What Have I Done? (24 page)

‘Well, I know that all mothers think it, but I
know
that mine are the most beautiful creatures ever created. Jared is walking, although he’s very wobbly, got the legs of a drunk; and Eliza is talking nineteen to the dozen – can’t get her to shut up.’

‘Must take after her father.’

‘Ha! Funny girl. She says she wants to be a spaceman when she grows up. I asked if she meant spacewoman, but she was adamant. So she either becomes more gender aware as she gets older or I’m hooking up with Cher to see if she can recommend a good surgeon!’

The two laughed, simultaneously appraising each other. Now that Janeece had started a family and moved to Bristol, they only saw each other once a month, when Janeece returned to lead counselling sessions with the girls. But both women were still quick to notice any changes in the other’s mood or demeanour.

‘How you doing, Kate, really?’

Janeece knew better than to accept Kate’s smile at face value.

Kate looked at the sand, trying to divert her sadness.

‘Well, I’m good most of the time. Sometimes, though, I miss Lyd and Dom so much it’s painful. I mean literally I feel pain in my heart.’

‘I wish I could make it all better for you.’

Kate gripped her friend’s hand. ‘You do, Jan, you do.’

‘I’ve got something to show you. I was going to wait until I left, but now seems as good a time as any.’

‘What is it?’ Kate was intrigued.

Janeece delved into her large patchwork book bag and produced a glossy booklet. She placed it in Kate’s upturned palm.

‘It’s a programme of West Country events for the year. Turn to page twelve and see what’s coming up in a few months.’

Kate did as instructed and her eyes were immediately drawn to the small black-and-white photo in the top right-hand corner. It was Lydia.

‘Oh, Jan! She’s so beautiful and grown-up! Look!’

She did her best to dash away the big fat tears that dripped from her chin.

Janeece could only nod sympathetically. Having never met Lydia or seen any other picture of her, it was impossible for her to draw a comparison.

Kate read further. ‘She is holding an exhibition, oh my goodness, her very own art exhibition at the RWA in Bristol. Oh, Jan, isn’t that amazing! She must be very good, mustn’t she; I mean, they don’t let any old person hold an exhibition!’

Her excitement bubbled through her tears. Her little girl, her baby… Kate pictured Lydia’s fat toddler fingers gripping crayons and producing masterpieces that she had then pinned
up around their kitchen walls. It was a lifetime ago.

‘It’s called “Pictures From Behind the Flint Walls”. What do you think that means?’

Kate considered the title and then answered her own question. ‘We had flint walls at Mountbriers; it must be that.’

Janeece nodded. ‘I didn’t know if I should show it to you, but it plopped through the letterbox yesterday and is being advertised a lot locally. I didn’t want you hearing about it from someone else.’

‘Thank you. It’s lovely to see. I can’t believe how grown-up she looks, and so self-assured. She looks a lot like her dad too. He was a very good-looking man; that’s the one nice thing I can say about him.’

‘Are you going to go?’ Janeece nodded at the booklet.

‘Oh! I hadn’t thought. I wouldn’t want to upset her big night. I would dearly love to of course. I would love to.’

Kate beamed as though her attendance was a possibility.

‘Why don’t you ask Francesca what she thinks?’

‘Well, it’s tricky. I don’t phone there any more – the kids asked me not to and I have to respect that. So she calls me once a month, and emails of course. I think it would be too public a place for our first precious meeting, but you have no idea how much I would love to get a glimpse of her and Dom. He’ll be there; he wouldn’t miss this for the world!’

‘There’s no reason why you can’t go to the exhibition, Kate. I could go ahead, see who was around and if the coast was clear, then you could come and have a gander. Then I’d whisk you away afterwards. It’s on for over a week. What do you say?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Well, think about it. You don’t have to decide now.’

‘I love you, Jan. I love you to bits.’

Kate gripped her young friend’s hand.

‘The feeling, madam, is entirely mutual.’

‘Are you sure this isn’t too much for you, coming up every month, Jan? I hate to think of you doing the journey so often.’

‘We’re only in Bristol, it’s nothing. Anyway, it’s good to keep my hand in with the counselling, and to have a “me day”, let Nick and the kids have time together. I think they all enjoy being able to eat rubbish and watch their monthly TV allowance in one afternoon. When I get back, they’re always bug eyed and bouncing off the walls from sugar overload!’

Their chuckles brought them back on track.

‘How’s Tanya getting on?’

Kate exhaled. ‘Oh God, Jan, bit of a mess really. We had a development last night, I’m afraid. She’s a fabulous kid, but a trouble magnet. She’s been sleeping with someone and I’m afraid to say it’s… Well, have a guess: old, slimy—’

‘Not Rodney Big-Shot-Have-You-Seen-My-Boat?’

‘The very same. I’ve had serious words with him and I am absolutely furious. But realistically what can I do? She’s not a baby and she’s not a prisoner.’

The two women smiled at each other. Both knew very well the difference between life behind bars and in front of them.

‘What the hell is he thinking, Kate?’

‘I suspect he’s not, not with his head anyway.’

‘Do you want me to sort him out?’

Janeece balled her right hand into a fist and pulled her arm back at head height as if about to land a punch.

Kate laughed again.

‘No! Although that’s very tempting. Tanya has probably been encouraging him slightly, possibly even a bit more than slightly, so I have to tread carefully to avoid alienating her. Although it’s a bit of a moot point right now because she’s
gone off to London, apparently. Left me a note saying she had to go back there for a bit.’

‘How long is a bit?’ Janeece echoed Kate’s earlier question.

Kate shrugged as she pulled her knees up to her chin and hung her head forward. ‘Oh, why can’t it ever be easy?’

‘Nothing worth having ever is. Someone brilliant told me that once.’ She smiled at Kate. ‘It’ll work out, mate.’

‘Oh, Jan, I hope so. I’m getting tired.’

‘No, you’re not getting tired, you’re getting old!’

‘Thanks a million! You’re supposed to be making me feel better!’

‘Oh yeah? That was never in our contract! Maybe your old age is giving you selective memory as well as fatigue!’

Janeece jumped up to pat the sand and creases from her clothes.

‘Right, this isn’t what I came here for. I can gossip to you anytime, but today I’ve got work to do. I’ll go find Tash and see what she’s unearthed and we’ll take it from there. Then how about a rendezvous at the kitchen table for a cup of coffee and a slice of whatever Tom has managed to create in my honour?’

‘That sounds lovely.’

‘Right, missus, I shall see you after I’ve had my session with Stacey. Don’t worry, Kate, you are doing your best. You know that, right?’

‘Mmmn… But what if my best isn’t good enough?’

‘Then it’s out of your hands, mate.’

Janeece kissed her dear friend on the cheek before leaving her alone.

Kate watched the girl that had become a woman tread the wet sand towards the path. She was so proud of all Janeece had achieved, a gifted counsellor and a wonderful mum. Sometimes it was hard for Kate to reconcile the confident woman that
Janeece had become with the aggressive teenager she had first met.

As she turned back to stare at the sea, Kate heard the postman’s van reverse into the driveway and her heart skipped a beat. She didn’t receive letters from Lydia any more but prayed that they would start again – a note, a scribble, anything. This time of day meant a quickening of her pulse, just in case there was a response to her monthly communiqué, an olive branch. There never was, but she would wait.

She pulled her ballet wrap cardigan around her slender frame. These days, her figure was svelte as a result of healthy living and not because she was so scared all the time that she was unable to eat. Stretching her bare calves in the mid-morning sun, she flexed her toes against the edge of the soft tartan blanket. The damp sand clung where it touched. An empty crisp packet cartwheeled along, propelled by the intermittent breeze. Her surroundings were perfect yet the hole inside her could not and would not be filled until her children were once again in her life.

Saturday was a day of rest for some members of the school community. The younger years and those that weren’t in sports teams were free to idle outside or indulge in a hobby in their boarding house. If the kids had match fixtures, however, it was a school day like any other.

Kathryn folded her son’s cricket whites and brushed his school cricket cap. He was at best a keen amateur, but as per school rules could not be seen in anything less than full games kit. She correctly assumed that part of the allure of school sports for Dom was the paraphernalia that accompanied each activity. He was convinced that if he looked the part, he could play the part, hoping that wearing top-of-the-range kit might make up for his lack of natural ability.

Saturday or not, Kathryn had chores to do. Today she would polish the canteen of silver cutlery – it was seldom used, but best to be prepared; empty and clean the two wheelie bins; strip the oven down to its bare components and thoroughly scrub all parts thereof; sweep the garden path and patio; clean and polish all the windows on the landings and hallway including the glass of the front and back doors; and visit the supermarket for a ‘big shop’, ensuring that the larder, cupboards, freezer and fridge were adequately stocked for any eventuality.

It was a gloriously hot day. Kathryn had enjoyed her trip into town, stopping several times to debate the temperature
with the various staff and parents she bumped into, and once to admire a collection of bugs that some pre-prep students had stuffed into a leaf-filled ice-cream carton. It felt like summer had arrived. After donning her sandals and spritzing her cologne she was ready for her next batch of chores.

She glanced at the kitchen clock and was happy to see she was ahead of schedule. This meant she could start preparation for supper and find a few spare minutes later in the day for illicit reading.

‘Kathryn?’

She abandoned the bowl of sugar snap peas that she had been prepping, dropping the sharp paring knife into the pocket of her apron as she wiped her hands on its floral fabric. The children regularly laughed at her choice of domestic cover-up, but she cared little; it felt homely and reminded her of her own mother’s apron, which she remembered as being constantly spattered with flour.

She followed Mark’s voice out into the garden, walking quickly to where she had been summoned.

‘Yes, Mark?’

She hovered, waiting to find out the exact nature of his request, which might be anything from a demand for iced tea to the name of a past pupil that had temporarily escaped him.

‘Gardening gloves? Any clues, my sweet? Can’t seem to find them!’

‘Yes, I’ll fetch them.’

Kathryn returned to the kitchen and rummaged in her bits and bobs drawer in the larder. There they were. She heard Mark’s loud chuckle before she ventured back outside.

‘There she is! Keeping me hard at it as usual, Roland.’

‘That I can see. Nice to see you, Kathryn!’

Sophie’s dad raised his hand in greeting from beside the
rose bed. Kathryn waved as she approached, noting his tailored navy blazer, which he had teamed with white Bermuda shorts and deck shoes. He always looked so dapper, effeminate even, in his immaculate outfits and considered accessories. Dominic referred to him as an ‘old poof’. Kathryn would have to disagree; he certainly wasn’t old.

‘Hello, Roland. Sophie got a match?’

‘Yes, tennis. Thought I’d come and offer a bit of moral support!’

‘Well you’ve got a lovely afternoon for it.’

Kathryn swept her arm over her head, to indicate the sunshine.

Mark interjected. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. Some of us are slaves to the garden and our wives, sunshine or not! I can assure you I’d rather be sinking a pint and having a gander at the paper. Quite keen to know how England are getting on in the Test.’

Mark laughed and Roland laughed too. Kathryn marvelled at how her husband always knew the right thing to say to endear himself – she could swear that he had no interest in cricket whatsoever.

‘Now you’re talking,’ Roland concurred. ‘Go easy on him, Kathryn, the man works too hard!’

She smiled and nodded. Her heart thudded and her lips trembled with the temptation to scream.

With supper prepared, Kathryn decided to wander over to the playing fields, hoping to catch a bit of Dominic’s cricket match. She packed up a basket with some cold fruit juice and a homemade lemon cake. She would give the boys a treat; they were probably famished.

She had never grasped the rules or finer points of cricket but
had to admit that there was something very soothing about the sound of leather on willow and the dainty ripple of applause at a job well done. It all felt very English and reminded her of days in the park with her dad when she was little.

Boys and parents alike lounged around the field, some engrossed in newspapers, some dozing in deckchairs and one or two even watching the match.

She spied a group of kids at the far side of the pitch and determined by their stance and number that her son would be among them. It took a while to navigate the edge of the field. She stepped over open novels, textbooks and crawling babies. She trotted between picnic blankets and folding chairs and stumbled over discarded shoes and cricket pads whilst nodding hello or acknowledgements to several staff and visitors. As she approached the group, she could see that her assumption had been correct.

Dominic lay face down, prostrate on the grass along with several of his peers. Kathryn averted her eyes as an empty bottle of champagne was hastily thrust under a school sweatshirt. The boys and girls alike were in various states of undress, as was fitting for the weather. One of them was Emily Grant, whose shirt was tied up under her bust, revealing the slight paunch of a tanned tummy. Her hair hung down over her face and her eyes were heavily kohled. She lay inches from Dominic, her head propped up on her angled wrist as she raked his back with painted nails.

Kathryn felt an instant ache of regret at having come; she was intruding and wished that she had stayed at home. This was no place for parents or teachers; she was an outsider. Intuition told her she was unwanted before she had uttered a single syllable. If she could have reversed unseen and slunk back into the shadows, she would have.

She looked back to examine the route that she had taken, trying to plot a quick escape. So many obstacles and people littered her view, she couldn’t easily decipher a path. There was a split second when she wondered if she could turn on her heel and slip away unnoticed, back into the crowd.

‘Hey! It’s your mummy, Dom Dom!’

Kathryn wasn’t sure who had spoken, but recognised the tone.

‘Yes it is,’ she offered brightly. ‘Hello, Dom! Hello, everyone!’

Dominic flicked his head around and groaned as he surveyed his mother in her floral cotton apron.

‘Hello, Mrs Brooker!’

It was Luca who had been so very polite.

‘Hello, Mrs Bedmaker!’

Again, she couldn’t determine who had spoken, but presumed it was one of the lower sixth whose face was buried in a white slipover. Kathryn felt her cheeks turn crimson as heads snickered into hands and bodies shook with the exertion of trying not to burst out in guffaws. It was an absolutely hilarious situation. Her breath came in huge gulps and she felt rooted to the spot. Even Dominic laughed, but tried to bury his face into the blanket to conceal his amusement.

‘I just… I… well…’ She pleaded with herself,
Don’t cry, Kathryn, not here, not now, not in front of them
. Mustering what little dignity she could, she smiled at the group and announced in a loud voice with her head held high, ‘Just came to check on the score. I’ll be off then. Have fun, everyone!’

Clutching her basket, embarrassed by its contents and her earlier intentions, she turned a little too quickly and stumbled on a divot. The bottle of juice rolled onto the floor. She bent to retrieve it before scurrying away. She could hear the ripple of laughter that chased her steps.

Why is it okay to laugh at me? What have I done to deserve this? I am a person, I am not invisible.
These thoughts rattled around her head.

A conversation that she had once had with Natasha came to mind. The subject had been sprung on her unawares as they walked in the grounds one autumn day.

‘Do you know that your nickname is Mrs Bedmaker?’

Kathryn had answered carefully. ‘Yes. Yes, I do know. The kids say it to me when they think that they can get away with it. It’s almost like an initiation, a positioning on the bravado scale. They always do get away with it of course, because I let them!’

‘Why is that, Kate?’ Natasha held her arm.

‘Well, because they are only children and most of them are actually very sweet indeed and they are far from home. I have known them all for a long time and I think it would be more harmful or awkward to pick them up on it. I mean, it’s only a bit of harmless fun and I know that they don’t mean anything by it.’

‘No, Kate, you misunderstood me.’ Natasha shook her head. ‘I mean, why is it that they call you Mrs Bedmaker? Why do you wash your bed linen so frequently? I know it’s none of my business, but it is a little… odd.’ She twisted her mouth into a comic grimace, trying to make light of the situation.

Kathryn had looked into the face of her friend. A little voice in her head had said,
Tell her, Kathryn, tell her now, she cares and she can help you! Tell her what he does to you, tell her what he has always done to you, tell her how you are trapped, tell her how you have to stay or you would lose your children and the thought of that is even more unbearable than the life that you are forced to lead
.

Instead, she opened her mouth and a sound popped out that would change the parameters of their relationship for a very
long time. It was the sound of a very heavy door shutting, the sound of a barrier closing, the sound of a boundary being put in place, a limit, a threshold, a constraint. It was these ten words: ‘You are quite right, it is none of your business.’

She often thought about that conversation and the missed opportunity. What did it matter now? Natasha was teaching at the other end of the country. Kathryn doubted she would see her again, more’s the pity. The two had shared a wonderful friendship.

Kathryn thought about Dominic and Lydia’s behaviour. She had tried their whole lives to make them into decent human beings, showing them the importance of having respect for themselves and other people. This sounded ironic even inside her own head: how could she teach or show them how to have respect for themselves when she had no respect for herself? She was a sham. Her whole life was a horrible pretence.

She knew that at some level her battle to make them into rounded and likeable people was futile. How could they ever grow up with any sense of ‘normal’ when what went on under their roof every night was so very far from normal, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise?

They were embroiled in a battle that they did not even know they were fighting, playing a game in which over half of the rules and players were hidden. It was unfair on all of them.

Kathryn breathed a heavy sigh of relief as she walked up the back path that wound its way between the playing field and their private garden. Here she could hide until the match had finished.

She spied Mark’s head, bent over a garden chore on the other side of the hedge. He was wearing his gardening hat. He insisted it was a panama, but to Kathryn it looked more like a Stetson, which made her chuckle on the inside.

Kathryn paused and looked beyond the gate into the garden. At first she couldn’t identify the strange haze that loitered over the top of the roses, the shimmering distortion of the grass and flowers. The house bricks flickered and the air seemed to flex. Then she realised that she was looking at the house through a wall of heat. Something was burning.

She sniffed the air and recognised the distinctive smell of a bonfire. The bitter, intoxicating smell transported her to her childhood, her dad in his black wellington boots, holding a garden fork as he skewered leaves and wrappings onto the burning pyre. His ‘bonfire’ was a permanent fixture: within a wheelbarrow’s leap of the compost heap, he had constructed a ramshackle box out of chicken wire and an old metal gate. The whole thing was supported by two bricks at each corner. He would always make out that it was an arduous task, but she and Francesca knew it was one of his greatest pleasures. In fact it seemed that most men loved the almost primal task of starting a fire and watching the heat of the flames destroy things.

Kathryn stepped inside the gate. She watched Mark as he bundled up paper and cardboard then threw the pile onto the fire and stood back, hands on hips, to admire his handiwork. Unlike her dad, Mark would be burning things out of necessity, to clear away mess; he would not have secreted a handful of foil-wrapped spuds at its core, for retrieval and eating with butter at dusk. She thought back fondly to her and Francesca in their frog-eyed wellies and hand-knitted Aran jerseys, sitting with their father on upturned milk crates, with buttery chins, burning tongues and cold, prune-like toes… Happy, happy days.

She walked down the path towards the house. The black smoke swept across the garden with ferocity and she was thankful that she had taken in the washing earlier.

‘Ah, Kathryn, there you are.’

He smiled at her. He probably required something: a cold drink, sandwich, chair, punch bag, who knew.

She said nothing, but smiled back, nodding her head slightly to indicate that yes, there she was.

Kathryn moved closer to the fire, enjoying the warmth it radiated despite the summery temperature. She quickly became transfixed by the flames. She was fascinated by the colour palette within the blaze: yellow and orange flickered to purple and green with the brightest blue leaping at certain points; it was beautiful and captivating. Kathryn not only loved the sight and scent of a fire, but also the noise. It was distinct and evocative of cosy nights in, romance and snuggling under blankets on a cold winter’s evening; it was a good book and lamplight; it was comfort for aching bones.