Unspoken (3 page)

The three of us sat in a row on the jetty that stretched out into the man-made pond. It was Mick’s rod but I’d brought along the bait. Julia lay back on the hot wooden planks while we argued over who should thread the worms. The sun stung our necks and made the fronts of Julia’s skinny legs go red.

‘Who wants to swim?’ she said, sitting up suddenly. Perhaps she was sick of our bickering or the heat had got to her, but before we could even answer, she’d slid her halter top off and was standing in her bra and shorts at the end of the jetty.

‘Don’t dive, Ju,’ I said, remembering my promise to her mother. But I was worried about the worms. ‘There’s a whole scrapyard down there.’ I still didn’t look up. In fact, neither of us looked up until it was time to cast the line, by which time, Julia’s dive was nothing more than a series of ripples fading away at the shore.

‘Where is she?’ I peered over the end of the jetty. ‘Julia!’ I yelled. I shielded my eyes from the sun, expecting to see her eager face break the surface, gasping for air, grinning. ‘
Ju-li-a!
’

‘I dunno,’ Mick said. ‘She’ll be OK.’

And if it hadn’t been for the sunlight as sharp as a razor, I’d never have seen her waterlogged face bobbing a foot below the murk. She was floating on her back, nostrils flared, her lips fat and eyes wide open with a slim streak of blood winding its way from her temple.

‘Shit,’ I heard Mick say behind me as I leapt off the jetty. As soon as my legs cut the surface, I reached out and grabbed her body, yelling for Mick to help me haul her in. I don’t know how we did it – her back got grazed from the rotting wood scraping against it as we manhandled her – but somehow we hoisted her to safety. What I remember most about that day is the softness of her lips the first time I ever kissed Julia Marshall.

 

‘You’re late,’ she tells me sternly. I want to crack a smile to see if she crumbles, like we did as kids. But laughing won’t appease Julia. The children filter inside and I am kept in the kitchen doorway, half in, half out of the house in which I spent three-quarters of my childhood hanging out.

‘Only half an hour,’ I say, glancing at my watch. I’m not wearing one. It takes me a few moments of staring at my wrist to realise this and a few more to accept that I can’t remember where I left it.

‘
Two
hours!’ she screams. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’

Then she slams the door but can’t because my foot is in the way. That’s when I laugh, even though it hurts. Julia lets out something between a scream and a growl and her cheeks turn pink. She flings the door open again and gets up close to me. It is a distance at which she should either kiss me or slap me. Our noses are nearly touching and something stirs inside me, a warning, a pre-programmed instinct to back off quickly. But I ignore it just to stay close to Julia for another second. I might not get the chance again.

‘You’ve been drinking. You’ve been in charge of my children, in my car, and you’ve been bloody drinking.’ She breathes in deeply and recoils. ‘Christ, Murray. How could you?’

She bangs her fists on the wall.

‘I mean, the kids . . . the car.’ Her face is softening a little now, as she thinks of our children. ‘God, Murray, you are the biggest dick I know.’

She slumps on to the chair and cradles her head in her hands.

‘It’s not what you, think. I drove
before
I had a drink.’

She looks up. ‘Then where did you have a drink?’

‘On the boat.’ I kick myself for letting it slip.

‘When will you understand that I don’t want my children on that hulk?’

‘I made them hot chocolate and we looked for fish in the moonlight.’

Julia sighs. ‘What if they’d fallen in and you didn’t even realise because you were . . .’ She can’t bring herself to say the word.

‘Drunk, Julia? Did you mean to say drunk?’

She nods. Not looking at me.

‘And do you mean drown, like the time you fell into Beck’s Pond and I pulled you out?’ I say.

We are both back there, the sun burning holes in our skin and me sucking the brown water from her throat. Mick shouting beside me as I worked. Julia’s chest sputtering back to life and the blue finally seeping into her eyes again. I hardly admitted to myself – the big brother of her best friend sent to keep watch – that my kiss of life was way longer than necessary.

‘One Scotch, Julia. One or two is all I had. Out on my boat with my children, watching for fish. They had fun. They were bored with pizza and ice cream. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘One now. Two tomorrow. Three the next.’ She feels the weight of the kettle.

‘It’s not like that any more.’

‘Isn’t it?’ She turns from the stove and I don’t recognise her. Her curves, her softness, her glow, have gone. She’s lost weight and there’s something brittle about her, as if she might shatter.

Then he walks into the kitchen, striding to Julia’s side, breathing the air that I was just about to, saying the words that I should have spoken. Julia doesn’t know where to look as my eyes zig-zag between them.

‘Everything’s going to be fine.’ His rich voice even convinces me. He’s not noticed me yet, but I see his hand on Julia’s shoulder. ‘Trust me.’ The smile is indelible.

Julia is startled. She looks at me, her eyes wide. She tucks a chunk of hair behind her ear. ‘David,’ she says nervously, and I know she just wants to get it over with. Julia would never flaunt this. I know she doesn’t want to hurt me. ‘This is Murray, Alex and Flora’s father.’

David turns and eyes me for a second. ‘I’m very happy to meet you, Murray. Your children are a credit to you.’ How he traversed the room without me noticing, I don’t know, but his hand is there for me to take, to shake, to formally let him know I’m OK with this. ‘I’m Dr David Carlyle,’ he adds. ‘I’m looking after Mary.’

I pause, then say, stupidly, slowly, curiously, ‘Are you?’ And as I take his hand – the smooth, warm skin pushing against me – I realise that this is it, the moment when Julia finally slips through my fingers.

‘Your mother is sleeping now,’ he says, turning back to Julia. ‘The medication will help her rest.’

‘Thank you for coming out at such short notice,’ Julia says softly. She doesn’t look at me any more. Instead, I see her roll her lips together, smooth out her sweater, stand a little taller. She is relieved that the moment she was dreading has been traversed without incident.

‘I didn’t think the NHS budget ran to house calls.’

David pauses and considers my remark. His face relaxes into a spread of friendly lines. ‘Generally speaking, you’re right. But Mary is a special patient. Julia was worried about her so I decided to come out. Really, it’s not a problem.’ The doctor smiles, floodlighting the entire kitchen.

I can see quite clearly that Julia is dazzled.

It was Christmas Day. We’d opened the stockings, eaten turkey, pulled the crackers and, as usual, we trundled over to Witherly to see Mum in the afternoon. She didn’t like to leave the farm if she didn’t have to. But this year Christmas was different, as if something vital had been chipped off all our lives.

‘Will Dad get any turkey?’ Alex asked as we pulled down the lane towards Northmire Farm.

‘If he bothers to cook one,’ I replied. Murray’s Christmas dinner wasn’t something I had considered. I tried to strike the thought from my mind, but it wasn’t easy.

‘What about presents?’ he continued, worsening the image of his father’s lonesome festive season. As we pulled up to the farm, I cursed Mum for leaving days’ worth of newspapers stuck in the gate. I yanked on the handbrake, jumped out of the car with the rain and wind lashing my face, and gathered up the wet papers.

I leapt back in. ‘Perhaps we could wrap something for him before he fetches you tomorrow.’ I wiped the rain off my cheeks and steered the car down the long drive.

Alex didn’t seem enthusiastic. ‘But you and Dad always buy each other presents. And you get something for Flora and me to give you both.’

It’s different this year, I wanted to tell him.Your dad and I are separated now. Not in love. We don’t give gifts. Instead, for Alex’s sake, I agreed to buy something for them to give their father the minute the shops reopened. We would wrap it and write a card and Alex and Flora would present their father with it on Boxing Day. But then Alex had to go and suggest a bottle of whisky, ‘Because Dad likes that, doesn’t he?’ just as we pulled into the yard.

I unhooked my seatbelt and then unbuckled Flora.

We’re here, her hands announced cheerily, and she bowled from the car to greet Milo in the yard. He was muddy and shaking and hardly had the energy to welcome us.

‘Milo,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong, boy?’ Then I saw the animal muck spread across the usually spotless cobbles; the two loose goats scoffing whatever winter herbs and greenery they could find in Mum’s pots. The washing line had come down at one end and several sheets dragged on the ground, while the chickens clucked at the goats’ feet.

This wasn’t the picture of rural perfection that Northmire usually boasted. Not Mum’s farm. Not Mum’s way.

I banged on the back door but didn’t wait for a reply. I shovelled my key from my bag and we went straight in. The kitchen fire was out and that was strange in itself. From September to March, the grate glowed with orange coals. It heated the entire house.

‘Mum?’ I called. ‘We’re here.’ My stomach cramped.

‘Where’s Gran gone?’ Alex asked. None of us took off our coats.

‘Mum!’ I pushed open the door to the inner hallway and called through all the doors of the house. ‘Mum, it’s us. Are you here?’

I half expected the two new foster kids to come charging through the house, excited that people had arrived for the day. I’d not met them at that point; knew nothing about this brother and sister recently delivered for Mum to shelter. But there was nothing except the sound of our own breathing and Milo’s claws clicking on the flagstones.

‘Kids, wait in the kitchen. Keep Milo with you for company. He looks like he could use some love.’ I signed as I spoke for Flora’s benefit, my hands shaking, causing my little girl’s face to crumple with worry.

I went upstairs first. She probably has ’flu, I remember thinking, or a stomach bug and has gone to bed. I tried to recall the last time we had spoken – always once a week – and with our Christmas Day visit approaching, our last conversation had been only four or five days ago. She’d seemed fine, cheerful about the festivities even, although she never once agreed to come and spend the day at our place. She was bound to Northmire Farm, mind and body. It was where she felt safe.

‘Are you home, Mum?’ I stopped shouting, trying to sound upbeat in case I discovered her perfectly fine, reading a book by the bedroom fire, tucked up with hot soup and a box of tissues. ‘Mum?’

I zig-zagged a path between all five bedrooms and then checked out the converted attic rooms above the barn, which were always kept for the foster kids.

‘Oh, hi,’ I said as cheerily as I could when two pale faces stared at me from the gloom. ‘I’m Julia. Have you seen Mary?’ Mum always insisted the kids call her by her first name.

They shrugged. A boy and a girl, somewhere in their teens. By all accounts, Mum had taken on a bit of a handful this time. ‘Have you even seen her today?’ I noticed wrapping paper on the floor, as if they’d been given presents.

‘Yeah,’ the girl said. ‘She’s around somewhere. Hasn’t said much, though. Not even happy Christmas.’

‘Well. Happy Christmas to you both. We can get to know each other later.’

Back downstairs, I poked my head around the study door, the dining room, the snug and finally the drawing room, which honestly, I can’t ever remember using since Grandad’s funeral. Generations of Marshalls have lived in this house.

‘
Mum
,’ I said, sighing with relief when I saw her small frame propped in the blue velvet chair. ‘I was worried. Are you OK?’ She faced the unlit fireplace. The house was so cold I could see the fog of my breath. I stepped in front of her, crouched down and froze.

Was she dead?

‘Mum!’ I screamed. Her eyes flickered open. ‘What’s wrong, Mum? Talk to me, for God’s sake.’ I touched her arm, tugged her sleeve and brushed the back of my hand down her cheek. There was some warmth beneath the cool powder of her skin, but her eyes were staring vacantly ahead.

‘Just tell me you’re OK. Nod or something. Have you been hurt? Are you ill?’

‘Grandma!’ Alex said and skidded across the room, closely followed by a more cautious Flora. ‘Happy Christmas!’

I put up my hand to prevent them leaping on to their grandmother. Looking at her, she would have crumbled under their weight. ‘Alex, go and get a glass of water.’

Flora ignored me and plopped on to Grandma’s small lap. Happy Christmas, Gran, she signed. I got a Barbie horse and this dress is new. Flora smoothed out the satin folds of a plum-coloured dress she had fallen in love with back in November.

Alex returned with the water. ‘Thanks, love,’ I said while sizing up Mum’s face. Her mouth was pursed and her fine eyebrows – always shaped into perfect thin arcs – pulled together in a cruel frown. Mum just didn’t seem to be inside.

Grandma, Flora signed. Say Happy Christmas to me. She slid off her knee, suddenly fearful of her usually jolly grandmother. My mother remained blank, moving only by default as Flora escaped.

‘What’s Grandma doing?’ Alex asked. He thumbed his Nintendo frantically, not looking up as he spoke.

‘She’s perhaps a bit tired,’ I suggested. ‘A bit too tired for Christmas.

‘Come on, Mum,’ I said, taking her hand. She was freezing. ‘Let’s go in the kitchen and stoke the range. We can have some tea and chat.’ I pulled gently on her hand and to my relief she stood up. Her knees were bent and her back formed the shape of the chair, but she was upright and showing some degree of comprehension and willingness.