Rachel could not think of anyone but her father. His coat and his medicines.
She phoned him, simply to hear his voice and to say good night. He was drowsy and did not want to speak. Then she drew his face as best she could remember it on the back of the other drawings, trying to remember the salient details of it, but oddly Carl’s face became superimposed on the older one. She was using a pencil stump, which she broke, and the breaking of it made her cry.
She stayed beneath the shower, scrubbing herself pink, trying to wash away the contagions of the day, went to bed.
Nothing had changed over the course of the day, nothing. There must be some mistake. Dad’s pocket was not picked for his drugs on the train; they fell out … How?
She was exhausted and fell into a fitful sleep. Nothing would change what was going to happen on Monday. There was always work, and without it there was no life. She was wishing she had not deviated from that single track and was still the work-devoted, isolated, priggish bore she had been a year ago. Dreams intervened, nudged her awake. This time it was snuffling piglets, nuzzling at the multiple teats of a mother pig who was held by bars so that she could not suffocate them. A rat sneaked in alongside. Someone placed a hand on the back of her neck. The hand was cool and dry, soothing, feeling for a pulse beneath her long hair. Her father had done that once. There was a shuffling in the darkness, a rustling, followed by the sound of the door of her bedroom clicking shut, softly.
She remembered she had left all the windows open at the front. One floor up was all, easily climbed, warnings given all the time about neighbourhood burglary. She might not even have double-locked the door; she never did that now, not with Ivy here. Ivy was far away, Ivy was not here. There was no one here. When Ivy called out in the night, there was always someone there. Rachel repeated her name out loud now, louder and louder, accusing her for her absence. IVY! Ivy! Ivy!
The door opened quietly. Ivy, barefoot in a long T-shirt, stood there, framed by the dim light filtering from another room, coming towards her from the light into the dark, her voice a soothing whisper.
‘What is it, what’s the matter? It’s me, only me. Can I come in?’
Yes. Anything, anyone, please. Anyone was better than no one. Rachel lay there stiff with fear. Ivy was matter-of-fact.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, but now you are, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. We could leave it until the morning, only it’s almost the morning already.’
‘I thought you weren’t back. I thought …’
‘That I wouldn’t be back until later? I’m here now. Thank God I’m here now. You were dreaming. Can I come in?’
Rachel turned and saw Ivy’s profile against the corridor light, her hand with a protective hold on the door, the glint of tears on her face. There was a cool draught from the window. She had been sweatily hot; now she was cold. She buried her head in the pillow, and smelled the scent of fresh soap. The back of her neck itched. She could hear the sound of rain, and shivered. She was naked; the duvet had fallen to the floor. Ivy picked it up and put it back, then peeled off her T-shirt and slid into bed beside Rachel, tucking the duvet round them both. They lay like spoons, Ivy holding her, her body pressed into Rachel’s back, her bosom against Rachel’s shoulder blades, her chin on Rachel’s head. Rachel stiffened, then, slowly, relaxed. The sudden warmth and feeling of safety was utterly seductive. She lay very still, not daring to move. They had never been intimate like this, never unclothed. Hugs and pecking kisses on greeting, easy togetherness, massaging each other’s feet at the end of a long day out, but never lying in the same bed, skin against skin. She wondered why. It was nice. She needed it, did not want it, might never want it again, but it was nice.
‘This is how Grace used to calm me down,’ Ivy said. ‘She calls it the human straitjacket.’
‘There was somebody else here,’ Rachel said. Reality was coming back. Remembrance of the last things she had thought of before going into that awful sleep. She had thought of her father, and of what it would be like to sleep alongside the lovely bulk of Carl. She had imagined his heavy male hand on her neck. Shame on her.
‘No, lovely. There was no one. Only me. Unless there was a ghost, escaping the rain. Ghosts don’t like rain.’
That was what this was. It was Ivy being mother, acting like Grace, the human straitjacket, making everything right with her warmth, operating on the same instinct to look after someone with the whole of her body.
‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’
‘I want to tell you what I think happened with your father.’
Rachel stirred, pressed her head further into the pillow. Ivy’s weight was light against her. She could move whenever she wanted, waited, breathing hard. Ivy had been crying and her speech was clear and urgent.
‘I don’t think anyone picked his pocket on the train back. I think he left all his stuff here, in my room. Must have dropped out of his coat pocket. I put his coat in my room, out of the way, remember.’
Rachel was silent. Things did not fall out of pockets, not out of her father’s deep pockets, not precious, life-saving objects like that. There was, all the same, a great relief that Ivy was talking about it, not hiding anything, because there was nothing to hide; that Ivy was introducing the subject before she did, and she would not have to admit sneaking around her room and the suspicions which had been the final blow in what felt like a day of treachery. Ivy seemed to sense the slight shift of Rachel’s body. She moved her hand and softly eased Rachel’s hair away from her face, and stroked it back. That was nice too.
‘I found them, I think it was on Friday. You know what a mess my room is. Thought nothing of it. I should have remembered it when you said he’d phoned and he was ill, but I didn’t connect, wasn’t thinking, so I only remembered halfway through yesterday afternoon, because I was worrying about him. That’s why I came back. I thought, supposing Rache finds that medicine, supposing she’s looking for something else, what would you think?’
‘I don’t go into your room,’ Rachel lied.
She had a vision of the living room as she had left it. Had she tidied it all away? That would be normal, even when drunk, especially then. She had not been drunk on wine, but something else entirely, like the shock of what she had found, and put back, and not being able to remember quite what she had done. Not being able to remember frightened her.
‘But if you had,’ Ivy continued, still stroking her hair, ‘and found your dad’s medicines, you might, just might, think I had taken them. And I really couldn’t bear the thought of you thinking that. I couldn’t bear it.’
‘Why ever would I think such a thing? I wouldn’t.’
She was lying again. That was exactly what she had thought. It was why she was lying here, rigid.
‘Why would you think it? Because he was mean to me, because in the past I’ve done very spiteful things. Because it would be natural to suspect me. I’m the loose cannon, remember? I’m the one accused of abusing my own son. God, I was even accused of killing the cat. So it’s just what I might do, isn’t it? Something spiteful like that. It’s what junkies do.’
Ivy began to cry. A large tear fell against Rachel’s forehead. The sound of her sobbing was unbearable. Rachel felt ashamed and did not know what to say. Ivy propped her head on her hand, brushed away the tears.
‘Sorry. This isn’t about self-pity. It’s about your dad. He’s got to know that he wasn’t the victim of a dipper in the train, or he’ll never get on a train again. He’ll never come back, and he’s too insular already. You want him to come back, he’s your father. It would be terrible if he thought there were thieves everywhere, even more than he does now. It isn’t fair, because it isn’t true. He might have been mugged, but not for his pills.’
Her voice was back in control, warm with worry. She seems to me to be a kind person. Nothing stops her being the most generous person alive. Things do not spring out of the pockets of a coat left on a bed.
‘But on the other hand,’ Ivy said. ‘I don’t know if it’s better that he thinks he was stolen from, rather than admit he left the stuff here. He’d hate to admit to being forgetful, wouldn’t he? He’d hate to think it was his own fault.’
How observant she was.
‘Left them? Not dropped them?’
She could feel Ivy nodding. They were whispering, as if there was someone to hear.
‘Yes. Remember when he started getting so cross, and he went to the lavatory?’
No, she did not remember. Only that her father needed a lavatory at any given time. Blamed his age. Ivy’s arm crept back round her waist.
‘I think he must have gone and found his coat, had a puff, maybe a calming-down pill, and left them out in case he needed another. Then he was mortified by losing his temper, poor thing. It’s awful to feel like that. He wanted to go home so much, he forgot. You fetched his coat.’
It made Rachel feel partially to blame. It also rang entirely true. Relief flooded through her like a warm wave. Her breathing had slowed to normal.
‘So what will you tell him?’ Ivy asked.
‘I’ll tell him to keep his bloody Ventolin on a chain round his neck.’
They both snuffled with laughter. Rachel relaxed entirely. Ivy’s callused hand stroked her hip. Their breathing seemed to have synchronised into one peaceful breath. She wanted this to go on, wanted it to stop. Sleep beckoned, hormones stirred, sleep was winning. She knew with absolute certainty that Ivy would make love to her at the slightest invitation, and was not threatened by the thought. Ivy wanted to strengthen the bond; Ivy wanted to please, and there was no need. The desire for sleep was stronger than anything. One last thing.
‘Ivy …’
‘Yes, love?’
‘I do know you, don’t I?’
‘Better than anyone. But I have lied to you once.’
‘Did you?’
‘I said I could wait to see my son again. I said it didn’t matter. But I think of it all the time.’
‘Ivy …’
‘Don’t say it. Go to sleep. I’m here to keep you warm, that’s all. I’ll always be here for you.’
When she woke, Ivy was gone, the imprint of her left on the side of the bed nearest the wall. The way she had lain meant Rachel could have moved away whenever she wished. She was grateful for that too. Grateful also for the emptiness of the flat she had so loathed. Invigorated, even. Washed and dressed and on the way to work by the time Ivy had been on her morning shift for two hours.
Ivy, in sleep, had the gentlest of touches. She did not hog the bed; she remained still, smelling of cleanliness and soap. Rachel had woken once, watched her for a second. Her face in repose was both hard and vulnerable, giving up to sleep, looking like a picture of the lowest of Victorian household servants, exhausted by hard work, sharing a bed with nothing but honest labour to look forward to, and yet still accused of stealing the family silver. It made Rachel feel an additional bond to her, the simple fact of sharing her bed. Made her realise how much she yearned for skin upon skin, the weight of another body. And a new determination to make things right, not only because she had doubted Ivy’s transparent honesty, but because of guilt. The guilt of suspecting her of malice, and the guilt of knowing … knowing what? Simply that she wanted to see him again. She had dreamed of him, when she slept alongside Ivy, wanted it to be him. The guilty knowledge made her blush in the bathroom mirror, hand poised still with mascara brush, looking at her own dilated eyes.
In the living room it was as tidy as she usually left it, the bag ready with the full sketchbook leaving room for the new one and the new pencils and charcoal she would buy somewhere en route before the last class of term, which would leave the rest of the summer curiously empty. Mid-July now, schools out for summer, that end-of-term feeling. Who had said that? Sam. In all the years since leaving school and university, there had never been a summer when she had not woken, dreaming of taking an examination and not being prepared. Training courses ever since, all culminating in one month of the year. It was what had typified early summer, until now, when the rest of July and August spread forward without punctuation marks. Such small nightmares she had had until now, such small services and mercies she had rendered to anyone else, intolerant, overprivileged, a bit of a shallow bitch, overeducated in everything but real life and the obligations of love.
So thought Rachel, who did not like herself, or much notice how much effect she had on others, getting into gear for Monday morning, dismissing everything irrelevant to the task and only remembering to look as if she mattered. Seeing that in the tidiness of the living room she had left the torn piece of paper which said, Who is Blaker? DS Cousins? called. Ivy couldn’t have seen that.
She put it into the kitchen bin, tidily. She was back in control. An ache in the heart for Dad, but Dad was all right, and Ivy had not picked his pocket, and everything else she would think of as she went along.
She had dressed for the day in the wrong clothes. It was cool out there. She went back for the older, warmer jacket she had worn to the farm. Clouds filled the sky as she looked up, pacing herself for work, taking the favourite, shortest route, but still looking up and sideways. Looking with pleasure at what she could see. Handsome people, moving with purpose, refreshed by rain in the night and the drop in temperature, like plants in a busy garden.
Grace and Ivy, Ernest and Grace. Bugger the swans, I don’t care about swans. And I found my mobile phone after all, back where it belongs, in my bag. She strode along with the bag across her body, one hand in the pocket of her old jacket, felt the tiny piece of bone which was still there from when Ernest had presented her with it as his souvenir. Some of it had fragmented into sharp crumbs which felt like sand. A reminder of time passing, making her feel clear and urgent about what she was going to do. It could not wait. If Ivy had still been beside her when she woke in the morning, she might have changed the plan, told her everything, confident of the response while they lay tucked up and close like that, but now she was glad that Ivy had gone.
Yesterday’s plan was still the best. Get Carl to come to the farm, meet Grace and Ernest, take it all from there. Mission for today, suggest this to Grace, as a theory at least. It was the bone that reminded her about the strange sense of running out of time, like summer did in July, before it had scarcely started.
All the same, she would wait and see if Carl phoned her. He had made some kind of commitment, wanted time to think, wanted her to have time to think of the wisdom of her own suggestion. So be it. She would be patient, let things take their course. But by the time Grace phoned in the afternoon, patience was wearing thin.
‘How’s your father?’
‘Better, thank you. How are you?’
‘Thank goodness for that. I’ve been so worried. Tried to phone all day yesterday, but you were out, and I knew Ivy was coming back, so I knew I’d hear one way or another, and I would have heard if the news was bad, because bad news travels fastest. Look, when can you bring him here for a holiday?’
It was a headlong rush of words.
‘I know all about asthma. Sam had it when he was little. I’ll be able to look after your dad wonderfully.’
‘He’s not so easy to persuade, Grace. I’ll try and talk him into it. He’s embarrassed and avoiding me.’
‘I can dream. I wish you were here. It’s a perfectly glorious day. I want someone to go swimming with. Saturday night turned into a bit of a party. We all need those sometimes. Ernest is in the dumps. Well, something like that. He put his boots in the freezer, God knows why.’
‘To cool them down?’
‘That’ll be it. I almost got them out and roasted them. Are you coming next weekend? Please say yes. Ivy can’t, she’s got another end-of-run theatre job that lasts all weekend, and pays a fortune, she says, did she tell you? Only I don’t want her doing it. I heard on the radio about the man getting stabbed outside.’
‘That was last week, Grace. There’ll be something else this week.’
‘You will come, won’t you? I don’t want you being in London on your own either.’
It was a little proprietorial. Rachel felt she loved Grace without reservation, but perhaps Grace was taking her role as mother substitute a little too far. Typical Grace, she guessed it.
‘Oh Lord, I’m being bossy, aren’t I? And talking too much and interrupting your work, just because I’ve got nothing interesting to do and Ernest is wandering round, lonely as a cloud, somewhere. I’m not your mother, I just wish I was. What’s the weather like?’
She was instantly forgiven, the warmth of her lapping round Rachel like a cloak, making her laugh again.
‘Cool,’ Rachel said, and thought of Sam. ‘Listen Grace, I know this is a surprise, but I’ve found Carl. Carl the younger.’
‘Oh my God …’
‘Now, supposing he could be persuaded to meet up with you and Ernest, just you two, or just you, maybe, at the farm, do you think that would be a good idea?’
Grace choked on a jumble of words, Oh my God, oh dearie me, oh fuck, oh bloody hell, yes. Then stopped abruptly.
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. I’m only supposing. I don’t know if it can be done. Soon, perhaps.’
Grace was crying. She made the same crying sounds as Ivy did, recovered quickly.
‘Oh my wonderful, darling child. It would make Ernest so happy.’ She paused. ‘There’s no one else here next weekend. Cancellations.’
‘I can’t promise anything.’
‘I know you can’t, darling, but I do love you for trying. What have we done to deserve you? Oh, it’s all going to be fantastic. I know it in my bones. Just Carl and Ernest and me, working out where it all went wrong. Oh, darling.’
If it made Ernest happy, and that was all it achieved, it was worth doing, Rachel thought. She reminded herself to keep her ambitions small, her excitement under control, because she had no power over anyone or anything, whatever Grace thought. It still felt like progress.
Carl phoned at four thirty. Was she free this evening? He had done enough thinking, he said. Yes, of course she was.
Grace sat in her kitchen, staring at the Rayburn. The domestic machinery hummed, dishwasher and washing machine together making music which was satisfying on a good day, irritating the next. What would she feed him when he came here? What was it he used to like, a dozen years ago? He must come here, he must. Otherwise Ivy would never stop, and Cassie’s immortal soul would continue to haunt the lake. He must lay the ghosts to rest, and take his punishment.
Ernest had been busy. He had made the appointment. The lorries would arrive sometime in the next fortnight to take away the cows for sale. Milk did not pay for its own production. The knock-down price of the good cows would pay something towards the debts. The Polish herdsman would go to a bigger herd, saving his salary. It would come to that, unless, unless.
She could hear the sound of Ernest scraping his boots on the mat outside the door before opening it and coming in. He looked clear-eyed and himself today, damp from the rain, sniffing the air for familiar smells, even now always looking round for the old dog he no longer had, or the cat which would spring into his lap as soon as he sat down. Both of them long dead, killed and never replaced.
He washed his hands and sat down expectantly, waiting as he always did for something to be given to him, ever hopeful that something nice would happen, with the optimism which always touched her heart and also made her want to scream. You have to work in the right way for what you want, she had yelled at him once, and work even harder for what you must have. You have to plan for it, and you always left the killing to me until you trained Ivy to do it and made a man of her.
Grace poured the tea. Since this was a good day, he could sense her cautious jubilation. He noticed moods, details, undercurrents only when he chose. He also had ears like a bat, when he chose.
‘So you’ve got him then, have you?’
‘Might have,’ she said modestly, turning her back on him so that he would not see her face. He drank the damned tea. Grace thought she could have lived for ever without drinking another cup of tea.
‘You reckoned that since he couldn’t resist our Ivy he’d not be able to resist her friend? You might be right at that.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, dearest.’
He poured more milk into the mug of tea, and two sugars, for strength.
‘There’s the difference between you and me,’ he said. ‘I never could hate anyone for so long. Not like you. Not like Ivy.’
It sounded like an accusation, and she knew it wasn’t. It was a sort of wonder.
‘No, dearest. But you will do as you’re told, won’t you?’
He shrugged. He was bent these days, but his shoulders were still broad, even if his belly was soft.
‘Don’t I always? Don’t I know I owe everything to you? I always do what has to be done afterwards? I got rid of that cow, the dog, the cat, how long ago was that?’
‘Longer ago than you should be remembering. It doesn’t matter now.’
‘Why, Grace, why? Why this time?’
It was her turn to shrug. She wanted to brain him with the teapot she carried towards the sink, signalling the interrogation was over.
‘Things have to be paid for, darling. In all senses. And I can’t have Ivy going on with her practice and getting caught. And because it really is the right time to put everything right. Make a new beginning.’
‘Practice makes perfect,’ Ernest said.
‘Not always,’ said Grace. ‘Can you think of anything that would put people off going to the lake? I know they’re few and far between, but no one at all would be better. A notice, I thought. And something blocking the path. And you could choose a site for the dust.’
‘Ding dong bell, pussy’s in the well,’ Ernest intoned rhythmically. ‘What’s for tea?’