Her Living Image (36 page)

Then what she had dreaded most happened; before she had finished, he came back. She had bolted the front door. She heard him turning and twisting his key furiously in the lock, and ran to
open the door before he started banging and woke the children.

“Why’s it locked?”

“I – why not? You didn’t – you told me you’d moved out. I’ve got every right to lock the door.”

He pushed past her into the hall, then stopped, taking in the pathetic heap of possessions. “What’s that?”

“I – I’ve packed your things. You said you’d moved out. You – You’ve got to take your things.”

“My things?” His voice was faint with disbelief. He walked slowly towards the piled suitcase, and Carolyn realized with a flash of terror that she had been right to fear his
reaction.

“Alan –” she ran after him, clutching at his arm “– I’m not – it’s not –”

He shook her off like an insect. “Fuck off.” He stared down at the refugee pile for a moment, then turned to her, laughing bitterly. “So that’s me – tidied up
and out of the fucking way. That’s me –” He kicked the side of the suitcase. “You bitch – you fucking bitch – you can’t wait to get rid of me, can you?
You – you –”
He shook his head.

“That’s not fair – it’s not. You’re the one who wants to go. You’re the one who – who –”
She was trying desperately not to
cry.

“Stop snivelling.” He spoke with such contemptuous hatred that she was silenced. “I’ll go – don’t worry – I’ll fucking go. There’s not
much bloody point in staying here is there?” He stopped, staring at his things as if he had forgotten something.

Carolyn held her breath, so that he would stop – go away – go out of the room
–

“Not much, is it?” he said suddenly. “Not much to show for ten years of domestic bliss. You get the house – do you? And the furniture? This is a fair division, you
reckon?”

She had not dreamt of dividing things up. Suddenly she foresaw all the wretched detail of divorce, the haggling over cutlery and school holidays. “I didn’t –  I never
thought of dividing –”

“What the fuck did you think, you bloody neat little housewife?”

“I – I – just so you – can go and not – keep coming back for your clothes – in the morning –” She was weeping openly.

“Stop that fucking noise!” He grabbed a picture from the pile and waved it at her. “Do you think I care? D’you think I care about the fucking stupid mindless
things?” He hurled the picture at the stair wall. It smashed, and fragments of glass shot across the hall.

“Alan – stop – the children! You’ll wake –”

“The fucking children!” he screamed in her face, and pushed her away from him with all his force.

She fell back against the front door, catching the back of her head on the letter box. She felt a sharp pain on her head, then very hot, then cold and sick. She let herself slump down on her
side. It was too much effort to sit up.

Something stopped then, as if the blow had finally knocked some sense into her head, knocked something straight so that she could see him for what he was. She watched from a distance his
display of remorse and concern, as he tried to help her to the sofa, nearly slipping himself on a piece of broken glass. He dabbed at her head with a soaking wet towel, and she felt the separate
cold trickles of water running down her neck and back, then stopping and being absorbed into a warmer dampness by the waistband of her skirt. She touched at the hurt herself. It was sticky. She
must go upstairs and use two mirrors, to see if it needed stitches. The sound of his voice ran on – she couldn’t look at him, and brushed away his arm unsteadily, making her way out of
the room, holding on to the back of the sofa, and then the door-sills. Pulling herself up on the banister, she went upstairs one at a time. She could feel him behind her, watching. It was hard to
see because of the wet hair, but the cut did not seem big. She went to her room and lay carefully on her side on the bed.

At dawn she washed her face in the bathroom. It was a dull pain, it would get better. She was thankful the cut was in her hair where the children would not see. She must clear up the glass
before they woke. She went downstairs quietly, and was glad to see that he had gone.

That day, Friday, was calm, and so was the weekend. He did not come back. And the clear vision which the blow had given her did not waver. She did not have to be afraid of him, or try to
please him again. He knew no more than a child what he should value. After he had hurt her he had cried and babbled. She was embarrassed for him. Her vision of him, the basis of the way she knew
him, was changed. He did not know more than her. He did not know what he wanted or what was right, and so he was blundering about breaking and destroying everything, and blubbering like a baby when
he saw the damage he’d done. He was pitiful.

She knew he would be back; and it seemed sickeningly appropriate, as it turned out, that he could not even make it back on his own two feet, but had to be handed back like a baby –
“Now she’s finished with him,” she thought bitterly. The phone rang on Sunday evening and a woman who introduced herself as Clare something said that she had been asked to call to
tell Carolyn that her husband was at a certain pub, and might need help to get home.

Carolyn received the news in silence.

“Mrs Blake? Mrs Blake?” The voice at the other end was kindly and anxious, with a slight American accent. “Please listen to me. I know you must feel badly – hurt
– by what’s happened.
But I – if it’s any help – I don’t think they’ll see each other – any more. It was Caro who asked me to call you.
I’m sorry.”

There was another silence.

“Thankyou,” said Carolyn automatically. She took the address of the hotel. It was a long way out of town, she would have to get a taxi.

And so she fetched him home, as if he were an incapable child, accepting from a cold distance the fussy help of the publican and his wife. She did not question him about what had happened, or
why. She did not care about it. She simply looked after him, with automatic compassion, as she would have done any sick creature placed in her charge.

On Tuesday of the week after she had broken with Alan, Caro left work early. She had looked up Kevin Jackson’s address in the Canal Project file. He lived very near to
the south gate of the park; only a few streets away from the Red House, in fact.

The curtains were drawn across the front window, and from the doorstep she could hear the sound of a television. Kevin himself opened the door. When he saw it was her he half shut it again, as
if she might try to force her way in. She was taken aback by the sullen hostility in his face.

“What d’you want?”

“I – I’ve come to see you. I want to have a talk with you, Kevin.”

“What about?”

“About the park.”

“I’ve talked to Jim – I’ve talked to the pigs – I’ve talked to that sodding Bellamy – I don’t want to talk about the fucking park any
more.”

“I’m not – I haven’t come to – I wanted to see if I could be any use.”

He didn’t speak, leaning out aggressively with his foot against the door. She stood still, not knowing what else to say. After a minute he stepped back, and jerked the door wider open with
an angry movement. He walked ahead of her through the passage to the kitchen at the back of the house.

“Me Dad’s watching telly.” He leant against the sink, leaving her standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” she said lamely. “I haven’t come to get at you, Kevin – honestly. And I haven’t – I don’t know what you’ve said to
anyone else. I haven’t even seen Jim.”

There was a silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I know it must be – boring, going over it all again. But I really would like to know what happened. I might be able to
help.”

He pulled a face, and gave an exaggerated sigh. She fumbled after the friendly ease that had existed between them when they’d worked together; when he’d done his mountaineering act
down the side of the lock, and cracked dreadful jokes while they all sheltered in the back of the van, waiting for a shower to pass.

“Have you seen any of the others?” He shook his head. She forced herself to smile. “Done any mountaineering lately?”

He said, “Huh,” under his breath, disgustedly, and turned to look out of the small window over the sink.

“Look Kevin – I – I know you didn’t light that fire. I want to know what you did do and what you saw. I’m not trying to catch you out. Stop acting like a
kid.”

He gave another exaggerated sigh, and turned back to her, folding his arms resignedly. She saw that he was going to talk, and pulled out one of the chairs from the table and sat down.

“I went down to the fence about eleven-thirty – after closing time. I wanted some soil – right? So I nipped over the fence, sprinted down to the stores, and filled a
bin-liner. I scraped it in with my hands, right, so that’s why they were black.” He held them up, as if they were still black, for evidence. “When it was full it was fucking
heavy, and I went back as quiet as I could. I didn’t hear anything or see anything. I wouldn’t have noticed if they’d been letting off fucking fireworks. I was concentrating on
getting out and not rupturing myself and not ripping the fucking bin-liner. I was pushing it under the fence –”

“Under the fence?” She was surprised.

“Yeah. You don’t think I could chuck it over, do you? – when a cop car comes zooming out of nowhere and stops dead in front of me. And that’s it.”

“Why did you want the soil?”

He stared at her, pressing his lips together, then shrugged.

“I dunno. For a dare. Someone bet me I couldn’t.”

“Who?”

“I dunno. I’ve forgotten.”

“Is that what you told the police?”

“Yeah. Why not? It’s the truth.” His voice was full of aggression again.

Caro pulled a face. “I wouldn’t believe it. I mean, I don’t believe it.”

“Well you know what you can do,” he said, and turned round to the window again.

“Kevin – if someone did bet you, you wouldn’t forget who it was. It doesn’t make sense.” She watched his narrow back. His shoulders were hunched against her. After
a minute he let them drop, and stood up straight.

“All right,” he said flatly. He went to the back door, opened it, and stepped out into the yard. Caro followed him to the doorway. The yard was dark and narrow, flanked by the wall
of the Jacksons’ outdoor toilet and coal hole on the left, and the back wall of next door’s toilet and coal hole on the right. Opposite the kitchen door was the yard door, in a high
wall, and a dented dustbin. Along the right hand wall were ranged an old-fashioned bathtub, on curling iron feet, and two polythene-lined orange boxes. The orange boxes were full of black soil, and
contained rows of newly planted lettuce seedlings. The bath had a thin layer of soil in the bottom of it. Caro glanced at Kevin.

“I got that lot the night before,” he said. “I needed some more for the bath, right?”

“Why didn’t you tell them?”

He laughed as if she was stupid.

“Tell them I nicked two lots, and make it twice as bad for myself? One of the stupid sods came out here for a piss and never even noticed it!” He laughed again, genuinely amused,
and led the way into the kitchen. Caro glanced back at the orange boxes. They looked like boats with their cargo of soil and brave little sails of green leaves.

“Did you grow the lettuce yourself?”

“Yeah, from seed. I grew them in my bedroom in egg boxes. Real
Blue Peter
stuff! I’ve got some tomatoes for the bath – I grew them too.”

“That’s good,” she said. “I can – I can bring you some good soil. I’ve got a garden full of it.”

“OK. Thanks.”

“But – I think you should tell the police.”

“Why the fuck should I tell them?”

She was still unnerved by the speed at which he switched from amiability to aggression. “Because it gives you a motive for being there – it sounds true – instead of sounding as
if you’re covering something up.”

“Covering what up?”

“The fire, for heaven’s sake. That’s the thing they care about. One sack of topsoil’s neither here nor there.”

“That’s not what that cunt Bellamy said. He said he didn’t care if I only took a pocketful of soil, he’d still make sure I got the works.”

“Well, we’ll see. We’ll see about Bellamy. When’s it going to court?”

“They haven’t told me yet.”

Caro nodded. “All right. I – I’ll be in touch, Kevin.” She opened the front door. “I’ll bring you that soil – tomorrow.”

He came right out on to the doorstep, smiling ruefully. “First time I ever nicked anything I got caught too. Bastards.”

“What was that?”

“A car.”

“They caught you?”

“Yeah. I’m on probation.”

Caro couldn’t think of anything to say, and raised her hand in an awkward wave.

“You’d better keep your nose clean, then,” she managed at last, and turned to go down the road. The two boxes of frail seedlings in the brick backyard made an image she could
not shift from her head.

Clare let herself in at ten that night, after a long day’s rehearsing, and found Caro on the phone in the hall. Clare patted her on the head in greeting and went into the
kitchen.

“Jenny Williamson gave me your number,” she heard Caro say, and stopped just inside the doorway to listen. “I’ve got – I know about something that she thinks would
be a good story for your programme.” There was a pause. “Yes – I . . . we need to meet up. . . . Yes, of course. It’s, well, I’m working for the Council, on Millside
Park, and I’ve found out – I can prove – that Councillor Bellamy –”

Poking her head back through the doorway, Clare grinned at Caro (who was not looking) and brought her hands together in a mime of silent but heartfelt applause.

It seemed to Carolyn that time passed very slowly in the weeks after she brought Alan home. The effort of being an efficient machine made her tired. She seemed to have gone
numb in the part of her head where emotions live, and to feel nothing but a lead grey heaviness. With this weight pressing down on her – and no anticipation or interest to act as oil –
each task became immeasurably slow and heavy, so that the making of the beds filled a morning, the washing of the clothes exhausted her. Everything must carry on, would carry on, because of the
children. But she felt as if she had been removed far away from them, so that she could only distantly perceive their laughter and chatter, and hardly feel the solid warmth of their bodies when
they hugged her goodnight. It seemed as if it would never end, this going on of time from day to day, and the mindless alternations of light and dark, like the endlessly tedious revolutions of a
treadmill.