SO THE DOVES

by Heidi James

‘Well,’ she said, standing up and leaning forward a little so her hip pressed against the biroed desk. ‘Perhaps Paul is gay, and so it isn’t quite so ironic. He kills his mother because she stands in the way of his relationship with men.’

  Embarrassed laughter rippled through the class. Darren Shine yawned theatrically.

  ‘But Lawrence makes it clear Paul is attracted to women, as well as his mother. Paul has relationships with other women, which you’d know if you read the book all the way through.’

  Melanie smiled to herself. Marcus looked up at her from his seat. Her face was lit by the fluorescent strip lights that hummed in the background; her expression was almost pitiful, like one of those mournful statuettes of the Virgin Mary that old ladies used to have on the bedside table. ‘But people are more complicated than that, sir. Maybe he’s suppressing his feelings. Maybe. Perhaps Mrs Morel feeling like she’s being buried by marriage and all the class and women’s lib stuff is actually Lawrence telling us that everyone is trapped by society, by rules and expectations.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly a way of looking at it, Melanie. I’m sure many English scholars would argue differently, as would Mr Lawrence himself if we could ask him.’

  ‘If you say so, sir. Personally, I think Lawrence is a woman-hating dickhead, but I doubt you or your scholars would agree with me.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Darren Shine. ‘This is disgusting. Stop talking about queers and sickos or I’ll puke.’ Darren’s little gang made puking sounds and heaved into their desks. Marcus’s heart buffeted like a loose balloon under his shirt.

  ‘Enough, all of you! Melanie – OUT! Go to Mrs Murphy’s office and wait there.’ Laugham was shaking so much he dislodged the covering of hair from his bald patch. It was much bigger than it first seemed.

  Melanie looked down at Marcus and winked, then she picked up her bag and walked slowly out of out of the classroom, carefully closing the door behind her, leaving her copy of the book on the desk; a smudged black stamp saying PROPERTY OF DANNER COMPREHENSIVE half-obscured the title. Marcus laid his hand over the cover, absorbing what she’d left behind.

  No More, No Less

  The indicator ticking like a cartoon bomb, I pulled into our lane, behind the old village green that marked the original centre of the town before it spread like bacteria in a post-war Petri dish. It was quiet, no other cars on the road and no one about. It’s a wide lane and most of the detached houses are Victorian, like Mother’s, surrounded by tall yew hedges, the odd magnolia spilling vanilla petals in the spring. Pseudo-Gothic turrets and dormer windows punctuate the red brick. A couple of the newer neighbours have installed UPVC windows and tall electric gates, to the horror of the stalwarts. The saga of the newcomers’ home improvements dominated my mother’s calls to me for months. The houses, once the residences of doctors, clergy, local officials and the like, now belong to financiers, builders and wealthy businessmen not wealthy enough for London. The same old story everywhere: the movement and flux of money and fortune, the upwardly mobile and the ignoble descent, a rotation like the gulf stream of heat and pressure and the cold salty rush of loss.

  I parked on the drive, behind Joyce’s little yellow Fiat; she’d had the same car for years, like Mother and her Volvo. The cars have become part of their identity, a distinguishing feature. Not for them the three-year cycle of discard and replace, the lease/purchase finance deal, a steady consumption of automotive technology and perpetual debt. Not for them any change at all, if they can help it, only the diminution of age. The wisteria trailed purple around the front of the house, trained around the windows and front door, its lower branches as thick as my arms. I used to think it kept the house upright, whimsical scaffolding – now I’m certain it does. Someday it will bring the house down under its lilac weight.

  ‘Hello stranger, long time no see.’ Mother stood with her arms open at the door, her short grey hair as practical as a schoolboy’s. She wore her uniform of linen slacks, long sleeved linen tunic and, because it was summer, robust sandals with buckles fastening them to her wide feet.

  ‘New car?’ We hugged, her head on my chest, as I wrapped one arm around her, the other holding my bag, and squeezed her for a second before stepping back.

  ‘Sharp as ever, Mother dear. I can’t get anything past you, can I?’

  ‘No need for sarcasm, Marcus.’ She pressed her hand between my shoulder blades and pushed me inside the cool, dark hall.

  ‘How was the drive down?’ She looked me up and down, appraising my general condition: sleep habits, diet and cleanliness. Astute as a farmer assessing his livestock before market, no detail escaped her maternal eye. A small nod indicated she was more or less satisfied.

  ‘Not too bad actually, no traffic this time of day.’

  ‘Good, good. Is your hair different? It looks longer.’

  ‘Is it? Probably, I just let my barber do what he wants.’ That wasn’t entirely true, but I’m embarrassed by my own vanity.

  ‘Well it’s very nice, you look like a pilot from World War Two. Very stylish. Would you like a coffee? Joyce has just put some on for us.’

  ‘Coffee would be great, thanks. I’ll just take my bag up if that’s OK.’

  ‘Of course, darling, your room’s all ready. You remember the way I suppose?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s not been that long, Mother.’

  ‘Just a few years, Marcus. I’ll get your coffee.’

  I dumped my bag on the narrow bed, pulling out my laptop and plugging it in to charge, and grabbed my voice recorder and phone. Nothing had changed. Mother didn’t do redecoration or home improvements unless it was absolutely necessary. I could’ve been a kid again, listening to the ancient heating system that farted and belched through the night; same furniture – my wardrobe, desk and book shelves; the wall paper, sun-faded and patchy. Except now I’m forty-ish with a small paunch and a few grey hairs.

  I considered unpacking and opened the wardrobe. As sturdy as a boat and about as big, it’s a relic as old as the house. It’s doubtful that it has shifted an inch since the day it was first brought up the stairs by at least two strong men, muscling the solid oak and walnut around the turns and corners into this room. I imagine them grunting and swearing, stopping part of the way to rest and wipe the sweat off their brows, men in shirt sleeves and flat caps.

  The heavy mirrored door opened wide and revealed my christening gown, yellowing in the crisp folds of tissue paper along with wedding dresses: my mother’s, her mother’s, an aunt’s. My grandmother’s full-length mink that Mother could face neither wearing nor throwing away, and a wooden box, mine, half-filled with photos, letters and my journal, the evidence that Melanie had existed. Behind the box, obscured by the dusty fur was a hiding place that no one has used for a long time.

  History freighted the house like ballast, keeping us steady, on course and captive to its weight. Dragging us down.

  I closed the wardrobe, left the bag on the bed and went down the stairs. Dust spun in glittering orbits in the Joyce-disturbed air; she flicked her yellow cloth at the banisters and side table.

  ‘It’s a dust trap this house, never ending,’ she said as I rounded the last steps into the hall beside her.

  ‘I know, I don’t know how you manage.’ I kissed her cheek, leathery and dry. She smelt of beeswax and lemon.

  ‘I tell her to get rid of all this old junk, but she won’t listen to me.’

  ‘She’s stubborn, like someone else I know.’ I nudged her elbow and raised an eyebrow. ‘Who ignored their doctor’s advice to retire and take it easy?’

  ‘Easier said than done. Now, get out of it, go on. You can see I’m run off me feet here.’

  Mother sat at the kitchen table, her hands folded around her coffee mug. She smiled as I sat opposite her, in my old chair. My mug was already there, waiting for me, next to a plate of biscuits. I almost heard the click as e
verything slotted back into place.

  ‘So, how are you? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.’

  ‘I know, but I was working on a huge story, and I couldn’t get away.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘It’s not a nine to five job, Mum, you know that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s very important, I know that. I would just like to see more of you.’

  ‘OK. I’m sorry.’

  She sighed, ‘So tell me more about the bank story. Did they really buy all those weapons?’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple, but basically yeah, it looks like it. How they got it past the Government Licensing Committee, God only knows. How about you?’

  ‘As you see, all present and correct.’ She sipped her coffee and watched me over the rim. ‘So what brings you down here now?’

  ‘Work. A body’s been found at the rail link construction site, delaying the work, and Edward insists I cover it.’

  ‘Really? Why you?’

  ‘He said that he thought I could bring a local perspective.’ I gulped the coffee, almost burning my throat. ‘Bloody hell, that’s hot.’

  ‘Be careful, darling. Perhaps he thinks it needs your expertise?’

  ‘Who knows what he’s thinking?’ I half-smiled.

  She reached for a digestive and nibbled the edge. ‘So how’s life otherwise? Are you seeing anyone special?’

  ‘Are those new curtains?’

  The kitchen cupboards and scrubbed surfaces were still clear of the usual kitchen clutter of jars of coffee and tea and biscuit tins and sugar bowls. No mess or frivolous home comforts. No postcards or fridge magnets or any of my childhood paintings on the fridge or cuttings of my work. No unpaid bills piling up on the kitchen table, no drawer full of flat batteries and elastic bands and dried-up pens. Everything necessary was neatly organised in cupboards and drawers.

  ‘You know full well they aren’t, stop avoiding my question. Is there anyone in your life?’

  ‘No, still too busy, still no one.’

  ‘Don’t sound so exasperated. I’m entitled to ask. I want you to be happy, to meet someone who’ll support you. God knows I understand how lonely it can be. Aren’t you lonely? Who do you talk to? Who do you share your worries and your accomplishments with?’

  ‘My readers, Mother. I communicate with them and I’ve got you. How can I be lonely with you around?’ I finished my coffee and rinsed the mug at the sink, heading off the guilt trip that would come my way. ‘Right, I’d better get over to the police station.’

  ‘Already? But we’ve barely spoken and Joyce has made lunch – we’ve got smoked salmon tart.’

  ‘Later? I promise.’ I pressed a kiss to her temple and squeezed her shoulder.

  ‘You’re always leaving as soon as you arrive,’ she said, but I was already at the door.

  Blue and white police tape flicked and dodged in the breeze, tied to metal posts pushed into the newly turned soil. All the trees and hedgerows were gone, hacked down, roots torn up. A temporary access road cut across the clods and ruts for the plant vehicles that were parked across the far side of the site. There was nothing left of the orchard or the farm it had been part of. Flattened and cleared for progress, for connection, the new high-speed rail that would slice through, speeding all the way to the Channel Tunnel and into mainland Europe.

  Uniformed officers (Gavvers, that’s what Melanie had called them, I could hear her as clearly as if she were beside me, so now you know) blocked access to the site to the small crowd of hacks, photographers and a few ghouls who love being near a murder site; standing alone, a tall man with expensive jeans and haircut was tapping furiously at a Blackberry. We all stood watching the forensics team in white paper suits moving back and forth, crouching and bagging up, taking notes and photos. Two men and a woman in civilian clothes, obviously the SIO and his DIs stood watching the proceedings at the edge of the field.

  I hadn’t worked on a criminal case for a long time, not since the early days of my career, years ago, but I could still reel out the abbreviations: Senior Investigating Officer, Detective Inspectors, Detective Constables… Like riding a bike. Some things you just don’t forget, like my first editor’s repeated directive to ‘just find the story, that’s all there is to it. The Facts. Details. Corroborating evidence. No more, no less.’ I used to repeat it to myself like a mantra when I was starting out. If only it were that easy. It had been, then.

  They were huddled together; one of them, the older male, greying hair, not much taller than the woman, looked upset, as if he were being comforted, his head hanging. I watched closely, wondering if there was more to this story after all, waiting to see what would happen next. The female DI gripped his arm, but then they broke apart and the scene changed completely. They were professionals, working: there was no drama, nothing but the job. I stepped back to refocus, and look again. It was a crime scene, clear as day, not a soap opera; being back there was already clouding my judgment.

  The three detectives turned and started moving towards us, towards the perimeter and the small crowd feeding off their work, and for a moment I thought I recognised the SIO. Before I could place him, the guy in the expensive jeans put away his phone and strode towards them, attempting to meet them at the gate.

  ‘How much longer is this going to take?’ he bellowed. His voice had the heft of someone used to giving orders, orders he expected to be followed. ‘We are losing millions every day this drags on. Why is no one giving me any answers?’

  ‘Sir, step back, sir.’ The uniform stood in his way as the detectives signed themselves out of the area like travellers crossing a border.

  ‘I need bloody answers. There’s a lot at stake here.’

  ‘Sir, move away.’ The uniform moved closer but he stood firm.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ He raised his hands, a gesture caught between tearing out his hair and smashing the uniform in the face. He did neither. Just dropped his arms by his side. His pulse flared in his neck like a coded warning for a heart attack.

  One of the detectives turned back – the younger male, tall, broad-shouldered, blondish hair cut short around the temples. ‘Mr Williamson, am I right?’

  He nodded yes.

  ‘I’m DI McMahon.’ He held out his hand and Williamson shook it, all the fight gone from him. ‘This is a serious crime scene and we need to be thorough, I’m sure you understand that. We also understand you have a job to do, so we’ll be out of your way as soon as we can.’ He was good. Very good.

  ‘When?’

  McMahon flexed his fingers, exposing the palm of his hand, ‘When we can, and it’ll be sooner if I can get on with my job.’ He stepped back, watching Williamson for a second, confirming his message had registered. He turned to go, and caught my eye. ‘Press?’ I nodded. ‘There’ll be a press conference tomorrow morning, eleven a.m. at the station. Our press liaison will give you more details.’ Then he was gone, into the waiting car and pulling down the track.

  The tension ebbed. The uniform returned to his post, his hands crossed over his clipboard. The other hacks, young, locals – as you’d expect – climbed into their cars; there was nothing left to be gained there.

  Williamson didn’t move; he looked stuck, as if he’d run out of steam. I felt sorry for him: I don’t think he’d experienced that kind of impotence before.

  ‘Mr Williamson?’

  He looked up, blinking as if roused from a sleep. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Marcus Murray, from the Sentinel. Could we talk?’

  ‘The Sentinel?’

  ‘Yes, you’re big news. Major international contract, government involvement, delay costing millions, this is a big deal.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Would you be willing to talk? Just on background first, if you like.’

  He pressed his lips together, a
nd pushed his hands into his pockets – everything telling me I wouldn’t get anything out of this guy, but then he said, ‘What can I tell you? I know nothing. The police have all the answers now.’

  ‘That must be very frustrating.’ I waited, turning myself to him, opening up, softening my shoulders, my expression. It worked. It always did.

  ‘I’m fucking drowning here and the minister is doing nothing. It’s the coroner apparently. Nothing they can do. The law must take its course. Yadda yadda yadda. I’ve got everyone breathing down my neck. There’s men ready to work, being paid whether we’re on the job or not. There’s the equipment, the regulations, the bureaucracy. The French are going mad: we’re holding them up – like it’s my fault. We’ve only just got rid of the green lot…’

  ‘The green lot?’

  ‘Yeah, the protestors. You must’ve heard about that.’

  ‘Right, don’t want the link damaging the wildlife.’

  ‘Yeah, this fucking site in particular: there are fucking skylarks nesting on the ground here, according to them. The police were no fucking help then either.’ He looked over at the uniform, but his comment fell on deaf ears.

  An image of a skylark broke my train of thought: a skylark hovering high in the air singing the lines of his territory, and Melanie, sitting in the long grass telling me why they sing and how they nest.

  ‘Murray?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, I’m listening.’

  ‘So what else can I tell you?’

  ‘Ah yes, who do you report to?’

  ‘I supervise this and a few other sites, but I’m part of the overall negotiations.’

  ‘Of course. You liaise with the Government?’

  ‘I haven’t got time for that: I’m the one who gets things done on the ground. The real work. When I fucking can, at least.’ He expanded his chest, pulling his shoulders back. He was a real display animal that one.

  ‘I get it. So, what did your men discover?’

  ‘A body. They were finally clearing the ground, getting somewhere, then there’s a shout and one of the diggers has uncovered a body. Been there a while too, they reckon.’