The Family Retreat, page 19
She shakes her head. ‘Hopefully, he’ll calm down and see sense after he drives about for a bit.’
She turns to go. ‘Oh – I meant to say, it was very kind. The invite from your dad. But it’s not for us,’ she says, ‘Pete would hate all that fancy stuff. Not his thing at all. Nor me, to be honest. Sorry –’ and she pushes away a grey curl that has fallen across her face. ‘But I was going to ask,’ she says, ‘were you planning to take the kids? If not, they can stay here with us and play.’
I haven’t quite firmed up plans for the kids. We’re due to have a birthday tea with my parents in their hotel garden at 5 p.m., which the kids are excited about because my mother has already told them about the giant maze. But the three-course table lunch was going to be less than ideal. They’d hate having to sit at the table for very long, and I’ve already accepted that either Rob or I will spend the bulk of the meal outside in the garden with them.
‘That’s really kind. I’ll have a think. I’m sure they’d much prefer being with you to a table full of grown-ups. Can I let you know?’
And she nods and waves as she strides back up towards the house.
It’s late when Pete gets home. I’m at the kitchen window when I hear the tyres and look up to see his truck return.
SEVENTEEN
We don’t see much of Helen and the kids the next day, and on Tuesday they set off early in the morning. I remember she said something about shopping, so I think perhaps they’ve gone to Dorchester. After yesterday’s sun, it’s grey and overcast, so after breakfast, we drive out to Studland, and park in the café car park, take the cliff path, then loop back through the fields for cake. The kids want to play on the beach, so I bring what we’ve brought from the café down to the sand. We’re all in our anoraks. It’s not cold, but there’s a slight drizzle in the air, and I sit on the damp sand on a plastic bag I found in the car, as the kids scamper off down to the shoreline.
The beach is empty. Just a man and his thin spindly dog, like small scratches in the distance. I sip at my polystyrene cup of tea and watch Sam and Ruby digging at the water’s edge. A breeze ripples over the surface of the water, and moves over their heads, like fingers in their curls. They work hard, silently, with heads down low, stopping every now and then to inspect and exchange treasures they retrieve from the sand.
It’s only when I squint further in the distance that I see them. It’s Leo I recognise first. His tall gangly body, head and shoulders above his mother, but it’s his giant jerky strides that give him away, marching ahead like an enormous wooden soldier. And following behind is Joyce. Her red coat, hands pushed down deep into her pockets, and her grey hair looking startled in the wind. They are by the café at the far end, moving along the beach. But their progress is slow, dictated as it is by Leo’s complex sequence of walking. The striding forwards quickly, then suddenly coming to an abrupt halt, then backtracking, then the twirling for a while on the spot, and all the while Joyce hangs back, waiting patiently until her son is ready to move on again.
When I look back down to the shore, I see that Ruby has discarded her spade and is scanning the sand for things to collect in her bucket. I watch her reach down for something, then she runs up the beach towards me, her fist clutched tight. ‘Look,’ she says, uncurling her fingers to reveal a piece of green sea glass. I take it from her outstretched hand, rubbing the smooth edges between my fingers. ‘Like a jewel,’ I say, and she nods proudly, before taking it back, placing it carefully in her pocket and turning round to join her brother.
When I next glance up the beach, Leo and Joyce have stopped. Joyce is saying something to him, but Leo is rocking back and forth. He looks agitated, like he was that day when Joyce was trying to encourage him to do gardening on the farm. He’s spinning round and round. She reaches for him, but he jerks back, away from her. He rocks on his heels, harder and faster. As she moves closer, he strides off. The bay carries the sound of his noises. The grunting and the high-pitched screams and whoops as he twirls around. Since being at the cottage, it’s taken me some time to get used to and learn the meaning of these noises. To distinguish between the different sounds he makes. And the more high-pitched, the more agitated they are. The noise that day is piercing and loud, like one long continuous shriek.
Even though they are some distance away, it feels intrusive to watch. I look away, then glance up at the car to see if I can gather everything up and get to the car before they are close enough to spot us. The distance to the car is short. Ten strides up the sandy bank. I look down at the kids; they are digging furiously again, spraying sand behind them in a big wide arc. It would be like prising two limpets off a rock.
There’s a louder noise. I look up to see Leo bring his fist down hard against the side of his face. Once. Twice. Three times. Joyce steps forwards and tries to intervene. She reaches for his hands. But he shakes her off, rocking more vigorously back and forth. She tries again, but he steps back. His fingers are pulling at his jumper. I feel a lurch forwards. I should stand up. Intervene, offer to help.
His hands are pecking at his body like hungry birds. Suddenly the jumper is off and over his head. There’s a grey t-shirt underneath. And seconds later, this too is on the floor. Not over his head this time, but ripped from his body in several clawing grabs. It sits on the sand for a moment, then it’s lifted in the wind, scampering off along the beach like a frightened rabbit.
I look back at the kids. They are laughing. Ruby is shrieking and holding something out to Sam.
Next, I hear Joyce call out, ‘Stop it, now!’ It’s loud and abrupt. She says his name, several times. It’s clear and firm. Then she says something else, but I can’t make out the words. But it is no good, he spins away from her, undoing his trousers, peeling them down and pulling at his pants. She lunges forwards to stop him, but he twists away from her, his white naked body dancing wildly in the grey drizzle of the rain, his arms flapping with distress. She reaches for him again. He twists away. Then he pushes her. She is sent off balance. I put down my cup. I stand up. I must go and help. They are in a tussle together, his fists are now pummelling at her chest, her head, and she’s trying to stop him, one hand up to protect her face, the other flailing out.
I slump back down as I hear the sound of her hand meeting his cheek. It’s not a hard slap, and it’s arisen as a consequence of the chaos and flailing limbs. But nonetheless, it is a slap and makes a loud sound that echoes round the empty bay. A cluster of gulls are startled by the noise and flap up into the air. The hem of my jacket catches the cup and the tea pools away into the sand, small swirls of steam rising up. My cheeks are burning as I look away.
At the water’s edge, my children are digging and playing in the sand. I want to be down there with them. If I had been, I wouldn’t have seen Joyce and Leo. I wouldn’t have seen it happen. There’s a loud howling noise, and when I turn to look, he has slumped against Joyce. He’s sobbing and she draws him awkwardly to her with one arm, the other clutching his jumper around him like a towel. They are hugging now, and slowly and gently, she helps him back into his clothes. I can see she is crying too. Clutching him, and pulling him to her. Stroking his head. I know I have to move fast. If she sees me stand up, she’ll know I’ve seen it. So, while she goes to retrieve his t-shirt, I move quickly down to the water’s edge.
‘We’re making a swimming pool,’ Sam says, handing me a spade, and I begin to hack at the sand. I curl my body round, so I’m facing the sea, my back to the beach. If Joyce comes by, she might not see us. And even if she does, she will see we are looking the other way, and she can choose to walk quickly by.
Ruby has amassed a small collection of finds: a feather, an old zip from a jacket, a dozen shells, a mermaid’s purse, ‘like a squishy pillow,’ she says, and three more pieces of sea glass. ‘Treasure things,’ she says, handing them over proudly. I pick up each one in turn, twisting them in my fingers. I have never given an assortment of random objects such undivided attention. After careful inspection, I reach for the spade again. I am engrossed in the swimming pool excavation when Sam calls out.
‘Mummy, look!’
I feel my body freeze. I keep digging.
‘It’s the lady from the farm,’ he says, ‘with Leo!’
‘Shall we wave? Let’s wave!’ and the two of them flap their hands wildly in the air.
*
It’s my evening session with Veronica. It’s a regular arrangement, but I feel awkward going. But equally, not going would feel more pointed, and might somehow look worse.
Joyce is distracted when I arrive at the door. She looks for a moment like she’s forgotten I was coming. I hesitate. ‘I can do the meeting at home,’ I say. ‘It’s no problem.’ But she ushers the children in. ‘We’ll go over for the milking,’ she says.
Joyce is friendly and welcoming to the kids, but she clearly doesn’t really want to chat. She looks exhausted. Yet, it feels wrong not to mention anything or offer my support, and so just before I go upstairs, I say, ‘I’m so sorry things are so tricky with Leo. I should have offered to help – today.’
She seems uncomfortable, finding it difficult to meet my gaze. A brief shake of her head. ‘Other people getting involved –’ and she hestitates, ‘– it can make it worse.’
‘Well,’ I say, feeling embarrassed in the uncharacteristic silence, ‘if there’s anything I can do. To help. If you need a break. I don’t know what I can do – but you’ve been so helpful. So kind. If there’s anything—’
‘Thank you. I appreciate it. It has been a difficult few days,’ she says carefully. ‘But we’ll manage.’
She doesn’t seem herself. Her face is drawn. Pale. And more than wishing I’d helped, I simply wish I hadn’t been on the beach at that time. Hadn’t been a witness to their private moment of distress. I want to tell Joyce that I could see it was accidental. That I saw how it had happened.
As I’m walking up the stairs, my head is full of the different things to talk about: my father’s invites to the neighbours, my unease about his birthday that I don’t fully understand. Helen, and my plans to help with Polly. But as I click onto the session, I watch the children out of the window, as they march off to the cow shed with Joyce. She’s in the middle, holding each of their hands, arms swinging and laughing.
‘I felt a sense of paralysis,’ I say, telling Veronica about the beach, ‘wishing I wasn’t there. But since I was, wanting to help. I felt terrible.’
She comments on my sense of over-responsibility. A recurring theme in our sessions. ‘Like it’s up to you to sort things – to spot the potential for disaster. To prevent it happening – understandable, perhaps,’ she says, ‘given your feelings as a child – with Gemma.’
And without planning to, I find myself telling her about the Sunday lunch. It’s an afternoon I still see so clearly, nearly thirty years later, but it’s one I have never spoken about, not even to Rob.
‘Sunday meals were difficult then. Long and protracted,’ I say. I tell her how we’d already sat through Gemma’s rice and pea dance. The agonies as she chased two peas to simultaneously skewer onto her fork. The repetition of the chewing. The silence. And how there was something about my father that day, how he ate without a word, his rage was in the room, ‘hovering over the table like a mallet.’
I picture the scene. My father’s rigid face, my mother’s forced jollity. My own stomach scrunched up like a piece of paper. By then, Gemma was so pale, just a wisp of a thing at the table.
‘She never ate the puddings my mother made – and that day, she reached for an apple from the fruit bowl. She cut it in half and began slicing one of the halves into smaller segments.’
I remember the surgical precision as she fanned the slices around the plate. So thin they were luminous and transparent. Her movements were slow, almost balletic. The lifting of the knife. The reaching for the wafer-thin slice of apple that she danced up to her lips. The whole operation was mesmerising and strangely beautiful, while threaded with the tension of lifesaving surgery. Then came the chewing. A full two minutes per mouthful. I knew all the routines. All the timings.
‘For crying out loud,’ my dad thundered, his fist landing heavily on the table, and for the first time, he broke his own rule, and left the table.
I tell Veronica how we could hear him in the kitchen, crashing about, opening cupboards and drawers. Gemma carried on chewing and slicing. My mother clattered the plates together and I remember sitting still, my body pressed to the back of my chair.
‘What was the feeling?’ she asks.
‘Dread,’ I say. ‘Fear –’ and then I think for a moment, ‘– but also a hint of something else. Relief maybe? That finally, something was going to happen. Something different. Something that might break the endless routine.’
I tell her how the kitchen door swung open and Dad came in with a tray. I remember it was the metal one with the picture of kittens on. He placed it on the table. ‘It was piled high with food items. Chocolate biscuits. Sausage rolls. Marshmallows. Crisps. Slices of bread and a slab of cheese and packets and tins of other things—’
As I speak, I hold my breath, recalling the shock. The feeling of anticipation.
‘He grabbed Gemma.’
And even now, all these years later, it feels hard to return to that moment. How he seized her arm, as she tried to stand. Then he came behind her, his arms around her waist. She was feather-light and no match for him, and as he lifted her, the chair toppled over onto the carpet. The ineffectual and half-hearted protest from my mother, ‘Geoffrey—’ she said, her hands whirling in the air like whisks. The shock on Gemma’s face.
‘He half carried, half dragged her across the dining room to the bottom of the stairs. He told me to bring up the tray. Now. I did what I was told,’ I say.
I did what he wanted.
There was scuffling and shouting on the stairs as she kicked at the walls as he carried her up. I brought up the tray. I set it down where he told me to. I left. I couldn’t look at my sister. She called out for me. Twice. Then there was silence. I tell Veronica how, at first, I went and sat in my room. My chest was pounding. And then I crept back to see – I had to watch. Had to know what was happening. ‘It was like something I wanted to see – but was terrified to look at.’
Peering through the crack of the door, I saw Gemma was sitting facing me, her back to the window; it looked like a belt was looped around her waist, fixing her to the chair. Her hands were behind her back. If she had struggled earlier, now, she had surrendered entirely to the process. Her head was leaning back, as he pushed food into her slack open mouth. Pieces of bread, a marshmallow, crisps that he poked into her mouth with his fingers. She shook her head at the cubes of cheese, but he persevered. ‘Swallow,’ he said, a bottle of water at her lips. And she did. And so, it went on, as he ploughed through the contents of the tray. Spoonfuls of sweetcorn. Chunks of tuna. Pieces of digestive biscuit.
My father was talking to her, lifting her hair from her face as he fed her. ‘Good girl,’ he said. Soothing words, like she was a baby. ‘One more mouthful,’ then intermittently wiping her face with a flannel, as if it was a bib.
I watched with a kind of horrified fascination. Appalled, I wanted it to stop. But then I was aware of another feeling. The joy of watching my sister eat. I realised a part of me would have liked to be in there too, pushing the food into her mouth and filling up her tiny, emaciated body. I wanted to look away. I wanted it to stop. But somehow, I also wanted it to continue. A part of me wanted the cruelty. The violence.
‘As if filling her up with food would change everything. As though it would miraculously turn Gemma back into who she once was. That we’d sit and laugh and read magazines on her bed. That I’d have my sister back.’
Of course, her body couldn’t possibly digest all that food, and in the middle of the night, I woke up to a loud intermittent guttural sound, what I first thought was the sound of a fox. But when I got up, in the dim glow of the night light in her room, I saw the hunched shape of Gemma kneeling on the carpet, retching and roaring up the contents of her stomach into the plastic bags my mother held out for her. ‘She was tying up each one, before reaching for another. Six or seven of them lined up neatly on the floor.’
I tell Veronica that my father didn’t go to work the next day. ‘He didn’t get out of bed. A week later – Gemma went into hospital. It was never spoken about again,’ I say.
‘That was the beginning of your father’s first bout of depression?’
‘I think so.’
Veronica sits quietly for a moment. She tells me she feels very moved by the story. ‘Listening to you, I feel full of loss. I feel the pain of it,’ she says.
And we end the session in silence. Sitting with the sadness.
After the session, I close the computer and walk down the stairs. The kids are ready to go. There’s no offer of wine. Our regular seat in the sun for badger night.
‘I can’t stop tonight,’ Joyce says, ‘let’s catch up later in the week.’
I’m not disappointed; I feel relieved to go straight home with the kids.
*
The next morning, a police car arrives at the farm. Two policewomen and another couple in a separate car. They are all inside for over an hour. The female officers leave first. Then after another half an hour, the other two get in their car and drive away.
A little later, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Joyce, her face tight with tension.
‘The police. And social services. Someone called them.’ Her voice is clipped. Furious. ‘Someone rang them about me striking my son when I was on the beach. They want to make an assessment about my fitness to parent. Fitness to parent?’ She is livid.
‘Joyce,’ I say, ‘I didn’t—’
‘You were the only person there,’ she says. ‘Thank you very much,’ and she turns and begins to walk away down the path. Then she swings round. Her face has changed. There are tears on her cheeks.
