‘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.
‘What is it?’ I ask. I had meant to sound concerned, but my voice is harsh and accusatory.
He shrugs, still staring out at the greyly lurching water as it rises and falls with the wind. ‘I think I’m going to go home,’ he says. ‘I’m knackered. And this isn’t really working, anyway, is it?’
Even though I cannot disagree, fury surges up in me at losing the day I had planned. I glare at Francis, torn between rage and worry. And above it all, the flat blanket of weariness settling. It’s all piling up: the sleepless nights, the short-tempered moments, the distance in the way he looks at me, the emptiness. We had a few good weeks but, lately, it’s becoming more and more clear that nothing has really changed.
He’s back on the pills. The thought lands like a stone in my gut. I’ve been trying to paper over the cracks, but it’s impossible to ignore. We’re back on this same old grinding merry-go-round. His pointless denials and the increasing loss of control. The refusal to admit that this is still happening. My tears and recriminations and supplications, which count for fuck all, because trying to reason with addiction is like trying to hold back the tide with the palm of your hand.
‘You know,’ I say, ‘maybe you should go back to the doctor. He might … might be able to help you.’ I can taste the irony in my own words. This was how it started, over three years ago now – with my well-intentioned suggestion that he should visit the doctor, maybe get something to help him through a tough few weeks at work. An image of him returning home the next day, jauntily waving a little prescription slip. Got me some happy pills! ‘I mean, sort out some counselling,’ I say carefully. ‘Not just a quick fix.’
Francis shoots me a look of heavy scorn. ‘Fuck off,’ he says wearily.
My mouth opens in shock. It’s not the words themselves but the way in which they seemed to be so close to the surface, so ready to push me away. ‘Fuck off?’ I repeat. ‘Believe it or not, Francis, I’m trying to help you.’
‘You seem really fond of that word,’ he says. ‘Help. I don’t need any fucking help. All right?’
‘Yes, you do,’ I bite back tightly, struggling to keep control. ‘Yes, you do. You’re like a bloody zombie most of the time, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of pretending not to notice—’ I cut myself off, seeing a middle-aged couple ambling towards us.
Francis follows my gaze, and his lips twist unpleasantly in an approximation of a smile. ‘Don’t mind us,’ he says loudly, fixing his gaze on the couple. ‘We can even speak up if you like, if you’re feeling curious?’
‘Francis,’ I hiss. ‘Shut up.’ I’m flooded with embarrassment, my cheeks hot, clothes prickling damply against my skin. The couple give us a look, half pity, half alarm, and move swiftly away, muttering inaudibly to each other.