‘It’s a pointless space,’ said Nathan from the doorway, and Colette jumped. ‘You couldn’t fit anything there.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘And if you move the wardrobe along any further it’ll block the light, and it’s dark enough in here already.’
Colette made a small noise of agreement. She didn’t want to tell Nathan about her tiny ocean view, her secret patch of harbour. Instead she said, ‘We had a corner like this in our old house, in the kitchen. The Naughty Corner. My parents didn’t believe in smacking, so if we misbehaved we got sent to the Naughty Corner and had to stand facing the wall until we were sorry.’ She could still remember the glossy green paint filling her vision, the furrows the brush had left, the smell of the hardboard underneath. She had stood there for hours sometimes. She’d never been sorry.
‘She has to learn to share,’ her mother said.
‘She’s five years old, Anne. It was only a chocolate bar.’
‘It’s the principle of the thing.’
Colette’s father made his voice very quiet, steady. ‘You’re a fine one to talk about principles.’
‘I can’t imagine you misbehaving,’ said Nathan. His eyes scanned the available space. ‘We could always move it to that wall, I suppose,’ he said, crossing the room in a couple of strides, testing the weight of the wardrobe.
Colette squeezed out of the corner. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s fine there, it’s the best place for it.’ Nathan was still grasping the wardrobe, hugging it to himself like an old friend. ‘Honest,’ said Colette. ‘Do you want something to drink?’
There were no clean glasses, so she poured the juice into teacups. She eyed the unvarnished shelves which didn’t quite meet the wall, the oddly shaped bench. ‘They’ve really butchered the place,’ she said.
Nathan laughed. ‘I think he did a bit of a DIY job. They seemed keen to get it rented. I’m sure I was the first person they saw. Remember the Laura Pearse case?’
Colette nodded. It had been all over the papers when she’d been at primary school. Her mother had stopped letting her walk home by herself, insisting on picking her up from the school gates. All the parents had been anxious; every afternoon a row of cars snaked along the curb, each driver scanning the throng of emerging children, searching for their own. Colette and her friends had hated Laura Pearse for that.
‘Dominic was allowed to sleep in the garden all night,’ she’d whined to her mother, who muttered, ‘That was before all this business,’
‘They’re her parents,’ said Nathan. ‘This is where she grew up.’
Colette stared at him. ‘How horrible.’
‘They seem all right, as far as landlords go. She’d like to get rid of the place completely, I suspect. She waited outside while he showed me round.’
Colette drained her cup, then pushed another box into her bedroom with her toes. It fell on its side, lolling on the mottled carpet. There’s just one more. I should be able to manage.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ said Nathan, and held the front door open for her. She had to squeeze past him to get out.
It was cool away from the sun, and the air smelled of crushed onionweed. As they made their way back down the track Colette could distinguish a few of the white, bell-shaped flowers in the undergrowth. Her foot slipped on a loose stone. She slid her fingers further under her side of the cardboard box, and a CD clattered over the moss.
‘Chopin,’ said Nathan, nodding, approving.
Beside them the house rose above the track, taking up the sky.
When she began to fill her new room with her old possessions, she discovered the cache of photos in her pack.
‘Ha!’ she snorted, and when Nathan appeared at her door she held them up to him like a fan. ‘My mother,’ she said, but she pinned the pictures to her bedroom ceiling anyway, where the plaster was flat. They surrounded the flowers and scrolls like an audience.
‘Let me hold the ladder for you,’ said Nathan.
Now and then Colette could feel his warm forearms against her calves as she moved above him, arranging her relatives, pieces of her history. She flinched then; she hadn’t shaved her legs for days. As she climbed down she was careful not to touch him, holding her breath until she reached the floor.
‘A comely bunch.’ he said, looking up. ‘Good genes.’
‘Well, that’s it for now,’ said Colette, suddenly uncomfortable to be standing underneath her relatives with this stranger, but Nathan didn’t move. ‘I’ll give you a call if I need any more help. Thanks,’ She inspected her work. Her great-grandfather stood behind his seated wife early in the twentieth century, grasping her shoulder as if to keep her from rising, his lips hidden by a fat moustache. His wife held Colette’s infant grandfather stiffly on her knee. Dominic was graduating, all teeth and gown, leaning forward to have his hand shaken by the Chancellor. Colette’s mother, hugely pregnant with Dominic, frowned at the camera, and, in a later, thinner picture, sat on a twiggy beach shielding her eyes with her hand. Colette herself didn’t appear in many, except for the very tip of a nose—that may or may not have been hers—celebrating her mother’s fortieth birthday. And a blurred shot of her in a too-small swimsuit, taken when she was about sixteen, running along the same twiggy beach. There were none of her father. She folded the ladder away. Her neck hurt.
They observed Colette at night, the people in the photos, and whispered to one another. Isn’t she brave, they said, leaving home like that? The north is so big, it is so far away. But she made the right decision, oh yes. There is nothing down here for the young. She will do well. She will go far.
Only her mother was silent, squinting against the thin southern sun.
14 January 2000
Dear Colette,
Patrick’s leg came out of plaster just before Christmas and the pins have taken well. The physiotherapist says he is her best patient, because he does everything she says and never answers back! He is lucky to have such wonderful care. Please keep writing and visiting; were always delighted to hear from you, and we know Patrick is benefiting from it too. We are, of course, keeping all your letters and tapes so that he can enjoy them properly when he comes to.
Many thanks and best wishes,
The Friends of Patrick Mercer
‘I wish I would get some mail,’ said Nathan, eyeing the letter. ‘Nobody ever writes to me.’
Colette slid the envelope under the newspaper and turned to the jobs page, moving her index finger down column after column.
‘Two years of university, two thirds of a history degree,’ she said, ‘and I’m qualified for nothing. I won’t be able to afford the textbooks, at this rate. Why is everything so expensive up here?’
‘You could try the owners,’ said Nathan.
Colette looked up, keeping her finger on the same spot. Girls wanted, said the ad, must be open-mmded, attractive, under twenty-five.
‘When he showed me round the place, he said they needed someone to mind their kid.’
‘But I thought Laura—’
‘They’ve got a four-year-old son. They had to take him out of day care. He’s a handful, I think.’
‘Call me Ruth,’ said the woman, extending a hand. Colette supposed this meant she had the job, and smiled. The woman strode into a lounge with bone walls and swept her arm in front of her. This is where you’ll be spending most of your time. He likes the polished floor. And that rug.’
Colette nodded and said, ‘What a lovely colour scheme,’ but the woman was already pushing open a door into the dining room. On a mahogany sideboard sat an incomplete tea set and a cluster of photographs framed in silver. There were one or two portraits—Daniel on a tricycle, Ruth and Malcolm on their wedding day—but mostly the frames contained landscapes. There were mountains and rivers, frost-covered plains, stony beaches. At the back, slightly away from the others, was a picture of teenage girl surrounded by trees and ferns. It was faintly familiar to Colette.
‘I love your sideboard,’
she said. ‘They’re hard to find in such good condition these days.’
‘It doesn’t go with the new house,’ said Ruth. ‘I’d like to get rid of it, but it belonged to Malcolm’s mother.’ She hurried past the gleaming mahogany. ‘You’ve looked after children before?’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Oh, yes. I used to nanny for a family with a Down’s girl.’ A lie. ‘And I often minded my little cousins, down south.’ Also a lie.
‘Mm. Until he starts school we’d need you from ten till three, Monday to Friday. From March, we’d want you for a couple of hours each afternoon. We’re still renovating the kitchen, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to pick your way around the ladders and things. My husband insisted on replacing the oven, he likes to bake bread. He has jelly with bananas most afternoons. Daniel, I mean. Sliced lengthways.’
‘Of course,’ said Colette, eyeing the sleek surfaces, the marble and chrome, and thinking of her mother’s cluttered rooms.
30 January 2000
Dear Colette,
Please promise me you’ll look after yourself. I read so much in the paper about the crime rate up there. It worries me. Please promise you’ll be sensible. I’m sending you a cheque so you can do some self-defence classes. You must learn to protect yourself. I don’t want you to walk around afraid all the time, but I just read so much these days.
Patrick was the only one at his school who looked forward to the dentist’s visits. Some of the younger children cried when they heard she was coming to examine their teeth, to search for imperfections and decay. Miss Phipps assured them in a loud voice that there was no need to be frightened, really no need for such a noise, but it made no difference.
Unlike the girls in his class, with their small mouths and pale smiles, the dentist wore bright red lipstick and was always pleased to see Patrick.
‘What a fine set of teeth,’ she’d murmur as she leaned over him in her white tunic. ‘This won’t take long at all.’
Her own front teeth were flecked with gold and she hummed as she worked. Patrick found himself wishing for cavities.
His mother made sure they were at the surgery half an hour before his appointment. The dentist smiled hello at him, her golden front teeth sparkling, then ushered into her shiny room another boy. Patrick waited on a smooth wooden bench that squeaked and moaned whenever he moved.
‘Don’t fidget,’ said his mother.
He studied the posters on the wall. His favourite one showed cartoon teeth racing one another to a giant bowl of fruit and vegetables. Underneath it were the words Make sure you have a winning smile. Behind the closed door, he knew, the other boy would be settling into the crook of the dentist’s chair and waiting to be raised to her probe, her glaring light, her coin-sized mirror, her cool, cool hands. Now and then Patrick heard crying as the drill buzzed, and he knew then that the boy would emerge with a bee made of cotton wadding and gauze. The dentist fashioned them herself, and although he’d never cried in front of her, Patrick had three bees; a family group which hung from his bedroom ceiling. When he woke at night he could make them out in the dark, hovering above his bed like tiny ghosts. Occasionally, too, the dentist awarded samples of mercury. Patrick had never been given any, but his friend Andrew had. It shimmered and trembled in its little box, separating into dozens of beads no bigger than pinheads and then, always, clustering together again.
‘My only desire is to be with him. My head buzzes with the demands of this world, but I long to devote my days to prayer. At the church I kneel for hours, watching the dark glint of the cross until I taste gold on my tongue. I rejoice to see the skin on my knees raw and sometimes broken; it is a sign of my devotion to him, and it deters my suitors.’
‘I will be all things to you, my precious bride, my chosen one. I will never leave you. Resist the advances of earthly suitors; I am a jealous bridegroom and will tolerate no rivals,’
‘I wish I had been born plain, so that no man would admire me. I refuse all adornment although I know it pains my mother. She talks of my wedding banquet, and asks me which flowers I should like to wear in my hair, and suggests roses for love, and ivy for fidelity. My suitor brings me gifts: small boxes of roses and violets, a silver ball, sprigs of lavender tied with ribbon, cooked figs. But I desire no man, no earthly gifts or pleasures.’
It was outrageous. Patrick wished they would stop; he couldn’t bear to hear his translation mangled in their mouths. They had no feeling for the words, no sense of the music. They might as well have been reciting a shopping list. But on they read, not noticing his sighs, his grimaces.
When the bell rang, Miss Phipps clapped her hands and said, ‘All right, children, quickly and quietly please.’ There was a fire drill every few months, and the whole school had to line up in the courtyard and wait while the roll was called. ‘Leave everything,’ Miss Phipps commanded, tucking her handbag under her arm as Patrick’s class filed outside. ‘Take nothing with you, there’s no time.’
Outside, the rows of children peered at the classroom windows, willing flames to appear, but when the bell had stopped ringing and they had all answered to their names, everyone filed back to class and life continued as before.
‘He is closest to me just before sleep. I see him at the foot of my bed, and he casts a glow like a candle in a still room. He speaks to me as a lover, calls me by name, tells me secrets. Sometimes he is silent and watches me from the doorway, his eyes never leaving my face, and on other occasions I do not see him at all, but I feel his breath on my cheek and I smile. Some nights he does not come. Hour after hour I wait, examining my conscience to discover how I have offended him, why he is punishing me. I place my blanket on the floor, no matter how cold the weather, and I pray for him to come to me. Sometimes I think the walls will cave in with the force of my desire for him.’
‘I want you to desire only me, to long for me above all else. You must shun all things pleasurable; you must fast and pray, and give away your fine clothes.’
‘I think of him constantly. I do not eat; I am weary of this body and long to be free of it. Once I wore flowers in my hair, I covered myself with gowns of silk and braid and my shoes were stitched with gold. I had many suitors; they brought me gifts to win my heart.’
‘I will give you a love so fervent that you will hunger for no one and nothing but me. I love you so much that I do not see your flaws. No husband loves his wife as perfectly as I love you.’
‘My father asked me to bring him a loaf of bread, and as I was standing at the larder I felt the devil enter me. I do not know how long he had possession of my body, but when he left me there were no figs left; every one had been devoured. I wrapped the bread in my apron and hurried to my father, and when I opened it, the loaf was gone, and wildflowers fell at his feet.’
The thought began in the soles of Patrick’s feet like a chill from cold ground. Up it crept, through his knees, his thighs, moving under the tight sheets and into his stomach, his chest. The thought was: they had been in his house. These strangers, these faceless readers had gone through his belongings like thieves. They had taken his translation notes and goodness knows what else. He closed his ears to their drone.
The man had left her on the floor while he thought. The car was the most urgent problem; it was in his driveway, squat and red like a boil. He pinched the bridge of his nose but he could still taste the blood, metallic in the back of his throat. He finished the girl’s piece of chocolate cake. Then he reached into her pocket for the keys.
As he drove to the river an idea formed, clotting and congealing with every twist in the road. He parked under willow trees which curtained the view of the traffic. Their roots were like a net, he recalled, and could catch at feet, hold a swimmer under. He left the Mini locked, so it wouldn’t look abandoned. Then he went back to his flat and the girl, and waited until it was dark.
Malcolm wrapped the chicken bones in newspaper while the sink filled with water. Around his fingers the rubber gloves felt like old skin, like somethin
g discarded, reptilian.
‘I’ve found a girl, I think,’ said Ruth.
He looked up from the steaming water. A girl? How old is she?’
‘I don’t know, twenty, twenty-one. A third-year student. Our new tenant, as a matter of fact.’
Malcolm kept scrubbing the pan in wide circles, although it was already clean. ‘What’s she studying?’
‘Ah—history? Something artsy. She came round to meet Daniel today. Yes, history.’
‘It doesn’t have much to do with child care, does it? Nursing would be fine. Or medicine. Even education.’
‘You’ll scrub the non-stick off, you know,’ said Ruth. ‘It’s poisonous underneath.’ And she took the pan from him.
A twenty-year-old girl, thought Malcolm. Twenty-one, perhaps. She was little more than a child herself, and yet Ruth was happy to leave Daniel in her care.
‘I’d already had a baby at her age,’ said Ruth. ‘And she seems very mature. And she’s had experience with special-needs children, she used to look after a Down’s girl.’
‘She’s a complete stranger,’ said Malcolm. ‘There have been cases.’
That night he thought about the 1988 eclipse. Although Laura had been excited about it, Malcolm hadn’t bothered to see it. I have to go into the office, he told her, it’s nearly the end of the financial year. I’ll see it next time around.
Golden Deeds Page 7