Her Living Image (33 page)

“I – I – yes. I am doing.”

“What if I see you? What if I pass you in the corridor?”

“Just ignore me.”

“Ignore you.” He stared at her for a moment, then began to laugh. She couldn’t stop herself from laughing too. It made her furious. “It’s not f–funny.
It’s not – not –” She couldn’t speak for laughing. What was there to laugh at? Were they both completely mad? At last, when he stopped laughing, he smiled and said
“Is that it then?” as if she had meant the whole thing for a joke.

“Yes. That’s it,” she said angrily, biting her lips to stop herself from giggling again.

“It’s an unsatisfactory ending, you know. It hasn’t got much of a punch to it. Romances don’t end like this in films, or books.” He was laughing again.

“I – I don’t think there’s anything else to do.” Suddenly she felt adequately serious. This sense of numb irresponsibility would not last much longer; there is no
feeling at first in a savage wound to the flesh, but pain creeps up. She pushed back her chair. “I think I’ll go now.”

“You haven’t finished your lunch.”

“I – I’m not hungry. Does that make it more romantic?”

He didn’t say anything, but she could tell he was trying not to laugh at her.

“I am serious Alan. Goodbye.” It sounded ridiculous. She walked as quickly as she could between the tables, feeling absurd and wooden, like a bad actress in a badly written
play.

There was light drizzle all weekend, and the warm air was thick with moisture. Caro spent the time gardening. She instructed Sue and Clare that Alan was to be told she was out,
and she did not answer the phone or the door once. She drove herself to the limits of exhaustion, planting out endless muddy rows of lettuce, carrot and cabbage seedlings, more than they would ever
be able to eat, and prising up all the weeds that had appeared between the bricks in the path. Then she assaulted and cleared the sodden sticky patch of land at the far end of the greenhouse
– the only bit of the garden she had never dug.

Although she was exhausted on Sunday evening, it was impossible not to glance questioningly at Sue.

“No phone calls.”

“Good,” she managed to say.

She hadn’t believed he would be able not to. Unless he was drunk. . . . Through the evening she became more and more frightened, convinced that he was drunk or hurt, somewhere. But there
was no way of finding out. She tried to persuade herself that he was at home, sitting beside his wife on the sofa, watching television. It was unimaginable.

When Clare asked her if she fancied a drink she accepted just to get out of her own company.

“Who did the dirty deed?”

“I – I did. I told him I didn’t want – want to see him again.”

“OK. Want to talk about it?”

Caro shook her head, and Clare told her the outline for the Mad Bitches’ next show which she’d worked out, explaining the ideas in minute detail.

He turned up at four that morning. He was paralytically drunk. Caro had not been able to sleep, and she heard him coming down the street from a distance. She ran down to the
door to get there before he woke everybody up. When she had helped him up the stairs and into her room he cried hopelessly for a while, sprawled on the floor like a heap of washing, and in the
middle of crying fell asleep so suddenly and deeply that for a terrified moment she thought he had died. He did not wake up or stir while she attempted to undress him. His inert body was incredibly
heavy. She could not get him on to the bed, but rolled him on to the duvet, easing a pillow under his head. In the morning she made them both cups of tea and sat beside him on the floor.

“Are you all right?”

It took him a while to surface. “Yes.”

“Tea?”

They both drank.

“What happened?”

He shook his head. She left him to finish his tea, had a wash and dressed.

“You’ll have to get up, you know, or you’ll be late for work. You haven’t got the car have you?”

“No.” Pause. “I don’t know where it is. I had it when I left the house.”

“Well – it’s probably at a pub. We’ll find it tonight. Are you getting up?”

“No.” He lay down again, putting his head under the pillow.

She hesitated, then crouched beside him, her hand on his shoulder under the cover. “Alan?”

“Go away. Leave me alone.”

Caro got on her bike and went to work.

When she came home that evening he was dressed, sitting in her chair looking out of the window.

“Have you been here all day?”

“This is a nice room.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? I love it.”

“I used to think it was rather bare. . . .”

There was a silence.

“Well,” he said.

“Well what?” She sat on the bed and took off her sandals.

“I’ve left.”

“Left – ?”

“Home.” His voice was ironical. “My marriage. My wife.”

“What do you mean?”

“She told me I had to choose. Between you and her. So here I am.” He did not look at her.

Caro sat very still on the bed. “What are you going to do?” she asked at last.

He shrugged. “Live with you.”

She realized that he blamed her. She spoke carefully. “We haven’t talked about living together. We – we haven’t talked about you leaving your wife. I don’t want you
to leave her.”

He smiled at her bitterly. “Well, it is confusing, isn’t it? You don’t want me to leave her, I don’t want to leave her – the only person who wants me to leave her
is my wife, and just saying it makes her howl like a baby.”

“Stop it Alan, for Christ’s sake.”

He turned away from her again, hands in pockets, staring out of the window. There was another silence. At last he said, “All right. Let’s talk about living together.”

“I – I don’t want to live with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“That. You can’t just – we haven’t talked about it all, Alan. Even if we do – I’m not – I’m certainly not going to like this.”

He was waiting for her to go on.

“Look, things have got to be separate. There are two separate things. If you decide to – to leave your wife, then you make that decision on the basis of things between you and her.
It’s nothing to do with me.”

He laughed hollowly.

“No. I mean it. And if you decide to le – leave her, then you must do that, and find yourself a place – room, flat, whatever, and live there on your own. If, as two single and
independent people we then decide that we might want – to be together – then maybe. . . .”

“Where shall I go?”

“I don’t know. Have you got a case?”

He shook his head.

“Well you’ll have to go home then.”

“Can I stay here tonight?”

“I – no.”

He picked up his coat from the floor. “I wish you’d told me this before.”

“Alan – we’ve never even talked about it. I didn’t imagine you would leave her –”

“No. Of course not. Well – over a little, insignificant affair like this – who can blame you for not taking it seriously?” He stood still for a moment staring at her, his
coat dangling from his hand. Then he went out quickly, slamming the door behind him. Caro clasped her arms around her knees, stopping herself from running down the stairs after him.

She could not sleep for hours, and finally drifted into an uneasy doze around dawn. She was aware that she had to wake up and get up, but couldn’t. And she knew when she
finally did open her eyes and sit up with a jolt, that she had overslept. It was eight-thirty. She didn’t get to the office till after nine-thirty. David looked up in surprise as she came
in.

“Are you back already?”

“Back – ?”

“Haven’t you been to the park?”

She shook her head. “I’ve only just got up. What’s the matter?”

“Oh – haven’t you heard? Fun and games last night. A really jolly little do. They’ve set fire to the bloody place.”

“Set fire – ? What – what to?”

“Johnny’s hut. The tool store. The logs.”

“Oh no – no.” Caro sat down on her desk. “How could they?”

He shrugged, choosing to take her literally. “Probably gave it all a good dousing in petrol –”

“Why?”

“Search me.”

“Does anyone know – what happened?”

“Someone called the police in the middle of the night. You could see the fire from the road, apparently. They’ve had fire engines up there, and the lot.”

“They don’t know who – ?”

“Ha! That’s the best of it. Guess who they caught climbing over the fence?”

“I don’t know – go on.”

“Kevin. Kevin Jackson. One of Jim’s canal lads.”

“I know – I know him. What was he doing?”

“Well, climbing over the fence. With a bloody great bonfire blazing behind him. Oh, and he’d nicked a sack of topsoil, I believe, for good measure.”

“God.” Caro rocked backwards and forwards on her perch. “I don’t believe it.”

“Well, it’s true I’m afraid. They’re all down there now, sniffing about.”

Caro didn’t go to the site that day. She couldn’t face it. There wasn’t anything she could do, anyway. It was all in the hands of the police. The phone rang continuously. She
had liked Kevin Jackson. He was a bright, confident boy who had seemed really enthusiastic about the canal project. He had even asked her about the possibility of getting into gardening work, once
the project finished.

It was impossible to do any sensible work. All sorts of rumours were flying about: that more than one of the MSC kids were involved, that the project was being suspended immediately, that work
on the park would be delayed indefinitely. Ron told her that the police were advising the council to press charges against Kevin: trespass, theft, and suspected arson.

“Is it up to us?” she asked in horror.

He shook his head. “Council. Our elected representatives. There’s a meeting on Thursday – they’re the ones who’ll make the decision. But I suspect it’s
already been made.”

Caro left the office early and went straight home. She was afraid Alan might call for her towards the end of the afternoon, and she felt as if she didn’t want to see anyone – anyone
at all. But her plans were foiled by Clare, who called out “Hello!” from the kitchen, as she wheeled her bike in the front door.

Caro went unwillingly into the kitchen.

“Have you seen this?” Clare asked. The local evening paper was spread out on the table in front of her. Caro moved round to stand behind her chair. There was a big photo of
something burnt. With difficulty Caro recognized the side of the tool store. Johnny’s hut must have been reduced to ashes. There were some charred and blackened logs in the foreground. The
headline proclaimed: “Vandals threaten future of park.”

Clare pulled a chair out beside her and pushed the paper over to Caro. She read it slowly, stopping every now and then to gaze again at the photo. The details were those she had heard repeated
all day long. But the reporter had also interviewed Bellamy, the leader of the Council. There was a lot of rant about vandals and people who have no respect for property. Clare laid her finger
alongside one particular paragraph headed “Ill-conceived”. “Cllr Bellamy said that the future development of the park would be under review at the next meeting of full council.
‘As you know, the decision to site this park in Millside was taken some years ago, when the Labour Party held the majority on the Council. We opposed the decision then, because of the
unsuitability of the area. Vandalism on this scale must force us to now reconsider, very carefully indeed, whether we have the right to waste ratepayers’ money on such an ill-conceived
project.’”

“It’s rubbish,” Caro said immediately.

“Why?”

“It’s not ratepayers’ money at all. It’s not local money. It’s from central government – Inner-City money and Derelict Land Grant. They only got the money
because it was that site. He’s a lying bastard – they haven’t paid a penny towards it. The little shit.”

“Oh – well that’s all right then. I wouldn’t like to see your pet scheme whisked away from under your nose.”

Caro shook her head. “Does it say anything about Kevin?” She read on quickly. The only mention was in the final paragraph. “Police are being helped in their enquiries by a
youth who was apprehended near the scene of the fire, late last night.” She told Clare who Kevin was.

“Well – what are you going to do? Are you going to see him?”

“What can I do, Clare? The police caught him red-handed. He’ll have made a statement by now. If they decide to take him to court, then that’s what they’ll do.”

“Well you could talk to him at least – find out what he was doing. He might have a perfectly good excuse.”

“Then he’ll tell it to them, won’t he?”

“No, not necessarily. You might be able to help him. He’s probably scared out of his wits.”

Caro sighed. “Look Clare – I don’t – I’m not –”

“What?”

“I’m not going to.”

She got up from the table and went upstairs. What good could she do? It wouldn’t make any difference.

The phone rang as she got to the top of the stairs, and Clare called her down again. It was Alan.

“You left work early.”

“Yes.”

“Shame about the fire.”

“Yes.”

“Shall we have a drink?”

“I want a bath.”

“All right. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

She hesitated. But she knew she wanted to see him. “Yes. At eight.”

In the car she told him the details of the fire, and about the Bellamy interview. He had not seen a paper.

“He’s a pillock, that man,” Alan said. “He lives near us, in the most bizarre dwelling I ever hope to see.”

She laughed. “I didn’t think he would live in Millside! What’s it like?”

“A bit like a wedding cake. Sort of white and in tiers. I’ll show you, sometime.”

By unspoken mutual consent they avoided mentioning the previous evening – or anything that touched on themselves – until they were peaceably settled in a pub. Caro left it to Alan to
open the subject. It turned out that he had gone back home last night. Things had been calmer, he said. He had told his wife he was moving out temporarily, to sort himself out. She had seemed
happier. Caro imagined that the poor woman must feel happy about anything definite happening.