Normal voice. Normal Tommy Dando, charming Tommy Dando, who could talk his way into or out of anything! ‘Gracie!’ he said again, and now he was everyday Tommy just raising his voice a little, for someone who clearly hadn’t heard him. Should she answer? Could she?
She could open an eye. But when she opened her mouth only panting breath came out. He was holding the kettle, she saw.
‘Want some tea?’ he said. ‘Gracie?’ Slightly impatient now, as if he knew she’d heard him perfectly well all along, and was teasing him. ‘Come on, get up, stop larking about. Where’s the cups?’
And now, when he was no longer trying to touch her, when he sounded so everyday, she began at last to be terrified. It had all been shock before, at the stunning speed with which everything had changed, and shock had drained all her strength away, so that she had hardly fought back, hardly done anything at all, except curl up into a ball, a human hedgehog. Now she lay quiet, trying to think, her stomach turning over and over with dread. Who was he, what was he, that she had let into the house?
He was feeling just as she did, she thought, that what had just happened had been so unbelievable that it seemed unlikely to have happened at all; but taking it further, grasping at it, deciding that yes, in spite of all appearances and evidence and of course the actual facts concerned, on the whole it would be best, certainly best for him, Tommy Dando, if the entire incident was not just unlikely, but really impossible. Nope: none of it had really happened.
‘This milk alright?’
Was it him, though, or were all men like this? Various fragments of confidential information came back to her. Men couldn’t actually stop all that once they’d started, whispered Lily. That was why you had to be careful. The only way to stop them was to kick them you know where; if you kicked them good and hard they just fell over and lay there groaning all helpless!
Could that be true? Could that really be all it took?
I just didn’t think to kick him, Lily.
Cautiously Grace managed to straighten herself out, and slowly sit up on the floor. She felt unprecedented: all sorts of things. Her chin hurt, and she put up a trembling hand, feeling the big swelling already arising there. Her cheekbone too; she explored it with her fingertips, and found a great tender bulge. It was all going to show, she realized, and at the thought of her mother, of Violet, a sob began working its way up and out, and to try and choke it off she stood up, as quickly as she could, holding on to the table for support.
He was standing beside the door, with something in his hand. ‘Couldn’t find the cups,’ he said. His tone was slightly indignant. ‘I could only find this one. Bit small!’ It was Ruth’s little blue and white cup, Grace saw, swinging by its painted handle from his big forefinger.
‘I’ll get them,’ she said, and her voice, she heard, sounded wonderfully normal. At once she felt calmer. Her upstairs may be deaf as a post, she told herself, but Next Door aren’t. If he comes near me I scream the place down and I scream his name. And I break the window. What have I got to break the window with, quick, quick think, what have I got? It must not be anything he thinks is a weapon I want to use on him. It must be something small. Ah. Yes. A potato. That one. Just right. Grab it – and smash that pane there.
All this fierce thought and detailed planning took no time at all, it arrived in a silvery flash as she heard her own normal voice saying ‘I’ll get them.’ She kept her head down, don’t meet the eyes, more of Lily’s whispered advice, though surely that’s bad dogs, isn’t it, suggested another part of her mind, which was labouring away in clear thudding words rather than in flashes, as she opened the cupboard beside the fireplace and took out two everyday cups and saucers. From the corner of her eye she saw him set Ruth’s cup down on the edge of the dresser, and felt a tiny gain, the smallest triumph, because she had managed to hide from him how important it was.
But the trouble was, she realized, as she put the tea tray together, the trouble was there seemed to be nothing else to do now but carry on and make a pot of tea. He was still standing between her and the back door. She would never get past him quick enough to the front one, and in any case that was kept locked, the key on a string beside the letterbox, so that you could in theory let yourself in with it if you were locked out at the back. But as a way out, an escape route, it was useless.
She had laid a good fire; already the kettle he had put on was singing. A kettleful of boiling water: not at all nice to have about the place when you were dealing with this sort of thing, the thuddingly verbal bit of Grace’s mind pointed out. Don’t want anyone flinging it, do we now? Can’t you get him away from that door? How about getting him to sit down? If he sat in Violet’s chair he’d be on the other side of the table from the door. Did you put up the catch when you closed it?
I didn’t close it, Grace answered herself, and her stomach seemed to give way inside her. I didn’t close it, he did, and I don’t know how: perhaps he turned the key.
She made a good show of scalding out the teapot, and put the kettle back on the hob while she spooned in the tea. Thud thud thud: when you’ve filled the pot, empty the kettle down the sink. If he looks, say that we always do. Because the drain blocks.
‘Starving,’ said Tommy Dando, and he tried one of his smiles, but she could see it wasn’t working, his face wasn’t working properly, the smile looked utterly wretched. For the first time she understood that there really was something wrong with him, that he hadn’t just catastrophically misunderstood her or acted out of character or (finally it occurred to her) drunk too much, that he hadn’t just overdone being manly and forceful as perhaps any boy might who wasn’t quite used to being one yet, no, really, no: there was something very wrong with him inside, all wrong and mad and horrible.
Cake. Biscuits in the tin. All of it near him in the cupboard beside his head. Too close. Grabbing close. Could she give him the pie?
‘Come and sit down,’ she said. If he sat down she could go to the cupboard and as she passed it check on the door. Could she? No, oh no, she couldn’t, the blind was down too far; she couldn’t see the lock at all. Not without lifting up the blind.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Thanks,’ he added. Then an attempt to be casual: ‘Actually. Think I’ll be getting along now. If you don’t mind. Sorry about the tea.’
‘Oh. Oh, alright then.’
‘We’re still friends though, ain’t we, Gracie?’
Beginning to sound that way again, the conversational part of Grace’s mind remarked. Don’t you think? Sounding that way again?
‘Course,’ she said, sounding not too bad, almost realistically warm, even.
‘And you did let me in, all lovey-dovey, didn’t you? Eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘You would, wouldn’t you, your sort.’ He added softly, as if he were paying her a compliment, as if he were pleased with her: ‘You dirty bitch.’
Nothing useful to say to that; better keep quiet, Grace advised herself. Right you are, then, I will.
‘Ain’t you, eh? Right. Bye then.’ He backed, his eyes still on her, his beautiful blue eyes, one hand reaching out for the door. Not looking where he was going; and his foot caught on the doormat by the threshold, and he stumbled, fell backwards, and knocked his head on the doorjamb with a strangely loud and roundly wooden thud.
His face looked so shocked, so outraged, and above all the noise was so funny, that even in her state of terrified half-stunned awareness, or because of it, Grace gave a little gasp. It was hardly laughter. Just a breath, really, and the corners of her mouth very briefly very slightly turned up.
But she knew instantly that she had made a terrible mistake.
‘Oh, Tommy, I’m sorry, are you –’
‘Alright,’ she was going to finish, but she didn’t get that far. The word just stopped where it was. He was too quick, his rage too much for them both. He did not move, but cast around for a weapon, snatched up the little oil lamp standing nearby on the lower part of the dresser, and threw it as
hard as he could at her face.
It wasn’t far. His aim was good, his arm was strong. But Grace was quicker. She flung up her hand; the lamp struck her forearm, the glass shattered, the base drenched her with hot oil, and at once she wore a sleeve of bursting flames.
Without volition or thought she took a step towards him. He backed, grabbed something as if to ward her off, threw it at her, missed, something shattering behind her; he vanished, he was of no account, had never been, Grace was alone for a heartbeat, flailing wildly at the fire with her other hand, spreading it to her other sleeve then think, think, not water not water lamp oil lamp oil not water, coat rug yes, hearth rug, quick, roll quick stifle –
A silence, then banging and crying, voices outside.
‘Mrs Dimond, Violet – is that you? What’s going on, are you alright?’
Next door. Next-door people, knocking at the front.
She staggers to her feet. The pain is almost blinding but her mind silvery quick one last time: police no thanks no thanks, accident – all my own fault – no one here but me, I fell off the table, knocked into the lamp, why was I on the table, come up with something later, look at this blood, my hand all bloody, where’s this blood coming from?
The passage, so dark, the box of potatoes where it stood all those months ago when she last looked, the string, the damn string so hard to pick up, swinging, key, I do wish you’d stop that shouting, I’m being as fast as I can, key won’t go in, won’t go in, goes in, turns, doorknob – slippery …
Grace and lots of people outside. She falls into someone’s arms, and is held there.
18
She had wanted to come home after dark. And when Violet explained that the carrier had to fit them in when he could, round about three or four in the afternoon probably, she had huddled into herself and turned away, as if she could hardly bear the news.
‘Can I have a veil, then?’
‘A what? What for, my lamb? What d’you want one of them things for?’
Finally Bea had gone out and borrowed one, pinned it to her hat for her. Oh, what a sad thing she was then for her mother to see, so frail, a stick-like creature swathed in black netting, a ghost of herself, just able to climb shakily from the bath-chair outside the hospital into the carrier’s cart, and out of it again at the other end! They had had to hold her up on either side, one step at a time, into the front door and through the living room to the bedroom all ready for her.
‘Draw the curtains, please!’
That was all she said. And sunk down upon the bed, poor thing, breathing hard from the effort of walking from one room to another.
Violet had told herself then that she would soon mend, now she was home. She had thought of the sick baby in the cottage in Porthkerris, and the busy happiness of wholesome cookery.
But the new Grace seemed uninterested in food, no matter how tempting. She seemed to have no interest in anything at all. She wanted only to sleep, or to quietly lie awake in the darkened room.
‘But it’s Aggie Ticknell! Really wants to say hello – I won’t let her stay long – do say she can pop in, Gracie!’
‘No. Tell her I’m asleep. Please, Ma.’
‘It’s Lily Houghton. I can’t send her away again, Gracie. Won’t you see her, just a few minutes?’
No.
In all the world, it seems to Grace, there is only this bed where she is safe and can be herself in peace. Everywhere else there are eyes upon her and people all thinking variations of the same thing. Everywhere she is marked out. She has always been marked out. But now she is doubly so. The monstrous truncated hand marks her out. As if there were a banner over her head, reading LOOK HERE NOT ONCE BUT TWICE and now all eyes will see not only her difference but also her horrid maiming, which was all her own fault for letting …
For letting
And there’s something else: she has discovered that she must not think his name. She feels sick just at the idea of it. She has to keep not-thinking about him, and this is very tiring, as some other part of her mind seems to want to bring him up all the time. So she has to be careful, and not let herself drift off into any apparently safe byways of daydream, because that’s where he always turns out to be waiting for her.
What d’you think I’m doing, you silly bitch?
His hand digging so painfully into her breast. Sometimes she can almost feel his fingers there still, as if he’s left some permanent mark.
‘Mr Godolphin called again, Gracie. Left you one or two little things to read. I leave ’em here?’
‘Leave them wherever you like, Mammy.’
There’s a lot of this kind of thing, practically a pile of books waiting to be read. All sorts of feminine consolation sit beside them on the chest of drawers: cut flowers, miniature roses in a painted earthenware pot, a little haberdashery kit to fit in a handbag, with a hundred different-coloured threads all beautifully plaited together for every imaginable sewing emergency, new hair-ribbons, an expensive bunch of black grapes heavy with bloom, a small basket of ripe peaches, letters – a surprising number of letters of kindly concern, of sympathy, of earnest hopes for a speedy recovery.
Leave them wherever you like. Grace is too busy keeping her thoughts safe to look at any of it. Besides, it all carries some taint of the outside world, and this in itself is risky.
Sometimes she tries to imagine walking about Silkhampton, the square, the High Street, St George’s, the Picture Palace. As once she walked Barty Small along the lane to the town, now she walks herself, making sure the place is in darkness, herself the only person there, no one to stare or judge or scorn.
There she is in front of Ticknell’s blind-drawn window, turning for home. Night-time; she wills herself there, in the cool spring darkness. But the more clearly she envisages herself the more she understands that even if she could make it true, even if she were well enough to walk all by herself to Ticknell’s and back, her memory would still be working, and it would be showing her Tommy Dando across the street, laughing, touching his hat, smiling, begging her to accept the little note. Tommy Dando being his real self then; or his pretend one.
That they were both real selves, and at the same time both pretend, was for Grace the hardest thought to keep away from, though it seemed a perfect flare of danger and impossibility. People were steady, usually, she told herself. There might be him. There might be Lily Houghton. But there was also Ma. There was Aunt Bea. Mrs Ticknell, daft Georgie Givens and poor May, Mr Vowles, Mr Godolphin – none of them were pretending, were they? None of them would suddenly in an instant turn into someone else, would they?
It seemed often to Grace that they might. That she might herself. That there was nothing and no one solid to hold on to in this world.
‘It’s Miss Thornby, Grace.’
‘Who?’
‘Miss Thornby – says you were at school together.’
Grace makes a small sound, of doubt and indifference.
‘Were you? At school together?’
‘I don’t know,’ murmurs Grace. Faint irritation now. She closes her eyes. ‘Tell her to go away. Please, Auntie.’
Along with keeping Tommy Dando out, Grace had further trouble with Lily Houghton. It was important not to think about Lily, or remember her, and this also was a real strain, a constant effort of will. But it had to be done.
Lily had visited the hospital, of course, very early on, as soon as she could beg an extra hour off.
‘I said you was my sister! Dunno what they’ll do when they find out it’s you. Sack me prob’ly, but I don’t care. How you doing, Gracie?’
How kind and nice she was then, and what a comfort it had been to see her looking so like normal life, like everyday reality! Grace had very nearly told her everything; couldn’t think afterwards what had held her back, primed with laudanum as she was. Of course she knew she was never going to tell Ma, or Bea; but in one or two of her pain-free intervals she had half-pictured herself confiding in Lily. Only when she had the chance she coul
dn’t face it somehow. Saying all that out loud, hearing it all on the air: just the idea of talking about it made her heart pound rather sickeningly. It wouldn’t be just telling Lily, she realized; it would be telling herself as well. And could she really expect Lily to keep it all a secret? Surely that would be too much to ask of anyone.
Nearly a week later Lily had come again, this time on her afternoon out, so she had more time. Grace had known there was something wrong almost straight away, Lily was so elaborately casual as she asked: ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard from Tommy at all?’
Grace felt herself go very still, as if even her breathing had to stop at the sound of his name, and time seemed to slow down. Good job I didn’t tell her, she thought clearly. Less clearly, she already seemed to know what Lily was going to say next. She shook her head a little against the pillow: no.
‘He’s proper shaken up, of course,’ said Lily. ‘Well, we all are. Said to say how sorry he was about the – you know, the operation.’
For by then Mr Hargreaves, the surgeon from the city hospital, had come in person, to give his more experienced opinion. But he had only confirmed Dr Summers’ own. The lamp glass had sliced into three of the fingers, severing the flexor tendon of the little finger and cutting deeply into those of the next two, and the burns on that part of the hand were also full thickness. There could be no residual function, Mr Hargreaves agreed. And with any healing there would of course be considerable contraction. There really was only one way to proceed, as he feared Dr Summers already knew; the surgery itself should be straightforward; aftercare slightly complicated perhaps by the broken arm. From a table, indeed? Unusual – a cracked radial head so commonly associated with falling flat, rather than from a height, wouldn’t you say? And what might the young lady have been doing up on a table in the first place? Ah. A trapped bird. These young ladies, so tender-hearted.
‘Said if there was anything he could do, you only have to ask,’ said Lily now.
Grace considered her options. There seemed no way out but the obvious. ‘You been seeing him, then?’
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