The Playground

by Jane Shemilt

  Grace steps back, she doesn’t reply. Melissa feels a pulse of admiration; she would have apologized, explained, made some awkward joke.

  “Let’s find you a towel.” Eve gestures to the house. “There are heaps upstairs. Eric can—”

  Grace frowns and shakes her head, the sort of woman who doesn’t like a fuss.

  “Well, at least take my wrap.” Eve hands over a length of pink material from the back of her chair. “I’m so glad you made it after all,” she continues easily. “You must be exhausted. There’s plenty to eat. Do sit down.”

  She gestures to the chair next to Martin, but Grace sits by Melissa instead.

  “Hi, I’m Melly.” She smiles, feeling chosen. “Izzy’s mother.”

  Grace says nothing; she is watching Martin and has started to shiver despite the warmth of the evening.

  “Congratulations on the washing-machine repair.” Martin raises his glass to his wife.

  Eve laughs but Grace doesn’t; she downs the contents of her glass in one swallow, standing to reach the wine for a refill. The neat outline of her buttocks is printed on the chair. Melissa bites back questions as Grace sits down again; her hand is oozing blood from a graze along the side of her palm. Martin spots it at the same moment.

  “Hey, Gracie, what have you done to your hand? Oh, Jesus, look at your face. Did you collide with the washing machine?”

  “Exactly that.” Grace’s hands slide into her lap and she shakes her hair over her face. “Fucking clumsy of me.”

  Her words arrive in a little silence and deepen it; as if in response, Eric walks around the table, reaches over her shoulder, and puts the wine bottle by her elbow. Martin shakes his head; Paul is the first to speak. “Well done for surviving your accident.” He raises his glass to the newcomer and smiles his most winning smile.

  Grace looks away. Paul’s face falls and he drains his glass. Melissa wants to smile; Grace seems immune to her husband’s charm. She glances at her, at the glittering eyes, the sodden dress, and the seeping hand. The story about the washing machine is far-fetched; she recognizes trauma even if no one else does, something complicated that Grace is keeping to herself. Melissa passes salad, salmon, bread, none of which she has eaten herself. Grace might have had a minor car accident and, having damaged the car, be too frightened or embarrassed to confess, as she herself would be, though she’s never seen anyone so unafraid, so little abashed.

  “Well, I think you look amazing,” she whispers, conscious that her words sound trivial, as if trauma could be erased by a compliment, but Grace’s expression softens as she stares down into the garden. Melissa follows her gaze to the children dancing around the bonfire. Izzy’s voice carries the loudest, she sounds happy. Melissa’s mouth stretches into a smile so wide it feels dangerous. She puts her hands to her lips as if to hide her teeth while Grace turns her gaze to her. The assessment feels detached but not unkind.

  “Izzy’s having fun,” Melissa confides. “She adores the younger ones. It’s like she’s turning back into a child herself.”

  “Mine don’t tell me much. They’re quieter if anything, a bit grumpy. Growing up, I’d hoped.” She taps the table with her fingernails. Thin lines of dried blood are embedded in the folds of skin that border each nail; trauma as she’d thought. Melissa looks away.

  “Which do you think, Eve?” Grace raises her voice. “Are our children growing up or getting younger? We can’t decide.”

  Eve turns from Martin and glances around at the group as if confused; there is a pause while she visibly gathers her thoughts. Eric leans forward, watching.

  “Both.” She opens her hands. “Their thinking has become more complex, even in the time they’ve been with me; they’re all very capable of quite abstract reasoning and questioning. They can be challenging at times.”

  “Is Izzy challenging?” Melissa asks, praying her daughter hasn’t been rude.

  “She might query the lesson plan a little, why a particular goal, for whose benefit, that sort of thing, pushing the boundaries. She doesn’t always do what I ask, but that’s good in its way; a sign of maturity.”

  “A bit of a rule breaker then.” Paul looks pleased. “Like her dad.”

  Is that how you see yourself? Melissa stares across the table at her husband’s flushed face—a bit of a rule breaker?

  “On the other hand, they run down to the garden after the sessions like a bunch of little kids.” Eve laughs. “Eric’s hoping they’ll use his new playground, nearer the house.” She glances at the swing and the slide, the wooden cabin; stark shapes in contrast to the distant softness of the trees just visible against the sky. “We’ll have to see.”

  They all look down into the garden then; the small figures of their children are silhouetted against the embers of the bonfire as if on a darkened stage. The scene recalls another: a group of performers at Glyndebourne with Paul’s firm last year—Faustus. As the singers had gathered at the glowing entrance to hell, the music swelled and a sense of danger had billowed into the darkness. Ash stirs, the drool from his mouth seeps into Melissa’s top. The barbecue has gone out; the evening feels colder. The candles are half burned down. She shivers, resisting the urge to get up and call the children back into their lit circle.

  Down the table, Martin is shaking his head regretfully. “. . . no specific plans. A summer of boredom stretches ahead. How about you, Paul?” He looks across the table to where Paul is sitting a little slumped now, an empty glass in his hands.

  “We usually opt for a villa.” Paul waves the stub of his cigar. “We might try southern Italy this summer. Izzy likes her water sports. I’ll probably hire a boat.”

  Izzy’s turned thirteen; she’s made all these new friends. She might not want to spend her holidays with her parents anymore, there could be battles ahead. Melissa’s heart sinks.

  Eve leans into the candlelight, her face is flushed. “I’ve just had the most brilliant idea.” She has a dimple Melissa hasn’t seen until now, a shadowy little pit on her right cheek. “Every August we stay in my father’s old house in the Peloponnese.” Eve’s voice catches with excitement. “You could join us out there next month, all of you.” She gazes around. Her eyes glitter; they look different somehow, larger perhaps. It may be the makeup, which Melissa has never seen her wear before tonight. “It’s a paradise for kids, hundreds of olive trees to get lost among,” Eve continues. “Why not come too?”

  There is a gasp. Melissa isn’t sure whose, was it her? She glances at Grace, who scarcely takes a day off, according to Martin. They obviously have no money to spare for holidays or travel. Grace is looking at her husband, her face is expressionless; perhaps she thinks the invitation is just one of those spur-of-the-moment things, well meant but unreal.

  “That’s so kind of you.” Melissa touches Eve’s hand. “But there must be heaps we can do in London without imposing—”

  “It wouldn’t be an imposition. We converted the outhouses over there specially for guests. We could all be as private as we wanted to be.”

  “Far too generous,” Paul says. His words are a little slurred now. “We couldn’t possibly accept.”

  “Our children would love the company,” Eve continues, as though she hasn’t heard him. She looks as eager as a child. “I could teach them in the mornings if you like. You can do whatever you want, read or sleep. There’s a pool that my father put in. It’s very peaceful; ideal for writing,” she adds, with a smiling glance at Martin.

  “This is the kind of thing my wife does,” Eric murmurs. “There will be no dissuading her. I think she feels guilty that we don’t make more use of it.”

  “Guilt has nothing to do with it.” The pink deepens. “You’re always telling me to do what my heart tells me to; well, that’s exactly what I’m doing now.” She looks around, nodding seriously. “I really want you all to come.”

  Martin is watching closely; his eyes flick between husband and wife: Eric’s tone, his glance, Eve’s response; the silent exchange under
the spoken one. Perhaps he’s storing it all for a novel, perhaps he’s been watching her and Paul too. She closes her eyes; she needs to think this through. Izzy would be happy, surrounded by the other children. Paul would spend time with Eric; she could relax for once, sit in the sun, swim, sleep. The warmth would be healing. There would be friends to talk to, Eve and maybe Grace. The offer bobs in front of her like a raft sent for rescue. No one speaks. Eve reaches for Ash and takes him back onto her lap, the dimple has vanished. The raft is bobbing by, soon it will be gone.

  “It would be wonderful,” Melissa hears herself saying a little breathlessly. “Izzy would love it, so would I, actually.” She senses rather than sees Paul sit up in his chair; she looks at Eve instead, conscious she is accepting the offer without discussing it with him first.

  “Astonishingly generous.” Martin smiles at Eve. “Charley and Blake would never forgive us if we didn’t accept.” Then he glances at Grace. “We’ll need to work it out, of course.”

  “You go. I can’t, obviously.” Grace’s voice is very even. “I have to book time off months in advance.”

  “I’ve a ridiculous number of air miles saved up,” Eve puts in swiftly. “I’ll help with plane tickets.”

  “It all sounds too good to be true.” Martin turns to Eve, grinning ruefully. “I confess I’ve been seduced by the thought of writing under those olive trees.”

  Melissa dares a glance at Paul; his face is bland, which means he’s thinking fast. He’s seen Izzy with her friends; if he wants her with him on holiday, he’ll have realized he’ll have to share.

  “If you’ll let me contribute, we’d be delighted to accept.” Despite the slight slurring, he sounds sincere.

  “Okay, thanks.” Eric nods.

  “We just have to persuade Grace now.” Eve’s eyes shine as if in triumph.

  Melissa glances at Grace, but she is staring down into the garden again. If she feels unhappy, she’s hiding it, but then it’s easy to hide your feelings, she does it herself all the time. Perhaps Grace is wondering where her children are. The dancing figures have disappeared. The bonfire has almost gone out; a little breeze has come up. Eric walks around the table to stand behind Eve; his hand is on his wife’s shoulder but he’s looking at Grace. “You should come if you can. Is it too late to swap holidays at work?”

  “Oh yes, please try.” Eve leans forward. “You’d enjoy it so much.”

  “It’s not a question of enjoyment.” Grace’s glittering warrior look has gone; she sounds exhausted. The things she isn’t saying float between them, the stark, simple things. She earns the money; someone has to pay the bills.

  “Let’s hope you can manage to get some time off.” Eve reaches across the table as if to touch her hand, but at that moment the light breeze strengthens and the candles flutter then extinguish. For a second everything vanishes, it’s as though each is alone in the dark. Eric steps into the house, a switch is flicked, and lanterns on the wall light up. The table springs into view, cluttered with smeared plates and chunks of drying bread. There is a forest of empty wine bottles. The leftover meat on the barbecue is darkly charred. Melissa puts her hand to her growling stomach. It had been so easy to eat nothing this evening; Eve had been preoccupied and hadn’t noticed. Now it’s an effort not to seize a hunk of bread and cram it into her mouth. At that moment the children reappear. Sorrel first, dragging her feet, her eyes swollen. She is missing her skirt. Poppy is pale-faced and silent, hiccupping a little. They wind themselves around Eric.

  “Goodness, darlings.” Eve stares at her daughters. “You both look exhausted. Whatever happened to your skirt, Sorrel?”

  Sorrel looks at her feet, sucking her thumb.

  “The elastic must have snapped with all that running.” Eve puts her arm around Sorrel. “Never mind, we’ll buy you another.” Sorrel leans against her and closes her eyes.

  Charley stands close to Grace but Blake stares back into the trees. The garden looks even larger at night, a wilderness stretching out in front of them.

  “Where’s Izzy?” Melissa asks, trying to keep unease from her voice.

  “She’ll be along in a moment, don’t fret.” Paul sits back in his chair, pouring the last of a bottle of wine into a glass. “I know my little girl rather well. She loves to make an entrance.”

  Melissa gets out of her seat and walks to the edge of the veranda; the stone balustrade is gritty under her fingers. She has already spoken out of turn this evening; if she says any more, he’s likely to remember.

  “It’s time we got going.” Grace stands up. “Thanks, Eve, thanks, Eric, great food.” She takes Charley’s hand. “I hope Ash enjoyed his birthday.”

  She nods her goodbyes to Melissa and the others and starts to make her way back to the car, Blake trailing in her wake.

  “Perfect evening,” Martin murmurs, and hurries to catch up with his family.

  Eve puts Ash down on the little sofa by the door and begins to clear the table with Eric. At that moment Izzy appears, her slim figure running swiftly across the lawn and then up the steps; unlike the other children she doesn’t seem tired at all.

  “What did I say?” Paul’s tone is triumphant. “Hometime, madam. It’s late.”

  As if she hasn’t heard him, Izzy walks over to Ash.

  “Watch out, sweetie.” Melissa puts out a hand to restrain her. “He’s just gone to sleep.”

  She needn’t have worried; Izzy merely leans over the sleeping child, giving him a gentle kiss. A new Izzy, tender, absorbed. Eve was right, she’s growing up. Paul takes her arm and they say their farewells. Izzy looks pleased when he tells her about the holiday on their way home; Melissa listens to their exchange but doesn’t join in. She is exhausted. Paul seems satisfied with the way things went this evening; she crosses her fingers tightly in the dark.

  Sorrel is sucking her thumb. The house is quiet because everyone’s asleep, but the fire is still roaring in her ears. Although she’s pulled the duvet up over her head, flames burn in the darkness, red like the inside of an animal’s mouth.

  “The fire is a beast and needs feeding,” Izzy had shouted. “It’ll get you if you don’t run fast enough.” She’d told them to run faster and faster; they ran till it was difficult to breathe. The others ran too fast for Sorrel to catch up, her legs were aching. Her skirt came loose, it got tangled around her legs, and then she fell over, bang. Her skirt came right off. Izzy stopped and picked up the skirt, she hurled it into the fire as quick as quick, a sacrifice for the beast. He was hungry, Izzy said, her eyes glowing like the fire. Sorrel’s skirt melted in the flames. She began to sob.

  “Fuck off crying,” Poppy said. Sorrel had never actually heard Poppy say “fuck off” so loudly before. “Fuck off crying.” Poppy began to shout it out loudly like a kind of chant.

  Blake had laughed about the skirt being thrown on the fire, which made her feel worse. He took off his shirt but he tied it around his waist; perhaps he didn’t have many shirts and was scared Izzy would throw it into the fire as well. “This is the best party I’ve ever been to,” he had shouted. “Fuck off crying.”

  Charley held Sorrel’s hand and ran with her. They were so far away from the adults, no one could hear them screaming “fuck off” at the top of their voices. It began to have nothing to do with her anymore so Charley had joined in and then she did too. It had been sort of exciting and sort of scary.

  5. August

  Eve

  Eve’s knife slices through the okra stems with a crunch. Splashing noises from the pool merge with the bells from the church and the bees in the sage; holiday sounds, synonymous with happiness. Everyone has a place they love more than anywhere else and for Eve it is here: this little Greek village, this house, this very stone step outside the kitchen bathed in warm sunshine. The views soothe her mind, the wide sky behind the mountains and those fields of gleaming olive trees beyond the garden that slope toward the sea. She’s promised they’d go to the beach tomorrow. Martin is writing in the shade of
the trees to her left, his red shirt like a flag that draws her gaze despite herself. Papers are spread over the dry ground around his table. He says it’s going well, that this is the most perfect place to write, that he can see his way into the story now. He’s grateful. She puts the knife down. She can step back. It’s not too late, they’ve hardly touched.

  He arrived yesterday at noon with Charley, Blake, Melissa, and Izzy. It had taken them a couple of hours in the hired car from Kalamata Airport, and they were all sweating when they arrived. The children had raced with Poppy and Sorrel toward the swimming pool through the trees, shrieking like little animals. Melissa hurried after them, Eric following more slowly with Ash. Eve brought Martin into the kitchen for a drink. It was as dark and cool as a cave, the air scented by a bunch of wild thyme in a jug. She put ice in his glass and watched him drink, head tipped back, throat working. A drop had bulged, trembling at the lip of the tap by the sink. He put his glass down and looked at her. The only sound had been the wasps around a pot of honey on the table. She led him up the twisting wooden steps for the view, up to the bedroom at the top of the house, hers and Eric’s. He’d glanced at the bed draped with mosquito nets. She pushed open the wooden shutters and hot light had streamed in, blindingly bright. The wide landscape stretched in front of them, baking in the sun, with the yellow-brown Taygetus mountains on the left and a glittering line of sea in the distance.

  “I’m in love with this place already,” he’d said.

  Her eyes were level with the pulse at his neck, neither took a breath.

  “Mum!” Poppy’s voice tore into the room, as she came thumping up the stairs. “They need towels.”

  “They’re in the chest on the landing,” she’d called without moving.

  “Show me!”

  She’d drawn back, not quite daring to meet Martin’s eyes, and left the room. He’d clattered down the stairs a few minutes later, whistling.