The Art of Drowning, page 23
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?’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was the funny feeling in the pit of the stomach, the same as it was when she had first encountered Ivy, that there was everything to say and nothing she would be ashamed to admit. Weird in these circumstances, where there was hardly an element of trust, except, self-evidently, his towards her. Could she like a hypocrite, a bully, a multiple offender? But men changed, didn’t they?
He was everything she suspected, including his authority, his history and his charm, and yet she approached him with as light a step as if he was real, and as if she had known him for ever. It felt both right and utterly wrong.
They met at St James’s Park Underground station, closer to his place of work than hers, an easy passage for her on the Circle Line from the City. A grey day like this was ideal for a walk in the park, he said. Did she like to walk? Yes, she did now, she told him, although she had not always. She had been the one who took the fastest route to the next stop, ignoring the scenery. It was Ivy who encouraged the walking in winter and spring. All the better for feeling free, seeing things, and besides, it’s the cheapest way.
On a cooler day, with a troubled, rain-filled sky, the glories of St James’s Park became more exclusive to dozens of admirers, rather than thousands. On a hot summer day the grass would be littered with wall-to-wall bodies, sitting on deckchairs, lounging on the ground, clogging the curving pathways which led around the lakes in an inner circle, while on the outer circle people moved purposefully and joggers moved ahead beneath a canopy of trees.
They began at Admiralty Arch, looking down the Mall towards Buckingham Palace in the distance, then walked into the park itself, drawn towards the irregularly shaped lake which meandered the length of the valley, the territory for ducks and swans. Willow trees drooped gracefully from the bank; there was a bridge for standing and dreaming, and halfway down, a mysterious island rising out of the water in a million shades of green, yellow and rust where she somehow imagined all the birds went at night. Seen from the bridge, the ducks were iridescent in shades of turquoise, white, black, brown, comical and ever busy, while the swans moved slowly, pausing as if to acknowledge an audience without any gesture as vulgar as waving.
Carl bought coffees for them both from a stall, and joked as they sat on a bench that it looked as if he certainly knew how to give a girl a good time. A walk in a park, and a cup of coffee. Rachel said that was fine by her, and this was surely the most beautiful park in London, a user-friendly park made for exactly this, sitting on a bench and enjoying. The cool of the evening made her glad of the old jacket, all the same, and she felt for the fragment of bone in the pocket to remind herself of a sense of urgency. They were not addressing the subject matter of their meeting, and yet they were strangely at ease, as if both of them were content to avoid it for a while, and simply be. It was a good sensation, and could not last.
‘Did we come here to watch the swans?’ she asked.
He shook his head. There was energy in all his movements and gestures, but he looked tired. She hoped it was the result of a sleepless night – he deserved that, at the very least – but all the same, she wished he was not tired.
‘I come here for all sorts of reasons, I suppose. Principally to see people at peace, enjoying themselves and recuperating. It’s an exercise in harmony, isn’t it? A walled park, a safe place, mimicking the countryside, but very far away from the rigours of that. Wildness tamed. I wish I could achieve that in my courtroom. I keep saying we should have flowers.’
He waved in the direction of the yellow palace, half hidden through the trees.
‘I also come here to admire my inheritance. Palaces, kings and queens, a constitution which still works better than most; it brings out my not so latent patriotism. Makes me proud of what we have. Odd, how unfashionable it is to be patriotic, even at times like these.’
