Conrad & Eleanor (2 page)

‘Cara.'

‘Fuck's sake.' He retreats and slams the door.

Cara is dragging a wheelie case. She stands in the hall looking tragically at El as she locks up again. ‘You haven't heard anything, have you?'

‘No.'

Cara's eyes are welling up; El wonders if she has been kicked out by her nasty boyfriend. Stiffly she holds out her arms and after a moment Cara leans against her and lets herself be enfolded. It is like hugging an empty coat on a hanger. El remembers sickeningly that she has forgotten to worry about Cara for quite a long time. Why didn't Con tell her Cara was bad again? ‘It's very late,' she murmurs.

‘I can't sleep.'

‘I think he's fine, love. I think we'll hear from him tomorrow.'

Cara steps back, shaking her head, raking a sleeve across her wet face. ‘I'm going to Munich.'

‘That's silly, that won't —'

Cara moves along the hall to the kitchen. ‘I've booked it, 10.15 tomorrow, but I need to borrow some money.'

El trails after her. ‘I'll make us a milky drink.'

‘I don't want one. I feel sick.'

‘Cara, you're in no shape to go haring off —'

‘He's still there, I can feel it, he's in a hospital or prison or – or kidnapped, he's there, he needs help.'

Paul barges into the kitchen. ‘Thanks for waking us up.' He opens the fridge and glares at the contents then slams it shut.

‘What are you looking for?' asks El.

‘Something to drink.'

‘I'm making cocoa.'

‘Not that kind of drink.'

Cara persists. ‘If it was one of us he'd already be there, he'd be the first —'

If it was one of the kids, he would. He'd be at it like a terrier digging up the dirt. If it was Eleanor herself ? She thinks not. ‘You can't even speak German.'

‘I can go to the hotel. The conference centre. They'll speak English.'

‘I'm going to ring them in the morning, there's no point —'

‘He's there. I can sense it, OK? And when I arrive I'll know what to do. I've got to follow my instincts.'

‘With her supernatural powers, Cara Evanson confounds —'

‘Shut up, Paul.'

‘Shut up yourself, you loony.'

‘Don't tell me to shut up, you bastard.'

‘Please,' says Eleanor automatically. They fall silent. ‘Why did you say
kidnap
?'

‘He could be kidnapped for money.'

‘Or by animal rights people,' offers Paul. ‘They might have been targeting the conference.'

‘He's not important enough,' says El. ‘Anyway, there's no ransom demand.'

‘Yet,' says Cara. ‘You don't know.'

‘We should tell the police.' Paul's contribution.

‘You shouldn't go on your own. And it doesn't make sense for me to —'

‘I want to go on my own.'

‘Where are you staying?'

‘His hotel, if I can. Or somewhere near.'

‘We'll book you a hotel in the morning. One missing person is enough.'

‘Can you drive me to the airport?'

This is pure Conrad. The children are grown up but they still rely on him to ferry them to station and airport. ‘I'll pay the taxi.'

Paul has unearthed a bottle of brandy last used to light a Christmas pudding. He's filling a tumbler. ‘I'll have some, please,' says El. If only to stop him drinking the lot.

Eventually El heads upstairs, and sets her alarm for 6, by now four and a half hours away. She needs to sleep. But finds herself pulling open Con's drawers in the big chest they share. His clothes are all there; he can't have taken more than a couple of pairs of underpants and socks, maybe a T shirt. In the wardrobe his shirts hang in an accusing row. He's got too many, so certainly two or three could be missing. But he's not taken enough clothes to last five days. All his underpants look strangely new. She thinks of him as wearing black Marks and Sparks, but these are blue and green, there's even red – Calvin Klein. Why d'you get new underwear? She closes the drawer carefully, silently.

If the woman was pregnant. She'll be younger, obviously. If she was pregnant, he'd leave.

This time contempt – for both Con and herself – tempers the pain. She needs to feel the pain, to bite down on it like an aching tooth, to remind herself of its reality; but it is wearisome, really. He will try a re-run with another woman, because having young children makes him happy. He will try to repeat. Which only men can do, of course. And she will be the stereotypical abandoned wife. All their shiny hope and this is what it comes to – clichés, staggering through their Punch and Judy roles. Pathetic. Contemptible.

El realises she won't sleep, and creeps downstairs to her office again in search of her glasses. But the kitchen door is ajar, and when she hears Paul's words it is impossible not to stop and listen.

‘You know she's having an affair?'

‘Louis?' asks Cara.

‘Yes.'

‘I sort of knew. I tried not to. But does Dad know?' asks Cara.

‘I have no idea.'

‘You think he's left her?'

‘Why won't she call the police?'

‘You think she doesn't want him to be found?' Cara sounds incredulous.

‘Look – look at the facts. She's in love with someone else.'

‘Is she really? Do you know that?'

‘All right, she's having an affair with someone she doesn't even love.'

‘Paul —'

‘She hasn't got time for Dad. Say he won't give her a divorce.'

‘She could leave him, if she really wanted to,' Cara offers.

‘But where would she go? They own this house jointly.'

‘Louis is married! This is ridiculous, he lives with his wife.'

‘Right. So neither of them has anywhere to go. If Mum could get Dad out of the house —'

‘Then she and her lover could live here? What about us?'

‘None of us lives here, my dear little sister, it's not our house.'

‘It doesn't make sense. You think Mum has kicked Dad out and is pretending he's missing – why would she do that?'

‘If she'd kicked him out, he could still contact us. No. Maybe something worse.'

Eleanor wants to move, she wants to go back to bed and block her ears. But she is frozen to the spot.

‘Like what? Like she murdered him? Is that what you're saying?' demands Cara.

‘Don't shout. It could have been an accident. What if they had a row and things just went from bad to worse? What if accidentally something happened to him, because of her?'

‘Like what?'

‘I don't know. But I can imagine, can't you?'

‘No, I can't imagine. I think you're mad.'

‘Cara, listen to me. People don't just vanish. And when someone does, nine times out of ten it's the spouse.'

‘Why would she say he was missing?'

Paul laughs incredulously. ‘He
is
missing. The only thing she's pretending is that she doesn't know where he is.'

‘And where do you imagine? The garden? The freezer? This is stupid. He's in Munich and I'm going there tomorrow to find him.'

‘I can imagine it,' persists Paul. ‘It needn't even have been deliberate on her part.'

Paul isn't the only one who can imagine it. El forces herself to move away and on up the stairs. Paul has no sympathy for her in this situation: well, why should he? She has no sympathy for herself. But still her son's harshness brings stinging tears to her eyes; tears for him, for Paul, that he can think so badly of her. What has she done to him? What kind of a mother is she? Lying in bed staring at the darkness, with the distant murmur of Paul and Cara's voices in the kitchen, El allows herself to fully re-­enter the wretchedness of her and Con's recent dealings.

She is remembering a night a couple of weeks ago; she has spent the evening with Louis, and come home shockingly late. She lets herself in quietly. It is 2.15 in the morning. The night is cold and clear with stars, and she almost can't bear to step into the stuffy house, with its coagulated smells of old food and un-vacuumed carpets and the sour odour of Con's depression. It closes in on her, how can she breathe? If he won't clean they'll have to get a cleaner, she will have to have that fight again. It is disgusting to have to walk into this. She has a glimpse of them in old age, in their stinking pen. No wonder the children don't visit.

Louis' wife is away looking after her mother, so Eleanor and Louis have been at his place. His clean and tasteful, childless, housewifed house. She meant to come home at 11 but she fell asleep. Now she's wide awake. She makes her way to the kitchen and closes the door silently before switching on the light. Con's dishes are in the sink, no wonder it stinks; since when was he too low to even put them in the dishwasher? She puts a pan of milk on the greasy hob and surveys the kitchen, feeding her own irritation. The paper is spread open on the table. Con's coat and scarf are slung over a chair, his shoes in the middle of the floor, the bin is overflowing. He has not even pulled down the blinds. She does so. Silently she tidies, pressing down the contents of the bin, scraping his dirty plate into it, loading the dishwasher.

Why is he like this? It is his job. His work with monkeys is going nowhere; all the work on transgenic transplant monkeys is stalling. He has been marking time for months. She has given up trying to persuade him to get out. She stands by the table thinking about this house; the big family home, the attic, the empty children's bedrooms, and how Con wants to stick to it like a snail in his shell, and how dead a space it is. She has been pushing for them to sell it and move on. And then she thinks, I should have tried to get him away. Found somewhere else where we could get out of what we are in this house, where we could sit for whole evenings with nothing to do but talk. There have not been any proper holidays for a long time. It has seemed hard to see the point; she has dragged him on the odd weekend city break, where they have done galleries and concerts. But they have not been somewhere with empty time, time to allow the place to change them. She has been too busy for that. And in her own defence, he has never suggested it.

She has automatically taken the brush and dustpan from under the sink and is sweeping up the spillages from the bin. Suddenly he opens the kitchen door. He's wearing the multi-coloured dressing gown Cara got him from a charity shop, for a joke. It is miserably inappropriate. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Clearing up your mess, as you can see.'

‘What are you doing at this time of night?' he persists.

‘I couldn't sleep.'

‘I heard you come in from outside.'

‘OK, I came in.'

‘Where were you?'

‘You know where I was.'

He pulls out the chair she has just pushed under the table, and sits. She turns to her milk. ‘D'you want a drink?'

‘No.'

‘Did I wake you? I'm sorry.'

‘I was awake.'

She mixes her cocoa, noting the tea-encrusted edge of the sugar bowl, the lidless marmalade. ‘How are you sleeping, generally?'

He shrugs.

‘You ought to go to the doctor.'

‘For insomnia?'

‘For depression.'

He does not reply, and she glances at him, stirring. ‘Con? I know how you feel, but the tablets work. You know they do. You need something to give you a lift —'

‘Don't tidy up after me,' he says. ‘It's insulting.'

‘It's dirty in here. It smells.'

‘Because of me.'

‘If you leave dirty plates overnight they're bound to —'

‘I wash them in the morning.'

She is unwilling to sit. She wants to take her cocoa to bed.

‘Why d'you come back?' he says.

‘Con, it's late. Let's talk tomorrow.'

‘Why d'you come back?'

‘For God's sake. Because I live here.'

He shakes his head, running his fingers along the underside of the table. He's like an ox, she thinks, a dumb ox stubbornly refusing something it doesn't even know. ‘Why do you want me to go to the doctor?'

‘So you'll feel better, Conrad.'

‘So I'll put my plate in the dishwasher.'

‘For fuck's sake. You're depressed. You're creeping about like an old man. You don't need to be like this.'

‘Well, if you left it wouldn't affect you.'

‘I'm not leaving. If you want to talk, let's talk tomorrow.'

‘When? Before you go to work at 7? After you get home at 2am?'

‘I'll come back early. We can have dinner together.' They can't because she's meeting Li, her Chinese Ph.D. student at 7, and has promised Li they'll grab a bite together while El gives Li her feedback. There was no other time this week to slot her in. But he doesn't need to know that now.

He is shaking his head. ‘You don't want to talk to me. I'm depressed. Everything I say is stupid.'

‘Con, stop it.'

‘Why don't you get a place of your own? Then you wouldn't have to deal with me being smelly.'

‘I didn't say you were smelly.'

‘I probably am. I haven't had a shower for a while.'

‘For God's sake.'

‘For God's sake indeed.
Sauve qui peut
.'

‘I don't want —'

‘But
why
?' he says insistently. ‘That's what I don't understand. Why? The children? You think you're going to turn Dan around by staying in the same house as his smelly father?'

‘Dan doesn't need turning around. Dan is perfectly self-sufficient.'

‘Right. By which you mean, Cara isn't.'

‘Are we going to go through every old argument you can rake up?'

‘You think I indulge her.'

She strains for a conciliatory tone. ‘Each of our children is different. They are fine. Paul is fine. Megan is fine. Cara is fine. Dan is fine.'