Golden Hour (25 page)

So everything's all right, his voice says. No need to cry about it.

“About your mother. She won't have a carer because she can't bear to think she's old. So leave her alone. Let her get there in her own time. That's not a cruel or neglectful thing to do. It's respecting her. Let her be the one to say to you, I need help. Then she'll accept it.”

“She'll fall over. She'll break something.”

“Yes, she may. But let it happen. You can't save her from the consequences of being old.”

“I could if I had her to live with us.”

“It wouldn't work.”

“It might.”

She wants him to tell her no, he'll leave her if she brings her mother to live with them. She wants him to say it would make their life a nightmare. Anything to take away some of the responsibility that's squeezing the life out of her.

“It would drive you insane, Liz. You know it would.”

“I can't just leave her to rot.”

“It's her life.”

There's a simple brutality to his view which shocks Liz. He sees the issue as practical, almost mechanical, leaving out the surrounding swamp of duty, love, guilt, anger, memory.

She dries her eyes and sits up. He stands.

She says, not looking at him, “What are we going to do about this planning permission?”

“Wait and see. We don't know anything official yet.”

“Do nothing, you mean.”

He doesn't respond to that. Following her up here to their bedroom, finding her crying on the bed, that was meant to be the prelude to a reconciliation. Only it isn't happening.

“Had she been here long?”

“No. Not long at all.”

“She looked very cozy in the kitchen, with her mug of coffee.”

“It seemed the polite thing to do.”

“Polite.” Liz gets up, straightens the bedcover. “Yes. You did look polite.”

“This is stupid, Liz.”

“What's stupid?” Then, changing tack, “Yes, I am stupid.”

“There's no need to make problems where none exist.”

“No. It's stupid.”

She walks past him and down the stairs.

What else can she do? If he doesn't understand what it is that upsets her she can't make him understand. Not without humiliating herself. And anyway, he's right. This is all stupid. All he needs to say to her is, What do I want with some other woman when I've got you? He doesn't say it because he thinks it doesn't need saying, but it does, it does.

She's younger than me, and prettier, and she was coming on to you, Alan, really she was, I'm not making it up. Why wouldn't I be just a little bit threatened? People are stupid sometimes. And they hurt each other, and are too proud to say sorry, and then everything goes silent and unhappy.

Jesus, I'm so tired of people being unhappy.

After lunch the sun comes out once more and floods the garden with its brittle light. Carrie has never been a sun-baby. She feels more at home in autumn, in the long shadows of evening. Now she sits on the terrace watching Toby, who stands on the lawn by her father's side, in their turn watching Terry run his dog through the orchard.

Terry himself is mostly invisible. They hear his sharp cries to his dog. “Yip, yip! Over here, Nipper! Back up! Back up!” The small dog bursts out from between trees, racing up and down the orchard, nose eagerly to the ground, and vanishes again into the long grass.

Carrie can hear her father talking to Toby about rabbits.

“It's the weed syndrome,” he says. “Call a plant a weed and you give yourself permission to uproot it and burn it. Do that to a rose bush and you're a murderer. Same with rabbits. Over the hedge there, in the meadow, it's all Flopsy and Mopsy and we love them. But that same rabbit, as soon as he enters my garden, he becomes my enemy and I will destroy him.”

“Have you ever actually killed one?” says Toby.

“Just the once. Shot it with an air rifle.”

“Did that give you a good feeling?”

“Fantastic!”

Carrie expects Toby to challenge this grotesque response, but
he just nods and smiles. Clearly her father was expecting a bit more kickback too. Maybe he wants it.

“I'd have thought you'd be rather against killing things,” he says.

“Why's that?”

“Well, you don't strike me as the aggressive type.”

“I don't know if I'm aggressive or not. But if you kill other creatures, it's like you're saying what you want is more important than what they want. And I do think that. I think what I want is more important than anything else in the world.”

“I suspect everyone secretly thinks that,” says her father. “And I sure as hell think that what I want is more important than what some rabbit wants.”

“The rabbit thinks the same way,” says Toby. “Only the other way round.”

“You think there's no difference between the rabbit and me?”

“Oh, yes, there's a difference,” says Toby. “You're the one with the gun.”

Her father laughs at that. Terry's dog reappears, moving more slowly now, no longer nosing the grass.

Carrie resents her father for standing on the lawn talking and laughing with Toby. She resents Toby for paying her no attention. This stupid talk of killing rabbits embarrasses her. Who do they think they are? Big game hunters? It's beginning to look as if Toby's avoiding being alone with her, and this makes her feel entirely crazy inside. She asked him to go with her for driving practice and he said he would but now he won't say when. Maybe she's imagining it but it's like he doesn't look her in the eyes properly any more.

Terry now appears from the trees and his dog runs to his side.

“All clear,” he says. “I'll lay my life there's no rabbits in the garden right now.”

“And they can't climb the fence any more?”

“No way. Squirrels, yes. Your squirrel can hang upside down. But not your rabbit.”

Carrie expects Toby to join her now the rabbit hunt is over, but he stays with the two men, discussing the habits of rodents as if he's been an estate owner all his life. When he starts asking about the dog, and if it can outrun a rabbit, she can stand it no more. She gets up from her chair, pushes it back over the brick paving so that it makes a scraping sound. Toby does not look round. She goes into the kitchen. Her mother is making a loud noise mixing ingredients in the Magimix. When the noise stops she says to Carrie, “You haven't told me if you're in or not on Saturday evening, so I'm assuming you're not.”

“Okay,” says Carrie.

“That means you'll have to go out to a pub or something. I can't have you cluttering up the kitchen making yourself a private meal.”

“We may go out. We may not.”

“No, Carrie. I'm sorry. You're going out. You won't decide, so I've decided for you.”

“For Christ's sake, Mum. Stop trying to freeze the future.”

This is one of Toby's lines, as they both know. Carrie's frustration is with Toby, not her mother. She has no idea whether he'll still be staying with them by Saturday. If he is, she thinks it very unlikely he'll want to join the planned dinner party.

“I'm just telling you now,” says her mother.

“Fine. Whatever.”

It's all gone wrong. The sparky exciting unpredictable tone that Toby brought to the house has soured. Carrie knows she spends all her time watching him, her eyes reproaching him for his lack of attention to her. She knows this is exactly the wrong strategy. But she can't help herself.

Now she's made her mother angry. She doesn't look over toward her, but she can hear the cross clattery sounds as she gets on with her tasks. Carrie stays hovering in the kitchen, her eyes on the terrace, because she wants to be there when Toby finally tears himself away from countryside pursuits and comes in.

She hears the background hum of the dishwasher cut out, and the clunk as her mother pulls open the dishwasher door. A small cloud of steam rises into the kitchen air.

“I don't suppose you want to unload the dishwasher, Carrie.”

“Not right now,” says Carrie. “I'll do it later.”

“Now's when I need it done.”

“I can't do it now,” says Carrie, separating the words as if her mother is being stupid.

Then comes the clinking of plates as her mother starts emptying the dishwasher herself.

What am I supposed to do? thinks Carrie. He could come in at any moment. I have to have driving practice. He may be in a good mood. This could be the time with him that changes everything.

She hears the rattle of cutlery. Then she hears her mother give a sharp cry of pain.

“Damn!” she says. “Damn! I knew I'd do that one day!”

“What?”

Carrie turns to her in alarm. Her mother goes to the sink and runs the cold tap.

“Get me an Elastoplast, darling.”

Blood is running down the plughole.

“Christ, Mum! What happened?”

“It's okay. I just stabbed a finger, that's all.”

Carrie hurries to the medicine cupboard and gets out the box of Elastoplasts. Her mother is holding her hand under the tap, running cold water over the cut. Blood mingles with the water.

“Unpeel the tabs,” she says, tearing off a sheet of kitchen paper.

“How did you do it?”

“Reaching down to empty the cutlery. I didn't see the blade of the kitchen knife sticking up.”

The cut is on one of her finger tips. It's deep and clean. She takes the finger from the stream of cold water and squeezes it tight with kitchen paper to dry it.

“Okay, Carrie. Get the plaster on.”

The wound starts to bleed again even as Carrie pulls the Elastoplast tight round the finger.

“Don't worry about the blood,” her mother says. “It'll stop now.”

“Poor Mum. Are you okay?”

“It doesn't hurt. I'm just cross with myself. Such a stupid thing to do.” She indicates her ring, hanging on the hook where she puts it whenever her cooking involves getting her hands messy. “Now I won't be able to get my ring back on until it heals.”

Carrie sees what she had not noticed before, that the cut is to her mum's ring finger. She feels a pang of guilt.

“I should have helped you.”

Her father comes in from the garden, followed by Terry and Toby.

“The global economy may be on the brink of disaster,” he announces. “My productive life may be over. But the garden is rabbit-free! They shall not pass!”

He reaches for his work bag, which is lying in the window seat where he dropped it yesterday evening, and hunts out his checkbook.

“Mum's cut herself,” says Carrie.

“Oh dear,” he says, not at all concerned. “So what's the damage, Terry?”

“Call it a round
£
250,” says Terry. “That'll cover materials as well.”

Henry writes the check. Carrie glances toward Toby, who seems to be interested in the contents of the Magimix.

“It's for Saturday dinner,” says Laura.

“What will I be missing?” says Toby.

“Taramasalata,” says Laura. “It's the starter.”

“You make it yourself?”

Toby shakes his head, awed by this fact. All Carrie takes in is that he will be gone by Saturday evening.

“There.” Henry tears out the check and gives it to Terry.

“Cheers,” says Terry. “And if the little buggers start climbing the gate, you know where I am.”

“Climbing the gate? Might they do that? Can't we stop them?”

“We could nail a couple of batons, raise the wire another couple of foot. If you think it's worth it.”

“Listen, Terry. This is serious. I don't want to leave one single crack in the defenses.”

“It's your money.”

“When can you do it?”

“I'm on a job at Blackboys all tomorrow. I could come over Friday.”

Terry goes at last. Carrie watches Toby to see if he'll turn toward her now, give her some attention.

“I told Terry about the garden party tomorrow,” says her father, “and guess what? He wants us to tell the Queen she's doing a great job. It's people like Terry who keep the monarchy in business.”

“Bread and circuses,” says Toby.

Carrie feels a mounting irritation, which comes out against her father.

“Why did you tell Terry about the garden party?” she says.

“I just knew he'd be thrilled.”

“You're not thrilled. I don't even know why you're going.”

“Curiosity. And after all, why not?”

He throws Toby a smile, and Carrie gets what it is that's annoying her. Her father is showing off to Toby. That is so depressing.

“Mum cut her finger quite deeply,” she says.

“Bad luck, Laura. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” says Laura. “Nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious,” says Carrie. Suddenly she can't stand it all any more. “Nothing serious. Nothing's ever serious.”

She goes quickly out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her room. She feels the impulse to cry and doesn't want anyone to see, least of all Toby.

In her room, the door closed, she sits cross-legged on her bed and takes up her guitar. She plucks at the strings, forming little chains of sound, not listening, going nowhere. Her thoughts are all churned up, she feels angry with everyone, most of all herself.

Dad going on about
people like Terry
because he's such a snob but can't bear to admit it. Mum wounding herself just to make Carrie feel useless and guilty for not helping. Toby acting like he cares about rabbits when all he's doing is holding up a great big sign saying: I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOU.

So what did I do wrong?

He held my hand like he wanted more. Then it was like he moved away again. Back into that private space he carries round with him, that keeps him apart from everyone else. I suppose I got a bit too close. Now I'm being trained, like he's training his mum. I have to be shown my life doesn't revolve round him.