Who Are You? (35 page)

She finds Ben’s bedroom a solace because it has always allowed her to pretend that things are really all right. It was her little haven. The tin soldiers, the painting of the cherubic young boy with his golden curls, the plump hippopotamuses rampaging over the walls, all the cheery things that can take her mind to a better place, where she can pretend for a short while that everything is just as it should be. She wishes that there was something more to keep her mind occupied, some clothes to fold and put away, or add to the laundry bin; perhaps some shoes to pair up, or pillows to plump and neaten, but Ben’s room is immaculate. There is nothing left for her to do in here, other than to look around and commit every little detail to memory.

Juliet has used this house as a major distraction ever since they moved in; a distraction from her life, her marriage, herself, even from Ben. People might think she was mad to believe a house had the power to make everything all right. But she had, honestly, believed that it might. She had really believed that this house might have the power to heal them in some way. This house wasn’t just bricks and mortar, it was the one thing that could save them. How could she have been so wrong? Because
apparently
it’s the people living inside that make a home. Juliet’s firm base had no more power to do that than a pile of masonry on a demolition site. Magazine features, smart nurseries, state-of-the-art kitchens,
apparently
it doesn’t matter how or where you live, just so long as you are living with the right people, your people, the people you love. These are things that Juliet must learn so that she can move on, she’s been told. But when you’re lost at sea you cling to the one thing that might save you from drowning, don’t you? You want something substantial and secure. This house was her life raft, and now she has to let go of it, along with the ghosts and the memories. She shuts the door on Ben’s bedroom, crosses the landing and climbs the stairs to the bedroom she shared with Alex. So many ghosts and memories of the people they were reside in here. It is a room with a deeply unhappy feel, and there is an iciness that belies the warm April day outside. She throws open the window and looks down at the small garden below. Clumps of daffodils show off brazenly in the stark border, as if to say: “Whatever … life goes on, you know. Just look at us.” She turns back to the bedroom. Juliet hasn’t slept in here since she returned. The bed is stripped, the mattress bare. She has moved all of her clothes out of here, but she still has to deal with Alex’s things. She has been putting it off, unable to face opening the wardrobe, but she no longer has any choice, as she’s running out of time. She must brace herself and get on with it. Even now, when she thinks of him it makes her shudder and feel mildly nauseous. To do what he did, to put Ben through all of that, she can never forgive him. Poor Ben. She feels her throat constrict, but she mustn’t give in. Focus and distract. She opens the double doors. ‘There you are,’ she says aloud. ‘Alex Miller, officer and gentleman. Look at you.’ She stands back and wonders what a stranger would make of this material representation of her husband, this legacy of Alex’s shell, really nothing more than a sloughed-off skin. What evidence of the real Alex could be gathered from all of this
stuff,
the way
he
chose to present himself to the world?

She starts lifting things out, slowly and carefully at first, laying armfuls of suits on the bed: dark navy and charcoal grey, pinstripes neither too wide nor too bright. Shirts stacked in neat piles packaged and pinned in cellophane wrapping from the laundry service. Then his shoes: black leather Oxfords, brown leather brogues and chocolate suede loafers. His ties: silk, Hermès and Dior. More shirts: Turnbull and Asser, Thomas Pink; now Levi’s and Diesel jeans, cashmere jumpers, dark and pastel. She starts pulling them out and chucking them with a mounting ferocity at the ever-expanding mountain on the bed. Clothes make the man, do they? Like the house makes a home? What a fucking joke. It’s all a sham, a pointless fucking sham. You can dress things up, put on a showy façade, play the part – even don the uniform - but you’ll never see the real people hiding behind it all. Alex’s clothes, the house, it’s all just camouflage to disguise the people inside who are, in turn, hiding from themselves, or so it seems to Juliet.

The clothes are all on the bed now. She will bag everything up and take them to Oxfam. It’s a good thing that she’s moving, otherwise she might see some of this lot walking around Waitrose. She’s tired now, but she still has to deal with all the things that he stashed away in the bottom of the wardrobe. She gets down on her knees and takes a look. It’s all very neat and organized, as she would expect. There’s a black box file with a locking catch. She flicks it and it snaps open. Inside are dividers, neatly labelled in block capitals, ‘CAR’, ‘INSURANCE’, ‘BANK’, ‘ACCOUNTS’, ‘PENSION’, ‘JULIET’. She pulls out the manila folder. She has a premonition of what she might find. She tips out the contents of the file onto the floor. There are photographs – the important ones – that he obviously felt should be with him in foreign places; the ones that would comfort him at times of stress and fear. There they are, the three of them: Alex with Ben on his knee and Juliet beside them, leaning into them, smiling. It’s the little things that catch her. So much can be brought to mind by one little snapshot in time. Anyone looking on would think, ‘A perfect little family. Lucky them.’ Juliet hugs it to her because this is one of the few things she has left of her own little family.

There is a cheap airmail-style envelope, a ‘bluey’. It is addressed to Mrs Alex Miller at their previous Army quarters. Juliet stares at it for a few moments and then picks it up. She examines the upright nature of Alex’s handwriting, the handwriting of a ghost. She turns it over, strokes the paper, runs her fingers along the seal. Alex licked it, pushed his own fingers along the same crease. Inside this little slip of paper are Alex’s words, addressed to her, unread and unseen since Alex composed them. Alex’s voice from the grave, two months gone but he still has the power to tell her something new, to create a new memory. But it’s so long ago, it surely bears no relevance any more? He was writing to someone else, a different Juliet, when
he
was somebody else. She takes the envelope over to the bed and sinks down on to the floor, resting her back against the bed. The twill of Alex’s suit trousers touches her neck and she inhales the soft wool scent. Without realising what she is doing, she takes hold of the material and pushes it to her face, stroking the fabric. She puts her forefinger into the small gap on the crest of the envelope and gently teases it open. You have to be careful with a bluey,
because you can easily rip it open in the wrong place. But Juliet knows what she’s doing and opens it expertly. She stares at Alex’s neat but tiny handwriting. It’s dated: FOB, 8th July 2010.

My darling Juliet,

First of all I pray that you never get to read this, because if you do it means that I’m not coming home to you and our babies. I am so sorry to cause you pain, my love, but I know you are strong, and you will have the courage to bear this, and to raise our children perfectly. Ben won’t remember me, and I’ll never get to meet our little tadpole. Six months now, darling. Not too long to go, and hope you are feeling well. I can’t help thinking that posthumous babies are becoming a bit of a tradition in my family. Better make sure Ben gets a really safe desk job somewhere and don’t let him cross the road, drive a car or do anything that puts him at risk. Remember I always used to tell you that being in the Army was really a low risk job, with a statistically low mortality rate? Doesn’t feel much like that now, out here. It’s not proper warfare, though. The other side don’t play by the same rules as us, the bastards. And I keep telling myself that it will all be worthwhile, that we’re doing a good job, but honestly? If you could see the raw bloody hatred in the kids’ eyes when they look at you. Not sure we’re doing so well at the hearts and minds initiative. Christ, this country’s a head case and they’re mighty sick of being occupied. Yeah, that’s how they see us, not liberators, but occupiers … but you know all of this stuff and it’s not what’s important. Only three weeks left on this tour at the time I’m writing this letter. Oh my darling, you can’t imagine how much I’m longing to be home with you, to take you in my arms. I want to stroke that swelling belly of yours and feel our new little person wriggle and kick inside you. That thought comforts me and if it’s one of my last thoughts, then it’s a good one! Remember always that I love you and if I haven’t always been the best husband then please forgive me. I know I was tough on you last R & R and I deeply regret that. Sweetheart I can’t bring this shit home with me. When I’m with you and Ben I just want to forget this place exists. I’ve seen stuff … done stuff … that makes me wonder who I am, deep inside, like I can no longer recognise myself. I guess that’s war … being pushed to your limits and beyond. Beyond. I’m not a particularly religious man, but I hope there’s something else, my darling. I want to believe when I put my boots on tomorrow that I’ll be coming back to you. But if I don’t, I know this sounds corny but I’ll see you in heaven, my love. Take care of our little ones and most of all take care of yourself and thank you for giving me the happiest years of my life.

All my love, my darling, forever.

Alex.

PS You’ll find all the boring stuff in the file at the bottom of the wardrobe, but you probably know that. And please tell Mum that I love her and that she was a terrific Mum!

Juliet carefully refolds the letter and holds it in both hands. These are the words of her Alex, the man she used to know, her loving husband. ‘What happened to you, Alex?’ she asks, aloud, ‘where did you go to? How could this have happened to us?’

‘Are you OK, Juliet? A cup of tea? A bucketful of wine?’ Rowena is standing in the doorway. Juliet didn’t hear her come up the stairs. She was too swept up in memories, good memories for once.

‘Yeah. I guess …’

‘I’ve told the nanny to keep Ben for tea. She says he’s happy playing with Cordelia if that’s OK with you.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘I think so. He gave Cordelia quite a talking to about playing with guns. He said his Daddy accidentally shot himself and Cordelia … oh you know what they’re like … she told him that she knew, and that she didn’t want to talk about guns any more because her mummy had told her not to mention guns to Ben. Can’t bloody win with these kids. Sorry.’

‘At least he’s talking about it. And one day soon he’ll get to know the truth. But hopefully he can believe it was an accident for a little while longer.’

‘Maybe it was? Maybe you can never know for sure.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Juliet sighs and pulls herself up from the floor.

‘I found a letter. One of those “In the event of my death” ones. Written a long time ago. It was like the old Alex was talking to me, Ro. I don’t know, somehow it makes me think of him differently. Does that sound weird? I mean, after all he did to me … and to Ben … like inside, somewhere, the old Alex was still there.’

‘He was sick, Juliet, darling. You tried to do all you could to help him. And thank God that guy Mark found Ben before it was too late. Christ, when you think what might have happened. I guess mild hypothermia was a blessing, considering how bad it could have been. I just can’t bear what you’ve had to go through. But I wish you weren’t moving so far away.’

‘Bristol’s not exactly far away. And I can’t stay here. All the memories, the people, the bloody house. We need a fresh start. You can come and stay. I’ve been thinking about the new house, thought I’d go for something a bit more bohemian to go with my new art student identity. Or maybe I’ll go for all white everywhere and a Perspex floating staircase? It feels weirdly liberating that for once I don’t have to have anyone’s agreement, I can just do what the hell I like.’

‘I can see I’m going to come to bloody Bristol and I won’t recognise you anymore. You’ll be poncing about in a kaftan chanting “om”’, God forbid.’

‘And you’ll be buying your ready-made designer soups and hiding the cartons in the rubbish, and feeling permanently guilty about your work-life balance. Why does life have to be so damned complicated?’

‘Come on, hon, let’s go downstairs. I’ve brought a rescue bottle of white wine. Thought you might be ready for a drink.’

‘I’m really going to miss you, Rowena. You know I can’t thank you for all you’ve done. I just wish I’d opened up to you sooner about what was going on. It was all so terrifying, and I didn’t want you to be involved … you know … to get dragged into the cesspit. Hey, I’ve offered to write a piece for the women’s refuge website about internet security and what happened to me – anonymously, of course – and even if it only helps
one
woman it’ll be worth it. I just want to make something good come out of all of this.’

‘Ben. He’s the something good, Juliet.’

‘I know. Of course he is. My precious little boy. Geraldine says she’ll pick up the school fees when he’s old enough to go to boarding school.’

Rowena’s eyes look as if they are going to pop out of her head. She slaps her glass onto the kitchen worktop. ‘For fuck’s sake, you’re not serious?’

‘No. Of course I’m not. No boarding school, and I don’t care who or what he wants to be …’

‘… as long as he doesn’t join the fucking Army!’ They chorus together.

‘Juliet, you actually cracked a joke! Is this where the healing begins?’

‘I hope so. I really hope so.’ Juliet has tucked Alex’s letter into her pocket and she imagines she can feel a warmth exuding from it. It was written by her Alex, the real Alex, and it doesn’t matter that it comes from way back in the past because it’s still real, it’s still his words, his sentiments, his love; and she intends to use it as the foundation stone upon which to rebuild her and Ben’s future.

NOTES

THE INSPIRATION BEHIND

WHO ARE YOU?

I have a son in the Army. He has served in Iraq and Afghanistan and so I know what it is like to wave goodbye to someone you love; and much as you try to suppress the thought, you cannot help yourself from wondering whether you are holding them for the last time; or whether they’ll suffer some horrific mutilation which will alter their lives forever. Now, as I write this, I can feel a tightening in my stomach, a sick reminder of ‘putting on a brave face’ and waiting until the last sighting of him before allowing myself to cry. I didn’t really sleep properly for the entire time he was away; and I remember getting a phone call, coincidentally on the morning of my birthday, at the end of his tour: ‘Hi Mum, I’ve just landed in Germany…’ I burst into tears and couldn’t speak because I was just so relieved and happy that he was safe. The best birthday present ever! I realized I had held my emotions in check until he was back, but then it was OK to let go. Needless to say I slept soundly that night!