“Have you read this?” he asked, certain by her demeanour that she had not. She took it from him and scanned it quickly until she got to the bottom item which she read again.
N° 24
I intend to commit suicide unless you return to me by 9 AM prompt tomorrow.
They sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and looked at their watches. It was ten minutes to eleven by Christopher’s and three minutes past by Angela’s. Christopher went through to the kitchen and shouted through that the oven clock said it was one minute past eleven. Suddenly the most important thing in the world to them was to find out the exact time. The Speaking Clock told them that the oven clock was correct. They adjusted their watches. “He won’t do it, though,” said Angela.
♦
After his wife had left him Gregory sat under the standard lamp and drank two bottles of Chardonnay, staring at the empty television screen. At midnight he began to clear out the garage. He was furious that so much of her junk had accumulated. He’d never once been able to drive his car into the garage.
He enjoyed the physicality of flinging the stuff into the high-walled garden at the back of the house, regardless of its fragility or of caring where it fell. Occasionally he tortured himself by imagining Angela and Christopher Moore laughing, and naked together, then he would grab the heavy things: old tyres, a sack of sand, an ancient car jack and heave them on to her precious herbaceous borders. It gave him some satisfaction to see the trellis and their climbing plants crack away from the walls. There were many things in there he’d forgotten about: a kite, a paddling pool in a box, a Windsor chair with a broken leg. He found a Swiss Army knife, the Executive, which he thought he’d lost.
The garden security lights went on and off as he came and went. It was after three AM before he had cleared enough space to enable him to park his own car inside his own garage.
♦
Christopher and Angela lay on their backs in the dark, talking about Gregory and looking up at the white painted ceiling. The central heating was still on and the bedroom was pleasantly warm. They had kicked the duvet to the foot of the bed and were covered only by a white sheet.
Christopher said, “You’re not going back to hint tomorrow, are you?”
“No,” she said. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you.”
She sat up in bed and lit a cigarette. “He threatened to kill himself once before. I left him for a couple of days after a row. He phoned me and said he’d swallow a lot of paracetamol tablets. I went back to him. I was going to anyway.”
“And had he?” asked Christopher.
“No,” said Angela. “There weren’t even any in the house. I’ll phone him at the shop in the morning and ask him about my car keys.” She didn’t want to talk about Gregory any more. She asked about Christopher’s grandma.
Three years before, Christopher had spent nine hours in a cubicle at the Royal Infirmary watching his grandmother die. She had complained of feeling unwell when he had called in on his way to work that morning. He noticed that she hadn’t done her hair, and he suspected that she’d slept in her clothes. Unusually, she had asked him to stay for a while and drink a second cup of tea with her. She’d insisted that he take his coat off. There was a fire smoking in the grate and she had grumbled about the poor quality of the coal she was forced to buy nowadays. They sat either side of the fireplace, in identical wooden armchairs with wine-coloured cushions which he’d once helped her to stuff with grey flock.
“I dreamt about your dad last night,” she said. “I dreamt that he came home from Canada and I weren’t in; I were out, having my hair done.”
Christopher had picked up the poker and poked the fire basket which was clogged with yesterday’s ash; another small sign that she was not herself.
“I think about Dad a lot,” said Christopher.
“I think about the other one, just lately,” she’d said, as she watched a few flames struggle to take hold of the lumps of smokeless fuel in the grate.
“What ‘other one’?” asked Christopher.
“I had another one,” she said.
“No, Grandma,” said Christopher, talking to her as if she were a small child, “you only had one, Harry, my dad, remember?”
She’d shouted at him, “Don’t tell me how many children I had, I had another one, before your dad, when I were sixteen.”
Christopher was astonished, both at the anger in her voice, and at what she was telling him. She was known in the family for her prudery and condemnation of sex before marriage. She was still scandalised that Christopher and Angela had once ‘lived in sin’.
“What happened to the other one, Grandma?” said Christopher.
She got up from her chair and using the chair arm as a support, shuffled towards the alcove cupboard. He followed her and said, “Can I help you?”
She ordered, “Sit down.” He crouched on the edge of his chair and watched her bring the bulging photograph album down from an interior shelf, next to the button tin. A few loose photographs fell out and came to rest on the half-moon-shaped hearth rug, before she was seated again.
She knew the page she wanted, and turned to it immediately. She fumbled with a sheet of Cellophane paper and extracted a small brown and white photograph.
“That’s me,” she said, “I were carrying the other one when that were took, I were going on the Sunday school outing.” She passed the familiar photograph to Christopher. He searched it now for signs of pregnancy, but saw only a young ringleted girl wearing a dark dress, a white pinafore and lace-up boots. The day must have been windy because her hair was blowing across her large-featured face, and she was holding on to the brim of a straw hat. She was standing in a brick yard of some kind. She was not smiling. She looked frumpy and awkward.
“We went on a horse and cart to Barrow-on-Soar, and had a picnic next to the river.” She took a tortoiseshell comb out of her stiff black handbag at the side of her chair and began to comb her long hair. “I didn’t enjoy it very much, there were too many midges, they got into your hair, and the wasps were after the jam sandwiches,” she said. She pulled small clumps of grey hair from between the teeth of the comb, rolled them between her fingers and threw the ball on to the fire, where it frizzled into liquid for a second, before disappearing.
“When I got home there was this woman in the house, a Mrs Montague, she was the one who delivered the babies and laid out the bodies. At first I thought that sommat had happened to our dad, or one of my brothers and sisters. The house was that quiet. Then my mam told me to go upstairs, put my oldest nightgown on and get into her bed. I still din’t know what were coming,” she said to Christopher.
Christopher looked away from the remembered fear in her eyes. He had guessed what was coming and he couldn’t bear it. He didn’t want to listen. He wanted to put his coat on and leave the house and go to his workshop.
“Mam came in first carrying the bucket. She had some old sheets over her arm, and a bundle of newspapers tucked under the other ‘un. I don’t know where the newspapers came from…”
“It doesn’t matter, Grandma,” said Christopher. He wished she’d do something with her hair. She looked like a witch with it straggling over her shoulders.
“Mrs Montague come in with a shopping bag over her arm, as if she were on her way to the shops…She took a bottle of brandy out of her bag and Mam passed her a glass and she poured it out until the glass were three-quarters full. “Drink it straight down,” she said to me. I did as I was told, you did in them days,” she said, almost proudly. “I’d never tasted alcohol before that day, and it made me gag, and then I felt woozy. They put the old sheets and newspapers under me and my mam put her hand over my mouth and Mrs Montague put something sharp and cold inside my you-know-what. And I screamed and screamed through my mam’s hand with the pain. They sat with me right until it got dark, and the baby started to be born. You’ll never know agony like it,” she said to Christopher accusingly.
“It
come out in pieces; they had to fix it together like a jigsaw, to make sure there was nothing left inside me.”
“Oh my God,” said Christopher.
“God din’t help me,” his grandma said, contemptuously. Her mouth moved, but she wouldn’t cry. He wanted to get up and put his arms around her and tell her about his baby, the one that Angela had rid herself of, but he forced himself to sit and listen. She tipped her head to one side and began to plait her hair.
“It were never spoken of again, never. The next time I saw Mrs Montague she passed me in the street with just a nod.”
“What about your mam?” said Christopher.
“I’ve just said,” she said irritably. “It were never spoken of again.”
“Until now,” said Christopher.
“I got septicaemia after,” she said, matter of factly. “I were in the cottage hospital for six weeks, but I never told them what had happened. When they told me that I couldn’t have babies, I was glad.”
“But you did have a baby, Grandma; you had Harry, my dad,” Christopher prompted.
She looked at him slyly. “I didn’t have him,” she said. “Your granddad was a widower when I met him. Your dad was a year old the first time I saw him. His mam died three weeks after he were born.” She looked hard at Christopher. “What’s up with your face?” she said, harshly.
“It’s a shock to find out that we’re not flesh and blood, Grandma,” he said to her.
“It doesn’t matter, does it, lad? We’ve always been pals, haven’t we?” she said.
“Good pals,” said Christopher. He got up and put his coat on and went to his work.
He called in at six o’clock to find her sitting in the same chair. The fire had gone out. She saw him but couldn’t speak to him, though her mouth worked constantly. When he held her hands he knew that the strength had gone from them and would never return.
“Stroke,” said the young doctor in Accident and Emergency, “I’ll find her a bed on the ward.”
Christopher waited hours in a cubicle with his grandma, hidden behind blue cotton curtains. As she lay there a violent argument broke out between the casualties of a fight outside a night club. Christopher and she listened as they screamed obscenities and threats from adjacent cubicles. Christopher wept with impotent rage. He had never once used a swear word in front of her. He went outside and begged them to be quiet, but they were drunk and wouldn’t listen to him. Probably the last thing she heard before she died was somebody telling Christopher to fuck off.
∨ Ghost Children ∧
Forty-Six
Angela woke in the dark and lay awake for a long time. Christopher’s sleeping body felt heavy against her. When it became just light enough to see she reached out and took her watch from the bedside table next to her. It was seven-thirty. She re-positioned the watch on the table where she could see it from the bed, and followed the golden second hand around the watch face as it raced towards nine o’clock.
♦
Gregory was having his breakfast at the table that had been the cause of the feud with his sister. He filled a highball glass full of Tia Maria and gulped it down in one, as though it were water. He then wrote his suicide note, using a sheet of Lowood’s Linens Limited headed notepaper.
Angela. There is no point in living without you.
Gregory.
The ultimate punishment, thought Gregory. She’d never live a day without the intolerable weight of guilt on her shoulders. And why should she? She’d as good as murdered him. He wrote another letter to his solicitor:
Dear Mr Jerman,
It is my last wish that my entire estate be left to The Lions Club of Great Britain to do with what they wish. I do not wish Angela Lowood, my adulterous wife to benefit in any way from my death. Should she contest my will I trust you will fight her claim in court with your usual vigour.
Thanking you in anticipation,
Yours sincerely,
Gregory Lowood
He then searched for the vacuum cleaner and found it in a cupboard in the utility room. He detached the hose and swore ‘bloody hell’ when a cloud of dust and fluff fell out on to his shoes. He took a damp cloth from beside the big porcelain sink where Angela used to soak the houseplants when they went on holiday and wiped his shoes clean. He didn’t want to be found looking less than immaculate. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to nine. His staff would be gathering outside the shop, waiting for him to open up. He didn’t trust anybody else with the keys. He went around the house checking that the telephone extensions were working. All were. He wondered where Angela was and what she was doing. Why hadn’t she rung and begged him not to take his life? He went out to the garage, taking the vacuum-cleaner hose with him. He averted his eyes from the garden he’d wrecked the night before.
The car was waiting for him. He inserted the snake-like hose through a gap in the back window. He used masking tape and cardboard to fill in any gaps where fresh air might leak inside. He then went back into the house and changed into his wedding suit, which was slightly tight, but he wouldn’t be uncomfortable for long, he thought. He pinned the note to the front of his jacket. He went for a last walk around the house. The Lowood name would die with him: his sister had married a man called Porter. He selected a photograph of Angela from the many clustered on the arts and crafts sideboard in the sitting room. She was in evening dress at a Lions Club of Great Britain ladies’ night dinner. It had been taken just before she got too fat and became a social embarrassment. She was wearing a red satin evening gown with a pinched-in waist and full skirt. Her breasts swelled above the sweetheart neckline. She was smiling fixedly for the official photographer. Gregory carried the photograph in its silver frame out to the garden. He took one last look at the sky. It was grey. He went into the garage and locked the door. He climbed into the driver’s seat and switched the engine on. Radio Four came on automatically; a man was talking about badgers. He turned it off until all he could hear was his own pulse drumming in his ears, and the constant throb of the noise of the engine, amplified in the small space. He arranged the photograph on his lap and prepared himself for death.
∨ Ghost Children ∧
Forty-Seven
Angela lay under the sheet, thinking about Gregory until nine-fifteen. Then she leapt out of bed naked and ran down to the hallway, not wanting to stop to put her dressing gown on. She went to the hall table and rang Lowood’s Linens. The phone in the shop rang with mournful tones. She waited for a long time before putting the receiver down.
Christopher watched from the top of the stairs. He had just come out of the shower and had a white towel round his waist. He brought her dressing gown down to her and put it round her shoulders.
Angela said, “He’s never, ever late for work.” She took a cigarette out of her dressing gown pocket and lit it with unsteady hands.
“Perhaps the weather’s held him up,” Christopher said. “There’s black ice on the roads.”
“No,” she said, dialling the house, “Gregory makes allowances for things like the weather.”
Christopher listened to the ringing tone with mixed feelings. Angela put the receiver down again.
“He’s dead, I know he’s dead,” she said.
Christopher put his arms around her and stroked her hair. “If I thought he was dead, I’d ask you to marry me,” he said. “But he’s not dead, Angela, so I won’t.”
He smiled down at her but she wouldn’t smile back.
“I must go home,” she said. He stopped smiling and turned away. She ran upstairs and began to fling her clothes on.
He came into the bedroom and grabbed a white shirt from inside the wardrobe.
“You still love him, don’t you?”
“No,” she shouted.
“Why didn’t you marry me?” he asked.
“Oh Chris, not now!”
She was putting on a black tunic and matching wide trousers. She sat down on the bed to fasten her boots.
“I was
the wrong class for you, wasn’t I?”
“No,” she said. Then, “Hurry up, Chris.”
He was taking his time in fastening the buttons on his white shirt.
“I remember the night we went out to that restaurant with your friend, Sheila, and her solicitor boyfriend. The waiter asked if we’d like an aperitif and I said, “Yes, I’d like the tomato soup.” And the waiter laughed and said, “An aperitif is a drink before the meal, sir.” I looked at you and you wouldn’t look back. You were ashamed of me, Angie.”
“For Christ’s sake, Chris! Not now. Put your shoes on!”
“I suppose Gregory knew what an aperitif was,” he said bitterly, tying his shoelace.
The telephone rang loudly, shocking them both. Angela rah downstairs and snatched it up. It was someone from British Telecom sales. She slammed the phone down, then picked it up again and dialled for a mini-cab.
Christopher came to the top of the stairs wearing a black wool suit with his white shirt. He looks like a funeral director, thought Angela. She paced up and down the hallway.
She phoned the shop twice more and the house three times, but the phone was not picked up. As they hurried away from the house they heard the dog howling.
♦
They could smell the fumes as soon as they got out of the mini-cab and when they were half-way up the drive they could see them, blue and curling through the gap under the garage door.
Angela fumbled with the keys on the keyring, unable to find the right one to unlock the garage. She began to cry and gave the keyring to Christopher. He methodically tried all the Yale keys in the lock. Finally the door sprang open and they were almost overcome by the toxicity of the air inside the garage.
They could see Gregory sitting in his car. His head was resting on the steering wheel. Christopher opened the door, covering his own mouth with his hand, turned off the ignition and went to phone for an ambulance. When it was possible to breathe in the garage without retching Angela opened the passenger door and saw the note pinned to Gregory’s jacket. He appeared to be dead. She held him in her arms until Christopher came back.