The Secret Intensity of Everyday Life (17 page)

‘Mr Strachan? No, of course not.’

How would he know? He’s a teacher. Teachers have no idea of anything at all. They think Chloe Redknapp is just too darling with her little smiles and her perfect manners.

‘You should have told me.’

‘No, honest, I’m fine, Mum. I don’t care. I don’t even like them.’

‘Oh, sweetheart.’

I’m going to start crying again and I won’t, because Mum looks so sad and I know
exactly
what she’s thinking because we always know what each other is thinking. She’s thinking it’s her fault because she doesn’t spend enough time with me and it just isn’t her fault, not remotely, and anyway I’m fine and I don’t care.

‘I’ll try and call in at the school tomorrow. See if I can have a word with Mr Strachan.’

‘What for, Mum? He can’t do anything.’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you. Just a little chat about how you’re getting on.’

‘But you have to work.’

‘I’ll make some time. Now you must go to sleep.’

When Mum kisses me at night she’s sitting on the bed and she leans down and I put my arms round her and give this little pull. At first she always resists but then she sort of folds down onto me and that’s the moment I love the best, when I feel her weight on me. It’s like then I know she’ll always come to me, whatever stands between us, all I have to do is pull.

‘Love you so much, Addle.’

That’s my baby name. No one else in the whole world knows it, not even my dad. Only Mum and me. Only us two.

‘Love you, Mum. Love you the most and the longest.’

‘The most and the longest.’

When she leaves my room she always stops for a moment in the doorway and looks back at me, like she doesn’t really want to leave me, and I love that moment too. Then she leaves and shuts the door because I’ve learned to sleep in the dark and now it’s dark and I’ve still got the heaviness of her on me and the silhouette she makes in the doorway against the landing light and it’s enough. It’s all I want. Everything else is just random.

20

Marion sits in front of the television but she sees and hears nothing. The chattering screen is her chaperone. It wouldn’t do to be sitting alone with her thoughts. Not after the extraordinary developments of this very evening. Also it’s important that she doesn’t over-excite herself. Dr Skilling has explained to her that her gift, which is her acute degree of sensitivity, is also a danger to her. Not that she needed Dr Skilling to tell her this. She has known since she was a little girl that she feels things more intensely than most people. Quite literally so: she has pale skin which burns easily, even in weak sunlight. Her eyes ache after too much reading. She feels the cold. But far more significant than mere physical symptoms, she suffers from, or is gifted with, a heightened sensitivity to emotions. She can tell what other people are feeling, even from the tiniest clues. With David, of course, the clues were anything but tiny. He had one response to all difficulties. ‘Take your bloody pills, Marion.’ She’s told him more times than she can remember how important it is for her to remain calm, but he pays no attention. Well, he’s not here now, so she can be as calm as she likes.

What a drama this evening! She goes over it in her mind once more, allowing the excitement to settle into memory. There was fear to start with, real fear. She heard banging noises upstairs. There was no doubt about it in her mind, she had an intruder. As soon as she grasped this fact she was flooded with terror. In her own house! Where could she go? The intruder could descend the stairs at any minute and assault her in her own living room. Her own house had become a trap. At once she left the house, and stood outside on the brick path, shivering in the cool air.

Was it then that I thought of Alan? No, earlier. From the very first wave of panic my mind reached out to him. Yes, even then, in the heart of the fear, there was a still small voice saying, This will change your life. Sometimes that’s what it takes to bring people together, a crisis, a tragedy. You could say that’s what brought David and I together. I would not have been in that place were it not for my crisis. You think if someone has witnessed the kind of pain that I went through that he’d understand you, but it’s not true. I became more sensitive. David became more selfish.

What did I do? Did I shout? No, I knocked on the door. On his door. Well, he is my nearest neighbour. We share the same house, really. I’ve often been struck by that fact. You could even say that we’re living together. My little joke.

He came very quickly. He saw with one glance how frightened I was. But as soon as he was there before me, I stopped being frightened. I think that tells you something. Young as he is, he has the power to make me feel safe. I know Dr Skilling would be very pleased to hear me talking this way. ‘You need to be with people who calm you down, Marion,’ he says. Guess who that does not include. With Alan all it took was one look and I knew he understood, and was in control. He’s gentle, Alan, but he’s not weak. You might think to look at him that he’s frail because he’s so thin, but it’s the spirit that counts. Alan has the spirit of a tiger.

He went into my house. He went upstairs.

Alan went into my bedroom. Alan stood beside my bed. Alan was there, in my most private place, in the place where I sleep, in the place where I am utterly vulnerable. Even now, an hour or more after he’s gone, I can feel his presence in my bedroom, as if he has altered the composition of the air in there. Which of course he has. He has breathed there. He has exhaled. There is a trace of Alan in the air of my bedroom. There now, there’s a perfect example of my gift of sensitivity. Very few people would pick up so subtle a change as that.

I’ll go to bed myself soon. Not quite yet, I’m not quite calm enough yet. But when I go upstairs I will in a sense be going up to Alan.

The intruder had gone, it seems. I don’t trouble myself to puzzle out how. These incidents have multiple causes, and multiple effects. There may have been no intruder at all. It’s perfectly possible. What there was, beyond question, was an incident that drew Alan and I together. I choose to understand my life in this way. Both Alan and I are shy, in our different ways, and we need a little help to bridge the natural distance that exists between strangers. Strangers! The very word seems absurd when applied to Alan. I feel I know him so well. I know when he gets up in the morning, and when he leaves to go to school. I know when he comes back home, and when he turns out his lights at night. Many times I’ve driven past the school where he teaches, and pictured him in his classroom with all those little faces gazing up at him. I’m sure he’s an excellent teacher.

What did he think when he found himself in my bedroom? What did he feel? There’s no point in being prudish about it, a bed is a bed. I like pretty things about me, he’ll have noticed the lacework on the pillows, and – dear Lord! – my nightie lying on the bedspread! How could I have forgotten that? What can Alan have thought when he saw my nightie? He’s not a complete fool. Blush as much as you want, Marion, there’s no one to see. He thought the only thing he could have thought, of course. He thought of me wearing the nightie. And then?

Customs have changed so much since Mummy’s day. I realize now that Mummy was afraid of sex. She saw it as something to be controlled, or better still, avoided. Nowadays there’s a healthy openness about sex, though of course it goes too far, and look at the results, abortions, single mothers, rapes, AIDS and so forth. But there is a balance. We can allow the sexual side of our nature to stake its claim, in the right place and at the right time, and not feel ashamed. Actually there’s not much shame any more. A little more shame wouldn’t come amiss. But there has to be a balance. I too have my share of sexual feelings. It would be a lie to deny it.

And Alan? He’s a man. He stood in my bedroom, he looked at my nightie. Of course there was an element of sexual feeling there for him. It’s entirely natural. And then when he came downstairs I felt it so strongly, the current of feeling in him, one might almost call it arousal. He could barely look at me. I’m sure he felt appalled at the thoughts he was having, he’s such a gentle boy, but he shouldn’t blame himself. Such thoughts are natural. He’s a man, I’m a woman. It’s the way nature has made us.

I have such a powerful premonition about Alan. There’s a wordless channel of understanding between us that’s drawing us closer to each other with every passing day. I feel certain now the time will come when I’ll lie in his arms and we’ll make love – yes, make love! – and it will be strong and gentle, and afterwards there’ll come the deep calm my spirit craves.

I am the older of the two of us. It falls to me to make the first move. I must find a way to show him that I understand his feelings, and that I return them.

Dear Alan. Darling Alan. I’ll go to bed now. I’ll go to breathe the air that you have breathed. I’ll go to sleep with you, all through the night.

21

It’s just before nine o’clock when the car’s headlights sweep the front of the house, sending a sabre of light across Jack’s bedroom ceiling. Jack is not asleep. He hears his father’s tread crossing the gravel to the front door, and then the familiar rattling of keys. His mother always drops the latch in the evening, just in case.

There follows an interval, in which he supposes his father comes in and gives his mother a kiss, and then he hears the strong thump of feet climbing the stairs. His father will look in on Carrie first, but she’s been in bed for over an hour and will be asleep. The coming goodnight kiss belongs to Jack alone, the privilege of his two extra years.

The bedroom door opens, bringing with it a swish of light. The landing light is off, but light comes climbing up the stairs, bouncing round corners from the bathroom, from his parents’ bedroom, spilling into his room, where he is supposed to be asleep. Comically, his father enters like a blind man, as if the room is a cave of darkness. Jack watches from his bed as his father feels his way past runaway trainers and unexpected chairs.

‘You awake?’

He whispers, always. Jack is awake, always.

‘Yes.’

He sits on the side of the bed, where Jack has made a space for him, ever since the car’s lights swept across the ceiling, by wriggling up closer to the wall.

‘Had a good day, darling?’

Jack has prepared for this moment.

‘Got my composition back,’ he says.

‘Did your teacher like it?’

‘He said I could do better.’

‘Do better? How?’

‘I forgot to put in full stops and stuff.’

‘That’s all he said?’

‘He didn’t like it being a dream.’

His father is briefly silent. Jack can feel him filling with anger. This excites him.

‘Your teacher is a dickhead.’

A dickhead! Such a totally brilliant concept! A head like a dick! A stiff dick, naturally. Like in the chalk outline drawn on the up platform of Glynde station, above the legend JW IS A WANKER.

‘He’s one hundred per cent wrong. And I shall tell him so.’

‘No. You can’t.’

His father strokes his hair.

‘My dinner’s waiting.’

His warm snuffly kiss.

‘Night, Daddy.’

Henry is tired and drinks more wine than usual. It’s a good wine, a Rhone red. He reserves the best bottles for these ordinary evenings when it’s just the two of them. Guests talk too much to notice what they’re drinking.

‘This teacher of Jack’s. The one who thinks creative writing is all about punctuation. I can’t believe it. It makes me so cross I want to hit him.’

‘Poor Jack. He was disappointed.’

‘I’m appalled, Laura. I really am. Jack wrote something magical. And this little shit of a teacher tells him he forgot to put in full stops. That’s like a murder.’

‘Maybe I should have a word with him in the morning. Though I’m afraid it won’t make any difference.’

‘He shouldn’t be teaching. He should be sacked.’

‘I’m not sure we can manage that.’

‘He should be working in a local council office. He should be checking application forms for senior citizen bus passes.’

Laura looks on as he refills his glass yet again. She understands the source of his anger.

‘How did it go with Aidan?’

‘Hell. He’s shameless. The man’s vanity is impregnable.’

‘Did you talk to Barry about the credit?’

‘Briefly.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing, of course.’

‘But that’s so unfair. Really, Henry, you shouldn’t let them do this to you.’

‘Well, they’re doing it.’

‘It’s your work. You deserve the credit. You have to put your foot down.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’ His voice peevish now, his irritation directed at Laura. ‘Walk out?’

‘I’m not saying that.’ Laura is hurt. She was only trying to be supportive. ‘They couldn’t do it without you.’

‘Of course they could. There’s dozens like me out there.’

‘That’s not true, Henry. And you know it.’

‘I can’t walk out.’

Because he needs the work. Because he needs to earn money. Because however much he earns it isn’t enough.