Unspoken (2 page)

Mum stares and I wonder if there was a slight turn of her head, a glimmer of interest. She doesn’t know Grace but I’ve told her that she’s one of my pupils. Over the last week I’ve told Mum lots of things – mostly light-hearted babble and stuff about her grandchildren and the two teens she fosters. For now, because of what’s happened, I’ve temporarily taken over their care.

I thought perhaps the shock of finding Grace down Lightning Lane would elicit a reaction, but there’s simply nothing in her. Mum is empty. Her eyes are drained and her lips thin and unwilling. Only when I pass her a cup of tea or slide a plate of food in front of her does she move. I’m sure I hear her bones creak while she’s eating, as if they are whispering behind her back.

‘They say poor Grace will be in a wheelchair for ages and have months of physiotherapy. They’re very worried about her head injuries.’ I sigh and wonder if that is a mini sigh in Mum’s chest too; an echo of mine; a tiny heave of sadness beneath her brittle breastbone. ‘I’m going to visit her soon.’ I plant another kiss on the top of her head.

I put the children’s sandwiches on the table just as my two come bowling into the kitchen. Alex curls his mouth around the soft bread before he is even seated. I trail my fingers through Flora’s hair and tuck her chair under the table. The teenagers make a slower appearance for their food.

Orange juice? My hands form the words for Flora. She nods and smiles, cheese poking from her mouth. I prepare more plates of sandwiches for the foster children and they slip out of the kitchen with their lunch. They’ve kept out of the way these last few days, wisely avoiding all the fuss that revolves around Mum.

‘Thank you,’ the girl says as an afterthought. She gives me a nervous glance, a half-smile. Her brother is silent. I am concerned about him. He disappears for hours at a time, often coming home filthy.

I clatter glasses on to the table and stop, looking around the kitchen. Nothing much has changed in this house over the years. The window still rattles from the wind, and if the rain comes from the north, a bowl is still needed to catch the water on the window ledge. Old pine cupboards and dressers line the room, insulating the walls with a vast stash of family crockery, glassware, chipped dinner sets, children’s paintings, lace tablecloths, drawers full of string, glue, tape, broken pens and ancient bills. The flagstones are perhaps a shade darker than I remember, the walls more yellowed, but the whole place smells the same: of wood smoke, cooking and love.

‘Why don’t you wrap up warm and take Flora down to the rope swing after lunch?’ I say to Alex, but then I stop, halfway to the sink. ‘Actually, it’s probably too cold. Why not watch a movie?’ Someone did that to Grace. Someone bent and cut her body and left her naked in the field. I embrace each of my children. They will not be playing outside while we are staying at Grandma’s house.

‘No, we want to play in the fields. It’s not cold.’ Alex doesn’t whine but rather states his case. Did he learn that from his dad? Like his father, he knows it won’t do any good. When things are final, they are final. I shoot him a look.

‘Mum,’ I say gently. ‘Cheese for you, too?’

I know she won’t answer but I feel I have to ask. I’m finding it hard to remember her voice, even though it’s only been a week since she fell silent. No one knows why.

I put the sandwich on a tray and rest it on her knee. ‘If you sit any closer to that fire, you’ll turn into toast.’ I realise I’m talking to her in a voice fit for a kindergarten class. ‘Anyway, Alex, your dad’s taking you out later.’ I say it like it’s good reason for them not to play outside. ‘He’s coming at five.’

Alex grins and immediately turns into a little Murray, his face broad and alert, his eyes filled with more anticipation than the situation warrants. He is a memento of the husband I thought I knew. Flora pulls at my arm and signs, What? Her finger is an annoyed scribble in the air, her eyebrows tucked together.

Dad, I tell her. He’s coming to fetch you at five. Flora abandons her sandwich and runs to nestle on her grandma’s lap, competing with the tray for space. It seems she doesn’t want to go.

I sigh and snap on rubber gloves to tackle the dishes. Mum doesn’t have a dishwasher. Neither does she have a washing machine, a tumble dryer, a television or even an electric kettle. When we visit Grandma’s house, we put on an extra sweater and the children bring their portable DVD player.

‘Where’s Dad taking us?’ Alex asks, chomping on the last of his sandwich. He drains his milk.

‘I hope to God not anywhere on that boat. Not in the dark.’ I plunge my hands into the soapy water and imagine Flora slipping off the side of the narrow boat, her mouth unable to do anything but drink the River Cam. ‘He’ll probably take you bowling or to that nice pizza place.’ I comfort myself with the thought of them having an evening in the city. Surely nothing can go wrong there.

‘Or to his friend’s house,’ Alex adds.

‘His friend?’ I know I said it too quickly. I hope Alex didn’t notice. Male or female? I find myself wondering. Our lives are already diverging.

Alex shrugs and I don’t press him because there is suddenly the sound of breaking china. Flora has knocked Mum’s plate on to the floor.

Don’t worry, I tell her with my wet yellow hands. She tries to hide the smile and pushes her face into Mum’s shoulder, who vaguely curls an arm around Flora’s waist. It is the most animated I have seen her in days.

 

Murray is an hour late. He stands in the doorway and I throw my car keys at him a lot harder than I intended. He clutches them to his chest, surprised, hurt, but then his expression tells me he understands completely. His car is at the garage for repairs and is likely to be there for a while longer. I’m praying that the use of my car will discourage him from taking the children on the boat and also from drinking. Surely I can trust him.

‘Sorry. I was—’

‘Kids!’ I don’t want to hear why he was late or, indeed, why he is only wearing a T-shirt when a frost has already set a glaze on the courtyard beyond. ‘Come in and shut the door.You’ll freeze.’ Come and join my kindergarten class, I think, yet I still find myself wanting to wrap a blanket around him, to huddle under the curve of his shoulder. I sigh through the realisation that such moments are gone for good.

‘How are you?’ he asks. ‘How are you after finding—’

‘Tea?’ I interrupt, then wish I hadn’t asked. It’ll take the kettle an age to boil on the range and I don’t want the children back late. It will also mean awkward conversation as we sip our scalding drinks, blowing ripples on the surface to prevent what needs to be said but never will be. It’s too late now. ‘And I’m doing OK, thanks. There’s no more news on Grace.’

Murray nods thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, tea would be good.’ He goes to stand with his back to the fire. ‘Mary,’ he acknowledges. He doesn’t know what to say to her. ‘How are you?’

Mum happens to be staring at Murray’s knees now he is beside the fire. She doesn’t reply, just a swallow and a blink. I ease between them and put the kettle on the hotplate.

‘She’s the same,’ I say. It’s the wrong thing to do, talking for her, but David said to include her in conversation as if everything’s normal. ‘David . . . I mean Dr Carlyle . . . comes to visit her regularly.’

‘Do doctors make house calls these days?’ Murray rubs at the stubble on his chin.

‘Are you growing a beard?’ I shouldn’t have mentioned David in front of Murray.

‘How often does he come?’ Murray presses on.

I concentrate on making the tea. ‘He came yesterday and he’ll be back tomorrow.’ I spoon tea into the pot. No quick-fix teabags here at Cold Comfort Farm. ‘I think Mum likes his visits.’

‘And you?’

I stop, sigh and make my face into a picture of weariness. ‘I’m not sick, Murray. I don’t need a doctor.’

‘Do you like his visits, I mean?’ His voice is dry and determined.

My head hangs instinctively. ‘Murray, please . . .’ But Alex hears that his dad has arrived and runs into the kitchen, begging him to take a turn on his Nintendo, interrupting me. ‘Why not wait until you’re in the restaurant to show Dad your new game?’ I say, thankful for the reprieve.

‘We’re going to a restaurant, are we? The four hours of time with my children has already been planned. That’s nice.’

‘Well, you wasted one of them by being late,’ I mutter.

Swiftly Murray unhooks Alex’s coat from the overburdened stand and tucks our boy inside. Then Flora spills into the room – delighted to see her father even though she hates the upset of being taken from me just for an hour – and she too is padded in coat.

I am struck by a slice of freezing air as they leave. ‘I’ll have them back by ten,’ Murray commands in a voice I recognise from way back.

‘
Nine!
’ I call out, but the word gets caught in my throat. For the rest of the evening I sit in silence with my mother and wonder what happened to my family.

It was going to be better than that. I was going to kiss her when I arrived. I was going to say she looked good even though her eyelids were a little heavier today and she’d forgotten to brush her hair. I was going to wear my new trousers and have my car fixed and perhaps, if things had gone really well, I would have asked her to come with us. Flora signs that she needs a wee.

‘Guard the table, mate,’ I say to Alex. He’s already done the puzzles on the table mat.

‘Sure, Dad.’

It wasn’t that she didn’t want me there. I know Julia. God, I’ve known her practically since she was born. But because she never quite looked at me, never quite managed not to look at the teapot, the floor, Mary, her own fingernails, there is still hope.What Julia doesn’t look at, she generally wants. So maybe she still wants me.

With that in mind, I’m grinning as Flora comes out of the ladies’ loo. Did you wash your hands? I gesture, and instead of signing back she shows me tiny glistening fingers. We go back to the table.

The pizza’s OK, although each bite is automatic. Alex struggles with the spice of his pepperoni sausage so I give him half of mine. I get him to tell me again what Santa brought last week and he likes scooting down the list of things I’ve never even heard of; likes telling me that Santa’s not real and I shouldn’t treat him like a kid. I’m asking again because in all honesty I can’t recall what he said the first time he told me on the phone. I can’t even remember a phone call.

Flora, I sign. Don’t interrupt your brother. She’s being impatient, begging for vanilla ice cream, and when it arrives – because I can never say no to her for long – it has the same colour and smell as her hair. It reminds me of when she was a baby; of when things were whole and sweet.

‘What’s wrong with that girl Mum found in the field?’ Alex finishes his chocolate ice cream in record time.

‘Grace Covatta?’ I say. There’s no point in hiding her name. It’s been all over the newspapers. Witherly – where if someone bumps their head it’s big news – is steeped in Grace Covatta. Within hours of Julia’s discovery the press were camped along the muddy verges of the village, their satellites pointing skyward beaming out the shocking news. Even days later, the Three Horseshoes is still base to a couple of journalists still hungry for information as well as the home cooking. ‘She got hurt, buddy. But she’s going to be fine.’

‘Who hurt her?’

‘The police are trying to find out.’ I don’t have the words to explain such a vicious attack to an eleven-year-old.

‘But how will they find out?’ Because of his Uncle Ed, Alex wants to be a policeman when he’s grown up.

‘Through forensic testing. By talking to her. Searching the area.’ I’ve had enough of this. I’ve seen what it’s done to Julia and I’m not getting my son involved, however manly he’s trying to be. ‘Come on,’ and I sign this for Flora. ‘Anyone fancy hot chocolate on the boat?’

 

I’m grateful that the muddy towpath is frozen solid tonight. Dirty shoes would flash a beacon of deceit to Julia, and really, deceiving her is the last thing I want to do. She would say I am an expert at it.

‘Careful, now.’ Alex steps across the small gap of water on to the rear deck and Flora gasps when I scoop her around the middle and place her beside her brother. Keep back from the edge, I tell Flora for the thousandth time, and she thumbs the side of her head in disgust.

I know
. At eight, she is wiser than me.

I settle the children with steaming mugs of hot chocolate, and before long the cabin is warm and cosy. Half an hour after I shovel in extra coal, the stove puts out more heat than we can stand. I slide the roof hatch open a little.

‘How come Grandma Mary won’t talk?’ Alex asks. ‘Is she deaf like Flora now?’ My son wears a premature moustache, and before I answer, it dawns on me that he will probably start shaving in years that I can count on one hand. ‘Mum says Grandma is a mute.’

This is Julia’s territory. I feel the ice creaking beneath my feet before I even answer. ‘Your grandma’s been sick, as well.’Why I put her alongside Grace Covatta isn’t clear, but with the two incidents hammering against Julia’s life, the problems have fuzzed around the edges.

Aren’t you having hot chocolate, Daddy? Flora is thoughtful.

No, I tell her. And when she asks why I’m not thirsty after all that salty pizza, I realise that I am and pour myself a Scotch. For the next hour, we laugh and tell stories and bundle ourselves up in blankets on the roof of the boat, waiting for the moon to shine bright enough to reveal the face of a pike in the water below. All we see are our own shiny grins.

 

When Julia was twelve she nearly drowned. I can label every childhood nick and scar on her body and gives dates and reasons, too. It was a summer so hot the lanes felt like melted treacle as we hammered our bikes along the tarmac at midday.

‘Slow down,’ she cried. Even then her hair was thick and lustrous and fell behind her in plumes of red gold as she struggled to keep up with my frantic pedalling legs. At my age, I should have known better, but showing Julia that I was faster than anyone else was more important than waiting for her to catch up. It was Mick, five years my junior, who helped her cart her bike down the bank and over the stile to the pond at the bottom; hoisting her bike way higher than necessary just to show how strong he was. And I was meant to be in charge.