by Penny Kline
‘What did she do?’
‘She didn’t do anything. It’s the way she talks to me as if I’m an inferior being. No, don’t say anything to her, that would only make things worse.’ She reached out to pat me on the arm. ‘Why not use this phone to call Mrs Bryce? It’ll save you going all the way upstairs.’
It rang for a long time. I was just about to replace the receiver when Ros Bryce came on the line, breathing hard.
‘Oh, thank goodness. It’s Livvy. The friend where I’m staying. Livvy Pope. She’s done something rather stupid, I suppose I ought to call the doctor, but she’s begged me not to and —’
‘What happened?’ I sat on Heather’s desk.
‘Cut her wrists,’ said Ros. ‘Well, one of her wrists. Oh, not deep cuts, just a series of little nicks, but it made me realize how unimportant my problems are. Livvy’s the person you ought to be seeing.’
‘You’ll have to phone her doctor.’
‘No, I told you, she won’t let me, and really there wouldn’t be much point. I put antiseptic cream on her arms and she’s in bed now, resting, but I wondered if you could possibly come round later on.’
My first reaction was to say that that would be quite impossible, then something — perhaps it was simple curiosity — made me hesitate. Ros had known Tom Luckham. Did she also know Clare Kilpatrick? And perhaps there were things she could tell me about the rest of the Luckham family. When she came for her appointment I would have to let her talk about whatever was on her mind, but if I called round to see what I could do for her friend, the visit would be on my terms, I would be doing her a favour.
I was due to see Sally Luckham the following day, ostensibly to find out if any more forgotten memories had come to the surface, although this time I had a personal, as well as a professional, interest in seeing her. Tom Luckham’s death was starting to prey on my mind. I had met people like Clare Kilpatrick before, people who were adept at getting the maximum number of people at their beck and call. She could easily have made up the mysterious passenger in Luckham’s car. On the other hand, Stephen Bryce seemed to think she was telling the truth.
‘She must have medical attention,’ I told Ros. ‘Provided she’s had a visit from her GP I’m prepared to see her once, mainly for your sake, but I can’t promise there’ll be any follow up treatment.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘I’ll be with you at about six o’clock then,’ I said. ‘Oh, hang on, I’d better write down your address.’
*
Miller’s Cottage was the last house in a long terrace, with a stream running between the pavement and the front gardens. The rain had cleared. I left the car in a lay-by and started walking back towards one of the small wooden bridges. Willow herb grew everywhere, in large purple clumps, but the surrounding grass had been trimmed quite recently and still had marks where the lawnmower had cut too deeply into the soft turf. The stream ran the whole length of the road and most of the cottages had names like Brookview or Watersmeet. The village was almost exactly midway between Bristol and Bath. Houses, even very small ones, were expensive, and since these were picturesque and, if you liked that kind of thing, highly desirable, Livvy must have money. Had Ros Bryce mentioned anything else about her? Perhaps she had a well-paid job, although the few remarks Ros had made about her had given the impression she was at home most of the time.
A woman was coming out of her front door, carrying a small baby under one arm, and holding a toddler by the hand. I thought about Clare Kilpatrick, and remembered how Stephen had handled her baby so naturally and seemed genuinely fond of it. Was it really possible he was Cain’s father? I had dismissed the idea almost as soon as I had thought of it — someone like Stephen would be unlikely to leave the mother of his child living in a hostel, even if it was well run with good facilities — but the arrangement could be just temporary, until he had found himself a proper place to live. Was it because of the baby that he had resigned from his parish? His wish for me to meet Clare might have had nothing to do with Tom Luckham. Did he need someone to talk to and was he preparing me for his confession? And what about Ros? Tom Luckham could have threatened to tell her about Clare and the baby, and Stephen could have …
Endless speculations were a waste of time; I needed more hard facts, but for the next hour or so I would have to try and concentrate on Livvy Pope and why she had decided to mutilate her wrist. Attempted suicides, where the patient never had the least intention of doing him or herself any real damage, tended to exasperate everyone involved. Another person, who might be considerably more unhappy, had to wait his or her turn before receiving anything in the way of professional help, whereas there was something about physical injury, however slight, that meant action had to be taken immediately.
Through the thick bottle glass in the front door of the cottage I thought I could see a figure in a nightdress descending the stairs. Ros had seen me coming and the door was opened just as the figure reached the bottom.
I heard Ros shout Livvy’s name, then she put out her hands as if she thought she was going to fall.
‘Do come in,’ she called, then, turning back to Livvy. ‘At least fetch your dressing gown. No, wait, I’ll get it.’
When I entered the tiny hallway Livvy was still standing at the bottom of the stairs. Keeping her eyes averted, she squeezed past me, flattening herself against the door, then hurried on towards the kitchen, where I could hear her turn on a tap. The musky scent of her body spray or deodorant lingered in the air.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Ros had a pink dressing gown over her arm. ‘Where’s she gone? Oh, she’s in there. D’you mind? I expect you’d like to see Livvy on her own, only …’
‘Let’s just see how it goes. The doctor’s been round?’
Ros nodded. ‘Didn’t get a very good reception. Dr Gallagher, do you know him? Nice man. I told him you were coming.’
Livvy was winding a gauze bandage round her left arm. Her long white nightdress and shoulder-length hair made her look like the subject of a Pre-Raphaelite painting and I had a feeling the effect could well have been intentional. She looked up briefly, her lips slightly parted and her eyes open very wide. Everything about her exuded self-pity, but she was more like a character playing a part than someone who was truly unhappy. No, that was unfair. I was making a snap judgement on the flimsiest of evidence. Even so I had a struggle to stop myself labelling her hysteric personality even before we had been introduced.
‘Anna McColl,’ I said. ‘Would you like some help with that?’
‘Thank you.’ As I had expected, her voice was a whisper. She stood perfectly still, like a small child, and I started winding the absurdly long bandage round her left arm. ‘The doctor said there was no need for bandages but they feel so sore. You must think me very weak, but I felt so … so …’
‘Angry,’ said Ros.
‘No, not angry,’ said Livvy. ‘Powerless.’ Her eyes met mine, but only for a fleeting moment. ‘I write,’ she explained. ‘Mostly poetry, but some prose too.’
I fixed the end of the bandage with the small gold safety pin Ros had taken from her pocket, and stepped back to inspect my handiwork. ‘Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it?’
‘Shall I?’ Ros hovered by the door, but Livvy shook her head.
‘No, don’t go away.’ Livvy turned towards me but kept her eyes focused on the table. ‘I’ve talked to Ros for hours and hours, she’s been wonderful, but she thought I ought to see a professional, in case I’m clinically depressed. Isn’t that what they call it?’
‘You’ve been feeling very depressed. Did something happen this morning, something that made you —’
‘No, nothing. I mean, nothing except what was going on in my mind.’
For what seemed like quite a long time the three of us sat in silence. Once or twice Ros opened her mouth, but I signalled to her to let Livvy find her own words.
‘Tom,’ she said at last, ‘I was thinking about Tom. Did you know him?�
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‘Tom Luckham,’ Ros mouthed.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I never met him.’
‘But you’ve heard about him.’ Livvy’s tone of voice suggested that everyone must have heard of such an amazing person.
‘You were very fond of him?’ I said, and as she slowly turned her head towards me I realized she was a good deal older than I had first thought. In her late forties or even her early fifties. It was the childlike appearance that had made me think she was younger. Not just the nightdress and fluffy bunny slippers, but the white hair band and long straight hair.
‘Tom was my mentor,’ she said. ‘He believed in me. In my work. He said it was a waste just showing the poems to friends, they needed a wider audience. When the first book was accepted he explained how the publishers would need a little money, mainly because poetry never has very large sales, and of course I wanted the best quality paper and binding. You see, they told me the poems were of an exceptionally high standard and warranted a really good edition.’
Ros and I avoided each other’s eyes. Was it possible Livvy really believed what she was saying?
‘Would you like to see it?’ She rose slowly to her feet and opened a drawer in a Welsh dresser, pausing for a moment, like an actress making her first entrance in a play, then taking out a book and placing it in front of me so that its edge was exactly in line with the side of the table.
‘It’s beautifully bound,’ I said insincerely, although it was true, the binding at least was of fairly good quality. The first poem was called ‘Wintertime’. I scanned the words, taking in the usual rhymes: trees and breeze; frost and lost. ‘I’m sure they’re very good. Have you been writing recently? Sometimes it can help the grieving process.’
I dislike expressions like ‘grieving process’ but there was something about Livvy Pope that made it difficult to empathize. In such a situation I often find myself resorting to jargon.
‘Oh, I write all the time,’ she said. ‘Don’t I Ros?’
Ros nodded, keeping her lips pressed together, and glancing at the electric kettle. It had boiled, and switched itself off, and her natural instinct was to make tea or coffee, but she was wondering if it would be inappropriate. Then she noticed my expression, gave a faint smile of relief and started collecting up cups and saucers.
‘Tell me about Tom?’ I said, unable to take my eyes off the hard ridge of Livvy’s collar bone protruding over the top of her nightdress.
‘Tom.’ She spoke the word softly, hanging on to the last consonant as though she was practising her diction. ‘How can I describe him? He was an artist, extraordinarily talented, although those stupid people in London never properly appreciated his work. Can you imagine having a gift like that and still finding time to do so much for others?’
Ros cleared her throat. From the look on her face she had listened to all this more times than she cared to remember. I wanted to spare her another eulogy but if I said anything she might think she was in the way.
‘Your arm,’ I said. ‘Have you done anything like that before?’
Livvy flinched, as if I had broken a spell. ‘Before? No, never. They say physical pain can bring relief from mental suffering. It’s so difficult to explain. I was … I felt as if I was in a trance, as if someone else was telling me what to do, as if it was meant.’
‘And when you realized what you’d done?’
‘I was horrified, so ashamed. If Ros had been out I dread to think what might have happened. She was quite cross with me, but I expect that’s a natural reaction, isn’t it?’
An exceptionally large spider was crossing the floor towards us. Neither Livvy nor Ros seemed to have noticed, but Livvy struck me as the kind of person who might have any number of phobias. I stretched out my foot and the spider took a right hand turn and disappeared under the Welsh dresser.
The kitchen was like something out of a Habitat catalogue. Bunches of herbs hung from hooks on the wall and the mantelpiece was covered with glass jars, full of dried beans and lentils. The white walls contrasted with the red tiled floor, and every piece of furniture, apart from a solid fuel stove, was made of old pine. There was no sign of a fridge or washing machine; presumably they had been consigned to a utility room so as not to spoil the effect.
‘Perhaps if you tell me a little about yourself,’ I said.
‘Me?’ said Livvy, as if she was the last person I had come to hear about. ‘Well, I’m … No, I don’t suppose my age is at all relevant. Ageism, I loathe it, don’t you? All “isms” are destructive. All generalizations. I mean, we’re all individuals, aren’t we, so — ’
‘Have you got a job?’ I said, breaking my usual rule that the client must never be interrupted. What kind of a rule was it, anyway? Interruptions often served a useful purpose.
‘A job,’ Livvy repeated. ‘I thought Ros had explained. I write.’
‘Yes, of course.’
She smiled faintly. ‘Poetry, prose, a radio play. They never actually broadcast it, but there was a lot of interest. Of course, I’d wasted nearly two years, living with a community in the North of England. The leader of the movement was such a charismatic person, but it’s wrong to follow a leader, isn’t it? You have to work out your own destiny, through meditation and by immersing yourself in the real world.’
Ros was making tea. She had her back turned and her head thrown back a little. ‘Livvy has a son,’ she said. ‘He’s called John and he’s working in Spain.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Livvy sounded grateful to Ros for reminding her. ‘Gavin, my husband, died when John was eight. We might have been destitute, he was never good with money, but fortunately my parents had left me just enough to live off, provided I’m careful with my accounts.’
‘Tell Anna about the nightmare you had,’ said Ros. ‘I found Livvy on the bathroom floor, must have been last Thursday, no, Friday. She’d walked there in her sleep. She’d been dreaming about a cave — going into a cave then finding the entrance had been blocked by a fall of rock.’
Livvy leaned towards me, cupping her chin in her hands. ‘It was so awful,’ she said, ‘the worst nightmare I’ve ever had. Stephen was with me. You’ve met Stephen, haven't you?’
‘Ros’s husband?’
‘Me and Stephen, alone in the dark in this horrible place with doors that opened onto steep drops, hundreds of feet below, and shadowy figures lurking at every …’ She broke off, looking at Ros, then back at me. ‘Of course, I know why Stephen was there. He’s often in my dreams. You see, it’s easy for Stephen to understand how I feel. We have so much in common. We both loved Tom.’
*
Ros walked back with me to the car. Nothing was said about Livvy’s dream or the fact that she and Stephen had both ‘loved Tom’. If Ros wanted to talk about it that was up to her, but I doubted if the remark had any great significance, apart from the fact that it indicated a degree of aggression on Livvy’s part.
‘Livvy’s very angry,’ I said, ‘isn’t that what you think?’
‘Most of the time she just seems depressed but every so often she has a little outburst, breaks something, throws a cup across the room. To be honest with you, I find it almost a relief.’
‘Yes, I can imagine. Does she say why she feels so angry?’
‘Not in so many words. About the accident, I imagine, about losing Tom’
I had my car keys in the lock but I didn’t want the conversation to end. ‘Some people seem to think there was something odd about the accident.’
Ros put out a hand to steady herself against the car. ‘What people? Is that what Stephen told you? Or Sally? She was so attached to her father. Is she all right? Are they all all right?’
The woman I had seen leaving her house was coming up the street, pushing a double buggy, the kind where one child sits in front of the other, rather than side by side. As they drew level the baby in the back section reached out to take hold of the toddler’s ear, and the quiet street was rocked with savage screams.
‘Did Stephen mention a girl called Clare?’ said Ros, and it was almost as if she had waited for some diversion, some extraneous noise, before she found the courage to put the question.
I nodded, trying to work out what to say next, playing for time, waiting for the buggy to pass. ‘Yes, he mentioned how Tom Luckham had helped her when she had to find somewhere to live. Incidentally, d’you know if she and James are friends?’
Ros looked blank. ‘James? Oh, you mean Tom’s son. Well, if they are, I can’t imagine how they met. James took care never to go near the church. We met him, of course, when we were round at the house, but if Tom was enthusiastic about something you could be sure James would avoid it like the plague. Sad really, I believe he’s quite a talented artist.’
There were so many questions I wanted to ask. What was her opinion about the accident on the Mendips? How had she felt about Tom Luckham? Was she aware that Erica was drinking heavily, and if she was, did she feel it her duty to do something to help, or had she and Erica never been on particularly good terms? What did she think about Livvy’s book of poetry?
Livvy was standing in the doorway of Miller’s Cottage, waving frantically. Ros reacted as a mother might if she saw her child about to cross a main road without looking.
‘Don’t let her turn you into her slave,’ I said.
‘No. I ought to find somewhere else to live, I know I should, but just at present it all seems like too much effort. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but people seem either to play the role of the helper or the helped, and of course it’s no use the helpers complaining because the reason they help so much is because they can’t bear to feel indebted.’
‘Are you talking about yourself?’
She laughed and her rather plain face suddenly looked quite attractive. When she recovered from the break-up of her marriage and decided what work she was going to do, I hoped she would allow herself a new hairstyle and something a little less dowdy in the way of a wardrobe.