Sheer Blue Bliss (18 page)

She climbs the ladder, stopping halfway up, suddenly afraid that someone might be up there, waiting. She pauses a moment, listening, her head just below the level of the trapdoor, then dares to rise, her voice stuck in her throat ready to call out to … to greet or … she doesn't know. She turns her head to survey the room, relief slowly settling in her because no one is there. No one is waiting for her to emerge. Not even Patrick, who she will bring up here later, return to his rightful place. She climbs up and in. Turns once in the golden light, her arms outstretched, it
is
good to be home – then freezes when she sees her photographs strewn on the floor, carelessly fanned out, face-up, face-down, the black-and-white, the sepia, the coloured.

She sits down on her little chair, which surely has moved. On the floor is a screwed-up photograph. Oh dear. She picks it up and smooths it on her knee and meets her own eyes. Has a sudden start, remembering the moment, Patrick's voice:
I'll steal your soul
, and how it had made her shudder. Only a girl, then, where? After Sacha?

Yes, it was after Sacha's long illness, after the funeral. They'd gone to Cornwall for a few days and taken lots of pictures as if to confirm that
they
were there,
they
were still alive. Connie had felt awful to be enjoying herself, swimming, dancing, making love, had felt awful about the unworthy thought.
He's all mine now
, because Sacha had never been an obstacle between them. And she had loved Sacha like a kind of sister/mother/teacher.

Patrick had asked her if she wanted to get married and she'd said no. Not because she didn't love him, but they had been together so long by then, what was the point?
All right then, you little witch
, Patrick had said, snatching up the camera,
then I'll steal your soul
. She remembers the start his words gave her, remembers raising her chin to the camera feeling a small tug at something in her chest. What they used to call heart-strings. Thinking, How I love him but he cannot steal my soul.

Why this photograph? This one screwed up? A horrible stupid thought, feeling. That Patrick is here. Patrick has cleaned the cooker and made a stew, just what he would do. Patrick screwed up the photograph in which he tried to steal her soul. Connie's lips are dry. She licks them. She looks at her own clever face in the photograph, scored now with crumples and cracks.
Don't go gaga now
. Someone has been in the house – why probably a journalist – someone like that – someone looking for secrets, that woman who wants to do her biography? Yes that, of course, that. Not the other thing, stupid. But why screw up a photograph, any photograph, why this – the soul one? No. It is not Patrick returned. Think like that, you daft bat, and you've had it.

He did cook. He liked things cooked in a pot for a long slow time. Rabbit, chicken, a swede, carrots, a handful of herbs. The pot would last for days, topped up with more vegetables, until a rim of scum would form around the top and the cooker would be splattered with brown crusts, dried filaments of spinach or what have you. Then Connie, in a fit of energy, would throw it out and scour the pan, boiling kettles of water and making her hands pink and wrinkled, scraping scabs of food from the enamel. Did she
really
ever have the energy for that? And Patrick would grumble and she would cook for a few days, omelettes usually with mushrooms or chervil, boiled potatoes, separate things, pretty on the plates. And then she'd get tired of it, having to think about food, and Patrick would take it up again, humming as he chopped onions, and the smell of a new stew would rise to the studio where she'd be, mixing with the smell of paint, and she would smile. Feeling love for him, hearing love from him even in the sounds of his chopping and stirring and humming. And after all, it was a healthy way to eat. Approved of these days, no doubt, all those vegetables.

Oh the smell does bring it all back … that smell now … complex, sweet stew smell. But not paint, the smell of paint has long ago faded. She did so love the smell of paint and food together. This nourishing smell … oh but why and from whom?

The presence of Patrick is very strong. The widow of Patrick Mount, someone called her in one of those articles, but she is not a widow because she was never a wife. He did try to persuade her but she couldn't do it, couldn't take Sacha's place like that. Sacha was his only wife. And Connie found to her own surprise that she had no desire to be a wife.

When Red proposed to her she did consider it. Being a wife. Being Constance Redmartin. How would that have been? In her nostrils is the memory of woodsmoke, oil paint, the scent of a young man's skin. That salty taste, the crisp of hairs on her tongue.
Marry me
, Red had whispered, his weight on her,
have my babies
. Oh the gift of a young man's lust. No clever tricks, like Patrick, no memory in Red's fingers of the hundred other women's bodies that she sensed in Patrick's. Just the pure hot charge of love and lust.

But that was
ordinary love
, Patrick said when she told him.
What we have is extraordinary. You
, he said, running his long index finger down in a steady line from between her eyes, over her nose, lips, chin, neck, between her breasts and resting it just below her navel,
are made for more than that. This love, our love, is extraordinary
.

He didn't want her to have other lovers.
Believe me, it would never be better than this
, he said. Rich coming from Patrick who had so many women. Almost a joke that
he
should preach monogamy to her. He would promise not to but then he would. He could not resist a willing woman. It means
nothing
, he'd say, as if that made it all right. But he still wanted her to be faithful to him. She wasn't having that, of course, and early on she dabbled. She took quite a few to bed but Patrick was right. It was never as good. And she wanted her energy for painting. Painting and Patrick, that's where her energies went, creative and romantic. And anyway Patrick was so grumpy about it whenever she slept with anyone else that it was hardly worth the bother.

Extraordinary love. It is hard to remember. So hard. You can remember having feelings, but the feelings themselves are impossible to recall. Her head knows she loved him but her heart feels nothing now. Her heart is asleep. If she listens with her whole body she can just hear its sluggish beat, if she listens with her ears she can just hear the hush and heave of the sea.

She wakes with a start. Wakes, so she must have slept. She wakes with a prickle. The room has gone dull and chilly, thick cloud pressing on the skylight. Her tongue feels thick and dry in her mouth, her teeth sticky. She forces her dry tongue between her teeth and the insides of her cheeks. Her head is dull as the cloud. What woke her? The photograph slides from her knee to the floor.

There really is somebody downstairs. Her heart beats its way up into her ears, almost drowns the sounds of the intruder. It must have been the door that woke her, someone banging the door. Someone is whistling softly. Whistling … she has not heard that for so long. The sensation of someone whistling and moving about below her as she works. But she is not working. Does not work. That is all so long ago. Someone is moving about below her. A stranger in her house. The whistling. She had forgotten how he used to whistle sometimes, sometimes hum, sometimes the words of a song breaking through,
Oh how we danced on the night we were wed
, something absurd, a kind of irony in the voice. The whistling is actual. Not just a sound in her ears. It is accompanied, under the din of her heart, by the opening and closing of the oven door, the clink of cutlery, the turning on and off of the tap – the stutter of reluctant water. All so familiar. Patrick. Within her flesh her bones are icy cold.

Old fool. Snap out of it. Now.
Not
Patrick. But who then, who? It would be so like him. Let her grieve for half a lifetime then appear, scare her out of her wits. But he is dead. Have you never heard of ghosts? But ghosts that cook up a stew and scour the cooker? Didn't he always play with her, play her like that, wait till she'd given him back to Sacha or to some other lover, wait till she'd given up on him and then return, awakening her desire? Seducing. Isn't that how he kept her? Oh what it is to be seduced. He knew the words to say all right. He knew how to turn her head and heart, tilt the whole world till she flowed back to him.

The sound of broken glass being swept into the metal dustpan, tipped into the bin. And then the voice:

‘Are you up there, Miss Benson?'

The breath escapes from her lungs in a long sigh. Not Patrick's voice. Of course not. Not that she really thought that – but how the mind plays tricks! Exhaustion, that's what it is. Hard to find her voice, mouth moving idiotically before any sound will come.

‘Miss Benson, Constance, are you ready for your meal?' It's a young man's voice, quite a nice voice, not frightening at all.

‘I … I am here.'

She hears the creak of the ladder and then a head emerges. As it does so there is the first rattle of hail on the skylight, a cold scatter like the prickling of her scalp. It's a face she doesn't recognise. Long dark hair tied back.

‘Pleased to meet you.' The young man has a sharp smile, his teeth very strong and white. ‘Coming down?'

‘Yes, yes.' He unnerves her with his unflinching stare. His eyes are deepest dark and his eyebrows straight and glossy as two licks of wet paint. She puts her hands back against the arms of her chair to push herself up and his head disappears. The ladder creaks and the hail on the roof is like flung pebbles. She steps over the photographs and lowers herself down the ladder, conscious of his eyes on her as she descends.
You shouldn't live alone out here without even a phone
, she's been told over and over by visiting friends.
Miles from anyone else, anything could happen
and she's always snorted at their caution, never been scared, not for a second. This is her home. Not scared. Not her.

She turns slowly but he isn't looking, he's taking the casserole out of the oven, a tea-towel folded over his arm like a waiter. She crosses to the table and sits down at the place that has been set.

‘Who?' she says.

He puts the casserole on the table and removes the lid. Thick brown sauce and white beans, a bay leaf sticking out. He stands back as if awaiting applause, as if about to bow.

‘That looks nice,' she says because it does look nice. But she is not hungry at all, only thirsty and thirsty for solitude, too. Almost angry at this intrusion. She so much needs to be alone.

‘Wine?' He puts a tumbler of wine in front of her.

‘I was thinking more in terms of a cup of a tea,' she says, but reaches for the glass and takes a sip. He watches her drink, she doesn't like to be watched. The wine will blacken her dentures again. Who is this person? It is almost like a dream. Her own home but subtly different, a stranger treating her like a visitor. And the table only set for one.

‘Aren't you …' she says.

‘Aren't I who?'

‘Aren't you eating?'

He throws back his head and laughs. He has creamy brown skin, maybe he is part Indian? Good-looking, there is no denying that. But who the hell does he think he is to laugh at her in her own kitchen? The tap drips. Must change that washer, she thinks. That drip familiar, at least.

‘So who are you?'

‘We'll come to that.'

‘What do you want?'

‘I wanted to welcome you home.'

She takes a deep exasperated breath. Really she is too old to be frightened by this boy. The few sips of wine have already started creeping into her bloodstream. Hits the spot quicker than tea, and that's the truth. The hail has turned to rain and the room would be almost dark if not for the single bulb that dangles above the table and carves hollows in the stranger's cheeks. His eyes are so dark there's no definition between iris and pupil. He will keep looking at her in that intense way, almost rude.

‘That's very nice of you, dear, very nice,' she says. ‘But unexpected … perhaps you could explain.'

‘Eat first.' He comes round behind her.

‘Not yet.' She holds her hand over her plate. He stands a bit too close, she looks sideways at the place where his shirt, white with a long dark stain, tucks into his jeans.

‘Why don't you tell me your name,' she says. ‘I always like to know a person's name.'

‘I could say anything.'

‘You could say anything. But why don't you tell me your name, dear?'

‘Tony,' he says.

‘Short for Anthony?'

‘Yes.'

‘With an H?'

‘What the fuck does that matter?' He jerks away as if she's touched him. Quite a little tantrum. She'll have to tread carefully, she can see. What is the matter with the boy?

He walks to the door as if he will leave. There's something about his shoulders, tension in the dark muscles under the shirt, tension in the whole body. She closes her eyes and sees a bow pulled tight.

‘You must forgive me,' she says. ‘I find all this a little unnerving.'

He gives a harsh bark of laughter. ‘A little unnerving,' he repeats mimicking the quaver in her voice.

Connie's fingers slide to the skin on her forearm and she pinches hard. It's not that she really thinks she might wake up, but that a sharp sensation might sharpen her wits. This is a predicament however you want to look at it.

‘Have we met?' she says. Her mind is flocking. Perhaps he is familiar? So many faces lately, so many interviewers, photographers, all those people at the private view. She takes another steadying sip of wine. He has half turned towards her. He could kill her, of course.

FIVE

He could kill her, of course. Could wring her tiny neck, snap her tiny bones. It's all going wrong. He needs to puke. Goes out the door, slams it behind him so the window rattles, the whole dive shakes. Dark is seeping up from the ground, pressing down from the sky, not much left to breathe. He stumbles between the dunes, the wet spines of grass stinging his hands. The sea is a bleak shudder of light, the wet sand sucks his feet and the water streams down his face.