I Am Watching You(69)
Henry wheels the suitcase behind him out to the Land Rover, and pretends it is heavy as he lifts it into the back. The truth is he is taking only a few items of clothing at a time, for the excuse to return, still hoping that Barbara will reconsider. He is finding it hard to believe that this is it.
All gone.
He glances one more time at the front lawn, closes his eyes to that picture of Anna turning cartwheels then sitting and smiling. Waving at him.
He feels his fingers flicker, wanting to wave back at her. Finally he pushes his lips together very, very tightly, opens his eyes and drives along the narrow approach road out to the holiday lets – one of the larger, original barns converted into a row of four units. For now, Henry is using one of the two-beds. It feels like playing at life rather than actually living it, not least because the neighbouring three units are full of holidaymakers, and the yard full of bodyboards, wetsuits, laughter and an awful lot of sand.
Henry takes the suitcase into the sad little bedroom with its neutral walls, neutral bedding and fake oak floor. Barbara spent a lot of time explaining to him during the conversion that ‘practicality’ was the watchword. Also ROI, which he learned stands for ‘return on investment’. The fittings and fixtures needed to be neutral, hard-wearing and easily maintained, she explained. It was not about personal taste or personal choice but about ROI. He stares down at the ‘easily maintained’ floor and thinks of the richer, original oak floors in the upstairs of the farmhouse. The twists and the knots. The lumps and the bumps.
Henry lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling. He thinks of his preferred world. The real world he still clings to. The hay sorted, thanks to the weather. The lambs weaned and turned out onto the grass. What next? He must decide whether to begin ploughing the upper fields for next year’s cereals. Should he even bother? Is all this playing at farming going to continue, even? He looks around the room. The tiny pine wardrobe. The matching chest of drawers and bedside table. All too new. Too orange in tone.
He thinks of Sammy next door in his bed in the ‘easily maintained’ kitchen, the poor dog as utterly miserable and confused as he is. What are we doing here, master? those amber eyes ask every day. He closes his own and wills sleep to come, but there is the screech of the doorbell. Another horribly modern touch. High and shrill, unlike the older bell system at the farmhouse.
Who the hell . . . ?
Henry pauses, hoping they will go away, but the shrill noise is repeated. Then a third time. A fourth. Eventually he gets up to see his visitor peering through the central glass pane in the front door.
‘Oh goodness. Jenny. Jenny, come in. Sorry. I didn’t realise it would be you.’
His daughter glances around the mess that is his open-plan living. A pile of dirty crockery in the sink because Henry keeps forgetting to buy tablets for the dishwasher. His overalls thrown over the kitchen table and his muddy boot prints across the floor.
She marches across to the fridge and looks inside. She sniffs the out-of-date milk and shakes her head. The only other contents are some pre-packed sandwiches and two multipacks, one of sausage rolls and one of pork pies, bought from the local garage.
‘Right. That’s it. I can’t bear to see you like this. We’re going shopping together and then I’m cooking supper. Come on.’
‘No, love. You don’t need to do this. I said I’m fine.’
‘You’re not fine. Come on.’ She is jangling the keys to her car – a battered Fiesta. Henry bought it for the girls to share. Jenny passed her test first time, and Anna was due to start her driving lessons soon. Henry tries very hard not to think of this. He was actually planning to stretch to a second car down the line, so they could have one each.
An hour later and back from the local supermarket, Henry watches his daughter checking all the cupboards for pots and pans to make a bolognaise.
‘I’m being lazy using a jar of sauce but it’ll taste all right. Not as good as Mum’s, but better than pork pies.’
She is sizzling onion and garlic in a pan, and he watches her brown the meat and add the sauce, ashamed of his own inadequacy and wondering when she learned to cook. He hadn’t noticed.
‘I expect you think I’m a right old dinosaur. Not being able to cook.’
‘Wasn’t any need, up until now. Was there?’ Jenny looks pale and Henry is wondering what it is she has really come to say. He can sense it. The holding back. They tiptoe around each other while the food cooks, and he doesn’t push.
The meal is good and Henry is grateful and guilty all at once.
‘I forgot Parmesan, Dad.’
‘Never mind. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Doesn’t feel right at all – you looking after me.’
‘So, is it true? You had an affair? Mum won’t say much. She just lies in bed a lot of the day now. She’s been sleeping in Anna’s room. Curled up with her old jumpers.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m so, so sorry you’re having to deal with this on your own, on top of everything.’ Henry takes a deep breath. He cannot look at her. ‘OK, I admit it. I was a stupid idiot and I really regret it but it didn’t mean anything. I promise you. I love your mum. And you mustn’t blame her for being so upset. She has every right.’
‘Do you think she will forgive you? Let you home?’ There is a wobble to her voice and Henry can hardly bear it. ‘It just feels as if everything is gone.’