Authors: Rebecca Tope
‘No, David.’ Jodie gripped him tightly on the upper arm. ‘No, we don’t. Even if Jim was poisoned, we know that wouldn’t be the sort of thing you’d do. These people are completely out of order. They know they haven’t got a leg to
stand on, or they’d have gone to the police.’ She turned to face Drew. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
Drew hesitated.
‘Isn’t it?’ she demanded again.
‘Try to see it from my point of view,’ he began. ‘If we cremated a man who’d been murdered, how do you think we’d feel afterwards?’
‘It’s absolutely none of your
business
,’ Jodie shouted. ‘You’re just the people who dispose of the body. It’s not for you to go poking your nose in. You don’t know us, you don’t know anything about us. All you’re doing is causing trouble for people who are distressed enough as it is.’
She was still clutching David’s arm. Monica and Philip stood awkwardly, their eyes fixed on Drew’s face.
‘You’re right,’ said Drew, blinking hard. ‘But—’
‘Just go, will you. If you think you’ve got a case, then take it to the police. You should have done that at the start, if you thought it was suspicious about Jim’s death. Otherwise, go home and forget all about us. Your conscience is
your
problem, not ours.’
‘Hear, hear,’ mumbled David. He pulled his arm out of Jodie’s grip. ‘Well said, Jode.’
With scant dignity, Drew and Karen left the house. Behind them, the slammed door sent shockwaves down the short path to the street. A
bird which must have been on the roof sent up an alarmed squawk.
They drove away slowly, reluctantly. It didn’t feel like an escape, after all, but more like a slow withdrawal from a scene of a battle.
‘Can we stop at a pub?’ Karen asked, after a mile or so. ‘I need a loo, for one thing.’
‘It’s only four o’clock. Most of them won’t be open.’
‘The King’s Head will. They’ll be watching football. And quite honestly, I don’t care what time it is. I need a drink.’
‘So do I, but it’ll have to wait till we get home. A pub is the last place I want to be right now.’
‘Humour me,’ she begged. ‘I just feel like having some nice, cheerful, ordinary people around me for a bit. I don’t want to take these yukky feelings home with me. Okay?’
‘Well, I suppose I know what you mean. That wasn’t very pleasant, was it.’
‘We were completely out of order. We are never
ever
going to do anything like that again. I don’t know what we were thinking of.’
‘Thanks for the
we
, anyway,’ he said. They exchanged wan smiles.
The King’s Head was open, as predicted, and they sat in a corner, where the loud volume from the wall-mounted television was at least
bearable. Drew bought Karen a half-pint of Guinness, carefully making no reference to its reputation regarding pregnant women. They watched the congregation of football fans cheering and groaning in unison, eyes glued fixedly on the big screen on a high shelf.
The match was almost over. The final minutes seemed to be anticlimactic, and as soon as the whistle blew, the landlord turned the set off. The ensuing momentary silence was almost painful. Drew nodded to Karen, suggesting they leave.
As they stood up, a sudden burst of loud conversation came from the football fans. Karen and Drew both clearly heard the word
Lapsford
. Trying to appear casual, they lingered, in the hope of hearing more.
The barman was speaking. ‘Oh yeah, there’ll be plenty of folks that’ll miss old Jim in here,’ he said. ‘More long faces this past few days than when Bradbourne Rovers folded.’ He winked at a man in front of him. ‘Your Lorraine for one, Frank. Looks like a wet weekend, she does.’
The man being addressed became the object of attention. His features froze, and he seemed to have trouble taking the next breath. Then he gave a forced guffaw. ‘Nothing to do with old Jim. That’s because she’s wishing herself back in Cyprus. Fantastic time we had. Plus, well,
it’s a bit soon to say for sure, but she’s maybe feeling a bit of morning sickness, as well. That’ll be all it is.’ He worked his shoulders, and tried to look modest and proud all at the same time. One of his companions grasped the meaning of his words ahead of all the others.
‘Hey! That’s good news,’ he said, too loudly. ‘Time your little girl had some company.’
The barman perceived his mistake, and busied himself with collecting empty glasses. Drew and Karen made their exit thoughtfully. Outside he said, ‘So that’s Frank Dunlop.’
‘Whose wife is pregnant, damn her. Am I missing something significant?’
‘A bit of gossip, that’s all,’ he said uncomfortably, before changing the subject. ‘Was I right in understanding David Lapsford to say that Jim was not his natural father?’
‘That appeared to be the gist of it, yes.’
‘Then maybe our afternoon hasn’t been a total write-off, after all.’
‘That’s where I beg to differ. Drew, we’ve got to
stop
all this, right now. That Jodie person was right. It’s none of our business. Take me home, and don’t talk to me about Jim Lapsford ever again.’
‘I wonder where Monica is,’ said Dottie, when she came in from the back garden, late that evening. ‘There aren’t any lights on in the house.’
‘With those sons of hers, most likely,’ replied Sarah. ‘Or her friend. Maybe she got lonely.’
‘Her phone’s been ringing ever since early afternoon. Somebody’s anxious to get hold of her.’
‘Nothing we can do about it, is there?’ Sarah was trying to finish her library book before going to bed. She had felt at a loose end on Saturday nights since her long-ago girlhood days had sown the habit of going out to a film or a dance – a habit which she had not been able to pursue for the past forty years or more. Even now, it felt as if she was missing something.
‘I still think it’s a bit odd. It’s almost half past ten, and I’m sure she wasn’t carrying an overnight bag when she went out.’ Dottie’s brow buckled with worry. ‘I don’t know, Sarah. Everything feels wrong, somehow. I feel all unsettled, since that young couple were here.’
Sarah raised her eyes to the ceiling, in a parody of prayer. ‘I won’t say it,’ she sighed.
‘That’s a relief. I can do without your superior remarks. No, but really, shouldn’t we
do
something? At least we might telephone one of her sons, just to check.’
‘That would be gross interference. The woman’s just lost her husband – doesn’t she deserve some peace? She’s probably safely tucked up in Philip’s spare room. It’s the weekend. She
doesn’t have to be anywhere tomorrow, and I imagine the days are passing very slowly for the poor thing at the moment. She won’t want you disturbing her.’
Dottie dithered, looking yet again out of the front window, onto the dimly-lit street. ‘Oh, all right,’ she conceded. ‘I suppose I am getting worked up over nothing.’
A car outside drew her attention. ‘Another caller!’ she exclaimed.
A man jumped out and ran up Monica’s garden path. ‘Somebody else worrying about her, from the look of it,’ Dottie commented, with some satisfaction.
Sarah came to join her at the window. ‘It’s that boyfriend of hers,’ she said, disbelief filling her voice. ‘What a cheek! Talk about blatant – at this time of night!’
‘Well, at least we know she isn’t with him,’ said Dottie.
The man was banging on the door, then standing back to look up at the front bedroom. ‘Monica!’ he called. It was some minutes before he gave up.
‘Oh, this is ridiculous,’ Dottie decided, and went to her own front door. She opened it, and stepped outside, to speak to the man on the next path.
‘She’s not there,’ she told him. ‘She’s been out all day. Was it something urgent?’
‘Oh … Ah …’ he stammered. ‘Well, not really. I just … I’ve been telephoning all afternoon. Then I tried again a little while ago, and was worried that she might be – ill, or something. Silly, really.’
‘I don’t think she’s ill,’ came Sarah’s voice, from behind Dottie. ‘She’s a free agent, I suppose.’
Dottie tutted over her shoulder. ‘Actually,’ she confided to the man, ‘we were a little worried ourselves. It is rather unlike her to be out so late.’
‘Dottie!’ Sarah hissed.
The man sucked his teeth in a moment of embarrassed indecision. ‘Well, never mind,’ he said. ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly ordinary explanation.’
‘Good night, then,’ said Sarah firmly. ‘Come in, Dottie. There isn’t anything at all to worry about.’
There was a definite tang of autumn in the air that morning, especially to Roxanne in her poorly-insulated caravan. On awaking, soon after seven, she looked out of the window, and glimpsed a bright red leaf on a straggle of bramble which had grown across the glass during the summer. There was little birdsong to be heard, and the sky was pink-tinged, a warning of rain to come.
‘Bloody hell,’ she groaned. ‘Bloody Sunday already.’
A sense of foreboding hung over her; she huddled under the duvet, wishing she could go back to sleep and forget the whole day. Until this week, Sundays had often seen a visit from Jim,
in the late morning, when Monica thought he was out walking the dog before lunch. Well, he
was
walking the dog – all the way to Roxanne’s field and back. Mostly he would just stay for twenty minutes, the sex all the more exciting for being brief. She tingled now, just thinking about it.
The coming winter occupied a lot of Roxanne’s thoughts. Living outdoors became a serious matter once the autumn rains set in. It called for real determination to stick it out in the flimsy caravan, listening to water pouring off the roof, watching it drip through the invisible crevices around the windows. She was weaving a thick wool blanket on a frame loom, from fleece that she’d acquired last shearing time. It would need four separate pieces, stitched together, and so far she had only completed two and a half of them. She had onions, carrots, winter cabbage, sprouts, all growing in the illegal garden she’d created behind the caravan. The plethora of official objections to her lifestyle had included pages of outrage at her ‘change of land use’ from arable farm to vegetables, which was domestic and therefore strictly forbidden. She had promised solemnly that she would not create a garden, and hoped this would satisfy them. Until the next official visit, all would be well.
All her life, she had instinctively lived for the day without worrying about the future. Meeting Jim Lapsford and finding he shared her philosophy had reinforced this approach considerably. But now she was forced to confront the coming months of cold and privation without Jim’s comradeship. She knew she could do it, but the idealistic gloss had been wiped from it, and the prospect of loneliness loomed unpleasantly.
It was odd the way Sundays always found her depressed and lethargic. When every day of the week was scarcely different from any other, why, she wondered, did Sundays stand out so horribly? It wasn’t just the absence of Jim – she’d hated Sunday for decades, before she even met him. She’d played tricks with herself, pretending it was a different day, but there were too many inescapable reminders. The church bells rang out all too audibly; the traffic passing the gate of her field followed a different timetable; something in the very air was heavy and quiet with Sabbath gloom.
Today would have been miserable, anyway, of course. The news of Craig’s suicide had appalled her. They had driven to the hospital, where the discoloured body had been shown them in a room to which she had paid no attention; except that she would always remember the peculiar
chromium pipe that disappeared into the floor in one corner. She had stared fixedly at that pipe, while Pauline cradled her dead son. Pauline’s fingernails had left purple marks on the back of her hand, from the unrelenting grip during the drive to the hospital, and she still felt the throb of the horrified headache which had begun the moment the policeman on the doorstep had spilled out his message.
She hadn’t wanted to leave last night, but Pauline had insisted, saying she just wanted to crawl into bed and let everything wait until morning. Roxanne had walked through the near-dark lanes, stumbling into the cold caravan and throwing herself onto the untidy bed, knowing there was little chance of sleep. The night had been full of screams and croaks from unidentified creatures outside.
The warbling phone dragged her back to wakefulness as she lay there, refusing to face the day. Wishing she’d switched it off, as she very often did, she groped irritably for the receiver. Before she had time to speak, a rush of distress filled her ear. She felt a horrible sense of
déjà vu
– or
déjà écouté
, to be more accurate. Her sister was babbling, half hoping that Roxanne would assure her that Craig hadn’t really died, that it had all been a grotesque dream. When she could do nothing but gently insist that it was still as
true today as it had been last night, the resulting sobs were terrible to hear.
‘Look, Paul,’ she interrupted, ‘the phone is no way to talk about it. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes. Okay?’
‘No,’ sobbed the voice. ‘I’ve got to go out. I can’t bear being here. How could he
do
it, Rox? What on earth was he thinking of? Right there, beside the road. Why didn’t somebody
stop
him?’
‘Has anybody told Susie?’
‘Susie can wait,’ came the snarling reply. ‘Susie and her precious dad are the cause of all this.’
Roxanne made wordless soothing noises. ‘Well, don’t do anything until I get there,’ she said. ‘If you’re going out, then I’m coming with you.’
Pauline didn’t seem to have heard. A fresh burst of weeping broke out, with barely discernible words interspersed between the sobs. ‘It
hurts
, Rox. I can’t tell you how much it hurts. Right through me – real pain. Nobody tells you that.’
‘I know.’
Pauline’s thick voice fell silent, and Roxanne shared with her a contemplation of the senselessness of what had happened.
‘You’re lucky, you know that, not having any kids. Fucking lucky.’
Roxanne closed her eyes, and breathed deep. ‘Okay, Paul.’ She spoke more gently than she felt. ‘I’ll see you in a while, whether you want me or not. Bye.’ She hit the green button on the phone before her sister could say any more.
Roxanne knew something about suicide and its reasons. She knew that people did it mainly out of rage or a wish to punish another person. She remembered that pure, childlike passion of fury which grips you so tight you’d do anything to work it out of you. When nobody will listen, when the world conspires against you, making you fail again and again, until you can see them all crossing the street to avoid the contagion of your despair – then the idea of killing yourself quickly gains in appeal. What had Pauline said about Craig doing it in full public view? Oh yes, there was an obvious logic in that, now she gave it some thought. Defying the world to save him – making the point so powerfully that nobody could ignore it.
Here I am
, he’d said
at the very end of my rope, and not one of you cares enough to press the brake on your car
. And there he’d dangled, for long enough to break his neck or choke his windpipe. And nobody had cut him down until it was too late.
She got dressed slowly, brushing away the stinging tears with the back of her hand. It was too quiet, too conducive to destructive
thoughts, in the lonely caravan. ‘Jim!’ she said aloud. ‘Where are you now, when I need you?’ Jim would have sat with her, holding her hand, smoothing away the misery.
You have to let people go
, he would have said.
If Craig was set on killing himself, nobody could have stopped him
. For all his sweet ways and willing kindness, Jim had had a sliver of ice in his heart. When it came down to it, Roxanne had known he lived for himself and nobody else. A man who could share himself out around three or more women at a time clearly had no commitment to genuine intimacy. Roxanne knew, or thought she did, what had made him this way. It was oddly close to her own story, and the sense of their lives running on parallel lines was one of the things she had most valued in their affair. Jim, like her, had loved one person above all others, and had lost that person.
He had talked about her a lot – the way she had died, the last thing she’d said to him, the fact that nobody else understood him as she did. ‘Nothing’s been the same since Julia died,’ he said once.
Roxanne had nodded. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘There’s probably only one person in any given lifetime who can do that for us. We spend the rest of our time trying to prove it otherwise, but we never quite manage it.’
‘A bit more complicated when it’s your sister,’ he had grimaced. ‘People don’t understand that too well.’
She hadn’t asked him any questions. She hadn’t needed to. It was enough that Julia had become ill and died. Probably did Jim a favour, if he’d only admit it, Roxanne thought privately.
Having hacked herself a piece of bread, baked in the rickety caravan stove, and dashed a thick layer of that summer’s strawberry jam over it, she went to open the door. It must be nearly ten by now, she calculated. Any early mist had long since cleared and it was a sharply bright day, despite the warning pink sky. She’d told Pauline she would hurry to her side, but now she felt reluctant to do so. Once there, all would be despair and misery again. Here in the field, she could pretend there was nobody in the world but her and the bullocks, everything else an hallucination.
She followed the meandering path leading to the field gate, and stood for a moment, looking back. The path became more clearly marked every day, trodden by Roxanne herself and her visitors. Something told her that there’d be more than one set of feet to tread down yet more encroaching grass, before the day was over.
* * *
Monica had the television on, as she slowly got herself some breakfast. The silence in the house had been unbearable, and the raucous merriment coming from the box at least gave the illusion of company. The absence of Jim was a tangible thing. Not just the empty place in the bed, but the silence where his voice had been, and the very pressure of his presence. Their marriage had been a minefield of mutual secrets, carefully shielded not so much for the damage they might do directly, but the uncomfortable shift in the delicate balance of power which any revelation would have caused. Nonetheless she would have done a lot to have him back again.
She and Jodie had stayed all Saturday evening at David’s, cleaning the flat for him, cooking supper, talking about Julia. Once the dam of secrecy had been breached, Monica had indulged in an ecstasy of reminiscence. She had described the onset of Julia’s disease – multiple sclerosis being diagnosed when she was twenty-seven, forcing her to abandon her much-loved job as an air stewardess. Monica, newly married to Jim, and unprepared for the emotional turmoil of Julia’s illness, had chosen to concentrate on her new baby – Philip – and hope that Jim would eventually recover a sense of proportion. When Julia announced that she was pregnant, although by then weak in her
legs, and unable to support herself financially, Jim became even more distressed. ‘We’ll take the baby,’ he insisted. ‘You can see him as much as you like, but there’s no way you’ll be able to care for him yourself.’ Julia had been very content with that arrangement.
At first Jim hadn’t known the identity of Julia’s lover. She had no obvious association with anybody, and flatly refused to explain herself. Only gradually did Monica realise that he had either guessed or been told, but he never shared the secret. ‘It wouldn’t be fair,’ he’d said. ‘David is ours now. Nobody is going to argue with that.’
Julia died when her baby was almost two, sooner than anyone expected. A few months later, the baby was formally adopted. Jim’s grief slowly abated, helped enormously by the presence of Julia’s child. ‘But you were never an easy baby,’ Monica told David. ‘It was a difficult birth, and they weren’t sure that you’d live, at first. And I suppose your first year must have had some effect. Julia insisted on having you with her for whole days, every two or three weeks, but she couldn’t do much more than just hold you. You must have been very confused as to who your real mother was. It was a long time before I felt you were truly mine.’
David had listened calmly. Jodie had held
his hand, her own reactions to the revelations causing some tears to flow. ‘I wish I’d known,’ she said. ‘Why did Jim make you keep it a secret?’
‘He couldn’t bear to have Julia’s name mentioned,’ Monica explained. ‘He carried her around inside himself, and nobody was ever allowed to talk about her. David would have asked questions, wanted to see pictures.’
‘So he was protecting himself from pain,’ supplied Jodie. ‘Selfish, really.’
Monica had had no choice but to agree.
But this morning she felt calmer. She carried some toast and coffee into the living room, where the television was still on. A short news summary was halfway through when she caught the name
Craig Rawlinson
, uttered in the carefully sensitive tones that accompanied bad news. ‘What?’ she said out loud. ‘What about Craig?’ But the scene had shifted to the local football club’s current performance, and all that remained was an impression of calamity. She scanned her memory for whatever words might have lodged there. Had they said ‘no suspicious circumstances’? She thought so. Choking with disbelief, fear, horror, she wondered what she should do. The simple thing was to phone Pauline and ask. Why was
the simple thing always so impossible to do?
If Craig was dead, she realised, then Pauline would no longer be her chief support and mainstay. She, Monica, would have to look after Pauline, instead. The loss of a son was considered far worse than the loss of a husband. The idea was not appealing; her inclination was to run away, hide from this new wave of grief and confusion. If Craig was dead, his timing could not have been worse. She found herself clutching her hands together, the fingers rigidly interlocked. The next unbidden thought did a little to loosen them.
It could have been David
, it said.
You thought yesterday that it might have been David
. And then she made the link.
That body yesterday, just cut down from the tree, causing the traffic jam, that must have been Craig. She should have known it was him, from the start. Those boots – she ought to have recognised them. And even though Craig was the son of her friend, a boy she had watched grow up and had in her house a thousand times, she rejoiced that it was he who was dead, and not her own dear David.