Into the Water(48)
It started with Sean. First with her suspicions and then – via Patrick – the awful confirmation. Last autumn she had discovered that her husband – her solid, steadfast, resolutely moral husband – was not at all what she thought him to be. She’d found herself quite lost. Her rationale, her decisiveness, deserted her. What was she to do? Leave? Abandon her home and her responsibilities? Should she issue an ultimatum? Cry, cajole? Should she punish him? And if so, how? Cut holes in the fabric of his favourite shirts, break his fishing rods in half, burn his books in the courtyard?
All of these things seemed impractical or foolhardy or simply ridiculous, so she turned to Patrick for advice. He persuaded her to stay. He assured her that Sean had seen sense, that he deeply regretted his infidelity and that he would work to earn her forgiveness. ‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘he would understand – we both would – if you would like to take the spare room here? It might do you good to have some time to yourself – and I’m certain it would benefit him to get even a small taste of what he stands to lose.’ Almost a year later, she still slept in her father-in-law’s house most nights.
Sean’s mistake, as it came to be known, was just the start of it. After she moved into Patrick’s home, Helen found herself afflicted by terrible insomnia: a debilitating, anxiety-inducing, waking hell. Which, she discovered, her father-in-law shared. He couldn’t sleep either – he’d been that way for years, so he said. So they were sleepless together. They stayed up together – reading, doing crosswords, sitting in companionable silence.
Occasionally, if Patrick had a nip of whisky, he liked to talk. About his life as a detective, about how the town used to be. Sometimes he told her things which disturbed her. Stories of the river, old rumours, nasty tales long buried and now dug up and revived, spread as truth by Nel Abbott. Stories about their family, hurtful things. Lies, libellous falsehoods, surely? Patrick said it wouldn’t come to libel, wouldn’t come to law courts. ‘Her lies won’t ever see the light of day. I’ll see to that,’ he told her.
Only that wasn’t the problem. The problem, Patrick said, was the damage she’d already done – to Sean, to the family. ‘Do you honestly think he’d have behaved the way he has if it hadn’t been for her, filling his head with these stories, making him doubt who he is, where he comes from? He’s changed, hasn’t he, love? And it’s her that’s done that.’ Helen worried that Patrick was right and that things would never go back to the way they’d been, but he assured her they would. He’d see to that, too. He’d squeeze her hand and thank her for listening and kiss her forehead and say, ‘You’re such a good girl.’
Things got better, for a while. And then they got worse. For just when Helen found herself able to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time, just when she caught herself smiling at her husband in the old way, just when she felt the family moving back towards its old, comfortable equilibrium, Katie Whittaker died.
Katie Whittaker, a star of the school, a diligent and polite student, an untroubled child – it was shocking, inexplicable. And it was her fault. She had failed Katie Whittaker. They all had: her parents, her teachers, this whole community. They hadn’t noticed that happy Katie needed help, that she wasn’t happy at all. While Helen was laid low by her domestic problems, befuddled by insomnia and plagued with self-doubt, one of her charges had fallen.
By the time Helen arrived at the supermarket, the rain had stopped. The sun was out and steam rose from the tarmac, bringing with it the smell of the earth. Helen scrabbled around in her handbag for her list: she was to buy a joint of beef for dinner, vegetables, pulses. They needed olive oil and coffee and capsules for the washing machine.
Standing in the canned-goods aisle, looking for the brand of chopped tomatoes she considered most flavoursome, she noticed a woman approach and realized with horror that it was Louise.
Walking slowly towards her, her expression vacant, Louise was pushing a giant, near-empty shopping trolley. Helen panicked and fled, abandoning her own trolley and scurrying to the car park, where she hid in her car until she saw Louise’s own vehicle swing past and out into the road.
She felt stupid and ashamed – she knew that this wasn’t like her. A year ago, she wouldn’t have behaved in such a disgraceful way. She would have spoken to Louise, squeezed her hand and asked after her husband and son. She would have behaved honourably.
Helen was not herself. How else could she explain the things she’d thought of late, the way she had acted? All this guilt, this doubt, it was corrosive. It was changing her, twisting her. She was not the woman she used to be. She could feel herself slipping, slithering as though she were shedding a skin, and she didn’t like the rawness underneath, she didn’t like the smell of it. It made her feel vulnerable, it made her feel afraid.
Sean
FOR SEVERAL DAYS after my mother died, I didn’t speak. Not a single word. So my father tells me in any case. I don’t remember much about that time, although I do remember the way Dad shocked me out of my silence, which was by holding my left hand over a flame until I cried out. It was cruel, but it was effective. And afterwards, he let me keep the cigarette lighter. (I kept it for many years, I used to carry it around with me. I recently lost it, I don’t recall where.)
Grief, shock, it affects people in strange ways. I’ve seen people react to bad news with laughter, with seeming indifference, with anger, with fear. Jules’s kiss in the car after the funeral, that wasn’t about lust, it was about grief, about wanting to feel something – anything – other than sadness. My mutism when I was a child was probably the result of the shock, the trauma. Losing a sister may not be the same as losing a parent, but I know that Josh Whittaker was close to his sister, so I am loath to judge him, to read too much into what he says and does and the way he behaves.