In this room, small as it was, Ellie looked even more insubstantial and fragile than before. Her baggy jeans rode low on her narrow hips, their hems frayed and grimy. Her feet were bare; tiny, they were like a child’s. She kept on sweeping her hair out of her eyes only for it to fall back. Her skin, clean of make-up, was pale, her eyes shadowed by tiredness.
He knew what he wanted. He could feel it; a reaching, yearning sensation. Small, inexperienced tentacles groped towards her - need, want, a lonely soul searching for companionship from its hollow home. It was as innocent, as natural as milk. People belong with people, he thought. They belong in groups, in families.
He knew what she wanted, too.
When he took her into his arms he did not try to kiss her. He did not - as some boys would - press her urgently back onto the lumpy settee. He did not slide his hands under her shirt, nor did he press himself against her. He didn’t get, as other boys had, that wild and fevered look in his eye. He didn’t bombard her with words. He didn’t say, ‘Oh Ellie, oh Ellie,’ between heavy, laboured breaths. He didn’t say anything, at least not at first. He only held her, gently, in his arms, with her small bare feet between his and her head nestled under his chin. They stood so for long minutes, feeling a million miles from anywhere or anyone, apart from each other.
It was, she realised, just what she had wanted.
✽✽✽
Mary had taken the small armchair by the fire in the sitting room. Heather and Ruth sat on the settee, Belinda on one of the straight backed chairs behind them. Simon stood with his back to the fire although it was not lit. The big armchair remained empty; it was Robert’s chair, the one he would have occupied if he had been with them. The best chair, left for him - the head of the family, the man of the house - in just the same way that the biggest portion, the choicest cut, the first pick was always his by unquestioned right. To meet and to discuss anything of importance without him made them all feel vulnerable and furtive. It was something they had never done in the past, as much because it had been practically impossible – he was always everywhere, liable to arrive home unexpectedly, burst in to any room, as though he had a sixth sense for subterfuge – as because it was unthinkable that anything critical could be discussed or decided in his absence. And as much as they might tell themselves that they were grown-up, now, independent, autonomous, yet still old habits were hard to break. They were indelibly stained with the colour of his control. They shifted uneasily in their seats - even Heather, who had never felt her father’s control as a restriction, more as a form of security to be relied upon - felt uncomfortable to be engaged in a momentous family discussion without him, and she fiddled restlessly with the tassels of Ruth’s shawl. It was as though they were all waiting for him to come in and get things started and it wasn’t until Simon eventually stepped across the room and sat down in the armchair that Mary felt that she could begin.
To their surprise and concern she began with tears. They erupted without the preamble of words and she could only shake her head, and hold her hands out in supplication before them as she tried to conquer her emotions. Eventually she managed to choke out, ‘You can see how he is. You can see how he is.’ Belinda left her chair and perched on the arm of Mary’s. ‘Yes, Mum, we can. We can see how he is. He’s too much for you.’ Mary nodded and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. Belinda stroked her back.
‘We all need to do more,’ Heather said breezily, as though it was a simple matter. ‘You could come and stay with us for as long as you like. There’s plenty of room at our place and we could bring in more help.’
‘And you know you’re welcome with us any time too,’ Belinda agreed.
Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t think it would really help.’
‘No,’ Ruth cut in, ‘neither do I. I haven’t got room for two extras even if you all have, and anyway I’m out at work all day.’
‘I don’t want to give up my home and I won’t be a burden on any of you,’ Mary said, quite forcefully. ‘That isn’t what I had in mind.’
‘I should think not,’ Ruth said. ‘Dad isn’t some sort of modern day King Lear to be shunted from one place to another.’
Simon said nothing. There was no way in hell that he would have his father to stay. Even before this afternoon’s incident, it had been unthinkable. He leaned forward in his chair. ‘What have you got in mind, Mother? A day centre? Respite care?’
But now she had made a start Mary couldn’t stop her roll-call of complaints. ‘Some days he’s alright and I can manage him, but other days, more and more, he’s so difficult. He won’t take his tablets, he won’t let me get him dressed, he’s lazy about the toilet...’
‘You don’t need to justify yourself to us, Mum,’ Simon interrupted her. ‘We’ve all seen just today how awkward he can be.’ He hesitated a moment before plunging on, ‘and frankly, based on today’s performance, I’m not convinced he’s altogether to be trusted. Has he ever hit you?’
‘Of course he hasn’t!’ Heather interjected, ‘this is Daddy we’re talking about!’
‘Exactly!’ Ruth laughed, coldly. Simon gave Heather a piercing, ironical look.
‘He isn’t himself, clearly,’ Belinda tried to soothe the moment over.
‘Well,’ Simon muttered, ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
Abruptly, Heather got up from the settee and went to sit on the step of the hearth, next to Mary. ‘Poor Daddy,’ she said, putting her head on Mary’s knee and casting a glare at Simon, ‘I’m sure it was just an accident today, hurting Todd.’
‘You don’t know the half of it, Heather.’ The bitterness in Ruth’s voice took them all aback.
‘I’m afraid Ruth’s right,’ Simon nodded. ‘You were the golden girl. You could do no wrong.’
Heather looked from one to the other. ‘Was I?’
Their silence confirmed it.
‘Poor Daddy,’ Heather repeated uncertainly, twining her fingers in the chain of her necklace.
‘Poor Mum, I think,’ Ruth ejaculated. ‘It’s time she had a break.’
‘So do I,’ Simon affirmed.
‘No one would think you were being disloyal, Mum, if you had a break from time to time,’ Belinda remained on the arm of her mother’s chair, stroking her back. ‘We know you’re not complaining.’
‘Heaven forbid!’ Simon got up. ‘The McKays never complain. It isn’t polite.’ He brushed his hands together, as though the business was concluded. ‘Whatever you decide will be fine. I’m right behind you.’
‘But I don’t want to decide, not on my own,’ Mary was dissolving again. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you, and to see what you all thought. You see... you see... I don’t think he’s going to like it.’
Simon sat down again, next to Ruth. ‘Tough,’ he said, his voice flat and harsh.
Ruth leant against him heavily. They both folded their arms.
‘OK,’ Belinda said, her voice like a tentative foot testing out new territory. ‘So what are the options?’
✽✽✽
James found Muriel and Rachel in the kitchen, trying to sort out the ironing into piles. ‘Oh there you are!’ he opened his arms and gathered Rachel into his embrace. ‘It’s days since I clapped eyes on you.’ They stood for a moment or two wrapped in each other.
‘I’ve missed you, too, Daddy,’ Rachel mumbled, her face in his broad chest.
He kissed the top of her head. ‘I came to find your den but I got lost in the mist.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I did too. I’ve been lost all day.’
‘Poor baby. Are you alright?’ She nodded again, not daring to say more. The warm, familiar scent of him was overwhelming - the sterile hospital smell overlaid by the sweet grease of canteen food and the salty tang of his skin. The way his chest rose and fell with each breath was like floating on the sea. The smell and sound and sensation were familiar since babyhood and evoked the deepest comfort imaginable. Muriel continued to sort the clothes, talking quietly to herself. Presen
tly, James loosed his arms.
‘We’re in the big lounge. Why don’t you come and join us? We could play Monopoly if you like.’
‘Yes, I might.’ Rachel couldn’t quite meet his eyes. ‘I don’t mind, if there are too many players...’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m making some drinks for us all.’
‘I’ll help you, then.’
‘Alright. And Rachie?’
‘Yes?’
James reached into his pocket. ‘I bought this for you today. It’s a present, from me to you. Open it later, if you like.’
‘What’s it for?’ Rachel took the little package.
‘Read the label!’ James grinned.
Rachel squinted at it: ‘A very happy un-birthday,’ she smiled.
✽✽✽
Rob steered the green Toyota Tundra at breakneck speed along the forested track. Last time he’d played this round he’d been wrong-footed by a sharp left hand hairpin which had thrown him down a ravine and into a swirling torrent. He eased up on the gas slightly to make the turn, the back of the car drifted fractionally but held the road and plummeted down the steep incline towards the narrow wooden bridge which spanned the gorge. Judging the moment as best he could he stepped on the brakes hard. The tyres locked and he skidded down the loose shale path. A Land Rover, in hot pursuit, tried to adjust his speed, but as Rob skidded onto the bridge the Land Rover, unable to stop, slid off the road, through the barrier and disappeared into the river. Dozens of points ratcheted up onto Rob’s score. ‘Fucking hell, that was good,’ he breathed.
‘Yeah. Fucking great!’ Toby agreed indistinctly. He was drunk. Rob smiled to himself.
‘Your turn, Toby.’
‘Cool,’ Toby said.
✽✽✽
There had been a dramatic shift of allegiances in the small sitting room. Heather and Ruth had found themselves unexpectedly in agreement on the matter of full time residential care for Robert, although for very different reasons. Heather had become tearful, ‘He won’t understand,’ she cried. ‘He’ll think he’s being punished, locked away. I don’t know how you can even consider it.’
‘The Oaks is hardly a prison, Heather. Five star luxury, his own room, four meals a day and the best nursing care money can buy.’ Simon was phlegmatic. He stood once more, somewhat proprietarily, on the hearth.
‘You can say that again,’ Ruth was aghast at the cost of the Oaks. ‘James is obviously in the wrong job. He’d nurse Dad for half that amount!’ She remained seated on the sofa but had shifted to one end of it.
‘Daddy isn’t mentally ill Ruth,’ Heather snapped, ‘or criminally insane or whatever James’ patients are. He’s an old man who’s had a stroke; he needs love and care.’
‘I think they are very caring in the Oaks,’ Belinda put in, ‘and he’s familiar with the place; he’s been visiting Granny there for years.’
‘I have no quarrel with the care at the Oaks. It’s the money. I’m amazed you can afford it, Mum. Nine hundred pounds a week? Is that what you pay for Granny?’
‘Yes. The money’s there, Ruth, as long as the business thrives. It is still Dad’s business, you know. We can increase our drawings.’ Ruth was scandalised. She had had no idea that such funds were available from the business while she had been allowed to struggle on week after week in virtual penury without a single offer of help. On the other hand, if the business was that lucrative, and ownership of it destined, on Robert’s death, to be divided between his four children, it seemed short-sighted to pour the contents of its coffers into the bottomless pit of the Oaks. However, she voiced none of this, contenting herself with, ‘I wonder what Elliot would say to that.’ Silently, Belinda agreed.
‘Elliot will do as he’s told,’ Simon cut in. ‘He’s employed to run the business, what happens to the profits is up to Mum. Of course there will be tax implications.’
‘This isn’t about money!’ Heather shouted. She had taken up an uneasy position behind the settee.
‘No. It’s about what’s best for Mum.’
‘And Daddy.’
‘Yes. But he has to allow us to be the best judge of that for him, Heather. You’ve seen what he’s like. He isn’t the man he was. Thank God.’
Heather put her hands to her head, an incredulous, impatient gesture. ‘There you go again, Simon. What has he ever done to you that you should speak that way about him?’
There was an edgy silence in the room. Simon and Ruth exchanged significant glances. Belinda looked down at her hands. Mary, sitting still and very erect on her chair, clenched her handkerchief in her hand.
Then Simon took a deep breath. ‘Why do you think I went away, Heather?’ He spoke quite softly but his voice was flat and cold. His face, too, was drawn. A muscle near his eye twitched.
Heather faltered a little; the words in her head, before she even spoke them, sounded naive and lame. ‘To… to have adventures and... see the world,’ she said eventually.
‘Without saying goodbye?’
She shook her head slowly. In contrast to Simon her colour was high, her cheeks, especially, were almost livid, and her neck was blotched with red. ‘I... I didn’t think about it. You were like an explorer, out on the high seas, finding lost worlds.’ She turned accusingly to Mary. ‘That’s what you told me,’ she said, ‘isn’t it?’ Mary avoided her eye. She stared at the ash in the empty grate.
‘You were so young, Heather. We didn’t know how to explain it to you,’ Belinda’s voice broke the silence.
‘You don’t know the half of what went on,’ Ruth said.
Simon breathed heavily down his nose, his lips pursed in a hard line. With a sudden start he strode across the room to the cabinet and sloshed whisky into tumblers. ‘I think we all need one of these,’ he said, grimly. The room remained in silence while poured the drinks. Then, in a carefully controlled voice, like a witness called to give evidence, he recited his indictments. ‘I was ignored for months, because I wouldn’t go into the business. It was like I was a ghost. He just refused to see me, even when I was in the same room. When he carved the roast he didn’t put any on my plate. If I was the last to get in the car he drove off without me. If I was out and everyone else was in he would bolt the door. He didn’t speak a single word to me all the time I was at college.’
‘He was so disappointed,’ Mary cried suddenly, although wondering at her need to justify what, even at the time, had seemed like inexcusable cruelty.
‘Don’t defend him, Mum,’ Ruth snapped.
‘No, no,’ Mary sobbed. ‘It wasn’t right, what he did, even so.’
Simon stood again on the hearth rug. His proprietorial air of earlier had dissipated. Now he looked more like a castaway, marooned on its dark plush. ‘So I ran away Heather, when I’d finished college, a day or so after I turned eighteen. I ran away with £32 in my pocket and my passport and a few clothes in a bag. That’s the truth of it.’
Heather shook her head incredulously. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it,’ she murmured.
‘You were always in your own little world.’ Simon waved his arm, indicating enchanted castles and make-believe. He drained his glass and put it on the mantelpiece. ‘And anyway, he was different with you. It was almost as though you had some kind of hold over him.’
Ruth took a sip of her whisky and placed it with determination down onto the side table. ‘It’s ironic, really.’
‘What is?’
She got up from the settee and joined Simon on the rug; he had looked so lonely there. Her eyes shone. She was pale, even in the muted lamplight of the room; her face was a mask of anger and pain. ‘I wanted nothing more than to go into the business. I was desperate to, right from being little. But he just dismissed the idea. He was only ever interested in Simon, and you.’
In a tiny part of her Heather acknowledged she had always known that somewhere, deep in the heart of her family diamond, the brilliance was marred by a network of dark flaws. She did recall, on the periphery of her consciousness,
raised voices; an oppressive atmosphere at home as one feels, in a headache, the pressure of a distant storm. But she had turned her little radio up louder, immersed herself more deeply into her make-believe world, closed the door more firmly on the unpleasantness she did not want to acknowledge. She turned now to Belinda. They were all looking at Belinda, that most stoical, most faithful McKay. Which side of this suddenly-rearing family fence would she be on?
‘We shouldn’t be saying these things,’ Belinda gasped out at last. ‘It doesn’t do to talk like this. It can’t do any of us any good. It just isn’t the way we do things.’
Mary looked resolutely at the floor over her sodden handkerchief. It was as though years and years of family laundry had been deposited on it, dirty laundry; vomit-encrusted sheets and skid-marked pants. Muddy, stinking sports kit and blood-stained underwear. Dribble-grimed bibs, snot-smeared sleeves, a thousand oily boiler-suits and a million urine-soaked nappies. The family effluent she had tried so hard to wash and scrub and bleach away, to make Persil-perfect and dazzlingly Daz white until her hands had cracked and bled. Here it all was, back to confront her.
There was silence. Then Heather stepped round the settee and stood in the middle of the room. She held her hands out, one to Ruth and one to Simon. ‘Perhaps we should have talked about them,’ she suggested. The proposal hung in the air between them, a shimmering possibility - of doing things differently, better, more honestly.
At that moment the door burst open and Elliot stepped into the room. He looked from one to the other of them, taking it all in.
‘What the fuck,’ he spat, ‘is going on here?’
✽✽✽
Elliot’s day had been the most terrible and humiliating he could ever recall. Even setting off so early the traffic had been dreadful on the motorway and he had forgotten until it was too late about the road works near the airport turn off, getting himself snarled up in further delays there. No one at the office had been expecting him; there was a dissolute, relaxed atmosphere about the place, people in casual clothing and a jocular gathering around the coffee machine when they should have been hard at work. They had literally scattered like panicking chickens as he strode into view. Carole had looked pale and fearful as he entered the outer office, anticipating the sack.
Relative Strangers Page 48