Close Relations (38 page)

As she walked down the street she gazed irritably at the passers-by. What a lot of them there were, jostling and hostile. Until recently she had enjoyed coming to London. Now it seemed a place filled with strangers who cared nothing for her and who had homes of their own to go to. All her life doors had opened and the sunshine flooded in; now they had slammed shut. Or, to be accurate, they had closed quietly and regretfully.
I think you'd better go now,
Tim had said.

She passed a bookshop.
Playing with Fire
was displayed in the window. She hadn't thought about her sister and Erin for what seemed like decades, nor about her mother who had
seemed so rejuvenated by the man from the small ads. Louise was closed off from other people's lives; grief and bitterness had sealed her away from the world, which now seemed insolently heartless.
Fuck you
, it brayed at her.

Her father looked indecently well. He looked years younger than she felt. He wore a yellow pullover; he looked as breezy as a golfing pro.

‘Patch it up,' he said. ‘Come on, Lou. Tell him you forgive him and give the bugger another chance.'

‘Funny. That's just what Mum said.' She gazed at the menu. ‘You didn't try to patch it up, remember? We came round and pleaded with you, you didn't listen to a word we said. You just bailed out.'

‘But you've got kids.'

‘We're kids too. Just grown older. It still hurts, you know. You bailed out from all of us.' She looked at the pasta.
Fettucine . . . linguine . . .
It was all the same stuff, flour and water. ‘You made us feel our childhood was all pretend, you were just waiting to leave.'

He looked chastened, just for a moment. ‘Is that why you came to see me? To tell me this?'

She shook her head. ‘I want to ask for your help.'

‘Funny way to go about it. More Maddy's line.'

She thought: I've lost my charm. It's so tiring being charming. She took a breath and told him what had happened. ‘He transferred all this money from our account. I never look at the bank statements, I hadn't a due what was happening.' She paused. ‘Robert's ruined us. I don't know what to do. I'll have to sell the house but I don't own it any more, so that doesn't help.'

Her father listened but in a detached way, as if she were reading the news on the radio. He mouthed words of sympathy. He said: ‘You poor love. I never trusted the bloke, you know that. Remember when he wrote Imogen's homework for her and she got an A? What a way to bring up a kid.' He said this but he seemed miles away.

‘I just wondered . . .' She paused. ‘If you could lend me some money.'

Gordon rubbed the side of his nose. He sighed, and gazed at her across the table. ‘My love, I don't believe that's possible. Not now.'

‘What's happened?'

He leaned down, lifted up his briefcase and snapped it open. He passed her an estate agent's leaflet. ‘Had my offer accepted yesterday.' He pointed to the photograph. It showed a large, red-brick house. ‘April wasn't so keen at the beginning but I wore her down. When I want something I'm a persistent sod. Like it?'

He couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. Louise thought: what a monster he is. She thought: happiness, like grief, makes monsters of us all.

‘Wandsworth,' he said. ‘Well, Wandsworth borders. Ten minutes' walk and you're on the Common.'

She looked at the photograph. ‘It's huge.'

‘Maybe I'm a bit mad, but aren't we all? There's a touch of subsidence, scared people off, but that's no problem.' He took the photo and gazed at it as if it were his new-born child. ‘Trouble is, love, it's cleaned me out. Cashed in my pension, redeemed my policies, the lot. I could manage maybe a couple of thou, but I think you're talking about a few more big ones than that, right?'

She nodded. ‘Just a few.'

She snapped a bread stick in half. She thought: happiness has stolen my father away from me; he has entered another life now, where he has no need of me. My whole family has other lives now. So that's that, then. I'm on my own.

After work, Prudence went to see her mother. Dorothy was still living in the bedsitter, a few houses away on the other side of the road. There was a studenty feel to the place – attic window, Baby Belling. Her mother was dressed up for a night out with Eric.

Dorothy seemed to have shed ten years. She wore a blue silky dress pulled up on one shoulder with a clip; it was
somewhat vulgar but there was a bounce to her nowadays that suited it. Prudence felt haggard and ghost-ridden.

Dorothy uncorked some wine and poured out two glasses. ‘Hungarian Hárslevelü,' she said. ‘My latest tipple.'

‘Since when did you know about wine?'

Dorothy blushed. Prudence knew that her mother wanted to talk about Eric but there seemed no room for that just now. Her mother had a glazed look to her; the sheen of happiness. ‘What are we going to do about Lou?' Prudence asked.

She really wanted to ask: what am I going to do about me? As they talked her mind wandered. Gazing at the striped wallpaper she thought: a new woman has broken up my sister's relationship. It's an old one, a previous one, that is breaking up mine. She said: ‘I don't know what to do about Kaatya.'

Her mother paused, the glass halfway to her mouth. ‘Kaatya? What's she done?'

‘You know about jealousy. Tell me about it, tell me what to do. I went round there the other day. I saw her. I thought it would make it better but it only made it worse.' The pipes gurgled; another tenant was running a bath. It seemed the loneliest sound in the world. ‘It's as if she's living with us – in his voice, in the air . . .' Prudence had nobody else to ask. Maddy wouldn't understand; Louise had her own problems. She certainly couldn't confide in Stephen. ‘It's as if they're still married. They
are
still married. I thought I was such a sensible person, but she's there like a ghost.'

‘Even sensible people believe in ghosts,' said her mother. ‘That's what's so frightening about them.'

‘What – sensible people or ghosts?'

Her mother laughed. She said: ‘Meet her. Ask yourself round for a cup of tea. Maybe she's feeling just the same as you are. Anyway, whatever she's like, it couldn't be worse than your imagination. You poor dear.'

You poor dear.
Her mother never talked like that. She had acquired a new vocabulary along with her wardrobe.

Prudence left. She waited on the kerb for the traffic to pass. Suddenly, she wished for a grown-up's hand to slip into hers. She thought: my parents are no longer parents. I have lost them for ever.

She hurried across Titchmere Road. By the time she reached her front door she had made up her mind.

On Saturday morning Robert left home. His loaded BMW scraped the gravel as he pulled away. It was three weeks since Dorothy had detonated the explosion. Since then events had taken on a momentum of their own; both Robert and Louise were helpless. He was moving into a rented flat in London. His mistress would no doubt join him there; nobody had asked.

There was something ignominious about his departure. No big scenes, no tearful send-off. Only Louise and the dog watched him go. It was as if, now it had been decided, everyone just wanted him out of the house, like one of their less popular weekend guests. Louise listened to the engine fading into the distance for the last time. Oh, he would be back to help sort out the house when it was sold, but it was today that he was leaving his family for good. Louise thought: he's a rat deserting a sinking ship. Robert had never possessed moral courage; in the past he had cheerfully admitted this.

She went into the living room and sat down. Then she thought: maybe he's courageous to go. What was going to happen to him? There were gaps on the shelves; Robert had taken some of his books. The rest remained.
You never read a book. Not unless it's heavily disguised as a copy of
Options.

Imogen came into the room. She sat down on the arm of the chair and stroked her mother's hair, like a daughter in a stage play.

‘Don't cry, Mum,' she said.

But it was no good; Imogen started crying too.

Imogen found Jamie in the caravan. He was sitting in a fug of cigarette smoke reading
Viz.

‘How could you?' she cried. ‘How could you just sit here? Mum's in a terrible state.' She glared at his bent head. His shoulders shook. It took her a moment to realise that he was giggling. ‘Jamie!'

He pointed to the page. ‘You read
Ted and his Giant Testicles
?'

‘What's the matter with you?'

He looked up. ‘Matter? Nothing.'

‘She needs you! All week you've done bloody nothing. You've hardly even been here – gadding off each night with your horrible friend.'

‘So where were
you
on Thursday night?' he asked. ‘A little birdie told me you were getting slaughtered at the Bull's Head with your hunky blacksmith.'

‘I wasn't getting slaughtered. I was just there for an hour or two. It was Karl's chess night.'

‘How sweet.'

He turned the page. She looked at his soft, fair hair – it had been like that since he was little. ‘You aren't even interested in what's happening!' she said.

‘Well spotted.' He turned the page. ‘Personally, I don't give a flying fuck. They can all go to hell as far as I'm concerned, except Dad'll probably shag himself to death first.'

‘Know something? You're getting to sound just like him. Way you're going, when you get married you'll be just the same as Dad –'

‘Think I'm going to get married?'

‘– lying, cheating, selfish, cynical,' she said. ‘You've got a cruel streak, just like him –'

‘You're so sad.' He fished for his cigarettes. ‘Grow up, sis. You know bugger-all about blokes. If it's got a hole, we poke it.'

She flinched. ‘That's disgusting. Some men aren't like that.'

‘Oh no?'

‘No!'

‘You are a-fucking-mazing in your fathomless ignorance.' He flicked his lighter. It didn't work.

‘You're a truly warped human being,' she said.

He flicked his lighter again. ‘Shit.' She noticed, with surprise, that his hand was shaking. He said: ‘So blokes aren't like that, eh? Know who I saw your blacksmith with last Saturday? In Tesco?'

‘Who?'

He paused. ‘Oh, never mind.'

‘Who, you little prick?'

He looked at her. She would never forget the expression in his eyes – a blank, hectic satisfaction. It chilled her to the bone. ‘Only his wife and kids, that's who.' He raised his eyebrows. ‘Didn't you know?'

IT WAS A
long way – ten miles. Imogen rode over Westcott Ridge; she skirted Blackthorn Wood and rode down through the hamlet of Little Wallace. She emerged onto the main road. Skylark, with her horse sense, knew something was wrong. She flinched at the traffic; when a lorry passed, she skittered sideways, banging Imogen's leg against a bus stop. A car, thumping music, hooted; Skylark jerked forwards, throwing Imogen back in the saddle. They galloped along the verge, past a litter basket which had vomited its rubbish – Skylark shied at that – past the chicken farm with its prison huts and chimney. The sky boiled with clouds; the wind whipped her face, stinging her eyes.

TETBURY MAGNA 2 MILES
. She turned left, up a lane. Skylark's shoulders were lathered with sweat. Imogen's thighs shook as she rose to the trot; thud, thud, her bottom hit the saddle. She looked at her jolting watch; it was 5.30. She had been riding fast for two hours. Her legs ached; her arms felt as if they were being pulled out of their sockets.

She had never seen Karl's house. She had never phoned him there; only on his mobile. She thought of his tongue in her mouth; his penis moving inside her.
We're just animals. Animals with clothes on
.

The sky darkened; dusk seemed to have descended, though there were still hours of daylight left. As Imogen rode into the village she felt profoundly weary. Ahead of her stretched the rest of her life. How did anyone manage; what was the point? She realised, with surprise, that it was only a
few hours since her father had left; it seemed to have happened in another century. During these past two weeks a hand had pushed her across hostile borders, one after another, sending her reeling into foreign lands.

14, Riverview Close. She rode over a bridge; it was hardly a river, more a scummy stream knocking with cans. Riverview Close was a small estate of council houses. Her father would have described them as slovenly, but she wouldn't be listening to her father any more. They were set around a green of trampled grass. A dismembered car sat in the middle. Suddenly, Imogen longed to be home, back on her own village green, its church clock rewound back to when she was twelve and her mother hummed in the kitchen. When everything was safe, and Monty lumbered to his feet when he heard the sound of her father's car.

Toys littered the grass outside number 14. She heard the faint sound of a TV. There was no van parked outside.

Between her thighs, Skylark took a long, shuddering breath. She coughed – a bronchial, human cough. Imogen dismounted. Her legs had turned to jelly.

So he wasn't home yet. She led her horse behind a scouts' hut, out of sight. The place had been vandalised; its windows were broken and its door hung open. Imogen tied up her horse. She wiped her nose on the back of her glove; she was past crying now.

‘I didn't know him at all,' Louise said. ‘My own husband. That's what's so terrifying. Margot, who ran the shop, we talked the other night and I felt more intimate with her than anyone. That's gone now. She's gone. But twenty years – it's all nothing. Isn't that terrifying?'

Prudence, down the line, offered words of comfort. Louise thought: oh, but I miss him! Where will I find anyone else who will make me laugh?