Nutshell(18)

‘My back,’ she growls. ‘My fucking back.’

But it’s worth her pain, for she’s steadied herself and takes the remaining steps with care. Claude, busy by the kitchen sink, pauses to make a sympathetic sound, then continues with his tasks. Time waits for no man, as he might say.

She’s at his side. ‘My head,’ she whispers.

‘And mine.’ Then he shows her. ‘I think it’s his favourite. Bananas, pineapple, apple, mint, wheat germ.’

‘Tropical Dawn?’

‘Yup. And here’s the business. Enough to fell ten ox.’

‘Oxen.’

He pours the two liquids into the blender and activates it.

When the din has ceased she says, ‘Put it in the fridge. I’ll make the coffee. Hide those paper cups. Don’t touch them without your gloves.’

We’re at the coffee machine. She’s found the filters, she’s spooning in the grains, tipping in the water. Doing well.

‘Wash some mugs,’ she calls. ‘And set them out. Get the stuff ready for the car. John’s gloves are in the outhouse. They’ll need dusting down. And there’s a plastic bag somewhere.’

‘All right, all right.’ Out of bed long before her, Claude sounds testy as she takes control. I struggle to follow their exchange.

‘My thing and the bank statement are on the table.’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t forget the receipt.’

‘I won’t.

‘Screw it up a bit.’

‘I have.’

‘With your gloves. Not his.’

‘Yes!’

‘You wore the hat in Judd Street?’

‘Of course.’

‘Put it where he’ll see it.’

‘I have.’

But he’s at the sink, rinsing crusty cups, doing as he’s told. She’s impervious to his tone and adds, ‘We should tidy this place up.’

He grunts. A hopeless notion. Good wife Trudy wants to greet her husband with a tidy kitchen.

But surely none of this can work. Elodie knows that my father is expected here. Perhaps half a dozen friends know too. London, north to east, will point a finger across the corpse. Here’s a pretty folie à deux. Could my mother, who’s never had a job, launch herself as a murderer? A tough profession, not only in the planning and execution, but in the aftermath, when the career would properly begin. Consider, I want to say to her, even before the ethics, the inconvenience: imprisonment or guilt or both, extended hours, weekends too, and all through every night, for life. No pay, no perks, no pension but remorse. She’s making a mistake.

But the lovers are locked in, as only lovers can be. Being busy about the kitchen keeps them steady. They clear from the table last night’s debris, sweep up or sweep aside food scraps on the floor, then down more painkillers with a slug of coffee. That’s all the breakfast I’m getting. They agree that around the kitchen sink there’s nothing to be done. My mother mutters instructions, or guidelines. Claude remains terse. Each time, he cuts her off. He may be having second thoughts.

‘Cheerful, OK? Like we thought through what he said last night and decided—’

‘Right.’

After minutes of silence: ‘Don’t go offering too soon. We need—’

‘I won’t.’

And again: ‘Two empty glasses to show that we’ve had some ourselves already. And the Smoothie Heaven cup—’

‘It’s done. They’re behind you.’

On his final word we’re startled by my father’s voice from the top of the kitchen stairs. Of course, he has his key. He’s in the house.

He calls down. ‘Just unloading the car. Then I’ll be with you.’

His tone is gruff, competent. Unearthly love has made him worldly.

Claude whispers, ‘What if he locks it?’

I’m close to my mother’s heart and know its rhythms and sudden turns. And now! It accelerates at her husband’s voice, and there’s an added sound, a disturbance in the chambers, like the distant rattling of maracas, or gravel shuffled softly in a tin. From down here I’d say it’s a semilunar valve whose cusps are snapping shut too hard and sticking. Or it could be her teeth.

But to the world my mother appears serene. She remains the liege and mistress of her voice, which is even and doesn’t stoop to whispers.

‘He’s a poet. He never locks the car. When I give you the sign, go out there with the stuff.’





NINE


DEAR FATHER, Before you die, I’d like a word. We haven’t much time. Far less than you think, so forgive me for coming to the point. I need to tap your memory. There was a morning in your library, a Sunday of unusual summer rain when the air for once was clean of dust. The windows were open, we heard the pattering on the leaves. You and my mother almost resembled a happy couple. There was a poem you recited then, too good for one of yours, I think you’d be the first to concede. Short, dense, bitter to the point of resignation, difficult to understand. The sort that hits you, hurts you, before you’ve followed exactly what was said. It addressed a careless, indifferent reader, a lost lover, a real person, I should think. In fourteen lines it talked of hopeless attachment, wretched preoccupation, longing unresolved and unacknowledged. It summoned a rival, mighty in talent or social rank or both, and it bowed in self-effacement. Eventually, time would have its revenge, but no one would care or even remember, unless they chanced to read these lines.