Half Broken Things (34 page)

Steph smiled. ‘Charlie's granddad?' She looked down at Charlie, widened her eyes and shook her head at him and he, laughing, reached for her hair. She was suddenly afraid that Sally might choose right now to pay attention to what she was saying, to look her hard in the eye and probe. She could manage this better, she felt, if she told it to Charlie. So she planted a raspberry on one of Charlie's hands and prattled at him.

‘Oh, yes! Charlie saw his granddad today, didn't he? Didn't you! Didn't you, Charlie-arlie, you saw your granddad,
didn't
you?'

When she looked up Sally was at the sink sponging at a mark on the front of her blouse. ‘Bloody nuisance, clean this morning. Bloody mayonnaise, plopped out of a sandwich straight onto my boob. So—did he stay more than five minutes? Did he behave himself? What did you think of him?'

‘Oh, yes, he gave us a lift. Yes, I put Charlie in the car seat, don't worry. I've brought it back. He gave us a lift up all the way there and then he stayed for a while. He was pleased to see Charlie, I think. I thought he was nice.' Well, that's true, she was thinking. All that's true.

Sally snorted. ‘Oh, yes, he can
put on
nice. He hasn't been near Charlie for months, so don't be fooled.'

‘Well, you wouldn't, would you? You might not feel up to it. Not if your wife had just died.'

‘That was months ago!'

‘But he got depressed just after, you said. Didn't you say he was depressed?'

‘Yeah, he says he's on Prozac. Who isn't? I suppose you got the whole lychgate story?' She had thrown the cloth back in the sink now and was pouring a glass of wine. ‘I reckon he just claims to be depressed, to make me feel sorry for him.' She swallowed some of her drink. ‘Maybe the Pennine Way'll perk him up. Did he tell you about that? He's off up there on holiday. They used to do it every year, the Pennine Way, only last year they missed it because Wendy—that's Simon's mother—she was too ill. So Gordon's off this year on his own.'

‘Aw, that's sad. He must miss her.'

‘I suppose. If you ask me he feels guilty. They were never that close, according to Simon. Anyway, you're off now, are you? Here, I'll take him. God, he's getting heavy, isn't he? See you tomorrow.'

‘Yeah. ‘Bye then. Night-night, Charlie.'

When Michael woke, it seemed as though the sheltering woods had turned against him. The wind had risen and now filled the trees with a sound like breaking waves; his bed under the rhododendrons was sunless and damp. It was only seven o'clock and the sun had not quite set, yet he was cold and lost, feeling a kind of loneliness in his bones that told him that it was too late to be out. He listened until he was sure everything was quiet. Cyclists, walkers and dogs had left the paths and birds had deserted the air. Picking up the backpack, he scrambled down the bank to the path and continued along it until he reached the point where the edge of the woods met the banks of the River Avon. From here a broad path, he knew from the map, followed the riverbank all the way into Bristol. He met nobody until he had almost reached the suspension bridge. From here onwards other people passed him on the path, not the manic mountain bikers of the afternoon, but young, evening people from the city flitting about in small groups or strolling in couples, absorbed in one another, thinking about having a drink soon and finding a place for dinner, wondering if they should have booked. Michael tried to slow his pace to match theirs. The country merged into town; the path became the pavement of a ‘waterside development' passing by buildings that, unless they were brand new, had been prettified and adapted for purposes other than the ones for which they were built. Warehouses were galleries, boathouses were wine bars. He crossed the river by a footbridge into Hotwells and from there, passing the moored barges and houseboats, restaurants, shops and pubs along the river, he trudged into the centre of the city. At Temple Meads station he caught a train.

When he got out at Chippenham it was quite dark. He was so hungry and exhausted, as well as parched with thirst, that he was tempted for a moment to take a taxi the rest of the way. Instead he bought a can of Coke from a vending machine outside the station, heaved the backpack up on his shoulder again and set off on foot through the town. When he reached the roundabout on the outskirts, where there were no pedestrians, he halted. Cars were still streaming round, shooting off at tortuous exits to McDonald's, Sainsbury's or the DIY store. He felt too visible. The next and final part of his journey was in some ways the most difficult; if he kept to the roads, which would soon be emptier of homing traffic, he might be noticed. There were no proper pavements, and a lone man walking along the roadside in the dark might be more memorable to a passing driver than the same man making his way along the streets of Bristol or Chippenham. God forbid, he might be stopped by a police patrol car; they had a habit of cropping up, and he still had Gordon Brookes's clothes and car keys in his bag. He climbed a stile and set off on the last eleven miles to the manor, following the line of the road through the fields, keeping on the far side of the hedges.

Michael returned late that night, after midnight. We had waited up. His appearance was a shock. Steph and I had collected our wits hours ago and had been going about things as normal and that being so, of course we looked more or less the same, except that our worry showed. Michael had aged in a few hours.

All that day I had taken my cue from Steph and although my head was full of Michael, I had carried on as normal. While she was occupied with Charlie I potted the jam and labelled the jars. We had both been surprised by how easy it was to get on with the usual things, even though every single minute we were thinking of Michael. We mentioned him to each other on and off throughout the day, wondering how he was managing things, hoping he would find the strength for it all and not forget any important detail. But we did not fool each other, Steph and I. We both knew that the other one was thinking of nothing else. I kept the frown from my face for her sake, and she smiled and sang to Charlie for mine. Not being hungry myself, I nevertheless made a cake that afternoon, and for me she ate some of it. But we longed to have Michael home. I have never before in my life so much wanted for a day to be over, and that is saying something, for I have had other difficult days in my life.

Steph was calm that day. Some stillness seemed to come over her, and in fact after that day it never left her. From that day on, her mind went into a permanent and steady gliding state. She opted for it, I think. She decided to keep her mind in a neutral, unfearing territory somewhere between helplessness and trust.

There was a breeze that afternoon after the still heat of the morning, not ideal swimming weather. But once the pool had refilled Steph spent some time in it with Charlie while I sat out nearby and watched. I am sure that it helped us both, to see and hear Charlie just as happy and excited in the water as he had ever been. Something compelled us, I believe, to fill the garden and the pool with playful noise. It was necessary to exorcise any lingering spirit of ugliness. And it is certain that nothing sees off the looming atmosphere of strife that adults create around themselves faster than a delighted, shrieking child.

But Michael's appearance when he returned brought back to us the awfulness of what was happening. He was starving, but he couldn't eat until he had had a bath, he said. Steph went up to run it for him. We were all hungry by then, as Steph and I had not been able to eat until he was home safe. I had roasted a chicken, and we sat in the kitchen until quite late, eating with our fingers. It began as a performance that we all consented to appear in for the sake of the others, and slowly it mellowed into something else that was less of a charade, because our relief and happiness to be together again were real. Afterwards Michael needed another bath, he said.

That night we were all exhausted, but we hardly slept. I lay awake wondering if I should feel guilty. Or rather, wondering if I actually
did
feel guilty—wondering, really, if this sleepless going-over of my life
was
a sense of guilt. Michael, not me, had done the deed, of course. But was it his proximity to me that had turned him into the kind of person who
could
do it, I mean kill another person? I dwelled on this for a time. Does the mere presence of one person whose hands are not exactly clean make it inevitable that another person will sooner or later dirty theirs? I lay in bed getting quite depressed, because despite all my efforts, it seemed that all this might go back to me and Mother.

Mother's own baby ‘wasn't born right' and died when she was three, eight years before I came along. I suppose they'd tried to have more babies of their own in that time. So I was meant to fill the space that was left, I suppose, which I now know to have been a doomed hope, because nobody can ever replace another. Charlie consoles us all but he does not, nor do we want him to, replace Miranda. Miranda's tiny spot on this earth will always be precious and it lies in a place of its own, somewhere beyond a margin that Charlie cannot cross. All that Miranda meant to us remains with us and in us.

It didn't work, me and Mother. Not that direct or cruel comparisons were made, for the first little girl was never mentioned, but I didn't shape up. Perhaps Mother tried, at the beginning. I know I did, probably right up until the time that Father died. It was around then that she first told me the truth about my real mother. She wouldn't have dared to while Father was alive. She told me only to hurt me or, as she put it, to get me off my high horse about going to university. Because my real mother hadn't died, after all. She hadn't been the frail, tragic heroine in an air raid I'd made her into. I was the natural daughter of a ‘common prostitute', who'd had me and handed me over to a children's home the minute she'd been able to. And hadn't she (Mother) and Father done enough, bringing me up as their own, even handing over valuable property (the clock)? Did I not think, in the circumstances, that I should be a little more grateful, content with what I had (a secretarial course)? It was the theme whose many variations have played over and over in my life until I came here, that good things—opportunity, security, affection, happiness—should come to me, if at all, only second-hand, and in second rate scraps.

But I remember that I was not really listening to all that, for my mind had just stopped and could not go any further. It stopped, just like that, at the idea that my real mother had not died when I was five.
Which meant that she was still alive.
Inside I was rejoicing, and I decided there and then that I would hold on to this feeling. I did not recognise it for what it was. It was hope. That's what hope is, isn't it, something between a decision and a feeling; it is the giving of permission to oneself to be optimistic about things yet to be. I had not developed the knack, nor ever did. It has always taken effort. But then I was thinking, as soon as I can I'll find her. I'll track her down. Exactly how I had no idea, but it certainly would not be with Mother's help. In fact I should probably have to be very patient and wait at least until I was twenty-one, when, it seemed to me, I would suddenly, magically know how to go about it. I could imagine the uproar it would cause. But I rejoiced also that Mother had just created a purpose for me and would never know it, because I was going to keep very quiet about it. I was intrigued by the prostitute part, and frankly unbelieving—I knew, because I could just sense it, that even if it were true there would be a reason for it. Something must have happened to her, something she couldn't help. I would find her and make everything all right.

I'm getting to the guilt part of it. So, with my beautiful secret, the years went by. Twenty-one came and went, of course. Mother got worse and really did need looking after. I got sour, as I think I mentioned. So by the time I was forty-six, on that day eighteen years ago when the buddleia outside Mother's window offended me so deeply, I am afraid there was a bit of a row. I am afraid my patience deserted me and I raged at Mother about the incontinence. At the heart of it was her notion that I was only worthy to clear up her mess, and yes, I admit that I shouted at her, and not for the first time. She of course screamed back, along the usual lines. But this time she added something. She said it wasn't
her
fault I was still here. What's that supposed to mean, I yelled at her. And then she said, in the way you would, the only way you
could
say it if you'd been saving it up for about thirty years, that if I hadn't been so stupid and gullible over the clock, I could have left years ago.

I got it out of her, finally. She had spoken to Christie's. They had told her that that series of numbered, unsigned Vulliamy clocks are the earliest and best. The records, the first surviving
Vulliamy Clock Book,
begin with Number 297, delivered in 1797. Mine was 169, predating the known records by at least ten years. It would have fetched about £1,700, possibly £2,000, in the early nineteen-fifties. The longcase clock had been worth at least ten times what I'd got for it. More than enough to go to university.