I wondered whether Carl would remember my 34th birthday, our fourth anniversary, and, if he did, whether he would arrange something special. But he did what he always did when he was around, he came in without any greeting, poured himself a beer and sat down at the kitchen table to read the evening paper. He never looked at me so he didn’t mention that I appeared different. I had made a real effort having had my hair cut and styled and bought new clothes but, without looking up from the paper, he just asked ‘What’s for dinner?’
That he had forgotten the anniversary, or was just ignoring it, made me in an even worse mood than I had been all day.
“I don’t know. I haven’t made any. I thought you might take me out.”
“Why would I do that?”
I poured myself a glass of wine, my first that day, and sat at the other end of the table. It all seemed unnaturally quiet.
“Where are the children?”
“Who knows? I don’t. And I don’t care. Perhaps they’ve escaped.”
“What’s up with you?”
“What do you think?” I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. I had made a real effort to look good that evening and I hadn’t had a drink all day.
“I have no idea.” It was his tone of voice, so like that of Charles, that made me lose my temper.
“Bloody nothing to do with it being my birthday, our anniversary, that is if you can have an anniversary of living together. Bloody nothing to do with that.”
He looked up from his paper, neither shocked nor angry, simply weary. I didn’t give him a chance to say anything, I carried on, letting off steam, trying to make him realise how unhappy I was.
“I’ve got absolutely bloody nothing to do all day except see you all off into the world of school and work and then I clear up after you, I do the washing and the cleaning and then I start preparing to mess everything up again by making tea for the children and it’s not what I want to do with my life!”
“Well you should have thought about that when you decided to get all maternal again.”
“Why did you take us all on?” It was as if I watched the words coming out of my mouth in a bubble, I hadn’t meant to bring everything out in the open. When he didn’t answer I knew he was trying to find a way to say he regretted it. “You hate all this don’t you?” I continued to push him. I know I should have backed off, let him get over whatever it was that had upset him during the day, let myself relax. But I didn’t. I ploughed on. “I’m a disappointment aren’t I? You wanted something different didn’t you? Why did you bother with us at all?”
“Leave then.” He spoke softly before adding in his most sarcastic voice “Oh but sorry, I’d forgotten, there are the children.” I hated this argument. We had had it many times before. “You can’t leave because you have nowhere to go.”
“So I’m trapped.”
“And I’m stuck with the lot of you.”
“At least you get away to work and to your other women.”
“Oh shut up.”
I knew he would slam the front door behind him and I braced myself for the jarring shock of it.
Perhaps Charles had been right when he’d said I loved a Carl that didn’t exist and Carl loved a Susie who probably never had either. I’d told him to bugger off but perhaps he had known us better than I thought. I knew next to nothing of what Carl had done in the years we had been apart. He had graduated brilliantly, advanced his career, built a nationwide reputation as a presenter of historical documentaries on television and the radio and published books about his favourite man, Napoleon. But what else had he done in those years? I knew absolutely nothing and I had never dared ask him.
There is a saying. Be careful what you wish for lest it come true. I have no idea where I first heard it but as I sat on that sofa, contemplating the disappointment that was my life, I realised the truth of it. Through all those years married to Joe, then after his death working so hard to make something of myself, I had believed that when I met Carl again everything would be perfect. Now what I had wished for had come true my life felt even worse because I had no dreams left.
I would have to stick it out as long as Carl could.
He was right, as long as the children were around there was nowhere I could go.
On Josie’s 16th birthday, Halloween 1980, she came home early in the evening very drunk. As she climbed the stairs helped by a long haired but obviously male companion she announced that since it was now legal for her to have sex she was going to find out what all the fuss was about. She glared at me, daring me to stop her. Carl was away. If I made a fuss and tried to throw the boy out they’d only go somewhere else. It would only be bravado, they were both probably too drunk to do anything anyway. I said nothing. I went back to whatever soap opera was on the television. At least she was experimenting at home not on the sand dunes, in bus shelters and doorways as I had done at her age.
When I tackled her the next morning she spoke in a condescending tone I had never heard her use. ‘No mother, we didn’t ‘do it’. I’m not quite as stupid as you were. Though getting pregnant wouldn’t be such a bad idea if it meant I could leave this place. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t leave the boys.’ She made it very clear that morning that she neither liked nor cared for me or Carl but, since we weren’t competent, she felt herself to be responsible for looking after her younger brothers. ‘I won’t leave them until they’re old enough to look out for themselves. If I didn’t worry about them, make sure they go to school, make sure they get home at night, no one would.’
The six of us lived in the same house but to all intents and purposes we lived separate lives. God knows what the children got up to. Carl and I reached some kind of understanding that enabled us to live together but our lives, like our bodies, barely touched. I knew nothing of what he did, he no longer spoke about his work. He went away for weeks at a time, I didn’t know where or why, I just knew he didn’t want to tell me anything about what he was doing.
Carl had, like his father, probably never been able to live with only one woman but perhaps, also like his father, he needed the security of his home. He had numerous one night stands and one or more longer term girlfriends but he always came back to us in the end. We bickered and argued as many couples do, but we were just living together until the right moment came to live apart.
One Sunday morning in early January 1982 we were reading the papers, me sprawled on the living room floor, Carl sitting in his armchair, his legs crossed in exactly the same way I had remembered his father sitting, radiating pomposity. Josie was clearing up the breakfast things and the boys were taking advantage of the day without rain to play in the garden.
“Coffee?”
“Thanks.” I answered meaninglessly without looking up from the paper.
It was as though neither of us ever had the courage to talk about anything important. As long as we spoke only about day to day things we were safe.
He brought in two coffee mugs and, giving one to me without a word, sat down to continue reading his Telegraph.
When we had first lived together we had discussed all the issues of the day, me always slightly more left wing than Carl. He had argued with me when I had spoken scathingly about President Ford’s comments about Eastern Europe but he had listened, even a year later he had treated my views on Mugabe in Rhodesia with some respect, though he had completely disagreed. But after three years any comments I made about the troubles in Northern Ireland or Margaret Thatcher were treated with impatient derision. For some time we had read our papers in silence.
“Good God!” I couldn’t help exclaiming a few minutes later.
“What?” Carl was not pleased that his silence had been interrupted.
“It’s Max. Max Fischer!”
“There’s only one Max. What about him?”
“There’s an article about him.”
“Well obviously. What’s he done now?” Even with sarcasm Carl couldn’t completely hide his interest.
“He’s contributed loads of money to some charity or other, there’s a picture of him presenting a cheque to the patron, some minor royal.”
“He’ll get his gong.”
“That’s a bit cynical isn’t it?”
“Not for Max. He wants to be ‘Sir Maximilian’ so he’s quite prepared to pay for it.”
I read on for a while in silence, saying to myself ‘that’s not true’ ‘that’s rubbish’ at the points where the reporter had misreported Max’s history. He was not an Austrian aristocrat disinherited by the Nazis. He was not a man who had worked his way back to prosperity only to spend his wealth on creating employment in the area. He was not a man who had devoted himself to good works after the tragic death of his wife and young daughter.
“This is all complete rubbish. Where do they get this stuff?” I must have spoken out loud as Carl answered me.
“They make it up. ‘Fuck the facts get the story’.”
“But really this is all so wrong!” I wondered what other people who knew Max would make of the story, if they were reading it. Ted would be amused. How would Maureen feel? And David?
I had had so little to do with these people for years. They had been my friends and I had all but completely shut them out of my life because I could not admit how great a mistake I had made. Perhaps this would be an opportunity to get in touch, to write to David and to Ted and have something to say other than lies about my own life. I drank my, now cold, coffee and gazed out of the window.
“Well I can trump your story of Max.” Carl interrupted my thoughts.
“What?” I knew he wasn’t going to give his story away as easily as I had given mine. “What is it?”
“Not ‘what’, ‘who’.”
“OK Who is it?”
“Graham.”
“What’s the little shit done now?” I didn’t like my cousin Graham. I had only ever met him at my mother’s funeral when he had shown himself to be crass and rude. But I remembered David had said he was involved with the Indian. I had forgotten how.
“He’s dead.”
“How did that happen?” I couldn’t feel surprise since, from what I had heard about Graham, he was always close to the wrong side of the law.
“An overdose apparently.”
“Why do you say ‘apparently’?”
“Well they’re quite mysterious about it.”
“Read.”
“Graham Tyler, 30, of Croydon, Surrey, died on Monday. He was jailed in 1977 for the murder of his ex-wife’s father and mother Matthew and Mary Eccleston of Toronto, Canada. A registered heroin addict, Tyler appears to have taken an overdose and slashed his wrists with the pen-knife that was found by the body which was discovered at 6am. An enquiry is expected.”
“I bet it finds nothing other than that he killed himself.”
“There’ll be trouble that he got hold of drugs.”
“And a knife.”
“At least Holly won’t have to worry about him any more.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that Carl could be concerned about what worried Holly. It seemed a long time ago that I had wondered whether there might have been something between them. I had dismissed the possibility. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything more either.
“Why are you concerned about what worries Holly?”
He must have been surprised at my tone of voice because it was a few moments before he replied, and then, I thought, rather defensively. “She’s a good friend.”
“Are you fucking her?”
When he didn’t answer I repeated the question. “You’re sleeping with her aren’t you? You fucked her that summer when she was dangling Charles around her little finger. Neither of you could resist the pathetic blonde tart. You and Charles, you’re both so fucking stupid.” I’m not sure why I was so angry.
“And you’re a fucking stupid bitch.”
I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I knew Carl had had many one night stands and longer relationships since we had been living together, I’m not sure why knowing one was with Holly was particularly hurtful.
“She’s conned you just as she conned Charles. All she’s after is someone to look after her. As soon as her parents died she married Graham and then when a better bet came along she dumped him. So she’s working on you in case it doesn’t work out with Charles. She knows which side her bread’s buttered.”
“She’s very well off in her own right.” I should have recognised the warning signs in the coldness in his voice. It was the tone even the children respected when he had had enough of their bickering and wanted them to be quiet.
“So if she wasn’t after Charles for his money what did she see in him? He’s at least ten years older than she is and I bet he’s shit in bed. But you’re not are you Carl? You’re fucking marvellous when you want to be. She’s got fed up with Charles and turned to you.”
“You are a stupid bitch.”
“Don’t call me that!” Where Carl’s voice was calm and cold I heard mine rise almost hysterically.
“If you don’t like being called a bitch don’t act like one.”
“Who makes me act like one? You! You’re always so fucking sanctimonious.”
The arguments Carl and I had followed a regular pattern.
Carl would argue ‘Whatever you threaten you won’t leave me because you’ve got nowhere to go.’ I would reply that I could go wherever I wanted. He would counter ‘Well go then, but remember to take your kids with you’. ‘How can I do that?’ I would say, ‘I’m trapped’. Usually after a period of silence I would ask him if he wanted a beer and I’d go to the fridge and bring two bottles of beer, giving him one I would sit down and we would be OK again, until the next time. I had thought the argument that would lead us to finally split would be over something important; money, the children, his one night stands or my inability to stop moaning about not having a career. I never imagined it would be over Holly.
The argument that day may have started with Holly but it soon spread to include every minor irritation from our time together and the one, over-riding reason I had for all my anger. “I hate you, I hate them. All those fucking children. I never wanted them! I don’t want them now. I never did. Why would I want four fucking stupid ignorant brats before I was 21.”
I realised Carl was not looking at me, he was looking at the door where Josie was standing watching us with all the superiority of her seventeen years. It seemed for a few moments that she was the adult and we the children.
“Bill’s crying.” Was all she said.
I got up to go to him.
“He doesn’t want you.”
“For fucks sake he’s nearly 13, he’s far too fucking old to cry. And if he doesn’t want me what the shit are you telling me for?”
I shouldn’t have sworn at her. If I could have taken it back I would have done but, once spoken, the words, and all the anger and resentment behind them, were irretrievable.
“I just thought you ought to know.” Josie replied with a dignity that neither Carl nor I had shown. Before I could say anything she had turned and gone.
“Well, you stupid, fucking, bitch,” He emphasised each word carefully, “that was fucking clever of you.” Carl was going to be no help.
“It’s all your bloody fault!”
“You’re not blaming this one on me!”
“If you hadn’t got me upset…”
“You started it….”
It’s amazing how childish two adults can be.
After we had snapped at each other for a few minutes we went back to reading our papers, occasionally throwing pointless remarks at each other about being strangers to my children and strangers to each other, and not caring.
After about half an hour I realised there was no other noise in the house.
“I wonder what the kids are up to.”
I heard ‘little you bloody care’ muttered under his breath as I left the room.
They weren’t in the garden. I climbed the stairs almost hearing the silence. All the doors to their bedrooms were open but there was no sign of any of them.
“They’re not here.” I yelled but there was no answer.
I ran down the stairs, a reluctant tinge of worry pressing its way through my anger.
“They’re not here.” I repeated to Carl.
“I heard you the first time. They probably heard all the nice things you were saying about them…”
“And you…”
“… and decided to leave us alone for a bit. They’ll have gone down the village. They’ll be OK. Heavens, they’re well able to look after themselves while they get over it.”
“I’m going out to check anyway.”
“Please yourself.” I hated it when he said that. He always made it sound like I was being a fool and he was going to great lengths to humour me while I acted in a completely unreasonable fashion.
I noticed the small knot of people as soon as I turned out of the front garden, but it took a while to register that they were in the middle of the road, some standing, some turned away from the crouching figures. I was a lot closer when I realised that they were all surrounding a crumpled red heap that, as I drew nearer, I realised was my youngest son.
Josie was standing staring, an elderly woman’s arms around her shoulders.
Jack and Al were being led towards me by a man I recognised as the new landlord of the pub.
The group seemed to stop what they were doing and turn towards me as one.
I felt nothing.
I walked towards them thinking how colourful they were. There was a lot of red and white, part of me realised this was the football team’s colours. It was Sunday, the pub team must be playing at home. I walked straight past Jack and Al, registering only the look of fear and guilt on their faces. They must have been larking around. It wasn’t my fault. I’d always told them to keep off the road.
A man in a beige overcoat hurried towards me.
I just nodded. Now wasn’t the time to say that Carl had never bothered to marry me.
“We’ve called an ambulance. Edna here is a first-aider and she’s doing what she can. The poor little boy just ran into the road.”
I now noticed a blue car parked awkwardly against the pavement a few yards beyond the huddle of people, a young man in bright yellow was leaning against the bonnet apparently being sick.
“He’s not in pain, Mrs Witherby, he’s not conscious so he’s not feeling any pain but don’t worry, he’s still alive, he’s breathing. Don’t think he’s…”
I said nothing as I walked passed the man who I supposed was trying to be kind.
The small crowd parted to make way for me, I thought it rather stage managed and self-conscious.
Bill was lying on the ground, his legs at an unnatural angle, blood seeping through his jeans just above his knees. His eyes were closed, his arms spread eagled above his head. He looked asleep, but not comfortable.
I still felt nothing.
I heard the siren of the approaching ambulance as I walked back towards the house completely certain that I had to get away.
Josie would go to the hospital with Bill and would do a far better job than I would. If Bill died he would never know I wasn’t there and if he lived whether I was with him or not would make no difference. I would be no help at all. They were best off without me.
I went through the open door, avoiding contact with Carl and the man in beige as they ran down the path. I walked up the stairs just as I had a few moments earlier, but this time I went into the bedroom and methodically opened drawers choosing which of my clothes I really wanted to take with me. I placed them carefully in a bag. I carried it into the bathroom and calmly took my things from the glass shelves.
I was in no hurry and I was being very deliberate.
I knew what Carl would do when he realised I had gone. He would call Charles and his precious Holly, if she was still with him, and they would look after the children. Ted or Charles would drive down to pick them up. Perhaps he would stay long enough to see how Bill was going to be. In a few days time they would be back in the north, probably where we should have left them all along.
We should never have uprooted them, never have thought we could move them and all be happy. We had taken them away from the cramped terraced cottage where they had lived since their father’s death and given them a lovely home with a bedroom each. Instead of the paid nanny who had looked after them since they were young children we had given them two parents. Well it hadn’t worked and now they would be going back where they belonged.
I had hated every minute when Carl and I had been separated before. Carl would have known that I’d be staying at Sandhey. I had waited day after day for him to call, but he hadn’t. Day after day I waited until I finally accepted he wouldn’t call and I’d have to make a life of my own. It wasn’t my fault that my new life was a complete failure, a life in which I married Joe, had four children and a breakdown. But through all those years dreams of Carl had never gone away.
I had got what I had wished for and it hadn’t worked.
Now, for a second time, I was on my way to a new life. Perhaps I should have been thinking of my children, of Josie, so adult for her years, of Al and Jack, so in need of love and security, but most of all of Bill injured, possibly paralysed, possibly dead.
But I didn’t.
I thought of Carl, and of myself.
And I ran, for the second time in my life, to Maureen.
It was the only one place I could have gone.