Let's Dance (28 page)

George went back to the car. The snow sighed into drifts and ceased to fall. The silence was the way he had once liked it.

I
t was the action of climbing back into the house, standing still in the sudden warmth and listening to her own heartbeat, which told Isabel the truth of the situation. The panic, the cathartic sound of breaking glass, the onset of pain which came with the heat from the dying fire, the contrast between life out there and life in here, the futility of screaming into silence, all revealed to her what she was in this house. In her mother's eyes she was, quite simply, an intruder, with no more business on the premises than any burglar. A burglar was preferable; a burglar had discernible, even admirable, motives. He simply wanted surplus things, things which were going begging. His needs were simple: it was the demands and expectations of a daughter that were outrageous. There was no particular dislike involved. Serena did not have love left for anyone who carried all those obligations of blood. She was not rationing it; it was not there to be rationed. There was no malice, simply a vacuum. Isabel had
the utter calmness of the survivor, coupled with a crazy desire to laugh. If it were me apprehending an intruder, she thought, I might lock them out of the way, let them grow cold or hot, deal with the problem in the morning. If I remembered. But then, if I were mad, I might not remember; even less would I care who they were. I would not pity anyone who destroyed my peace and privacy.

My mother might have been locking out the nuisancy ghost of the cat.

It had been, in a fierce kind of way, sweet out there in the snow, which had sunk into her indoor clothes. Fear created its own perspective; the release of it brought a dizzying clarity of vision and the opposite of fear. When Isabel opened the back door for the dog, she nearly envied her brief, lazy, leg-raising interlude in the snow. Petal hesitated in the yard, sniffing, reluctant to return, but, as always, followed the stronger instinct: to obey shouted orders. A little like myself, Isabel told her, touching with still-cold fingers the warm ruffle at the back of her neck. Bum life for a bitch.

Finding herself on the brink of understanding was fine, but it made no difference to the next step. A reluctance to catch the train in the morning in order to get to a job she did not like did not alter the necessity of stepping aboard the carriage. Isabel the burglar went upstairs, as she was obliged to do, whatever Serena had done to her. Because it was necessary.

Do you love me, Mummy? No, of course not. Why on earth should you? But I loved you. I just didn't
realize you had become the child, that's all. I was asking for the moon and no one owns that.

Serena slept, her profile lit by the bedside lamp with its paper shade so browned and frayed by clumsy handling, the survival of it was miraculous. And how long was it since she had stopped using the right bulb, unable to differentiate between one hundred watt and sixty? The curved lines of the lampshade beams stood out like the veins in a wrist, the parchment was as pock-marked as Serena's brown-spotted skin; the two could have married into a colour scheme. White sheets, a face furrowed against the pillow, all of it sloping into the pristine cover, leaving on the one side a profile like a skull, under it the bulk of facial flesh. One hand was under the pillow, the other arm held the blanket close to her chest. In repose she was as beautiful as living daylight, the hair abundant curls of luxuriant grey. No rollers tonight. Her eyes were wet, blinked open and then closed again, the moisture making the pouched skin beneath shine like dusty leaves in rain. If there was any idea in her mind that she might have killed, humiliated, terrified this daughter of her flesh, there was no sign in this innocent sleep. There might have been no knowledge either. Isabel could not love this lump of body and skin, but neither could she hate it.

Her position looked less than comfortable, twisted somehow in slumber so that she sprawled all over the bed at an awkward angle which Isabel wanted to straighten up. She stopped herself. Mother, Serena,
whatever this stranger was named, could sleep in whatever position she pleased until she met the undertaker. Or whatever God it was she may have worshipped. I do not know you, Ma, I do not know the first thing about you, not even the way you sleep.

Her right palm was extended over Serena's neck, fingers flexing, twitching. There was an instinct to strangle her mother, as well as to stroke. Place long, thin fingers on that fatty neck, feel free to slice into the folds over the larynx, end that life. She could have killed Serena for her single crime of not knowing how to love her.

Blood fell on to the pillow. Isabel's numb fingers were webbed with blood which hung in icicles from tiny lacerations not yet discovered, pumping indoors, frozen outside. For a whole minute, she let the blood drop on to her mother's forehead, where it lay like bright red pebbles before shifting into rivulets along the deep-set lines of her brow. Isabel regarded the blood with disinterested fascination. She sat by the side of the bed until some sense of survival made her raise her arms, reverse this flow. It was a strange way to pray, arms straining out of sockets like this. She linked her fingers, stretched; drops of blood fell on to her hair, mess, more mess.

Serena opened her eyes again, sightless blue. ‘Please,' she murmured. ‘Please. Let me go.'

The eyes closed slowly. Isabel sighed.

‘Don't worry, darling. Love where you love. I know it isn't me. It isn't your fault you are what you are.' She
leaned closer. ‘And, by the way, George is here somewhere. He left you a message. Lots of love, get your rest.'

Her mother lay sleeping, bloodied. They did this, Isabel remembered, to the huntsman who has caught his first stag.

In the bathroom, treating the cuts to her hands and arms with shaky efficiency, Isabel could only feel enormous relief that the blood on her mother's forehead was not blood she had drawn. She trembled in the aftermath of that temptation.

In the morning, long before Serena awoke, Isabel found the chest in the cellar. Inside, there were two large teddy bears, plus three small parcels, tied in polythene with a dozen elastic bands each, making them difficult to open. One contained earrings, the second her father's cufflinks and the third a ring from a cracker. Otherwise, there was nothing inside but paper.

‘T
hank God the snow's melted,' Andrew observed to his father. ‘Fickle stuff.'

‘It's just getting ready for the real thing, shouldn't wonder. Been playing about for a week. Wish I was God. In command of the weather.'

Doc Reilly nodded. On a morning like this they allowed themselves a little sherry, poured into smeared glasses taken from the display cabinet that flanked the rostrum in the chapel. An electric fire alleviated the cold of that part of the room. The rest of it was fairly empty. Buyers had collected their
goods; compensation offered and accepted for breakages. There was little left except a few rugs: the place almost homely. In the town centre, Christmas decorations had appeared on lamp posts. The lights did not extend as far as this, although John had entered into the spirit of the thing by pinning tinsel round the rostrum. For the last auction before Christmas he might wear a Santa Claus hat, if they did not have to cancel, which seemed likely.

‘How are you going to manage, John? You've got no one to hump the stuff.'

‘Nope. Bob's worse than ever, I doubt he'll come back at all, his brother's pretty useless and Derek had that … accident. There's only my son and heir, and although he's wonderboy, he can't carry a wardrobe all on his own. Besides, he's got other things on his mind, haven't you, Andrew? Still, it's not the end of the world. We never take much, this time of year. They're all out there buying in crap as if there were no tomorrow.'

‘Derek getting better, is he?' Doc Reilly asked.

‘Far as I know. He isn't getting worse and he isn't dead, so he must be. Not saying much at the moment. That won't last. Silly bugger.'

‘Very apposite, I must say, calling him that.' Doc Reilly's shoulders heaved with gentle mirth. Yes, they are a pair of conspirators, Andrew thought with affection. The liking was tinged with a healthy suspicion. They have a common cynicism: they know exactly what they're talking about, so much so that they keep
what they know from one another and admit it at the same time. The best form of communication was hints, winks and silences. Canny rather than crooked.

‘Well,' said Doc Reilly, heaving himself upright and looking at Andrew expectantly, ‘as the elder statesmen of this parish, what are we going to do about it? I mean, do you want us to tell Isabel?'

‘Tell her what?'

‘Oh Christ, she don't know the half of it. I bet she doesn't know whose act to follow now. She's got her aunty's common sense, her mother's looks and her father's sensitivity. They all loved her, after their fashion, but it was Mab who was the control-freak. Ruled that bloody household whether she was in it or not. I don't know what happened before they came to live here, I can't guess, but she'd already done a good job undermining Serena's authority. Edward Burley would always listen to her first. She even dictated where everything went. No wonder Serena enjoyed having the place to herself these last years.'

‘Is that so?' Andrew murmured. He felt vaguely uncomfortable talking about it, although he wanted them to go on.

‘I can see Mabel, now,' his father said, dreamily. ‘She knew she was dying a long time before she let on to anyone else. You told me that, didn't you, Doc? She knew for more than a year. She was well capable of doing a bit of dividing and conquering before she went. A great letter-writer. She could have made sure her niece didn't marry too young, she always disapproved
of that. Also made sure she got out from under by giving her money. Mab was good at arranging lives she couldn't own. Only she would never do it by a direct route.'

‘This could be nonsense,' Andrew said.

‘Of course it could be. It's nothing more than pure, bloody-minded speculation,' Doc Reilly replied. ‘It comes from me, John here, my wife and a couple of patients. But that's the best we've got.'

‘None of this helps the present,' Andrew remarked.

‘Nope,' the doctor agreed. ‘Nothing does.'

‘What's happened to that poor bastard George?' John Cornell asked.

‘No one knows. He didn't return to the nick as ordered. They're looking for him.'

‘And will those burglars really go back?' Andrew wondered.

‘There's no telling.' John was looking at his feet. ‘Well, two of them might. Not in this weather. And if they do, they'll trip over an alarm.'

T
hey would not trip over an alarm. Not even a man trap. The alarm was an exercise in uselessness, unless the house was empty. Robert's promise of security, augmented by the mobile phone in Isabel's room. There was no point turning it on at night unless Serena was locked in her room, and that was impossible to contemplate. Because there was a connection between switching the switch and the arrival of two policemen after ten minutes, she was, intermittently,
fascinated by it, although it was something which faded in and out.

‘Come away from there, Mummy. See what I've got.'

Isabel was sure that what she had would please, she was learning fast. The teddy bears had been greeted with pleasure, the Christmas decorations seemed to have the effect of making Serena imagine there was going to be another party. They spilled out on the kitchen table, dusty and dated and varied, the nicer rubbish from the cellar. Would there were more of them, since Serena clearly found them both curious and delightful. Dust did not bother her. Tinsel could furnish a room. The decorations made her tranquil and had taken hours out of the day since their discovery. Serena chose one golden foil device to hang against a window frame, took it to the living room, placed it with enormous care, changed her mind, tried another, with all the consultative care of an interior designer. Isabel was similarly tranquil; it could even be said they were cheerful together: there was an element of both resignation and courtesy about them both. Isabel had taken her behaviour right back to the beginning. Or near the beginning, when she had first begun to comprehend the need for alternative language. She cooed at Mother as she might at any frustrated child. She cajoled rather than ordered. She reversed the flow of Serena's chatter by chattering herself, not incessantly, but frequently. Serena kept touching her arm.

‘Now look, Mummy. I did tell you about that switch, didn't l? Naughty switch. I know it brings out the fellas, but they won't be pleased to see you. And there's another reason. I've got the feeling Georgie is out there looking for you. If he wants to come in, even though those nice policemen say he mustn't, that's OK by you, isn't it? We don't want to set bells ringing, do we now?'

She must have repeated the words a dozen times. Some of them might sink in, especially in this mood; most of the words were true. Mother could somehow tell when she was being told a lie. Whatever she received by way of wisdom was filtered through an imperceptible net. The whole difference in approach came from the release of the need to be loved by this childlike lady who only happened to be her mother. If she treated her like a robust but delicate stranger who needed care, it was all so much easier. She was not a daughter any more: she was simply someone with a fierce sense of responsibility for someone who was helpless. There were two of them in need, after all. Who loves you, darling, if not me? One needed to give, the other to take. It was a neat, workable equation.

Isabel was not entirely sure how this conclusion had come into mind. It had percolated for a while, she supposed. Solidified when she remembered herself standing in the chill of the cellar fumbling round in the dark with that dictaphone. George knew about love and how simple it should be: he had even recorded it.