A Place for Us (19 page)

“You could always have asked Karen,” she said lightly.

There was a silence. “Yes,” Joe said slowly. He bowed his head slightly, and their eyes locked again. “Look, Cat—”

What would have happened next Cat didn’t know, but the door opened again. “Hello, Joe. Well, hello there, Cat!”

Cat turned round. “Hello,” she said warily. A plumpish woman, older than she, around forty, with sandy cropped hair and a big smile, plumped herself down next to Cat, who racked her brains wildly. Who was this?

“What can I do for you, Susan?” Joe said. Cat threw him a grateful glance.

“Anything you want, Joe, you know that!” Susan said, and gave an awkward titter. Joe smiled tightly.
Susan . . .
Cat racked her brains.
Susan Talbot. Post office. George and Joan Talbot’s daughter
.

She put her hand on Susan’s arm. “Hello, Susan. Lovely to see you.”

“And you, my dear.” Susan chuckled, her eyes twitching in a slightly disconcerting way. “I’m looking forward to the party tonight. You’ll all be
there. It’s all anyone’s talking about. Have to work out what I’m going to wear!” She gave a matronly, arch smile and grinned at Cat, folding her arms below her big bosom. “I came in to get a bottle to take up with me tonight. You can help me with that, can’t you, Joe?”

Joe nodded and bent down, taking out three different bottles. “Of course. One of these any good?”

“You don’t need to bring anything tonight,” Cat told Susan, who was watching Joe with a look in her eye that Cat didn’t like. Susan had always been crazy. One of many tightly furled memories began to roll out in Cat’s brain. When they’d been at school, Susan had accused one of the teachers of being a pervert, and he’d been sacked. It hadn’t been true.

“No, no! I wouldn’t hear of it! I want to do my bit, you’re all like family to me! The Winters!” Susan took out her purse, looking at Joe from under her thick black eyelashes, so at odds with her blond complexion.

Cat caught Joe’s eye briefly. “Okay, well, I’d better be getting back.” She picked up the bag again. “See you later, both of you. And, er”—she smiled at Joe—“thanks again.
So, I’ll get started on this. We’ll look forward to the other one.
The Gruffle.
”

“Something like that,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

She left him dealing with Susan and strode home back up the hill, wishing Lucy would hurry up and arrive. She was less and less sure of everything the longer she was here.

Karen

“
I
’
M DISAPPOINTED NOT
to be going. Honest, Bill.”

Karen sat at the foot of the stairs, watching Bill pull his coat on, and trying to catch his eye.

He buttoned his coat. Still not looking at her, he said, “I’m sure you are.”

“It’s just . . .” She tugged the dressing gown tightly around her. “I still feel really rotten. Think it’s best I stay in bed after my call’s done. Rest up for tomorrow. I’ll definitely be there, tomorrow.”

Bill didn’t say anything. He went to open the door, one hand resting on the frame so it was still closed. She swallowed, tasting metal in her mouth, feeling weak, wishing he’d speak. These last few days . . . just waiting for him to say something. Because she knew.

“Okay?” she said. “Are you listening to me?”

“Lucy’s already up there. I’d better go. Good-bye, Karen,” he said.

“Look, Bill, I told you weeks ago I wouldn’t be able to come, and I’m sorry, I wish I could. So—you go, give them all my love, I’ll see them tomorrow, yes?”

He met her imploring gaze then and she thought he was smiling because he agreed with her. For a brief, blissful couple of seconds she thought the world was right again, and then he held open the door and said, “I think it’s best you don’t come tomorrow, Karen. I think you know that, too.”

Cold air was rushing into the stuffy house. “What do you mean? Of course I’m coming.”

“Karen, don’t treat me as though I’m stupid. I’m not stupid.”

Karen stayed where she was, afraid to move. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. Karen, I know all about you and him.”

The door was wide open; people walked past, looking into the house.

“Hello, Bill! Oh, Karen! See you up there, will we?”

Bill turned with military precision, hand on the door again. “Evening, Clover. On my way up. See you soon.” Then he closed the door and came toward Karen. He towered above her, sitting at the foot of the stairs. “I’ve known about it for weeks.”

Karen swallowed. “Who told you?”

“That’s—that’s all you’ve got to say to me?” His voice was thick with anger and, she realized, emotion. But Bill never got emotional. “You’re sleeping with someone, and all you care about is how I found out? Susan Talbot told me, that’s who. Came in last month to show me her verruca.” He gave an angry laugh. “Halfway through she said there was something she thought I
had
to know.” His voice was cracking and she looked away, unable to bear the look on his face. All the seeds she’d sown, everything she’d done, it was all coming out now . . . and she had to take it. Nothing to do but sit here and accept it. “That’s how I found out my wife is—is . . .” Bill covered his face with his hands. “Sleeping with someone be-be-behind my back. Susan Talbot with her sock off whispering secrets into my ear.” He turned and stared at the empty bookcase, breathing heavily.

“It’s not—” Karen began. It was all clichés, wasn’t it?
It’s not what you think.
How could she explain to him what it was? She’d slept with someone else, been doing it for months. Those were the facts.

I love you. And I know you don’t love me. That’s why.

She stood up, ignoring the wave of nausea that crashed over her. Holding on to the banister, she said, “Yes. It is true.”

“Thank you,” said Bill. Almost as though he was pleased to be proved right. “And is she right? Tell me who it is.”

“Bill—”

“
Tell me who the hell it is, Karen!
”

Karen backed away so she was standing on the other side of the sofa, hugging herself.

Bill said, “I’m not going to hit you. Don’t be ridiculous. Just say it. Say his name.”

“Joe,” she whispered. “It’s Joe Thorne.”

“I knew it.” Bill bowed his head. “The . . . my God. I thought we had
something. I know we’ve had our problems, I know we’re different, but I thought you loved me.”

“I do,” Karen said quietly. “Bill, I’ve always loved you. But you don’t love me. You don’t have room for me. I realized that a while ago.”

It was as though he hadn’t heard her. “How long’s it been going on?”

“It’s not—it’s not ‘going on.’ ” She folded her hands together. “It was only a few times, the last time was September, and then he—he broke it off. When he found out I was married.”

The night I said I was dropping off Susan’s birthday card, in fact.

Your daughter happened to mention to him that she had a stepmother called Karen Bromidge
, when they were both at Winterfold. He hadn’t realized before then. So you can thank Lucy. Thanks, Lucy!

“He broke it off, not you.” Bill looked at the ground. “He—oh, God, Karen.”

“I never meant—I wasn’t looking to—oh, Bill.” She knew how lame that sounded. “We’re similar. He’s a good man.”

“A good man! Karen, your sense of good and bad is pretty questionable, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“He—” Her eyes were full of tears.
A good man like you
. “He understands . . . oh, things.” But she couldn’t throw anything back at him, not now. “He understands what it’s like, here.”

“What, the awful life you both lead in this beautiful village, you with your lovely home and nice job? My heart bleeds.” Bill’s eyes were dark with anger. “You’ve always thought you’re too good for us lot, Karen. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

She laughed, crossing her arms. “What on earth are you on about? That’s bloody rubbish. If anything, it’s the other way round, Bill. I’m the one who’s not good enough for the rest of you, and don’t you love letting me know.”

Bill shook his head. “You haven’t got a clue. You think you’re always right. Your point of view and no one else’s. I’ve watched you give that bored little sneer when my family does something, if Lucy’s a bit too eager or Ma talks about the garden or something.”

“I don’t!” It was getting away from her, all of this.

“You do. You only see Flo as eccentric.” Bill’s voice was quiet. “She’s wonderful underneath, the funniest person I know, but you’ve never
bothered to find out. You think we’re all snobs, but you’re the one who can’t get past the fact she doesn’t use conditioner and she doesn’t care about manicures. That makes you the snob, Karen.” Bill’s face was pink. “And if we talk about a book we’ve read or cinema or anything remotely cultured, I’ve seen you, Karen. With the big sigh as if you think we’re all a bunch of idiots. You think anyone who’s interested in anything intellectual is a loser.”

“No, Bill,” she said, not wanting to sound spiteful, unable to help it. “I suppose just for once it’d be nice if someone didn’t want to talk about books or paintings or Radio Four. Just for once.”

“Ma and Pa had nothing when they were growing up. It’s what they’re interested in. Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not. I’m bloody not.” Her voice shook.

Bill said angrily, “So in that case, I guess a man who cooks chicken and chips for a living’s about your level then, isn’t he?”

“He’s a proper chef, you—you—idiot! And at least we’d talk about things! We’d laugh about things! We didn’t sit there in silence doing nothing, saying nothing, night after night! He was there for me, when you’re always out, Mr. Dill this, Mrs. Cooper that, Bill. You see your father at least twice a week, just when I’m back from work—”

His face got that pinched look she knew so well. “Pa finds the evenings hardest. Especially if Ma’s out. You don’t understand.”

“Because you never tell me anything!” Karen’s voice broke. “You love being needed, Bill. But I’m right here.
I
need you, I’m your wife. . . .”

She covered her face with her hands, furious with herself for crying, having not intended to.

For their third date, they’d driven over to the beach at Clevedon and sat on the beautiful old pier eating sandwiches he’d made, which tasted really strange. He’d pulled a blanket from his car and spread it over her knees. It had been chilly. They were silent a lot of the time, just smiling at each other.

Then he’d said, “I’ve been practicing chicken Kiev sandwiches all week. You—you—when we were talking last week, you mentioned it was your favorite meal when you were a little girl. I don’t know how successful they’ve been, though.”

And Karen had looked away from the gray sea, the endless white sky,
and the wheeling seagulls at the quiet, neat man next to her, and they’d smiled at each other, and he’d taken her hand in his, under the blanket. “I feel like a pensioner,” she’d said happily.

“Well, for the first time in a long while, I don’t,” he’d replied, and leaned over and kissed her, very calmly, and his hand squeezed hers tightly as he did. He’d stroked her cheek and said, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, do you know that?”

Karen, who knew she was a good prospect with her full bling, favorite Karen Millen dress, heels, and handbag combination on, had believed he thought it was true. She understood him, their world together. And then . . . then the doubts had set in, the loneliness, the need for attention, which had been her downfall. But she wasn’t a child for wanting it, was she? For wanting someone to laugh with, talk to?

She scratched at her cheeks furiously, staring at him, remembering it all. This was it, maybe forever.

After a long pause, Bill said, “I can’t believe how wrong I was about you.”

She swallowed back a sob. “It’s not just me, Bill. You’re so distant. All the time, these days. You’re shutting me out.”

He paced back and forth, two steps here, then there. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.” She stared up at him. “Nothing to do with you. It’s—” He rubbed his eyes.

“Bill, tell me. Can’t you tell me? Is it about this lunch tomorrow? Your mother’s announcement?”

“It’s not her. It’s Pa.” He rocked on his feet like a tired small boy. “Anyway, that’s not what this is about, Karen. Don’t try to turn this round.”

“I’m not doing that, Bill,” she said. She tried to think of the best way of making him see that this was exactly what she was talking about. “I’m not. You are. It’s like a sinkhole’s opened up, right under our marriage. Been growing bigger and bigger for ages. I can see it. You can’t. You’ve just blocked your eyes to it. To me. To how far apart we’ve grown. I—I don’t know how else to put it.”

He blinked and said quietly, “Is it over, then? With him? With us?”

“It’s over with him.” She swallowed, praying she wouldn’t start gagging, or worse. “I think it is.” How could she finish this, how could she tell him the rest of it?

“Oh, no, he ended it? You poor thing.” His voice dripped contempt, and it was horrible. Bill never teased, or was cutting. He was always gentle. “Well, I’d love to stay, but I’m already late. I’ll leave you to nurse your bruised ego. Maybe eat a few chocolates and watch a sad film, eh?” He clenched his fists. “Damn you, Karen! Now, of all times. Why did you have to—”

“It wasn’t my choice. None of this is my choice.” She scratched her face again, feeling the ribbons of pain on her skin.

“Don’t act like it’s all a big surprise. You knew I knew. I’ve been watching you these last few days. You’re like a cornered rat.”

“I am,” she said frankly, and she saw the look of surprise in his eyes. “I am, I’m trapped, Bill. Sit down. I have to talk to you properly. There’s something else you need to know.”

Daisy

January 1983

S
HE IS STILL
sleeping. If I just carry on maybe she’ll stay asleep. I don’t think it’s sleep like adults sleep. It’s a furious pause. Fists screwed up. Angry nasty little face wrinkled. Horrible bent knees and long feet curled against the cradle in these nappies I can’t get right. The pin is blunt and I keep forcing it through the damn nappy and then pricking her.

I can see clearly, then I can’t. I can feel calm, then I can’t. I am worried I will hurt her. I don’t think she’d notice, that’s what I tell myself. She is so tiny, so cross and small, she doesn’t open her eyes except to stare, not focusing on anything. I don’t want her to love me, I never did this for that. I could have got rid of her. I just wish she’d look at me.

Sometimes when I’ve tried to feed her and I can’t, and I’ve given her some other milk and she won’t drink it, I lie in bed crying very quietly so they won’t hear, and she cries and cries too. She falls asleep eventually and I stare at her, small and red, splayed across my tummy. Her mouth flutters open like a butterfly. She’s so tiny. She felt massive inside me and now she’s just so small.

I hate it here. I always did, and now I’m trapped. They think it’s the making of me. I hate their condescension. Billy Lily at Christmas: “Be the making of you, everyone should have a baby, Daisy!” What does he know about it? That disgusting self-centered hippie he’s going out with, she’s completely wrong for him and that’s obvious, but everyone’s so pleased Bill finally has a girlfriend they don’t care she’s as ugly as sin, completely rude and stupid too. I really hate her.

And Florence. I can’t even talk about Florence. I crawl with revulsion; I think I might be allergic to her. Whatever it is in my head, there’s something there that reacts whenever I have to go near her. I hate how obvious
she is. She doesn’t . . . understand anything. I actually think she might be mentally disabled. I read an article about it. She is brilliant, I know, you all keep telling me, I know. But she is totally incapable of having a conversation. She can’t even say hello without making fifteen different noises afterward and pushing her glasses around her face. I hate her. I’m quite calm about it.

She was there at Christmas, poking this baby, stroking her face like some pervert, cooing over her. I want to say:
You don’t belong here, Florence. You aren’t part of this family. Why don’t you just get out?

But I’m the one who doesn’t belong. I can tell that’s what they all think. They don’t really get the fact that I’m the one who belongs here, and she doesn’t. So I have to go.

This thing here—I’ve thought about plonking her on Giles’s doorstep. But I know he’s terrified his girlfriend will find out we fucked. Straight after we’d done it, he said: “That was a mistake.” Nice, huh? Rolled off me and started sweating in the tent. I could hear the hyenas outside, screeching and mating.

I didn’t say anything. Just turned over and pretended to sleep. I remember the mattress was scratchy and a little piece of horsehair kept poking me in the neck all night. It kept me awake, burrowing into me, but I couldn’t pull it out when I looked for it. And all that night this thing was taking root inside me, swallowing me up.

I’d done it before: with boys in the village like Len the farmer’s boy or that man who came up to drop off Daddy’s page proofs, a long drippy thing he was, a bit like Giles, now I come to think of it. I think I got too sure of myself, because Gerald Lang from up at the Hall really hurt me. If you act confident they love it, they’re so scared. I’d tell them to meet me in the woods, then be waiting with my panties off and let them touch me there, and then they’d want to do it, even if they didn’t, if you know what I mean? Because they’d think it wasn’t manly to say no. I think men are pathetic. But Gerald didn’t like it that he couldn’t do it properly the first time.

He said could he meet me again. I said yes. So we met at the back of the woods again and this time he was different, he kicked me, he bit my breasts and then he shoved up inside me, and I really did hurt for days and days, and I bled afterwards. He kept doing it after I’d shouted and when I bit him he bit me back. He told me I was a stupid cunt, kept
saying it. I couldn’t stop him. I just said: “You’re hurting me.” Over and over.

The weird thing is he liked that.

So what is strange is: when he’d finished it, he stopped and was all normal again, and then he said: “That’ll teach you a lesson, girlie.”

Girlie
. We’d grown up together. I was six months older than him, in fact.
Girlie
.

The next week I saw him in the street, and now I think about it, four or so years later, I realize it was rape, it was. And he waved. “Hello, Daisy, old girl, how are you?”

I don’t understand the world, the way it works. More and more.

I think it is all part of the lessons I’ve learned. The one lesson that was wrong was Giles. It’s lonely out there, dangerous too. During the day I was a hero; at night I was scared and didn’t know where to go. I thought it’d be good to do it again with someone who wasn’t rough. And Giles wasn’t rough, he was a drippy, sloppy mush of a man. Like a cold wet plate of boiled spinach. I thought it’d be nothing, and instead look what it did to me.

•   •   •

I don’t see why I should give her a name. I don’t want to give her anything, then she won’t have any connection with me, and really? It’ll be much easier that way.

Ma and Dad are treading on eggshells around me; they’ll believe anything I say. If I say she’s hungry, they try to pretend it’s all right that she cries for hours because they don’t want to interrupt Daisy when she might be doing something useful for once.

Actually I’m arranging the clothes in the wardrobe, bit by bit. All my favorite dresses, all together for once. It’s childish, but it
was
childish, how I had to give everything to Florence, to Caroline in the village, to everyone. I never had my own things. I never came anywhere except in the middle, people squeezing me on both sides.

It’ll be light soon. She’s crying again and I can’t feed her. I keep trying and it’s agony. They keep saying it’ll get better, but it doesn’t. I don’t understand any of this, why this is in the world and what I should do. I know now she’d be better off without me. I look at her in the cradle. She is so furious. Her mouth is a wide, wide O. Purple, her face is purple.
She smells. If I put this towel over her, she’s muffled and I really can’t hear her.

It’s quite nice, the sound blocked out.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed rocking the cradle. If she’ll just shut up, I’ll take the towel off.

She’s quiet now. I lift the towel away. You know, it’s strange, she’s crying, but I don’t hear it anymore.

I look at my daughter’s face as if it’s the first time. Who are you? Who are you, little baby? Did you really come out of me? I know she did, and I know she needs me, and the idea of that makes me start to cry again. Her face has changed, even in the night. She looks like Ma.

I realize how bad it is. How bad I’ve got. I can’t stay here and I know it now, it’s just being brave enough to leave.

So I write the note. These clothes are for her.

I look down at her in the cradle, and I touch her cheek. It’s very, very soft. I think I’ll always remember how it felt even when I don’t remember how everything else felt these awful last few weeks.

I know when I shut the door behind me I won’t be a mother anymore. I can hitch to London, and Gary has said he’ll save me the ticket. I wish it wasn’t so easy to be like this, sometimes.

I look at her as she sleeps. Bye-bye, little girl. I’m sorry you’re part of me. The thing I hope most for you is that you grow up to be absolutely nothing like me.