The House Swap(9)

Lost in thought, I find that I am already at the front door and that I have pushed the key into the lock with as much familiarity as if this really were my house. As soon as I open the door I realize that something is wrong; a flash of instinctive recoil even before I have heard the first note. Music is drifting down the staircase. It takes a few beats to recognize the song, but my body knows it before I do. My heart is thudding and my limbs feel weak and liquid, suddenly awakened.

I haven’t listened to this song since the last time I saw you. But I remember the crowded bar where I first heard it with you; that magical sense that everything was fusing together, that it was a perfectly crafted soundtrack to what was happening in the tiny pocket of the room where we stood inches apart, your hands moving lightly to my waist and pulling me towards you.

Francis appears at the top of the staircase, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks instantly.

‘Nothing,’ I say with an effort. ‘Why have you put that on?’

‘The music?’ He glances inquiringly behind him. ‘I just found a few CDs in the bedroom, behind the stereo, and it was the one on top. I thought I might as well stick it on while I got ready. Got a bit over-excited, you know – stuff! Possessions! If we keep looking, we might even find a book or two.’

‘Right …’ I’m not in the mood for light-hearted repartee. I walk quickly up the stairs and into the bedroom. The song is only halfway through, and I am shocked by how hard it is to reach out and switch the stereo off. When I do, a fierce sense of loss rips through me.

Francis is standing behind me, his face anxious and alert. ‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘Did I do something wrong? Was it …’ He doesn’t carry on, but I know what he’s thinking.

‘No,’ I say, but even as I say it, I’m thinking that I’m sure he knows this song is loaded for me. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it, in our long, exhaustive conversations over the months, when the spirit of confession has seized me and his desire for self-torture has been matched by my own savage compulsion to purge these details from my head. Can he have forgotten? ‘I just …’ I say uselessly, looking at him as he stands there, unblinking, waiting for me to continue.

‘It’s nothing,’ I say at last. We stand in silence for a few moments, and I put my arms around his neck and hold them there, pushing my face into his chest and listening to his heartbeat. When I pull back, I realize my eyes are wet, but I don’t blink, and after a short while I feel the tears shrinking back unshed.

‘I’ll go to the bathroom,’ I say, ‘and then let’s get out, yes? Take the train up to town and go to that exhibition.’ I watch his face relax into a smile, and I try to take some comfort from it. Small things can remain small. They don’t have to inflate until they suffocate all the life out of the room.

Feeling stronger now, I give him one last squeeze then gently extract myself, heading for the bathroom. I cleared the flowers out this morning, telling myself that they were beginning to brown and curl at the edges, so the windowsill is blamelessly clear. I go to the window and push it open. Leaning out, I stare down at the street, with its cloistered lines of identical houses. A little ripple of sound and movement catches my eye – the sense of a door or window banging shut – and I find myself glancing instinctively across at number 14, but by the time my eyes have settled on the house, everything is silent and still.



Home


Caroline, February 2013


I’M WALKING ALONG the riverbank with the wind lashing wetly into my face, flattening my hair against my scalp. My fingers are curled whitely around the handles of the buggy, pushing it forward. Eddie is shifting restlessly under the rain cover and I can see his profile darkly through the plastic as he twists his face upwards, staring at the rivulets of water that run down the canopy. Next to us, Francis is moving as if he is barely awake. His face is sulkily clouded, eyes staring straight ahead. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and the wind is catching his shirt-tails, whipping them back and forth in the cold air.

‘You must be freezing,’ I say, for the second or third time. He refused to take a coat when we left the house, muttering something about not needing anything. I had argued back, but it had only had the effect of entrenching his position. We had made our way to the bus stop in morose silence, avoiding each other’s eyes. Already, before we had even lost sight of our road, I knew the excursion was a mistake.

‘I’m not,’ he says now, shooting me a glance of mistrust, as if he suspects me of some underhand motive in showing concern. ‘Just shut up about it, will you?’

‘Charming,’ I snap, increasing my pace, although I know he won’t bother to keep up with me. Marching along the bank, I try to imbue my steps with enough righteous indignation to warm me from the inside out. It doesn’t work. Despite my long coat, I am shivering, and the rain is starting to soak through and settle on my skin in a damp, clingy film. Last night, when I had conceived this plan, I had imagined a bracing riverside walk in crisp winter sunshine, a chance to clear the cobwebs. I try these kinds of strategies maybe once a fortnight. Half the time, the dice fall in my favour. The other half, I’m left feeling that I am trying to move an unwilling puppet into action, contorting its limbs into a semblance of life.

After a while, I realize that Francis isn’t even walking any more. I look back and see that he is leaning on the iron rails, looking out on to the churning river. For a brief, nauseating instant I see him as if he were a stranger: the dishevelled hair and clothes, the odd, shuttered expression. I push the buggy quickly back to where he is standing and put my hand out to touch his wet shirtsleeve.