by Hilary Boyd
She feels Jack’s arms around her suddenly, pulling her, coaxing her away. She remembers fighting him off, resisting with all her remaining strength. She can hear a frantic whimper that she prays is Jonny … but is, in fact, herself.
And then there is the wet, cold weight of her beautiful son’s body – indisputably still and limp and silent – as she kneels on the wet pool tiles, clasping him frenziedly to her breast. She buries her face in his cheek, breathing him in, searching desperately for the familiar scent of him. But all she gets is chlorine, chemical and cruel. Breathe, she begs. Please, please, do as I say. Breathe, Jonny. You must breathe for Mummy.
12
There was a dull silence as her parents stopped talking. It had taken only minutes for them to recount the details of that terrible day: a story Eve had been wanting to hear, and not wanting to hear, her entire life. Asking them about Jonny had not been a plan – she’d given up on that notion long since – but she’d been spurred on by the atmosphere between them that morning, the haunted look on her father’s face.
He had spoken hesitantly, almost detached as he began the tale. Then the words gathered momentum, unstoppable, a rock rolling down a hill. Strange facts, Eve thought, about the colour of their hostess’s dress, the ham Jonny had eaten, the car in which they’d driven down to the party: a 1986 Citroën with red cloth seats.
Her mum had not interrupted him, and Eve thought she would stay silent – her expression was certainly stony enough. But eventually she began, tentatively, to join in, briefly disputing the name of the girl with whom Jonny was playing just before he disappeared: Jack thought her name was Tammy; Stella insisted it was Tanny.
When they got to the crux of the story, her dad faltered and Stella took over, her voice soft, as if she dared not speak the words too loudly. She didn’t look at Eve once – although supposedly it was to her she was telling the story – her eyes never moving from a fixed point somewhere on the other side of the garden.
Eve was shocked. The story itself was heartbreaking enough, sending shudders down her spine at the thought of something like that happening to Arthur. But the shocking part was that her parents could have been telling her about something that happened yesterday. Their tone of voice may have sounded distant, almost dispassionate, but their grief – carefully contained and preserved for decades like an artefact in a museum – felt positively dangerous, so close to the surface that it was ready to ignite with a single spark.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Eve said, not knowing what else to say.
Her father gave her a wan smile. ‘Wish you’d never asked, eh?’
‘No.’ Eve shook her head vehemently. ‘No, Dad. I’m really glad I did.’
‘Does it help?’ Stella asked, her voice toneless.
Eve held her nerve. ‘Yes, it does.’ She reached for her mother’s hand. ‘We should be able to talk about Jonny.’
Neither parent replied. Stella had squeezed her hand briefly, then removed it, eyes down, picking up her mug again, although Eve knew it to be empty. Her dad just gazed off into the distance, twisting a small piece of card between his fingers, which looked like an orange-and-cream train ticket.
‘Don’t you think?’ Eve persisted. ‘He was my brother, your son.’
And at the word ‘son’, the tears, already poised close to the surface, spilled from her mother’s eyes. She looked at her beseechingly.
‘Please, Evie, please … Don’t.’
She watched Stella put her hands on the table and push herself up, turning without a word towards the house and almost running through the open kitchen doors.
There was an uneasy quiet at the table. Then Jack shrugged, threw the mangled ticket on the table.
‘I didn’t mean to upset her,’ Eve said.
‘You didn’t. She was already. I was the one who upset her.’
‘But, Dad, it’s not natural, this silence about Jonny. It really isn’t. And it’s blighted all our lives, this not-talking. You know it has.’
He glanced at her. ‘I do know. But it’s hard to say what you should do,’ he said softly, ‘when something like that happens.’
‘I’m sure. And I’m not blaming you or Mum. I realize it was before I was even born, that I didn’t know him. But can’t we make Jonny part of this family again now? It’s like he disappeared into the ether, or never even existed. I’d love to be able to tell Arthur about his uncle when he gets older, for instance.’
Her father nodded, but she could see he had switched off, retreated behind a carefully constructed wall, his gaze fixed.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe we can, one day.’
She could see he was also on the verge of tears and she turned away from his pain: it was a habit of a lifetime, taught to her at her mother’s knee.
Eve, exasperated by both her parents, was relieved when she heard Arthur calling from upstairs – the sound of his voice carrying through the open window of his bedroom made her heart leap with happiness. She felt as if she’d just spent the last hour negotiating a wobbling tightrope over a dangerous waterfall. Yes, they had told her the bare bones of the story – finally – and let her know the context of the tragedy. But although their pain was starkly present, Eve felt she knew more about what the other guests were wearing on that fateful Sunday than how either of them had actually dealt with their son’s death.
She wanted to ask about so many things relating to that day. Was there blame? Their hosts, the pool fencing, the unstable cover, the other child? Or did they solely blame themselves or each other? And if so, had they managed to forgive?
Eve found herself hoping, strangely, that her parents were in some way negligent – although from the short synopsis it seemed as if Jonny vanished in a split second. Because, her reasoning went, if they had been derelict in their parental duties, then by not being derelict herself, she could prevent such a terrible thing ever happening to Arthur or her unborn child. But she knew, even as she had the thought, that it wasn’t true. Her parents had not been negligent. It was an accident, which could, by definition, happen to anyone.
As she made her way up to her son, past her mother’s bedroom, the door firmly shut, Eve felt as if she were only a chink of light closer to knowing the real truth. But she was certain about one thing: her parents hadn’t coped, and were still not coping, with Jonny’s death. Not even now, not even remotely.
13
Stella, once she had let those first tears fall in front of her daughter, did not cry any more. She was too angry for tears. And her anger was directed exclusively towards Jack. Bloody man, bloody, bloody man. I hate him, she raged silently. How dare he. It was his choice to visit the house. It wasn’t her problem and he had no right to try and make it hers.
Unfortunately, now the genie was out of the bottle, Stella was churned up, terrified about her ability to cope if Jack continued to press her for … What? What exactly did he want from her?
Stella could understand Eve’s position better. She had felt guilty at times for not being more forthcoming, on the rare occasions her daughter asked about Jonny. But, honestly, she hadn’t seen then how involving her in such a nightmare could be helpful.
She had wanted to protect Eve when she was small, and then never found a time when it seemed appropriate to splurge such horror. Especially when Eve had a son of her own, almost exactly the same age as Jonny was when he died. It wasn’t as if Eve had ever known her brother. But now she acknowledged that the way she had dealt with the tragedy wasn’t satisfactory, either for her or for her daughter. Her silence about such a defining moment in her life had definitely helped to create a barrier between them.
‘Mum?’ She heard Eve’s voice now, very quiet, just outside the door.
‘Are you OK?’
Stella, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped tightly around her body, made an effort to straighten up.
‘I’m fine, Evie. Just coming,’ she called, not wanting her daughter to see her until she’d had time to pr
operly recover. She wasn’t crying, but she knew she must look frightening, the marks of memory etched deep in every line of her face. She was nervous of showing her vulnerability to anyone, even Eve, because she knew that too much sympathy might break her.
There was silence, then she heard, ‘We thought we’d go to the pub for lunch.’
Later that evening, Stella rang Iain. She had barely spoken to him since the day she left for Kent. He often worked long hours in the summer and was exhausted, then had to be up again at dawn. It wasn’t easy pinning him down to chat.
‘Hey, Stella,’ he said, his voice suddenly so solid and reassuring. ‘How’s it going?’
It was around ten o’clock and she was lying on her bed, wide awake. At lunchtime, the family – which was an odd concept in itself for Stella after all these years apart – had walked down to the village pub and ensconced themselves in the pretty garden, at one of those rickety, bleached-wood picnic tables on which she always barked her shins. But despite consuming a glass of red wine with indecent haste, Stella had found it almost impossible to relax with Jack. He had tried to make conversation, but she knew her responses sounded unintentionally rude.
So she fell silent and let the others chat, while Jack sat cross-legged on the grass, making a daisy-chain with their grandson, his large fingers struggling with the delicate task.
‘There you are.’ Jack handed the chain triumphantly to Arthur, who immediately broke it and giggled as he waved the ends in the air. ‘Nooo!’ Jack pulled a face and began again.
Eve, sitting beside her, said, ‘I saw this programme on TV the other day. It was testing if you could sit down and get up without using your hands.’
Jack glanced up at his daughter and raised his eyebrows. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Well, apparently, how good you are at it determines how long you’re going to live. Go on, Dad, have a go. Get up without using your hands.’
Stella watched as Jack, focused suddenly, lurched forward a couple of times, arms outstretched, raising his bottom only inches off the grass.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said, grunting as he tried again. ‘It’s impossible.’
Eve and Arthur were giggling at his efforts. Stella smiled too, but she did not feel part of it.
‘It’s easy-peasy, Grandad,’ Arthur said, as he got up, got down, got up, got down, his strong young legs bending and stretching with consummate ease.
‘You can use your hands,’ Eve instructed through her laughter. ‘It just takes years off your projected lifespan.’
‘I tell you what takes years off my lifespan: this fiendish test!’ Jack said, finally putting his hand down and heaving himself sideways on to his knees, then levering himself upright, puffing and panting. ‘So that’s me, firmly in the check-out lounge.’ He turned to Stella. ‘Come on, you have a go,’ he said, a challenging glint in his eye that she recognized of old.
‘Yes, Bibi, you have a go.’ Arthur jumped up and down, pulling enthusiastically at her hand.
Stella shook her head. She wanted to join in the fun and was even tempted to give it a try – her competitive spirit wasn’t one to pass up on a dare – but she felt oddly shy at the prospect of exposing herself to Jack’s scrutiny. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I really can’t. I’d never get up.’ She smiled, trying to bring humour to her reply, but she must have sounded like a kill-joy, because Eve’s face took on a look of resigned frustration.
After they got home and Jack had finally taken himself off, back to his cottage, Eve had gone to lie down. And when her daughter came down later and Stella offered her some iced tea, Eve was still pensive, avoiding conversation with her mother by playing with Arthur on the lawn, then going in to make his supper. Offers of help were refused. But when Stella asked what was the matter, Eve had just shrugged and said she was fine.
It wasn’t until after supper, when Arthur was safe in bed, that Eve had let rip.
They were inside because it had begun to drizzle, the promise of thunder not far off. Stella sat on the old brown corduroy sofa in the minimally furnished sitting room, which was painted a misty green, the oak boards sanded. As yet there were no curtains on the two sets of sash windows at either end of the room, and the only other furniture, apart from an armchair covered with faded chintz – a cast-off, like the sofa, from Eric’s parents – was a rattan coffee table standing by the sofa, piled with books and magazines.
Her daughter was curled up in the armchair. Still barefoot, but swathed in a teal serape, she cradled a mug of tea in her hands. Stella could see she was building up to something and held her breath as she waited.
‘OK, Mum,’ Eve began, putting her mug down on the floor, then pulling the serape closer round her body, her voice determined. ‘What was going on with you today?’
Stella frowned, not sure what Eve meant.
‘You sat there in the pub like a wet week of Sundays. Dad was trying really hard, but you just kept snubbing him. I was embarrassed, to be honest. You made no effort at all.’
Stella thought this was a bit harsh, she hadn’t ‘snubbed’ Jack. But before she could reply, Eve went on, ‘It’s a lifetime since you two were together. He’s married, you’re happy with Iain, you share a grandson … I really don’t see what the problem is.’ Eve waited for her to say something, and when she didn’t, she added, ‘I want both of you in my life, Mum. So, basically, you’ve got to find a way to get on.’
Sitting back, ultimatum delivered, Eve, her mouth still pursed in a tight line, looked intently at Stella.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘I hear you. I’m sorry.’
‘I realize I probably upset you, asking about Jonny. But that wasn’t Dad’s fault. It was me who wanted to know.’
Stella took a moment to consider how best to explain her relationship with Jack to her daughter. ‘Me and your father have a lot of unresolved issues, that’s probably clear.’ Eve was nodding, a sardonic expression on her face. ‘And … and so when the past comes up, we haven’t worked out a way to handle it.’ She stopped, defeated.
There was silence, then Eve said, with an edge of impatience, ‘Mum, you’ve got to talk about it. If not with me, then see someone, a therapist … some sort of professional. It must be eating you up, hardly being able to even say his name after all this time.’ She paused, but Stella knew she hadn’t finished. ‘At least Dad’s making an effort.’
Stella was stunned. ‘Does driving past the house then having a turn really count as effort?’ she said, immediately regretting her tone.
Eve threw her hands up in exasperation. ‘You see. There you go again. Rubbishing Dad for trying.’
Shamed, Stella said, ‘Sorry. It’s just he’s putting pressure on me, Evie. If he wants to take a trip down memory lane, then fine, do it. But there’s no need to drag me into it.’
Her daughter raised her eyebrows, but didn’t reply, retreating deeper into the armchair and her shawl.
‘I don’t think I’m being unreasonable,’ Stella added, desperate for Eve to see her point of view. ‘He only wants to involve me because he can’t do it on his own.’
‘Do what?’
‘I don’t know, but something that relates to Jonny.’
‘Well, hey, perhaps you ought to explain that he’s totally not going to get any help from you, any time soon. Then he’ll stop trying and you can relax.’ Her tone was coldly sarcastic as she rose, bending to pick up her mug from the floor and stalking out of the room, not even glancing at her mother.
Stella took a long breath. Fuck, she thought, I’m making a proper pig’s breakfast of this. Feeling hurt and faintly beleaguered, she got up and went through to the kitchen, where Eve was filling her rinsed-out mug with cold water from the tap. She went up to her daughter and put a hand on her arm.
‘Listen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things about Dad. It was just weird, suddenly spending the day with him and speaking about Jonny so openly. I’m afraid I didn’t manage it very well.’ Eve turned to her, her freckl
ed face softening just a little. ‘But I promise, I absolutely promise that I’ll try harder. I’m ashamed to have put you under any stress. I’m supposed to be reducing your anxiety, not adding to it.’
Eve gave her a tired half-smile, not entirely mollified by Stella’s apology. ‘God, what are you both like?’
Stella wanted to hug her, but she found she wasn’t entirely confident that Eve would welcome the embrace. So she stood awkwardly beside her and gave the girl’s arm a tentative rub through the soft wool of her wrap.
Eve gazed at her. ‘So you’re not going to be mean to Dad any more?’
‘I wasn’t being mean—’
‘Mum!’
‘OK, OK.’
But she felt aggrieved that the honeymoon days she’d been enjoying with Eve and little Arthur were being marred by her ex-husband’s frequent and disturbing presence.
‘How’s it going down there?’ Iain asked. ‘I’m missing you.’
‘Yeah, missing you too.’
‘You sound exhausted. Is that little scamp giving you the runaround?’
She laughed, enjoying the love that she heard in Iain’s voice when he spoke about Arthur. He didn’t have children of his own, having spent the first twenty years of his adult life wandering round the world in pursuit of what he now jokingly termed ‘meaning’.
‘He’s not the problem,’ she said.
‘Ah … Eve kicking off?’
‘No, sodding Jack.’
‘Jack? I thought he was too busy to speak to anyone who wasn’t a politician or a famous person.’ Iain had a low opinion of Jack, entirely based on Stella’s less-than-flattering profile – the two men had actually never met.
‘He’s retired and obviously hasn’t got enough to do except hang around Eve and Arthur, making a nuisance of himself.’