Rosie Thomas 3-Book Collection

by Rosie Thomas

  The adults sat down to eat at the kitchen table. It was most unusual for the food not to be laid out on the shady porch overlooking the sea. A fly buzzed drearily against the screened window, and knives and forks clinked in the silence.

  ‘Will she have gone back to Boston, do you think?’ Karyn asked.

  There was a whitish, pinched area of skin around Tom’s mouth. ‘I’ve no idea where she’s gone.’

  ‘You must go after her,’ Marian said.

  ‘I think she’ll come back when she’s ready.’

  ‘You must go and bring her back.’

  Tom put down his knife and fork, neatly positioning them. ‘Leonie is an adult. And so am I. We can make our own decisions.’

  There had been so many meals, so many variations on this same rigid theme of family gatherings and advice dispensed. Each of them was used to it, familiar with his or her place in the scheme.

  Marian’s lips drew together. ‘I’m not convinced of that, on the evidence.’

  Karyn reached out a restraining hand but her mother shook it off.

  ‘Do you love her? Do you still love each other? Because if you do you’d be a fool not to go after her right now. This is what matters.’ She made a gesture that took in the circumference of the table and the ring of faces.

  ‘No.’ The crash of Tom’s chair shook them all. He was on his feet, pushing himself away from the litter of plates and broken bread. ‘No,’ he repeated. He turned from the table and left them staring after him.

  Marian’s face collapsed inwards, a network of lines meshing her mouth and eyes. She covered the lower half of it with her hand. ‘What does he know about anything?’ she whispered.

  Elizabeth sat in her evening room, where the tendrils of a creeper made a minute scraping against the window glass. The irregular sound competed with the metronome ticking of the clock. Spencer had brought her the news that Aaron had been taken to the hospital. She had telephoned once and had been told that Mr Fennymore was stable. Beyond that there was nothing to do but wait.

  When she came back from Europe, with her trunks of new clothes and her albums of photographs of Paris and England, and her taste for French cigarettes, it was Aaron who had been waiting.

  The Captain’s House was now owned by some people from Bangor, Elizabeth’s mother had told her that in one of the regular letters from home, so there could be no more meeting in the empty dust-barred rooms where feathers waltzed in the breeze of their passing. Instead there had been a chance encounter on Main Street on an afternoon when summer had faded into the smoky chill of late September. Elizabeth had already been back in Boston for almost a month; there had been some parties she had wanted to go to, so she had not made the journey up to Pittsharbor right away. At one of the parties, the engagement celebration of a girl she had been at school with, she had been introduced to a lawyer called Andrew Newton. He was almost thirty, more than ten years older than Elizabeth herself. But she had liked his dry sense of humour and his slightly formal manners because they reminded her of some of the Englishmen she had met on her travels.

  ‘Newton? Newton?’ Grandfather Freshett had mused. ‘Randwyck Newton’s boy?’

  ‘I think he must be,’ Elizabeth’s mother responded. ‘Randwyck married Dorothy Irvine, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Elizabeth would once have felt impatient with this exchange, but now she found that she listened with a flicker of interest and even understanding.

  In Pittsharbor, when she did come back to it at last, nothing seemed to have changed. Except, she thought, that the houses looked smaller and Main Street was narrower and more old-fashioned than she remembered. In Purrit’s Dry Goods the very same sacks and cans were arranged behind the salty window glass. And for a night and a day after her arrival she had looked out for Aaron Fennymore with almost the same breathlessness as when she was a girl, eager to slip away with him to the Captain’s House. She had watched the tides and the movements of the fishing fleet, and had wondered when she would hear the signal of his low whistle.

  They had written no letters to one another in all the months of her absence. At the beginning of their separation Elizabeth had believed that their love was enough to bind them together without needing translation into the pale medium of words and she also feared that in any case her lover would be no letter-writer. Then, as the months passed, she had been reluctantly and gradually more eagerly taken up in the new world of Europe. Pittsharbor and Aaron had settled deep inside her, precious but untouched. Now that she was back, with the murmur of the sea in her ears and the tiny prickling of salt crystals on the skin of her arms, she was filled equally with longing for Aaron and with apprehension.

  When she first caught sight of him, swinging down Main Street with a sacking bag slung over his shoulder, her immediate and terrible instinct had been to duck away and hide from him. There was an arrogance in his bearing and a rough look about him that made a poor contrast with European poise, even with Andrew Newton back in Boston. As soon as she recognised her betrayal her face crimsoned with shame and she was rooted in place like a tongue-tied schoolgirl.

  Aaron had seen her. He didn’t change his pace, but came straight towards her. He stood foursquare on the sidewalk, blocking her path, and dropped the sack on the ground between them. It smelt powerfully of fish. ‘So you’re here, then?’

  ‘Just. Yesterday.’

  ‘I hear you were back in Boston a month ago.’

  He had changed. There was a directness in him now that seemed almost brutal and the way he stared into her face was momentarily frightening.

  ‘I …’ She wouldn’t let him accuse her. ‘I had some things I wanted to do.’

  ‘Things?’ There was a sneer in his voice that was new, too.

  ‘That’s right,’ Elizabeth said coolly. She was regaining her self-possession now, but the look of him and the sound of his voice still made her want to step into his arms and never move out of his reach again.

  ‘You promised to marry me,’ Aaron said. ‘And you are old enough to know your own mind now. I’ve been waiting all this time for you.’ He put his hand out as he spoke and took hold of her upper arm.

  Elizabeth was wearing a lawn blouse with hand-sewn tucks and her good wool coat because the afternoon wind was cool. She faced up to him, aware of the looks of the passers-by and shopkeepers. She thought he was rude. ‘Take your hand off me,’ she said in a low voice.

  His arm dropped at once. ‘I’m sorry.’ He made no effort to speak quietly. He didn’t seem to care who heard or saw them, and Elizabeth felt herself turning hot with shame. It was only later, much too late, that she realised it was passion that made his face burn and anger that made him sound rough. She wasn’t used to naked feelings, only to dances and mild flirtations in taxis and Andrew Newton’s courtly manners.

  Aaron bent down and shouldered his bag again. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re back safely. But it doesn’t seem that all your wandering has taught you any sense.’ He left her standing on the sidewalk.

  ‘Aaron …’ she called, just once. He never turned back, and she was too conscious of what her mother’s neighbours might think or say to do what she wanted and run after him.

  After that, they saw each other in Pittsharbor often enough. They met, even, once or twice in private, and tried to repair the damage. They kissed once, awkwardly, as if they were tasting a dish they had once overindulged in. But Elizabeth couldn’t forget that she had wanted to run and hide, and Aaron had seen that urge so clearly in her face.

  In the years afterwards they both thought separately that they might have tried harder and understood each other again. But circumstances were against them; the Freshetts were pleased with the idea of a match between Elizabeth and Andrew Newton, and Hannah had presented herself to Aaron.

  On the night before her engagement party Elizabeth and Aaron met again, on the beach looking out to the island. It was February and the bay was a ring of ice, so they had t
o walk briskly over the crackling shingle.

  Elizabeth held her furs tight against her throat, but Aaron pulled them aside and put his mouth to the warmth of her skin. ‘It isn’t too late,’ he whispered.

  Elizabeth thought of her diamond ring and the announcements in the Boston newspapers, and the house on Beacon Hill, which had already been bought. She knew she was a coward and despised herself for her weakness as she answered, ‘It is. It was too late when I left for England.’

  Three months later she became Mrs Andrew Newton, and within a year Aaron married Hannah and began his buying up of the land on the bluff.

  What a waste, Elizabeth thought in the quiet of her evening room. What a long and colourless waste of a life.

  Aaron lay on his back with his arms at his side. Beside the head of the bed was an oxygen cylinder on wheels with a mask attached to the hose.

  Hannah sat in a chair, dozing with her head bent. He had tried insisting that she went home, but she had refused even to listen to him. His breathing was stronger and easier now, and the grey-blue tinge had faded from his lips. Footsteps approached and receded in the corridor outside.

  Suddenly Aaron said loudly, ‘I’m ready to go now.’

  Her head jerked up again and she leaned forward to catch at his hand.

  ‘Did you hear me Hannah? I’m ready to go.’

  Her mouth worked but she couldn’t make words come. She put her fingers on his forehead, bending closer over him.

  He struggled to sit upright, weakly fighting her off. ‘Where are my clothes?’

  ‘Aaron, lie still.’ She looked over her shoulder in the direction from which help might come.

  ‘Bring me my clothes. I want to go home.’

  ‘Hush. Keep still now. Bobby’s coming from Cleveland and Angela …’

  ‘It’s not necessary. I’m not dying.’

  ‘Of course you are not.’

  ‘I want to go home. I want…’

  She soothed him, ‘I know, I know you do. In a few days, maybe …’

  He looked past her to the window. The strength he had summoned for the brief outburst was already spent. ‘I want to smell the sea,’ he whispered.

  Leonie waved and smiled at Mrs Brownlow as she loaded her purchases into the Saab. She had bought supplies of food and drink, although the stores in Haselboro hadn’t offered much choice in either, and withdrawn Jim Whitsey’s rental deposit from the bank. She could be self-sufficient for a few days now, except that she had nothing to read. There was no bookshop in town and the Haselboro Compass and Advertiser would not hold her attention for very long. She glanced again at the telephone on the wall of the store and this time walked towards it without hesitation.

  It was May who answered.

  ‘May, hi. This is Leonie Beam. How are you?’

  ‘I’m, uh, okay.’ Her voice was thickened, as if she had been asleep or perhaps crying.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ Hostility blanked out the moment of uncertainty and Leonie thought, She is all right, or as much as she ever was. ‘May I speak to your father? Is he there?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess, I think he’s outside somewhere. I’ll get him, if you want.’

  I do want, Leonie mouthed. There was the sound of the receiver being dropped and footsteps scuffing away.

  The yellow dog had roused itself from its spot in the shade. It came across now and sniffed at Leonie’s ankles.

  ‘Leonie?’

  She smiled at the sound of his voice. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you? Are you at home?’

  Home? ‘No. Well, in a way. I’m at a place called Haselboro. John, I’ve left him. I walked out this morning. I just drove here and rented a place.’

  There was a silence while he digested this. ‘And last night you said you had no idea what you were going to do.’

  It seemed a very long time ago. It had been a bad telephone conversation; she had felt in despair. In comparison with that, this airy freedom was entrancing, and the mundane small-town street with its white fences and shade trees and slow-moving cars was poignantly beautiful.

  ‘Leonie? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. John, will you come and bring me some books? Just a visit, between friends. A glass of wine and some talk. I’ve got a jug of Napa Valley Chardonnay right here in the car.’

  He asked for directions and she gave them. ‘I’ll be there in an hour or so.’

  ‘Will it be all right for you to leave your girls, just for the evening?’

  ‘Ivy is grown-up now,’ he answered. ‘And May is … well, May will be fine for one evening. I’ll be there soon, okay?’

  ‘Do you have to go?’ May asked him in her most sullen way. She hated the thought of being left alone, yet could not acknowledge it. ‘Where’s she gone, anyway?’

  ‘Just up the coast a way. I’m going to lend her a couple of books. Leonie needs someone to talk to right now. Do you want to come up there with me?’

  May ignored the suggestion. ‘She wants you, doesn’t she? Isn’t having a husband enough for her, she has to grab you as well?’

  ‘It isn’t quite like that.’

  ‘No? What is it like, then?’

  John sighed, caught between irritation and the knowledge that he should stay this evening and try to explain himself to May. She had sabotaged his relationship with Suzanne; maybe more honesty would help them all this time.

  He hesitated, then remembered that Leonie had called him from a public phone. He couldn’t get back to her to change anything now. May was planted in front of him with her fists balled in the pockets of her jeans. ‘I have a life to live too, May,’ he said quietly. ‘Each of us does. Breaking windows and cutting your hands won’t change the fact; all it does is hurt you and fill me with fear. I love you and Ivy …’

  He saw her look away, as if to hide the unwilling pleasure his assurance gave her. He thought, I haven’t talked enough, I haven’t given her the love she needs, the way Ali would have done. ‘And you mean more to me than all the rest of the world. But there are other kinds of wanting and loving as well as this kind.’

  He tried to put his hands on her arms and turn her to face him but she stepped aside, round-shouldered. John sighed. ‘Can we talk about all this tomorrow?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Where’s Ivy, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘I’ll see you later. Watch some TV or something, then both of you have some dinner.’

  He tried to kiss her but May jerked away suddenly and the connection became more a blow than a kiss. Then he was on his way out of the door with some paperbacks under his arm.

  May watched him drive away. ‘I hate you,’ she yelled into the space he left behind.

  Ivy came in later from the beach, in a black mood because Lucas and all the others had been missing for the whole day. May was huddled with her feet on the chesterfield cushions, staring at the television. Hostility crackled between them, low-key at first as they bickered about supper and the division of chores. The sky outside was turning lead-coloured as the light faded.

  ‘Where’s Dad gone, anyway?’ Ivy demanded.

  May told her, gracelessly.

  Ivy adopted her dropped-hip pose, all her slight weight prettily angled. She pointed the tip of the bread-knife at May. ‘You know, why don’t you back off a bit? Why shouldn’t he go see her if that’s what he wants to do?’

  ‘Don’t point that at me. Because she’s married to someone else, for starters. I came up here the other night and saw them … saw them through the window … it was …’ her voice blurred in her throat, then came out too high and hard. ‘It was disgusting.’

  Ivy was staring at her.

  The membrane was stretching, thinning. Losing its opacity. ‘I mean, she’s someone’s … Tom’s wife. I mean, how would it have been if Mom had. Had been with …’ May’s voice faltered and died altogether.

  Out of the box in which she had kept
it jumped the memory. Suddenly and without warning it was there, and she knew what it meant and was amazed by its sharp completeness.

  She had been perhaps six or seven years old.

  She had woken up in the night, surprised because it seemed that at one minute she had been asleep and the next she was as wide awake as if it were the middle of the day. She was hot and her throat burned with thirst. Usually there was a cup of water beside her bed, but tonight Mom must have forgotten to put it there. She pushed the covers aside and climbed out of her bed. The apartment was quiet but the dim light burned in the hall outside, just as it always did.

  She padded out and crossed over to the room where her parents slept. The door was ajar. The room beyond was in darkness and the big bed was flat and empty under its smooth cover. May went on down the hall, remembering that John was away somewhere doing his work.

  There were lights in the big room where the TV was. Soft yellow light, from the big cream-shaded lamp on the corner table. Silently she pushed the door wider open.

  Her mother and a man were lying together on the sofa. Their legs were bare and twisted together. Her mother’s head was thrown back and she looked as if she was screaming. Only more terrifying than terror itself, there was no scream coming out of her mouth, but a little squeak, soft-sounding, like a kitten’s cry. The man’s breath was rasping. Then he began to moan too. He was saying her name over and over, ‘Ali, Ali, Ali.’

  May turned and ran away. She dashed back to her room, pulled the covers over her head and pressed her hands to her ears. She didn’t know how she slept, but she must have done. In the morning she had a temperature. Ali was her mother again, cool and reassuring. She kept her home from school and sent a note to her teacher saying that May had a feverish cold.

  She had forgotten it all because she had made herself forget. She had buried it away.

  Ivy was still staring at her and she knew that Ivy knew, and now Ivy knew that she knew too.