The Damage Done, page 6
The door opened and someone came in; Kirsty swung round. A kind-faced woman smiled at her and approached the mirror, smoothing back sleek hair, reaching into her bag for a lipstick. Kirsty looked down. Finding the brush still in her hand, she went through the motions of tidying her hair. She fumbled the brush back into her shoulder bag, then walked out of the Ladies’, past a blur of faces and greenery and reflected light on glass tables; on through swing doors and out to a riverside terrace.
She felt different outside, soothed by the sunlight, the weeping willows, the ripple of water. The terrace was set with picnic tables, but it was too early in the year for eating outside. One couple sat huddled in their coats, facing the river. They weren't speaking to each other, but they both smiled as she passed as if including her in their pretence that it was summer; Kirsty saw the jaunty tilt of a cocktail umbrella in the woman's glass. She walked to the end of the terrace, where she sat on the edge of the cold concrete with her legs dangling.
She thought of the lake at Ravenswood, the sweep of lawn, the grass-scented air, cool with birdsong. The fact of its existence, private and inviolate, was reassuring. If she didn't have to be here, she could be there. It would wait for her.
Below her feet, weeds trailed in the current like hair. She thought again of Ophelia in the painting, her pale drowned face. A moorhen bobbed along the shallows opposite behind trailing fronds of willow, newly in leaf. There was a grass meadow crossed by a trodden path, then hedgerows and more trees fading to blue-grey in the distance. Jay couldn't want to leave all this, Kirsty thought: however beautiful Connecticut is, it can't be more beautiful than England in late April. It was cold enough for her to wish she had her coat, but nice sitting here, with the clink of cutlery from inside and the murmur of voices.
Court shoes clopped along the paving, then stopped beside her. Kirsty squinted up. Ursula's expression was exasperated, on the edge of real annoyance.
“Come on, Kirsty. This is a bit melodramatic. You can't keep running away from things!”
“I'm not running away. I'm still here.”
“Can't you see you're making Phil feel awkward? It was hard for him to make time to come today - he's got an important sales conference tomorrow and work to do when he gets back - ”
“I didn't ask him to come, did I?”
Ursula's chin tilted. “Please don't be difficult. I hardly see you anyway and apparently it's too much trouble to tear yourself away from the dung heap for a few hours. As for this in-your-face rudeness - it's not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.”
“All right. Sorry.” Kirsty stood up slowly. “Are we going home now?”
“Phil's just settling up. And if you could remember to thank him for buying you lunch - ”
“Yeah, I will.”
“And, darling.” Ursula lowered her voice and touched Kirsty's arm. “You are feeling better, now, aren't you? You still look a bit pale to me. I worry about you being anaemic. You don't think you ought to go to the doctor again?”
“No!” Kirsty picked at the strap of her shoulder bag. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Are you absolutely sure? I mean, you'd have to come out in purple blotches or have fainting fits before Graham would notice anything amiss. How do you two get on together? I'd have thought you'd be at each other's throats by now.”
“No, it's fine. It works out well, Dad and me.”
Ursula looked sceptical. “Just make sure he doesn't take you for granted. You really ought to have a proper arrangement. A day off each week, if not more - a complete break now and then - between the two of them, him and Jay, they'll have you running yourself ragged.”
Kirsty turned away and gazed at the river. “Let’s not go over all that again.”
“You really ought to have a better colour,” Ursula persisted, “being outside in the fresh air so much. Are your periods regular?”
Kirsty flicked an embarrassed glance at the couple at the picnic table; her mother didn't realise how her voice carried. “Yes, Mum. For God's sake! I'm fine, I've told you. Can we change the subject now? Let's go and find Phil.”
All the way home, sitting in the leather-smelling rear of Phil's car, she held in her mind the vision of the unpeopled garden at Ravenswood: the sweep of velvet grass, the quiet expanse of water. It was like repeating a mantra, keeping the world at a safe distance.
*
Chapter Seven
“Everything's fine,” Sheila reported, back at Bramblings. She had taken up residence in the tack room, sitting in the one ancient chair, wrapped up in a scarf and anorak and reading Marie Claire magazine, which surprised Kirsty, since Sheila didn’t appear to have the slightest interest in fashion. She was thirty-something, staid and stocky, always dressed in cord jeans and an ancient sweater and lace-up shoes. A transistor radio and an empty lunch-box rested on a pile of rugs.
“Isn't anyone else here?” Kirsty asked.
“Nope, only Alison - she's out riding. The Nellies have been and gone,” Sheila said, “and as for my old lady, you'd think foaling was the last thing on her mind.”
“Thanks, Sheila, for waiting. Sorry I was so long.”
Sheila shook her head. “No problem. It's been quite nice, really. I've made myself at home. D'you want a hand with anything? Patches is down in the bottom field with Leo – Morag wanted him to have a couple of hours out there - ” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “I nearly forgot! Someone called Danny came round looking for you.”
“Danny? Oh - ” Kirsty felt the rush of blood to her face. “You mean Dally? Tall, skinny?”
“Yes, that's him.”
“What did he want?”
“He didn't say. Just asked for you.”
“Then went away again?”
Sheila nodded, putting her lunch box and radio into a shopping bag. “I don't know how long he'd been here, cos I'd been down at the schooling field helping the Nellies to put up jumps. He was looking at Dorcas when I came back.” Sheila gave Kirsty an arch look. “Who is he? Boyfriend?”
“God, no. He's Mrs Hendy's gardener, round at Ravenswood – you know the big house? I can't imagine what he wanted.” In spite of her revised opinion, Kirsty didn't like the idea of Dally being in the yard. Looking at the horses. Looking at the brood mare, vulnerable and unattended in her stable.
She thanked Sheila again and went down to the field to bring Leo in. The bottom field was at the end of a dipping track, out of view from the yard; Kirsty stood by the gateway, calling to Leo, who was grazing with Patches on the far side of the field. Anyone could be lurking down here, she thought. There was a dilapidated barn, thick hedgerow - plenty of cover for anyone wanting to hide. The field was lush and green, the two horses grazing side by side in the afternoon sunshine - an idyllic picture, but someone was threatening to intrude. Someone was putting thoughts into her head that she didn't want there.
She took Leo back to his stable and brushed him down, thought about riding and decided against it. There was still nearly an hour before she’d start the evening feeds. Back at the house, there was no sign of her father; she didn't expect him for hours yet. At least there was no need to cook tonight, as they’d both had lunch - they could make do with a sandwich.
Dad and Clare, she thought, Mum and Phil; Jay and Emma. All these pairings-off. Why do people have to go away? If Dad decides to move in with Clare, then what?
Then, of course, Jay could come back here with Emma. That would make sense. The house was big enough for three of them. For more than three, if Jay and Emma had children. Thinking fondly of her future as an auntie, Kirsty went back to the yard for her bike and cycled to Ravenswood.
She rode round the track past the house and leaned her bike against the stable wall. Dally wasn't there. Caught between relief and disappointment, she spent longer than necessary grooming Prince, giving time for Dally to turn up; when he didn't, she looked for him by the toolshed and the hay-barn and even in the loft above the harness-room. There were no tools left in view in the garden: no wheelbarrow or rake or heap of prunings. Perhaps he had the afternoon off. Or maybe he was in the house, having one of his cosy chats with Mrs Bishop. Kirsty wondered whether to make some excuse to go into the kitchen, thought better of it and cycled home.
*
By six-thirty, when she had finished work and went indoors, there was still no sign of her father. Hungry cats waited by their empty bowls; Moth made a pointed remark. Kirsty reached for a tin of cat food, and thought about tea and toast for herself. Then the phone rang.
“Kirsty, love?” It was her father. “I've had a bit too much to drink, and Clare thinks it would be best if I stayed here overnight. You don't mind, do you?”
“No,” Kirsty lied.
“How did it go? The lunch?” His words were leaning into each other, propping each other up.
“Fine, thanks.”
“She didn't try to give you a makeover? Turn you into a sleek city girl?”
“No, we had a good time. They took me to a restaurant on the river at Bidford. It was really nice.”
“Oh.” Graham sounded mildly offended. “Look, I've got to go. I'll see you in the morning, then, around breakfast time? You've got Clare's number if you need anything. Oh, and Clare says hello.”
“Yeah. Bye then.”
Kirsty replaced the handset and stood frowning at the kitchen calendar, thinking uneasily about the drinking. She noticed something she'd forgotten - Dad at Fulwell Manor was written right across the dates for next Saturday and Sunday, in her own writing. Her father occasionally spent weekends tutoring courses for would-be writers, at a residential centre in Dorset. It was the first one since Jay had left, but there would be others. She’d have to get used to being alone.
Saturday night. She remembered Tat, and the party at Ollie's, and her lies about Adam. She’d have to invent something if Tat phoned tomorrow. She fed the cats, made tea and toast for herself, had a shower and half-heartedly watched some TV, flicking through the local paper.
There it was, leaping from the page: Horse injured in knife attack. Not much detail; the article concluded Police are linking this incident with similar attacks in neighbouring counties.
She folded the newspaper. It had got into the house now, the thing she was trying to ignore. It had got into her head, and wouldn’t be pushed away.
The cats were usually shut in the kitchen at night, but tonight she let them come up to her room, for company. Wanting the dangerous hours of darkness to be over, she went to bed early. Her routines were well-practised; she turned on her radio, hummed to the music, flicked through an old magazine, tried to keep her mind on normal, everyday things. The purr of cats reassured her as she turned off her bedside lamp, the rasp of Moth's tongue on fur as he washed himself.
She must have slept, but woke abruptly, much later. No nightmare: she had been woken by the insistent silence of a house with no-one else in it.
Only a quarter-past four. She needed more sleep.
Insomnia was like toothache, prodding her to turn every few moments in an effort to arrange herself more comfortably. No use. Some while later she was still staring into the dark, wide awake. She got out of bed, put on socks and a dressing-gown and went into her father's study. He had made a perfunctory effort at tidying up before he left: there was no sign of The Damage Done, no scummy coffee-cups or used ashtrays. Kirsty drew the curtains to avoid seeing her reflection looking in from the blackness outside.
She turned on the computer and clicked to email. Her father’s inbox came up: no new messages, but the top one was from Peter, his agent. After a brief struggle with herself, Kirsty opened it:
I spoke to Ed yesterday as arranged, but it was disappointing news I'm afraid. They really don't feel they can take any more from you at present as sales have been so low. I'll try Celiaat BH then get back to you.
Oh.
Kirsty didn't know what that was about, but she did know that bad news from publisher or agent could throw her father into a slough of self-doubt and despondency that might last for days. Maybe that explained the drinking at Clare’s. Wishing she hadn’t looked, she logged in as herself, and found a message from Jay, as she’d hoped:
Hi, Mouse! Thanks for yours. In a hurry, so just to say that's great about Leo. Remember he hates tractors if you ride out on the road. I'm glad everything's going so well. Let me know about the foal, make sure you call the vet if anything looks dodgy. And tell Mrs Nellie she's a tedious old bat. It's fantastic riding up in the Berkshire Mountains and the Appallachian Trail, you'd love it. E and I went to Boston on our day off. Hi to Dad,
Love, J.
He didn't say why he was in such a hurry, Kirsty thought, settling herself to write a reply. The whirring of the computer masked night-time sounds; first one cat then another followed her in and settled, Nutmeg washing herself by Kirsty's feet, Moth sitting blinking on a pile of papers.
When she’d sent her long, chatty message and inevitably been tempted into a little aimless net-surfing, she pulled back the curtains. The sky was already lightening, the air full of birdsong. It was nearly half-past five, not worth going back to bed now.
She went down to the kitchen and made herself some Dad-style strong filter coffee. Outside, the sky was soft and rainwashed, dawn colours giving way to blue; hesitant early sunlight touched the tops of the poplars, turning them into paintbrushes tipped with fresh russety green. Into Kirsty's mind slipped the picture she carried with her of the garden at Ravenswood, the lawn spread out for blackbirds and thrushes, and the quiet lake. It would be beautiful now, in the secrecy of before-daytime.
Carried by her impulse, she washed and dressed quickly, fed the cats, then went outside for her bike. The hedges that bordered the lane to the village, black, thorny and impenetrable in winter, were now a paint-chart of freshest green and pinky browns, dotted with the delicate white of blackthorn flowers. Kirsty's tyres whizzed through the village street, where a cat blinked at her from the Post-Office doorway. Being up and out before everyone else was like discovering a pleasant secret. How oddly time behaved, she thought. At night it stretched itself out like black elastic; now, in the sun-dappled early morning, each moment of time was a moment gained, a gift for her alone. Yesterday's cold breeze and overnight rain had worn themselves out, and the morning tasted of summer to come.
Ravenswood was asleep. The sound of tyres crunching on gravel seemed to bounce between the yew hedge and the stone frontage of the house, immensely loud. Kirsty dismounted and wheeled her bike along the grass edging. The lawns had been mown over the weekend, all of them, and the edges neatly trimmed. A huge job for one person, Kirsty thought, even on a sit-on mower.
Prince wasn't looking out of his stable. Had someone taken him away? Fear clotted Kirsty's chest. She dropped her bike and ran to look over the half-door. He was lying down, legs folded under him, looking oddly small for such a big horse. Mildly surprised, he raised his head from dozing and his nostrils fluttered a silent greeting. Kirsty smiled, the peace of the morning resettling around her: the sunshine almost warm on her back, a pigeon cooing somewhere, the harsher caw of a rook.
“You stay in bed a bit longer,” she told Prince. She righted her bike and parked it properly against the harness-room wall.
Walking across the lawn felt like walking into a dream. The garden had a separate existence now, inside her head. She could summon it whenever she wanted. In the dream version, the lawn was as remote and distant as a classical painting; in real life, it soaked her shoes and clad them in filaments of cut grass. The house receded as she walked slowly past the cedar’s umbrella of darkness, over the shoulder of ground towards the lake. The water shone coldly, reflecting sky and willows.
Something was splashing down there. At first she thought of moorhens or coots; then, when it was more insistent, looked for a swimming dog or maybe a fox in pursuit of waterfowl. Then she saw a bobbing head: sleek and dark, like a seal's, and pale arms thrusting forward.
A person. A someone. Swimming in Mrs Hendy's lake. At six o'clock in the morning.
She stood, caught between envy and fear. The swimmer hadn't seen her; he made a burst of fast crawl towards the deeper water in the middle of the lake, then rolled over lazily on to his back and blew out a water-spout. This was her place; Kirsty thought. She wanted it to herself. Who else had the right to be here?
Dally. Only Dally. It must be. Kirsty wondered why she felt so relieved. He wallowed and floated, enjoying the water, unaware that he was being watched. Should she call out? It seemed unfair to watch him without him knowing; yet she was reluctant to interrupt. Silently, she moved towards the shelter of the weeping willow. Under its trailing canopy he had left a pile of clothes and a horse blanket.
Then Dally rolled over again, turned and looked in her direction. He stopped swimming and stared, ducked right under the water, then surfaced and stared again. He swam towards her, very slowly; then, reaching the shallows, he stood and waded out of the water. He looked like some mythical figure rising naked out of the dawn lake, streaming water. Kirsty's eyes were drawn to his ribby chest, his narrow hips, his penis in a nest of dark hair. He pushed his wet fringe out of his eyes and smiled, unselfconscious, as if it were perfectly normal to be naked in front of her.
“Hi. You're early.” He picked up the horse blanket and started rubbing himself with it.
“I couldn't sleep. Weren't you cold?”
“Only at first. It's great. You should go in too.”
Perhaps he seriously expected her to strip off all her clothes and plunge in.
“You're mad!”
“If you say so.” He stopped rubbing. “For a minute just then I thought you were someone else.”
