The Treacle Well

by Moira Forsyth

  On their own, when Anna had gone to bed, Louise poured them a glass of wine each and settled down to listen.

  When she said she was going to be a psychologist, Harry and Janet were sceptical. ‘What on earth use is a psychology degree?’ Janet had asked. ‘What kind of career can you have with that?’ When it had been explained to them – by Esther and Louise combining knowledge and forces, they still did not think it was suitable for Louise. Janet, dutifully, read up as much as she could about potential career options, but was not reassured.

  Margaret was surprised to find herself talking so much. Afterwards, regretting it a little, she blamed the wine that she was not used to, and the way Louise kept filling her glass when she wasn’t looking. Louise, for her part, knew nobody had bothered to listen to Margaret for a long time. Perhaps they never had.

  ‘To be fair,’ she told Esther later, ‘Tilly never said much about herself. She was always quiet.’

  Now she talked.

  Keeping the box of tissues nearby, not saying much, Louise once or twice let the pauses lengthen to long silences, as she knew to do, as she knew was necessary now and then.

  The tastefully, expensively furnished living room had become an empty space with nothing personal in it. It might have been a consulting room, carefully neutral. Mike had gone from it, and Anna too, her toys banished to her bedroom or the painfully mis-called ‘playroom’ next to the conservatory. Margaret could not surely be so negative a presence that she was represented by the blandness of marble table lamps and sheepskin rugs, silk cushions and solid beech coffee tables. Louise saw that the photograph of her wedding had disappeared, as had the one of the three of them on a beach in Corfu. Only a photograph of Anna as a toddler remained.

  Louise considered she was good at keeping herself out of the listening process. She absorbed, reflected, put in a well-judged phrase or sentence, moved the topic on, not allowing the other person to get stuck. Here though it was different, this was Margaret, her almost-sister, the little one of the Elties, the one who must always be protected but who had now been left painfully exposed.

  Only to Esther would Louise go near to admitting she felt dismayed, and if not out of her depth, at any rate less use to Margaret than she had wanted to be.

  So much, she thought, so far beneath. We never even thought.

  ‘You know that phrase about opening a can of worms?’ she said to Esther later.

  ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Well, more like hissing snakes.’

  Though Louise had not given much away, Esther decided to give in return what she knew – or half knew – and brought to mind again Caroline’s list of bequests, and their bewildering omission.

  ‘Well, nice to know I’m getting more stuff if I manage to have kids,’ Louise said, laughing at the whole idea.

  ‘But – ’

  ‘Yeah. I got that. Nothing for Margaret.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re right about secrets. There are more than we know.’

  Up and Down the Stairs

  1990

  The children had been running up and down stairs all day, exploring, shouting, dragging their toys from one room to another and squabbling. Esther and Jack, tripping over each other and their children, heaved boxes about and tried to decide where everything should go.

  Gordon had retreated to the kitchen and sat in a basket chair, reading. Perhaps he had, after all, been better on his own. He had instinctively drawn his chair close to the alcove where the range had once stood. He regretted taking it out; his mother had been right.

  ‘Uncle Gordon, which room did you sleep in when you were a wee boy?’ Andrew stood in front of him, feet apart and arms folded, frowning. This was clearly an important question and Gordon considered his answer.

  ‘Can you guess?’ he said finally. He looked round the kitchen. ‘Get me a writing pad from the sideboard – top drawer in the middle.’ Andrew hesitated (was he going to get an answer?) then did as he was told. Gordon tore a sheet off and divided it into three strips. ‘You can each have a piece of paper and write on it which room you think. Then bring them back to me and I’ll see if any of you is right.’

  ‘And does the right one get to have your room?’

  Gordon was nonplussed. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘I might be sleeping in it already.’

  Andrew thought of another objection. ‘Kitty can’t write much yet. Only her name and ‘cat’ and ‘dog’ – stuff like that.’

  Tiring of this already, Gordon shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh well. Maybe one of you could write it for her?’

  ‘We might cheat,’ Andrew said. ‘We won’t though, honestly.’

  ‘Good.’ With relief, Gordon returned to his book as Andrew sped off and could be heard clattering upstairs.

  A moment later, Esther came in and filled the kettle. ‘I thought we could all do with a cup of tea. I hope the children aren’t bothering you too much. ’

  She had a smudge across her nose and the knees of her jeans were white with dust. The house had not been cleaned much for some time. Perhaps Esther would be doing that now? He decided not to ask just yet. She seemed tired, brushing her hair away from her face with the back of her hand, sighing as she dropped tea bags into mugs.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘It’s chaos, I’m sorry, we should probably just have put our furniture in store.’

  ‘The steading’s fine and dry. Nothing will come to any harm there.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. It’s the house. An awful lot of our stuff has to be here – the kids’ things and our clothes and books and. . . . Do you mind? Is it really all right?’

  He was fond of Esther and Louise, having no sense of guilt about them. They were not his responsibility. Grown up, they had become charming women who were very easy on the eye, Esther even today, grubby in old clothes.

  ‘You’ll brighten up the place,’ he said, duty bound to reassure her. ‘I’m delighted to have you here.’

  ‘Um. I thought you might be regretting it – the state of the place and all this rumpus.’

  Upstairs, Andrew had explained the business of writing room descriptions on pieces of paper. They were finding it difficult to define clearly which room they each meant. Jack came upon them arguing over it at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Gordon’s room?’ he said, misunderstanding. ‘He has the big one at the front – used to be your Granny’s when she was a wee girl. When he was a boy he had the one at the end – the little one looking out to the back garden.’

  They stared at him in unison. ‘You’ve spoiled it!’ Andrew cried. Ross, scribbling rapidly, started heading downstairs. ‘Wait!’ Andrew yelled. ‘That’s cheating!’

  Kirsty, bewildered, handed her piece of paper to her father. ‘You do it Daddy,’ she said.

  Esther, appearing at the bottom of the stairs, was almost bowled over by Ross in his haste. Righting herself – ’Ross, look where you’re going!’ she called up to Jack,

  ‘Did you find the box with the kitchen things?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I found my CDs.’

  ‘That’s all right then!’ She went crossly back to the kitchen, leaving Jack with Kirsty, so he drew a cat for her on the slip of paper. Puzzled, she stared at it. ‘Is it a clue?’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, scooping her up. ‘You can help me find Mummy’s ladles and wooden spoons, or whatever it is she needs.’

  Louise thought of calling Braeside to see how they were all getting on. She was surprised by how much her thoughts had turned to Esther during the day, knowing they were moving in. It’s only temporary, she kept telling herself, and yet it did not seem like that. She could not see them moving out again to a modern house or even an old one, some former schoolhouse to do up, or a barn conversion, the kind of thing Esther was always talking about. Why bother? It was all there at Braeside, the best house you could have for growing children and family and visitors. She would go and stay herself, soon. She did not want Esther’s
life, but liked to picture Esther having it. My surrogate life, she thought. Their games when they were little – I’ll have four children, Esther would say, and their names will be – and Margaret, interrupting complacently, would declare she meant just to have one, a beautiful little girl. Then they turned to Louise, but she had never had this vision for her life. I’m going to get a horse, she would say. A black racehorse, and I’m going to win a lot of races and be very rich. Sometimes she imagined a tiger, or a Rolls Royce or a yacht. Never a pack of children.

  Esther and Margaret had got closer to their childhood plans than she had. Not even the yacht, she thought, laughing at herself. The last client had left and she was alone in the small consulting room she used in the clinic. She had only a few clients now, and took an occasional clinic for colleagues when they were sick or on leave. Soon she meant to give it up altogether, since she was making enough from romantic fiction to manage with that. A new flat first, she had decided, before prices rose any further.

  She was the last to leave, so she locked up and set the alarm. Outside it was dark, but the October evening mild and dry so she hooked her jacket over her shoulder and walked to Goodge Street for the tube, glad to be alone in the crowd, thinking what she might cook for supper, since Robin was coming over. Someone running up the steps bumped violently against her. Instinctively, too long in London not to be wary, she clutched her bag. It was safe, but she was shoved against someone else going down. Righting herself with a hasty sorry she almost went on, but her arm was held.

  ‘Louise?’

  It was Caroline. They stopped, commuters dividing impatiently around them.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Louise said. Rising to the top of the steps they moved to the inside of the pavement to find a small space where they could speak.

  ‘How are you? I’m sorry not to have been in touch – I meant to, but – ’

  ‘It’s all right – I know how it is. I’m fine. Mum says you’re getting married – when’s the wedding?’

  ‘Oh. January, probably.’

  ‘Look, have you time for a drink or something? Robin’s coming round, but not till eight.’

  Caroline hesitated. ‘All right.’ She glanced round. ‘There’s a place in Charlotte Street. I sometimes meet people there – ’

  ‘Sure.’

  Together, they turned and walked away from the underground station.

  ‘Were you on your way somewhere – I’m not holding you up?’ Louise asked.

  ‘No, I was at UCH to see a woman I used to work with. She wanted my advice about a job she’s applying for.’

  ‘How funny I didn’t see you till we got to the tube – I came that way.’

  They sat down in the corner of a wine bar, just beginning to fill at the end of the working day.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Caroline said. ‘What would you like?’

  Louise watched her ordering drinks at the bar. There were silver streaks in the dark hair, but she was slim and upright as ever, her skin smooth apart from tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, a deepening of the indentations on either side of her mouth. In a soft light, she might have been ten years younger or more. She had a wild thought that Caroline had a portrait in her attic not so unmarked by time.

  Louise took out her cigarettes as Caroline set down their glasses of wine.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  A quirk of a smile, a shrug. ‘Your lungs. Though probably mine too, if passive smoking is as bad as we hear.’

  ‘I hate that,’ Louise said, putting the cigarette back in the packet. ‘People who say they don’t mind and then take all the pleasure from it, making me feel guilty.’

  Caroline laughed. ‘Stop then. You’ll ruin your skin.’

  ‘Tell me about your wedding – I have to know all the details so I can relay them to Esther and Margaret. Mum doesn’t seem to know a lot.’

  ‘Not much to tell.’ Caroline saw Louise’s expression. ‘Honestly. I’ve known Philip as a friend for years. I’m surprised you’ve not met him when you’ve been over – perhaps you have. Anyway, his marriage ended a year or so ago, and we’ve . . .’ She hesitated.

  ‘Got closer?’ Louise suggested. ‘Realised you were made for each other?’

  ‘You write too many romances,’ Caroline smiled. ‘We just got into the habit of being together.’

  ‘He’s a habit?’

  Caroline shook her head, refusing to be drawn further. ‘What about you?’

  ‘My life is less romantic than yours, if that’s possible. Robin’s my habit.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  Louise thought, she didn’t get closer to him after his divorce. ‘You want to know about it?’

  Caroline flushed. ‘Tell me about the family, since neither of us wants to talk about . . . ourselves.’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite happy to talk,’ Louise assured her. ‘It just wouldn’t be terribly interesting.’ As I’m sure you know, she thought, but did not say. ‘Anyhow, Margaret’s divorcing Mike. Reluctantly. Well, she hates the idea of divorce, but we’ve all persuaded her she’s better to be completely independent now.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. Pity, though,’ Caroline said.

  ‘Oh well,’ Louise said. ‘Other people’s relationships . . . you can never tell.’

  They fell silent as the bar filled with drinkers, the talk around them louder, the place warming up.

  ‘Esther’s moving into Braeside today,’ Louise said after a few moments. ‘I must ring her when I get home to see how they got on.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Caroline’s face darkened. ‘Esther – did you say Esther’s moving into Braeside?’

  ‘Didn’t Mum tell you? They’re staying there while they look for a house.’

  ‘It’s temporary then?’

  Louise stared. ‘Of course – what did you think? It’ll be your house anyway, yours and Margaret’s – one day.’

  ‘I don’t think it will ever be Margaret’s,’ Caroline said, then bit her lip, as if sorry she’d said this. ‘Anyway – that’s an excellent idea. It will keep Dad happy and give him some company.’

  They talked about work after that, since it was an easy subject for them. It was safe to speculate about the NHS and other lives and comment on them.

  ‘Time I went,’ Louise said eventually, gathering up her coat and bag. ‘Have you a date for the wedding?’

  ‘Look,’ Caroline said, ‘it’s not going to be bridesmaids and flowers. That would be ridiculous. I’m nearly forty-eight, he’s been married before, and we just want to have a quiet day. We’ve got some leave planned, so we’ll go away for about three weeks. That’s it, really.’

  Louise smiled. ‘This is your tactful way of telling me to mind my own business and I’m not getting an invitation?’

  ‘It will just be us and about half a dozen close friends.’

  Louise was taken aback. ‘You really don’t want any family there?’

  Caroline had pulled on her coat. They both stood up. ‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s no point.’

  Out in the dark street they stood for a moment in awkward silence.

  ‘Right,’ Louise said at last. ‘I’d better go.’

  She raised a hand in farewell, but before she could move, Caroline said, ‘Look. Sorry. Come and meet Philip, come a week on Sunday when we’re having people in. Not my place – his.’ She dug her hands in her coat pockets and came up with a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Here – this is his address. I meant to give it to Sara today and forgot. She’s invited too.’

  Louise put the piece of paper in her bag without looking at it. ‘Ok,’ she said. ‘I’ll see.’

  Caroline sighed. ‘You could come to the wedding too, since you’re in London anyway. I don’t – it’s not – ’ She stopped and Louise saw anxiety in her expression. ‘You have it the wrong way round,’ she said at last.

  ‘What the wrong way round?’

  ‘There’s no reason, you know, that Esther and Jack couldn’t have Braeside even
tually. I won’t have children and I only go there to see Dad and of course – well, the churchyard.’

  She flushed and Louise, taking pity, though she was still unsure what she was pitying, said, ‘It’s fine. You can have whoever you want at your own wedding. I did. Both times. Though look where that got me.’ She raised her eyes, self-mocking, and Caroline’s expression softened.

  ‘Lou – it’s not anything the family have done. Even Dad, though there are things we couldn’t easily forgive him.’ She hesitated, while Louise wondered what those things were. And did ‘we’ mean Daniel too?

  ‘It’s me, it’s what I did,’ Caroline said. ‘What I made Daniel do. What he did. It was my fault.’ She hitched the strap of her bag more securely on her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you next week.’

  Before Louise had taken this in, before she had an answer, Caroline had turned and was walking away swiftly in the direction of Oxford Street, disappearing beyond a stationary group of people discussing which restaurant they were going to eat in.

  Louise walked slowly back the way they had come, heading for Goodge Street station again. She was going to be late and Robin would be there before her. For the first time she did not care; she was in no hurry.

  Andrew and Ross were climbing the stairs, but not in the usual way. It was an expedition: the stairhead was the mountain summit and several books were placed strategically as obstacles – glaciers, hidden snow holes, avalanche triggers. Every now and then one of them had a terrible accident and rolled all the way to the bottom with loud yells. They carried Uncle Gordon’s rucksack, which they wore in turn. At the top, panting with exaggerated fatigue, they opened the rucksack and took out a bottle of water and biscuits and ate their rations. Esther had refused to give them a flask of soup and sandwiches and had insisted, most unfairly, that they eat their lunch with everyone else in the kitchen.