Dunswold--Part 3
Monday evening Martin was late home. He seemed preoccupied at teatime and then went straight to the study to finish off his paperwork. She was left alone in the sitting room with its loudly ticking clock. She tried to listen to the radio but found only static where the Light Programme used to be. In the noise she could hear wraith-like voices that faded in and out, but she was never able to decipher what they were saying. At nine, she decided to go to bed. She wondered what the Wickhams were doing—watching television, probably.
“I’m going up,” she said to Martin. He was hunched over the desk, comparing two pieces of paper.
“Yes, Darling. I’ll be along shortly.”
She slept soundly until something pulled her out of her dream and left her blinking and disoriented in the dark. Martin was snoring next to her. She felt cold air on her body and saw that the bedclothes had slipped off, and her nightdress had ridden up exposing her nakedness to the moonlight.
“For god’s sake,” she said and pulled it down again. Martin mumbled something in his sleep and turned away from her.
She must have pulled it up herself—although Martin could insist on his own way sometimes, he had never tried to whilst she was asleep. There lingered the slight, acerbic smell of the sea drifting in through the open window. She got up and closed it then went back to sleep.
***
The moon made its never-ending round, and October became November, and every day seemed much the same to Deborah, except that something was changing. Slowly but inexorably, she felt herself transforming.
***
“You seem much better if you don’t mind me saying so, Mrs Mulcahey,” Mrs Haylock said when she came in to clean on a leaden November day. “I’ll bet I can hazard a guess as to why.”
“Do I, Mrs Haylock? I’m just getting used to the new pace of life, that’s all.”
“I said it’d be before the new moon, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do. I understand. Our secret, eh?” She began humming tunelessly as she dusted the sitting room.
Should she remonstrate with her? Martin would remonstrate, but Deborah wasn’t used to having a cleaning lady—she didn’t feel right saying anything. But how did the old witch know? In fact, how did Deborah know? It was only an intuition; she had no physical sign that it was so, only that she had that tickle in her tummy—possibly psychosomatic—but it felt febrile, burning with its longing for life. A hot little worm; a tiny wriggling thing.
She had hoped that Laura might phone her, and they would go on that shopping trip, but the phone stayed obstinately silent. Maybe Laura was like those other officers’ wives in London. Deborah had hoped she was different, but maybe they were all the same—maybe she was the same.
When Mrs Haylock had gone, she fiddled with the radio again but found only the same rushing static. With the radio turned off, the loud ticking of the clock became too much to bear.
When she stepped into the street outside, it was an unremarkable Tuesday morning, and if not for the constant sound of the sea, it could have been any small village in England.
There was the bus that took the children to school in Aldeburgh. A group of mothers, having delivered their charges, were walking in the direction of the market square where there was a small shop run by the cooperative society.
Deborah began to follow them, thinking that she might see Laura there, then they could make a firm arrangement about that shopping trip. The square had a few other shops around its edge: a greengrocer and a dusty gift shop, a butcher, and shop that stocked gardening equipment and seed. The latter also had several cages outside that housed tired and depressed looking cats and dogs.
Perhaps she needed a cat—a dog would be too much of a commitment, but a cat might be ideal.
Deborah hovered outside and observed the cages. One contained a puppy (she couldn’t tell which breed). It sat shivering, eyeing her suspiciously.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I’d be able to look after you.” The puppy turned away from her and faced the corner of the cage. The gesture disturbed her. She poked her fingers through the wire and made encouraging sounds, but the puppy ignored her.
“Can I help you, Madam?”
A small, portly man stood beside her. His rotund belly was sheathed in a green apron. The name ‘Cyril’ was embroidered on the pocket.
“I was just looking,” Deborah said, wishing she’d gone before he had come out. She was very bad at telling salesmen she didn’t want to buy.
“You look more like a ‘cat person’, to me,” the man said. “Far less bother than a dog, and far cleaner in my opinion—and of course, they don’t chew your best shoes.”
She stood. “Maybe another time.” She should consult with Martin before making a decision like this. He might not want a cat in the house.
“I’ve got a lovely calico kitten inside,” the man continued, ignoring her. “Very affectionate. Come in, I’ll show you.”
She followed him into the shop which smelt pleasantly of sawdust and fertilizer.
“Here we are,” he said. He reached down behind the counter and pulled out another wire cage. Inside was a kitten covered in brown, gold, and white splotches. Immediately it pushed its tiny pink nose through the wire of the cage and began to purr, its little feet kneading at the newspaper covering the base.
“Tell you what,” the man said, “I’ll throw in a collar with a bell and three tins of cat food. All for two pounds.”
“All right,” Deborah heard herself saying. She found her purse and took out a five pound note.
Cyril put the cat in a cardboard box. Several people smiled at her indulgently when she walked back home. The kitten miaowed the whole way. When she arrived, she let out the tiny creature and put some of its food in a saucer on the floor. It ate quickly and when it had finished, it came over to Deborah and curled up at her feet and went to sleep. “You look like a ‘Cleo’ to me,” Deborah said to the particoloured ball of fur. The kitten looked up at the sound of the name as if to say, ‘You called?’.
“Cleo,” Deborah repeated. “Welcome, Cleo.” She picked up the cat and put it in her lap where it stretched once and went straight back to sleep. Martin barely noticed the cat when he came home.
“Fine,” he said when she told him about her moment of madness. “Just don’t let it sleep on the bed.” His mind was always on other things. There was no point in telling him not to worry—she’d tried it before, but he had a way of looking at her that was almost pitying. Once again, he spent most of the evening working in his study in the spare bedroom, but when they were in bed he said, “Do you think a cat is going to help you?”
“Help me in what way, Martin?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Will it serve as a surrogate, do you mean? No, of course not. It’s a cat.”
“I know, I know. I just wondered. Sorry.”
He turned away from her and went to extinguish the light, defeated again. “Maybe Cleo will help you,” she said. “You seem worried about something.” She reached out to touch his back but withdrew her hand quickly before it made contact. “Can you talk about it? Perhaps I can help.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not worried. I’m still settling in, that’s all. Nothing for you to worry about. You concentrate on getting better. If you’re better, it will all be alright.”
He turned and kissed her. Deborah lay awake for an hour listening to the faint sound of the sea. Later on she heard the cat scratching at the door. She rose and took it downstairs before it woke Martin. She put it back into its little cardboard box in the kitchen and sat with it until it went to sleep.
***
On Thursday, Deborah was surprised and a little perturbed to hear a knock at the door just after Martin had left. She saw Walter Haylock’s looming outline through the glass. Oh God, what does he want? She was about to sidle back out of sight when Walter stooped and shouted through the letterbox.
“Mrs Mulcahey. Mummy said I should come over and take a look at the garden. She said it needs tidying up.”
Suddenly ashamed of her skulking, Deborah went and opened the door. “Hello, Walter,” she said. “Why don’t you go around and take a look at it.”
Walter straightened up. He really was enormous; taller than she remembered from last time. He’d brought a wheelbarrow loaded with digging and cutting tools. “I can get started straight away,” he said, eager. “I like doing work in the garden.”
He went down the side path into the back garden, and later, Deborah watched him from the sitting room window as he began to cut back the overgrown grass with an old-fashioned scythe. She held the cat in her arms and could feel the little animal straining against her as it tried to get closer to Walter. It had the fixed stare of the hunter and began to chatter its teeth at him as though he were a small bird it wished to pounce upon.
“Stop it, Cleo,” Deborah said as the kitten dug its tiny claws into her hand. “You can’t eat him. He’s far too big.”
The morning wore on and Deborah pottered about the house never settling in one place for long. For the umpteenth time she tried to find a station on the radio but found only static. Some of their things would be arriving from her parents’ house, and she should make room for them—clear some space in the spare bedroom. The kitten followed her until, like all young animals, it became tired and slept where it happened to find itself—in this case, the hallway.
From the upstairs window she was aware of the boy working in the back garden. He seemed not to tire, and she thought that she should offer him some orange squash. (That was what one did, wasn’t it? Children liked orange squash to drink. She didn’t have any, water would have to do. And was he even a child? He looked like a man out there in the garden swinging the scythe, a young athletic Grim Reaper, he might cut her down if she went out to ask him).
She felt that tickle in her tummy again, and she lay on the bed for half an hour. When she put her hand on her stomach to quiet it, the skin felt warm through the cloth. She would have to go and see a doctor. They hadn’t even registered with one yet. She’d ask Laura when they went on their shopping trip if she knew of a good one. Martin had the army doctor, the odious Roger Bryant. She imagined Bryant examining her and shuddered.
“Nasty sweaty hands,” she said out loud.
A knock came at the back door, and she saw that Walter had finished work and tidied up his tools.
“Mrs Mulcahey,” he shouted from outside. “I’m off. I’ve given your garden a little tidy. I think it looks nice now.”
“Yes, Walter, wait a moment,” she said hurrying down the stairs. “I’ve got a little something for you.” She found her purse on the kitchen table and took out two shillings. “Here you are,” she said and opened the back door. “Buy yourself some sweets if you like.” She placed the money in his huge hand, already calloused and rough.
“Thank you ever so much, Mrs Mulcahey,” he said.
The kitten had come into the kitchen and started spitting and hissing at Walter.
“Stop that, Cleo,” Deborah said and snatched up the tiny thing in her hands where it proceeded to claw her, drawing blood. “Ow, you little so-and-so,” she said and dropped the animal to the floor. The cat scampered out of the kitchen and tore up the stairs.
“Oh dear,” Deborah said looking at her scratched hand. “She’s never done that before.”
“I know how to make that better,” Walter said, and before she realized what he was doing, he had taken her hand and was sucking the scratched fleshy pad of her palm. She wanted to pull her hand away in disgust but didn’t want to offend him. Thankfully, he let her hand go quickly, perhaps sensing her discomfort. “Mummy does this when I fall and hurt myself,” he said.
“Really? That’s nice for you.”
“Mummy says that mothers have the healing gift… Goodbye then, Mrs Mulcahey. See you soon.”
When he’d gone, she washed her hands in hot water at the kitchen sink. She could smell the faint odour of the sea. It seemed to hang about Walter like an unpleasant cologne—tart and fishy, impregnated in his very essence.
The phone rang just as she was thinking about making herself something for lunch.
“Deborah? It’s Laura. Look, sorry it’s rather short notice, but suddenly I find myself with the car and the confidence to drive it. We can go for lunch in Great Yarmouth if you like.”
“Oh…okay. Shall I come to you?”
“No, I’ll pick you up in five minutes:”
Deborah found the cat upstairs under the bed. It came to her when she called it and licked her hand as though to say ‘sorry’ for scratching her. “You’re a silly little thing, aren’t you,” she said to it. “Fancy being frightened of big old Walter.”
***
Laura seemed to drive well; careful and attentive, her hands gripped the steering-wheel at all times, not like Martin who often used only one finger.
“You should ask Martin if you can use your car,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t drive,” Deborah replied. “Martin said it wasn’t necessary in London, and the insurance would cost too much for me.”
“Whoops. Do you need insurance too? I thought that because Bob was insured…” She laughed. “Oh well, doesn’t matter, he’s never going to know. Just have to make sure I don’t crash. And anyway, I bet most accidents are caused by men, and yet they say it’s too expensive for us to have insurance.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Martin has had a couple. He does drive very fast. It’s almost as though he doesn’t like driving at all and wants to get it over with as soon as possible; get on to the next thing.” For Martin, life wasn’t a process, it was the means to an end. Deborah thought he was going to be disappointed when he eventually arrived.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Deborah watched the grey expanse of the sea on their right. There were tiny shapes on the horizon—gas platforms or oil rigs.
“There’s a packet of cigarettes in the glove compartment,” Laura said. “Light one for me, there’s a love. I don’t want to take my hands off the wheel.”
Deborah found the cigarettes and matches. She lit one, and handed it across to Laura.
“Help yourself, if you want,” Laura said. “Bob gets them cheap from the NAAFI.”
“No, it’s all right. I shouldn’t.” She’d never really smoked very much after they’d been married. Martin didn’t like it.
“If you’re pregnant, I wouldn’t worry,” Laura said. “I smoked through my pregnancy and the twins turned out overweight in fact. If you fancy one, have one… Are you pregnant?”
There was that directness again. Deborah wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not now. “No. I’m not pregnant. But Mrs Haylock seems to think I will be… soon.”
“Oh, I see. Don’t listen to that old bat. Even the locals think she’s a bit doolally. It was having Walter that did it.”
“Yes, he’s a strange one. He came over to do the garden earlier. The cat took a dislike to him.”
Laura finished her cigarette and stubbed the butt out in the ashtray. The car filled with the smell of burning filter, and they wound down the windows.
“I’m not surprised. That animal’s got sense. There are some funny stories about him too. I’ve heard that Mr Haylock isn’t the real father.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially, even though they were doing forty miles an hour with the windows open. “They say she had a liaison when he was away on the fishing boats and Walter was the result.”
“Really?”
“They say the real father was a manager at the nuclear plant and that’s why Walter’s like he is. He’s contaminated with radiation.” It seemed unlikely; she didn’t think radiation worked like that—only in films. “Bob says it’s nothing to do with that. That he’s got some disease or other. But he would do, wouldn’t he, being part of the establishment and all.”
“Does Bob talk to you about work?”
“Not really. You know what men are like. When I ask, he always gives me the line ‘You wouldn’t understand it, Laura. It’s a trifle complicated.’ If Jennifer and Maureen can understand it, then I’m sure I could. It’s not as though they’re even proper scientists.”
“What are they then? They look like proper scientists.”
“One’s a linguist and the other solves puzzles. I forget which is which.” They rolled the windows up and Deborah lit another cigarette for Laura. “Martin doesn’t even give me that—not that I’ve asked. There’s no point. He hasn’t talked about it, but he comes home worried. I think there’s something wrong, and I wondered if Bob had said anything.”
“The Russians could be invading, and I don’t think Bob would be that worried. If you like, I can ask him.”
“Oh God, don’t do that, if Martin finds out…”
“I won’t be obvious. What do you take me for? Don’t forget, I kept Roger Bryant a secret for ages.”
Deborah found Laura’s flippancy about her infidelity remarkable. If it had been her, she didn’t think she would ever get over the guilt of it. Some people found it easier to deceive than others. In some ways she envied Laura. To be able to metabolize your past traumas and then leave them behind was a skill Deborah would have liked to possess.
“I expect he’s just settling in still,” Laura said. “Maybe he’s worried about you. Have you thought of that?”
She had.
***
After an hour’s driving (and three more cigarettes), they crossed the river and drove into the town centre.
Yarmouth had emptied of holidaymakers and had taken on the melancholic air of a seaside resort in the off-season—like a clown’s painted on smile. The famous ‘stars’ were gone back to London, but a few souvenir shops remained open on the esplanade hoping to catch some last-minute trade. In the hinterland of the seafront, they found a little restaurant that served them lunch, and afterwards took a walk to a nearby department store.
In the weeks after ‘the thing they didn’t talk about’ had happened, Deborah, in an effort to start afresh had thrown away some of her clothes. It hadn’t made much difference, only in that she now had fewer clothes than before. Laura helped her pick out a couple of new dresses and a pair of slacks and a shirt.
“That’s more like it,” Laura said when she came out of the changing room. “You look a bit more up to date now.”
Laura looked ‘up to date’ but Deborah didn’t imagine that she’d bought any of her clothes in British Home Stores. They looked to be of a far superior make. Still, she did feel in a good mood when she walked back to the car with her several carrier bags of purchases.
“Gosh, look at the time,” Laura said when they saw the church clock. It was nearly four. “We’ll be home just in time for our brave soldiers’ return.”
It was dusk by the time Laura dropped her back at the house.
“We must do that again,” she said. “Maybe we could get the train to London one day. What do you think?”
“Yes, that would be lovely,” Deborah said. She didn’t think it would happen.
***
When Deborah got in, she fed the kitten and tried on her new clothes. Somehow, they didn’t look as nice now she had them home. It didn’t matter.
Martin didn’t come home at his normal time, and so she ate her tea alone at the kitchen table. The clock in the sitting room was loud even out here, and after a while, each tick came with the finality of a hammer driving a nail into a coffin lid. Her coffin? Maybe. Martin’s coffin? Perhaps.
Her baby hadn’t had a coffin. You didn’t need a coffin if you weren’t having a funeral. The nurse had whisked it away as quickly as possible. It was burned, and the ashes were somewhere, but she would never know where.
Eventually she could stand the clock no longer and fiddled with the radio until she had found some music. The sound was still swamped in static, but it was better than the infernal clock. She read until Martin came in, two hours late.
“Sorry,” he said. “Something came up at work. I had to stay until the Ministry of Ag arrived.”
Deborah put his plate in the oven and turned on the gas to warm it through. “I was a bit worried. It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ll warm up your dinner.” He had already hung up his coat and was climbing the stairs.
“Don’t go…” she said but choked off the last word.
“Yes, yes. I’ll be back in a moment,” he said from the top of the stairs.
Oh, God. Now he would think she was clingy. When they’d lived in London, the first thing they would do when he came home was kiss. Things had changed after. It was as though they were frightened of each other sometimes.
She heard the lavatory being flushed and then him returning downstairs. He went into the sitting room and fiddled with the radio. “I should get one of the bods at the base to have a look at this,” he said before turning it off.
“I went to Yarmouth with Laura today,” Deborah said.
“Did you?”
She could tell by the tone of his voice his mind had already moved onto other things.
“Yes. I bought some new clothes in BHS.”
“Good. Well done,” he said.
She put her head around the door of the sitting room. He was in the chair by the open hearth studying a file and scraping his hair back with the fingers of his left hand. It was something he did when he was worried. He had done it a lot recently.
“Is everything all right at work?” she called when she was back in the kitchen.
“Yes, yes. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“I’m not worried, Martin. I thought you were the one that was worried.”
“Deborah, I’m not worried. I just want you to feel better, that’s all. That’s my main concern. You are the most important thing to me.”
She reached into the oven and tested the plate for warmth. It was tepid—she didn’t want the meal to dry out.
“Why was the man from the Ministry visiting?” she said when Martin appeared at the kitchen door. She set the plate on the table and put out the knives, forks, and a glass of water.
“We found something on the shingle earlier.”
“Something? What sort of thing?”
“Just a big fish—nothing to worry about. You know what they’re like at the ministry; want to be informed about every silly thing that washes up.”
“Well, actually no, I don’t know what they’re like, do I. Was it abnormal?”
“No idea.” He began to dismantle his meat pie. “Something had eaten most of it. It looked like a big fish to me—this is nice pie. Did you make it yourself?”
“Mrs Haylock bought them from the butcher.”
“Nevertheless, very nice.”
“So, you don’t want to talk about it. I understand that—official secrets act and all that.”
“There really is nothing to tell, Deborah. They found a big fish on the beach, and the ministry wanted to have someone look at it. Test it, I suppose—for contamination.”
“But people eat fish from the sea here. Shouldn’t they be testing us too? What if it affects us?” She thought of the little thing she was sure was growing inside her. She would make sure that she didn’t eat any fish from now on.
“Not this one. All eyes and teeth.”
He ate his tea quickly without speaking and then put his knife and fork down on the plate and drained the glass of water. “I say, do we not have anything stronger?”
She rose and went to fetch the bottle of Scotch they kept in the cupboard for toothache and other medicinal purposes. He poured a healthy measure into the glass.
“Do you want one?”
She declined and put the plates and cutlery in the sink.
“There was probably a storm out at sea somewhere. Apparently, it’s quite common—so Bob said.” He picked up the glass and hovered for a moment by the door. “I’ve erm… got some work to do still. You don’t mind, do you?”
She wondered what he would do if she said, ‘Frankly, Martin, I do mind.’
“No, go on. If you’ve got things to do.”
“I’ll get Dicky Rawlinson to look at the radio this week—promise. At least then you’ll have something to listen to in the evenings… I might have to start working later in the future. We’ve got a lot on at the moment…”
She listened to him go upstairs and the spare room door click quietly shut.
When Deborah went up to bed, she tried to read her book, Games People Play, but she couldn’t concentrate. The words bounced off her mind and she comprehended nothing.
Martin didn’t ask to see my new clothes. Who can blame him? He hasn’t thought about civvies for ten years.
***
She awoke in the small hours from a comforting dream and felt the strongest urge to get up and go down to the sea. To say something was calling her would have been to put it too strongly, but the thought of standing on the shingle with the waves crashing in below her was comforting and pleasant. Like the thought of the old stable at her parents’ house had comforted her. Martin was snoring quietly. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and put on her slippers and dressing gown, then went quietly downstairs into the kitchen. The cat was very pleased to see her and threaded itself between Deborah’s bare legs as she put on her overcoat and found her Wellington boots in the under-stairs cupboard.
She stepped outside the front door and shooed the cat back inside with her foot. “No, Cleo. You can’t come with me.” The cat chirruped as Deborah closed the front door quietly behind her.
She turned right out of the garden gate and walked towards the pontoon bridge that separated the mainland from the spit. When she crossed the bridge, the moon, not yet quite full, hung hazy on the horizon. Deborah stepped out onto the shingle, enjoying the clack of stones beneath her boots. When she came to the high-water mark, she stopped. Below, the sea rolled in and out, one wave falling over and then another taking its place. She imagined that the land was pulling itself out from under the sea, and then the sea raced up again and pulled the land back down and the process would begin anew. The land was always trying to escape the sea, but the sea always caught it and pulled it back under.
She wrapped her coat around her body more tightly and scanned the horizon. There were shapes swimming in the water—a long way out. They were smooth and sleek, and made long running stitches through the sea. They could see her now, and began to swim in closer to the shore, dark shapes darting and glinting in the moonlight. She sensed they were playful, and their movements were those of entities that delighted in the abilities and limitations of their own bodies. They swam for the pure joy of being in their natural element. It seemed that they called to her, not with their voices but with some other sense that only she could understand. She wanted to be with them, to experience life as they did, free of constraint and of control. To just exist without seeing herself from the inside, to be fully involved in life.
A twinge of pain shot through her belly, and before she could bring her hand down to caress it, it was gone and was replaced by flutter, like a tiny moth vibrating its wings against her insides.
“You feel it too,” she said to the flutter.
The shapes now disappeared under the water, and the surface roiled and swirled like viscous oil. Then they were gone.