Breakdown (31 page)

“So, I was just wondering...if there’re other possibilities, once you’re feeling less—”

Stubborn changed to annoyed. “What difference does it make?”

“Doesn’t it make a difference to you? Don’t you get lonely?”

“You’ve already been on about that. What do you really want to know? Prospects for yourself?”

“No, not at all.” Chris took a step back and put up a hand. “I just wonder about you is all. I suppose I’m worried about you.”

“Are you worried about Simon, too?”

“He’s not my brother.”

“Yeah, well, stuff it, would you?”

Chris stared at him, taken aback, unbalanced, with no idea what to say. He had planned to tell Jon about Pauline, but now he didn’t know if he should.

“I’m tired of it,” Jon went on. “You and everybody else. ‘Oh, poor Jon. We have to find Jon a new girl.’”

“I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.”

“Good. Is that it then? Or did you want to grill me about anything else?”

“Grill you? When have I ever grilled you?”

“Just now.”

“No, I’m just—”

“I’m sorry,” Jon broke in. He crossed his arms and half turned away. “Look, go ahead. You might as well. I know you’ve got something else to say. Let’s get it over with.”

“It’s not about you,” Chris said.

“About you, then? What?”

“It’s about Breton.”

“You want to go back,” Jon said, making it sound accusatory.

“It’s a good place. I think you’d like it there.”

“I like it here. I live here. This is my home. Why would I want to leave?”

“Why do you want to stay, Jon?”

“Everything I’ve had—every
one
—for the past six years, is here. This is my family now; don’t you get it?”

“I’m your family, too.”

“And to keep you, I have to give them up and come with you?”

“I never said that, Jon. Be fair. I made you a promise. But can’t you give me a chance? Can’t you just hear me out?”

“We’re late,” Jon said abruptly, turning away, striding off through the grass toward the Dealy farm.

Mr. Dealy could have been any age over sixty. His leathery, creased skin bespoke a hard life out of doors. He grinned, showing yellow teeth, and shook Chris’s hand with an iron grip.

“Good to meet you, lad,” he bellowed. “Done a bit o’ milkin’, have you?” He plunged in among the cows still milling in the outside pen, shoving and hollering, until they ambled into the barn.

“Tough old bugger,” Jon said Chris. “And a bit deaf.”

Chris had started his third cow when Mr. Dealy stopped outside the stall to watch.

“Jon! You’re going to have to pull faster to keep up with your brother!” he yelled. “Should we let him have a tug at Queen Anne?”

Later, Jon grinned as Chris rolled up his trouser leg to inspect his shin.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Chris said, kneading it gingerly. “Holy shit, that cow is evil.”

Jon appeared to be stifling a laugh. “Did she head-butt you, too?”

“More than once. I may have to take to my bed. You carry the damn milk.”

“At least none of her calves show the same tendencies. She’s been around a few years. She won’t last many more, I expect.”

They headed back across the field, Jon carrying the milk can, Chris exaggerating his limp.

Jon smirked. “I did warn you.”

* * *

On Saturday everyone got up early again. Fiona packed lunches. Brian, Ian, Simon, and Jon all headed out to catch their buses, rucksacks full of things to trade. Chris did the milking with Mr. Dealy, who took pity and dealt with Queen Anne himself. Back at Hurleigh House, Chris got Preston to help him with other chores in the barn, then spent some time kicking a football around the yard with him. Lunch was a quiet affair with only Fiona, Laura, Preston, and Chris.

“When do I get to go in to the market?” Preston asked, dunking a piece of bread into his soup.

“When you’re older,” Fiona said.

“Charles at school gets to go in sometimes.”

“Charles is a year older.”

“So, next year?”

“We’ll see.”

Preston finished and went outside to play.

“Have you talked to Jon?” Fiona asked Chris.

“Tried.” Chris glanced at Laura and rested his head in his hand. “He’s fed up with everyone trying to find him a new girl, he said. Quite forcefully.”

“I know two lovely women at the factory in Frome. I tried to introduce him when he went in to market. Once.” Laura shrugged.

“Too soon,” Chris said.

“So enticing him with the abundance of single ladies in Breton is right out,” Fiona said.

Chris grunted in agreement. “He can be stubborn. It’s going to take some time. I think everyone else should just let me handle it.”

“Yes, of course,” Fiona said.

In the afternoon, Preston asked Chris if he wanted to see the loft. He led Chris upstairs to the little door between the boys’ room and the loo. He opened it and parted the clothes hanging there, revealing a staircase. Chris had to duck under the bar.

“Ian used to play up here a lot with me,” Preston said as they reached the top.

The attic was full of boxes and furniture and unrecognizable items draped in sheets. At one end, a wooden chair sat next to the window and a pair of binoculars rested on the ledge.

“We can see down the road. I saw you with Dad and Ian last week and told Mum.” He offered the glasses to Chris.

“Wow, this is a great view.”

Preston pulled another chair over. “I suppose you’ll start going into Frome with Jon next week.” He put his hand out, and Chris surrendered the binoculars.

“I expect so.”

“One of the kids at school said you probably had the plague.”

“I don’t have the plague, Pres. I had a blood test just a few days before I came here.”

“I told him that. Do you still play the guitar?”

“I haven’t done, in years.”

“Dad’s got a bunch of them. Some up here, some in his cupboard.” Preston jumped up and gave Chris the binoculars. He pulled back one of the sheets. Three guitar cases were stacked neatly. “This one’s blue, this one’s red, and this one is wood color.”

“Huh.”

“You could play guitar while Dad played piano.”

“Um, maybe. Sometime.”

“Dad said when I’m older he’ll teach me to play guitar. He says I have to learn piano first.” The boy arranged the sheet to cover the black cases again. “They say that a lot. When you’re older. When you’re older.”

“That always ticked me off when I was a kid,” Chris said.

* * *

Vivian came into the barn late on Tuesday afternoon.

“Chris, you’ve got a letter,” she said and held it up. “I’m just back from town.”

The brush fell out of Chris’s hand at the end of the stroke. He pushed past the horse and fumbled with the latch on the stall door. His mouth had gone dry. He snatched it from her with a shaking hand.

“Thank you,” he managed. He stared at the handwriting, at Pauline’s name in the corner.

Vivian winked at him and left without another word.

“One of your friends in Breton?” Jon said from the next stall.

“From Pauline,” Chris said, glancing up at him. Jon pursed his lips and went back to brushing.

Chris latched the stall door and went out of the barn. He walked for a few moments, holding the letter, trying to calm his racing heart. He reached the fence, leaned against it, and pulled out his penknife. He slit the envelope open along the top, folded the knife blade, put it back in his pocket.

Deep breath.

“Dear Chris,” the letter started. “We are so glad to hear that you are safe and have found your brother, and Brian and his family.” It went on in that vein, newsy and cheerful. Impersonal. The harvest was going well. Wes was chosen captain of his football team. One of the cows had gone lame. The big rooster disappeared for two days and they feared a fox had got him, but he came back, only a bit bedraggled. Michael had brought shingles for the new hay shed. He’d got a job driving a lorry for a warehouse in Portsmouth. A few other things. They hoped to hear from him again soon. Cheers, Pauline, Grace, George, and Marie.

Chris folded the letter back into the envelope and walked a few paces along the fence. He pulled out the letter and read it again, this time imagining Pauline’s voice and expression with each sentence.

Not a single personal statement. No “I miss you.” What did it mean? He groaned. He knew what it meant. She wrote her letter in the same style he’d written his first letter. He glanced at the date, worked it out in his mind. She’d written it the day after he’d written his second letter, so she couldn’t possibly have got that one yet. Okay.

Deep breath.

His vision blurred. Holy crap, that first letter must have hurt her.
Was I that impersonal?
Impersonal might be a kind way of phrasing it. Chris calculated again. She would have the second letter by now, most likely. She could be writing a response already. She might even have
mailed
a response already. In two days, he could have another letter from her, and he’d know how his second letter was received.

Chris read the letter through a third time and actually processed the news. Good for Wes. Grace would make a poultice for the cow. Damn rooster was better off in a fox’s mouth. He hoped Pauline didn’t plan to climb on the roof to help with the shingles. No, George wouldn’t let her; he’d get Walt or Malcolm to help. Wait, Michael came back already? Chris frowned.

“Everything all right?”

Chris jerked his head up at Jon’s voice. “Yes,” he said, folding up the letter. “Everyone’s fine. Lame cow. Best milker, of course.”

“It’s always the best milker.” Jon peered at Chris, crossed his arms.

Chris waited, but Jon just shook his head and went back to the barn.

At supper, he shared his news with everyone and told Ian and Preston about Wes and the football games. Jon did not join the conversation.

* * *

“Did Jon already go to milk the cows?” Chris asked Preston as the boy kicked the ball in Ian’s direction the next day after school. It was a tad early, but Chris had checked the barn and not found him. He’d been around only a short time earlier, digging in the garden by the kitchen.

“Nar. Out behind the barn,” Preston said with a mischievous grin.

Chris wondered what Jon could be doing behind the barn, then remembered that several old pieces of machinery were stored there. Maybe he was looking for a part. Chris crossed the yard and went through the gap between the end of the barn and the wagon shed. One step beyond the corner gave him a clear view of Jon.

He wasn’t alone.

He had a girl pressed against the back wall of the barn. He was working at the buttons of her shirt. She’d got his belt unbuckled and fumbled with his fly.

Chris had no intention of interrupting, but his foot, still moving forward, hit some piece of metal hidden in the tall grass. Both Jon and the girl jerked their heads toward him at the sound. Susan shrieked. Her hands flew up to the front of her shirt.

“Shit!” Jon said, and glared at Chris.

Chris stood frozen until Jon turned his head away, then retreated back the way he’d come. The boys were still kicking the ball around the yard, so Chris went into the barn. He grabbed the top of a stall door and squeezed his eyes shut. Disappointment tinged with anger welled like blood from a puncture wound. He’d never imagined Jon would stoop so low. How long had he been hiding it? Why hadn’t Chris guessed?
Have you gone back to the lying, Jon?
He sensed more than heard Jon come in a few minutes later, and turned to face him.

“Don’t even think about trying to give me some lame excuse,” Chris said.

“It’s none of your business,” Jon said, fists clenched.

“How long has this been going on?”

Chris thought Jon wasn’t going to answer, then he sagged against the wall and put his head down.

“I ran into her in town a few days ago. She kissed me. Said she wanted to talk. I said I didn’t know. She showed up today. I didn’t mean—it just happened—I wouldn’t have—”

“Like hell you wouldn’t have. You were just about to. Is that what you really want? A quick upright behind the barn every week or so? Is that what’s keeping you here? Seriously?”

“Shut up! I loved her! Can’t you understand that?”

You’re the one who doesn’t understand love, Jon.
Chris let it pass.

“Your girl married someone else. It sucks, but it happens all the time. Get over it.”

“You’re a fine one to talk—”

“Shut up and listen. How bloody stupid can you be, Jon? If she ever loved you enough to marry you, she would have done. Mum says no? So what? If she loved you enough,
she would have married you
.”

“You don’t know—”

“Yes, I do. I do know. How old is she? She looked about twenty, at the most.”

“She’s twenty-two.”

“She’s young, Jon.” The anger was draining away. The disappointment remained, a black stain. Chris heaved a weary sigh. “She doesn’t know what she wants. She still needs Mum’s approval. Sure, she might think she still loves you, but it’s because she can’t have you. Jon, step back and look at the situation. Hell, you’re
cheating
with her. What if her husband finds out?”

“She said—”

“Forget what she said. Forget everything she said. Of course she said it. It doesn’t
mean
anything, not to her.”

Jon lifted his chin, gathered up what remnants of defiance he had left. “What makes you an expert?”

Chris lifted his hands and let them fall. “Jon. Holy shit.” He paced, tried to order his thoughts. “It’s not real. You can’t have anything
real
with her. Life is too short, too...too
precious
to waste it on that. I thought you really felt you belonged here. But now I find out what’s really keeping you here is some fantasy you’ve dreamed up with her. She married someone else. You know it’s a fantasy.”

“You still wear your wedding ring.”

Chris held up his left hand to show Jon his empty finger. “I was hiding behind it. I’d convinced myself that to love anyone else would be a betrayal of Sophie. I was wrong. When I—” Chris stopped at what he was about to say. He hadn’t spoken the words, had hardly even thought them, but it was true. He started again.