Crustaceans (6 page)

Zoë and my father didn't have arguments – not like I was used to – but increasingly our meals passed in silence. My father began drinking earlier each day. In the evenings he stared at the television; often he returned to the barn with a bottle. Zoë never went after him, and gave no sign that she'd noticed his leaving. Whatever his mood, she remained cheerful with me. His work, she explained, wasn't going too well, so we mustn't upset him. But it seemed she couldn't find enough things to do, and her visits became shorter, less frequent. My father had no use for her now in his studio. Why waste your time? he shrugged. Why waste yours? she replied; you can't force it. She pressed him to come out with us, and suggested places we might go to. But still he said nothing – he wouldn't be persuaded – and I was glad when Zoë stopped trying. I sensed he was becoming impatient; soon enough he'd get angry.

Then finally, in February, she bought me a budgie. It was there in the kitchen when I came in from school, blue-breasted, white-faced, its wings rippled grey. It sat as if clipped to its perch, a blue dot on each cheek, a red metal ring on its ankle. We stood and admired it. The cage, Zoë told me, had belonged to her grandmother. My father had made the stand that afternoon. He placed an arm round my shoulder, the other round Zoë's, and wondered aloud what we should call it. Mickey, I said, which was my grandfather's name, what his friends called him. Mickey, he confirmed. Then, constricting his voice, he trilled to the bird,
Mickey Michael! Mickey Michael! Mickey Michael!
The budgie didn't move and he started to laugh. Zoë bit her fingernail. She didn't look happy. There had been other gifts – small wooden toys, a kite with long trailing ribbons, and a multicoloured hat that she'd knitted herself – but this, I told her, was my favourite. Good, she said, nodding; I'm glad. Then she turned and went from the room.

A few nights after that I woke to the sound of her crying. I thought for a moment I was hearing my mother, and disorientated, I climbed from the wrong side of my bed. I couldn't find my way to the door and stood still in the darkness. I listened. I'm not
hap
-py! Zoë yelled; I've already
told
you! Her footsteps crossed the landing below me, the bathroom door slammed and she fastened the latch. A little while later my father rattled the handle, whispered her name. He knocked, and called louder, and then he shouted, You are
not!
and forced the door open, I suppose with his shoulder. I got back into bed and burrowed under my blankets. I covered my head with a pillow.

The next morning there were splinters in the door-frame; the bolt-bracket and screws still lay on the floor. I picked them up to give to my father. The only sounds at breakfast came from the budgie, pecking at the bars of its cage, constantly chirping. Zoë collected her bag and said she'd better be going. My father followed her out to the hall; and then Zoë hurried back in to hug me. But none of this was unusual – Zoë, I knew, had her own place to go to – and weeks would pass before I realised she wouldn't be coming again. A pair of her earrings remained in the kitchen. When finally I showed them to my father he nodded. Keep them in your bedroom, he said, and went out to his studio. I hung them in the cage for the budgie to play with.

TEN

I woke from troubling dreams to Ruth's soft tread on the boards, the creak of the wardrobe, her coat-hangers jangling, and rolled on to my belly, as though to embrace her. I raised one knee and stretched out an arm. I breathed her scent in the pillows and felt the warmth she had left there. She laid some clothes on the bed. Her underwear drawer slid open, clunked shut. She parted the curtains. It was a weekday morning, some time after seven, and the sun glared back from the clockface. It shone too from her jewellery, clustered next to the clock, her tangle of earrings and bracelets and chains. Heavy-limbed and lethargic, I tried to remember which day this was, and what chores lay ahead, and as I drifted again into sleep I heard you talking in the room next to ours, your nonsense. I heard the lift in Ruth's voice as she went through to greet you. The first half-hour of your day was always spent in her company, before she went off to work. The rest, until six, would be mine.

You were eighteen months old then, a handful, and constantly mobile, and as I think of you now it seems you ran everywhere, planting your feet as if breaking a fall, tilting, lurching ahead, forever trying to escape me. It seems I spent my days chasing you, and I remember the tantrums – your shattering screams – whenever I caught you. I remember the nights on end when we woke to your wailing, and the days of fretful complaining, your fevers and colds. Often, I know, I was bored, and yet rarely for a moment free of your needs, the work you demanded. There was the long labour of getting you dressed, and the mess that you caused, the smears and spillages and trails of food, the cupboards repeatedly emptied, and the bins and pot-plants upended. I remember the churn of the washing-machine, and the piles of clothes to be ironed, the mop in the hallway, your nappies. Every other task I began was left uncompleted – our walls half stripped of their paper, the ceilings half painted – for nothing much held your interest for long; soon enough I would have to return to you, abandon whatever I'd started. Our house was a shambles, and even when you were sleeping your presence remained – in your buggy and toys and discarded clothes, the scribbles and daubs that I'd pinned to the walls, the crayons I trod on. Everything then seemed to breathe with your energy, whilst I could barely stop yawning.

I remember all this, and my frustration – the fits of complaining to Ruth – and yet I know too that I'd never been happier, more at home in myself. I liked being your father. I was what you'd made me, and often as I looked after you, played my part in your life, I would wonder what you'd later recall of these days, how much would stay with you. It was a time when you lost as much as you learned. A word spoken one day would be forgotten the next; a toy removed from under your nose would hardly be missed. One passing event succeeded another – leaving no mark, it seemed, on your memory – and of course I wanted to preserve it all for you. My camera, permanently cocked on the shelf by the fireplace, had caught the moment you first walked, aged almost one, your arms outstretched in your sleepsuit; and then later, wearing only your nappy, fleeing from Ruth in the garden. It had captured you naked, gazing down at your willy as you peed on the floor of the kitchen, and again as you stood on our bed, blotched all over with spots. There were photographs of you crying, and feeding from Ruth, asleep on her shoulder, and so many more of you smiling. But it is the photographs now I recall, and rarely the moments. One day's traumas were resolved and forgotten; your sudden achievements were soon taken for granted. What remained was the continuing fact of our life together, and of course my camera couldn't capture that.

The albums now are with Ruth, and though I can remember the sequence of pages, and the notes I pencilled into the margins, what comes to me more often and clearly is waking again that July morning to find you standing beside me, cheerfully babbling, gesticulating, and the momentary pause when you realised I'd woken, the crease in your brow. You gave a sharp squeal, and ran to the end of the bed. You barked something at Ruth and returned. You widened your arms to be lifted. C'mon? you said, nodding; Daddy, c'mon? No, I replied, and rolled into the dip of the mattress, across to my own side of the bed. I heard the pat of your feet as you followed me round, and blearily watched as Ruth slipped out of her nightshirt, pulled it free in one movement. The tea she'd placed on the floor was stewed and lukewarm and it spilled down my chin as I drank. You were tugging my arm, clambering to get onto the bed, and when at last you started to whine I lifted you onto my belly; I held your chest in my broad hands. Your hair was soft and unruly and curled back from your collar. I saw Ruth's blue-green eyes in yours, the dark arch of her eyebrows, her father's cleft in your chin. You were no weight at all, and when I raised you into the air, held you over my head like a trophy, I remember Ruth smiled, her glance meeting mine in the mirror. I remember she zipped up her skirt, turned it round on her hips, and came over to kiss me, as she would every morning, though this time she lingered. She lay down on the bed and nestled against me; she made herself late for work.

ELEVEN

Ruth's home at the start was a barracks three miles from the coast. Fields of beet grew where once there'd been an airstrip. The students occupied buildings still painted for camouflage; a few grey pillboxes watched the horizon. She shared a kitchen and bathroom with four other girls, caught the same bus in the mornings, drank with them some evenings, but never felt sure that they liked her. Half-way through our first term she moved to a house in the town, and moved again in the second year, once more in the third. Each time she was invited, for Ruth always had friends, other people to be with, and wherever we went – trawling pubs for companions, calling unannounced at their houses, gatecrashing parties – she always slipped in before me. And then I would lose her. She wouldn't speak to a crowd, but withdrew into corners, private conversations like ours, and sometimes – as I looked on – her eyes would catch mine and she'd frown, as though surprised to find me still there, or disturbed I was watching. I'd sense something then of how it might be when she left me.

But I was happy to watch her. Ruth's hair was fine and very straight and she tucked it repeatedly behind her ears as she listened. When she smiled she became self-conscious, dipping her head as she reached for a glass or her cigarette, allowing her hair to slide forward. Often she sat with one knee drawn to her chin, her arms wrapped tight round her leg, or else eased off her shoes and drew both legs beneath her, almost kneeling, even in pubs, as though curled up on a sofa at home. She made others feel comfortable, and interesting, but always claimed she felt awkward, burdened by what she was told and exposed by what she'd revealed. Walking back to my flat she would cling to my arm and fret about all she had said and not said. Then in my room she'd sit smoking in silence on the edge of the bed, until finally, with a sigh or a groan, she'd stub out her cigarette and come back to me. It was usually then that she'd tell me she loved me. I didn't always want to believe her.

When our time as undergraduates ended there was a party in her house near the college. A short while before it began we sat alone in a pub called the Hurricane, the door wedged open beside us, sunlight glinting from the barrels outside in the yard. Soon most of our friends would be leaving – returning home or travelling abroad, starting jobs, new courses, or moving to London. One couple was going to get married. Ruth had a place at the Royal College. I'd carried her portfolio down to the interview, and I'd helped to write her application. I hadn't had any plans for myself, and hadn't known what to say when she received her acceptance. The letter now lay on the table before us. I read it again, and folded it neatly, and pushed it back in its envelope. I propped it next to her glass. I really thought you'd be pleased, she said quietly, and I shrugged, then lifted my drink. I am, I replied; it's good. It's just what you wanted, I said.

The lounge was narrow and empty, low-ceilinged, and as I gazed around at the walls, at the red leather benches and stools, polished tables and ashtrays, I thought of waiting rooms, the coach station, and wished all this could be over. I fixed my eyes on a painting near to the bar, a fighter-plane skimming the sea, sandy cliffs in the distance, metallic grey waves. The frame was white, beaded gold, and it hung from a picture rail. It was slightly askew. I angled my head, and knew – from Ruth's silence beside me, her stillness – that she was crying. We ought to get going, I said; but Ruth didn't move. When she turned to face me I looked down at my glass. Have you ever loved me? she asked then; and surprised, I nodded. You've never once said so, she said. From the other room came a murmur of men's voices, the click of the balls on the pool table. I was frightened you'd leave me, I finally told her.

The evening was warm, a scent of blossom and tar in the air, gulls perched on the rooftops. We trailed towards a main road, our steps sluggish, unsteady with drink, and Ruth said, I just thought you'd want to come with me, Paul. I wouldn't have applied otherwise. It doesn't make sense. You can't just go back to your grandma's. You can't go back to all that and spend the rest of your life waiting for the next thing to happen. It's stupid. We're supposed to be an
us.
We paused at a crossing, my hand clammy in hers, and she said, I'm not going to walk out on you, Paul. I'm not. You have to take a chance on that … The sun was bright in my eyes, her face indistinct, and I felt the dry blast of a truck as it passed us, breathed the exhaust. I looked down at my feet, the splats of glaze on my boots, the moss dividing the kerbstones. Paul? she said then. What? Say something, she said. I hear you, I murmured, and stepped into the road.

But of course I had not heard her, I was not listening, for always I'd assumed the future would decide itself for me – there would be no choices, no need to act; Ruth would move on and I would not prevent her – and when at last we reached the door to her house we separated, nothing more spoken between us. In each of the rooms there were people, packed boxes, empty bookshelves, and spaces on the wall where once there'd been posters. As I stood amongst the crowd in the kitchen, watching the slow twist of beer from the keg on the table, Ruth reached across me, her hand touching my shoulder, and took away a bottle of wine. When later we crossed on the stairs I smiled, or tried to, and she stroked my arm as she went by, quickly descending. In the press of the hallway we came face to face, and I turned sideways, her back brushing mine as she edged through. In the living room I watched as she listened to one of our tutors, his arm outstretched to the wall, pinning her in, and I felt sorry for her. Then some time after midnight, making my way to the toilet, I passed her bedroom, heard laughter, several voices, and realised how sorry I felt for myself.