The art of drowning, p.19
The Art of Drowning, page 19
Bathos and pathos hit like a blow. Her car was parked with hazard lights flashing on the hard shoulder of a spaghetti junction of converging roads, ready to be hit and bounced over the crash barrier, and she did not care, as long as he was all right. The relief of hearing his voice was overpowering, however petulant he sounded. He was alive and that was all that mattered. The sound of a car horn brought her back to the present. One and a half hour’s drive from Paradise; she found the gears and carried on.
Why had he not phoned her when he was first ill? Why was she the last point of contact when he was in need, rather than the first? What had happened? Who would pick the pocket of an old man in a train, hardly rich pickings. What was the exchange value of an inhaler? The thought of him wheezing and falling, scrabbling for breath in an overcrowded carriage had haunted her all the way. She should have gone with him; she should not have let him leave, she should not have upset him. She should not …
Inside the flat, it was dusty with trapped heat. She was tired and fretful, went round opening every window, tidying as she went, straightening a chair already straight, washing the already clean mugs in the kitchen, feeling as if she had been away for a week instead of a matter of hours. It was a way of maintaining control. Had he meant to sabotage the weekend? Didn’t he know she would rush back in his direction as soon as he sounded the alarm? Did he have any idea how much she loved him, the cantankerous, miserable old bastard, with all his prejudices? Did he know she only wanted him to be happy? Which was, she reflected, all he had ever wanted for her. He just thought that contentment was dependent on status and success and the right kind of friends, all of which had evaded him. She looked at the shelves he had made in her kitchen, and wanted to weep again.
Dad had liked her lover. Dad thought Rachel’s man was the best she could get, and he only wanted the best. Or maybe he wanted her safe. But the lover had been a thief, and Rachel had betrayed him. She had never told him that; she could hardly complain if he told her so little, the way they protected each other from the reality of one another. Maybe parents did not know their children and children never really knew their parents until after they were dead and they watched themselves turn into them. That was the dread of her life. But her father had liked her lover, and detested Ivy on sight; he had no judgement. Yes he had: he was a shrewd, if oversuspicious judge of character, and after all, the lover had been good, once, and she had loved him for years. His judgement was only as flawed as her own; how did anyone ever know? She had a memory of her father cross-examining her teachers at a school evening, not letting them get away with anything, and smiled at the image. He was small but he could make them cower; she had been embarrassed and proud at the same time. The house on Saturdays had been full of the sound of his hammer, fixing things, trying to make things better.
He did not seem to need her. He knew she hated his small life and his little house. At the moment she disliked this one too and felt that, modest-sized though it was, she was rattling round in it like a pebble in a can, and her skin was still sticky with salt. She had never had the shower at the farm, and she had missed a party, no harm in that, although she wondered what they were doing now. The flat without the presence of Ivy in it seemed horribly empty. Ivy had only been there for a couple of weeks and she was out most of the time; it was not as if they were inseparable, indoors or out, or that Ivy had colonised the place in any noticeable way, it was simply that Rachel knew she would always be coming back, sometimes late but always before the night was over, and that if anyone else unlocked the door, it would be her. They had come to spend the bulk of Sundays together long before Ivy took her to the farm. It would be strange to have that long day to herself, go back to the endless Sundays which had preceded the advent of Ivy and her unqualified friendship and her mountains of ideas of what to do and see for next to nothing. Back to the loneliness which had driven her to the life class.
She found her sketchbook and got it out, looked at last week’s work critically, and put it away. She could draw all day tomorrow; she could take the book and show her father, and he would say, Why? She could regard the otherwise empty day as an opportunity. Rachel found her mobile and listened to the second message again. The one from Carl.
Ivy needed her. The Wiseman family needed her. Ivy would not be back until late tomorrow. She was no use to her own father, but she could be of use otherwise. It would be so much easier to meet the judge when Ivy was not around, rather than an evening in the week when she would be coming home and there would be the temptation, the obligation even, to tell her all about it, and instinct told Rachel this would be a bad idea, however awkward it would be keeping silent. She had no idea how Ivy would react to what she had already done: gratitude in the end, perhaps, if it all worked, but not immediately. She would have to work it out; she might have to tell Grace first, oh what the hell, do it. Think later, that’s what Ivy would do. Make something out of disaster, use the time.
Eleven thirty, Saturday night. Was that too late to call? She dialled, quickly, knowing that if she hesitated she might not do it all, wanting him to be out.
It was as if he was waiting, picking up on the first ring, unflustered.
‘Hello, Carl here.’ Not too late, not asleep. Courteous and welcoming in two words.
‘Oh, er, hello. It’s Rachel Doe. Look, I’m sorry it’s so late, but …’
‘Not at all.’ Waiting for her to continue.
‘Do you have any time tomorrow? Could we meet then, do you think?’
‘Yes, of course. I should like that very much.’
Later, when the conversation was over and arrangements were made and she was bathed and scrubbed and trying to sleep, she realised the source of her confusion. I should like that very much.
Yes, she would. Whatever the circumstances had been, whatever he was, she wanted to see him again. Very much.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Where we met before, he said. I can always come to you. The bottom gate, from the Embankment, is always open, even on Sundays. I’ll bring the car, pick you up. Easy on Sunday. Then we can go wherever you’d like. We could lunch, we could walk, I could drop you at home.
Proprietorial, organised.
Do not ever get into cars with strange men. No. Certainly not to be brought home. That would mean he would know where Ivy lived. Wasn’t that the whole idea?
No. What was she thinking of? He could always have found out where Ivy lived or had lived, if he wanted. Grace would have told him, if he had not been avoiding Grace. Maybe he did want to know where Ivy was.
In the long reaches of the night, when she woke from the dream of the rat being pursued across her own room, she tried to think it through logically.
Carl had long since abandoned his wife. He did not want to know her family. He might have remarried, repartnered. He was doing all he could to prevent his son from seeing any of them. It would be better for him all round if Ivy and her kind did not exist. Maybe Rachel was acting the role of the ferret, flushing him out of his hole. Maybe she was the decoy, the deliverer of prey. Maybe she was not helping Ivy or Grace at all. Maybe she was simply exposing all of them.
She had put out of her mind the memory of the panting policeman who had interrupted them on the bench, the one who wanted a word with the judge’s wife. Did they intend to frame her for something? Why would a policeman want a word with Ivy? Was he the judge’s pet poodle?
Had Rachel disturbed a hornets’ nest? She remembered with shame the careless way she had revealed to Carl that Ivy shared her flat, and the deft way Carl had sidestepped the policeman to deny she had any knowledge of where Ivy was. It had been smooth; it had somehow felt kind, at the time, as if he was sparing her something, and yet it was only proof that he lied with ease, whatever the purpose. Still, she treasured that memory, alongside that of his courtesy in court.
By the time she arrived at the Embankment gate to the Temple, she could no longer admire the view of the river behind her and the narrow cobbled road which led into the labyrinth of courtyards before her. She was wishing she was not there, uncertain of why she was there, feeling guilty, suspicious, nervous, impertinent, and yet, through it all, she did want to see him again.
As he pulled into the entrance and jumped out of the driving seat, neither his car nor his clothes was designed to impress. An old Ford, with a conspicuous dent in the rear left wing. He was dressed for the sticky, humid weather carelessly, in the clothes of a man who wore a daily uniform and did not otherwise care. A half-pressed check shirt, creased cotton trousers, shoes, no socks, no obvious thought behind what he wore. The clothes were clean and solid, like himself. They fitted his bulk. He smiled that radiant smile of his, the one which so discommoded the defendant in the dock, even when it came from behind that ridiculous wig. It was a grin which said, I know what you mean, and she hated herself for responding to it. She had a painless flashback to the last time she had got into a car with a man. Her lover would have selected every item of his expensive apparel with care, concentrating on the overall effect. The car would have to be a BMW, at least. He had liked money too much.
‘I didn’t bring the Porsche,’ Carl said, ‘in case it got wet later.’
A joke, she realised. He looked better suited to a tractor than a Porsche. ‘My son is so ashamed of this car,’ Carl said, opening the door for her, ‘that he almost refuses to borrow it. Almost.’
They could have been a man and a woman interested in one another, going out for a drive and a meal, like thousands of others across the city and beyond. Simply seeking entertainment. Could have: it was a nice illusion. She was trying to guess his age. Mid-forties, minimum, the kind who improves with age, except she could not imagine there had ever been anything callow about him.
‘Was it him or you who backed this heap into a wall?’ she asked.
He manoeuvred the car back into the slow Sunday traffic, across three lanes, turning back at the next junction to go in the opposite direction, entirely certain of his route.
‘It was him this time,’ Carl said. ‘But for the sake of good neighbourly relations, it’s always better to be me. I thought we might find somewhere near the river. The Tate? A view of the water always helps.’
She was not being given a choice, and since she was so confused about the nature of the occasion, she was glad to have decisions made for her, simply nodded, fine.
‘What freed you up for today?’ he asked. ‘Nothing unpleasant, I hope. Nothing disastrous.’
Rachel had decided on sight of him that any kind of subterfuge or messing around was beyond her today, especially since she did not know what game she was playing. She had never been good at games.
‘I was at Midwinter Farm, with Ivy and her parents. My father was ill and I had to come back last night.’
‘Oh,’ he said, slowing down almost to a standstill. ‘I’m so sorry. Where does he live? Shall I take you there? Is he all right? I could take you, that’s what cars are for.’
It was so disingenuous, she laughed out loud.
‘He lives in Luton, and he doesn’t want me there today. An asthma attack. Nothing terminal. He just wanted me to know.’
‘You’re sure? My son was asthmatic; luckily he grew out of it. It’s terrifying. Are you really sure? Doesn’t matter where it is. I can take you.’
‘Yes. I’m sure. Or at least I’m sure he’s sure. If we’re going to Pimlico, it’s the next turning on the right, there.’
She was glad to be able to give directions, relieved that he had almost gone the wrong way. It made him fallible. In profile he looked so much like the photo of his father in the Wisemans’ underused living room. Carl the younger, the image of his dad.
‘What’s your father like?’ he asked as if guessing her thoughts.
She was surprised into replying.
‘Mine? Oh, stiff-necked, proud of it. High standards, low prejudices. Finds it difficult to relax. Has to be busy.’
‘Sounds a little like mine was. I wonder if we all make life difficult for our children. It’s the only reason I dread being old.’
The car was parked; they walked towards the river, another section of it with a different view. He was saying how he was never quite able to get away from the river, and wondered why. He hated getting wet, but there was nothing quite so wonderful as the spectacle of light on water, and had she ever been to the Tate at St Ives? Yes, she said, she had. She had been everywhere and seen nothing; the knowledge surprised her. Years before, she had gone. Maybe the drawing class had not been such a random choice. Even before Ivy she had always been attracted to shape rather than nature. The interest in drawing had always been there, or maybe she meant an interest in lines. She told Carl where she had met Ivy. I would kill to be able to draw, he said; my father thought any such thing frivolous. Mine too, she said. If he knew, even now, that I went to a life drawing class, he would think I was crazy. He’d say, what for?
‘Mine,’ Carl said, ‘would have said, for what? He took English as his second language very seriously. He learned how. Never put the preposition at the end, nor split an infinitive. I grew up speaking like a grammar lesson. Composing sentences in my head in advance. You must get it right. Don’t speak as I do, people will know. He never did get it right. If he were here now he would say, at which place lunch are we having? Let’s be sitting, shall we?’
‘Mine would say,’ Rachel said, laughing at his mimicry and the speed of his speech, ‘I don’t care where we go, because I’m not going to like it.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I hope the same thing doesn’t apply to you.’
They were under a blue awning on a balcony, the colour casting shade on their faces, before she remembered he was the enemy and that an ease of manner, masquerading as charm, was part of his profession. No, that was not true; she knew many an ill-mannered lawyer. It seemed a shame not to enjoy it: she wanted to postpone the shattering of the temporary illusion and the going back to the knowledge of what a shit he was, the picture of Grace weeping over the crumpled letter in the kitchen and Ivy working so hard so that she might be fit to see her own son. It would be nice to be out on a summer’s day with a man whose face she liked, and who, it seemed, liked hers, talking about fathers in the shade, with nothing to do but eat and fill in the blank spaces of each other’s histories, which in his case, right here and now, she would have liked to forget. She looked round at the place he had chosen, and remembered that Ivy would have to work two long night shifts to pay for a meal in a place like this.
‘Shall we get down to business?’ she asked more shyly than assertively as the waiter went away with an order. Just a drink for now, thanks.
He became businesslike.
‘My pedantic father would have said business always involves money. Everything else is personal. On second thoughts, maybe it is about money. Is that what Ivy wants?’
‘No. No.’
Rachel was immediately defensive. The pleasantness had been too good to last.
‘It was a question,’ he said, ‘that’s all. A question. An entirely pragmatic question. You aren’t on trial. It’s me who’s on trial. I never thought of you as an emissary with instructions, and I have thought about you, incessantly. Maybe because you’re beautiful and I liked you on sight. As I said, you’re brave.’
‘Oh.’
Crisp white wine under a shaded sky. Praise, of a sort. Rachel steeled herself. Praise instead of criticism; being listened to, waited for. The preposition was in the wrong place. She knew her weaknesses, rallied to attack.
‘There’s nothing brave about it. It’s … necessary. And no, it’s not about money. It’s about dreams. I love them, you see. Ernest and Grace and Ivy, Ivy first.’
‘And I,’ he said, ‘have loved them longer. Since I was a boy, and my father before me.’
‘You’ve a fine way of showing it.’
‘When you have children, you might, just might think differently. You have to have priorities. Them first and always. If there’s conflict, something has to go. The child is always first. You must keep their innocence as long as you can, I think. Even if you have to sacrifice someone else.’
Now she was really angry, inhibited because she didn’t really know, had no experience to quote, except her own. She felt ignorant; the selfish, childless one who only dreamed of having children.
‘When I married Ivy,’ he said, ‘it was the most natural thing in the world. Shotguns weren’t necessary, although the gun had been jumped, if you see what I mean. I wanted Cassie. My father wanted Cassie. I wanted lots and lots of Cassies, boys and girls. I’m an only child of an orphaned child. Boys for my father, boys for Farmer Wiseman, girls for me. Success for me, so that I could keep them all. I don’t know how much you know about all of this, but …’
‘Quite a lot. From Grace. Just tell me the story.’
She was reasserting some semblance of control. He looked away. The sky beyond their blue canopy darkened.
‘Ivy was eighteen, I was twenty-seven, when Cassie was born. Ridiculous. She was the most beautiful thing, they were the most beautiful things. I wasn’t a good father, not with babies. I didn’t know any more about shared responsibility than Adam and Eve. Old-fashioned, work-obsessed. I didn’t understand why Ivy still wanted to kick over the traces. Go out, behave like eighteen, as if motherhood changed all that, instead of imprisonment, stretching away, for ever. I don’t know, I wish I did. Sam was born the next year. I really had put her in prison. We were a big old battleground. Cassie clung to her, Sam to me. We fought.’
