Chapter Ten

Dating

 

 

29th October 2016

 

THE STONE IN the garden was fixed in place; Alice couldn’t budge it. Instead she fetched her digital camera and took several pictures, close up. After that she busied herself on the rest of the garden, until she heard Darren’s van pull up outside.

She brought him endless cups of tea and pretended not to feel his eyes on her when she turned away. Again that odd, guilty thrill of satisfaction: she still had it, whatever ‘it’ might be.

At last, he was done; a brand new uPVC door was in place, with a five lever mortice lock and additional locks at the top and bottom.

“Thanks, Darren,” she said, counting out the promised notes.

He grinned back. “No problem, love.” A pause. “Well...”

“Thanks again,” she said, smiling at him. “Byeee.”

She thought she saw the smile fade before the door clicked shut; he thought he’d been in there, no doubt. She’d been briefly tempted, all the same – a little warmth, a little companionship would go a long way just now – but it would cause more trouble than it was worth. It always did. She was quite damaged and complicated enough without any added ingredients, thanks very much.

She went to the window, watched the van drive away, then put the kettle on and studied the door. It made her feel a little better, but not much. There was danger inside, as well. She wouldn’t fasten the top and bottom locks; she might need to get out. But considered again, that thought wasn’t comforting either.

Indeed, she couldn’t be sure if the children hadn’t tried to drive her out of the house. Out front there’d been the warrior with his spear, and out back – she tried not to think of the ogre, told herself it couldn’t have been real.

But still... there was the spearhead. She hadn’t imagined that. She should have kept a sample of the dust that had lain beside it as further proof.

The phone rang; Alice jumped. Her hand went to her chest, felt the thunder of her heart. She was gasping for air; she made herself breathe slowly, in and out, as Kat had taught her to. The phone kept ringing. Alice sighed, went through into the front room and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Is that you, our Alice?”

She sighed again. “No, Mum,” she said. “You’re talking to a figment of your imagination.”

A gasp. “Oh God, Alice –”

“Mum. Mum. I’m joking.”

“Well, it’s not a very nice thing to do,” said her mother. “Your Dad and I have been worried sick about you since you moved there.”

“Mum, I’m fine.” Christ, that was a laugh.

“No you’re not, Alice. No, you’re not.”

“Oh,” she said, “yes, I’m sorry, Mum. Of course. I couldn’t possibly have any awareness of my own mental state, could I?”

“I’m just trying to help, Alice. It can’t be good for you, being on your own there.”

Alice managed to stop herself bursting into laughter just in time. God knew what her mother would have thought of that, but she had to see the funny side if she wanted to retain whatever sanity she possessed, assuming she still possessed any. “Mum,” she said, “really, I’m okay. I don’t want to talk about –”

“Alice, you’ve got to talk about it. You’re going through one of the worst things a woman can go through –”

“Mum, really, just leave it, okay?”

“No, Alice – you can’t just hide in your room all the time.”

“Look, Mum, for God’s sake what do you want?”

There was a breath’s worth of silence on the other end of the phone, enough to tell her that what she’d said had hurt. Which now meant, of course, that Mum would come back twice as strong as before.

“What do I want? I just want to be a mother to my daughter, that’s all. What do you think I want? You’re alone, you’re grieving, you push everyone away, and I’m supposed to just leave you on your own?”

“I want to be left alone, Mum. Right now, that’s what I need. I need some time to myself.”

“You do not need time to yourself! That’s the worst thing you could possibly have!”

“How do you know?” Alice could feel her control slipping. She knew what she was saying would make things worse: it was like watching someone fall from a height – it was terrible, but the outcome was beyond your power to change. “What makes you so bloody sure you know what I need?”

“I’m your mother! Do you think I don’t know you better than you know yourself? It’s the strongest bond there is, between mother and child –”

Mum stopped. This time the pause was of both their making. Hell is truth learned too late; Alice had heard that somewhere, and her mother had been just a second too tardy in realising what she was saying.

“Between mother and child?” she said. She felt her grip on the telephone handset tighten, felt the plastic casing squeak and crack. “Between mother and child? Who the hell are you to – how dare you lecture me about that? Who the hell are you to be so superior?”

“Alice, I’m sorry –”

“What did you do to protect your precious bloody daughter when Dad was gambling and drinking and pissing all the money up the wall? What did you do when the leg-breakers came kicking down the bloody door?” That was unfair and cruel and she knew it, but she couldn’t stop. “What did you do to become the patron saint of Mums everywhere?”

She stopped herself – but again, it was too late. At the other end of the phone, she heard hitching breaths, then sobs. Well done, Alice. You made your Mum cry.

Alice put a hand to her mouth. Say something. Just say something. She didn’t know if she meant her mother or herself. But Mum just cried and Alice couldn’t think of anything to say. She couldn’t carry on with this. She put the phone down and slumped back into a chair, then wiped her eyes furiously; she was beginning to shake. She felt sick. She got up and ran to the bathroom.

As she rinsed her mouth with cold water and splashed more on her face, she heard the phone ring again. She towelled her face dry and put her glasses back on. No, she wouldn’t answer. She couldn’t face Mum now.

When the phone had stopped ringing, she went into the kitchen, gently took the spearhead from its carrier-bag sheath and studied it again, then wrapped it once more. Walking down the hall she heard whispers, glanced up to see pairs of white, blind-looking eyes peer down at her from the stairs. She slipped the spearhead into her shoulder-bag and went out, locking the new front door behind her, walking toward the bus stop.

 

 

SHE GOT OFF on Chapel Street and walked until she reached the old Salford Royal Infirmary – now a block of flats – and the junction with Oldfield Road. Here was where the University campus appeared; on her right, down Silk Street, lay the Adelphi Building, which had been the hub for all the Performing Arts students.

She crossed over Silk Street and passed Adelphi House, a newer building that in her day had been filled with plasma screens and the like for better viewing. It stood above the Old Pint Pot, a pub perched on the bank of the Irwell. Now the A6 had changed, from Chapel Street to Salford Crescent, and on her right there was only a railing with a sheer drop to the swollen brown river below. Across the lanes of traffic was the Black Horse; she’d got drunk in there more often than she could count, but the windows and the doorway were covered now by sheets of tin, which in turn were plastered over with flyers for long-forgotten gigs and events.

Up ahead, where the river curved round, there was the main university campus, but Joule House was on her left, across the lanes of traffic. She walked up further, found a pedestrian crossing and used it. Then she went up the steps to the main doors, let herself through and approached the pretty young woman at reception.

“Hi.”

“Hi. I’ve got an appointment to see Professor Fry.”

“What name is it, please?”

“Alice Collier.”

“Okay, just take a seat.” Was it Alice’s imagination, or did the woman behind the desk eye her with disdain? Alice could barely wait until she was sitting down before taking out her powder compact and checking herself in the mirror. She had showered that morning, hadn’t she? Had remembered to put on make-up and brush her hair? The mirror reassured her that she had. She studied her clothes: jeans, trainers and a sweater. Nothing spectacular, but all clean on today and all good-quality brands. Unless – and she made herself laugh at the frightening traitor thought – unless all her perceptions were completely haywire and she was actually a nightmarish figure of dirty clothes, matted hair and old streaked make-up.

A door opened. “Alice?”

“Hi, Chris,” she said, getting up.

Chris Fry smiled back at her and held out both arms, which went some way to dispelling her fears. His hug was tight, warm and above all, friendly – no attempt to be anything more than it was. “How are you, chuck? It’s been ages.”

“I’m” – Fine? Great? – “I’m okay.”

“Oh good. Good.” Chris shuffled from one foot to the other; a big, broad-shouldered man in his late thirties, he looked like a particularly large and amiable teddy bear blinking awake from hibernation. Like Darren, he wore a combination of jeans and lumberjack shirt, but in his case they strained noticeably in an effort to contain a physique whose lines, made generous by Mother Nature, had been made even more so by an excessive fondness for curry. Although the casual observer might have thought it was due to excess hair: Chris Fry was one of the most hirsute people Alice had ever known. His hairline was only just starting to recede, and his thick, reddish-brown mane, barely touched with grey, hung down his back. He’d made an attempt to tie it back in a ponytail, but about two-thirds of it had refused to be disciplined and spilled across his shoulders. Add that to a thick, bushy beard and the only parts of Chris’ face still visible were his forehead, eyes and cheeks – which, she saw, were starting to redden as the awkward silence stretched out. “Come on up,” he said. “This way.”

 

 

“YOU WANT SOME coffee? I’ve got some of the proper stuff here. None of that instant crap.”

“Oh, go on, then, thanks.”

Chris’s office, like the man himself, was in a state of amiable disarray, with papers heaped on his desk, on the spare desk up against the walls, and in the sorting trays. It was also a little home from home, with a tiny kitchenette tucked away in one corner, complete with a sink and fridge.

The bear’s lair, Alice thought. He’d been no different when they were students together. A friend of a friend, who’d lived not far from her digs, Chris had plainly been smitten with Alice, but thankfully he’d also been far too shy and sweet-natured to be any kind of trouble. By the look of it, he still seemed fond of her. That wouldn’t hurt.

Chris ambled over to the coffee machine, filled two mugs and cleared a couple of spaces on the desk for them before fishing a pint bottle of milk from the fridge. “Semi-skimmed do you?”

“Absolutely fine.”

“Sugar?”

“No thanks. Sweet enough.”

Chris chuckled. “Me neither, these days. Orders from She Who Must Be Obeyed.”

Alice looked at the photos perched atop his computer. There was a photograph of Chris with a woman who might have been a magazine centrefold, and a picture of two adorable-looking young boys, one fair-haired, one dark. “You got married?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. Yeah, her name’s Marzena.”

“Polish?”

“Yeah. She spoils me soft. Couldn’t be happier. It’ll be – Christ, just realised. Fifteen years next month.” Chris grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper and scribbled a note. “Just reminding myself before I forget. Best book a table at Shere Khan’s or she’ll have me guts for garters.” He nodded at the picture. “Those are my boys. Our boys, sorry. She’s very strict with me on that. ‘How much work did you do, Christopher? I was eighteen hours in labour just pushing out the first one!’”

Alice laughed. Chris grinned.

“The blonde one’s Tomek – that’s after her dad. Other one’s Danny. Takes after me, God help him. So how old’s yours now?”

The laughter died in her; she felt her stomach clench, as if a hand had crushed it like a paper cup. “I’m sorry?”

“Yours. Your little girl. Emily, right? How old’s she? You had any more, or...” Chris trailed off. “Jesus, Alice, what’s wrong?”

“You, um...” Oh, God. “You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what? Oh Christ.”

Haltingly, her voice shaking, she told him.

“Oh my God.” Chris half-rose, sat down again. “Oh my God, Alice, I am so sorry. I hadn’t a clue. The last I heard you were married – not to John. To Andrew, wasn’t he called?”

“Andrew, yes.” She forced a smile. Damn, she was crying again. Chris shambled over with a box of tissues.

“I hadn’t heard anything of you for a few years,” he said. “So I – oh, God.”

“It’s all right, really.” The crying had stopped at last; she dabbed her eyes dry, fumbled for her make-up case, started rectifying the damage as best she could. It wasn’t all right, of course; it never would be.

Chris sat in mortified silence. “Forget it,” Alice said. “You didn’t know. Shit happens.” Her voice wobbled on the last word; she took a deep breath.

“What about Andrew?”

“Still in Sussex. I heard he’s seeing someone else.”

“The bastard.” Chris had met Andrew at a couple of reunions. Alice had always felt he hadn’t liked Andrew much. Maybe he’d still been carrying a torch. Didn’t really matter.

Chris coughed, slurped what sounded like half his coffee and swirled the remainder in its mug. “Anyway. You didn’t come here to... I mean it’s good to see you, but...”

“But I said there was something I wanted your opinion on.” Alice opened her shoulder-bag. “What do you make of this?”

Chris frowned at the object in its Asda carrier bag, looked up at her dubiously, then unwrapped it. He became still as he got his first clear look. “Good grief.” He fumbled a pair of gloves out of a drawer, donned them and eased the spearhead out of the bag. “Where did you find this?”

“Grounds of the house I’ve moved into,” she said. That was close enough to the truth for now.

“Amazing,” he said at last. “Really quite extraordinary. It’s in very good condition for its age.”

“How old...”

“Well, I’ll have to do more detailed tests to be sure. But if I’m right – and I think I am – we’re looking at two, three thousand years, at least.”

“Jesus. Really?”

“Well, it’s made of bronze. That makes it a lot easier to guess at the age range. After the end of the Neolithic, before the Iron Age got going...”

“Of course.”

“Do you mind if I hang onto this?”

“No. No, of course not. Just... if we can keep it quiet for now? I’ve only just moved in there and I’m finally getting settled in.”

“Sure. I mean, I’ll let you know if I think this is going to be the find of the century or something, but, you know, we’re not just gonna storm onto your property and start digging things up. Illegal, for a start.” He grinned, and after a moment Alice smiled back. “Look... if I think a dig would be a good idea, I’ll get in touch and let you know, but it’s up to you if or when anything happens on your property.”

“Okay. Thanks, Chris. I appreciate it.”

“That’s... you’re welcome. Are you gonna be all right?”

“I’ve no idea. I mean, not in the long run. Do you think you can ever get over something like this?”

It wasn’t a rebuke but a genuine question, and to her relief Chris took it as such. She saw him glance at the picture of his two sons. “I don’t know,” he said. “I hope so, but...” he trailed off, caught between honesty and wanting to comfort her.

“Yeah,” she said. “In the short term, though – yeah, I’ll be okay. Relatively speaking.”

“Here’s my card. If there’s anything we can do – even if it’s just a friend to talk to... or if you ever want to come over, have dinner... I know Marzena would love to meet you.”

That torch he’d carried, it had never completely gone out. “Thanks, Chris. I’ll see you later.”

When he hugged her, she patted his back and pecked his cheek and quickly slipped away before she could start crying again.

 

 

ALICE WALKED BACK down the Crescent and Chapel Street, then caught a bus into Manchester. She got off at Piccadilly, and once more flinched from the noise and heaving of it, the babbling, thundering, rushing crowd.

It felt as if you couldn’t stand still for a moment, as if you constantly had to be alert and dodging other pedestrians, but she knew it wasn’t so bad. Compared to London, say, Manchester was almost sedate. The fact was that she was too used to living far from anywhere these days, staying indoors and going for a ramble on Browton Vale. She’d have to start making more trips into town. Toughen herself up a little. Otherwise she’d end up a complete shut-in.

Somehow, she managed to get across the Metrolink tracks to Piccadilly Gardens. They’d changed significantly. When she’d last lived in Manchester, they’d been a big, largely untouched sprawl of grass, usually the haunt of the homeless and mix of subcultures – punks, goths, indie kids and crusties. Now the grass was trimmed and sculpted; there were benches and fountains, bijou restaurants and cafés. As she entered the Gardens, she found a Caffè Nero to her left; she wove through the outside tables and went inside. She found an empty table that was clean, unmarked except for a flyer advertising a double bill of Dracula and The Wicker Man at the Dancehouse for Halloween.

She grimaced and brushed it aside. She’d always found films like that hilarious; it had always infuriated John, who’d luxuriated in their atmosphere. Her taste had run to old black and white Hollywood movies – comedies especially – and subtitled European films, while Andrew had preferred thrillers. She was almost tempted to go to the screening, though. Given what she’d seen at Collarmill Road, Christopher Lee’s plastic fangs would be just the kind of light relief she needed.

She ordered a skinny latte, donned her iPod earbuds and sat in a soft leather chair by the window, watching the faces swarm past. Except that now another dread kept building in her, then ebbing away again. It took her a minute to realise what it was.

The crowd moved like a tide at the shoreline, surging through seaweed and rockpools, then retreating. The bodies in it would cluster together or flow in unison along a route – and then part. It was when the crowd parted that she felt uneasy, she realised; every time it happened she was afraid of what it might reveal, what might grin or glare back at her.

But nothing did. Not this time, anyway. She breathed out. She wasn’t a shut-in yet. Then again, that was hardly a surprise, considering what she’d be shutting herself in with. In fact, she might have to look for a hotel room in Manchester. Another night in that house – another one like last night – would finish her. She’d have to lay the ghosts – everything in her revolted at the term, but what else could she call them? – learn to live with them, or run away.

The last option was the only one she’d flat-out refuse to countenance. She’d meant what she’d said to Chris: she had no idea what kind of life you could have when you’d lost a child. Or, more specifically, what kind of life she could. Some people did rebuild – a new marriage, new children – but could she? She honestly didn’t know. But to rebuild, you needed a foundation; you had to stop somewhere. You had to face the ghosts.

She looked away from the crowd and switched on her smart phone. The café had wifi access, thank God. She called up Facebook and scrolled through memes and cat pictures to distract herself.

With little success, though. The stone in the garden, the spearhead: they weren’t products of her imagination, they were physical artefacts. The fear had plagued her, on the way to see Chris, that the spearhead might prove to be some innocuous piece of metal, like a rusty kitchen knife, that some kinked portion of her mind insisted on warping into something else. But Chris had confirmed it. Unless she’d hallucinated that too – but at some point you had to trust some of your perceptions, or you’d be paralysed.

There was a line, then: a line between what was real and what couldn’t possibly be. But it was blurred. So, she had to establish what was delusion and what was actually real. A doctor could help her with that – unless he dismissed evidence that didn’t fit his preconceptions, of course.

So on the other front, someone needed to examine the house –

She stopped. Then, after a moment, she began scrolling up her Facebook screen until the icons at the top were visible: notifications, messages and friend requests. She clicked on the last of these and a list unrolled.

A short list: there was only one unanswered request there. In miniature, Jon Revell’s face smiled out at her.

Alice’s finger hovered over the ‘Confirm’ button. Here was a whole can of worms and no mistake, Dad would have said. She hesitated, her coffee cooling beside her. Finally she clicked ‘Confirm’. You and John Revell are now friends.

There was a lot more detail now. Single, his relationship status read. Lives in Manchester. She bit her lip. Maybe –

The phone beeped. You have one new Facebook message. Alice hesitated for a moment, then tapped.

It was from John.

Hi there, Alice. Thanks for the add! John x

After a moment, she typed a reply.

Hi there handsome.

She hesitated, then deleted the last word. It had come to her so readily – even though when she and John had first been dating, neither of them had so much as sent an email. But it was the kind of thing she would have said, or written, back then. Christ, it was so easy – almost frighteningly so – to fall back into old patterns. She’d better be careful about that.

Hi there. How are you? Alice. After a moment, she decided adding an ‘x’ would be okay.

She clicked ‘send’. John replied within the minute. I’m okay. Back in Manchester.

Me too, she typed. Didn’t know you were away?

Here and there. Bristol for a bit. Then Reading. Glad to be oop North again, to be honest.

Yeah. It’s cheaper, apart from anything else.

You’re back in Manchester now?

Yeah. Moved back about a week ago. She hesitated, then typed, I’m in town, if you fancy meeting up.

She waited, biting her lip, until the reply came through a couple of minutes later. He’d had to think about that one, she thought. How close had he come to refusal?

That sounds nice, he wrote. When and where?

How about dinner at the Koreana? We used to like going there.

Are they still there?

Yup! She’d idly checked online earlier today – or perhaps it hadn’t been so idle. About seven?

After a small eternity, he replied.

Okay.