Afterwards

by Rachel Seiffert

– He’s meant to be plastering a loft for us in Forest Hill at the moment. We’re already late finishing that job, and the woman’s been calling me every half an hour, just about. Says she’ll withhold payment until it’s done. I don’t blame her. Can’t stop her either, but it’ll leave us well short and there’s a stack of invoices waiting.

  Clare pointed through the open door into the living room, at her desk in the corner, behind the kids’ Lego: her computer was on, the phone was still ringing, a box file of bills lying open beside it. She said they had to get another plasterer in last Friday, had to pay him well over the odds too, because he knew they hadn’t any choice. Alice didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. The phone stopped and then Clare sat for a moment before she said:

  – Not your fault, I know.

  Alice thought about leaving. This wasn’t making it any easier to go and talk to Joseph. It was nearly time to pick up the boys from school: she saw her friend’s eyes wander to the kitchen clock, calculate the minutes left for talking.

  – I picked a bad time to come round.

  – It’s alright. Listen,Alice. Maybe you know all this already. When Stan was ringing round for a new plasterer, he had a couple of blokes bad-mouthing Joseph to him.

  The phone started again in the other room, but Clare ignored it.

  – He had it once before too, years ago, but it was from someone Stan never got on with either, so he didn’t take much notice. Thought if Joseph had let the bloke down, he probably had a reason.

  Clare blinked at her. Alice knew her friend wanted her to say it was alright, that Joseph had told her about all this before, because then she wouldn’t have to. The phone kept going and Alice thought about lying, how it might be easier: that way she wouldn’t have to listen to the rest of what Clare had to say either.

  – What did Joseph do to him?

  – Same as us. He used to do this a lot, by all accounts. Had a bit of a reputation for going missing on jobs a while back.

  Clare stopped again, but Alice knew there was more coming.

  – He also used to pick fights. That’s what this one guy said. Put his electrician in A and E. Fetched himself a beating from a couple of the team in the end. The guy reckoned he’d had it coming. Said he wouldn’t go near him again, and Stan would be wise if he didn’t either.

  Alice knew it was her turn to say something.

  – So what’s Stan going to do?

  Clare was looking at her: not the question she’d expected, but she let Alice steer the conversation away from her and Joseph.

  – He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to drop him, especially without talking to him first. But we can’t afford to mess our clients around, can we? If we start losing jobs, then so do other people.

  Clare shrugged. She looked tired.

  – Last night, Stan said Joseph sorted himself out before, he can do it again. But he was swearing at Joseph’s answerphone this morning, so you tell me.

  The phone stopped and she went next door, pulled the plug out of the wall. When she came back, she said:

  – We talked about it. Me and Stan. We were thinking. If you didn’t know it already, then you probably should. I’m sorry.

  Alice thought Clare was expecting tears. She was too, had been waiting for them for days.

  – I want to but I can’t.

  She pulled her coat on, pressed the sleeves hard against her eyes.

  – I don’t know what any of this is about. That’s the hard part.

  – Having to hear it all third hand would make me cry.

  Clare put her arms around her, like she wanted to help her to tears, and Alice thought of all the reasons she had: Joseph threw punches and she didn’t know why, messed people about so much they wanted him out of their lives. She might feel the same way before long, that was the worst of it. But Alice couldn’t cry about that, because that was too much like willing it to happen.

  Alice went to work on Thursday as usual, Friday morning too, but she didn’t stay in the canteen for her lunch break. Went to the café across the road and called her mum.

  – Of course you can come.

  Next week was autumn half-term, so she had no classes, and she said Alice could stay as long as she wanted. Back at work, Alice went through her appointments. Clare would be back at the start of next week, and she told Alice on the phone that she didn’t mind covering for her when she could.

  – Get some time off, book yourself onto a train. I would.

  Alan met her at the station Friday evening, because her mum had to stay on for a meeting at school. She was at home when they got there, the table laid, kitchen windows fogged, the garden beyond them dark. It was late by now, but they’d waited for Alice before eating. Alan had cooked for them earlier, and he served and poured, but then took his own plate and glass upstairs, with a kiss for both their heads as he was leaving.

  – Did you tell him to make himself scarce?

  Alice’s mother didn’t answer, except to smile at her across the table. Now that she had someone there with time and patience to talk it over, Alice didn’t know if she wanted to start. She hadn’t told her mum anything on the phone, just that she wanted to come. It might have been easier to be at her grandad’s this weekend, digging and drinking tea, no need for conversation. Alice said:

  – I should phone Grandad. Didn’t sound right when we last spoke.

  – I was thinking about that, actually. Her mum put her fork down.

  – I talked to him a while back about coming down this half-term. We never made any firm plans, but maybe we could drive down together next week? Depending on how long you wanted to stay, of course. It’s just that I’d like to see him.

  She said he’d called her yesterday evening, which was unheard of.

  – He didn’t even have anything much to tell me. I spent the whole phone call waiting for the pretext.

  She laughed.

  – Maybe he was angling for a visit, I don’t know. He said you offered to spend the whole day with him last Sunday.

  – I did.

  – And he was an old fool for turning you down.

  – He said that?

  Her mum nodded, smiling. Alice thought it tickled her mother that she was so surprised. All those visits when Gran did the talking, Grandad coming in and out of the room, going about his business. It had always annoyed Alice, even though she was used to it, they all were, and they just let him behave that way. She’d often thought her family made too many allowances, especially on the rare occasions she brought a friend or a boyfriend with her: the extra pair of eyes making her realise how rude her grandad seemed. As though he had no interest in other people. So it was strange to think he’d regretted declining her visit. But then Gran was gone, nearly a year now, and the house was finished, so he didn’t have Joseph for company either. Alice’s mum smiled at her.

  – I promised him a couple of plants. They’re in the garden up at the farm. Better to take them down than send them. I’ll take you walking over the weekend, shall I? We can go and see him together after we get back.

  Joseph was away almost a week in the end. Left Clive in Brighton on Sunday: he’d finished the rooms and told him he wanted to get back up to London early. Went to the station, but only as far as Lewes on the train. Walked and hitched from there, east to the High Weald and south again to the coast, with the wad of notes Clive had paid him in his jacket. Too cold to be sleeping out, he wasn’t going to do that, but he didn’t want to go home just yet. Found a caravan park, closed, out of season, but the man up at the farmhouse let him rent one for a few days when he said he’d pay cash. Joseph hauled a full gas cylinder back down the hill with the keys. He bought enough food for three days at the Spar in the village. Reminded him of years back: traipsing along the verges in the evening dark with the carrier bags knocking against his legs and all the cars rushing past. All those other times he’d done this. Joseph promised himself it wasn’t like that now: he wasn’t going to let it get that way again.
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  Over a week now since he’d heard from her. He didn’t know what Alice was going to do, when she was going to tell him. Leave him to work it out for himself, maybe. Joseph didn’t think he had any right to be angry.

  Two messages the next afternoon on his mobile, both from his dad. Joseph had been out walking most of the day, and only picked them up when he got back to the caravan. His dad didn’t say so, but Clive must have called him: Joseph thought he’d been careful over the weekend, not to give his dad’s mate any reason to worry, but he must have been showing it. Just give us a ring would you, son? Just like the messages he always used to get, so maybe Clive thought he was acting the same as he did back then. Joseph called home and said he was doing alright.

  – Honest, Dad. I’ll be back by the end of the week. Just a few days away.

  – Where are you? You want me to come and drive you?

  – It’s okay, I can get to Hastings easy enough from here and catch a train. They’re every half-hour or something, I checked.

  Joseph told him the name of the farm too, and the number of the caravan park, and having an address seemed to reassure his dad. Not disappearing, just retreating.

  Three days, quiet and hours for thinking. Plenty to be sorry about. The way it was ending with Alice mostly. That he couldn’t find a way to stop it. Didn’t like the way he’d left it with her grandad either: stacked everything tidy in the shed and swept the floor in the garage, but he couldn’t be alone with him, and Joseph thought the old man had been aware of it, avoided him because of it. Made Joseph cringe now, thinking how obvious he must have made it.

  The days were warm and blowy, and the fields around rough with stubble. Joseph felt the wind coming in over them when he woke, pushing against the high sides of the caravan. He thought about the days he’d spent with Alice near here, the week with her in Scotland, the plans she’d had to show him Yorkshire: Fremington Edge and the moors beyond. Bleak to some eyes, but not hers: high places, kite-flying places she’d said. After breakfast, he cut straight across the wind and stubble on his way down to the shore. He found a beach he knew from before: small, encircled, the high, solid mound of sand skimmed smooth and perfect. A cove tucked into the headland. Same as the last time he’d been here, years ago, the spring before Portugal maybe, when he was getting better. He must have been working again by that time, because he’d driven out of London in the van: left early and caught the low tide, walked the miles-long sands and scrambled over the rocky foot of the headland. The small beach was a surprise, in the lee of the wind. It was cut off later, covered by the high water. He remembered walking above it, standing and watching as the sea came in. Still used to come down to the coast a lot that spring, but he wasn’t desperate any more, just looking to be by himself. He’d worked out that much by then: take yourself off before you do any damage. He still didn’t like it, being that way, disappearing on people, especially his family, but he knew it was better than staying. Helped a lot to know he could get a grip on it too. Stopped taking jobs when he wasn’t up to working, got good at avoiding: anyone he’d had trouble with, crowds and queues of people, confrontation. Walked away from raised voices, even if they had nothing to do with him. Two women shouting at the bus stop, Joseph went on to the next; Eve and Arthur working out how to cover their loan repayments, he took himself off round the block. He shut down when he had to. Didn’t know when it was he’d stopped. When he didn’t need to any more.

  Joseph sat on the sand, out in the middle. When the waves returned, he found the path up through the rocks. The woods above were just about bare already, and it was light up there. The sun got in everywhere when it came out of the clouds, lit up the trunks, moss on the stones, and the thick, damp mat of leaves on the ground. The last strip of beach was still showing below him, and the scuffed line of his retreating tracks. Places to show Alice. Try and get her to come down here. Before she makes a decision.

  Eleven

  When the phone woke Alice on Saturday morning, it occurred to her that Joseph knew her mum’s number. He’d called her here a few times before, and she sat up, half-asleep and hopeful. But she hadn’t told anyone she was coming up here, not even Martha, and then she heard Alan discussing departmental budgets in the hallway, trying not to be irritable with whoever it was that had phoned so early on a weekend.

  They discussed walks over breakfast: Alan had figures to check, and couldn’t come with them, but he joined in with suggestions.

  – You could do the seven fields and go over the foot-bridge by the waterfall. The river should be full now, you’ll get a good show.

  Alan and her mum had got to know each other on walks with mutual friends. Used to drive out of London most weekends back then, and sometimes persuaded Alice to come with them. They’d leave before the traffic built up and drive home in the evening after a pub meal. Usually, they stuck to footpaths, but they liked to trespass too, particularly her mother: she said people kept the best places hidden and that wasn’t fair. Alice was a teenager then, and scornful of her mother’s rebellious streak, but she still remembered an old walled garden they took her to. The lean-to greenhouses fallen in and beds overgrown but beautiful. Tall, yellow weeds and blue thistles, a fig and a pear tree still bearing last year’s fruit. The estate was big enough to hold two houses, the one the kitchen garden used to serve had subsided, and the family had rebuilt on better ground on the other side of their land. The fields were ploughed when Alice was there, pheasants strutting the furrows, and the high grass banks were riddled with rabbit warrens. Her mum and Alan went back a few months later and discovered they had game-keepers too. There were new ‘Keep Out’ signs erected, which they ignored as usual, but then the shooting started, before they got to the garden. They didn’t know what to do, so they just sat tight in a thicket and waited until it was safe to sneak out again.

  Alan said:

  – The high track would be a good one for Sunday. I could drive up in the morning and meet you at that pub, just before you get to the village. The one that brews its own ales.

  – We’ll call you tonight. Have to see what the weather gets up to.

  Alice’s mum was non-committal, but if Alan was put out, he didn’t show it. Alice thought her mum would have discussed it with him already, set time aside to spend alone with her. She packed a lunch for them both, a flask and a bar of chocolate while Alice washed up. She knew her mum was waiting: she still hadn’t given a reason for her visit, hoped she wouldn’t need to. Wanted to talk to Joseph again first, not just about him to other people. The morning was mild and the sky had started clearing by the time they were dressed and ready. They drove up to the Dales and talked about Gran instead of Joseph. Alice said they’d found the house where she was born, while they were up in Scotland.

  – Would Gran have gone back there after her divorce?

  – She did. Damp coats and chilly little houses must have been strange after Nairobi. I couldn’t tell you how long it was, a month or two perhaps. Just until the papers had come through from the lawyer.

  – But would she have stayed there, I mean? If she hadn’t got married again.

  – I expect she’d have had to, yes.

  Her mother parked near the start of a favourite walk: a marked path, little acorns on posts at regular intervals. They stood together, leaning against the bonnet, with the sun on their backs, and Alice could feel the wind buffeting the car while she laced her boots.

  – I think Mum dreaded it too, the disapproval. Not so much her parents’, although that would have played its part. Papa Young, your great-grandfather, he served in the Great War, and always said he was glad to have daughters, because they would never have to fight. But then Aunt Celie married a soldier. There was a war on again by then, and most young men were enlisted, so I suppose it was either that or be a spinster. He was killed in Italy. Celie wore black for years, even when I knew her. I’m sure Papa didn’t want that for his youngest girl too. In any case, Gran said he only gave his approval after Dad hande
d in his notice.

  Her mother smiled.

  – He was staunch too. Wouldn’t brook comments from the villagers. The schoolmaster defending his dissolute daughter. I love that idea. And she refused to wear sackcloth and ashes, which wouldn’t have helped her case with the local gossips. Mum told me once that remarriage didn’t make her divorce any more palatable to their neighbours. But at least she knew she wasn’t stuck there.

  – Do you think that’s why she married Grandad? One of the reasons?

  Her mother looked at Alice, curious, teasing.

  – Are you wondering what possessed her to marry such a curmudgeon?

  – I didn’t say that.

  – No, I did. And I’ve wondered it too. I checked once, my birthday against their marriage certificate. It’s nearer eight than nine months, so she might have been pregnant already, but I doubt she’d have known it. And they’d planned it all already, of course, the wedding. They started their life together in married quarters somewhere in Lincolnshire, while Dad served out his notice.

  Her mother smiled.

  – I think that haste might have looked a bit unseemly. Suspicious. I’m glad they were in a hurry. They wanted to be together. He wasn’t a curmudgeon then. From what Mum told me he was shy, a bit gauche even. A young man who fell in love with her. I like to think of him like that.

  Alice did too. It made sense of his awkwardness, and why he’d left most of the talking to Gran: easier to think of him as shy than not interested. But then she always found it easier to feel tender about him at a distance.

  They walked in silence for a while until the track they were following dipped a little, and they were out of the wind again. Her mum said:

  – He’s definitely got worse as he’s got older. I’ve come up with so many explanations over the years, lost count. Loneliness. He was never good at making friends, didn’t socialise at work any more than he had to. It’s strange to think like this now, but his marriage would have set him apart from people. Maybe that stuck with him somehow. I thought it was retirement too, that adjustment. I don’t know how much that’s got to do with it. I do remember playing with him. Out in the garden. Throwing and catching. Along the rose border. Pink and blowsy. We used to deadhead them together when he came home in the evenings, to keep them flowering. I’d have been about five then.