For a moment I think about how perfect it would be to have Mum with us, but it’s a short-lived fantasy replaced quickly by Nathan’s dismissive contempt when he asks if I’m joking.
It’s nearly five o’clock by the time I get home. Nathan is in the garden standing in front of the barbecue, vigorously flapping a square of cardboard over the smoke. He smiles when he sees me and I know that, as far as he is concerned, this morning’s altercation is over and done with and no more shall be said on the matter.
‘I thought we should make the most of this heatwave and cook outdoors. I knew you’d be tired from seeing your mother so thought I’d take care of supper tonight.’
I kiss his cheek and he smiles again.
‘How is she?’
‘Stable. The doctor says she won’t be able to go back to Heamoor though.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘She needs more care.’ The sentence hovers unfinished to give him the opportunity to put his arms around me and tell me I have nothing to worry about and that, of course, he’ll make sure she gets the best care.
‘What does that mean? More care.’ He bends to rest the cardboard against the base of the barbecue and picks up the poker. When he stokes the coals, orange sparks leap into the air like mini-fireworks.
What does it mean, Nathan? It means exactly what I said. She needs more care than Heamoor can provide.
‘I don’t know exactly.’
Nathan responds better when I appear helpless and in need of his guidance. For all his weaknesses and insecurities he needs to be needed. The dependence of others is like some sort of drug. If I were a psychiatrist, I’d probably deduce that his father blowing his face in half, rather than turning to his mother for help, has something to do with it.
‘The doctor mentioned having to monitor her,’ I say with a confused shrug.
‘What did he mean by monitor?’
‘She.’
Nathan pokes the coals again.
‘She said Mum would need more help with bathing and feeding, a physio and speech therapist, and somewhere with medical staff on call. Heamoor doesn’t offer this kind of care.’ I take a breath. ‘I suppose,’ I say, as if the idea has just popped into my head as an afterthought, ‘she could come here? The doctor said that’s what often happens. Care homes are so expensive, as you know, and well, we have the space. I’m here all the time. Alex doesn’t need me very much so I could easily take care of her?’
He opens his mouth to speak, but I can see the refusal coming, so add quickly, ‘maybe for a short while? A few weeks? I’m worried about moving her. There aren’t that many nursing homes close by…’ I pause for a moment as I’m hit by the realisation that at some stage, maybe soon, I’ll have to say goodbye to her. ‘I worry I don’t have long left with her.’
‘Not workable.’
‘Are you sure? We have so much room and—’
‘She can’t have the guest room in case we ever have people to stay.’
‘But we never have—’
‘My mother said she might come for Christmas.’
‘But you know she won’t.’
‘You know my mother. She can be unpredictable and if she did decide to come she would need that room and I don’t want the place to feel like a hospital.’
‘Could she have one of the smaller bedrooms? Her room at Heamoor is tiny. So she’s used to it. Or the playroom downstairs? The toilet is just down the corridor. Maybe we could put a small shower in there?’
I’m aware of how desperate I’m sounding, my voice risen in pitch and speed, which he hates. I take a breath and force a smile.
‘If she was in a bedroom upstairs she’d have to use Alex’s bathroom which isn’t appropriate for either of them. The spare bathroom is up three stairs and that’s impracticable. The playroom isn’t suitable and it would cost a fortune to put a small shower in. Plus it’s next door to my study and you know how I need to be undisturbed when I’m working. It’s impossible. Your mother needs specialised care in a place set up to provide it. Do you honestly want to be taking her back and forth to the loo and trying to wash her on your own? Bathing someone is physically demanding, Hannah.’ He places the poker on the ground and picks up the wire grill, which he slides into the runners on the barbecue. ‘You’re not putting her wellbeing first. Or that of your family. You’re thinking about what would be most convenient for you. You’re thinking about yourself again.’
He really is spectacular at this.
‘Try, for once, putting the needs of other people before your own. Presumably,’ he says, ‘you won’t be going away with Vicky now?’
I stare at him and take a long breath. I can’t say this isn’t unexpected, but I thought, idiotically, it now transpires, that he might actually let me go.
‘Not if she needs me,’ I say, looking him directly, ‘but if she’s still not come round then I can’t see the harm—’
I am interrupted by Alex wandering out of the house holding a can of Coke. Coke – along with all fizzy drinks – is something Nathan doesn’t allow in the house. I can see him glaring at it and no doubt blaming Vicky all over again for Alex’s independence.
‘Hey, Mum,’ he says. ‘How’s Gran?’
‘Stable, which is a relief. She needs to find somewhere else to live, somewhere with more care. I sent her your love.’
‘Can’t she move in with us?’
Nathan swears under his breath.
‘I’m not sure we have the facilities she needs here, my love,’ I say. The angrier Nathan becomes, the harder he will dig in his heels, so it makes sense to ease the pressure off.
Alex nods. ‘I’m heading out for a bit. Should be home around eight.’
Before I can reply, Nathan is shaking his head and jabbing his finger in the direction of the barbecue. ‘Supper first.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
The air between them condenses.
‘Then you’ll sit and watch us eat.’
‘Watch you eat?’ Alex repeats in an amused tone. ‘Are you actually joking?’ He holds Nathan’s stare as he lifts the can and pulls back the seal. It fizzes loudly and he moves it to his mouth to catch the foam.
‘I’m certainly not joking,’ Nathan says icily.
Alex wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Well, you’ll have to eat without an audience because I’m meeting friends in Penzance.’
‘If you leave, I’ll—’
‘You’ll what, Nathan? Lock me in my room? Take a belt to me?’
I flinch at his tone.
‘How dare you speak to me like that in my own house?’ Nathan growls. ‘I’ve never taken a belt to you in your life. Though maybe that’s where I went wrong.’
Alex smiles as if he has won some sort of battle then turns and saunters casually back into the house.
Nathan’s face has turned puce and his hand is clenched so hard the knuckles have turned white. He’s about to go after Alex, but I step in front of him and press the flat of my hand against his chest to hold him back. ‘Let him go,’ I say softly. ‘It was such a nice idea to barbecue. Silly to ruin it. And,’ I pause, ‘we’ll have the house to ourselves.’ I lift my hand and trail my fingers over his lips. His eyes lose their intensity and his tension ebbs, and I am filled with an unexpected sense of control, as if I’ve seized a sword and am holding the blade to his neck. Emboldened, I stand on tiptoes and whisper in his ear, allow my warm breath to brush him. ‘We could go up now. Before we eat.’
After he’s finished I’m acutely aware of my body tingling. This is an unusual feeling. I don’t feel dirty or ashamed or disgusted. It’s hard to put my finger on exactly what I’m feeling instead, but whatever it is has energised me, as if I’ve been given a shot of adrenalin and I’m aware of a distinct shift within me. A shaft of evening sunlight falls across me and warms my skin. ‘Don’t worry about Alex,’ I say and rest my hand on his chest to stroke the fuzz of greying hair as if calming an anxious animal. ‘He’s like I was, always pushin
g boundaries. It’s a phase and he’ll grow out of it.’
Nathan turns his head and stares at me. His eyes are watery like limpid pools. I know what’s coming and I smile to cover my revulsion as his face contorts and tears gather. As he cries, it strikes me how defenceless and weak he is, like a small child, vulnerable and self-absorbed. Nathan is only ever the victim or hero in his story. There are no other variations.
‘All I ever wanted was a family of my own. A wife to love and look after. Children too. All I want is to be a good husband and father.’
‘I know.’
‘I want to be better than my own father. He was pathetic. And a coward.’
I don’t say anything. I’ve learnt over the years it’s best not to comment when he talks like this. All I need to do is listen and comfort him. This is the other side of Nathan. The damaged part, the thirteen-year-old boy who saw his drog-polat father lying on the floor with half his face missing, blood spattered like berries on the gaudy floral wallpaper.
‘I’ve lost Alex,’ he whispers. ‘I can’t lose you too.’
‘You haven’t lost Alex.’
His eyes tunnel through me like a burrowing worm. ‘I lost him a long time ago.’ Unspoken words flicker beneath the surface. ‘When I saw that man’s car—’
‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’ Not now, not with Nathan, not ever.
‘It was like you’d stabbed me in the stomach.’ He moves closer, rests his head on my chest, curls into me like a baby. ‘Nobody can hurt me like you can. Don’t leave me, Hannah,’ he says. ‘It would send me over the edge.’
There’s something in the tone of his whispered words which chills me to the core.
‘I love you so much.’ He runs his fingertips down my cheek and I try not to recoil.
I’m used to Nathan’s emotional vortex, but the speed with which he can move between peaks of explosive rage and troughs of limp vulnerability gives me vertigo. If I had to choose one, though, I’d take the rage any day. The fragility makes me nauseous.
Later we sit down to supper at the table on the terrace and eat lamb steaks, perfectly cooked, caramelised on the outside, pink within, with a crisp green salad and some new potatoes which I prepared while he was tending to the meat. Nathan has opened an expensive – special occasion – red wine. He has showered and changed and is talking animatedly, relaxed and charming, attentive as he pours my wine, rests his hand on mine, and tells me about his day at work.
Nathan Cardew: my very own Jekyll and Hyde.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hannah
The leaves above me are still. Not even a whisper rustles through the trees. I’m on my log in the copse smoking a second cigarette. I can’t sleep, of course, but I don’t mind. This time of night is my favourite. Three in the morning. Before dawn, when even the nocturnal creatures are resting and the fields are quiet as death.
Nathan didn’t shout at Alex when he arrived home. He didn’t shout when Alex abandoned his football boots at the kitchen door. If I hadn’t taken Nathan upstairs and given myself to him spontaneously, unscheduled, his mood would have been very different. Until now I hadn’t thought about the way I use sex. I was in denial, finding the concept of using it explicitly to get what I want distasteful and demeaning, but it’s not either of those things.
It’s empowering.
Confronting the fact that I use sex to manipulate and manage my husband should sit awkwardly with me but I’m surprised to discover it doesn’t. Am I rotten inside? I don’t feel rotten. But perhaps I must be. After all, I used Nathan from the start. I exploited his desire so I could keep Cam out of prison. It’s naive to think pleasure is the only permissible reason to have sex. People use sex for myriad reasons and because of this sex is complicated. Especially for women. A quid pro quo for a weekend away. A thank you for a gold necklace beneath the Christmas tree. Sore knees and a grubby ten-pound note to exchange for a hit of crack. Sex is a commodity; men want it, so women trade it.
I was two weeks off my seventeenth birthday when I had sex for the first time. It was with a boy called Ryan. I never knew his surname. Ryan was best mates with Adam, and Adam wanted to go out with Vicky. Vicky fancied Adam back, but would only go on a date with him if I went too. So Adam brought Ryan. Ryan worked in Halfords on the A30 and, between swigs of Diamond White, he told me proudly it paid the same as shifting cement on a building site, but came with a uniform. He was nice looking and smelt clean, and wasn’t awful at kissing, so we ended up having sex in the back of his mum’s Cortina. It was quick and uncomfortable and the smell of Royal Pine air freshener jammed up my throat. I’d be lying if I said I’d been desperate to do it, but the smile on Vicky’s face when she emerged from the other car, red-faced with a love bite the size of a golf ball on her neck, made me happy, and when she threw me a questioning look, I nodded and gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
There were a couple of others before Cam. Nothing special. Drunken fumbles followed by awkward trips to the pub or cinema. It tended to be with the most persistent boys. I wasn’t that bothered by the thought of having sex. If I’d had my way, I’d have been happy to stick to the laughing and drinking and flirting which preceded it. The sex bit was always underwhelming. Until, of course, the first time with Cam, on his boat, in the freezing cold with a musty old tarpaulin pulled over us.
I think of Cam standing at the top of Trevaylor Woods, shoulders slumped forward, beaten by what happened. I recall his lips against mine, tentative, desperate for some sort of reconnection or comfort, perhaps even absolution. But what did I do? I pushed him away. After everything he’d been through? All I had to do was show him I cared, that I hadn’t rejected him, that I understood the enormity of what he’d done for me and its effect on his life. Would it have been so dreadful to show him some affection? Nathan is right. All I do is think about myself. I’m a spoilt cow and Cam didn’t deserve to be pushed away like that.
I grind my cigarette into the dirt and pull my phone out of my pocket. I press the home button and the screen bursts into life. I press my finger to the message icon and bring up a new text box then type the numbers in, carefully and deliberately, before writing my message and pressing send.
I don’t care anymore.
This isn’t over.
Chapter Thirty
Cam, 1998
Cam tossed and turned in his bunk. In around an hour, they’d be hauling the nets in and he was so tired he was verging on delirious. He’d had no more than a couple of hours of broken, cramped, uncomfortable sleep, sheets pungent with unwash, in getting on for a week, and on top of that was the worry of the oncoming storm. There was nothing normal about their way of life, wearing the same clothes for days, no baths, no softness, risking your life for someone else’s dinner.
From the way The Annamae pitched and rolled he knew the building storm was already up to force seven or eight. His curtain was drawn, but the huffing and puffing coming from Davy told him he was also far from sleep. Lawrie was humming softly to himself. Cam recognised the nerves in his tuneless noise and his heart went out to the lad. He’d been at sea for years and these storms still unsettled him. There was always the voice in his ear telling him this time it could be the end. Young Lawrie Mould would be terrified.
Geren, of course, was snoring in the bunk below. Cam suspected he could be neck deep in icy Atlantic waters and, as long as he was tucked up in his sleeping bag, Geren wouldn’t stir. Martin had opted to stay up with Slim on the graveyard shift. He hardly slept at all, which he blamed on old age and creaking bones and tiny bunks.
Cam put his hand beneath his pillow and felt for the picture of him and Hannah. It was taken on the dock a few days before they left. He’d paid a pound extra to get the photos back in two days not five. Most of the photos had been useless, with stickers stuck across them, pointing out the obvious: over-exposed, out of focus, subject too close. One, however, was perfection. Lying in his bunk, he stared at the photo, the two of them lean
ing against the wall, him smiling, her looking up at him, laughing, hair taken by the wind. He touched her face and recalled her whispering in his ear as they made love on his boat. He wanted to be back with her, not stuck here on The Annamae with a load of men and the prospect of fishing a storm. As the boat moved on the heaving sea, he imagined her beside him, warm and comforting. He imagined kissing every inch of her. Every curve. Every beautiful blemish. Thinking about her turned him on, but he resisted the urge to touch himself. He might have the privacy of a curtain across the bunk, but being thrown about on a grotty trawler in the middle of the Atlantic in a gale-force wind with three unwashed men within spitting distance was no place for that. He’d wait. He’d soon be back with her, buried in her sweet-smelling softness.
Cam must have drifted off because the shout from Davy as he put his head through the bunk-room hatch cut through him like razor wire and he sat up with a start.
‘Get up! She’s come fast. We need to get watertight. Move your arses!’
Cam was out of the bunk and pulling on his trousers before Davy had even finished shouting.
‘I’ll seal the engine room hatches.’ Now awake, Cam was aware of the boat straining and groaning unnaturally. ‘The gear’s fast?’
Davy nodded. ‘Slim’s trying to free it, but the stern is taking water.’
The men ran to put on their oilskins. Nobody spoke. Lawrie was white-faced.
Cam put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and spoke firmly. ‘Do not do anything. Stay here, out of the way. If you go over in this, when we’re fast, we can’t turn back for you.’
Lawrie swallowed and nodded.
‘We’ll be OK, lad. But you keep yourself safe, yes? Nobody wants to lose anybody tonight. Not even you.’ Cam winked and patted Lawrie’s shoulder.
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