The Forgetting(70)
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s going to be hard, getting beyond this. It’s such a destructive thing for her to do. I don’t know how I’ll be able to pretend nothing’s happened.’
Livvy panicked at the prospect of her husband and sister at loggerheads, Livvy stuck between them, torn one way and then the other, like a character in an ancient proverb. ‘She’s my sister. If I can forgive you, then you need to forgive her. She was only looking out for me. That’s what sisters do.’
Dominic said nothing for a few moments, before lifting Livvy’s hand to his mouth, brushing his lips along her skin. ‘Fair enough. It just might take me a little time, that’s all.’
He pulled her into his arms, his breath hot against her scalp. And yet, in spite of the resolution to their conflict, somewhere beneath the wall of Livvy’s chest, a caged bird flapped its wings.
ANNA
LONDON
I stand in the small space at the top of the stairs, look up at the hatch above my head. I know what I need to do, even if a part of my brain is cautioning against it.
Since the call from the therapist yesterday lunchtime, I have scoured the house, searching for something – anything – that might tell me more about my life. Every box piled up in the spare room has been opened, rummaged through, discarded when it revealed nothing of interest. I have felt like a scavenger, hunting for scraps of information and repeatedly going hungry.
When Stephen telephoned yesterday evening from his hotel room in Southampton, I told him nothing of what I was doing, nothing about the call with the therapist that had revealed his lie to me. For most of last night I lay awake, thinking the same circular thoughts, wondering if I was a coward for not confronting him. Because whichever way I turn the facts over in my mind I cannot seem to fashion them into a viable explanation. They are like lumps of parched clay: too tough, unyielding, to mould beneath my fingers.
I look up at the small brass padlock, wrack my brain, try to think where Stephen might have hidden the key. I think about where he is often most furtive and head into our bedroom, pull open his bedside drawers. They are neatly arranged as though nothing dare leave its designated spot: cufflink boxes, a clip-on reading light, a pack of ear plugs, a small notebook which I flick through and find empty. No key.
I open the chest of drawers where Stephen keeps his underwear, rifle through it, scrunch each ball of socks inside my fist in search of anything sharp or metallic, run my fingers along the edges of the wooden drawers, but find nothing.
Lifting the edge of the duvet, I discover a collection of transparent plastic tote boxes under the bed. I pull out the first one, lift the lid, find it full of old audio cassettes. Taking them out, I pile them onto the bed, checking each one to see if a key may have been slipped inside. But there is just Mahler, Wagner, Strauss. I reach for the next tote, drag it across the floorboards, open it. Inside is a collection of plugs and cables: phone chargers, camera batteries, endless USB leads. I lift them out, one by one, careful not to entangle them so I can replace them later as though they were never disturbed. Placing them next to the cassettes, I wonder what they are all for, why we have so many when there is just a single laptop in the house. At the bottom, I find a small square ring box tucked in the corner, take it out, prise it open. Inside is a small silver key, the right size for a padlock, and I hold it in my palm, hope inflating in my chest.
Dragging a hardback chair from the spare room, I place it under the opening to the loft, step onto it, ignore my pounding heart reminding me what happened the last time I attempted to venture up here. Reaching above my head, there is a momentary wobble, and I launch my arms to the side to steady myself. I breathe deeply, stabilise myself, and when I am sure my footing is secure, I lift my arms again, take hold of the padlock with one hand, slip the key inside, fingers fumbling.
The key turns and I hear myself exhale a sigh of relief.
Opening the hatch and lowering the loft ladder, I guide it slowly until it reaches the floor.
The loft ladder’s pretty treacherous – I need to get someone to come and fix it – so don’t venture up there if I’m not here.
Stephen’s words reverberate in my ears and I do not know if I am being foolish ignoring them. I only know that I have foraged through the rest of the house and found nothing. The loft is the only place left to search.
Placing one foot on the bottom rung and holding on to the ladder firmly with both hands, I test my weight on it, feel its steady grip against the floor. Tentatively, I take a second step and then a third. The ladder feels solid beneath my feet and I make my way to the top without a hitch. I think about Stephen’s note of warning, cannot waste time speculating why he didn’t want me up here.
Shining a torch around the dim loft space, I find a light switch, flick it on, a naked bulb illuminating overhead. A throng of boxes are stacked haphazardly, the disorder at odds with the organisation of rest of the house, and there is a moment’s dislocation, as though I have inadvertently entered someone else’s home.
Pressing gingerly on the plywood floorboards to test their strength, I lift myself into the space, the musty air like a church hall that has been closed all winter.
Turning around, I see it immediately, though it takes me a second to assemble the separate parts in my mind. I step towards it, place a hand on the white wooden frame. My breath catches in my throat, wondering if this was what Stephen was trying to protect me from: the sight of my son’s dismantled crib. With unsteady fingers, I trace the wooden slats, imagine Henry sleeping soundly inside: the quiet snuffle of his breathing, the flicker of his dreaming eyes, the soft curl of his fists. Something stirs inside me, a sense that my son is still with me. I feel an intense closeness to him, as though our separation is a matter of days rather than years, as though I can sense an echo of his recent presence.