Her Living Image (37 page)

Alan, she supposed, when she could be bothered to think of him, felt the same. He returned home in time for dinner at seven-thirty every evening, and they told one another briefly about the
events of their days. There seemed to be a lot of silence in the house, like something deep and sticky you had to wade through. Even the children were quieter. But he was polite and considerate to
her, as she was to him. They even made love, two or three times, without saying a word. It happened late at night, when the light was out, almost as if it was something they could pretend
wasn’t happening. She was not upset by it, as she had half thought she would be. She didn’t know if there were any feelings attached to it – or, if there were, how they might be
categorized. It was mechanical, although the initial impulse to turn to one another wordlessly in the dark seemed not to be a need a machine might feel.

On a Sunday morning in October, Carolyn lay in bed late. Alan was making cooked breakfast, something he had done on and off for years. She roused herself and muttered “Thanks” as
he brought a mug of tea in to her and placed it silently on the bedside table. He shut the door behind him but the catch did not slot home properly, and the door sprang open a crack as he was going
downstairs. Carolyn heard his footsteps on the last few stairs, then the sound of his voice. There was laughter. Carolyn half raised her head, then realized it was Chrissy. Chris must be down there
helping him. She lay flat again, inhaling and warming the cold air her movement had let into the bed. She could hear Annie and Cathy giggling in their room over some silly game or other. After a
while she found herself listening to their voices, trying to work out what they were playing. Cathy was giggling uncontrollably. It sounded as if Annie was giving her instructions. Cathy often
giggled like that, Carolyn realized; as if she was forcing herself to carry on until she became completely helpless, so that she would stagger about and fall over, hiccuping and unable to catch her
breath. It was like the way she made herself giddy, spinning round and round until she fell over, often hurting herself. But then she did it again, as if she felt a need to alter or confuse her
senses. Why was she doing that? Was it normal?

The anxiety hit Carolyn with surprising force. She should have noticed it before. She heaved herself up on to her elbows, then sat up properly, pushing the pillow against the wall to make a
back rest. She pulled her knees up towards her, tucking in the duvet around her bottom and sides. It was beginning to be cold in the mornings now. She must get Chris a new duffle coat this week.
She drank her tea slowly, cradling her hands around its heat.

The smells of bacon and fresh coffee crept into the room, along with a little gust of warm air. They must have turned on the fire in the kitchen. Cathy had stopped giggling now. Carolyn
listened intently. Suddenly Annie began to sing.

Carolyn had heard the song before. Chris used to sing it – it must be a hymn they all did at school. There was a sudden babble of sound then the two girls began to sing together, or
rather, Annie sang and Cathy shouted, “Ant, ants, wherever you may be –”

Cathy ended with a squeal and an unnaturally long peal of laughter, while Annie’s voice continued the tune. Was it normal? Annie sang beautifully. And her piano exam was on Tuesday. I
must remind Alan to leave the car, Carolyn told herself. She had an odd sensation of movement in her head, as if a heavy weight was being shifted slightly. Tilted, allowing a crack of light to
enter. He must come home early on Thursday too, she remembered – there’s that thing of Patsy’s in the evening. Patsy had asked her if she had some time to spare now the children
were all at school. She was looking for more one-to-one teachers for the adult literacy class she ran in town.

“I can’t do that – I can’t teach people.” Carolyn had panicked.

“You can read, can’t you? For heaven’s sake, you’ve got A levels. You’re better qualified than I am!”

Looking back on the conversation now, Carolyn realized that Patsy had been trying to help her, as much as to increase her own tutor numbers. Patsy knew that things had gone wrong;
Alan’s absences, and the screams and crashes late at night would have told her that much, never mind the sudden embarrassed appearances of Carolyn in search of a babysitter, on those
occasions when Alan had to be fetched home. But Patsy always behaved as if these things were perfectly normal and required no explanation. Carolyn knew she would never talk about it with anyone. It
was a private wound. And that disloyalty to Alan was unthinkable. Once Patsy’s quiet kindness had made her burst into tears. She had come back from taking the children to school after lunch,
and found Patsy in the back garden on a stool, braced against a biting wind, trying to tie a knot in the washing line.

“It broke after you left,” she told her. “I’ve put your things in my machine to rinse, I’m afraid they got a bit muddy.”

Remembering that day, Carolyn again had a sense of things opening up. It was a long time since she had remembered things like that. She had been stuck – up to her neck – in the
present, as if she had no past or future. Well, that’s silly – you have, she told herself briskly.

She put down her mug and climbed out of bed, snatching her dressing gown from its hook on the door. The smell of coffee was so strong she could almost taste it. As she fastened her gown she
moved over to the window and looked out through the crack between the curtains. What was the weather doing? She felt, ridiculously, that she had not known what the weather was for weeks.

The sky was grey. There was a light drizzle falling; so fine that it was hard to see it in the air, but the leaves and grass were shiny with wet. It was falling softly, as if the air itself
were falling, coating everything with moisture.

Carolyn leaned her forehead against the window pane, staring out. The sensation of cold glass against her skin was like an echo of the lifting and making of space inside her head. She heard
Annie shout “Shut up!” In the silence her clear voice began again. “Dance, dance, you jolly little flea. . . .”

Carolyn wiped away the mist her breath had made on the glass, smiling to find herself humming the tune too. She must tell Annie the words Chris had made up for it. They were funnier.

Thanks to North West Arts for their Writer’s Bursary which helped to make the writing of this novel possible, and to Jo Barnes, Mary Black, Robin Dawes and Dr Wendy
Rogers.

For permission to reprint copyright material the author and publisher gratefully acknowledge:

Chappell Music for ‘Rose Garden (I never promised you a)’ Composer and Author: Joe South. © 1967 Lowery Music Co. Inc. UK Publisher: Lowery Chappell Music.
Published by kind permission; Stainer and Bell Limited, for one verse of ‘Lord of the Dance’ by Sydney Carter.