The Playground

by Jane Shemilt

  It took Eve a while to work it out with Melly—maybe she went down a similar line of reasoning: Why let a man destroy something as precious as friendship? It was different, of course, because Paul had destroyed so much, but that was hardly Melly’s fault, and I think that’s what Eve came around to thinking in the end.

  We should have known by then, just when we thought it was all beginning to settle down, that something worse was coming our way.

  16. April

  Eve

  Eve watches. She watches Sorrel and Poppy and even Izzy. She needs to keep everyone safe. There are rings under her eyes from getting up in the night to watch the children. Sometimes she slips into bed with Sorrel and holds her, watching the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks in the moonlight.

  The whine of the power saw has become background noise in the daytime. She watches from the window as the trunks topple, the branches with their sprays of green descending slowly. Blake helps pull the undergrowth out after school and on weekends; Eric is tired after his long days, longer without Igor. He seems to have abandoned his former ideas about a Japanese garden. Evenings are silent, he goes to bed early, straight after supper sometimes.

  Poppy is reading much more than she used to, old books Eve read to her a while ago: Little House in the Big Woods, The Magic Faraway Tree, Roald Dahl, Beano annuals; comfort reading like comfort eating or drinking. She doesn’t talk about Ash much, nor does Sorrel. Sorrel has been told he has gone to heaven and isn’t coming back. Fragments of memory have appeared, flotsam washed up from the deep: the glass plates in Greece, paddling in the sea, a doll she’d gotten for Christmas. Eve asked all the children not to push her for more and they listened, nodding.

  The pain of losing Ash has returned with greater force, like a storm coming back across the sea, increasing in strength as it comes. In the day she can weather it but at night she is beaten to the ground. She can hardly crawl upstairs to bed at night. If it wasn’t for Poppy and Sorrel or Melly and Grace, she’d have given up by now. Eric never refers to his son. She knows he is thinking about him when he stands at the window, his face drawn and fists in his pockets, gazing at the donkey field with the fence that extends right down to the ground.

  The time to discuss the affair has passed; she doubts whether he cares one way or the other. The connection between them has thinned to the point that if it snapped, neither of them would notice; perhaps it’s broken already.

  Grace

  Martin’s letters are addressed to all three of them, Grace reads them out loud at supper.

  “. . . crowded classroom, listening as if their lives depended on it. I go to the park to write in the evenings; the little monkeys in the trees try to steal my sandwiches, they remind me of Charley.”

  “It’s not fair,” bursts out Charley. “How come he gets to have a holiday and we don’t?”

  “It’s not a holiday,” Grace reminds her. “He’s teaching, earning us money.”

  “He sees these animals. He has picnics in the park.”

  Grace looks at Charley’s resentful face. They could be there now, looking up at those monkeys, the sun hot on their faces and all the scents of Africa around them, if things had been different, if Martin had behaved differently.

  “Well, we could have picnics in the park.”

  “Just us?” asks Blake.

  “If you want,” she replies, pleased.

  “Nah.”

  The flat is untidy. They tidy it together and she tries not to do it again when they’ve gone to sleep. The co-op has promoted her to part-time manager but she’s at home for meals and she writes alongside them when they do their homework.

  “What happened to Ash?”

  She is sitting by Charley, who is reading in bed. She smooths her hair off her forehead, the only time she’s allowed to do that now.

  “He drowned, you know that. It was a terrible, terrible accident.”

  “I know that’s what everyone says happened, but no one knows if it’s true.”

  “It may not have happened precisely like that.” She turns off Charley’s bedside light.

  “Izzy’s been saying it could have been her dad.”

  “What?”

  “She said not to tell anyone but she remembered he’d got angry with Ash the night before. Then he left early the next day, which was the day Ash was found. He could’ve, you know, done something.” She draws a noisy breath.

  “Charley, who has Izzy been saying this to?”

  “Me and Blake.”

  After she kisses Charley good night, she stands at the balcony staring out at the sunset. The sky is very clear. April already. Soon it will be another long, hot London summer. Martin wrote about swimming in the Kariba Dam as well, and elephants on safari. She didn’t tell Charley that.

  Melly said the police interrogated Paul about Ash’s death six months ago now, and since. They were very sure it was an accident. She must ask Charley not to repeat Izzy’s words in front of Poppy or Sorrel, or Eve; they could be intensely upsetting. She waits till the sun disappears and the lights begin to prick the twilight all over south London. There is no one in the parking lot below. The landlady was right, the gang has gone. Five thousand miles away, it will be dark in Zimbabwe; night descends suddenly, there is no lingering English dusk, which she has grown to love. She goes inside to write, shutting the balcony doors.

  Melissa

  Paul leans forward over the prison table, his voice is croaky.

  “How’s Sorrel?”

  She stares at him in disbelief. His lawyer relayed that he had something urgent to communicate. The requests were repeated; eventually she agreed to go, one final time. Was it just another trick? A chance to ask questions about the little girl he left to die? She shakes her head in silence.

  “Any memories yet?”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “Okay. How’s Izzy?”

  She tightens her lips; he must be insane if he thinks she is going to give him a progress report on his daughter’s recovery from the damage he inflicted. Perhaps he is; incarceration causes madness in some prisoners. A deep line encircles his neck like a jagged crimson thread, damage coming full circle.

  “One of the blokes stole some wire from the workshop,” he says, noticing her glance. “I thought I was going to die. So, about Izzy. I’m worried about her, really worried. Is she having therapy?”

  Around them couples lean forward and touch. Two little boys dressed in matching outfits with gelled hair are fighting over a bag of chips while their parents hold hands and talk in whispers. Another couple is silent, the girl yawning, obviously bored; she is probably here for the last time, as she is herself. Paul’s hair is whitening; she’d thought it was a cliché, stress making your hair go white. His hands are rough-skinned, the nails are short and torn. There are bruises on his arms, old ones and more recent ones; they merge, like the bruises he gave her.

  “Listen to me, Paul.” She meets his eyes in a way she’d never dared, not even at the beginning. “You have forfeited the right to ask about your daughter, now or ever. Please don’t get your lawyer to contact us again.”

  He leans forward but she doesn’t move back. If this is a game, she’s not going to lose. His face tightens and his skin flushes a dark, blotchy red.

  “You listen to me. Izzy was lying. I did nothing, none of it. I didn’t touch her, I swear. I did none of the things she said. Of course I didn’t.” He looks more like the old Paul, though this Paul sounds desperate rather than angry, the words are pouring out. “She made it all up, everything she said was a lie. I had nothing to do with Sorrel’s abduction either. Izzy’s ill, she must be. It’s the only explanation. You need to get her some sort of help.” His voice rises. “You must promise me you’ll find someone to help her. I’ll be cleared of course when the police dig deeper, though to be honest, I’m far more worried about her than me.”

  “I can’t listen to this, Paul.”

  “You have to, for Izzy’s sake. Wh
at the hell’s she up to? Why would she lie about me? And what the fuck was Sorrel doing in our freezer? It doesn’t make any sense. I’m locked up while the real culprit is walking around somewhere; it could be dangerous. Dangerous for Izzy.”

  His fists on the table clench tight but she doesn’t flinch. They stare at each other; he is breathing heavily, the veins in his neck stand out like tight cords. Then he leans back slowly, his eyes narrow. “Where do you plan to live?”

  She stares at him calmly; there is nothing that will induce her to tell him. She returns to last week’s unexpected phone call; she’s turned it over in her mind since then, like a cache of secret treasure that you know will have the power to change your life.

  “We visited the house last week. I like what you’ve done very much.” There had been a smile in Jean-Claude’s accented voice. “You don’t know us, yet it’s perfect.”

  “You sent me photos of your place in France and I read between the lines; it wasn’t hard,” she’d replied, gazing at Eve’s garden through the kitchen window, the phone to her ear. The house was quiet; the children were playing in the garden. “I’m so glad you like it.”

  “We love it. I am grateful.”

  “You’re welcome.” I love that house, the project saved me.

  It had filled her mind for weeks: the careful refurbishment of the kitchen and the bathrooms, the antique beds, the paints she mixed herself. The exquisite curtains. It had all come together in the end like a work of art.

  “I have bad news and good news,” Jean-Claude had said, a little hesitantly.

  He’s run out of money. He’ll sell the house; someone new will change the colors, knock things down or knock them through.

  “We have decided to remain in France for two more years; my boy has to stay close to the hospital for treatment.”

  “I understand, I’m sorry to hear that.” And she is, but she’s right, he’ll sell the house.

  “Would you like to live there?”

  “Sorry?” Had she heard properly? She gripped the phone tightly. “Could you repeat what you’ve just—”

  “I’m greedy. I want to keep the house though it will be a long time before we live in it; meanwhile it needs to stay alive. It needs people. You need a house.”

  “How did you know?” She shouldn’t have said that, she should have laughed it off as a joke, but her heart had begun to beat very fast.

  “I read between the lines.”

  They had been on television, all over the internet for weeks. It’s hardly surprising that he knows her situation. What’s more surprising is that he wasn’t put off. The families of criminals become contaminated with the crime, her therapist said; she could be labeled unlucky or dangerous to know. She’s lost clients already.

  “The thing is, it isn’t just me. I have a daughter, and a young Syrian friend will be joining our family, she’s having a baby soon.”

  “Any friends of yours are welcome. The more the merrier. I’d like the house filled up. Live there for us.”

  “I want to know where you’ll be, you and Izzy. I know you’re selling the house, I had to sign those papers too.” Paul is watching her closely. “And I want my share of the money; I need a better lawyer.”

  “You have to repay the money to Izzy’s trust fund first.”

  He shrugs.

  “If you manage to get out, God knows how, stay away from us.” She gets up, catching his look of astonishment. He was always the one who ended conversations, never her, and now she is ending everything for good. She makes herself walk out of the room despite wanting to run as fast as she can. She is going toward freedom, though she can feel his eyes boring into her back.

  A week later she is standing next to Izzy in Eve’s kitchen as they peel potatoes for supper. Izzy’s red nails sparkle in the water, she cuts deep into the white flesh; her potatoes end up half the size but she’s helping, she looks absorbed. This is a good moment to share plans.

  “We’ve got somewhere to live, Izzy.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Izzy’s mouth curves in a little smile. “Poppy told me; Eve says we can stay as long as we like.”

  Through the window Melissa sees Eric walking slowly around the garden, Eve behind him holding Sorrel’s hand as she skips along beside her. The little girl looks content, but her parents aren’t talking or touching. “I mean I’ve found another house, for us.”

  “My counselor said no upheavals.” Izzy’s voice becomes hard, she’s still scared. “She told you, no big changes.”

  “Think of them.” She nods through the window. Eric has stopped to pin back a strand of wisteria that’s blowing in the wind, Eve continues past him as though he were invisible. “They need to recover in peace if they’re to survive everything that’s happened.”

  “So do I.” Izzy has stopped peeling potatoes; she stares at her mother, the old Izzy look.

  “That’s the best thing about it.” Melissa speaks calmly. She is stronger now, she reminds herself, she needs to stand firm. “A client has offered us his house in Wiltshire while he’s abroad. It’s peaceful, and your father will never find us there.”

  “What do you mean?” Izzy steps back. “Is he getting out?”

  Melissa puts her arm around her. “Of course not. The new case hasn’t even come to trial yet and when it does, he’ll be locked away for years. All the same, we need a new start somewhere else, we have to build new memories.”

  “What about school?”

  “There are some great schools in Salisbury.”

  “I need to be with my friends.” Izzy sounds frightened.

  “We’ll see them often, sweetie, they can come and stay during breaks whenever you like. And you’ll make new ones.”

  Izzy doesn’t reply. Melissa busies herself putting the pot of potatoes on the stove and clearing out the sink. “We’re stronger now, we’ll manage, you’ll see. Lina’s coming too.” She turns to smile at her daughter but Izzy isn’t there. The door to the garden is open. Through the window she sees her approach Eve and take Sorrel’s other hand. Melissa’s are full of wet peelings, soft and already disintegrating. It’s natural Izzy would want to stay in familiar surroundings. She does too—she dreads leaving Eve and Grace—but Izzy’s safety has to come first. If Paul gets out, Eve’s house is the first place he would look. She puts the peelings in the trash bin and shuts the lid firmly.

  Later Melly unscrews a bottle of wine. Eric is doing the bills. The girls have gone to bed. She pours out two glasses.

  “I should say no.” Eve picks up her wine. “But I find I can’t.”

  “Just one glass, sweetie, surely it won’t hurt.”

  “I meant your invitation, Izzy passed it on.” Eve looks happier than she has in months. “Darling Melly, it would be perfect.”

  “My invitation?”

  “It’s come at just the right moment; I hadn’t realized how much I needed to get away.”

  Eve is smiling as she continues but her eyes are full of tears. “When I’m in the kitchen, I see Ash running towards the door. Sometimes I hear him in the garden calling to Noah. I’ll think if I’m quick I’ll be in time to stop him. I find myself standing in front of the paddock gate to bar his way. What happened fills my mind, day and night. It’s not fair on the girls.” She stares out the window as if, even now, she can see her little son in the dark running across the grass toward the paddock with the dog. “In a different place, the good memories might have a chance to come back instead.”

  Izzy’s been kind, more thoughtful than she was; she understood exactly what Eve needed, what they owe her. She puts her arm around Eve and hugs her. Eve gave them a home when they needed it, despite what Paul did to Sorrel; a less generous woman might have simply turned her back. It’s time she repaid Eve’s friendship, it’s the least she can do.

  She draws back and smiles warmly into Eve’s eyes. “That’s wonderful news. Eric’s invited, of course, he’d love the garden. I’ll ask Grace too; we should all go.”

 
; “Eric won’t come; I know that without asking. He’s got too much work and we need a break from each other.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I still don’t know if he knows what happened between me and Martin, but if he does he’s not saying. He doesn’t say anything. It’s lonely, like living with a stranger who doesn’t seem to like you very much.” Then she stops. “How tactless of me, Melly, you must be much lonelier.”

  “It’s the opposite for me,” Melissa replies. “I was lonely when I was with Paul. I’m not lonely now and neither is Izzy.” She hands Eve her wine and they touch glasses. “To the future.”

  Blake thinks that if they have to be anywhere without Dad this is the best place. There are so many trees, it’s mental. There’s a tennis court; they got some rackets off Amazon, Melly is showing them how to play. He messaged Dad to tell him to come when it’s the university holidays in Zimbabwe, but Mum said he probably won’t because of having to be careful with money; she’s writing a book, which is cool, but it’s only Dad earning now. If Eric came, he’d go nuts for this garden.

  Charley gets woken up by the birds’ singing in the morning and just lies there, trying to believe her luck. There are ponies and sheep in the fields here; everyone is happier except maybe Izzy. Mum is, definitely; maybe because she’s writing so she’s kind of switched on all the time, you can tell. She’s not saying what the story is about yet. Charley doesn’t want to go back to London. They’ve actually talked about moving here and changing schools, though Mum thinks Dad might prefer to stay in London when he’s back, but they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it, apparently.