Why Don't You Come for Me?

by Diane Janes

  Jo had been following his Beginner’s Programme religiously. Dr Heinsel said that a trainee should not begin on troubling or traumatic episodes. According to his theories, the reason you had difficulty recalling them was because the mind invariably shied away from memories like these: so you had to start with happy memories, which the mind would more willingly embrace, working your way up to the scary stuff only when you and your mind had got to grips with the Heinsel Method. Thus Jo had started off with a very happy memory indeed – her first honeymoon, spent on the Isle of Wight in 1995. Saving for their deposit had not left them with sufficient funds for anywhere more exotic, but as Dom had said, ‘Who needs the Caribbean, when they have palm trees here?’

  Dr Heinsel was big on working through things in chronological order. Apparently the untrained mind liked to jump about, flicking from one memory to another, thereby missing important bits out, so you had to find a starting point which was a recognizable beginning, then work forward from it. Jo had chosen the ferry crossing from Lynmouth, and been surprised to find that she could piece together quite a lot. The amount she could recall about their small hotel in Shanklin astonished her. There had been a china shepherdess on the dressing table in their bedroom, a room which they had reached by climbing the steep stairs lined with an odd mixture of cheap prints, everything from Millais’s Boyhood of Raleigh to dogs playing snooker. The hotelier had walked around at breakfast time, offering extra triangles of toast from a wicker basket lined with red paper napkins. Dominic had always accepted at least one extra slice.

  On the first morning they had descended to the beach before breakfast, via a steeply sloping road which curved back on itself. The tide had left a band of flat wet sand where no one else had walked, so that their two sets of footprints might have marked new arrivals on a desert island. At night the stars had been astonishingly bright, and sometimes you could see the lights of big liners or cross-channel ferries, proceeding from left to right down the channel.

  Each time you revisited the memory, you had to start right back at the beginning again, and try to recall a little more, pausing to take in the scene, Dr Heinsel called it, filling in the gaps. There had been stainless-steel dishes, one containing strawberry jam and one orange marmalade, on each of the breakfast tables. The chairs and tables had been made of dark wood, and each chair had a thin red cushion tied loosely on to it, which didn’t quite match the red paper napkins. If you opened the bedroom door too wide it bounced back off the side of the bed. She tried to picture the host with his basket in one hand and the stainless-steel tongs with which he distributed the toast in the other, but it was very hard to put a face to people you had not known well, or with whom you’d had only brief contact, such a long time ago.

  Dom she could picture perfectly. If only he had not given up on her. Life could have been so different. They could have found Lauren together – Marcus had tried to be kind but he did not really understand. No one did.

  In October Maisie held another fund-raiser, but Jo waited until she knew the Perrys were out – they always gardened at Holehird on Wednesdays – before slipping an envelope containing a scribbled apology and a ten-pound note through their letterbox. It was weeks since she had spoken to Shelley, whose books lay gathering dust on a chair in the office, where they had been placed in readiness for the short journey back along the lane which she somehow never got round to making.

  Sean had been invited to spend half-term with his mother, the visit in summer having been a modest success. Marcus was away in Cornwall on the last Daphne du Maurier tour of the year, and with no reason to keep regular hours, Jo’s days lost any semblance of rhythm. The Hideaway again developed that sense of emptiness, through which Jo flitted like an insubstantial phantom.

  One night she sat up until 3 a.m., concentrating on Dr Heinsel’s Method, working her way through the Isle of Wight trip, followed by Lauren’s first birthday. There had been a cake in the shape of a big number one, covered in white icing edged all round in pink. Lauren had blown out the candle and clapped her hands: little stubby fingers, each with a knuckle that went in like a dimple, instead of out in the bony pattern of ridges and furrows found on an adult’s hand. There had been cupcakes in spotted paper cases which peeled away to leave a sharp zigzag pattern in the icing, chocolate finger biscuits which disintegrated in small pink hands and dishes of ice cream and jelly. Later she had washed the chocolate off those little hands with a flannel, feeling each delicate digit as it wriggled and resisted the damp cloth.

  By the time she went to bed her mind was bustling with memories and did not want to shut down. Was this the moment to move forward? There will come a time, Dr Heinsel advised, when your memory is so well attuned to the process that you can take things to the next level, forcing your memory to recognize and bring forward the things it has been trying to suppress.

  She switched on the bedside light and propped her pillows up against the bedhead. It felt cold in the bedroom. The sun had been absent without leave for so long that a constant chill permeated everything. Marcus claimed that she felt the cold more lately because she was not eating properly – which might be true, but she simply wasn’t hungry. Food did not interest her, and while Marcus and Sean were away, it did not seem worth the bother of cooking. It occurred to her that she had eaten very little during the day. Perhaps if she heated that half-tin of rice pudding in the microwave, it might warm her up a bit – but the thought of it made her feel sick. She had eaten the first half earlier in the day, realizing as she consumed it that she did not really like tinned rice pudding, the illustration on the tin being much more attractive than the reality. Instead she slipped out of bed and gathered up a pashmina which was draped over the back of a chair. When she had wrapped it around her shoulders, she slid back under the duvet, which she pulled right up to her chin.

  She had never tried the Heinsel Method anywhere but her regular chair (Dr Heinsel advised that trainees should work to establish a routine in the beginning, so that the mind would learn to recognize what was expected of it), but tonight she was feeling so receptive that it did not seem to matter – and besides which, it would be even colder downstairs without the duvet.

  She would begin with the moment of waking up in their bed and breakfast: that would be her starting point for this new excursion into the past. They had been allocated a large, irregular-shaped room, which had odd angles and alcoves: a family room with a double bed, a single and a cot. Mrs Potter (yes – Potter – that had been her name) had let them have the family room at no extra charge because she said her double room was a squash with the cot. The wallpaper had been a very old-fashioned design: big blue flowers and purple grapes in a diagonal pattern, the same sequence going off in all directions. There were three different configurations of the blue flowers and two different bunches of grapes, and the pattern had repeated itself, again and again, up, down, left, right, sideways, backways, diagonal garlands of grapes and flowers, woven together with dark green ivy, which she would remember to her dying day, particularly at the place where the pattern met the empty cot and partially disappeared behind the bars. It had been an old-fashioned cot with pictures on the ends: a fluffy yellow duck at the head and a bounding lamb at the foot. She remembered sitting on the edge of the double bed much later, staring at the empty cot, unable to comprehend the enormity of what had happened.

  No, no – this was not the way to do it. Go back to the beginning of the day. Start with waking up, getting Lauren ready to go down to breakfast … putting on the bright red T-shirt and the sky-blue dungarees, fastening the buttons on the royal-blue canvas shoes.

  Breakfast – what had they had for breakfast? The high chair was rather tatty, with a half-moon white plastic tray which had seen better days. Lauren eating cereal, making a bit of a mess, although she was generally pretty good. Deciding to give the beach a miss that day. Strapping Lauren into her car seat … jumping ahead there, lots of things must have happened between the cornflakes and the car seat … Lauren
flexing her legs and resisting the process. She hadn’t wanted to go in the car. It was almost as if she knew something bad was going to happen – no, that was silly – she always stuck her legs out rigid when you tried to strap her in.

  ‘Stop it, Lauren. Sit nicely.’ How sharp her voice sounded. If only she had known. If she had realized this was their last morning – their very last morning together – she would have gathered Lauren in her arms and run far, far away with her.

  Concentrate – don’t get distracted. The car is going along the lanes, Dominic is driving – quite fast, as tended to be his style. Occasionally there are glimpses of the sea, flashing silver where it caught the sunbeams, but mostly it’s just farmland glimpsed between high Devon hedges. There’s a tape playing … maybe REM. Focus now – try to hold that moment, there in the car – can you hear what’s playing? Can you see the cover of the cassette?

  Sod the cassette. The car is warm inside and the interior rather grubby, even when viewed from behind sunglasses. There are crumbs and crushed-up drink cartons, the remnants of holiday picnics. It’s going to need a good clean-out when we get home.

  The car park fills up early at Barleycombe. The only spaces left are right at the far side. There’s a caravan taking up two spaces. Caravans are a bête noire of Dom’s. Statics are just about OK, but he thinks tourers are an invention of the devil. He gets the pushchair out of the boot while she leans into the car to unfasten the clasp of Lauren’s harness and lift her out of the car seat. In the background ‘The Laughing Policeman’ is guffawing fit to bust, rocking back and forth on his heels and pointing at her as she straps Lauren into her Mothercare buggy this one last time … no, that’s not right.

  There are seagulls, always seagulls at the coast, raucous, strident, the predominant noise against a background hum of cars arriving, people getting out, slamming doors, talking and laughing. Dominic buys a ticket at the machine and sticks it on the inside of the driver’s window. The instructions say ‘display on windscreen’, but Dom takes no notice.

  There’s a little newsagent’s next to the car park. Lauren gestures up at the window display of faded Airfix kits and old-fashioned sweet jars. ‘Weeties,’ she says, hopefully. They debate whether or not to buy a paper – decide not to bother. They are just moving on from the shop when she notices a woman across the road; a woman who has in the same instant seen her, and who pauses for a moment but then hurries on, as if she has been mistaken in thinking that there is mutual recognition, but she is not mistaken – it is Gilda – that girl she was once at school with.

  As they proceed down the road people have to step off the narrow pavement to make way for Lauren’s buggy. Lauren is kicking her feet up and down, lifting each leg in turn, as if they are pistons powering the buggy along. They get stuck behind an older couple, who are walking arm in arm, not quite fast enough, so that Jo is afraid the buggy will catch their heels. The man’s brown overcoat is somehow familiar: it’s an old-fashioned garment, unseasonably warm, quite unsuited to the day. Typical of her mother, too, to be inappropriately dressed, in a faded gingham check number, which looks like part of a cowgirl fancy dress. It’s a wonder she hasn’t gone the whole hog and worn the hat as well – and as for her father’s burgundy Crimplene trousers … but her father cannot have been there. She has got it wrong, wrong, wrong.

  Rewind and start again: that was Dr Heinsel’s advice. Start at the beginning and take each scene, one detail at a time, linger on everything, don’t try too hard, don’t rush.

  She began again in the bedroom of the blue flowers and purple grapes. Dominic beside her in the double bed, enjoying the soft warmth of one naked limb against another, both of them staying quiet, not wanting to alert Lauren, because once she realized they were awake she would be clamouring to come out, toddling around the room, getting into everything. Lauren who is sitting up in the cot, burbling cheerfully to her pet cat Puddy, a grey and white soft toy which always looked grubby because it went with her everywhere.

  Work through the movements of the day again: everything … the cornflakes, the high chair, Lauren dropping Puddy as they were going out so that he nearly got left behind, the crumbs in the car – she still couldn’t remember what had been playing on the tape deck – but when she reached the village street there was Gilda again, staring at her from the opposite pavement before turning abruptly away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ Marcus had spoken quietly but the sound of his voice made her jump.

  ‘Nothing. I’m just reading my book.’

  ‘Why are you reading in the spare bedroom?’

  ‘I like it in here. I often sit in here to read when you’re away. There’s a good light from this window.’

  ‘You’re not watching The Old Forge, are you?’

  ‘Of course not. What on earth would I want to do that for? Anyway, it’s raining so hard, you can’t see across the road.’

  ‘It’s so dark in here, it’s a wonder you can see to read at all.’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘I’m going now,’ he said.

  There was very nearly an awkward pause, but she gathered herself in time, put the book on the bedside table and crossed the room to facilitate the obligatory farewell embrace.

  ‘Take care,’ she said. ‘The roads are going to be bad.’

  ‘I know – flood warnings out all over the place, and more rain forecast.’

  ‘Rain yesterday, rain today, rain tomorrow,’ she said, wearily. ‘I can’t remember the last time it wasn’t raining.’

  She allowed herself to be pressed against his shirt, receiving a kiss on the cheek. She could feel the warmth of him through the shirt. The first time he ever held her had been like an awakening on a spring morning, when the flowers open up and the birds begin to sing. It had signalled the end of a long, cold winter, that quickening of her heart. When he made love to her they had basked in the heat from the summer sun; but it was autumn now. At first she had just said she was tired, a touch unwell or merely not in the mood; lately there had been no need to say anything at all. This fundamental absence in their relationship had never been discussed. She was grateful for his silence on the matter, relieved when he did not ask her to explain the way in which desire had died; how she was always cold now, always huddled under layers of t-shirts and outsize cardigans. How she felt as if her body was held together by a skeleton of dried-up twigs which would snap into a thousand pieces if he tried to hold her too tightly, or thrust into her as he had been wont to do before.

  Even these perfunctory gestures of farewell had begun to feel dangerous, so she was alarmed when, with the customary hug and peck accomplished, he did not immediately release her, only allowing her to withdraw an inch or two so that his face remained close to hers. She hated it when that anxious look came into his eyes because it made her feel guilty. She did not want him to worry about her, still less to start seeking solutions, formulating plans which involved counsellors, doctors, or taking some quality time out together. Why couldn’t he just go off and sleep with Melissa, complaining that his wife did not understand him, like any normal, red-blooded male would do? She managed to exert enough gentle resistance that he let his arms fall away and she was able to take a couple of steps backwards.

  ‘You will try to eat sensibly while I’m away, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ She noticed in an abstract sort of way that Marcus’s hair was going grey. When had that happened?

  ‘Because Sean told me you hardly ate anything at all last week.’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to what Sean says. He doesn’t like me, and anyway it’s wrong to use a fourteen-year-old as your spy.’

  ‘I’m not using him as my spy. He just happened to mention it. And he’s had his fifteenth birthday now.’

  ‘What does he know, anyway? He’s out at school all day, then he locks himself away in his bedroom the rest of the time.’

  ‘You’re losing weight …’

  She
pulled away from him. ‘I thought you had to go now.’

  ‘Jo, darling, don’t let’s part on a quarrel.’

  ‘Well, don’t badger me about my weight then. I’m fine. I don’t need to eat any more than I am doing. I don’t need to see a doctor. I don’t need a referral to a psychiatrist –’

  ‘Who said anything about a psychiatrist?’

  ‘No one.’

  They stood looking at one another. He forced a smile and held his arms out to her. When she did not move, he stepped forward and enveloped her in another hug. ‘Come on, Jo,’ he said. ‘We’re going to get through this.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course we are.’ Just as soon as I get Lauren back.

  ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘I’ll come to the door with you.’

  ‘No need. You stay warm and dry. Shall I put the light on, so you can go on reading your book?’

  ‘No – I’m coming downstairs now.’

  She followed him down to the hall. He shrugged himself into his jacket, picked up his laptop bag which was waiting by the door, then paused to give her hand a parting squeeze.

  ‘Goodbye, Marcus.’

  ‘Goodbye, darling. Take care of yourself.’

  The rain continued to fall steadily. When she switched on the television it was dominated by reports of flooding, with Cumbria seemingly bearing the brunt. The ground was saturated, of course. There was simply nowhere for the water to go.

  When Sean came in from school his trousers were soaked to the knees. ‘It’s right up over the road at the bridge,’ he said. ‘I had to wade through it to get here – it was really dodgy.’