Missing Joseph Part 53

St. James kissed her forehead and settled the blankets more closely round her. "Yes," he said. "That's how it was."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

RENDAN POWER CRUNCHED along the verge, heading into the village. He would have sunk up to his knees in the snow, but someone had been out earlier than he, and a path was already trodden. It was speckled every thirty yards or so with charred tobacco. Whoever it was out for a walk was smoking a pipe that didn't draw much better than Brendan's.

He himself wasn't smoking this morning. He had his pipe with him in case he found himself in the position of needing to do something with his hands, but so far he hadn't brought it out of its leather pouch, although he could feel the weight of it tapping securely against his hip.

The day after any storm was generally glorious, and Brendan found this one as splendid as the previous night had been frightful. The air was still. The early sun laid down great blazes of crystal incandescence across the land. Frost rimed the tops of the drystone walls. Slate roofs wore a thick coating of snow. As he pa.s.sed the first terraced house on his way into the village, he saw that someone had remembered the birds. Three sparrows were picking at a handful of toast crumbs outside a doorway, and while they eyed him warily as he pa.s.sed by, hunger kept them from scattering into the trees.

He wished he'd thought to bring something with him. Toast, a slice of stale bread, an apple. It didn't matter. Anything edible to offer the birds would have served as a marginally credible excuse for being out in the first place. And he'd be needing an excuse when he returned home. In fact, it might be wise to start concocting one now as he walked.

He hadn't thought of that earlier. Standing at the dining-room window, looking out beyond the garden to the vast white pasture that was part of the Townley-Young estate, he'd thought only of getting out, of tramping holes in the snow and driving his feet forward into a forever he could bear to live with.

His father-in-law had come to their bedroom at eight o'clock. Brendan had heard his military footsteps in the pa.s.sage and had slid out of bed, freeing himself of the anchoring heaviness of his wife's arm. In sleep, she'd thrown it diagonally across him so that her fingers rested in his groin. Under other circ.u.mstances he might have found this somnolent implication of intimacy quite erotic. As it was, he lay flaccid and mildly repelled and at the same time grateful that she was asleep. Her fingers wouldn't be drifting coyly another inch to the left in the expectation of encountering what she deemed appropriate male morning arousal. She wouldn't be demanding what he couldn't give, pumping him furiously and waiting-agitated, anxious, then angry-for his body to respond. Tin-voiced accusations wouldn't follow. Neither would the tearless weeping that screwed up her face and resounded through the corridors. As long as she slept, his body was his own and his spirit was free, so he slipped to the door at the sound of his father-in-law's approach, and he cracked it open before Townley-Young could knock and awaken her.

His father-in-law was fully dressed, as usual. Brendan had never seen him otherwise. His tweeds, his s.h.i.+rt, his shoes, and his tie all made a careful statement about good breeding that Brendan knew he was supposed to understand and emulate. Everything he wore was just old enough to indicate the appropriate lack of interest in clothing that was inherent to the landed gentry. More than once Brendan had looked at his father-in-law and wondered idly how he managed the feat of maintaining an entire wardrobe that-from s.h.i.+rt to shoes-always looked at least ten years old, even when new.

Townley-Young gave a glance to Brendan's woollen dressing gown and pursed his lips in silent disapproval at the messy bow Brendan had made when tying the belt. Manly men use square knots to keep their dressing gowns closed, his expression said, and the two tails falling from the waist are always perfectly even, you twit.

Brendan stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind him. "Still asleep," he explained.

Townley-Young peered at the door's panels as if he could see through them and make an evaluation of his daughter's frame of mind. "Another rough night?" he asked.

That was certainly one way to put it, Brendan thought. He'd got home after eleven with the hope she'd be asleep, only to end up tussling with her beneath the covers in what went for marital relations between them. He'd been able to perform, thank G.o.d, because the room was dark and, during their biweekly nighttime encounters, she'd taken to whispering certain Anglo-Saxon pleasantries which he found allowed him to fantasize more freely. He wasn't in bed with Becky on those nights. He chose his mate freely. He moaned and writhed beneath her and said, Oh G.o.d, oh yes, I love it, I love it to the image of Polly Yarkin.

Last night, however, Becky had been more aggressive than usual. Her ministrations possessed an aura of anger. She'd not accused or wept when he came into their bedroom smelling of gin and looking-he knew because he could not hide it-dejected and decidedly lovelorn. Instead, she'd wordlessly demanded retribution in the form she knew he wished least to make.

So it had indeed been a rough night, although not in the manner his father-in-law thought. He said, "A little discomfort," and hoped Townley-Young would apply the description to his daughter.

"Right," Townley-Young had said. "Well, at least we'll be able to set her mind at rest. That should go far to making her more comfortable."

He'd gone on to explain that the work at Cotes Hall would proceed without interruption at last. He gave the reasons why, but Brendan merely nodded and tried to look filled with antic.i.p.ation while his life drained away like an ebbing tide.

Now as he approached Crofters Inn along the Lancaster Road he wondered why he had depended so much upon the Hall's remaining unavailable to them. He was married to Becky, after all. He'd mucked up his life. Why did it seem a more permanent disaster if they had their own home?

He couldn't have said. It was just that with the announcement of the Hall's pending completion, he'd heard a door slam somewhere on his dreams of the future, as meaningless as those dreams had been. And with the door's slamming, he felt claustrophobic. He needed out. If he couldn't make an escape from the marriage, at least he could from the house. So out he went, into the frosty morning.

"Where you off to, Bren?" Josie Wragg was perched on top of one of the two stone pillars that gave way to the Crofters Inn car park. She had brushed it clear of snow and she was dangling her legs and looking as forlorn as Brendan felt. She was the word droop personified: in her spine, her arms, her legs, and her feet. Even her face looked heavy, with the skin pulled down round her mouth and eyes.

"Just a walk," he said. And then he added because she looked so down-trodden and he knew exactly how that feeling throws one's life into shadow, "Would you like to come along?"

"Can't. These don't work in the snow."

These were the Wellingtons that she bounced upwards in his direction. They were enormous. They looked nearly twice the size of her feet. Over their tops at least three pairs of knee-socks were folded.

"Don't you have some proper boots?"

She shook her head and pulled her knitted cap down to her eyebrows. "Mine've been too small since November, see, and if I tell Mum I need new ones, she'll have a conniption. 'When are you going to stop growing, Josephine Eugenia?' You know. These're Mr. Wragg's. He doesn't mind much." She bounced her legs back against the frosty stones.

"Why do you call him Mr. Wragg?"

She was fumbling with a fresh packet of cigarettes, trying to rip off its cellophane wrapper with mittened fingers. Brendan crossed the road, took the packet from her, and did the honours, offering her a light. She smoked without answer, trying and failing to make a ring, blowing out steam as much as smoke.

"It's pretend," she finally said. "Stupid, I know. You don't have to tell me. It makes Mum see red, but Mr. Wragg doesn't care. If he's not my real dad, I can pretend my mum had a big pa.s.sion, see, and I'm the product of her fatal love. I pretend this bloke came to Winslough pa.s.sing through on his way to wherever. He met Mum. They were crazy for each other but they couldn't get married, of course, because Mum wouldn't ever leave Lancas.h.i.+re. But he was the big love of her life and he set her on fire the way men are supposed to set women on fire. And I'm how she remembers him now." Josie flicked ash in Brendan's direction. "That's why I call him Mr. Wragg. It's dumb. I don't know why I told you. I don't know why I ever say anything to anyone. It's always my fault, isn't it, and everyone's going to know it eventually. I natter too much." Her lip trembled. She rubbed her finger beneath her nose and threw her cigarette down. It hissed gently in the snow.

"Nattering's no crime, Josie."

"Maggie Spence was my best mate, see. And now she's gone. Mr. Wragg says she won't probably be back. And she was in love with Nick. Did you know that? True love, it was. Now they won't see each other again. I don't think it's fair."

Brendan nodded. "Life's that way, isn't it?"

"And Pam's been gated for forever because her mum caught her last night in the sitting room with Todd. Doing it. Right there. Her mum put on the lights and started screaming. It was just like a film, Pam said. So there's no one. No one special. It feels sort of hollow.

Here." She pointed to her stomach. "Mum says it's just because I need to eat but I'm not hungry, you know?"

He did. He knew all about hollow. He sometimes felt he was hollow incarnate.

"And I can't think about the vicar," she said. "Mostly, I can't think about anything." She squinted at the road. "At least we have the snow. It's something to look at. For now."

"It is." He nodded, tapped her knee, and continued on his way, turning down the c.l.i.theroe Road, concentrating on the walking, putting his energy into that effort rather than into thought.

The going was easier on the c.l.i.theroe Road than it had been on the way into the village. More than one person had forged through the snow, making the walk out to the church, it seemed. He pa.s.sed two of them-the Londoners-a short distance from the primary school. They walked slowly, heads together in conversation. They looked up only briefly as he pa.s.sed.

He felt a quick stab of sadness at the sight of them. Men and women together, talking and touching, promised to cause him unending grief in the coming years. The object was not to care any longer. He wasn't quite sure if he'd be able to manage it without seeking relief.

Which is why he was out walking in the first place, pus.h.i.+ng steadily forward and telling himself that he was merely going to check on the Hall. The exercise was good, the sun was out, he needed the air. But the snow was deep beyond the church, so when he finally reached the lodge, he hung about for five minutes just catching his breath.

"Bit of a rest," he a.s.sured himself, and he scrutinised the windows one after the other, looking for movement behind the curtains.

She hadn't been to the pub for the last two nights. He'd sat and waited until the last possible moment, when Ben Wragg called time and Dora bustled through picking up gla.s.ses. He knew that once half past nine arrived, it wasn't very likely that she'd pop in. But still he waited and dreamed his dreams.

He was dreaming them still when the front door opened and Polly walked out. She started when she saw him. He took an eager step her way. She had a basket over her arm and she was wrapped head to toe in wool and scarves.

"Heading to the village?" he asked. "I've just been to the Hall. Shall I walk with you, Polly?"

She came to join him and looked up the lane where the snow lay, pristine and betraying. "Fly there, did you?" she asked.

He fished in his jacket for his leather pouch. "I was going there, actually, not coming back. Out for a walk. Beautiful day."

Some of the tobacco spilled onto the snow. She watched it fall and appeared to be studying it. He saw that she had bruised her face somehow. A crescent of purple on the cream of her skin was going yellow at the edges as it began to heal.

"You've not been at the pub. Busy?"

She nodded, still examining the speckled snow.

"I've missed you. Chatting with you and the like. But of course, you've got things to do. People to see. I understand that. A girl like you. Still, I wondered where you were. Silly, but there it is."

She adjusted the basket on her arm.

"I heard it's resolved. Cotes Hall. What happened to the vicar. Did you know? You're in the clear. And that's good news, isn't it? All things considered."

She made no reply. She wore black gloves with a hole at the wrist. He wished she'd remove them so he could look at her hands. Warm them, even. Warm her as well.

He said in a burst, "I think about you, Polly. All the time. Day and night. You're what keeps me going. You know that, don't you? I'm not good at hiding things. I can't hide this. You see what I'm feeling. You do see it, don't you? You've seen it from the first."

She'd wound a purple scarf round her head, and she pulled it closer to her face as if to hide it. She kept her head bent. She reminded him of someone in prayer.

He said, "We're both lonely, aren't we? We both need someone. I want you, Polly. I know it can't be perfect, not with the way things are in my life, but it can be something. It can be special. I swear I can make it good for you. If you'll let me."

She raised her head and looked at him curiously. He felt his armpits sweating. He said, "I'm saying it wrong, aren't I? That's why it's a muddle. I'm saying it backwards. I'm in love with you, Polly."

"It's not a muddle," she said. "You're not saying it backwards."

His heart opened with joy. "Then-"

"You're just not saying it all."

"What more is there to say? I love you. I want you. I'll make it good if you'll only-"

"Ignore the fact that you have a wife." She shook her head. "Go home with you, Brendan. Take care of Miss Becky. Lie in your own bed. Stop sniffing round mine."

She nodded sharply-dismissal, good morning, whatever he wanted to take it for- and set off towards the village.

"Polly!"

She turned back. Her face was stony. She wouldn't be touched. But he would reach her. He would find her heart. He would beg for it, plead for it, he didn't care what it took. "I love you," he said. "Polly, I need you."

"Don't we all need something." She walked away.

Colin saw her pa.s.s. She was a whimsical vision of colour against a backdrop of white. Purple scarf, navy coat, red trousers, brown boots. She was carrying a basket and ploughing steadily along the far side of the road.

She didn't look his way. She would have at one time. She would have ventured a surrept.i.tious glance at his house, and if by chance he was working in the front garden or tinkering with the car, she would have crossed the road with an excuse to talk. Hear about the dog trials in Lancaster, Colin? How's your dad feeling? What'd the vet have to say about Leo's eyes?

Now she made a project out of looking straight ahead. The other side of the road, the houses that lined it, and particularly his simply didn't exist. It was just as well. She was saving them both. Had she turned her head and caught him watching her from the kitchen window, he might have felt something. And so far, he'd managed to keep himself from feeling anything at all.

He'd gone through the motions of the morning: making coffee, shaving, feeding the dog, pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes, slicing a banana, raining sugar on top, and dousing the mixture thoroughly with milk. He'd even sat at the table with the bowl in front of him. He'd even gone so far as to dip the spoon into it. He'd even lifted the spoon to his lips. Twice. But he was unable to eat.

He'd held her hand but it was dead weight in his. He'd said her name. He was unsure what to call her-this JulietSusanna that the London detective claimed she was-but he needed all the same to call her something in an effort to bring her back to him again.

She wasn't really there, he discovered. The sh.e.l.l of her was, the body he had wors.h.i.+pped with his own, but the interior substance of her rode up ahead in the other Range Rover, trying to calm her daughter's fears and looking for the courage to say goodbye.

He strengthened his grip on her. She said in a voice without depth or timbre, "The elephant."

He struggled to understand. The elephant. Why? Why here? Why now? What was she telling him? What was it that he should know about elephants? That they never forget? That she never would? That she still reached out to him for rescue from the quicksand of her despair? The elephant.

And then oddly, as if they communicated in an English that meant something only to them, Inspector Lynley answered her. "Is it in the Opel?"

She said, "I told her Punkin or the elephant. You must decide, darling."

He said, "I'll see that she gets it, Mrs. Spence."

And that was all. Colin willed her to respond to the pressure of his fingers. Her hand never moved, she never grasped his. She simply took herself to a place of dying.

He understood that now. He was there himself. At first, it seemed he'd begun the process when Lynley had laid the facts before him. At first, it seemed he'd continued to decay throughout the interminable pa.s.sing of the night. He stopped hearing their voices. He drifted out of his body altogether and observed from on high the ending of things. He watched it all curiously, filed it all away, and thought perhaps he might wonder at it later. How Lynley spoke, not as an official of the police, but as if to comfort or to rea.s.sure her, how he helped her to the car, how he steadied her with his arm round her shoulders and pressed her head against his chest the final time they heard Maggie cry. It was odd to think he never once seemed triumphant at having his speculations proven true. Instead he looked torn. The crippled man said something about the workings of justice, but Lynley laughed bitterly. I hate all of this, he said, the living, the dying, the whole b.l.o.o.d.y mess. And although Colin listened from the faraway place to which the self of him had retreated, he found that he hated nothing at all. One cannot hate while one is engaged in the process of dying.

Later, he saw that he'd really begun that process the moment he raised a hand against Polly. Now, standing at the window and watching her pa.s.s by, he wondered if he hadn't been dying for years.

Behind him the clock ticked the day onwards, its cat's eyes s.h.i.+fting along with the movement of its pendulum tail. How she'd laughed when she saw it. She'd said, Col, it's precious, I must have it, I must. And he'd bought it for her birthday, wrapped it in newspaper because he'd forgotten the fancy paper and ribbon, left it on the front porch, and rung the bell. How she'd laughed, clapped her hands, said, Hang it up right now, right now, you must.

He took it from the wall above the AGA and carried it to the work top. He turned it face down. The tail still wagged. He could sense that the eyes were still moving as well. He could still hear the pa.s.sing of its time.

He tried to prise open the compartment that held its workings, but couldn't manage the job with his fingers. He tried three times, gave it up, and opened a drawer beneath the work top. He fumbled for a knife.

The clock ticked and tocked. The cat's tail moved.

He slid the knife between the backing and the body and pulled back sharply. And then a second time. The plastic gave with a snap, part of the backing broke away. It flew up and out and landed on the floor. He flipped the clock over and slammed it hard a single time against the work top. A gear fell out. The tail and eyes stopped. The gentle ticking ceased.

He broke the tail off. He used the wooden handle of the knife to shatter the eyes. He flung the clock in the rubbish where a soup tin s.h.i.+fted with the weight of its fall and began to drip diluted tomato against its face.

What shall we name it, Col? she'd asked, slipping her arm through his. It needs a name. I fancy Tiger myself. Listen what it sounds like: Tiger tells the time. Am I a poet, Col?

"Perhaps you were," he said.

He put on his jacket. Leo dashed from the sitting room, ready for a run. Colin heard his anxious whine and ran his knuckles across the top of the dog's head. But when he left the house, he left it alone.

The steam from his breath said the air was frigid. But he couldn't feel anything, either warmth or cold.

He crossed the road and went through the lych-gate. He saw that others had been in the graveyard before him because someone had laid a spray of juniper on one of the graves. The rest were bare, frozen under the snow with their markers rising like smokestacks through clouds.

He walked towards the wall and the chestnut tree where Annie lay, these six years dead. He made a deliberate, fresh trail through the snow, feeling the drifts give way against his s.h.i.+ns, the way ocean water breaks when you walk against it.

The sky was as blue as the flax she'd planted one year by the door. Against it, the leafless branches of the chestnut tree wore a diamond cobweb of ice and snow. The branches cast a net of shadows on the ground beneath them. They dipped skinless fingers towards Annie's grave.

He should have brought something with him, he thought. A spray of ivy and holly, a fresh pine wreath. He should have at least come prepared to clean the stone, to make sure lichen had no chance to grow. He needed to keep the words from fading. At the moment, he needed to read her name.

The gravestone was partially buried in the snow and he began to use his hands against it, first brus.h.i.+ng off the top and then down the sides and then preparing to use his fingers on the carving.

But then he saw it. The colour caught his eye first, bright pink on pure white. The shapes caught his eye second, two interlocking ovals. It was a small flat stone-worn smooth by a thousand years of river-and it was lying at the head of the grave, tangent to the marker.

He put his hand out, then drew it back. He knelt in the snow.

I burnt cedar for you, Colin. I put the ashes on her grave. I put the ring stone with them. I gave Annie the ring stone.