Breakdown, page 23
“Make what you want, Chris,” she said. Then she gathered up her scissors and comb, stood, and went back toward the house.
Good Match (excerpt)
(Wolcott/Price, 1991)
The hoovering’s always left ’til last,
I do it slow, you do it fast,
In spite of this,
We’re still a good match.
Still a good match,
Still a good match.
Like magnets, we attract,
Some time ago we made a pact,
I sometimes think that it’s an act,
I love you, though, and that’s a fact.
CHAPTER 24
Church Street curved away to the left, bordered by stone walls and hedges in places, a footpath and a row of cottages on the right, their warm stone fronts glowing in the late afternoon sunlight. Chris walked slowly, hands in pockets. The trees hid his view of the church tower from here. He kept to the footpath until he reached the cottages, then took to the road.
The church could have been the same church in a hundred other small villages nestled across the countryside. The squared-off tower, rounded Norman arches, the drunken gravestones covered with lichen looked nearly the same as their counterparts in Breton. The blue-and-gold clock on the side of the tower did not have the correct time.
Chris ambled among the old stones, reading names and dates. Birds chirped; a gentle breeze brushed his face. The grass here was kept mowed, soft and green, the bushes pruned, in stark contrast with so many other unkempt public spaces.
In another part of the churchyard, all the gravestones were new. Chris found a seat on a stone wall, near three small markers placed close together. He did not need to read the names on them. He tried to keep his thoughts superficial. He had practiced it for years, thinking of nothing important, resting.
But thoughts of Pauline kept intruding, in short, vivid scenes: kneading bread dough at the kitchen table with her hair clipped back; working in the garden in her mucky cords and wellies; laughing as she scooped up a snowball to throw at him while he shoveled; putting her arm around him at the pub.
He remembered their encounter in the barn the day before he left Breton, and the feel of her lips against his. He dropped his head into his hands.
He remembered her face as he walked away and left her on the road.
Chris had spent the journey to Hurleigh trying to forget all of it, but he couldn’t do it. How long would it take? He fingered his wedding band, but the hurt was not from the loss of Sophie. He had let her go somewhere in Breton, and he couldn’t get her back.
The sun sank lower. The shadows from the gravestones reached across the ground. Another shadow moved into his sight.
When he looked up, Chris was startled by how close Brian had got before he’d noticed.
“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Brian said.
Chris sat up straighter. “I was just thinking.”
Brian eyed the three graves. He came closer, leaned against the wall where Chris sat, with an arm’s length between them. He looked out over the whole space. “No one you know here, is there?”
“I don’t think so.”
Brian pulled a brown beer bottle from his pocket. He unscrewed the top, held the bottle out to Chris. “I stopped by the pub.”
“Cheers,” Chris said as he took it. “It’s not sacrilegious or something, is it?”
Brian pulled another one for himself from his other pocket. “They have wine in church.” He shrugged. “A toast?”
“All right.” Chris held his up in front of him. He thought for a moment. “To loved ones lost,” he said, and moved his bottle toward Brian.
Brian had raised his bottle, too, but he stayed still, gazing out over the churchyard. He turned to look at Chris.
“And found.” He touched his bottle to Chris’s.
Chris nodded, and they drank.
The first taste brought back memories of days long ago, when they had sat up drinking late into the night, so serious, thinking themselves invincible, believing that once they hit it big the world would be theirs and they could make it better. The future had seemed a bright adventure and they believed they had control, when really they were just specks in a sea of humanity, caught up in an immense wave rushing toward a crashing, chaotic dissolution.
Now they were cast together once more. Chris took a deep breath and said into the silence, “I never hated you.” There, done.
“You had every reason to.”
Yes. But I didn’t. I loved you.
Brian took a long drink. “When I think back about the way I treated you…I don’t know why. I’m sorry. I’d take it back, if I could.”
“I didn’t come looking for an apology. I don’t need it, not anymore. It’s over; it’s done. Everything has changed.”
“No, I do know why.” Brian put his head down, eyes squeezed shut. He hugged himself, one hand holding the bottle.
Chris waited. Is this how he had looked to Pauline? Is this how she had felt, curious, but unsure if she really wanted to hear it?
“I didn’t think I could be successful by myself,” Brian said. “I depended on you. I didn’t know how I’d go on without you. I thought I was finished, a failure. I blamed you. So I did what I could to hurt you.”
“You had all the talent.”
“I might have had more musical talent, but you had everything else. You knew how to deal with the label, the execs, the publicity, the fans. I didn’t know shit. I was scared. I’d never had to do anything without you to turn to. And suddenly I had to do it all.”
“Huh.”
Brian tipped his bottle back again. “Holy shit.”
“Therapy. It’s a bugger, innit?” Chris glanced over at Brian. “I’ve just been through nine months of it.”
Brian gave him a questioning look.
“Long story. Never mind.” He raised his beer in Brian’s direction. “To starting over.”
“Starting over,” Brian repeated, and they drank together again. “It can never be the way it was, can it?”
Chris regarded the plain brown bottle in his hand. It had no label. The glass was scratched. It had been used over and over, saved and refilled. “No, but I knew that was never in the cards. I just couldn’t leave it, though. If you weren’t dead, there had to be something better than the way we left it.”
“If nothing else, I’ve learned that the people you love are what’s important in life. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” Chris stared ahead, and his eyes settled on the three gravestones in front of them. Brian shifted his feet.
“I’m sorry, Chris, about Sophie and Rosie. I should have said it before now.”
“No, it’s okay,” Chris said. “I’m sorry about all of them: the kids, and Colin, and Emily. Preston told me about the little girl.”
Brian nodded. “He never knew her, of course.”
“Tell me.”
“I found her in a house. She was the only one left. Her parents and a brother were all in their beds. She was waiting for someone to come and help them. She thought I was there to help.” Brian shook his head. “Of course, there was nothing I could do. I was just foraging, not looking to help anyone. When she told me her name was Alice, I couldn’t leave her.” He looked over at Chris. “I couldn’t leave her there, to die alone. I brought her home.”
“Did you know she was ill?”
Brian took a drink and stared at the ground before he answered.
“Yes. And I risked everybody and brought her home anyway. Somehow I convinced myself that it would be okay. Simon had got over it. He got it when he went to London to get Colin’s kids. I knew a few others who had got over it. At least I wasn’t stupid enough to bring her into the house.”
“We have to try, don’t we?” Chris said. He shuddered as an image of Jenny came into his mind. He hadn’t been able to tell Pauline, but Brian would understand. “In London, there was a girl. She was fourteen. She’d been kidnapped, and they’d traded beer for her and couldn’t decide who got her first. I managed to convince them to give her to me. I kept her safe for as long as I could, but when they realized that I didn’t want her for—for sex, one of them broke into my room and raped her.”
“Shit,” Brian whispered.
“I tried to kill him. Nearly managed it. Too many of them, though.”
“So you had to leave.”
“That’s the short story, yes. There were a few good people in London, caught up in a bad situation. They got the girl away, got her home.”
“At least you know she’s safe.”
“Yes, at least.”
“I’d kill to defend my family, if it came to that.”
Chris nodded. “I hope you never come to it. It’s harder than you think.” He looked up. “London is hard to talk about.”
Brian nodded. “Okay.”
“I know I didn’t handle it so well, on the bus.”
“I didn’t, either.” Brian took a drink, then a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re here, Chris. We all are. If there’s any place in this screwed-up world you belong, it’s here.”
Chris ran his hand across his hair. He wasn’t sure of that at all.
“Or is it?” Brian asked.
Chris didn’t answer. He gazed away toward the church. The clock’s hands had not moved. He drank the last of his beer, handed the bottle back to Brian, still without looking at him.
“Jon is here,” Chris said finally.
“Right. Well,” Brian said, pushing away from the wall. “We should get back. Supper will be ready soon, I expect.”
Chris jumped down lightly. He put his hands in his pockets and followed Brian as he made his way through the gravestones toward the road.
* * *
After dinner, Jon took Chris up to his room.
“I’ve got some boxes of stuff here, from my flat and Mum’s. You should have a look, take what you want.”
Several cardboard boxes sat on the floor and a couple on the bed.
“They’re yours, Jon. You saved them.”
“I don’t need it all. It’s family stuff. Your family. You should have some of it.”
His hand shook as Chris opened the first box on the bed.
“That one on top is the picture album I made after that trip in September, when Mum and I came to visit you.”
“You sent me one.”
“Yeah, I made three. One for Mum. It’s in one of those boxes on the floor. That’s Mum’s stuff; this is mine.”
Chris picked up the dark-green album and opened the cover. The first picture took up the whole page. It was another shot from the same studio session as the one Fiona had given him. They were all three smiling at the camera. He stared at it, heart pounding, then turned the pages, one after another. The book was filled with candid shots of Chris, Sophie, Rosie, and Mum, some in black-and-white, some in color.
“These are a little different from the ones I had, I think,” Chris said.
“I made them all just a bit different, yes. Here, this is from your shows that month, at that little bar in Soho.” He handed Chris a black book.
Chris flipped through it, then put it back in the box. “I don’t need it.”
“It’s fun to remember, isn’t it?”
“I want to see the albums from when we were kids.”
They spent the evening going through the old albums and boxes of photos, laughing and remembering. They talked about Kevin. Chris swallowed past the tightness in his throat and gave Jon more details about London: what had happened after he went to Kevin’s flat, how he’d got away. He told him about Marcus, mentioned Beryl, but didn’t tell him what had happened to her, or Jenny. He didn’t want to travel down that dark path again just yet. Some other time.
Later, Laura knocked softly and stuck her head in the door. “It’s late, boys,” she said and grinned.
“Oh, do we hafta go to bed already?” Jon said in a mock whine.
“Haying tomorrow,” Laura said. “Good night.” She pulled the door closed.
Chris gathered up the small pile of photos he had set aside. “Thanks, Jon, for these.”
“We’ll do this again,” Jon said, putting stuff back into boxes. “You’ve got so much to tell me. I want to hear it all.”
“I want to hear about you, too.”
“I have nothing to tell. I’ve been here. Milking, planting, harvesting. Dull, dull, dull.”
“It’s not so dull,” Chris said. Jon shrugged.
Lying in bed, Chris couldn’t get the images of Jenny and Beryl out of his head. He’d done his best, just as Brian had done. Had it been failure? No. The little girl, Alice, hadn’t died alone, and Jenny had known someone cared enough to try to keep her safe. She knew that not all men were bad. In the end, she’d got home safely. Beryl had known the risks. It wasn’t his fault. But what if—?
No. No more what-ifs. Focus on the now. Did Jon find his life so dull? Did that mean he might want a change? Of location, if not occupation? Plenty of opportunity for a single man in Breton. And then Pauline invaded his head, holding him hard, crying. Come back.
Chris gasped, sat up. A dream? He hadn’t been asleep, had he? His heart pounded and other parts of him, too. Shit. How had he managed before now, year after year? You didn’t let yourself fall for anyone, much less a beautiful, intelligent, caring redhead; that’s how, you idiot.
Chris curled up, clutching his pillow, and counted backwards.
CHAPTER 25
Chris came down the stairs, hearing an odd noise. For a moment he couldn’t place it; then it struck him what it was, and he looked into the sitting room in amazement.
Laura was hoovering. She had her back to him and was working her way across the floor evenly. She was getting close to a small table next to the couch. Chris stepped in and picked up the table for her. She flashed him a smile and pushed the vacuum under the legs. He set it down and tilted the couch onto its back legs so she could get underneath. They did the whole room that way, with never a word between them. She turned off the vacuum when they had finished.
“Thank you,” she said. “Hoovering is such a chore. That made it much easier.”
“Happy to help,” Chris said.
She wound up the cord while watching him.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing really,” she said. “You never did that, before, you know.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No.” She smiled.
“I haven’t seen anyone vacuum in years. It must have been the shock.” He smiled back at her.
“David would never have thought to do that.”
That seemed the sort of remark best left unanswered. “Is there anything else I can help with?”
“No, no,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “Don’t you have to go out, with the rest of the men?”
“I’ve been politely asked to find something else to do.”
“Oh, that’s just ridiculous. God, these people and their stupid blood tests!”
“You can’t really blame them. It is a matter of life and death.”
“But it’s all for show. You know that, right? The damn card is pointless after a week.”
“I’ve seen people go down in a day, and dead the next.”
She blinked. “Yes, of course. Sorry.”
“Anyway, it gets me out of the hard work. I get to help the ladies.” Chris grinned at her to lighten the mood.
“You’re no stranger to hard work, from the looks of you. You look good, Chris. Healthy.”
“Chopping wood for cooking and heat, shoveling muck, pitching hay. Not as many machines as you’ve got here, I expect.” He curled his arm with a mock-serious expression.
“You must have killer abs.”
Chris grinned again and pulled up his shirt. Laura’s mouth dropped open.
“Oh, my. Where’s that cute little pudgy belly I remember?”
“Starvation took care of that,” Chris said without thinking about it.
Laura’s expression changed, and guilt washed over Chris.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he said.
“When were you hungry, Chris?”
He couldn’t get Pauline’s expression out of his mind, that day he’d told her about the rats. He didn’t want to do that to Laura, too. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“You’ve had a hard time of it, haven’t you?” she said, and she got the same look on her face—the distressed look—that Pauline would get.
He didn’t move, didn’t say anything, tried to decide what he should tell her.
“It might help, to talk about it, don’t you think?”
He sighed. “I have done. There was someone I could talk to in Breton. I’m okay, really.”
She stood there, crossed her arms, and drew her eyebrows in. “Who did you talk to?”
Nearly any question still made him want to clench his jaw and take a step back. He’d worked hard to get over that in Breton. Apparently it didn’t transfer to here, to Hurleigh, to this room and this woman he’d lived with so long ago. No reason to keep secrets, though, right? Deep breath. “A psychologist. I was in therapy basically.”
Surprise showed in her face. “Oh. Good. Man or woman?”
“What does it matter?”
“A woman.”
“Yes. Pauline.” Deep breath.
“George’s sister. She lived on the farm you worked on.”
“Yes.” Right, he’d mentioned all that the night he arrived. She’d always had a good memory.
“Did you have a relationship with her?”
“No. That’s not proper.”
“Why are you so tense?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Don’t get cranky.”
Chris took a step back and turned away from her. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“You’re doing what you used to do. You’re trying to figure out what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, so you can tell me what to feel instead. So you can tell me what I’m doing wrong. So I’ll start thinking what you want me to think.”
