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.
So is that it? Do people who are different from other people and find each other and feel good together have to be different to each other too? Is everyone always alone in the end?
I don’t want to be one of anything. That’s what he says. That’s why he likes tools. A hammer does a hammer’s job and that’s it. A hammer doesn’t follow you round the room with wounded eyes. You can put a hammer away in the shed and forget about it until you need it again. Toby likes forgetting about things.
So fuck him.
The brief explosion of energy takes her by surprise. It’s accompanied by a bristling chord on the guitar. Through the vibrating air she hears footsteps on the landing. She sees her door handle turn. No knock, no request.
He comes in.
She looks at him in silent amazement. He gives her a smile, shuts the door behind him.
“Okay if I come in?”
“Looks like you just did.”
He sits beside her on the bed, uninvited.
“So here’s where I am,” he says. “I’m not really a good person. If I’ve hurt you or made you angry, you just say so.”
“I don’t see why I should bother.”
“Yes, you do.”
Now that he’s here and he’s giving her his full attention everything that has been distressing her fades away.
“People don’t have to say everything,” she says.
“Okay.” He taps her guitar with one forefinger. “You could always sing me one of your songs.”
“No way!”
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t like it.”
“Why wouldn’t I like your songs? Are they all posing and lies?”
“Then I’ll like them.”
It seems so simple when he puts it like that. When he looks at her so directly. More than that: it comes over like a command she can’t refuse. Does not choose to refuse. So she arranges her fingers on the strings and starts to strum her very limited sequence of chords. She sings him “It’s Over Now.” She sings with a soft voice, and keeps her eyes down on the guitar, never once looking up to see how he’s taking it.
“I know it hurts
But it’s over now
I know you lost
But it’s over now . . .”
She’s amazed at herself. She has never sung her songs to anyone, let alone someone she wants so much to approve of her. She does it because he asks her. His is by far the stronger will.
So no longer shy, no longer attempting to protect herself from whatever criticism will come, she sings her song to the end. When it’s finished she lets her hand rest on the strings, deadening the last reverberations. She does not look up.
For a long moment he says nothing. Then he reaches out and puts his hand on the guitar.
“That was beautiful,” he says.
She can tell it from his voice, he means what he says. She has pleased him. A sweet blush of relief steals over her.
“It’s a great song, Carrie,” he says. “And you sing it wonderfully.”
“Thank you,” she says.
She looks up now and finds his eyes on her. She wants him to say more, to tell her more about her song, because this is the first time her song has ever existed outside herself. Any of her songs. This is the very beginning. But it must come from him, unasked, or it will be tainted by her need. Enough to see his smile of surprise, and the look in his eyes that searches her face as if to say, Where did that come from?
His hand on her hand.
“You’re the first,” she says.
“Then I’m proud,” he says. “I’m honored.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be out chasing rabbits?”
“The rabbits have all gone away,” he says. “I have to find something else to play with.”
“And I’ll do for now.”
She seems to have fallen into some deep still place where all she can say is what she really feels.
“I told you I’m not a good person,” he says.
“I heard.”
“You don’t mind?”
“I’ll mind later.”
“That’s all right, then,” he says, “because there isn’t any later.”
He lifts his hand from her hand, and takes the guitar from her lap and puts it down on the floor. She doesn’t move. She wonders if he’s going to kiss her now, waiting to see what will happen. He’s the one with the will.
He lies down beside her on the bed.
“Lie down,” he says.
She lies down. He takes her in his arms.
“That was a great song,” he says.
“Was it?” she says.
“But you’re wrong. It’s not over. It’s never over.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Now,” he says. “Now. Now. Now. Now. Now.”
“Put that in a song. How now never ends.”
“Maybe I will.”
Now she’s lying on her bed with Toby in her arms and it’s never going to end.