A Life Between Us Page 5

  Tina had seen Keaton off to work as usual, then sat with her second mug of coffee and finished reading December’s reading group choice. It was a book new to her: A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. It was all right, she decided, but she didn’t care for the violence. After she finished reading it, she placed the book on the end of the kitchen counter by the back door, where she always kept her mobile phone and keys: the things to remember, the things not to lose, the things to take out. The kitchen was neat and tidy and shiny. In the utility room, which was equally neat and tidy and shiny, the laundry basket was empty. The washing machine had been dusted. Last week she had decluttered their bedroom yet again, although Keaton had objected.

  ‘We’ll have literally nothing left in this house if you carry on like this,’ he’d said, carefully removing from the bulging bin liner an old but particularly favourite cowboy shirt (circa 1990), and his old Swiss Army knife. ‘It’s a useful knife, Tina,’ he said, and when she’d protested he’d shown her what it could do, all the gadgets: the efficiency of the bottle opener, the handiness of the corkscrew, the sharpness of the small blades. It was his special toy, clearly. She’d apologised and had given in, and watched him as he’d carefully put his shirt back in his wardrobe, and his knife at the back of the second drawer down of his bedside cabinet.

  Her numerous bookshelves in the living room were dusted and her books (the only possessions she refused to get rid of) were stacked in strict alphabetical order. There was really nothing else to do. Thank goodness, she thought, for my cleaning jobs. She would be lost, utterly lost, without them. She wandered around the house for a long while, cogitating, and opening each door with renewed hope, only to find, over and over, nothing in the rooms but neatness and air. Eventually it was time to head over to Judy and Sandra’s house. Three floors, lots of rooms, paintings, books, plants, rugs, well-chosen ornaments, more books, and two cats named Monty and Winston. Much was expected of Tina’s time, but she was paid well, sixty pounds for the four hours. Judy and Sandra also encouraged her to borrow their books, which was an undeniable perk.

  Keaton was disappointed when Tina didn’t answer her phone. He supposed she was busy at her cleaning job. He could never remember her working hours. He ignored the infernal answer machine as he always did, and carried on with his work. Sharanne brought in more coffee for him at eleven and placed it on his desk with a small half-smile. The “thing” Sharanne seemed to have for him had become more than awkward and it was increasingly difficult to ignore. Could she be dismissed? He’d have to refer it up, of course, and get agreement, but it was difficult these days to sack anybody. And did she deserve to be dismissed, truly? It didn’t seem fair. She’d get over it, eventually, this stupid crush that Keaton trusted was essentially meaningless. It was nothing to worry about because nothing would ever happen and he thought Sharanne realised that, because she wasn’t stupid. She was single, Keaton guessed, and a bit lonely. He didn’t understand why she was single, because she was generally regarded as an attractive woman. Certainly their boss Alistair thought so, quite obviously. Keaton had overheard the crude remarks. Sometimes they were directed at him. He always laughed along and said nothing, embarrassed for Alistair, feeling uneasy.

  He sipped his coffee and gazed out of the window. Had it been entirely wise of him to have told his wife about Sharanne’s apparent attraction to him? He’d mentioned it to Tina back in the summer. Sharanne had been flirty with him all that particular day, he recalled, floating around the offices in a pretty turquoise frock and high-heeled sandals, and Keaton wondered if he hadn’t flirted back, just a little bit, just for fun – maybe it had even been to spite Alistair – and he’d gone home that evening feeling hot and bothered, feeling guilty. So after tea as they’d sat out on their patio with a glass of ice-cold wine, he’d told Tina. He’d asked for advice on how to deal with it. He’d played it down, of course. But he’d been as honest as he could be. Tina had appeared calm at the time and laughed it off, they both had. ‘Just ignore it,’ Tina had said, unconcerned. It had felt the right thing to do, to discuss it with his wife and get her advice. Yet all those secrets she held close to herself, all those feelings she never laid bare… It had been a mistake to burden her with his silly problem. It wasn’t even a problem, then. He should have known better. But it was too late now.

  The December reading group meeting was uneventful. A Clockwork Orange divided the readers. Again, Tina didn’t join in much with the discussion. Kath did, and this time there was no need for Tina to pipe up and save her. Half the group seemed to agree with the points Kath made, and she had plenty of support. Tina had little to contribute, apart from the mince pies she’d made that morning. Kath chatted with her as they enjoyed their coffee, into which Kath poured brandy from a miniature bottle – ‘It’s Christmas!’ But Tina could not be cheered. She prepared to leave early, blaming a headache. Everybody was kind about it, and Tess asked her to choose the book for January’s meeting. If she could let her know within a week Tess would cascade the information to the other members. Tina and Kath glanced at each other, ghosts of smiles hovering about their lips. Cascade was just one of those words.

  When Tina arrived home she was soaked through; the rain was falling hard and relentless, a wailing wind tossing it in all directions. Keaton insisted she towel-dry her hair and put on her pyjamas, while he made her a hot water bottle and a mug of hot chocolate, topped off with abundant swirls of cream and chocolate sprinkles, just as she liked it.

  ‘Drive next time, Tina. I know you wanted to walk for the exercise, but it’s dark out too, and there’s no point in getting caught in downpours. You should at least have phoned and I would have picked you up. Darling?’

  Tina said little and let him prattle on. He was the gentlest of naggers and she quite liked him to fuss around her. He finally sat down with a mug of hot chocolate for himself, and turned down the television. The wind howled around their house. It was trying to get in, Tina thought.

  ‘Well?’ Keaton said. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘It was great. Kath was there again.’

  ‘Are you getting together over Christmas?’

  ‘We might meet up for a shopping trip in town next week. Then go for a coffee…’

  ‘…and a natter,’ Keaton finished for her.

  ‘Kath will do most of the nattering,’ said Tina.

  ‘Ah, I see. Good, good. I’m happy that you’ve… I’m happy.’

  They each paused to take a sip from their mugs. A log hissed and bubbled in the wood burner. The wind screeched outside.

  ‘Tina?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Do you remember… Can you recall what you said after you went out with Kath last time? As we drove home?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I remember. You said, “It’s high time I got over Meg.” Don’t you remember saying that?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ she said.

  ‘Did you mean it?’

  ‘Oh, Keaton.’

  ‘I think it would be good if you meant it, if you could try to do… that.’

  ‘She was my sister.’

  ‘I know, darling.’

  They sipped at their hot chocolates. Keaton has no idea, Tina thought. And he clearly wasn’t going to give this up, not just yet. He had more to say.

  ‘Tina?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know we’ve touched on this before, but I think you need to see somebody.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you still need professional help.’

  ‘Another shrink, you mean?’

  ‘If you want to call it that, yes.’

  ‘We more than touched on it once before. I tried once before. It was a complete waste of time, if you remember.’

  ‘I can’t see how else you’re ever going to get over all this. How are you going to be… fre
e of her?’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that I don’t want to be free of her?’

  It hadn’t. And he didn’t believe it. ‘Then… why did you say you ought to get over her?’

  ‘I don’t know why. I honestly don’t really recall saying such a thing. Maybe I said something else.’

  ‘No, you definitely said, “It’s high time I got over Meg, isn’t it?” I heard you very clearly. It’s all so unhealthy, this… obsession? Your sister’s death… Meg’s death is a big thing to live with. I do see that. It’s not your fault. But it’s having a terrible effect on you. You mustn’t spend the rest of your life blaming yourself, Tina.’

  ‘You don’t understand…’ He’d never been this frank with her before. Poor Keaton. How she deceived him.

  ‘Explain it to me, then,’ said Keaton, curling his hands earnestly around his mug and leaning forward. ‘I’m listening, I’m here. I want to help.’

  ‘I’m beyond help,’ said Tina simply, staring through the wood burner’s little window where the logs glowed like mercy. Keaton knew how to make a good fire. It was one of his numerous talents. She was so lucky.

  ‘Nobody is ever beyond help, unless they make it so for themselves,’ pronounced Keaton, a little loftily, but Tina wanted to believe this. She knew these words were designed to comfort her; she knew they were wise and true words. Keaton meant well and he spoke with common sense and he spoke from the heart. But he didn’t get it, nobody did, not even the counsellor last year who had been supposed to know about these things.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said Tina, turning to look at her husband’s uncomprehending face. She couldn’t tell him the truth because if she did she would lose him forever, and really, he was all she had in this world, her one true and complete friend. The truth would destroy everything.

  ‘Look,’ he said, carefully placing his mug on the lamp table. He moved from his chair and crouched at her feet and took her hands in his. He pushed her hair back off her face. He tucked it tenderly behind her ear and smiled his most persuasive smile. ‘Why don’t you try the counselling again? For me, if not for you? I’m finding I’m not coping too well at present. I mean, I am coping… but I’d rather not. I wish we could iron out these… issues and be happy, I just want us to be happy. I want our… our family to be happy.’

  Ah, poor Keaton. Poor Keaton Fathers. How he longed to live up to his name. What a silly name, but a nice one too, distinguished and a bit posh, like Keaton himself. Distinguished and posh and switched off. Turned off, turned away, by her. What to do, what to do? She started to hum, but not out loud – no need, mustn’t frighten Keaton, mustn’t scare him away – only in her head where she knew she spent too much time. But Meg lived there now. Only there. Nowhere else did she exist, and Tina lived there too with her, keeping her company, occasionally foraying out into the world around her. But always coming back, always coming back to her.

  Keaton was obviously disappointed.

  ‘Promise me one thing?’ he said, standing up. ‘Try counselling again. Please? What was her name – Virginia? I thought she was beginning to help you, and I’ll pay, you know I’ll pay. Think about it. Don’t say no again. Please, Tina. We can’t go on struggling like this. Neither of us is properly living.’

  Tina tried to smile at her husband; she reached out and took his hand in hers, but it was hopeless, and she thought she heard the distant, familiar, girlish, mocking laugh that never left her alone.

  Eight

  December 1963

  The New Year’s Eve party beckoned, and all that went with it: the choking smoke-filled air, the music and dancing and fondling, the feuding, the sweating, the kissing, the gossip, the spilling of secrets. Parties were not usually Lucia’s favourite pastime, but tonight’s was going to be different. She spent all afternoon choosing, and choosing again, her outfit. It had to be perfect. Her favourite, Clive Stubbins, had finally asked her out on a date and she was determined to look the best she ever had. She’d hardly eaten since Christmas Day and as a result she was light-headed and weak. Mum had tried to get her to eat, but Lucia couldn’t face food. She told her mother not to bother cooking for her. Her days at work since Christmas had been long and boring, with few customers to fill them, most people choosing not to venture out into the cold. And who had any money left after Christmas anyway? Lucia and Sheila had been set to tidying, cleaning and dusting the shop, restoring order to the stockroom, and making cups of tea in an attempt to stay warm. The days were long and dark, and not even the candy-coloured lights on the Christmas tree in the shop window could brighten them.

  Edward had arrived yesterday to spend a couple of nights at home. His fiancée, Simone, had gone to France to see her family for the New Year. Edward, seasick always, had elected not to go. Lucia wondered if the couple had in fact argued. When he’d arrived he’d been out of sorts. Lucia was just glad he was at home. Since his departure all those years ago, Lane’s End House had become rather a drab place. Mum and Dad were not exciting company, William she did her best to ignore, and Ambrose did his best, it seemed, to ignore her. Robert had left for New Zealand a year ago, hungry for travel and adventure after his national service.

  Edward and Simone had met at university and they had been boyfriend and girlfriend ever since. They lived together in their rented flat in Primrose Hill in London, an arrangement Mum and Dad had not commented upon. Lucia wondered how they might react if she were to “live over the brush”. She could only imagine, for she had not once heard her parents discuss the matter. Lucia alone, it seemed, doubted the morals of her brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law. Simone was modern. She was charming. She was French (half-French, as her mother always corrected her). She was also beautiful, and really she should have been easy to like, and perhaps she was. Yet Lucia did not like her.

  Clive had asked Lucia to go to the New Year’s Eve party on the day after Boxing Day, popping into the shop, it seemed, solely to ask her out. He didn’t buy any records. Lucia thought he’d seemed a little awkward. Sheila had listened intently, pretending not to, and Lucia had thrown her a smug look, a haughty smile. Sheila had not smiled back. Something was not quite as it should be. Clive had not seemed thrilled when she’d agreed to go to the dance, and half of her wondered why he had asked her at all. But she’d put these thoughts aside.

  She finally chose her favourite and most expensive outfit, which was her black dress that made her look like a blonde Audrey Hepburn; she also picked out her string of fake pearls and her red lipstick. She would go easy on the mascara, as she knew heavy eyes didn’t suit her, which was disappointing. But red lipstick did, so she took great care to practice applying it well, blotting and powdering several layers. She chose the right handbag to go with the ensemble, and the right shoes, in fact, her only evening shoes, because she was still saving up for a new pair. She listened to her Helen Shapiro records and sang along with gusto; she washed her hair, she shook talcum powder all over herself, she hummed and danced and preened and sang and made up all that afternoon, ignoring her mother’s appeals for her to try to eat something for heaven’s sake, to turn down the music, please. She waved away a slice of toast with plum jam that her mother timidly brought upstairs for her. She brushed aside her mother’s suggestion that the dress was perhaps a little too… summery? Could she get up to the village hall in those shoes? What about the snow?

  ‘It’s the fashion,’ Lucia said, looking hard into the mirror as she touched up her make-up. ‘I’ll wear what I like. I couldn’t give a fig about the snow. Besides, Ambrose said he’d walk up there with me.’

  Finally ready at eight o’clock, she made her way down the steep stairs. Ambrose waited by the front door, anxious to leave. He was going to be meeting a girl at the dance. Mum offered Lucia her winter coat. Lucia declined, despite the heavy snow falling. She had her own coat, thanks.

  ‘It’s too thin…’ muttered Mum. ‘And those sho
es…’

  ‘Leave it, Mum,’ said Edward and he gave his mother’s shoulders a gentle squeeze.

  ‘She looks like a princess,’ sighed Mum. ‘All grown up.’

  ‘She does,’ said Edward and he took out his wallet and with a flourish he handed Lucia a ten-bob note. ‘Enjoy your evening,’ he said. He winked at her. Lucia blushed.

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘Of course! Take it. Have a good time. Mum and I will keep the home fires burning for when you get back.’

  Lucia reached over and kissed Edward’s cheek. She took the money.

  She left her (too thin) coat hanging with all the others in the foyer. After almost slipping just trying to get down the front door steps, Lucia had been forced to admit she couldn’t walk through the snow in her shiny black court shoes, with or without Ambrose’s help, so she’d trudged up in her wellingtons, and left them neatly paired on the floor beneath her coat. It was like being back at school. She knew that her boots would no longer be neatly paired when it was time to go home. She was relieved to see she wasn’t the only partygoer who’d felt the need for more suitable footwear. No need to feel silly. She quickly put on her party shoes. When she looked up, Ambrose had already gone in, leaving her alone in the cold, damp foyer. She straightened up, breathed deeply, smoothed back her platinum hair and faced the wooden doors with the large round handles. This was it.