls resumed their game and pretended not to notice their uncle’s unhappiness. He sat in the garden watching the girls play. He drank a cup of tea. Granny ventured out to sit with him, and she cried and held his hand. He didn’t seem to mind, but Meg whispered to Tina that she didn’t like old people’s hands; they were always cold. Lucia, hard of face and unrepentant, made fish fingers and chips and baked beans for the girls’ tea, and allowed them to eat in the garden on the tartan picnic rug. Tina ate slowly, the food stale and dry, it seemed to her. Meg picked at hers for a while, and when nobody was looking crept into the den in the laurels and buried the food. Hadn’t their dad told them that Lucia had tried to poison him once? Meg was making a stand, she said, against Lucia and she would begin with her rotten food. They also had orange squash to drink, too weak, as Lucia always made it. They were pleased to see their dad when he arrived after work. But where was Mum? She was usually the one to pick them up and take them home, holding their hands and swinging them back and forth energetically all the way home. Sometimes she sang them funny, mischievous, made-up songs. The best ones were about Lucia.

  Lucia told William it was good of him to finish early. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I hope you didn’t mind my ringing you at work. I didn’t know what else to do.’

  William spoke to Edward in the garden and Tina heard their father say he was sorry. Uncle Edward acquiesced with a small sigh; a nod of his head. The girls felt bad for him but didn’t know what they could do to make things better. Dad didn’t seem to know either, so he chivvied his daughters up and said it was time to go home. Tina and Meg said nothing about Lucia ripping and burning Tina’s books. They had decided to wait and tell their mum about it instead. She would do something. The twins said goodbye to their granny and to Uncle Edward, deftly avoiding the inclusion of Lucia in their farewells. She stood at the top of the steps and said nothing. She didn’t wave when William’s car pulled away.

  They told their mum in the morning, over breakfast, what Lucia had done to Tina’s books. Meg did most of the telling, because Tina felt too upset to talk about it. Mum was predictably furious. Why hadn’t they told her yesterday? Tina wasn’t sure why they hadn’t, but the rambling shame of the bullied, which she surely felt and Meg understood, had of course prevented her. She’d begged Meg to say nothing. But this morning, Meg had given in and told. After her initial anger, Mum became stony-faced, quiet. Once they had eaten their toast and drank their milk, she told the girls to hurry and brush their teeth and comb their hair. She was going to have it out with Lucia. By God, was she.

  Meg couldn’t wait. Tina could. When they arrived at Lane’s End House, Meg ran across the grass to the front door and banged the door knocker – once, twice, thrice. Tina followed her mum across the lawn, wanting to hide, trying to hang back. Lucia opened the front door.

  ‘You can enter via the kitchen, you know,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron and sighing. ‘Girls, take off your shoes. They’re wet with dew.’

  ‘First things first, lady!’ cried Mum. Meg retreated down the steps, and stood off to one side with Tina. But of course, Meg wasn’t cringing. She was grinning, anticipating the confrontation that was surely to come. Tina gripped her sister’s hand.

  ‘Apologise to my daughter!’ demanded Mum.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Lucia.

  ‘You heard me. Or do you have a Loose Ear?’

  Meg sniggered. Tina covered her mouth with her free hand. Oh no, no, no…

  ‘You do not call me by that name,’ said Lucia, and she could barely be heard, her fury small and quiet. She crossed her arms, pulling herself up tall. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Mum, and she was… what? Tina thought the word might be brazen. ‘Why all the fuss? It’s just a stupid name. But you understand this: apologise to my daughter and replace her books.’

  ‘What?!’ Lucia looked genuinely surprised.

  Mum went up one step. She looked strong. ‘Do not “what” me, lady. Take your skinny arse into town today and replace my girl’s books.’

  ‘I shall do no such thing. And mind your language, Pamela Rose. Who on earth do you think you are?’

  ‘I’m Pamela Thornton. Your sister-in-law. Mother to your nieces.’

  ‘You call yourself a mother? You’re no mother. You’re never at home! I do all the mothering of these—’

  The slap was sharp and unexpected. Now Meg had her hand over her mouth too, eyes wide in intrigue and horror. A barefooted Uncle Edward appeared behind Lucia. He pulled her gently to one side as she stroked her face and started to weep. Tina felt bad for her, at last. It must have hurt. Mum had smacked her backside once, and Tina could still recall the smart of it and that had been with clothes on.

  ‘Pamela, that’s quite enough,’ said Uncle Edward in a quiet voice. ‘I’ll take the girls shopping and buy the books today. I’ve already promised.’

  ‘It’s hardly your place to, Edward,’ said Mum. She was calmer now.

  ‘Nevertheless, I’ll take them. I told Tina yesterday that I would. Girls, say goodbye to your mum now, she needs to get to work. Off
you go, Pamela. Please.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No matter. I’ll buy them. I promise. Go to work. We’ll pop in to see you later if you like?’

  Mum kissed Tina and Meg goodbye. Meg was giggling again and Mum gave her a playful pinch on her arm. She left to run up the lane to catch her bus. Uncle Edward and Lucia went back into the house. Tina looked at Meg. Meg shrugged and smiled, a wicked gleam about her.

  So this was the routine at Lane’s End House now (but perhaps without the doorstep row and the almighty slap). How different from his time there, his youth. Nothing was permanent, obviously, but this morning he knew that for the first time, he truly understood what that meant. Mum struggled down the stairs, roused from her sleep by the doorstep commotion. Edward reassured her there was nothing going on. Pamela had words with Lucia, that was all. We all know Pamela can get a little fiery. Lucia disappeared into the kitchen, and soon Edward smelled eggs and bacon. That was permanent.

  He returned to the small bedroom, finished dressing, made up the bed, and peered out of the large but oddly dark window. There was a dwindling mist on the field behind the house. The cows were busily grazing. The sun was launching itself into the day. He opened the curtains wide, as far as they could go.

  Sunday 22nd August 1976

  Dear Elizabeth

  Another letter! Sorry. I like writing things down. It makes them seem real. Yesterday I stayed on my own most of the time and I read more than half of Ballet Shoes. I want to read it again one more time before I start my new Famous Five book. I decided to colour in some of the pictures in the book which is naughty but I like colouring and Meg does too and she helped me. She read a bit on some of the pages we coloured and she said Petrova sounds all right. Aunty Lucia has a pink mark on her cheek still where my mum slapped her when they had their argumant the other day. Mum told us she is a bit sorry for slapping Lucia but she deserved it she says. Mum said she should really have held her temper but Lucia has a bad effect on her. Mum said she would pay Edward back for the books but he said no need for that. Mum told me Lucia should pay but she has no money of her own because she is lazy and hasn’t worked for many years. I don’t think she’s lazy she works all the time but I hate her for burning my books. I don’t know what we would do without Uncle Edward being here. He makes everything better. It was his birthday and my dad’s birthday on Thursday Lucia made a cake. Meg didn’t want any of it so I had her slice.