Deerleap, p.16
Deerleap, page 16
“Alex liked you a lot, which is why I thought you might have known where he was.”
“I liked him too, but I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him for years.”
“When was the last time you were in touch with him?”
He thinks for a moment. “I was living in Exeter. It must have been about two years after I split up with Polly. We wrote to each other for a while and sent Christmas cards, but eventually it just fizzled out. My fault, I was very busy with the business.”
“Do you have any children?”
“Good grief no, I’m not cut out for it,” he says and issues a loud laugh, but I sense the bravado. I remember how crushed he’d been by Polly’s decision not to have a child with him. “Alex was the closest I got,” he continues. “He was a good boy once he’d accepted me. It was hard work at the time, but we got there. We had fun.” he shakes his head, “it was a long time ago. I’m sorry I haven’t been much help to you.”
It’s my cue to leave, but I don’t take it.
“Not knowing is the hardest part," I say. "If they’d found his body then at least I’d know.”
“But you said you’d seen him.”
“Yes, but perhaps it was only someone who reminded me of him. It does happen.”
He looks at his watch.
“Look, sorry,” he says. “I'm due on a shift soon, the afternoon run to Brixham. Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No. You’ve answered all my questions. Is there somewhere I could freshen up before I go? I must look a state.”
He seems slightly disconcerted by my request, but shows me to the bathroom and once inside, I lock the door and stare into the mirror. Crying has left my face ragged and disengaged. I look at the reflection of the room beyond. There’s a walk-in shower, a bath, two wicker chairs; a shelf covered in men and women’s toiletries and two electric toothbrushes. He must have a girlfriend. I wet a tissue with soap and carefully wipe away the smudged makeup from underneath my eyes and then I turn on the cold tap and hold my wrists under the water. The coolness soothes me, enabling me to gather myself in and smooth myself down, enough to return to the world.
On leaving the bathroom I pause. The flat, although spartan, is lovely and light. I glance through the open doorway of the bedroom, to French windows and a balcony and a view of the sea beyond. And that’s when I see it. The painting. It’s hanging on a wall to the right of the French windows. For a moment, I’m too shocked to move and I stand, rigid, staring; and then I feel compelled to have a closer look and I walk into the room, my heart pounding. It’s a painting of a view through a window, a view of hills and moor and sky, the best view in the house. It’s my painting. I touch the canvas and feel the faint ridges of paint. Each brush stroke contains a moment of my life, the dark hues of the hills, painted as I’d been tormented by thoughts of Alex kissing Lucy, and the blue, as it blends almost to white, where the sky disappears on a bright spring day, painted as he’d stood next to me, so close, watching. My painting, and the last time I'd seen it was when I put it in the bin at Deerleap and left, full of unfulfilled longing. Alex must have taken it out and kept it and I never realised. But why does Luke have it?
I hear someone walk into the room and turn to see Luke.
“I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed at being found in his bedroom. “I saw the painting and I had to have a closer look. I haven’t seen it for so long.”
“Do you know it? It's the view from Deerleap, it’s good isn’t it,” he says.
He doesn’t seem angry.
“I'm glad you think so," I say, "and yes I do know it, I painted it."
“Really?" he exclaims. He looks at me in sudden realisation. "I hadn't put two and two together. Alex told me who the artist was when he sent it to me. That's you?”
“Yes. Why did you say you’d only been in touch with him for a couple of years after splitting up with Polly. It would have been at least eight years later that he sent you this.”
“It was a one off,” he says. “We weren’t in touch and then out of the blue he sent me the painting. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”
My mind is racing as I try to work it all out.
“So after years of no contact, one day you get a painting from him?”
“Yes and an accompanying letter. He sent it to the boatyard and we had it on the wall in the office for a long time.”
“Did you write back?”
“Yes, to say thank you for the painting and to ask how he was, but he never replied and the next thing I heard, he’d been in an accident.”
I'm feeling very confused. Why would Alex have sent it to him without telling me? But what’s the alternative? That Alex is still alive and over the years has had contact with Luke? If so, Luke is a very good liar. My mind is spinning with wild imaginings. This is not what I expected. I’m living in a world where nothing is as it should be; it’s like looking in the mirror, beyond myself, to that which is reflected around me. What I see is not quite right and there’s an unnerving strangeness to it. I hadn't expected to find Alex here and yet somehow, I have.
“But why wouldn’t Alex have told me he’d written to you?”
“I don’t know," he says quickly. "Does the painting have any significance?”
“In some ways. It’s part of our history.”
He folds his arms and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. He's beginning to lose patience with me, but I don’t want to leave. The painting is a connection, one I don’t want to let go of. The painting is mine.
“Do you mind if I take a photograph of it?” I ask.
“Be my guest,” he says in a resigned way.
My hands are shaking and working as quickly as possible, I get a shot I’m pleased with and then I take a final look. I knew the painting only briefly and it played a small part in my life, but seeing it has brought the memories flooding back.
At the front door he pauses.
"I have to ask...your face...it looks very sore," he says, indicating my bruises. "What happened?"
I think of telling him the truth, but if he’s in touch with Alex, the truth won’t help my cause.
"I was hit by a piece of wood doing some DIY,” I lie.
"Ouch," he says wincing at my words. “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing."
Before I answer, I look into his eyes. I will remember his face; the grooves in his flesh where the sun has toughened and folded his skin like leather, the coils of silver in his hair. I like him. In amongst all the restlessness there’s a certain humanity. I feel sad for him too, for what he lost, for the path not taken by Polly, one that with hindsight might have been better for us all.
“I don't feel like it was all for nothing," I say. “I met you and I saw the painting. Thank you."
Chapter 19
Sometimes Rita reminds me of a snake in a pit, ready to rear up and strike. Her yellow eyes are a strange colour, especially in direct sunlight and I've seen people do a double take when noticing them for the first time. To me they are without expression, like the eyes of a reptile, and now they are focused on me. I’ve just walked through the back door and into the kitchen at my mother's house and Rita has swivelled in her seat to glare at me. My mother once told me that she feared the bad feeling between Rita and I would result in the family being torn apart, but I told her it already was. There was no heart to our little tribe and after my father left there was no pretence at one.
When my mother sees me, she looks pleased and stands up to open the door.
"I didn't know when I'd see you again, after last time," she says.
I take her arm and give it a sympathetic squeeze.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
"I'm coping," she says with a small smile. "What brings you here?"
"I wanted to make sure you were okay," I lie.
She's not who I've come to see. After my trip to Torquay, I texted Toby and told him what had happened and in his reply he'd mentioned that Rita was going to be at my mother's for tea. I want to tell Rita about seeing Luke Allen, that's why I'm here.
I turn to her. “Look at the bruises on my face. Have you told mum what you did?"
"We haven't discussed it," my mother says, suddenly tight lipped.
"I thought you might have asked her about it?”
“No,” my mother says staring at the floor.
I return to Rita, "I meant what I said about the police, if you ever attack me again, I will report you.”
Rita takes a cigarette from the packet and lights it, her bangles cascading down her thin arm as she lifts the cigarette to her lips.
"And I'll deny it,” she says impassively, blowing out smoke, “because it isn’t true.”
"You’re such a liar," I say.
“And you’re quite mad,” she replies.
“Please stop arguing,” my mother says, she has positioned herself by the sink and is plunging her hands in and out of a bowl of water, taking out ingredients for a salad: lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber. She fires a handful of spring onions onto the draining board and they clatter softly.
“I went to see Luke Allen yesterday," I say to Rita. “He was an old boyfriend of Polly’s and I thought he might know where Alex is.”
“Oh god, not this again!” my mother says angrily.
I ignore her and continue.
“Luke Allen said the last time he saw Alex was when he and Polly split up, and that the last time he’d had any contact with Alex was two years later and I believed him, but then I saw one of my paintings hanging on the wall in his flat.”
I pause for effect, waiting for them to respond. Neither of them reacts.
“One of my paintings! One that I painted years after Luke and Polly split up. When I asked him how he got it, he didn’t have a believable explanation; he just said that after years of no contact, Alex had sent it to him. But Alex would have told me if he’d done that. I’m sure he would.”
I’m speaking fast now, I can see their anger building like a wave, ready to crash over me and drown me out.
“Why would Alex have told you? I’m sure he didn’t tell you everything...” Rita says pointedly.
“Alex would have told me, we didn’t keep secrets from each other.”
“What makes you think it was a secret, perhaps he just didn’t get round to telling you,” Rita says.
“I’m not going to argue with you about it. What concerns me is the fact that somehow Luke Allen has got one of my paintings and the only feasible explanation I can come up with is that Alex must have given it to him after the accident happened. The painting was hidden away in a bedroom and it's only by chance that I saw it."
"What were you doing in one of his bedrooms?" my mother asks.
"I wasn't in the bedroom; I saw the painting through the doorway."
I wait for them to speak, but they just stare at me in silence like two mutes.
"Alex could have gone back to his house in Bristol after the accident and collected some of his things, including the painting," I suggest.
Rita takes another cigarette from the packet. As she holds up her cheap orange lighter, her hands shake. I see the shadows between her fingers and the twists of her silver rings. She has beautiful hands.
“Don’t you have anything to say? Why won’t you admit that Alex might still be alive?” I ask Rita angrily.
If we’d been alone, she would have had plenty to say and at the top of her voice, but my mother’s presence means she has to control herself.
“I think you’re quite mad,” Rita says.
“I don’t know what to do.” my mother suddenly shrieks, “I know it’s all my fault, the way you’ve both turned out, but I don’t know what to do about it...”
She grabs a drying up towel from the work surface and dries her hands vigorously. Neither of us contradicts her and our silence hangs in the air, a confirmation of her words. With fumbling hands she takes one of Rita’s cigarettes and lights it.
“I wish I could start again. I would try harder. I wish I was a better person, more able to rise above my demons. It’s never been my intention to hurt either of you.”
We both stare at her. I am finding her outburst an unwelcome distraction.
“I love you both very much,” she says.
“Why were you only looking at Grace when you said that? And why was she the one you called when Scout died? You didn’t even bother to ring me,” Rita says angrily. Her hand is shaking and her voice is hollow, as though she’s about to be sick. “I’ve been there for you when Grace hasn’t been and you still prefer her to me.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” my mother says.
“I’m not. It’s always about Grace, it’s not fair.”
Rita’s voice sounds strange and wild and my mother looks crushed. “I don’t mean to favour Grace, really I don’t, I love you both, it’s just that you and I are too alike Rita, we clash sometimes, that's all," my mother says.
"So I’m like you?” Rita asks aghast, as though the thought has never occurred to her.
"In some ways, yes, but I love you both equally, of course I do."
Rita is staring blankly at the cooker, but her right foot, the one crossed over her left leg, is jigging up and down incessantly. My mother is standing by the sink, her arms hanging loosely by her side. Her mental illness made her selfish, but never deliberately cruel. It seems in that moment, our family’s inadequacies are encapsulated. Had we moved as we should, our mother would have been at the centre, like the sun, providing heat and light and pulling us into orbit, and Rita and I would have been secure in our proper positions, relative to our mother and to each other. But our mother provides no focus and our worlds are without her light.
Rita stubs out her cigarette and immediately takes another from the packet. The air is a fug of smoke.
“How did we get into this state?” I ask. “I hate this atmosphere.”
“Then stop behaving like Alex is still alive and driving us all mad about it,” shouts Rita.
My mother sits down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. “We’re having tea in a minute Grace. It’s probably best if you go now.”
“Fine, I’ve said what I came to.”
My mother follows me out through the back door.
“I wish you wouldn’t antagonise Rita, you know what she’s like.”
“She’s the one who hit me and you’re telling me to behave?” I ask incredulously.
“She’s a troubled soul, you know that.”
I sigh heavily.
“Have you seen your neighbour since Scout died?” I ask.
“No, but he sent me a large bouquet of flowers.”
"I'm sure he's very sorry. I am too," I say.
When I get home, I strip off all my clothes and take a shower, washing away the smell of smoke. I picture my mother and Rita sitting in the kitchen, eating their portion of salad, as the dusk creeps in and smothers the light. Sometimes the city can be truly quiet, when the heart is empty. They will be together but utterly alone. I feel a brief pang of sympathy for them, locked into their difficulties and I wonder if Rita will continue to berate my mother for her favouritism towards me. Their conversation is certain to include an assessment of my mental health and how they think it’s degenerating. They believe I’m becoming mentally ill, I can see it in their eyes, and yet I know I’m not the one who’s spiralling into the pit, it’s Rita.
I’m not blind like them.
My eyes are wide open and I can see what’s real. On the horizon is a figure moving ever closer, and soon, that figure will reach me, and I will know. The thought of Alex allows me to be strong.
Chapter 20
It’s early evening and Toby has just presented me with a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a jar of organic honey. The flowers are perennials, all purples, lilacs and blues and he tells me they’re from a farm he visited that day. He’s just stepped in out of the rain and his hair is dishevelled and raindrops glisten like glass on his skin. I tell him the flowers are beautiful and fetch him a towel, all the while wondering why he’s called round and why he’s given the flowers to me and not Rita. He tells me the farm was in an incredibly picturesque spot in a valley following the course of a river and that they produce vegetables and fruit and grow willow which they use for bio-fuel, hedging and weaving. He’s talking very fast as though to cover up any embarrassment he feels at being here.
“They still have a lot of work to do on the farm but it’s an exciting project,” he says.
“It sounds fabulous,” I reply.
He follows me into the kitchen and leans against the work surface watching me whilst I arrange the flowers in a vase. I wait for him to tell me why he’s come to see me, but instead he asks how I’m getting on with my latest commission.
“Come with me and I’ll show you,” I say.
We go into my studio where the portrait of the headteacher, Martine Burr, is in the centre of the room. For a moment Toby is silent, looking between the canvas and the assorted photographs and sketches that are pinned up next to it. The painting is quite large, and Martine Burr's strong features are emerging from the background.
“I love it,” he says. “It's a very painterly style, and it looks like her. Are you pleased with it?"
Now it’s my turn to be enthusiastic and my voice sounds light, like a balloon born on the wind.
"I am, it’s going very well and I love this part of the process, when the sitter's likeness starts to emerge. It's exciting and I'm always so amazed when it happens."
I don’t tell him this, but somehow, I can sense that change is coming and that luck might finally be on my side. I wait for him to speak, but when the silence continues for longer than it should, I ask him if he’s okay and he says that he and Rita won't be seeing each other again. I won't be a hypocrite and say that I'm sorry, instead I suggest he tells me what happened. He walks to the window seat and sits down; he's framed by his surroundings; behind him the glass is streaked with raindrops from the storm and the whole of the outside world looks grey. It's the first time I can view him as being separate from my sister and I feel much more relaxed in his company, I'm no longer expecting him to judge me through her eyes. Sitting next to him feels too intimate, so I fetch a wooden chair from the other side of the studio and sit close by. He leans against the back of the window seat and tells me that he called in to see her last night and what followed was the final straw for him. He tried to talk to her about the accident and she refused. He said it was a shame that she was so antagonistic towards me and she grew annoyed. He suggested that she might benefit from therapy and they proceeded to have an argument. It was no good, by then he was sure he didn't want to be with her.
