Maker of Footprints

by Sheila Turner Johnston

  “That was very restrained of you.”

  “He’s not even a bishop. Do they have bishops over here?” Curiosity paused her fingers.

  Paul wiggled his toes. “Yes,” he said. “But not all denominations are enlightened enough to have them, I’m afraid. I don’t think Jenna’s father would ever be a bishop.”

  Dianne made a face. “No career ladder then.”

  Paul crossed his ankles and rubbed his eyes. “Just Jacob’s ladder. Poor man.”

  “Jacob who?”

  He rolled onto his side. “A guy in the Bible. He saw a ladder. The bottom of it was on the ground and the top of it reached heaven. There were angels climbing all over it.” He yawned. “No bishops, though.”

  “Oh, that Jacob.” She dipped her fingers into the jar of cream again. “I wonder did she notice the pendant missing. I suppose she would have rung if she did. Anyway, she’ll find it on the mat when she gets back. I wonder when she’s coming back?”

  “Who knows?”

  “I suppose she might stay in the country until after Christmas now.” She put one finger on her chin, considering. “She’s a homely little thing. A study-bug.”

  “A study-bug? What on earth’s that?”

  Dianne turned round and faced him. “You know. A book person. Someone who’d rather stay in and read than go out for the night.” She turned back to the mirror. “I’ve met one or two before.”

  “Goodness, have you?” he said.

  She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. Sometimes she didn’t know when he was making fun of her. He returned her gaze blandly, giving her no clue. He removed one hand from under his cheek and rubbed his nose, then settled back again, his head cocked towards her.

  “So what do you think of her?” she said. “Do you think she and Adam will stay together?”

  He didn’t reply at once. Then he said, “I’ve no idea. That’s their business.”

  She gathered her hair and pulled it across and over the other shoulder. She began to move her fingers slowly over the other side of her neck, down across her arched throat. Through half-closed eyes, she watched him in the mirror. She put the lid back on the jar of cream, lifted the hairbrush and looked round, her shoulder hunched up to her chin.

  “Would you like to brush my hair tonight?”

  He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “OK.”

  She closed her eyes as she felt his hands in her hair, straightening each strand as he brushed. His movements were smooth, rhythmic, the brush stroking through her hair right to the ends. Back to the top; smooth, gentle, down to the nape of her neck. She leaned against him. She felt him parting the hair at her neck; felt the brush strokes slow to a stop as he bent; felt his lips on her skin. One hand moved over her shoulder, across her collarbone and slipped under the towel at her breast. She sighed.

  “Merry Christmas, darling,” she whispered.

  He set the brush down. “By the way,” he said, backing away, “I’ll go to London with you for Christmas.”

  She jumped up and whirled round, the towel falling from her. “Paul! That’s super!” She flung her arms round him. “What changed your mind?”

  He unwound her arms from his neck. “I changed it, that’s all.”

  He was moving away from her, towards the door. Stepping over the towel on the floor, she put her arms round his waist and tried to kiss him. He shook her away impatiently.

  “Leave me alone, Dianne! I’m tired.”

  Hurt skewered her. She stood back, her eyes wide. She lifted a hand.

  “Don’t go, Paul. I need you tonight. I’m lonely.”

  He bent his head for a moment and then looked up at her. “I’m not very good at being needed.”

  Dianne stood still. Then she bent and lifted the towel. Covered again, she turned her back. He left the room.

  The tree lights were still on in the chilly room downstairs. They didn’t flicker as Jenna’s had. Their steady glow burnished Paul in silver as he dropped to the carpet by the sofa, where Jenna had sat the previous day. He sat crossed legged, as she had, and put his elbows on his knees.

  Dianne was irritating him more every day. But I didn’t have to hurt her like that. I didn’t.

  He reached up to tug a golden bauble from the tree and fiddle with it. Memory heaved in him like a rush of sickness. It was the Christmas just before his ninth birthday. His mother was getting the dinner ready. He and Adam were crawling round the floor of their lounge, racing the cars that they had been given in the morning. It wasn’t the floor any more. It was a racetrack, better than any racetrack anywhere else in the whole world. The pits were behind the rubber plant; the spectator stands were the coffee table; the chicane was round the Christmas tree. There were baubles on it just like this one.

  His car was running out of fuel. He would have to make a pit stop! It would have to be quick – Adam’s car was closing on him! He dived behind the rubber plant. Adam crashed into his legs and jolted him onto his side. The rubber plant shook, then tilted. It seemed to happen in slow motion. His father came into the room at that moment. The rubber plant keeled over and landed with a crash at his father’s feet. Soil and pebbles flew across the carpet and the carefully polished leaves and branches twisted and snapped.

  It was twenty years ago and yet the memory was still jagged. The golden bauble broke in Paul’s hand and a drop of blood stained the mound of his thumb. His father had roared at him. He didn’t hit him. Christopher Shepherd had never hit either of his sons, but he had a quick temper. It flared and died, but burned to cinders while it lived. Paul remembered three things about that Christmas. One was being sent upstairs, banished from the family table, the turkey, the plum pudding. One was knowing Adam was there at the table, eating, laughing, asking for more.

  The third thing was Christopher’s roar following him up the stairs. “You’re a bad bastard! A waste of space!”

  It was confirmation of what he already knew. He sucked his palm as he realised there was a fourth memory. His mother coming into his room before tea, hugging him, telling him noone was angry any more, she’d always hated that plant anyway; bringing him downstairs, cutting him a large piece of Christmas cake. Christopher had put an arm on his shoulder, awkward.

  “It’s OK, lad. I didn’t mean it.”

  Yes, you did.

  Adam wagged a red cracker at him. He pulled it. Bang! When you feel, you get hurt. Bang! It’s better to shut down part of yourself than try to reason things out.

  Paul looked up at the tree above him. He hated Christmas. He didn’t belong. He really was a bad bastard. The wire from the plug snaked across the carpet beside him. His hand darted out and gripped, yanked hard. The room blackened in an instant, leaving him cold, blind and alone.

  Several hours later, Dianne woke to find Paul still had not come to bed. Usually, he would be sprawled on his stomach, legs poaching space across the sheets, arms thrown across the pillows, black lashes feathering his pale cheeks, twitching slightly to the tune of his dreams.

  She snapped on the bedside light and reached for her robe. The landing light spilled down the stairs into the darkness of the hall. There didn’t seem to be a light on down there. Dianne hesitated on the bottom step, feeling the loneliness of the night in the silent house. A shiny garland was woven through the bars of the bannister. She jumped as it brushed her hand like a running spider.

  The lights of the Christmas tree were out. She snapped on the wall light and saw his figure on the floor, slumped against the sofa near the window. His head was bent to his chest, his legs straight out in front of him and his arms limp by his sides. She dropped to her knees beside him.

  “Paul?” Her voice was edged with fright. She took his hand. It was like ice. Pieces of a broken bauble fell from his fingers. “Paul? Are you all right?” He stirred. “What on earth are you doing? You’re freezing!”

  His eyes opened slowly, looked around beneath drooped lids, finally rested on her. “Sleepy,” he muttered.

&nb
sp; “Come up to bed, you idiot,” Dianne scolded, relief making her sharp. She helped him to his feet. He was stiff with cold. She pulled one of his arms across her shoulders, and the two of them made slow, awkward progress side by side on the narrow stairs. He still seemed slow and sleepy. She turned on the electric blanket and helped him undress.

  When she slid in beside him, he was still cold. Cold now herself, but still not as cold as he was, she rubbed his sides and back briskly. Gradually heat began to spread across him and he nuzzled up to her, seeming more content.

  “Go to sleep.” She kissed his forehead. “You’re the one who needs me, I think.”

  She was surprised by the strength of his reply. “I don’t need anyone,” he said firmly.

  Dianne lay still, holding him as he seemed to become drowsy again. The darkness circled her, touched her open eyes as she lay wondering again about this man she had married so proudly, how she seemed to know him less and less instead of more and more. What have I done? she thought. How long can I live with him? Frightening was the insidious knowledge that he did not really love her now. He had never denied it. He did not love her in the way she needed and craved, the way that was her due, her right. He was hurting her now more often than he was delighting her.

  His voice was low and muffled again, coming from the cleft of her breasts where his head rested. “A baby would love this feeling.” She stiffened. Even in sleep! Why wouldn’t he let it go? Finally he muttered, “Hot water bottle.” His last word was indistinct. It sounded like “aspirin.”

  Then she felt his muscles relax as sleep caught him and pulled him under.

  Jenna grinned as the first bars of ‘Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer’ wafted from the speakers in the ceiling. Adam put his head in his hands and groaned. The waitresses were wearing tinsel hairbands and a reindeer and sleigh occupied a raised stand in front of the entrance.

  “Poor old Rudolph,” said Jenna. “It’s not his fault.”

  Adam picked up his knife and fork again. “That song’s suffering from severe over-exposure.”

  Jenna studied him as he ate. His chestnut hair was like his mother’s, before the gray was sprinkled through it.

  “What colour was your father’s hair?”

  Adam chewed and swallowed before he replied. “Brown. A bit like mum’s; a bit more gingery maybe.”

  She was about to comment on Paul’s black hair when Adam spoke again.

  “I’m afraid I’m not going to be around for Christmas after all.” He lifted his napkin and wiped his mouth. “It’s Paul. He’s going to go to England, to Dianne’s folk.” He waved a hand in annoyance. “He said he wasn’t, but typical! He phoned me at lunch time and said he’d changed his mind.”

  Jenna’s fork paused only momentarily on its way to her mouth. “Oh? So it’ll be just you and your mum?”

  “I’m going to take her up to Coleraine for the few days.”

  “To your mum’s sister?”

  “Paul’s so unreliable. You think you’ve got everything planned and then he throws a googly. Typical of him. It’s very short notice for Sally and Bob.”

  “I’m sure they understand. What did your mum say about it?” He sighed. “She seems OK with it. She said Paul had been to see her this morning and that it’s important that he and Dianne stay together for their first Christmas.” His mouth took a bitter twist. “He’s worked his old black magic. He can make anybody do anything if he wants it hard enough. And then make them thank him.”

  Jenna let the waitress lift her plate. Then she said, “Adam, why don’t you like Paul?”

  “What’s to like? He was always trouble.”

  “But he’s your brother.”

  Adam studied the sweet menu. “Yeah, he’s my brother. Let’s not talk about it any more. So I’ll have to stay with mum. I’ll not be about till after the New Year.”

  “I’ll really miss you,” said Jenna.

  He set the menu down. “I think I’ll have the pavlova. What about you?”

  After their meal, they walked round the City Hall. To Jenna, Belfast was beautiful this Christmas – fresh and hopeful. Buses and taxis swept round corners; people were everywhere, happy, busy, drunk – sometimes all three. Somewhere, carol singers were starting ‘O Come all ye faithful.’ Even so, she felt a rush of anxiety and disappointment. She had been looking forward to this evening so much, but Adam was distant, preoccupied. He had become a solid constant in her life, a bar against which all other uncertainties were braced. She stopped by the war memorial and turned into his arms. She put her own arms right round his waist and squeezed as hard as she could.

  He laughed. “You think that’s hugging? Feel this!”

  His grip tightened around her until her feet lifted off the ground and she squealed. He let her down and kissed her lightly. The clouds of their breath mingled as he pushed her hair from her eyes.

  “You’re a nice girl, Jenna. Too nice.”

  Jenna wasn’t sure what she expected, but being called ‘nice’ wasn’t it.

  “Is it possible to be too nice?” she asked.

  Adam hesitated; then, “Too nice and too good.” He swung her round to his side and started to walk again, his arm round her shoulders. “Too good for me, anyway.”

  “Don’t be daft,” she said, not understanding. They crossed the road at the bus stands and began to walk back towards the multi-storey where Adam had left his car. “What about Friday?”

  “What about Friday?”

  “Adam! You can’t have forgotten. Your staff dinner. You said partners were invited and I could go with you.”

  “Oh yes. Well.” He walked on a few steps before speaking again. “Are you sure you still want to come? I mean, I’d love you to, but you won’t know anybody.”

  She stopped and faced him. “But I’ll know you! Yes, I do want to come. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “OK then. But I warned you.”

  In Jenna’s street, Adam parked on the footpath and walked her to her door. She had left her tree lights on. Adam pointed at them.

  “You should turn those off when you go out. Fire hazard.” She reached into her bag for her key. He often came in for a chat at the end of an evening. “Coffee?”

  “Not tonight, honey. I’ve an early start in the morning.”

  She felt his lips pressed cold onto hers. Well, it was a cold night.

  Inside, she squeezed round the tree to stand in the window and watch him drive away. He looked round and waved as he passed her house. Something had changed. Maybe he was just preoccupied, annoyed at the last minute change in Christmas plans. Maybe he was just tired. She swung round suddenly and admitted that the fact he didn’t ‘make demands’ annoyed her. It was the first time she had brought this thought into the open within her own head. Am I so unattractive?

  She paced round the room, the red, green, blue room. But everything was going so well. He was just right for her. Everyone said so. Her mum, her dad; even Dianne thought they made a great couple. Luke didn’t like him though.

  Her foot caught on some books strewn on the floor. In a sudden burst of frustration, she kicked them. Adam was the one person who was making this year endurable. He was around, able to call and see her, lift her mind. If he wasn’t there, how boring life would be. What would be left?

  She saw the silver ball on the floor, the one she had knocked from the tree last night when she had seen Paul at her door. She picked it up and tossed it from hand to hand. Without Adam, she would just be… her mouth twisted… a nice girl. Maybe she should throw herself at him in low cut dresses and boob tape.

  She held the ornament in her finger and thumb thoughtfully, watching the light dance in curves around it. But that’s not me. She hooked the ball back onto a branch carefully. A shower of pine needles fell to the carpet. She stood back and the red, green, blue flashed across her still figure. She was back in the ruined hut. Who are you? Who are you?

  She had part of the answer. I know what I’m not.
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br />   11

  JENNA HAD NEVER met any of Adam’s work colleagues before. Nerves prickled her stomach as she held his hand and walked down the carpeted passage to the large room that had been booked for his firm’s Christmas party.

  He glanced round and squeezed her hand.

  “Relax!”

  “I hate entrances.”

  She had made a special effort. Her hair was shining, her sandals were just high enough to be elegant, low enough to be comfortable, her dress was pink and graceful. Trying to remember exactly how Dianne had done it, she sat on her bed, tongue between her teeth in concentration, and carefully painted every nail on her fingers and toes. She stood in front of the mirror in her bathroom and applied her eye shadow and mascara with extreme care. She did a twirl for Adam. Then he said they had to go; he didn’t want to be late.

  “You could at least tell me I look nice.”

  “You look lovely. Now come on.”

  It didn’t help her mood. The band was already playing and the first few couples were dancing in the centre. Was it her imagination, or did people pause and look round when she and Adam joined them? Pause more than they needed to, more than her nerves expected? Paranoid, she scolded herself.

  Glitter was everywhere. Strands twined up the microphone stand, holly climbed the walls, tinsel edged the tables. Balls of coloured light spun above their heads as Adam moved through the crowd. With an easy familiarity, he joked and chatted to everyone he passed. He stopped at a table half way up and introduced her to the group who shuffled over and made room for two more chairs.

  She looked around. So these are the people Adam works with, the people who see him more than I do. It was hard to make conversation above the noise of the band. A small blonde girl in a cream trouser suit was beside her, her scarlet nails clutching a wine glass. Jenna put her hand to her own chin briefly, just to show off her own nails.

  “Hi, Lucy,” she said, glad she remembered the name. “What department do you work in?”

  “I’m in reception. You don’t get into the factory without passing me. What do you do?”