Chapter 23:a

In which Helen nips out for some information

Malcolm is busy, Helen can see. It is still early, however, and she has no further preparations to do before they set off for Wolverhampton, so she decides on a quick trip to the library.

‘That’s pushing it a bit fine?’ Malcolm queries, barely looking up from his laptop.

‘I won’t be long. The picnic is done, I’ll be back before you’re ready. Ten o’clock, we agreed, didn’t we?’

Malcolm’s grunt is presumably assent, if she needed it. But just lately she has become accustomed to doing whatever she wants, whilst still making her outward demeanour conciliatory and compliant. That stands in contrast to her lifelong habit of being accommodating and not doing what she wanted. In between had come that short flirt with outright rebellion: the turmoil it caused has been hard to live with, so much so that it did not feel at all like freedom. (Though the experiment has brought a release inside her of the pressure that had built up unbeknown.)

She sighs and picks up the car keys. Perhaps being a peacekeeper is part of her psyche. Keeping herself in check is second nature. Something rather less than overt antagonism sits more comfortably on her shoulders.

But she must not lose what she has gained. Despite chidings and warnings of intrusiveness, and her disillusion about the exact nature of friendship, her yearning towards Carla, towards the baby, even towards the Preacher, takes first place in her waking thoughts every day. They themselves are the reason she cannot heed Steve’s warnings and stay away: they are like a fire inviting her to their side, to warmth, to melting. For someone who has been in a frozen wilderness, there is no decision to make. She will hold on to Carla and Addison whatever the cost to herself or Malcolm, but she will be surreptitious and careful. Domineering is not a characteristic she finds attractive in others and she will avoid giving that impression again, but letting go of the couple is not an option now.

A flower, Addison had said. She resembled that poppy. And they had invited her to open up in the warmth of spring. It was a quick and suitable response in a heatwave, even if the intensity threatened to overwhelm her. So she must come and go, come and go, until she is wholly acclimatised and able to flourish in the higher temperatures she has met with.

Hence the trip south alongside Malcolm today – with the added bonus that some time away from Carla will make Carla fully realise her need of Helen: worry will add to Carla’s sense of desertion, since no explanation has been given in advance.

Helen feels a small sense of discomfort at the thought that this is her friend she is manoeuvring, and on the first day after Rebecca’s return home, but with something so important at stake she can’t take any chances. Her future is with Carla.

However, at this moment she is more concerned to find out who is sitting over the doorway at number fifty-six Newton Grove, looking benevolently down on the latest occupants, because the information will be of use to her. She needs to sweeten Addison again – the old lady has been poisoning his thoughts, that’s for certain. Her letter proved it had originated with her. Probably her Manx isolationist tendencies kicking in, though not without reason, as Helen has admitted to herself. But she must mount a counter-offensive whilst pretending to stay neutral. That should be well within her scope, and the figures over the lintel are her veiled weapon.

The carved and chiselled head had intrigued her. He could have been Prince Albert or any of a dozen famous fathers of the era (probably very late 1800s, she thinks) but, not recognising one of these people, she has decided to investigate in the local history section.

The search takes her longer than intended and the librarian joins in enthusiastically. But after much investigation, (totally unnecessary, she admits inwardly, because no one seems bothered who the figure was), they come up with details in an obscure pamphlet by the local archival society picturing the very man: Anthony Ashley Cooper, 7th Earl of Shaftesbury. He of the think-tank behind the Factory Acts and Ragged schools. A Dorset landowner; a religious man, apparently. A fitting figure for the builder to have placed over the doorway of dwellings for the workers. She notes from a nearby paragraph that they were not all so pleased – the factory laws limited their earning ability considerably. Did Shaftesbury know about their discontent? Would he have objected to such fleshly honour anyway?

Glancing absently at the wall clock, Helen is suddenly aware of the passage of time and rushes home, concerned that Malcolm will be fretting.

He is indeed pacing the hall. He says ‘Come on,’ but she can tell he’s not particularly cross yet.

She reaches up to stroke his face. He looks surprised and gratified. Helen adds a kiss whilst covertly glancing at her watch, which has become visible on her arm: they must indeed get off as she wants to be back before the evening is too far gone. She has something to interest Addison, and a reason to seek him out at the house.

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Chapter 22:e

In which Carla momentarily contemplates her desire

Carla allows Helen to drop her home, and arranges for her to come back at eight. Helen has offered to mind Dinah while she is at the baptism run-through, and Carla has acquiesced with relief. It’s pointless trying to do without help for the sake of it.

She takes Dinah and the shopping in, through the little garden which is now swathed in late-afternoon house-shadows and affords a sombre contrast to the brightness of the sky they have been wandering under. It’s like being returned to the womb. A place of dependency and safety. Carla has mixed feelings, but it doesn’t depress her as it would have this morning.

Ignoring the baby for a moment, she unwraps and holds up to the light the glamorous creation that is now her lure. Addison will come to it. He has to learn that she is his wife, not a prostitute, not an angel, but a part of him now.

As she pictures herself in this sexy garment, not half dressed as in the cubicle but perfumed and powdered from a long relaxing bath, she finds she craves Addison’s touch through it, the feel of his strong hand on her nipples, the sensation of fingers slipping inside it to caress her bare flesh.

She sighs in newly awoken anticipation. The baby clinic advised six weeks, but four to five will have to do: the night of the baptisms will be the climax of a six-month abstinence.

If she survives. There are seven days to Steve’s deadline.

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Chapter 22:d

In which Helen is shocked by Carla

‘I presume Great Aunt Rebecca has left?’ Helen asks as they descend the escalator, one at each end of the pram. She has to strain her head upwards to see Carla.

‘You gathered that from yesterday?’

‘Sort of. But she wrote me a letter.’

They set the pram straight and check the shopping is still in place. They’ve added a few other items on their way through the store.

‘I didn’t know,’ says Carla. ‘What about?’

‘Just a few things she wanted to say before she went.’ Helen remains non-committal. She cannot bring herself to divulge the contents. On first reading the letter she had been angry, then denied it to herself, then finally seen that from the old lady’s point of view there was some truth in it. She does not wish Carla to know what Rebecca said simply because she may agree with it and then the opportunity to salvage their friendship will be lost.

‘I felt that somehow she could see straight through me,’ she tells Carla in a rush of honesty. ‘It made me want to tell her things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Nothing really. Just a feeling that I could.’

‘I still remember she didn’t send us presents,’ Carla says, thrusting open the store door and holding it while Helen manoeuvres the pram through. ‘Mingy Beck! Isn’t it odd how one thing sticks.’

Into Helen’s head pops the memory of the special present of the lightweight silver foil ball on the elastic string. A present to keep quiet about. Yes, it’s odd how something can stick. And what would Rebecca have said if she had told her about it?

Helen stops on the pavement. Yes, that’s exactly what she did want to tell her, but for the life of her she doesn’t know why.

And then she sees something. Someone. Watching their way from the far side of the crowded pedestrian precinct they have emerged into. There is only the tell-tale flop of hair and a cigarette – but Helen instinctively reacts. There is no time for proof.

‘Carla! This way.’ She swivels the pram with a jolt right through a hundred and eighty degrees and swiftly re-enters the shop, Ignoring the annoyed looks of people who were behind her. ‘Come on!’she urges over her shoulder.

Carla is perplexed but is following. Good. There is no time for explanation. She doesn’t wish to break the news to Carla about Stefan, Steve or whoever and his little tricks. They must disappear fast.

She grabs the girl’s arm. ‘Better this way. Nearer to the car.’

The North Street exit is across the shoe department, which is not busy enough for Helen’s liking at this moment. No matter – they’re probably not being followed, but she is driven by guilt and responsibility. Maybe overreacting a bit.

‘I’m on the bus, remember?’

‘Not now, you’re not. Too difficult in rush hour. I’ll take you.’

‘But––’

Helen pushes on and they leave the shop where there are fewer pedestrians and shoppers, but many more side alleyways where they can escape if need be. Helen never imagined she would end up in this position: acting lke a snivelling pickpocket desperate to get lost from view. She is fast wishing she was back in her old predictable existence. ‘Addison would never forgive me if anything happened to you,’ she explains, in a rush of inspiration. ‘He’d blame me, for sure.’

‘Don’t be daft. And slow down! I’m tired.’

‘Sorry.’ Helen is repentant. They are within yards of her parking bay.

‘Helen. I can look after myself.’ She takes the pram from Helen and buries her hand under the mattress. ‘Look!’

Carla doesn’t unwrap the article but Helen feels the shape and pressure of it as Carla pushes it gently at her palm. She stands stock still and stares at the girl, unable to bring herself to speak. Carla must know about Steve. And if so, is deliberately keeping it from Helen for some reason of her own, whilst Helen is deliberately suppressing information about Steve’s attack on herself. Is this what friendship is about? Covering up the terror and sharing the inconsequential? Is this what she dreamed about having and risked everything for?

A dangerous and damaging impulse, which might have untold effect on the pair of them, is fighting at the edge of her awareness, trying to enter consciousness and be expressed. With an enormous effort, Helen displaces it again, as the wrapped object is put once more under the sleeping baby and they walk the last few metres in silence.

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Chapter 22:c

In which Helen is embarrassed by lingerie

Helen’s reticence to discuss the bras, bodies and panties arrayed attractively on hangers all around them is not lost on Carla. She herself finds the display overwhelming, though for rather different reasons: they can see and breathe nothing but white, cream, black and fawn underwear, with the occasional red set thrown in for good measure. No yellow, green or purple ones to relieve the monotony. It’s almost claustrophobic.

And yet, while she herself is merely spoiled for choice, she can sense Helen’s discomfort with the rows of empty breasts, big and small, padded and supported, revealing and controlled, all-encompassing and barely there. The panties look less realistic in their emptiness.

She laughs to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Dire, isn’t it? All I want is one lacy set to turn Addison on.’

Helen’s response is guarded. ‘I hate these places. They either want to help you choose, and then look you up and down critically as they fit you, or they take no notice of you, like now, and you have to keep going in and out with your allotted three to try them on.’

‘Well you can stay dressed and just hold Dinah while I slip in and out of an exotic selection.’

‘I’m not coming into the cubicle.’ Helen sounds shocked. Her knuckles grip the pram handle proprietorially.

Carla is amused to catch Helen at her reluctant worst. ‘You’ll have to,’ she says. ‘I can’t come out here to show you each one. Friends help each other, remember?’

***

Helen finds the next hour difficult.

The fact of being in the cubicle has registered finally as the better option. She keeps remembering Steve’s warning to stay clear of Carla. Though he’s hardly likely to be in a lingerie department, she feels less flagrantly in defiance if they are all out of sight. It is possible to reconstrue the exercise as looking after Carla.

Looking at her is more of a problem. The more she sees Carla’s breasts clad in sheer or lace or loose items, the more she finds herself perturbed that this is all being done for Addison. She feels that she is helping Carla sell herself to someone else. As though she were dressing a child at her best to give her away for someone else to bring up. A tiny spark of jealously flicks at her innards, a desire that manifests itself as a need to take Carla in her arms, not to hide her nakedness but to feel it. She does not understand her emotions. She has barely realised she had any before she met Carla. And a portion of her brain is reminding her that this girl was a prostitute once and must be doing again what she surely did before, adorning herself in an alluring way. Why the sudden desire to please Addison? It doesn’t seem very like his kind of values. He may even misunderstand her.

Stuck in the corner, head jammed against the clothes hooks, holding a squirming Dinah, and trying to avoid gazing at Carla’s semi nakedness, Helen is not happy. And that reminds her she has not spoken to Addison yet about the diary entries.

‘It’s hot in here,’ she says.

Carla tries on something that Helen has never really seen close-up before: a stretchy, lace all-in-one with a front panel drawing the eyes very strongly to the crotch. It is black and clingy. Carla is taken with it, decides to buy it. Helen tries to imagine how it would feel if she wore it.

‘Do you want to try it on while we’re here?’

Carla’s words bring a flush to Helen’s face. ‘Course not. I’m older than you,’ she says.

‘You never know, Malcolm might like it,’ Carla teases, but the look Helen sees in her eyes softens the words and in small measure relieves her embarrassment.

They gather up the unwanted items, elbowing each other in the confines of the cubicle, and Helen seizes the opportunity to carry Dinah back out to her pram, parked by the changing room doors, and settle her. She avoids the querying glance of the sales assistant which she can see from the corner of her eye. Carla can deal with it.

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Chapter 22:b

In which Carla decides how to keep herself safe

Three hours to her afternoon meeting with Helen.

She locks and bolts the door, and pulls the curtains. The shade is welcome but her motive is privacy. She feels safer when casual passers-by who might peer in are unable to. But try as she will, she can’t shut out her loneliness in the wake of the old lady’s departure. The darkened room quickly turns her mood sombre.

Addison is out, busy with Pete and the young men after doing some visits. He may stop off for a bite to eat somewhere. She supposes she might pop over to the house to see how the lads are shaping up. ‘Very keen’ was how Addison had described them. For his sake, she wills the project to last beyond the first setbacks. They’re bound to come.

So, no Rebecca, no Addison. And only fear and danger to look forward to. Some kind of existence.

Dinah gurgles and suddenly Carla knows that she is courting misery, shutting herself in like this, allowing others to decide how she will live. She jumps up again and pulls back the curtains. She will not hide. Life has to be faced head on.

The room opens up round her, windows beckon to be flung wide, and she responds.

After several lungfuls of noontime air, she reaches behind the settee, pulls out a long-neglected cross-stitch project, and settles herself within sight of Dinah’s baby-seat, grinning cheerfully at her dribbling contentedness. They’ll relax to ClassicFM together.

She imagines Great Aunt Rebecca at the station, haranguing some poor luggage assistant, threatening him with dynamite, and generally sorting out the train services. Then she loses herself in Respighi’s Pines of Rome until Dinah shouts with hunger and drowns out the soldiers marching down the Appian Way.

She opens a tin of spam for her lunchtime sandwich, and her thoughts return relentlessly to a darker mood.

What is she thinking of? She has one week, one measly week before Steve’s deadline, and here she is hanging around with half-baked plans and no real hope of success, doing cross-stitch. She’s not a responsible person. She doesn’t deserve Dinah. She’s made a mess of everything all her life and if it’s all taken from her, well then, she will only have herself to blame.

Helen has been warned by Addison that she’s in the way, so she can’t rely on Helen always to be there for her, even if their trip this afternoon looks otherwise. In fact, Carla agrees that more independence is necessary. But more independence means more isolation.

Rebecca has done her week’s tour of duty – and reminded her graphically how useless the protection of an octogenarian is. Her company was like a comforting woollen car rug. But a car rug is no protection against violence.

Her little plan for making the marriage real is a distraction, nothing more; an immediate response to pressing need, which now seems pathetic. The reality is that it will solve only their own problems, not the imminent threat of Steve abducting Dinah forcibly. Legal rightness is of little use if the child’s been kidnapped. Steve wouldn’t wait around for a court to award her custody. Dinah would be dead before the papers were signed.

The slices of soft meat giving way to the cut of the knife seem like days falling away without protest. The inevitability of it reaches into her chest with a pain so deep and high that she sucks breath audibly.

She starts trembling. Dinah has set up a wailing, and the plaintiveness of her cry calls to Carla’s inner despair and accentuates it into unbearable agony. Her hands refuse to steady. She cuts jagged lines now. The baby’s needs should be seen to before her own lunch. But she has lost the ability to prioritise. Finish slicing or feed child. They’re both hungry. But Carla’s hunger is also for safety she’s never known, for someone to take care of her, and she’s oblivious in this moment to Dinah’s dependency. She carries on feverishly.

The knife nicks her finger end. And in an instant of pain the turmoil of indecision is released.

The knife!

She washes and dries it, gently probing the cutting edge of the blade with her thumb: two inches of steel weapon. She has other knives, but none as good as this, with its lifetime guarantee of razor-sharpness. She folds it carefully in kitchen paper. Just sufficient to disguise it. Dinah cries again.

‘Hush, darling, Mummy’s coming.’ She goes to the pram and lifts the corner of the mattress. Slipping the packet under, she makes sure that the sheet and bedding are replaced carefully. Then she puts her hands on the handlebar.

‘Now!’ she says.

In a flash, her hand is under the corner of the mattress and in possession of the blade. A grin of satisfaction, mingled with relief, spreads across her face. She replaces the packet in its hiding place. This feels more like her old resourceful self. She will not go to pieces, she will fight for what she wants.

She turns to the baby-rocker with outstretched arms and Dinah responds by stopping mid-wail and initiating sucking motions. Carla’s own hunger has abated. She’ll feed the baby first and only then then consider the implications of what she’s done.

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Chapter 22:a

In which Carla tries out Rebecca’s advice

Carla is adamant with Helen.

‘Not the car this time. I love the Superbus and all its noise. And anyway, you’d have to come out from town to fetch me.’

The voice at the other end of the phone is equally stubborn. ‘You can’t manage Dinah on your own.’

‘Well, it’s time I tried. Now, where shall we meet – or are you going to sulk?’ Carla’s tone is lighter but this is a risky move after yesterday’s episode. Nevertheless, the relationship must be sorted out as soon as possible. That way they’ll stay friends.

After much thought, she actually agrees with Rebecca’s advice: Carla must manage and Helen must let her. Of course sharing Dinah is fun, but relinquishing responsibility is suicide in the long term. She owes this to herself and to Helen.

There is a sudden outburst of laughter from Helen, causing Carla to hold the receiver away from her ear. ‘Of course not. I never sulk and I do want to go shopping with you. But take care getting on and off. And… take care, in fact.’

‘Will do.’ The warning is unnecessary. She’s had to calculate the danger Steve represents and weigh it against letting the situation with Helen continue. She’s trusting Steve to keep away for the two weeks but is acutely aware she has misplaced her trust before. It’s more a denial of the threat than a calculated trust.

‘What time shall we meet? It’s Tuesday, so I finish at three.’

Carla calculates quickly, names a time and then says, ‘I’ll let you go now or you’ll be late for work.’

She replaces the phone with a small smile, which changes to a broad grin as Great Aunt Rebecca applauds loudly.

‘See? Well done. It’s downhill from now on.’ Rebecca looks as if she has personally scored a success, and Carla inwardly acknowledges the old lady’s wisdom.

Since dinner last night she has pondered the details of everything she can remember since meeting Helen the day of Dinah’s arrival, had several mini conversations with Rebecca and squirmed at the admissions she had to make in the process. The old lady neither pitied nor condemned, just helped. The decision was that Helen would be welcomed as a friend but on Carla’s terms; and that she would devote herself to making the marriage with Addison work – both for her own sake and for his. But mostly, she acknowledges secretly, it is Dinah’s only hope. If only she could tell Rebecca what was happening. The weight of carrying it alone is affecting her sleep. But the whole conversation with Rebecca has been a denial of the real situation, whille still being helpful in itself.

Carla is aware that this is the first challenge she has approached logically and with consultation. Leaving home was an emotional, private protest; fleeing Steve was instinctive, based on fear and a desire for survival. Careful thought was hardly required in either.

Now, with such a plan in place she hopes to have the freedom she craves. A satisfied husband and a good secure friendship. Without a strategy, Rebecca had warned, arching her brows in significance, she would go down like a racing cyclist clipped on the bend. Carla decides that Great Aunt Rebecca is as clear-minded as her family always remembered her to be, both in her views and in her insistence that Carla take stock. And she has earned Carla’s gratitude and affection.

She plays with Dinah on the changing mat before replacing her nappy, feeling both sadness and hope, a mix of chastened child and released adult. She doesn’t focus on the chasm yawning between now and then. If she looks down she begins to lose the plot.

Great Aunt Rebecca reappears in the room with suitcase and bag.

‘You shouldn’t have––’ Carla begins.

‘Nonsense. Addison is out visiting the needy, and you’re no more strong enough to lift these than I am.’ Her eyes twinkle sharply and she pushes her wild hair back from her face. ‘I shall look forward to the breezes back in Injebreck. But I enjoyed my week here – bumps and all.’

Carla isn’t sure whether she’s referring to the mugging or the rough ride with Addison. Perhaps both. She seems unperturbed by it all, anyway.

The taxi arrives and Carla brushes away a tear. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she says, embracing Rebecca. ‘I enjoyed your company. Thanks for listening.’

Rebecca strokes her hair and pushes her away. ‘You’ll do,’ she says gruffly, her only response other than a brief wave as the driver collects her bags, shuts the car door firmly on her and roars out of the street.

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Chapter 21:e

In which Great-Aunt Rebecca hits the nail on the head

‘You need a strategy.’

Great Aunt Rebecca sounds as if they are in collusion over a mystery, about to depart to their separate strands of detection work, and must consult in haste before the enemy returns and they’re caught in the act. Carla’s not certain whether Addison or Helen is the enemy in Great Aunt Rebecca’s eyes. But as they jointly prepare some baked fish and jacket spuds in the micro contraption (as Rebecca calls it), the two women find an ease of conversation that bridges the difference in their ages.

‘Why?’ asks Carla, deciding to land the ball firmly back in Rebecca’s court. ‘Why do I need a strategy?’

‘Because you’ve got problems.’

Carla remains guarded. She neatly splits the fish and carefully removes each bone. She wonders what the great-aunt knows – or thinks she knows. ‘What do you mean?’ she asks obtusely.

‘I mean exactly what I say, young lady, and well you know it. You were never dense when you were young.’

Carla laughs suddenly and puts the knife down. ‘Okay. Addison is under a bit of strain right now. Nothing I can’t handle. And Dinah’s made me tired, of course. Don’t make mountains out of molehills, as my… as Mum used to say.’

The old lady stares right into her with astonishingly clear blue eyes, made larger in appearance by the fact that she has scrawmed back her flyaway hair into a band while she deals with scrubbing the potatoes. Carla refuses to avoid the gaze but realises within a few seconds that there is really nothing to be gained by deception. The old lady knows something – and Carla could do with a bit of advice.

‘Okay. You won’t take no for an answer – and I hate lying anyway. I am a bit worried about Addison. He’s not managing too well at the moment.’

‘I know. He’s volatile and defensive. But he has reasons, you know.’

‘I don’t know. Tell me.’

‘He probably feels pushed out by Helen.’

‘I gathered he had a problem with her this morning,’ Carla says, ‘but she’s done nothing wrong.’

‘Hasn’t she? Who helps most with Dinah? Her father or Helen?’

‘Addison isn’t her father,’ Carla says quietly, knowing it must be told one day, but not wanting to cause questions; aware that she sounds ungrateful for Addison’s total acceptance of the child as his.

‘He’s the only father she’s going to have,’ Rebecca states. ‘It’s who’s here that counts now.’

Who’s here. That’s the problem. They’re both here.

Carla is trembling. Rebecca doesn’t understand what she’s saying, how her words are perversely bringing Steve into the room, helping him sidle into the privacy of her family: she can almost feel him beside her, pulling Dinah from her arms…

Helen’s strength here is essential for support. She fervently hopes they are still friends. ‘Helen is not usurping anyone,’ she says firmly.

‘She is trying to live your life,’ the old lady persists. ‘Can’t you see it?’

Carla puts the prepared fish in the dish, adds the milk and pauses for a moment before replying. The touch pad needs her full attention while she works out timings.

Eventually she turns and says, ‘It’s the baby. Helen won’t be having a baby now, so she enjoys mine. I really don’t mind.’

Even as she says it, she remembers how Helen has made decisions for her, organised the housework and bought her an expensive present. She would rather she hadn’t but their friendship is what has brought Carla pleasure – someone to laugh and joke with and share stories. After so long in fear and isolation, it feels like a warm breeze in winter. The Followers are a collective presence – and they don’t need her. Helen does. And it makes the friendship more equal.

‘It’s done her good, too. She was totally frightened of Dinah at first. She even flinched when Addison went near her. She’s found some sort of life here.’

‘And what about her husband?’

Carla bites her lip as she dries the chopping board and stores it away. She’s not sure what’s going on with Malcolm. As she realised earlier, Helen rarely mentions him. Does he even know where Helen spends her days? Does he care? She must ask, if she gets an opportunity.

‘He’s busy tidying up ends at his job, I think.’ That much is bound to be true.

Great Aunt Rebecca awards her another penetrating stare. Carla almost wishes the eyes would start darting round again. It’s easier to bear.

After long seconds, Rebecca states firmly, ‘The spuds are ready to cook,’ and puts down the little knife. ‘Remains to be seen if this contraption can produce jacket potatoes in the proper manner.’

‘It says the skins won’t brown,’ Carla says. ‘They just go soft.’

‘Which is what you’re doing over these hangers-on.’

‘Hangers-on?’ Carla feels anger rise in her. That’s out of order.

‘Addison is dependent. He thinks it’s on God but it’s you he worships.’

‘That’s not true,’ Carla protests. ‘How can you possibly know?’

‘I’ve been around. I’ve seen. It’s in the eyes. Watch people’s eyes and you see their souls.’

‘Well then, you’ve seen how loving and kind and generous Addison is,’ Carla retorts.

‘I’ve seen more than that. I’ve seen his sincerity and his fear of failure. That’s why he depends on you. You’re his anchor.’

Carla shivers again. She cannot be someone else’s lifeline just now. She needs solutions, and soon. Time’s running out.

The pinger sounds and they inspect the fish together. It’s like a truce.

‘Looks all right,’ Rebecca pronounces. ‘Probably won’t taste the same…’

As they put the potatoes in, Carla says more calmly, ‘I’m doing my best. That’s why I’m getting baptised.’ She resolutely eschews the guilt that encroaches. It’s for the good of them all ultimately. ‘It’s what he needs.’

Great Aunt Rebecca stops in mid stride on her way out of the kitchenette. She turns round, eyebrows raised, her voice incredulous.

‘What that man needs is sex.’

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Chapter 21:d

In which we see Addison sweat and Helen shake

Addison deposits the letter in the girl’s hand and as an afterthought grips both of hers in his. ‘Now, mind that is given to her privately tomorrow. It’s not a business letter.’

Only after leaving does he register that the girl in all probability thinks the letter is from him. This will surely compromise Helen’s standing at the charity, and he’s done it unwittingly. God help me, he mutters to himself, I’m going to pieces. My brain is cracking up. I should’a thought of the appearances. Like I should’a done with the kids meeting.

He crosses to the other end of the centre and punishes himself by running down every one of the tiled steps until a sweat breaks out and leaves him aware of damp patches under his armpits. If only the heatwave would break, he tells himself, he would be able to pull himself together properly.

***

When Malcolm arrives home at nearly six, early for once, Helen is struck by his jaded look and her heart is stirred. He has had too much work, too little of her company recently. She warms towards his restful stolidness. She would quite like to curl up in his arms in front of a good film. If only that didn’t give him a signal to ask for more. No. On second thoughts, and here she slices vehemently into the lasagne, if he asked, that would make it fine – almost. At least acceptable. She looks at him from under her lashes as he flicks through the evening paper, waiting for his plateful. It is the taking as of right that is so –  well, ‘degrading’ is perhaps too strong a term, maybe ‘difficult to take part in’ is more truthful.

‘Here.’ She gives him the plate, pushes over the bowl of salad, offers dressing. ‘Okay?’

‘Fine… thanks for the meal.’ He always says thank you, even when sulking. She appreciates it. He is not a cad, merely thoughtless and rather insensitive.

But she knows she would never find a day when she wanted to partake of the ritual – and it is a tribal thing for men, she decides, whereas it drags her down with a deep melancholy unless she lets her mind roam detachedly elsewhere. The act keeps men on top in more ways than one and seems to fuel them for the day to come. Paradoxical and disgusting that the fuel should leak the wrong way in order to work.

The first time she felt its stickiness there was such a fear, such a wretching in her insides – no, she cannot allow herself to remember.

But it is already there in her mind’s eye – the chair suddenly losing its safety, the room falling away from her like a chocolate orange, smashed – the memory of her hand being too small for the offering. Her hand was in the way, shaking and covered in milky gunge. Where is Malcolm? Why can’t she see him?

Her mind becomes agitated; a sweat breaks out on her skin. Of course he’s not there. Her hand is small, too small. It’s the hand of a child, smooth and soft. This is before Malcolm. Before she knew.

Panic forces a dark door across the image, sealing it off by force of will, locks it securely.

She returns her mind to the dining room, and puts down her own plate of dinner. She is surprised she doesn’t drop it, considering the way her hand is trembling violently. When she looks up, she is relieved to see Malcolm calmly chomping his way through the strings of bechamel sauce that got tinged at the sides.

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