The Bed I Made (19 page)

‘Peter Frewin.’

‘You know him?’ He was surprised.

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I heard about it – in Yarmouth. In the paper.’

‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘You know the story then. A very great shame.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘He won’t mention it at all but I thought you should know.’

From the hall came the sound of the front door closing and in a trice Ted was up from his spot at our feet and nosing his way back through the swing door. There was a single joyful bark, the sound of jumping up and a quiet male voice, and then footsteps and a figure in the doorway. I turned my head to see him towering there, the kitchen lights illuminating his face, the hall behind him in darkness.

Chris put a hand on his shoulder as he came into the room, then turned to pour him some wine. ‘Peter, this is Kate,’ he said. ‘She’s just moved to the Island; she’s in Yarmouth with you, in one of the coastguard cottages.’

‘We’ve met,’ said Peter, taking a sip and letting his eyes rest on me briefly.

‘Have you?’ Chris looked at me.

‘When I was trying to stroke Peter’s cat,’ I said, feeling foolish.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right. Well, I hope you’re both hungry; I’ve made a casserole.’

Peter took an olive from the dish and went to sit on the low floral sofa under Chris’s corkboard. There was a basket lined with a blanket nearby but a suspiciously dog-sized indent on the sofa itself. No sooner had Peter sat down than Ted clambered on to his lap. ‘Oof,’ he said, as the air was squashed out of him.

‘Gently please, Ted,’ said Chris, opening the fridge door and taking out a butter dish. ‘Or it’s WeightWatchers for you.’

Peter waited while Ted trod all over him in pursuit of a comfortable position and eventually sat sideways across his knee, obscuring his view. He shifted forward a little and slung his arm around the dog’s neck, pulling him back against him.

‘Kate, top yourself up,’ said Chris. ‘Don’t run dry.’

I did so, grateful for something to do and noticing that I was already beating him, needing only to refill his glass by an inch while mine was almost empty. It was good, though; I could feel the wine taking the edge off my awkwardness, putting down a layer of insulation. I looked over at Peter, who was stroking Ted’s ears, letting his fingers slide over the velvet fur. I glanced away again quickly before he became aware of me watching. He looked tired but much better than when I’d seen him in the Square the day after the body that wasn’t Alice’s had been recovered. What did he feel like now? I wondered. How long did it take to get over something like that?

‘Have you got to know your neighbours, Kate?’ Chris was dropping French beans into a steaming saucepan.

‘I’ve hardly even seen them,’ I said. ‘But I haven’t introduced myself. Maybe it’s a London thing – living side by side with people and letting them stay strangers. Could I have another cigarette?’

‘Help yourself. No need to ask.’

I took one and lit it, feeling as self-conscious as an unpractised teenager. Peter wasn’t looking at me but there was a watchfulness about him, something in his expression that made me think he was taking in what Chris and I were doing though he was paying far more attention to Ted. I remembered the first cigarette I’d had on the Island, on the bench at the bottom of the common with his wife, her strange excitement. She’d been so vivid then, I thought, and yet so close to dying.

‘I’ll go down to the yard tomorrow, Chris.’

‘Ah, I was going to ask.’

‘We’ll need to talk about what still needs doing.’

‘I’ve got a list; I’m afraid it’s getting rather long. Peter’s helping me look after my boat,’ he explained. ‘I used to be able to do it all myself but I’m a bit past it now.’

‘For God’s sake,’ Peter said, with a hint of vehemence. ‘You’re sixty-two. He’s got a bad back,’ he said to me, ‘rather than one foot in the grave.’

I felt myself flush, as if he’d known what I was thinking. My cheeks were getting rosier anyway, as they always did when I drank red.

He tipped Ted gently off his lap and came over to the counter for another olive. I watched the movement in his jaw as he chewed it. There were deep lines at the corners of his eyes and quite a lot of grey in the short hair above his ears. On the cuff of his jumper there was a splash of blue paint.

‘Do you like Yarmouth?’ he said, picking up the stub of pencil that had been lying on a paper folded to the crossword. He started to flick it between his fingers, under and over and back again, a trick I’d tried and failed to learn at school.

‘It’s quite quiet,’ I said, ‘but I’m getting used to it. I like the pier and the walk out to Fort Victoria. And the river’s lovely – up by the sailing club and the scows.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chris shoot a quick glance at Peter.
Shit – Alice’s scow
. Peter turned abruptly and went over to the glass doors where he faced away, looking out over the garden. I couldn’t look at him: he would see my reflection in the glass. You idiot, Kate, I thought; you absolute idiot.

Chris took the casserole out of the oven and rested it momentarily on the hob. ‘Right, this is ready,’ he said briskly. ‘Kate, if you’d like to sit down. Bring that bottle over if you would.’

My face felt scarlet as we ate, with embarrassment, the wine and also heat: the room seemed suddenly to have become very hot. I kept my eyes down, afraid of meeting Peter’s and furious with myself. Clearly, the brief grace period when the wine had just lessened my shyness without affecting my ability to think had ended.

‘Kate’s a translator,’ Chris told Peter, who was passing down a surreptitious titbit to Ted.

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I’m a waitress.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep. Just started this week – Mary’s on the High Street.’

‘Just down from you, Peter. I’ll pop in next time I’m in Yarmouth.’

‘I just got too lonely,’ I said, though neither of them had asked. ‘That’s why I started it. I mean, where is everyone in Yarmouth? It’s like a bloody ghost town at night – no one on the streets, everyone locked away safely behind their front doors. Is there a war on – some sort of curfew I haven’t heard about?’

Peter glanced up quickly and there was amusement in his eyes, quickly suppressed when he realised I’d seen. Was he laughing at me?

I insisted on clearing the plates, wanting the opportunity to turn out of view for a few moments. I’d had four glasses now, I thought, and I was starting to feel as though I didn’t have complete control over my face; my mouth in particular felt slightly alien, not to be trusted not to smile in inappropriate places. I’d reached that stage of drunkenness, too, where I’d lost any will to stop drinking. Chris had realised it, too, evidently; on the last round of top-ups, he’d added only a tiny amount to my glass. I was beginning to feel better, though; even confident.

Over pudding, I relaxed some more. I propped my elbow on the table and started telling them about the holidays I’d spent on the Island when I was younger. I’d lost my nervousness and the words started to flow. I told them how great Dad had been, how much effort he’d put into making sure we’d had a good time – the barbecues on the beach, the crabbing lines, the boat trips. Chris made small comments but Peter listened in silence and for most of the time I had the floor. It felt good, like a return to the socially successful version of myself I hadn’t been for a long time. I could do this: be entertaining, make people laugh. Buoyed up, I carried on, finding myself more and more amusing. We finished the bottle and I cajoled Chris into opening another.

It was when I stood up to help clear the pudding dishes that I knocked over his glass. It had been full and the wine splashed everywhere, over the tablecloth, the other plates, into the fruit bowl. Shards of glass glittered on the leftover treacle tart. ‘I’m sorry; I’m so, so sorry,’ I said, dabbing wildly with my napkin.

‘It’s no problem,’ said Chris, standing slowly and revealing the wine stains on the thighs of his trousers. ‘No, no – Kate, leave it. Sit down – I’ll do it.’

Peter stood up, too. ‘I should go,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Chris; thanks for supper.’

‘Hang on – you’re not driving, I hope?’

‘No, I want to walk.’

‘Walk? At this time of night? You’re both going back to Yarmouth; why don’t you get a taxi together?’

‘No,’ he said loudly. ‘I mean, I want to walk. I’ll see you tomorrow at the yard.’ He nodded in my direction without looking at me, grabbed his jacket from the peg just inside the door and was gone.

The front door slammed shut behind him and I sat back down. ‘That’s my fault,’ I said.

‘Don’t be silly. He’s still very raw,’ he said. ‘I invited him because I thought the company would be good for him but I misjudged it – it’s too early. My mistake.’

‘I’m really sorry. And I’m sorry about the tablecloth, and your trousers. Let me do the washing up.’ I stood up again and reached for his empty pudding dish.

He put his hand on it, stopping me. ‘Put that down and I’ll ring you a taxi.’ He got up and went out to the phone in the hallway. There was the sound of touchtone buttons. Left alone for a moment, I saw my reflection and beyond the glass, nothing but the darkness. I could feel it as if it were a physical presence, pressing against the windows, waiting for me.

The taxi that came was some sort of people carrier. Chris kissed my cheek and helped me in, stopping me from falling back when I tripped over the seatbelt. The driver was talkative on the way but required only minimal audience participation. He chattered on, delighted, it seemed, to have a new set of ears for his well-practised anecdotes, and I leaned my hot temple against the glass and watched the verge flashing past us. There was a strange buzzing in my ears, as if I were wearing ear-plugs, muffling out the world and hearing the working of my own brain instead. Everything felt distant, slightly too bright, liable to start spinning at any moment.

It was some time before we reached Peter; he’d got much further than I’d expected and I soon saw why: he was striding out, each step covering a yard, his shoulders back, his arms stiff at his sides, hands in fists, walking into the night as if he were marching into battle. Perhaps, I thought, it was conscience trouble.

Back at the house, I fell into a drunken, dreamless sleep. Waking parched at four, I went to the bathroom and drank three lots of water from the tooth mug before going back to bed. Later in the morning, long after it was light, I woke to find that quite apart from the remorse about the evening already side-swiping at me, a pall of melancholy had settled over everything like a fine coating of dust.

In the second bout of sleep, I’d dreamed about Richard, a dream with no beginning and no real end. We’d been standing on opposite sides of a huge iron gate, not ornamental wrought-iron but the sort used to keep people in or out, heavy bars extending from floor to ceiling, banded across in several places. Richard had gripped the bars and I held them, too, but for some reason our hands wouldn’t touch. The yearning I felt was painful; I would have given anything in the world to have become smoke and passed through to his side. He spoke and though at first I couldn’t hear the words, their effect was immediate: the bars in the upper part of the gate softened enough for him to pass his face through to my side. Our hands, too, suddenly touched and we wove our fingers together, holding on so tightly that I was aware of all our bones. He rubbed his cheek against mine and the yearning intensified. The feel of his skin was gentle but erotic, too, sending a charge through me. Then even that barrier seemed to dissolve, so that where our skin touched, he became me, and me him and all I wanted was to lose myself in him like I used to. He was smiling and I felt a smile forming on my lips, too. He spoke again and this time I heard him. ‘While you still want me, I can find you,’ he said.

Chapter Fifteen

On Monday it was my birthday. Cards from Dad and Matt had arrived on Saturday and I opened them now, deducing from the fact that the one from Matt didn’t have a Far Side cartoon on that Melissa had chosen it. Dad had sent me an iTunes voucher and I realised that it had been weeks since I’d listened to any music. I’d fallen out of the habit, having found it too painful after the break-up with Richard. Also I felt strangely vulnerable when I had earphones in and couldn’t hear what was going on around me. That bothered me now.

Helen’s card was lying on the kitchen floor when I went downstairs to make a cup of coffee, blown away into the room by the draught under the door. ‘Present being held in London as bait,’ she had written inside.

Upstairs again, I put the coffee on the table, got back into bed and pulled the blankets round me. Last year I had woken up with Richard. It had been a brighter day than today and the block of light from the narrow window had been falling across the bed when I’d opened my eyes to find him propped on his elbow, looking at me.

I’d put my hand over my face. ‘Don’t scrutinise me. I look terrible.’

‘You look beautiful.’

I kept my mouth closed while he kissed me. ‘Wait a moment.’

I’d cleaned my teeth while I waited for the kettle to boil and then I’d taken our coffee through to the bedroom. Richard was sitting up, his back resting on the wall. I felt my usual pang of desire at the sight of his chest and shoulders, the five o’clock shadow. There was something so glamorous about him, even first thing; I often thought that it was as if he had dropped out of someone else’s life and into mine by mistake, expensive cargo destined for somewhere more exciting, lost by accident.