What Have I Done? (13 page)

There was silence as each wondered how to proceed, how best to salvage some semblance of dignity.

Simon almost rushed forward as he grabbed the towel from the hook and wrapped it around Kate’s back, partly covering her
modesty. He pulled her backwards against his body, folded his large arms across her chest and held her tight. Kate eventually relaxed in his embrace and, still facing the shower wall, enjoyed the feeling of being held, protected. She closed her eyes and spoke to the strong man whose face she could not see, but whose arms held her fast.

‘My husband, Mark, would allocate me points, each and every night. I would be given points for not doing a chore properly or for not listening well enough; for not asking the right questions or for reading when I should have been working. I was always doing something wrong. Depending on how badly I scored would determine how deeply he would cut me. To cut me he would use a razor blade that he kept wrapped in a small piece of waxed paper in the drawer of his dresser. You can’t imagine how scary it was to hear that drawer slide open. When he had finished cutting me, which could take anything from seconds to a few minutes, he would rape me. That’s how I lived, for many, many years.’

‘I have never heard anything so sad. What sort of man would want to cut you?’ Simon’s voice rose and quivered.

‘Cut me and then rape me. What sort of man would do that?’ she repeated slowly, her voice devoid of expression.

‘Why did he do this to you?’ Simon whispered into her damp hair.

‘I don’t really know. It was the ultimate way to control me. I’m certain it was an act of madness. I believe he was mad.’

‘Why did your family not stop him? Your kids?’

‘Oh, I never told a soul. Even now, I don’t really discuss it. He never cut me anywhere that would be seen, always on the backs of my thighs and my bottom. I pretended to my children that nothing was wrong and Mark seemed to genuinely believe that nothing was wrong. Between us, we deceived everybody.’

‘For very different reasons, though, Kate. One to preserve the charade through goodness, the other through evil.’

‘I guess.’ She liked his simple logic; it comforted her.

Simon shook his head and squeezed her tighter, as if by doing so he could absorb her pain.

‘Can I look at your scars again, Kate?’

She half shrugged, not sure if she was comfortable with the idea.

Simon slowly unfolded his arms and stepped backwards. He stared at the geometric pattern, which reminded him of a burn. Reaching out confidently and starting at the base of her back, still damp from the shower, he ran his smooth palm over her buttocks and the backs of her thighs, feeling the bumps and lines beneath his fingertips. He was the only man ever to have done this. She didn’t flinch, but instead felt warmth spread through her body.

‘These are your battle scars, Kate. It’s a battle that you will win. I promise you. You are beautiful.’

Kate’s shoulders shook as a large sob made her body heave. Fat, salty tears snaked down her face. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had told her she was beautiful. She wished she was strong enough to respond to the feelings those words awoke within her.

Neither Kate nor Simon heard Matilda creep into the bathroom. The little girl was interested as ever in the whereabouts of her protector, and was still intrigued by the kind lady who’d liked her shell present. Ducking around Simon’s legs, Matilda trod with caution until she stood between them, in front of Simon and behind Kate, who was trying to compose herself. Slowly she reached with outstretched hands and ran the pads of her dimpled fingers over the back of Kate’s thigh.

‘Ouch! Poor Kate.’

Simon smiled and bent forwards, scooping Matilda into his arms. He threw her gently into the steam-filled air before catching her and holding her tight against his chest.

‘That’s right, Matilda! Ouch indeed.’ He grinned widely. ‘Did you hear that, Kate? She finally had something important to say and so she said it!’

Kate reached for the dressing gown and wrapped herself toga-like before joining in the celebration. Matilda had broken the spell. The three circled the bathroom, dancing on the concrete floor as Kate and Simon whooped with delight.

‘Matilda, your voice is the sweetest gift to my ears!’ Simon beamed.

Kate felt intoxicated by the joy that filled the space. She threw her head back and laughed. It was all okay; in fact it was more than okay, it was bloody marvellous.

Later, as the sun sank low in the sky and once the supper dishes had been scrubbed and dried and the last of the sequins and face paint washed from sticky hands and faces, Simon and Kate sat on the wooden step. They listened to the competing orchestras of bugs and wildlife, each making a new noise louder than the one before.

‘What a day.’ She was tired.

‘Exhausting but memorable, I hope!’

‘Oh, Simon, very memorable. I spoke to my daughter this morning.’

‘Well, praise be! That is wonderful news, Kate; a big step.’

‘I hope so. It’s given me a lot to think about. I tried for so long to protect them, keep the truth from them; I hadn’t considered that they would see me as anything other than a victim. I find it hard to shoulder all the blame…’

‘Kate, you are the only one left to blame. And it shows you
have given them a sense of balance, weighing up the rights and wrongs, forming their own judgement; that’s healthy.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. You are very wise, Simon.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

‘I would have brooded all day had you not taken me out. Thank you.’

‘You like Carnival, Kate?’

‘Oh yes, I like it very much. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a long while. Exhausting but fun!’

‘Well, you are welcome to Carnival anytime. Should we put your headdress somewhere safe for next year?’

Kate looked into the face of the kind man who had shown her a new and wonderful slice of a different world.

‘I don’t know, maybe. I do know that whatever happens to me, Simon, I will never forget my time here or any of you, especially Matilda.’

‘Today was a big step for her too; I hope it continues. Maybe she will talk more, maybe she won’t, but at least we know she can and she did! Wonderful.’

Simon placed his hands flat-palmed together and lifted his eyes skywards, silently offering thanks. Then he turned his attention to Kate.

‘She has touched your heart.’

‘Yes, she has. She has helped my heart, actually, and she’s got me thinking.’

‘As I said, hope comes in many forms, sometimes it’s a person…’

Kate smiled. ‘She’s got me thinking quite practically about my future and where I might be needed.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, I think that the world needs more “Simons”, more people who provide a haven for those that need it the most,
and I think that I would like to try—’

‘You want a job?’ He looked fearful and hopeful in equal measure.

‘Oh! Goodness no!’ Kate laughed. ‘I can’t exactly get you a good reference and it’s too far for my kids to be able to nip over. But I think maybe I could create a Prospect Place in England. It’s a wealthy country, but that doesn’t mean that we always know what to do with people who fall through the gaps – the vulnerable, the young and the hurt. I met a lot of them in prison.’

Kate breathed deeply as she remembered the conversation between Kelly and Jojo: ‘
Did you stay because of the kids? No, I stayed because of the drugs… I don’t see the kids no more…
’ She wondered what they were up to now.

‘Kate, I think you would be brilliant at that.’ Simon brought her back to the present.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Well, that feels like an endorsement!’ She beamed.

They sat in silence for a while. Kate knew that his next choice of topic was inevitable and had subconsciously been waiting for him to raise it.

‘Kate, I could never and would never condone the taking of a life, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t offer you my sympathy and understanding for how you have suffered. What I saw today—’

Kate placed her finger over his mouth.

‘No. Please, Simon, I don’t want to have that conversation, I really don’t. Can we just make out that this afternoon never happened? Can you go back to looking at me quizzically like you have since we met and not with the doleful expression you usually have when talking about one of the kids? I don’t want that to be how you see me.’

He nodded. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘It is.’ She looked directly at him. ‘I want to thank you, not just for that, but for everything. I feel somehow renewed and ready to face the world!’

‘You were brought here for a reason, Kate, and reasons aren’t always instantly obvious.’

‘Now don’t start with that. I’m a tiny fish, remember?’

Simon laughed.

‘Also, Reverend Dubois, I don’t intend to do the washing-up here ever again. If I do manage to come back, then I want to use a dishwasher.’

Kate unfurled a small square of paper from her pocket.

‘With that in mind, Simon, my lovely friend, I want to give you this. It’s something I want to do and it will bring me a great deal of happiness.’

Simon opened the cheque and gazed at the sum. It was enough not only for a dishwasher but also to rebuild the whole structure of Prospect Place with proper plumbing, playrooms and all the things that he could only ever have dreamed of.

‘Kate, I—’

‘No. Don’t say another word. It’s for Matilda and all the Matildas that might come after her.’

Simon placed his hands on either side of her head and kissed her gently on the mouth. Kate had forgotten that there was this kind of kiss. It was very different to the kiss that you gave a child or a friend and wasn’t a kiss that scared or controlled you. It was a kiss that brought warmth to your core. It was the way a lover might kiss a lover. Simon pulled away slowly and, for the briefest of moments, the two pondered the possibility of more kissing in a different place, at a different time.

‘Kate Gavier, you are a big fish, never doubt it. You are a very big fish, my lovely friend.’

It was nearly time for the school bell to ring, announcing the end of the last period. Kathryn stood with her back to the door, twisting a tea towel inside a coffee mug, soaking up any drips, filling her time.

‘I must remember to chill the dips and give the glasses a good wipe…’

‘Who are you talking to?’

His voice surprised her; she spun around, tea towel in hand and looked at her son as he delved into the bread bin in his relentless search for carbohydrates. He was a handsome boy, tall with a laid-back demeanour and appealing voice that was just on the right side of posh. It still took Kathryn slightly by surprise, how her baby had grown into this teenage life force. It staggered her how quickly the years had flown by, staggered and frightened her. For every year that sped by, allowing her child to stride towards adulthood, was also a year of her life that she had spent tethered to Mark.

‘Hello, my darling! I didn’t hear you come in. How was your day?’

‘My day was complete and total shit.’

‘Oh right, I shan’t ask then.’ She attempted to win him over with humour.

‘Well you can ask as much as you like, but I won’t tell you.’

She swallowed his sneer and let it settle in her stomach. It
was easier to ignore his comments than allow them to escalate. He was probably just tired.

‘Are you here for supper, Dom?’

‘Depends.’ He had turned his attention to the cupboard and was now addressing her from behind the open door.

‘Depends on what?’

‘On what supper is.’

She chewed her bottom lip, containing it all, swallowing the latent aggression, the indifference, the mild hostility, the unspoken irritation. These behavioural traits were typical of boys his age. He was a child-man trying to find his place in the world and not quite sure how to fire off the steam that built up inside him. He had also adopted some of his father’s views and attitudes, albeit subconsciously.

‘It’s coq au vin with steamed fresh green beans and purple sprouting broccoli.’

‘I really, really hate the way you do that.’

‘The way I do what?’

He closed the cupboard door and looked at his mother.

‘The way you try and entice me to stay for supper by delivering the menu as though it was a fancy restaurant. Why can’t you just say “We’re having chicken”?’

She would play along, she would humour him; she didn’t want to argue – she hadn’t seen him for a day or so.

‘Fine. I shall no longer try to entice you to allow me to cook for you. Tonight, Dominic, we are having chicken. Are you here for supper?’

‘No, I’ve already eaten.’

She looked into his eyes. ‘So can I assume that you’ve already eaten whether we are having coq au vin or just chicken?’

‘Yeah.’ He scowled.

She bent forward and rested her arms on the counter top. Her
hands joined together, subconsciously simulating prayer. She brought them up to her forehead and exhaled deeply. Closing her eyes, she spoke to the presence that she could still feel but could no longer see. It was sometimes easier that way.

‘Dominic, is there something going on with you that you want to talk about? Anything upsetting you?’

‘No.’

‘Because you can always talk to me, you know. That’s my job!’

‘There is nothing I have to say that I think you will want to hear.’

‘Well in that case, I really need you to think about the way that you treat people; more specifically, the way that you treat me. I am not your enemy, or the hired help for that matter. I am your mum and I don’t know why you think that it is okay to talk to me like that, but it is not. I know that life is not always perfect for you, but let me tell you, mister, that your life is a lot more perfect than most people’s. I understand that you have the pressures of school work, the distraction of girls and having Dad work here… I know that it’s not always easy, but please, please don’t shut me out. I love you, Dominic, I love you very much.’

Dominic stared at his mother’s back, bent over the kitchen counter, and studied the knobbles at the top of her spine, which were visible through the thin fabric of her shirt.

‘If you must know, Mum, it’s nothing to do with Dad. It’s you.’

‘Me?’ She tried to keep the surprise from her voice, tried to mask the sadness and resignation at his comment. ‘How is it me?’

‘You are just so…’ He fought to find the words as he breathed out from inflated cheeks.

‘So
what
exactly, Dominic?’

She stood straight now, with her hands on her hips, and he faced her.

‘You’re weird.’

She laughed. It was a quick, loud laugh to hide her nerves, and something else – relief?

‘I’m weird?’

She posed the question and yet did not want to hear the answer.

‘Yes, Mum, you are weird and it is so not funny so I don’t know why you are laughing.’

She noticed that he emphasised the ‘so’. He wasn’t finished.

‘You talk to yourself and people in school notice, my friends notice. You float around the place as though you are only half aware of what you’re doing; it’s like you’re completely bonkers or on drugs or something. You smile even though you are clearly unhappy. It’s like living with someone that’s got a secret; it’s like you know something that no one else does and it sets you apart from us, from me, Dad and Lyds. I feel sometimes like you’re not part of this family and all my mates joke about how bloody strange you are with your clean sheet obsession and it’s shit because it’s true and worst of all it makes me weird by association. It’s just complete shit.’

She looked at her son.

‘I understand, Dominic. It’s shit.’

‘No. No, Mum, you don’t understand and that’s just it.’

He turned and left the room. She was once again alone with her tea towel.

The ghost of his words swirled and spiralled around her form and settled over her like a fine mist. ‘
It’s like living with someone that’s got a secret; it’s like you know something that no one else does and it sets you apart from us
…’

Clever, clever Dominic. My clever, beautiful boy
. He was
right, that was exactly what it was like.

Kathryn gathered her thoughts and tried to focus on something, anything other than the ache of her son’s words and the manner in which he had felt it appropriate to deliver them. She was sifting through the encounter, trying to pick out any tiny positives, when in walked Lydia with an oversized sketch pad shoved under her arm.

‘What’s for tea?’

‘Hi, Lydia, yes I’m fine, thank you, my day was fairly good and how are you?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. It’s chicken.’

‘Just chicken? Yuk. That is so totally boring.’

‘Well it’s coq au vin actually with steamed fresh green beans and purple sprouting broccoli.’

‘Oh, well why didn’t you say that? God, Mum, sometimes you can be so—’

Kathryn held up her hand, interrupting her daughter’s flow before she had the chance to throw any fuel on her already broken spirit.

‘Yes, Lydia, I know. I have an inability to accurately describe supper. Forgive me. I am weird beyond belief. I’m an embarrassment to you, life is shit and it’s all my fault, everything from world famine to the war in the Middle East, global warming, the current economic crisis and of course the fact that Luca Petronatti won’t go out with you. It is all my fault, all of it. You can quite legitimately blame me for everything.’

Lydia was speedy with her retort.

‘Are you menopausal? Is that what this is all about?’

‘Probably, Lydia.’

‘I’ll eat in my room.’

Lydia marched back into the hallway and up the stairs. That
was it, end of discussion. Kathryn tried to imagine a similar conversation with her own mother. She tried to imagine first of all enquiring about the state of her mother’s biological cycle, commenting on it and then demanding in so many words that her supper be waitressed up to her room. She could of course imagine neither, for she wouldn’t have dared or wanted to. Things had been different.

Opening the cupboard door, she turned the tin of peas to face the ‘right way’. For the first few years of their marriage, the tasks that Kathryn performed which required detailed and careful instruction were varied and numerous. Up until then she had inadvertently been executing many tasks wrongly. Who knew? Not she. She had been blissfully unaware that there was a right way to put honey on toast, a right way to make coffee in a cafetière. Luckily, Mark was on hand to help her realise the error of her ways.

The list was long and meticulous. Tins had to be stacked no more than three high and with all the labels facing outwards; when opened with a tin opener, their lids had to be removed entirely – never, ever left jagged and hanging by a thin hinge of metal – and placed inside the empty tin for disposal.

A carpet had always to be vacuumed in straight horizontal lines, allowing you to follow the previous edge – haphazardly roaming around a room until you were sure that you had covered each area at least once was out of the question. There was a right way to store socks (balled together with its opposite number and placed in colour-coordinated order in the drawer); a right way to stack a dishwasher, fold a towel, tie and dispose of a bin bag, brush your teeth, park the car, drive the car, feed the children, comb and cut your hair, make the bed, polish the floor, address the neighbours, write Christmas cards, answer the phone, dress, walk, talk, think…

Mark Brooker always entered a room loudly, even if he didn’t say a word. He never simply arrived anywhere. It was as if he always had to announce his presence, like an actor walking onto the set of an American sitcom. As his head appeared around the door, Kathryn always half expected to hear clapping and canned laughter, merely at the fact of his arrival.

He came to where she stood and eclipsed her with his form.

‘Good evening, Kathryn.’

‘Hello, Mark.’

‘You look neat and pretty.’

She smiled weakly up at him. ‘Thank you.’

‘Something smells good. What’s for supper?’

‘It’s… err… it’s…’

‘It’s… err… it’s… what?’ His tone was clipped, through his smiling mouth.

‘It’s chicken… It’s coq au vin… Chicken.’

‘Chicken coq au vin chicken. Splendid.’

He pulled her face into his hands and kissed her hard and full on the mouth before turning on his heel and retiring to his study. She waited until the door clicked in its frame before raising the checked tea towel to her mouth and wiping away the moist evidence of his presence.

She set the table for the two of them; her lips ached and swelled slightly from his aggressive contact. Her mind flitted to an evening during their courtship. They had been in the bar at University College, London, among a small group of fellow students, when the conversation shifted to the subject of working women. There was the usual banter about chaining wives to sinks and the old jokes about why were women married in white? To match the rest of the household appliances – boom boom! How they all laughed.

After walking her home, Mark had turned to her as they stood in her parents’ doorway.

‘You will stay at home, won’t you, gorgeous? You’ll stay at home and grow our babies and I will look after you so that you never have to worry about a thing, not one single thing.’

She smiled up at him.

‘Well, Mark, I will stay at home eventually, when I do have babies, but up until then, I definitely want to teach. I want to use my degree. I think I’ll be really good! I certainly love my subject and I’m very patient – unlike a certain someone I could name!’

‘Impatient,
moi
? It’s not my fault if most of the kids that get shoved in front of me are retards. I need a better calibre of child, one without the IQ of a pot plant!’

‘Ah, what is it they say? “A bad workman blames his tools.” Is it the same for bad teachers?’

Suddenly and without any warning, Mark grabbed her right wrist, lifted her hand up to her own face, and laughed.

‘Stop slapping yourself, you silly girl!’

He was laughing and smiling as he slapped her hand across her own face, hard. For a moment, she was too shocked to react. Then realisation dawned and she clenched her muscles and splayed her fingers taut. But he was much stronger and simply carried on making her hit herself in the face.

‘Stop it! Stop it, Kathryn! You silly girl!’

She cried and gulped air in surprise. It was some seconds before he stopped abruptly.

‘Oh my darling! Why are you crying?’

She looked into his beautiful pale blue eyes as her own pooled with tears.

‘Because you hurt me, Mark.’

He crushed her to him, folded his duffel coat around her and spoke softly into her scalp.

‘Baby, baby, it was just a joke! I love you and I would never hurt you intentionally. I would rather die than hurt you.’

She had been shaken when the mirror revealed an angry red mark across the side of her face.

As Kathryn positioned the table mats, coasters and the salt and pepper centrally on the table, she reflected that this, among many other things that Mark did and said, was a lie. He would not rather die than hurt her. This she knew for a fact.

At eight o’clock, with supper finished, the various masters began trickling in and making themselves comfortable in the kitchen. She circled the room, dispensing wine and mineral water into sparklingly clean glasses whilst nodding, smiling and commenting where appropriate or necessary.

‘Yes, it is unusually mild.’

‘Thank you, yes, I am well, very well.’

‘Dominic? Oh, you know, studying hard.’

‘The first eleven? Oh, it’s against Taunton School, I think.’

‘For aphides, I trust a mixture of vinegar and water, liberally sprayed.’

Kathryn looked at the rag-taggle group of old men clad in their fusty corduroy garments. Collectively they gave off the faintest whiff of decay. Thick tufts of hair sprouted from ears and noses – the kind of thing that an attentive wife would have taken care of. Their teeth were also neglected. She imagined them as a group of ageing penguins, squawking and jostling for position even though no one else in the world was the tiniest bit interested in anything they did or said.