Authors: Trezza Azzopardi
Someone did a chalk drawing of Homer Simpson next to
the Cerne Abbas giant, says William, I saw it on the news. It
was quite funny, he was holding a doughnut. The Druids were
in uproar.
Now that would have been worth seeing, she says, A Druid
in uproar. How’re things?
William nods, blinking rapidly, licks his lips. Alison waits. She’d
never heard him sound as tense as he did last night when he
rang her, and now she can feel his leg bouncing under the
table, keeping time to some hectic inner rhythm.
Awful, says William, He’s pretty bad. I don’t know what to
do.
Have you spoken to anyone else? she says, at last catching
the attention of a waitress. As the woman approaches, William
drops his voice.
He’s refusing to see the doctor. Ali, he’s refusing to see
anyone. He’s got . . . this . . . thing.
She hands the waitress her coffee cup and orders a pot of tea
for two.
Can’t wreck tea, can they? This
love
thing, is that what you
mean? she says, You did mention it. But I thought the girl had
vanished?
Not in here, says William, tapping his chest, You know what
he’s like when he gets fixated on something. Well, he’s worse
than ever. Paranoid. And bonkers to boot. I think he may do
himself some damage. Last week when I was there, he went
swimming.
Alison shrugs, until he tells her it was in the river, and then
she grins.
Oh, he’s just trying to wind you up. Succeeding too, I’d say.
Again, the table vibrates steadily to an unseen count.
If your father wants to drown himself, let him.
William fixes his eyes on her, waits for her to relent.
You didn’t see him, Ali.
Exactly. And haven’t since that girl showed up. D’you know,
Will, I don’t think I care any more what happens to him. I’ve
known your father for nearly ten years, and we’ve been close
in that time.
William looks at Alison’s face, sees the blush growing beneath
the make-up as she lowers her voice.
But never quite close enough. He’s always had the brakes
on with me, always kept me here—
She puts an arm out in front of her,
– And then along comes little Pippi Longstocking, with
those cow eyes, and suddenly, I’m ancient history.
Must hurt, he says.
She tilts her head sideways; her own resentment has caught her
out.
I suppose I’ve always known, she sighs, Men are such idiots
when it comes to love. They haven’t got a clue. I’d leave him
to it if I were you. He gets what he deserves, the vain old twit.
You really think he’s in love? says William.
I’m only going on your reports. You clearly think so. Has
he thought any more about your suggestion?
The hotel? Not a chance. He’d burn the place down first.
It’s hardly fit to live in as it is; if it wasn’t for Freya, he’d be
knee-deep in filth.
And what does all this have to do with me? I told you last
night, I’ve given up trying.
William leans forward, puts on his most appealing face.
I need you to go and see him.
Not a hope, my dear, says Alison, flicking an imaginary
crumb from the table.
Ali, I really think he needs our help. I wouldn’t ask, especially
– given the way he’s been treating you. But it’s not him.
It’s like, like he’s possessed. He’s started smoking cigars, he
drinks all day, and all night from what I can tell. He’s reading
bloody Shakespeare!
Alison lets out a hoot of laughter.
That serious, eh? Any play in particular?
William fishes in his pocket for his phone and presses three
digits. He passes it to her.
Listen, he says.
He studies her face while she puts the phone to her ear, feels
a quiver of satisfaction as her smile falls away.
Sounds like he’s crying, she says.
Go on, he says, motioning for her to keep listening.
After a minute she holds it away from her ear. They stare at
each other as the shouting continues, the wild booming of
Kenneth’s voice trapped inside the handset.
Those are just the ones I’ve kept, he says, taking the phone
out of Alison’s hand, And when I ring him back, he’s absolutely
normal. Doesn’t remember calling half the time.
They are silent for a while, and the cafe is silent too, apart from
the distant clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the clink of china
on metal.
Last time I went over—
He pauses as the waitress brings the tray and lays out the cups
and the milk jug and the teapot,
– he pretended he wasn’t in.
Alison flips the lid on the pot and fishes about inside with a
teaspoon.
Well, maybe he wasn’t, she says, One measly tea bag. Typical.
I could hear him, though. Singing. Some old hymn by the
sound of it.
You could always force him to see a doctor, she says, For his
own safety.
William shoots her a look.
I don’t want to turn him totally against me. I’m all he’s got.
Alison knows better than to correct him. She rests her chin
on her hand, considering.
I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to pop by, she says, Although I
swear, if he behaves badly, it’ll be the last time.
I knew I could rely on you, he says, It’d be such a weight
off my mind. You’re an angel, Ali. Thank you.
She takes a paper napkin from the dispenser and wipes it round
the inside of her cup, angling it to the light and grimacing at
what she sees.
There’s a very nice bar just down the road, Will. Good range
of single malts. Next time you want to entertain
this
angel, I
suggest we meet there.
It sounds like the music Leon used to play on his tabla. The
noise was soft and muted for a little while, but now it’s hard
and rapid, and it’s in the house. Maggie sits up in bed and
listens. This is it, at last. She should have paid more attention:
sandbags at the door, the cows shifted to the barn at the top
of the field. There were men in sou’westers pumping frothy
brown water down the middle of the road, but they’d given
up days ago. These were the signs and she’d chosen to ignore
them. The noise is fierce, insistent, like someone knocking,
wanting to be let in. But then, she’d heard opposing views too;
the villagers talked of nothing else.
Welford’s never flooded in my lifetime, said a woman
queuing at the counter in the petrol station, And it won’t now.
Maggie glanced at the woman, thought she looked ancient
enough to be believed. And then the voice of another, behind
her, which she realized belonged to Mrs Moore.
Yes, Susan, we’ll be all right. Boil your water, mind.
The rain chases down the roof, finding the old cracked slates
and working on them, hammering away until they collapse,
sink sideways, splinter into shards. The rain, throwing itself from
the sky into her house. But there
is
someone knocking. Maggie
pulls on her clothes and pads barefoot to the top of the stairs,
taking comfort in the feel of the boards under her feet, dry
still, and the rug dry, and sees below her a shiver of light
through the glass of the front door, the ripple of a figure. There’s
something not right about it – the figure and the wavering
beam – something dreadful. Something . . . she’s reaching for
the memory and she’s very nearly there . . . of pipe-smoke and
dogs, and the way the light moves, like a sharp edge slicing an
egg.
Maggie, it’s me, shouts Aaron, through the glass.
She reaches for the light switch and flicks it, and the lights go
on and off with a fierce clap. The wall under her fingers is
soaked, the rain running down in a clear sheet.
The river Bourne’s breached, he’s saying, You’ve got to come.
Maggie stays very still.
Aaron raps on the glass with his torch, pushing at the flap
of the oblong letter box so that Maggie has to flatten herself
against the wall to stop herself from seeing his mouth there,
open and wet like a gash in a hole. The rain soaks through her
shirt and she can feel it now, pooling at her feet. Again that
light, dancing on the darkness.
She waits until she hears his truck pull away. Now she can
breathe. Pressed against the wall at the top of the stairs, the
smell is old wallpaper, electricity. She closes her eyes and sees
the torch again cutting its way inside her, and the smell that
follows is spearmint, wet earth, dog.
What he’d wanted to say was, Not everything is as plain as it
seems, not a hundred per cent straight. What you think you
know, you don’t. But then she took fright. Just like her mother,
that one, fear creeping all over her. Except she’s more serious
than her mother, that’s clear enough; more intent in herself.
Nell, she was easy, let things stand. Didn’t like to stir things up.
The way Thomas remembers it, Nell was that happy to be
getting her girl back, there was no questions asked, no fuss.
Not at the start, any road. It didn’t matter who’d found her –
who’d lost her in the first place, that’s what people were saying.
Who’d let her wander off in the middle of the night? Thank
God no harm had come, they said that too. Nell, she was hopeless.
Couldn’t say how it was that her child could just get up
and go off like that, how come there was no lock on the door,
why no police got called. Because she’s been stoned out of her
brains, that’s why, not paying attention, that’s why. Drunk with
that waster with the beard and bongos. That’ll be why.
Thomas considers his supper. Completely lost his appetite
now. He opens the remaining half of his sandwich and removes
a slice of gherkin, tossing it into the fire where it hisses and
sparks. Bramble watches the whole flight of it, trying to intercept
it, immediately switching her hungry eyes back to
Thomas’s fingers. He feeds her a long piece of crust, but even
as she wolfs it down, her attention is on his plate, assessing how
much of the food is left, how much is hers, wanting it all.
You are a beast, he says, smiling.
He’ll admit, his eyesight isn’t so sharp these days. But Maggie’s
a good-looking girl, just like her mum was. Why Nell’d let
herself get dragged down by that Leon is anybody’s guess. He’d
started it. The whole, My daughter’s said this, and My daughter’s
said that, coming round, asking for an explanation, making
threats.
I’ll give you an explanation, says Thomas, alive again to the
argument, and the way he says it makes Bramble slink away to
the sofa.
Try explaining how you think you’re her father, for starters.
Thought it was Edward Crane, ’cause if he ain’t the father,
what’s the woman doing there? Or don’t she even know who
it was? Try keeping a civil tongue in your head when you speak
to me. There’s a word for what you’re doing. Extortion. Don’t
threaten me with the law. There’s only one law that counts,
and that’s God’s own. Take it up with the Earls if you’re so
eager. See where that’ll get you.
Then a visit from Mrs Earl, totally different manner about
her. Perfumed up, smiling. Wanted to know what Thomas knew.
Not speculation, not what village talk says. Complimenting
him on his vigilance. Complimenting him on how nice he’d
made the cottage, how they would simply
hate
to lose him,
despite the business with the dog. Said he wasn’t to worry
about anything, there’d be no police involved; they’d got his
statement and she’d be very grateful if he should stand by it.
The whole family would show how indebted they were to
him for his . . . loyalty. Said she’d speak to Leon too, put him
straight. And everything went tidy after that, after a fashion.
Thomas presses his fingers into his sternum, waiting for the
burn to pass. There’s gherkins for you. When that doesn’t work,
he makes his way down into the kitchen, searching amongst
the boxes and cartons on the table for the tin of liver salts,
feeling the cold water wash against his ankles. She was no fool.
Only Sonny, it was a terrible shame about Sonny. He should
take Bramble upstairs; she never was one for getting her feet
wet. Not like Sonny. He was a proper water hound. Tell him
to go, and he’d be in. He was a hard worker; they both were.
Not like some. Some are born lucky, never have to do a day’s
turn.
Not like us, eh, Sonny, he says to Bramble, Some people get
to live for free, make others do their dirty work. Some people
get to open a nice little shop somewhere on the coast and live
off the profits. Some people don’t know they’re born.
The silence wakes her, and a draught blowing on her face; the
air, cool and dewy, carries a faint tang of the sea. Maggie flies
up from under the mound of blankets to see her bedroom
soaked in light, a curt breeze blowing in. Last night, enduring
hours of unceasing rain, she’d made a decision: went downstairs
and collected everything she thought she might need;
a couple of bottles of drinking water, some food and candles
from the pantry, a carton of milk from the fridge. She wrapped
up her books and her most vital CDs in blankets, and put a
change of clothes and the dreamcatcher box in her holdall.
Methodically, with only the guttering light of the candle to
see by, she checked and double-checked that she’d rescued the
most important things. The furniture couldn’t be saved, and
Nell’s collection of vinyl would have to stay lined up along the
walls downstairs. Maggie reckoned the sleeves would be ruined
but the records themselves would survive. She didn’t consider
that the river would leave its taint on everything.
She lay on the bed with her possessions close by, waiting for
morning, or the flood, whichever came first. In the early hours,
the rain began a new pattern, of fits and starts, sudden gusts,
momentary gaps of silence. Maggie noted and then grew accustomed
to the sirens, a helicopter thwapping in the distance, the
way the wind sang through the roof tiles. Just before daybreak
came a lull so quiet, she imagined she could hear the river
lapping at the front door. The worst
is
over, she thought,
Thomas was right. She began to feel herself drift off to sleep,
only to be jarred awake by a noise outside: not wind, not a
helicopter, but a noise she could feel: a deep, guttural roar. The
branch punched through the window, in and out again, like a
giant’s maw. Maggie could only stare at the gaping hole it had
left; in the dawnlight, the rain was lit up and trembling like
piano strings.