She pointed to the box of eggs Eileen was clutching.
‘
Fuck the Brigade!
’ Wesley yelled, tightening the rope around the deer’s neck. ‘We reserve the right as
free men…
’ he grimaced as the rope pulled on his scarred hand, ‘to make our own bloody mistakes and to suffer the consequences of them…’
‘
Hear Hear,
’ Arthur concurred, passionately. For once – and once only – they were in absolute agreement.
Eileen frowned down at the eggs (as if she hadn’t really heard them), then over at Sasha, ‘I must admit,’ she whispered softly, ‘that I was only just wondering about these
myself…
’
Then she opened the box, carefully removed a single, perfect, creamy-coloured oval, held it firmly between her finger and thumb, rotated it gently, showing it off to its very best advantage, ‘but now I…’
She suddenly turned and
hurled
it – with a quite astonishing ferocity, an
intoxicating
accuracy – towards the craft.
When the egg made contact with the back of Wesley’s shoulder, the whole thing, the whole
structure –
as if a secret button had been pressed, a cord severed, a hidden brake, released – simply plummeted.
She dropped the dog and cautiously circled the hydrangea, as if uncertain whether this twiggy beast was stone dead or simply shamming (this was Katherine’s brute, after all – might it not jump up and bite her? Or turn and flee? At the last minute? Just when she…?).
Katherine had thrown the plant into the road and left it there. Cars were slowing down and then gingerly overtaking; no one – as yet – feeling sufficiently public-spirited to stop their vehicle, climb out and remove it.
It was a large plant, and beautiful; even in its skeletal winter phase; with numerous dried flower-heads in a subtle medley of pinky-blues and bleached brown-mauves. Jo grabbed it from underneath, just above its roots. Pulled.
Groaned.
It was heavy.
‘That’s so bloody
Canvey,
’ she grunted, dragging it to the side of the road, beaching it on the pavement, ‘don’t you reckon?’
She glanced over towards Dewi.
Dewi was still arranging his stuff into the back of his pick-up; three 18th century walnut captain’s chairs, several pieces of bedding, a box of randomly assorted bits of cutlery and crockery, some work tools, a crate crushed full of books and shoes…
He wouldn’t look at her initially. But after a moment he stopped what he was doing and glanced up.
‘Why?’
He seemed bloodless; distressed, as faded as one of the dried hydrangea flower-heads.
‘They’d rather sit for an hour in a line of traffic,’ she exaggerated, ‘than commit to the horrible physical
responsibility
of removing
the damn thing that’s impeding their way.’ Dewi shrugged. Jo smiled, self-consciously, ‘Perhaps I’ve grown a little cynical about this place in my old age.’
‘Just get out of here,’ Dewi mumbled – but not aggressively – turning away again.
Josephine stood her ground. She cleared her throat, as if preparing to make some kind of public announcement, then patted the dog’s rump to make it sit down. The dog, at least, did as it was told; it sat and stared up at her, shivering a little.
‘I really loved him,’ she said, her voice sounding exceptionally clear – even child-like – under pressure, ‘I really
loved
Mr Turpin. I know it can’t… I know it won’t make anyone feel any better about the whole thing… but he was unbelievably
kind,
and a great teacher, and it wasn’t as wrong or as calculated or as
sordid
as it might’ve seemed to… to you or to my family. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t… it was just… just an
accident…
’
Dewi was trying to unwind his tarpaulin, but his fingers were clumsy. His arms had been scratched by the plant. His hands and his nails were still muddy. He cursed under his breath.
‘We could always dig it back in,’ Jo murmured hollowly –
What was I expecting?
A sudden reprieve?
Total exoneration?
A hug?
– turning her attention back to the plant again, adjusting it slightly so its branches wouldn’t snap or tear any more than they had done already – ‘the roots are still…’
He turned on her, furiously, ‘If you’re trying to use that stupid plant as some kind of ridiculous
symbol
for what’s been going on between myself and Katherine, then forget about it. It’s just a
hydrangea,
Josephine, a
ridiculous
hydrangea.’
Josephine took a step back –
He used my name
– but only one step.
She gazed down at the plant again.
‘I suppose it must symbolise
something,
’ she eventually muttered, ‘if you felt overwhelmed by the sudden urge to yank it up…’ she glanced over the road, ‘and then smash her window,’ she added.
This seemed to irritate him, ‘For one thing,’ he said letting go of his tarpaulin, ‘it’s none of your
bloody
business what I do or don’t do regarding Katherine, and for another, I smashed the window
before
I pulled up the hydrangea. Smashing the window wasn’t
enough,
you see.’ He glared at her, vindictively, ‘I felt like I wanted to hurt her
more.
To punish her
more,
in the same way she’s delighted for so long in punishing me.’
‘You punished yourself,’ Jo said, ‘because she refused to shy away from the lies people spread about her, and you weren’t big enough, or
brave
enough just to accept them and move on.’
‘I should’ve given up,’ he muttered, returning to his tarpaulin, ‘
years
ago. I should’ve done like you did,’ he glanced over at her, coldly, ‘and crawled away from here. There’s been no dignity in remaining.’
‘But you had to stay,’ Josephine smiled, bitterly, ‘didn’t you? If only to remind her of what could’ve been if she’d loved herself a little more.’
‘You’re as twisted as she is,’ he whispered.
‘We’ve all hurt Katherine quite enough to be going on with,’ Jo intoned primly, carefully straightening the dog’s leash.
Dewi began to laugh. Hollowly. She glanced over at him.
‘See how
neat
her house is on the outside?’ he asked, his face contorting with a curious energy. Jo turned her focus towards the house. It wasn’t looking especially neat any more, but still, she nodded. ‘Well when you get
inside,
’ he continued, ‘it gets really
dirty.
Full of all kinds of crap. Full of
shit…
’
Jo’s mouth tightened at its corners.
‘But then when you go into her
own
room, her bedroom, it’s absolutely
spotless,
and full of
flowers
and
doll’s houses
and a ton of other stupid, girlish…’
‘And what does that mean?’ Jo interrupted, harshly.
He paused, then shrugged, his victorious expression suddenly disintegrating. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, his eyes filling, ‘and I don’t… I can’t
care
any more. I’ve given up. I’ve quit. She’s won.
You’ve
won. Why not just be happy about it?’
Josephine cocked her head, frowning, ‘Is this all my fault, then?’
Dewi almost laughed, ‘He was
right
about her, you know. Everything he said. Everything he thought…’
Jo struggled to follow his reasoning.
‘Because
she
wrote it…’ Dewi almost choked as he spoke, ‘she wrote it
herself.
The graffiti.
She
wrote it. And she…’
‘No,’ Jo said; almost a knee-jerk reaction, ‘she didn’t.’
‘… and when I painted it out,
she
maintained it. It was
her.
’
‘No.’ Jo was shaking her head. ‘No.’
He turned, his eyes burning.
‘She just
admitted
it to me.’
‘No,’ Jo remained emphatic, even in the face of his considerable anguish, ‘she didn’t. And I know she didn’t, for a fact.’
‘
How
do you know?’ His tone was insolent.
‘Because…’ the words exploded out of her, in a jumble, ‘because of… it… it was me.’ He stared at her, barely grasping what she was saying.
‘It was
me,
’ she pointed to her own chest, tapped on her own breast-plate, repeatedly. ‘It was me. I wrote it, Dewi. I wrote it. It was me.’
No answer at the door so she tied the dog to the gatepost, put her gloves back on, removed the worst shards of glass from the window-frame and then climbed inside through the gaping hole. The entire house was in chaos. Everything smelled acrid; a mixture of Marlboro’s, old booze and cheap, pine-flavoured household detergent.
Josephine slowly plotted herself a route down the passageway, clambering unsteadily over piles of black refuse sacks, peeking timorously into an old study, a bathroom, and then finally locating Katherine in her bedroom – as neat and clean as Dewi had described it – where she was sitting – crosslegged – on her bed, sipping what looked like crème de menthe from an old-fashioned brandy balloon.
‘I really should kill you,’ Katherine glanced up from the book she was reading, patently unfazed at seeing Josephine standing there, ‘for spreading that evil lie about me.’
She stared at her – po-faced – for three straight seconds, then burst out laughing.
Josephine drew a deep breath. She looked down at her feet. She was shaking. ‘Go to hell,’ she muttered.
‘Well that was certainly…
uh…
’ Katherine leaned over and scrabbled around on the floor by her bed for a piece of paper, picked it up, straightened it out, inspected it, ‘that was certainly very…
uh… altruistic
of you, Josephine,’ she said, ‘and very…’ she inspected the letter again, ‘very
sisterly.
To take the blame like that,’ she smiled with a kind of vicious joy, ‘after all this time.’
Jo shook her head, refusing to be intimidated. ‘That’s the last time I’m going to lie,’ she said, ‘for you, your dad, for me, for anybody. I came here to tell you that I don’t want to lie any more. I won’t. I don’t care what the consequences are. I can’t and I
shan’t.
’
Katherine looked mildly surprised by this outburst. ‘Whyever not?’
‘Because it’s cruel. It’s gone too far. It was bad enough already before Wesley took it to another level with the book…’
‘
Good,
’ Katherine snorted, ‘you know how I
thrive
on the notoriety…’
‘Do you?’ Josephine gave her a searching look.
Katherine maintained her gaze for a few seconds, but couldn’t hold it, turned her eyes away, furtively.
‘You saved your dad’s career. You protected me. You tested yourself,
and
Dewi. I don’t care why you did what you did back then, and I don’t give a damn about what you’ve since become. I’ll always… I’ll
always
admire you for it.’
Katherine shrugged, ‘Too little. Too late.’ She sipped on her drink, pulled a face at the harsh taste, ‘And Dewi won’t swallow it,’ she gasped, ‘the truth always has a particular kind of…’ she ruminated, frowning, ‘of immediacy, don’t you think? A
glow.
He’ll recognise it, eventually. You’re just prolonging his agony this way.’
Jo shook her head, ‘The truth is just another fact – you of
all
people should know that.’ Katherine merely smiled and turned down the corner on the page of her book.
‘I honestly thought my brothers wrote that graffiti,’ Josephine continued, watching her dispassionately, ‘I haven’t exchanged a word with my family in over fourteen years because of it. I never dared show my face in Canvey again, I was so
fucking
ashamed and disgusted by what had happened.’
‘God knows,’ Katherine rolled her eyes, dramatically, ‘I’m almost dying with remorse here.’ She burst out laughing again. She seemed slightly hysterical. Drunk, maybe.
‘Dewi’s leaving,’ Jo said coldly, ‘he’s packing up his pick-up and he’s going.’
‘Good,’ Katherine smacked her lips.
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Yes I do. Screw the fool. I don’t
care.
I hope I never see him again. He was always such a fucking
drag.
Unlike…’ she continued smartly, flapping the letter at her again, ‘our
dear
friend Mr Arthur Young, who turned out to be quite the most
charming
creature. And a remarkable
fuck.
And a
fantastic
liar.’
Jo frowned, ‘I don’t understand. Why should that matter?’
Katherine’s pale eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Because you sent me this letter. Southend postmark. Warning me off. You’re mixed up to your silly
neck
in all this unsavoury Wesley mess. Probably felt a
tweak
of conscience over the graffiti stuff in the book, and it developed from there. You were always such a trainspotter, Bean. I think that’s why my dad took pity on you. He had an MA in Industrial Engineering, after all.’
Josephine scowled and put out her hand for the letter. Katherine sipped on her drink and then passed it over. Jo rapidly read through it. When she’d finished, she looked up, ‘Why on earth would I have sent you this?’
Katherine shrugged, ‘Therein lies the mystery, Bean. The rest I can
just
about get my head around…’
‘The rest of what?’
‘
Gumble.
’ Katherine held up her book, smiling like a cat.
Josephine blinked, focussed, drew closer. ‘What is it?’
‘Kid’s book. I dug it out of Wesley’s rucksack.
Gumbles
are these silly, squidgy little creatures who get shoved into tin cans and bullied and manipulated…’
‘This is
Wesley’s
book?’ Josephine looked astonished, reached out her hand. But Katherine refused to let her have it.
‘I also found…’ Katherine opened the book and removed a marker from inside it – a photo. This she did pass over. Josephine stared at the picture of the brown-haired girl, turned it, read the back.