The Knotted House Read online

I wake early and lie gathering strength to face my first day back at school. Propped on pillows I look out at the remaining oak tree. A single rope still dangles with its end frayed, a lonely remnant of our swing. Sometimes I would sit and let Briony stand with her legs each side of me. I sat still, she bent and stretched her legs. As the swing went higher and higher she shouted, ‘Look at the seven year old “working up” the ten year old.’ Standing by myself I would go so high that I could see the weir glinting beyond the trees. Several times my grandmother shouted at me to come down but I pretended not to hear. Now, as I let my eyes sweep from the very top down to the roots that make dangerous ridges in the ground, the leaves and branches are imprinted in my bones. The living organism has kept its shape and essential being through all the changing seasons, oblivious to the generations of Smedleys who have lived and died in its shadow.

  On my way downstairs I pass my mother’s room. I miss the familiar sounds, the cupboard doors shutting and the water running in her basin. The silence makes the nursery next door more threatening. The place holds too many memories. Sharing it with Briony during the early years until we had our own rooms in the attic, then my grandmother living and dying within those walls. I used to visit her as she sat in her frilly bed jacket with her lavender-water smile. She made me turn the thin pages of her white prayer book with the gold cross on the front. I had not believed in God since He let my father die but she was happy when I pretended to be interested. As she faded into senility the room took on the odours of decay.

  In the kitchen I eat some porridge and two pieces of toast and marmalade. Susan made it; she has her faults but she cooks like a professional. I ought to try harder to be nice to her. She has been a good friend to the family but her intense curiosity about other people’s affairs makes her an uncomfortable neighbour.

  I walk briskly to school, down to the river and along the path into town, determined to return to my old routine as soon as possible. Bursts of laughter are coming from the staff room, punctuating the chatter. I hesitate.

  ‘Go on, then. What did he do next?’

  ‘You should have seen him thrust his hips as he stood there in his G-string.’ Louise giggles. ‘No one has ever sent me a stripogram before.’

  The talk stops in mid-sentence when I open the door. Glancing up from the chair that she considers her private property, Mrs Hendry breaks the silence. ‘Good to see you back, Meena. We’re so sorry about your loss.’

  The others murmur condolences. I pour my coffee and thank them, explaining that it is a relief really. Though my mother kept going, making all her own decisions till the last few days, the end had been inevitable and peaceful.

  ‘We’ve missed you.’ Tracy places her hand on my arm.

  ‘I’m glad to be back. What’s been going on while I’ve been away?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. We were just hearing about Louise’s birthday.’

  ‘I’m sorry I never sent you a card. It was an important one, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you had enough on your plate.’ Somehow, whenever Louise tries to be friendly, I feel patronised. Perhaps she sees through my façade of normality. ‘That Jane Coombs you worry about so much, she’s been a real pain.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You know, grizzling about everything.’

  I splash some more milk into my coffee and drink it fast, peering out of the window. Most of the children have arrived but I can’t see the small figure. ‘I’d better go and find her.’ It is a relief to escape. As I go out the conversation resumes.

  ‘Keep your voices down, think of the children.’ Despite her disapproval Mrs Hendry is fascinated. I hear her snort as she says nothing of that sort went on when she was young. I walk away down the corridor. Ever since her husband died her conversation has revolved around the squabbles in the church choir and the doings of the vicar.

  The staff had been curious when my marriage broke up but I managed to laugh off their interest by explaining that I was a free spirit, not made to be shackled to any one man. They would never believe the real reason it did not work. When Louise teased me about living back at home I steeled myself and went clubbing with her. My taste in music helped. We are both great U2 fans and mouthed the words of Bad to one another as we passed in the corridors. I had fostered my reputation as a merry divorcee with such success that Mrs Hendry stopped talking to me and only acknowledged my presence again when my apparent wings were clipped by my mother’s illness.

  Jane is in the small cubby-hole next to the broom cupboard, her usual hiding place. I squat down beside her. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh Miss, Peter’s teasing me.’

  ‘What’s he been doing?’

  She doesn’t answer, but puts her arms round my neck and bursts into tears. Rumour says that her mother has been entertaining different men since her father left. I lead her back along the corridor to a little alcove and sit her on the windowsill beside me. ‘Have you told Mrs Hendry?’ The child has recently joined her class but the teacher seems blind to her unhappiness.

  ‘I don’t like her. She shouts at me.’

  I have never heard Mrs Hendry shout, but she can be brusque at times and Jane is particularly sensitive. She is pulling her skirt up into a knot so that her knickers show. Without thinking I pull it down. ‘Don’t do that to your skirt.’ I don’t mean to speak sharply but she starts to wail, a high, keening sound. ‘Don’t cry. It’ll be all right. I’ll have a word with Mrs Hendry and we’ll make sure that Peter doesn’t tease you.’ The wailing stops, but her tears continue as her podgy hands twist the tissue I have produced from my pocket.

  ‘He — called — my — mother — names,’ she says, each word separated by a long drawn out sob.

  I give her a hug, and don’t ask what names. We sit in silence. The other teachers are making their way back to their classes. Louise raises her eyebrows as she passes. I know she thinks I spoil the girls and have favourites but I can’t help feeling for the ones who are so obviously miserable.

  Taking Jane’s hand I lead her to the staff room, now strewn with dirty coffee cups. With no one to see me I give her a biscuit from the tin. The bell sounds for the beginning of classes. Picking up a video, the autumn one from the series on the seasons, I ask if she will carry it for me.

  Her face brightens, and we walk down the corridor together. At this time of year I usually have fruits, beech mast, acorns, and sweet chestnuts in their prickly coats to add to the ubiquitous conkers. I soak branches in glycerine so that the children can watch the leaves as they change colour, mimicking the natural russets, browns and yellows outside. This year my mother’s illness has left me no time for any preparations and I will have to manage without.

  In the lunch break I watch Jane standing in a corner ignored by the other children. I would like to create something special for her in the nativity play. I can’t let her be Mary, for that part is always taken by an older girl. Every year I strive to match each character on my list to the most suitable child. For those without a part, even in the chorus, I create some job behind the scenes with an important title. Once, there were four property managers, which led to wild chaos until three of them went down with chicken pox. This year I am worried about Robby Bates who has grown tall and pasty-faced. He is spiteful to the other children with fists flying for no obvious reason. Only Jim, our headmaster, can cope with him. I consider changing the innocuous innkeeper into a villain to channel his aggression. Or I might trust him with the sound effects.

  Jane sees me and sidles up to take my hand. To my surprise she smells of urine. We keep spare pants for accidents but as far as I know Jane has never wet herself before. She covers my hand with kisses. I pull away and she runs off. As she reaches the edge of the playground she trips. A group of children quickly surrounds her. Hurrying across to where she lies crying on the ground I see she has a small graze on her leg. I check for other injuries but she seems to be all right and is moving all her limbs. She stands and stretches o
ut her arms to be picked up. As I do so she covers my face with kisses. Choking back my distaste I carry her inside. The first aid box holds antiseptic tissues and cream. Once she is cleaned up and in fresh pants I hand her back to Mrs Hendry with relief.

  At the end of the day I corner Jim to tell him I am worried about her.

  ‘I’ve dealt with the bullying,’ he says. ‘Peter has learnt his lesson.’

  ‘It’s not only that. She was wet today and she’s very clingy. She’s acting in a most inappropriate way.’

  ‘Well, her parents are separated. I expect she’s feeling insecure.’ He picks up a pile of books and makes for the door, hurrying to get home to his own children.

  I have to make him listen. ‘I think she’s in big trouble.’

  ‘I know she’s unhappy; her mother was speaking to me the other day. She seemed a sensible and concerned woman.’

  ‘The child tried to kiss me on the lips.’

  ‘In some families that’s normal.’ He opens the door. ‘Mrs Hendry asked me to deal with the bullying but nothing else.’ He can see I am still frowning. ‘Look, I must go. We’ll talk about it at the next staff meeting. I think you may be a bit over sensitive at the moment.’

  How dare he suggest that just because my mother has died I can’t do my job?

  The day drags. When the children have left I tidy my desk and settle to prepare tomorrow’s lessons. After a few minutes Mrs Fielding knocks at the door and walks in carrying her broom without waiting for me to reply.

  ‘I left this room till last. I knew you would still be working.’ Her tone holds a delicate balance of irritation and sympathy. She has cleaned the school for at least six years and doesn’t like her routine changed. I collect my things. If I upset her, the others will say that it is because I am bereaved. Damn them all. Why can’t they treat me normally?

  ***

  On the way home I find myself walking past Jane’s house. It is not my usual route but I am in no hurry to get back to my echoing mansion with no mother to ask me if I have had a good day. I had no thought of spying on her or trying to speak to her but there she is, swinging on the little front gate.

  ‘Hello, Miss.’ Jumping down she throws her arms around me. I give her a quick hug before disentangling myself.

  ‘What a lovely surprise. I didn’t know you lived in this street,’ I lie.

  ‘I’m waiting for my real daddy,’ she says.

  ‘That’s nice.’

  Clutching my arm she whines, ‘He’s late.’ A sob escapes from her throat. ‘Sometimes he forgets to come.’

  I really can’t face her tears for a third time in one day and take a step away. She seems to shrivel as she gives a furtive glance towards the house. I can see no sign of life and she clasps my arm more tightly to whisper in my ear, ‘I don’t like my other daddy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Before she can reply the front door of the house is flung open and her mother storms down the path towards us. Jane drops my arm as her mother grabs the collar of her inadequate coat.

  ’What do you think you’re doing?’ she snarls at me.

  ‘I’m one of her teachers,’ I explain.

  ‘She’s not in school now.’

  ‘I was just passing.’ A lame excuse.

  ‘You keep out of it.’ She seizes Jane’s arm and drags her up the path and inside, slamming the door behind them.

  I turn away. I can no longer pretend that Jane is my first concern although she has served as a distraction from my own problems. Walking up the hill I try to plan the evening ahead. I need to do something practical to keep my mind occupied. Briony is coming at the weekend and she will have ideas about clearing the house. Anything I do on my own is bound to be wrong. As I let myself in I even consider going over to Susan, but that would only make me feel worse.

  After eating some baked beans with slabs of bread that I can’t be bothered to toast, I go to find my mother’s favourite book. She was a great fan of Jane Austen and I caught her enthusiasm many years ago, especially for Pride and Prejudice. I like to think I am a bit like Elizabeth Bennett, so sensible and her father’s favourite. As I lose myself in the story I become oblivious to the house that is already beginning to moulder around me. Elizabeth finds happiness with her Mr Darcy. Miracles can happen. I may not be blighted for ever.

  ***

  I am not destined to have a restful night. After tossing for hours, twisting from side to side, front to back, sometimes too hot and then all shivery, I creep downstairs to make cocoa. Back in bed, the mug balanced on my knees, I put my nose close, and draw the comforting smell deep into my lungs. Fine lines form on the top as a skin appears. With a familiar sense of guilt I pinch it between my first finger and thumb and pop it into my mouth, just as I did when my grandmother made it for the two of us. I am so alone, even more abandoned than during that first night of my honeymoon.

  I can feel my teeth clenched in my determination to be brave. The heroines in books always cry out in pain and ecstasy. That was what I wanted: ecstasy. Instead I had stood by the window looking at the lights of St Ives reflected in the water like pits of rust in hard metal. There had been no hint of wind. The small boats sat on the surface, inert and frozen. He had come up behind me, put his arms round my waist and led me to the bed. Trembling, I lay beside him. He kissed my lips and rubbed my back. As he pulled me close I had felt the bulge in his pyjamas.

  He said he wouldn’t hurt me. His hands worked their way lower, over my tummy towards the hair that always seems so much harsher than the hair of my head. The fingers crept like snakes and my knees jumped together as my legs shot out straight, every muscle of my body rigid. He told me to relax but I couldn’t.

  Sitting up in my own bed I shiver again. The clock in the hall strikes twelve. It is not as late as it feels. I reach out for another swallow of cocoa, but the mug is empty. Putting it down on the table by the picture of my father, I pull the blankets more closely round my shoulders.

  I hear that other clock striking, as I lay stiff in the hotel bed. Each note had sounded the hollow time, eleven, twelve and then one o clock. I had eased myself out, inch by inch. He stirred, and I froze in mid-escape, one leg out of the bed and one still resting on the edge. He settled, his breathing regular again. I slipped the remaining leg out and eased it to the floor. Crouching there I had willed him to go on sleeping. He began to snore and I got off the floor and wrapped my dressing gown round my shoulders. In the chair by the window, my mind felt numb. Two o’clock struck. The lights of the town had gone out. The boats lay at odd angles, indistinct shadows in the night, left high and dry on the mud as the tide had ebbed away.

  On the third day of our honeymoon my period started. I had clutched at the welcome excuse to keep my distance. The bleeding continued to the end of the holiday. Once we returned home we never tried to make love again. My marriage was over before it had begun.

  Chapter 4

  Briony goes through my mother’s clothes like a tornado, sweeping them into large black plastic bags, one for Oxfam, one for jumble, one for the tip. I stand watching, hurt by her assumption that the collection of garments holds nothing worth saving.

  ‘Come on Meena, you’re not doing your share.’

  I hold up a blue cardigan that my mother bought last year. ‘Why don’t you take this? It might be a bit sloppy on you, but that’s fashionable now.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about fashion. I wouldn’t be seen dead in it.’

  ‘Well, I might keep it.’

  ‘You look awful in blue.’

  She is right; it makes my skin sallow. Greens and fawns suit me better; they bring out the colour of my eyes. I like to think they are hazel, but more often they seem a nondescript brown. Briony’s are darker and lovely. But today they look hard in her pale face. Her hair sticks out at odd angles instead of hugging her head in the expensive cut that normally evokes such admiration.

  I hold up a coat. ‘What about this then?’ I smooth the soft material.
‘It’s really good quality.’

  She comes over and thrusts her arms into the sleeves. ‘Can’t you see that all her things swamp me? Anyway, I don’t want to be reminded of her by wearing her clothes, or seeing you in her things.’ She throws it onto the bed to join the contents of the drawers already strewn there. Lifeless dresses hang exposed in the open cupboard.

  I turn away. ‘Surely some of her things would sell in a second hand shop?’

  ‘If you’ve got time to drag them around, then you do it. Personally, I don’t think it’s worth the effort.’

  My sister has lovely clothes and expensive holidays. She moves to the dressing table where the family jewellery is scattered on the glass top between the hairbrush with a tortoise-shell back and the matching mirror. Picking up one piece and then another she says, ‘I suppose we must see what value they put on these for probate, so we can divide them fairly.’

  I don’t care about necklaces, bracelets or brooches. I don’t wear them. ‘You take what you want.’

  ‘There you go again, Meena. Always the martyr.’

  ‘It’s not that… I just hate to fight over her things.’ I walk to the door. ‘I’ll go and make some coffee.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll sort out a few of the better pieces for you to flog.’

  My sister is always the same. Once I have let her knock me down with some snide remark, she responds to my peace offerings. When she joins me in the kitchen I ask after the children. But my words still sound stilted.

  ‘Oh, they’re fine.’

  ‘And Paul?’

  ‘He’s working very long hours.’

  ‘Does he have to do so much?’

  She gazes out of the window, not bothering to reply.

  The doorbell interrupts the silence. A delivery boy is standing on the step with a bunch of red roses. The tag reads “Love from Quentin.” What a strange man he is. He hasn’t been near me since we had coffee with Susan more than two weeks ago. Yet here he is sending me roses. Perhaps he saw Briony arrive and wants to cheer us up.