This Isn't the Sort of Thing That Happens to Someone Like You (2 page)

Those arms lifted up to the sky, that arching back.

The sound the man’s body made when the car struck him. It was
too loud, too firm
, it sounded like a car driving into a fence rather than a man. And the sound he made. That muffled split-second of calling-out.

His arms lifted up to the sky, even his fingers pointing upwards, as if there was something he could reach up there to pull himself clear. His back arching over the bonnet of the car before being dragged down. The jolt as he was lost beneath the wheels. George’s hand crushed between his chest and the steering wheel.

Then stillness and quiet.

He lay on his back with his legs underneath him, looking up at the night. His legs were bent back so far that they must have been broken. George stood by the car for a long time.
The man didn’t make a sound
. There was no sound
anywhere. The night was quiet and the moon bright and the air still and there was a man lying in the road a few yards away.
It didn’t feel real,
and there were times now when they both wondered whether it had really happened at all. But there was the way the man’s neck felt when George touched his fingers against the vein there. Not cold, but not warm either, not warm enough:
he feels like a still-born calf
. There was no
pulse
to feel. Only his broken body on the tarmac, his eyes, his open mouth.

He was wearing a white shirt, a red V-necked jumper, a frayed tweed jacket. His arms were up beside his head, and his fists were tightly clenched. A broken half-bottle of whisky was hanging from the pocket of his jacket. There didn’t seem to be any blood anywhere; there were dirty black bruises on his face, which might have been old bruises anyway, but there was no blood. His clothes were ripped across the chest, but there was no blood. It was hard to understand how a man could be
dragged under the wheels of a car and not bleed
. It was hard to understand how he could not bleed and yet die so quickly.

The whites of his eyes looked yellow under the moonlight.

It was hard to understand who he was, and why he had been
on the road
in the middle of the night. Why he was dead now. It was hard to know what to do. George knelt beside him, looking out across the fields, up at the sky, at his father’s car, his shaking hands, the sky.

He had his reasons,
he says. He’s often regretted it, and he’s often thought that his reasons weren’t enough, but he thinks he would do the same again.

If he’d been older when he made that journey then perhaps he would have been stronger; perhaps his thoughts would have been clearer. But he was seventeen, and he had never knelt beside a dead man before. So he drove away. He stood up, and turned away from the man, and walked back to his father’s car, and drove away. He didn’t look in the rear-view mirror, and he didn’t turn around when he slowed for the junction.

I suppose it was at that stage that I began to realise
what had happened
what I had done
.

That was how he put it, when he told her, walking out on the path beside the canal after lunch, the dogs running along ahead of them with their claws clicking on the tarmac strip.
I suppose.

He had driven his father’s car into a man, and then over him, and now that man was dead. He felt a sort of sickness, a watery dread, starting somewhere down in his guts and rising to the back of his throat. His hands were locked on the wheel. He couldn’t even blink.

And he knew, even before he got back to his father’s house, that he would have to return to the man. He couldn’t leave him laid out on the road like that, with his legs neatly folded under his back. He knew, or he thought he knew, that when the man was found then somehow he would be found too, and the girl who’d drawn upon his bare chest wouldn’t even look him in the eye.

So
it was her fault as well,
it seems.

He fetched a shovel from a barn at his father’s farm and drove back to where he’d hit the man.
It sounds so terrible now.
Cowardly? He carried the shovel down the embankment to the field below the road and took off his jumper and
began to dig
.

He was used to digging.
The field had only recently been harvested, and the stubble was still in the ground
, so he lay sections of topsoil to one side to be replaced. He was thinking clearly, working quickly but properly, ignoring
the purpose of the hole
. Once,
knee-deep in the ground
, he looked up the bank and realised what he was doing. But he couldn’t see the man up on the road, so he managed to swallow the rising sickness and dig some more. And all this time,
the sound of metal on soil
, the sky above.

And then it was deep enough. It was done. So long as it was
further beneath the surface than the plough-blades would reach then it was deep enough, most probably
. He climbed up the embankment to the road, wanting to hurry and get it done but holding back from what he had to do, from the fact of
having to touch him, having to pick him up
and carry him down the bank and into the hole he had made. The death he had made in the hole he had made
in the earth
. He bent down to take the man’s arms. He
could smell whisky
. He stopped, unwilling to touch him, unwilling to go through with what he’d found reason to do.
They were good reasons, but they didn’t seem enough
. But then he remembered her skin on his, and her eyes, and he knew, he said, that he
could do anything not to lose that.

She’d made him do it,
then. That was how it had happened.

He gripped the man’s elbows and lifted them up to his waist. He backed away towards the embankment and the man’s legs unfolded from beneath him, his head rolling down into his armpit, his
half-bottle of whisky falling from his pocket
and breaking on the road. He didn’t stop. He kept dragging him away,
away from the road, down the bank, into the field.

She’d said, when he finally told her all this, that she wanted to know it all.
How it was done.
How it had felt. So now she knew.

He laid the man down beside the hole in the earth and rolled him into it. The man fell face down, and he
felt bad about that
, about the man’s face being in the mud. He went back to the place on the road and picked up the pieces of glass. He threw them down on to the man’s back, and then he took the shovel and began to
pile the earth back into the hole.

He threw soil over the man until he was gone, until the soil pressed down on him so that he was no longer a man or a body or a victim or anything. Just an absence, hidden under the ground. It was only then that he looked up at the sky, dark and silent over him, the moon hidden by a cloud. He drove past her house in March again, and then back to his father’s house. He put the car-keys away in the kitchen drawer, and the shovel in the barn, and he stood in the shower until the hot-water tank had emptied and he was left standing beneath a trickle of water as cold as stone.

So now she knew.

They were married before either of them had the chance to go to university: his father retired early, after a heart attack, and he had to
take over the farm
. It only made sense for Joanna to move in and help. George had been there when his father collapsed: he’d heard the dogs barking at the tractor in the yard, and gone outside to see his father clutching at his chest and turning pale. He’d dragged him from the cab into the mud and begun hammering on his chest.
I didn’t want to lose him to the land as well
. He’d beaten his father’s heart with his fist, and forced air into his lungs, and called out for help. She was there with him. She rang the ambulance, and watched him save his father’s life, and decided she would marry him. She can remember very clearly, standing there and deciding that. And he still thinks he was the one who asked her.

When she remembers it now, it’s always from a height, as if she can see it the way the sky saw it: George kneeling over his father in the mud of the yard, shouting at him to hold on, the dogs circling and barking.

And now this giant of a man sits in an armchair clutching a hot-water bottle and
watching the sky
change colour outside. He refuses to watch television, listening instead to the radio while he keeps watch on the land and the sky. He claims to take no interest in the running of the farm: he signed everything over to them almost immediately, and has rarely offered an opinion. But she knows that he watches. She has seen him looking at a newly ploughed field from the upstairs window, or running a hand along a piece of machinery in the yard, or lingering by the kitchen table while she does the accounts. She has seen the faint
smiles and nods which indicate that he is well pleased. She hopes that George has noticed; she suspects that he has not. Sometimes, when George takes his father his evening meal, his father will talk about something he’s heard on the radio: a concert recording, a weather forecast, a news report. Often they’ll just sit, and George will listen to his father’s short creaking breaths, thankful to have him there still. She doesn’t sit with them at these times. She reads, or deals with paperwork, or goes back to her writing, waiting for him to reassure himself that his father is well.

They’ve never had children,
and this has

They’ve never talked about it,
and yet

In this way, their lives together had settled into something like a routine. He was up first, feeding the dogs, bringing her a cup of tea, eating his breakfast and leaving his dishes on the table. She dressed, and ate her breakfast, and cleared the table, and waited until she heard the radio in his father’s bedroom before going to help him dress.

Caring for his father had taken up
more and more of their time
over the years. His health was poor enough to justify moving him into a nursing home. There was one over in March; she had a friend whose mother was there, and had heard good reports. But it was obvious that his father would refuse to go. And she had been unable to find a way of bringing it up with George. There were so many things she was unable to bring up with him. Sometimes it felt as though they only related to each other through talking about work, about
the business
. As business partners, they have been close, communicative, collaborative. All those good words.

In the mornings and the afternoons,
they worked in the fields
. That wasn’t really true. It might have been true once, in the very early days, when they’d had to work hard all the hours of daylight to try and pull the business out of the hole his father had dug it into. There’d been no money to employ extra labour, and they’d had to do everything themselves. There was less land then, but it was still a struggle and they were always exhausted by the time they found their way to bed.

But things had changed, gradually. They’d bought more land, secured more grants and loans.
Diversified
. And almost without noticing, they’d stopped being farmers and become managers. Most of the field-work was done by labourers hired by sub-contractors,
people they never spoke to
. George still liked to do some of the work himself – the ploughing, the ditch-digging, the heavy machine-based jobs – but there was no real need. For the most part they spent their days on the phone, or filling out forms, buying supplies, dealing with inspectors, negotiating with the water authorities. Discussions about drainage and flood defences seemed to take more and more of her time now. The floods seemed to be coming more often, covering more land, taking longer to drain.
Maybe we should switch to rice
, George had started saying, and she wasn’t sure whether or not this was a joke.

All of which meant that when he said he wanted to tell her something, and that they should take the time to walk out along the path beside the canal after lunch, it was no real interruption to the running of the farm. Down in the few fields which weren’t yet flooded,
the workers carried on
, their backs bent low, and she was able to stop him and put her hand to his chest and ask
what it was he wanted to say
.

In the evenings he often spent time in the barn, fixing things. She would spend that time walking backwards and forwards from the house to the barn, offering to help, and having that help warmly but firmly rejected. He was unable to admit, even now, that she was better than he was at mechanical jobs: repair, maintenance, improvised alteration and the like. Her father had been a mechanic. It was natural that she would have an ability in that area. But still, he found it
difficult to accept
.

At the same time, he found it difficult to have sufficient patience with, or tolerance of, the writing she did. She had only ever called it writing: he was the one who used the word ‘poems’. But whenever he said it – ‘poems’ – it was with an affected air, as if the pretension was hers. So, for example, he might come crashing in from the barn late one afternoon, with his boots on, and say
Would you just leave your bloody poems alone for one minute and help me get the seed-drill loaded up?
There were five other places he could have put the
bloody
in that sentence, but he chose to put it there, next to ‘poems’. This is an example, she would tell him, if he was interested, of what placement could do.