Rosalind Weaver

They’re all there on the lawn in front of the house: the three young women, two older men and my lover. They are laughing at something he has said, the minxes throwing back their pretty heads, their auburn hair floating in the summer breeze. They don’t see me as I come out of the woods and walk towards them, but when I’m halfway across the clearing my lover glances up and I can see him jolt at the sight of me. He leaves the guests and comes towards me, his eyes bright with pleasure. Rather than hugging me he takes me keenly by the arm.

“Come with me,” he breathes into my ear, his voice all promise. “I have something to show you.”

He leads me through an open door and into the dark hallway of the house. Out of sight of the others he draws me to him and absorbs me in a kiss loaded with erotic nostalgia.

“What is it?” I say as we wrench ourselves apart. He just turns and I float behind him along a corridor and into an old kitchen with flagstone floor and wooden beams. Mottled daylight from a low window prints its shapes over the pervasive stillness. Dusty rays fall onto a huge glimmering bowl positioned in the centre of the oak table, a bowl piled high with oranges.

“Have you brought me here to look at a bowl of fruit?” I ask.

“Look closer,” he says.

When I do, I notice the oranges are glowing with an unnatural brightness. As I stare they begin to pulse, to expand and contract rhythmically, as though they had beating hearts. Blup blup blup…

“Wow!” I say. “That’s incredible.”

“It’s about the liminal essence of perversity,” he says.

He’s behind me now, very close. He cups my breasts in his hands and his stubble grazes my neck.

Later we drive to the sea. We sit holding hands outside a bar looking out over the water. I turn and am astonished to see Luke coming towards me through the tables on the terrace. He’s lean and tanned, stripped to the waist. A red-and-white spotted bandana is tied round his forehead, rakishly. It’s just like that scarf of mine he used to love when he was four or five. He’s grinning radiantly.

“You made it here!” he says, throwing his arms round me. I hug him back but something in me is distant. Everyone is watching us.

“Remember to look carefully at the window pattern,” he says quietly, and before I can say anything he’s away, swinging off into the darkness of the bar where his friends are waiting.

Something inside me settles.

It’s night time now and there’s a party at the house in the woods. We take lots of drugs and dance wildly, swirling and swaying across the parquet floor of the orangery. The music is silky and pumping. At a certain point I find myself outside with one of the older men, the one with a grey beard. We are talking about Self.

“Your sense of self is dependant on cornucopia,” he says.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, “I think my self is just a mixture of water and other chemicals.”

There’s a shift in the atmosphere and he glares fury at me.

“That’s just the sort of thing somebody like you would say.”

“It’s just that…” I begin to say, but don’t continue because his hands are round my throat. I splutter and struggle, but he’s too strong.

“You filthy bitch cow,” he growls through his teeth as he squeezes. Somehow I find myself on the floor with him on top of me. I’m struggling to free myself but he’s heavy and strong and I know it’s useless. I strain and push to free myself but I can’t even see my hands. He’s striking me. My sides, my face. I feel no pain, just a terrible pressure on my chest. I can’t breathe…

I wrench my left hand free and I’m able to catch a glimpse of it flashing its twisted ruby ring outside of our desperate tangle and then I’m up and outside and running into the trees and he’s chasing me crashing through the undergrowth behind me. I find a tree with a low mossy branch and clamber up. It’s surprisingly easy to swing up into the branches up and up and up and there I perch high in the rustling green, tense and still until I hear only the sweet song of the trees.

Dawn blossoms, pinkening through the criss-cross branches. On the horizon I make out the black outline of the city, pin-pricked with light. I yearn to fly, to glide towards the city from my tree-top perch, free as a bird. I’m about to take flight when I hear footsteps clomping near, a puff of exasperated breath.

“Mum?” Says a voice, very nearby.

I open my eyes and Rosie is standing over me, casting upon me her disdainful teenage sneer.

“Where’s my football shirt?”

A bluebird lands on the branch next to me.

“MUM!”

“I don’t know,” I mumble.

“I’M GOING TO GET INTO TROUBLE!” she shouts.

“Try looking under the sofa,” I say. “That’s where things tend to end up.”

And she’s away, clomping down the stairs. There’s some shuffling about in the room below me then the front door slams and her father shouts goodbye too late for Rosie to hear as, head down, she tromps to the bus stop. It must have been under the sofa, as I told her.

And all the while my lover waits for me in the house in the woods. The others have gone and he’s alone in the dim hallway. He draws me towards him. Our bodies are alert, pulping against each other beneath thin layers of clothing.

“You can’t stay,” he whispers. “But I’ll be here for you. Will you remember the way back?”

“Of course,” I murmur.

We kiss a long soft kiss but then Clive appears, looming by my bedside.

“Rosie didn’t have any clean socks,” he accuses me. “I had to give her some of yours.”

I prop myself up on one elbow and out of habit reach for my tea. It’s cold.

“I could do without all this hassle,” says Clive. “I’ve got an important meeting in Westminster.”

He leaves the room but then puts his face back round the door, a face that’s lost any trace of what I once loved.

“Janine, remember Luke has an appointment with Dan at 11.30. You’d better get up. And please make sure he does some A-level work. God knows where he’s going to end up if he persists in not studying.”

Then he’s gone, slamming the front door much harder than is necessary.

The house, a Victorian terraced house like millions of others but probably one of the untidiest – I don’t remember exactly when I gave up trying to make it nice and certainly no one else who lives here even tries – settles back into relative quietness. There’s only the hustle of London life washing around outside as my son and I lie guiltily in our island beds.

I knock gently, then push open the door to Luke’s room. He groans and pulls the duvet up over his head.

“Morning sweetheart,” I say gently. “Shall I get you a cup of tea?”

There’s no response. I pick my way through the mess and perch on the edge of his bed in the dank dimness. I stroke his slender body through the duvet.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to get up,” I murmur. “You’re meeting Dan, remember?”

There’s an ominous silence.

“I can’t,” a small cracked voice then says.

I’m dying for a cup of hot tea. I want to go back to the woods but also know I must wash, dress and get on with a never-ending list of things. I put my alternative life on hold and swallow the impatience I feel.

“What about some lemon and honey?” I say.

He sits up. “JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” he yells, his eyes red and wet. “I’VE BEEN AWAKE ALL NIGHT. I JUST NEED TO SLEEP!”

He’s back under the duvet sobbing. Deep sobs from a dark muffled pit.

“It’s all right darling,” I say, as softly and comfortingly as I can.

“It’s not all right. Nothing is all right. I’m not all right, in fact I’m all fucking wrong.” The voice comes muffled through the bedding.

I creep out and stand on the landing for a while, knee deep in the despair seeping out from under Luke’s door. Then I make my way downstairs and put the kettle on. While it’s boiling I check my emails. There’s a complaint about a jewellery order I sent to America. Shit.

I text Dan: Luke not great. Dunno if he’ll make it.

Dan is Luke’s key worker. He’s a vital go-between, going between Luke and the high-and-mighty psychiatrist. I urge Dan telepathically to respond, to offer to come over and sort everything out.

OK, he texts back, I will txt him.

His phone fell into the toilet, I text back. It’s in a bowl of rice.

I look out into the overgrown garden as I squeeze half a lemon into a mug and add a teaspoon of honey. I put a tea bag in my mug and fill both with water from the kettle. The sink is still full of last night’s dirty pans. I don’t have time to wash them now.

Tell him I’ll see him in the park. End of your street 11.45, Dan texts me.

It’s 10.42. I go back upstairs. The thickened air makes me gag as I open Luke’s door.

“Here’s some lemon and honey,” I say, and try to think of something happy to say, something that can’t be taken the wrong way. “There’s blossom on the apple tree in the garden.”

There’s a sigh and his head emerges miraculously from beneath the grubby duvet.

“Thanks Mum.” Luke’s eyes are red and his hair raucous. I want to hug him but I know not to push my luck.

“It’s a pleasure,” I say, wading out through the leaden air while the going is good. “Dan says he’ll meet you in the park.”

“I can’t,” he says weakly. I carry on into the bathroom as if I haven’t heard. I stare briefly at this care-lined woman in the mirror, the one with thin lips and piggy eyes sunk into dark skull holes and whose shaggy bleached hair is showing its mousy roots unseemingly. I grit my teeth and set to work with lotions and potions and make-up, knowing that when I’ve transformed myself into someone worthy to face this world I’ll be better equipped to help my son do the same. And for him that’s a mammoth struggle.

It’s just after twelve when we make our way down to the square of green known as park. There has been crying, shouting, cajoling, a shredded T-shirt and withering silence but here we are finally; washed, dressed and out in the spring sunshine. Luke holds himself well. He’s tall, pale, slim and walks with elegant self-confidence, like a fashion model. But it’s all an act. Inside he’s a small and helpless worm. We are both exhausted.

Fortunately Dan is still waiting on a bench. He puts his phone away and rises to smile in our direction.

“See you later love,” I say. I give Dan a little wave and turn back as Luke walks tentatively towards him. I almost break into a skip on my way to the studio. For at least 45 minutes I don’t have to worry about him.

At the studio I respond to the complaint, promising to send a replacement. I begin to package three orders but notice that Ursula’s loops, where she’s attached the feather clusters to their ear hoops, aren’t properly closed. I sit down with my pliers to tighten them. When she comes in tomorrow to be paid, I’ll have to have a word with her. They begin machine-sawing wood next door. Niooow, neeooooooow neeeoooooooooooow mashing every thought in my head. Somehow I’ve forgotten to have breakfast so I lock up and go round the corner to that nice cafe for a takeaway sandwich. I order one and proffer a card for payment.

“I’m sorry,” says the woman behind the counter, “It’s been declined.” My guts tighten. I dig around in my purse and hand her another card. That’s declined too.

My phone rings and I use the excuse to go out into the street.

“Is this Rosie’s mum?”

“Yes,” I take a deep breath. What can it be now?

“It’s Miss Fairbrother. I’m afraid there’s been some trouble in class,” says the Geography teacher.

“Oh, is she hurt?”

“No. Actually I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this. Can I ask if things are all right at home?”

“What do you mean?” I’m defensive now. “All right as far as things can be for a teenage girl these days, I suppose. What’s happened?”

“Well, she’s become quite aggressive lately. She, erm, got into a fight with another girl in the class. I’m afraid I’m going to have to send her home. Mr Denbeigh will probably suspend her.”

“Why?” I say, myself speaking aggressively. “I have to work. I can’t make her stay at home. It takes two to fight, doesn’t it? Is the other kid getting suspended too?”

“The other girl is on her way to hospital,” she says. “Can you come and collect Rosie please?”

Rosie is sitting hunched over in the office behind the school reception desk in her stupid school uniform. I recognise her only by the high fuzzball her curly brown hair is scraped and gelled back into. She lifts her head briefly to acknowledge my presence and Mr Lewis is called.

“That wasn’t very clever, was it Rosie?” says Mr Lewis. Why are they always Mr or Miss Something and you are just ‘mum’, your kid just Rosie? Where does respect begin and end? He hands me a letter. Rosie is silent.

“I’m afraid Rosie is excluded for a week,” he says. “Do you want to tell your mum why?” Of course she doesn’t want to talk about it here.

“We will talk about it,” I say. “And I’ll be in touch with the headmaster.” I should have said ‘Head teacher’.

“I will make sure her teachers send her work,” says Mr Lewis. “There are some GCSE test papers she should have a go at.”

“What about the match next Wednesday?” says Rosie, looking up with fear in her lovely eyes and her head still propped on her hands. I notice the knuckles of her right hand are red and swollen.

“I’ll talk to Miss Pratt about that, but I’ll be surprised if she keeps you on the team.”

We walk up the street towards the bus stop.

“Mum, it’s not fair. Raquelle started it!” says Rosie.

“How did she start it? You mean she hit you? And what the hell did you do to her? She’s gone to hospital for fuck’s sake!”

“She said something terrible.”

“But you reacted,” I say. “What’s got into you Rosie?”

Rosie is choking back the tears. “Oh Mum, I hope she’s not seriously hurt.”

We are out of sight of the school now, so I hug her.

“What did she say?” I ask.

Rosie looks round to make sure no one is near. “She said Luke is a fucking nutter.”

I sigh a deep but unsatisfying sigh.

“I punched her in the face. There was a lot of blood. I think I broke her nose.”

I’ve just put the water on to boil for the pasta, poured myself a glass of wine and begun chopping garlic when Clive comes bashing his bike through the front door. Now there’s a scuffle in the front room.

“Da-aaad!”

“I’m locking this thing away!” Clive stomps upstairs carrying the Xbox. Then he stomps back down.

“Now get your homework out,” he orders. “I’m really disappointed in you Rosie. We’ll have a good talk after dinner.”

Then he comes into the kitchen.

“I can’t believe it!” he says when he sees I’ve only just started cooking. “It’s no good for anyone eating this late.”

At dinner there’s a grim silence. Luke pushes the food around his plate. Rosie gobbles hers down and actually rinses her plate and puts it in the dishwasher. She makes for the door but her father tells her to sit back down. Luke pushes his plate away from him and stands up.

“I can’t cope with this,” he says. He goes upstairs.

“You let him do what he likes,” Rosie is bitter. “I suppose he can because he’s a man. And it’s a man’s world.”

Clive looks at me accusingly.

I pour myself another glass of wine.

Later I drag Luke to the park in the dark. We walk arm in arm across the diagonal path to the canal. We aren’t brave enough to walk along the mugger-dotted tow path so we skirt back round the tree-lined edge of the grass expanse. In the light of a three-quarter moon the trees’ new leaves shine silver.

“I dreamed about you last night,” I say.

“I know,” he says.

I swallow my shock. I’m shocked although I’ve always suspected Luke and I have a dream connection. When he was less than two years old we were lying in bed one morning with our heads touching. I’d been having a terrifying dream that I’d killed someone. I don’t remember who or how but it was a mistake, a terrible mistake. I decided to roll the body up in a carpet and hide it. As I was rolling I realised the lifeless form wasn’t an adult; but baby Luke. I’d killed my own darling child. The horror woke me.

Little Luke opened his eyes at the same time.

“Baby dead!” he said.

But now I just say in quite an ordinary tone:

“Do you remember what you said to me?”

“No, I just remember meeting you. I think we were on holiday somewhere… It was a bit like Mendessa.” It’s a place we used to go when the kids were little. And yes, he’s right, it was a bit like that Italian village.

“Any particular place?”

“I can’t remember.”

“What were you wearing?” I press.

“Dunno!” He laughs. “But I think you were smoking. I was shocked.”

Then we go back to talking around and around his poor opinion of himself and his capabilities. And his looks. If only he could get back to dancing. When we get home he zips straight upstairs to his room without taking his puffer jacket off. I know he’s going to smoke out of the window. He thinks I don’t notice the saucer full of dog-ends on his window ledge.

There’s no light under Rosie’s door. Clive has gone to bed early too. I stay up reading, relishing my aloneness on the sofa, giving my husband plenty of time to be deeply unconscious by the time I slip into the loathsome bed beside him and pull the duvet over my ears in a useless attempt to block out the snores. I’m just closing my book as Luke comes galloping downstairs.

“I remembered a bit more,” he says. “I said something about a window. Maybe it’s important.” And he gallops back to his room.