A Bit of Earth (2 page)

She looked out of the window – fields, ponies, more trees, and hedgerows gorgeous with butterflies, betony, ragwort, chamomile, and sun spurge. They zoomed past cow parsnip and earthnut pea, so much prettier than their names. The sky was much brighter out here.

‘The sky is bluer out here, don't you think?' she said, gazing upwards. There were three aeroplanes leaving wonderful paths across the sky. ‘Once when Felix saw some of those vapour trails he said, “Mummy, the clouds are lining up!”'

He smiled. She could tell that he was smiling, but she didn't look across, she just kept looking up. And that was why Susannah didn't see the deer, or know that he was going to swerve to avoid it. She never knew what had happened.

His mummy had never been late before. Felix sat on the carpet and waited. Soon all the other children were gone.

‘Your mummy's a bit late today, Felix,' said one of the ladies. ‘Don't worry, she'll soon be here. Why don't you do this puzzle whilst we just finish sweeping up?'

He finished the puzzle.

‘Would you like to help sort out these Stickle Bricks and Mega Bloks, they've got a bit mixed up.'

Felix tipped them all out onto the floor and then helped put them into the right boxes.

‘Well, I think I'll just try ringing your daddy instead.'

‘My mummy has a mobile phone.'

‘I know, sweetie, but sometimes if you're in a really busy shop you don't hear it ringing if it's at the bottom of your bag.'

They gave him two biscuits out of the tin that was just for grown-ups. He was thirsty, but he could see that they had already put the cups away. They let him eat the biscuits sitting on the carpet. He heard the lady talking to somebody on the phone.

‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘Daddy said that he'd come and collect you. He won't be long. You can look at the books if you like.'

The other ladies went home.

Felix stood by the door and waited there. Daddy had hardly ever collected him. He wished he had come earlier, he could have shown him the bikes and how fast some of them could go.

When Daddy arrived he didn't look happy.

‘I'm so sorry,' he said, but not to Felix. ‘I really don't know where my wife can have got to. Perhaps I was meant to be getting him all along, and I forgot. Maybe she thought some other mother was taking him home. Sorry.'

‘That's all right. Bye Felix.' The nursery lady was holding a big bunch of keys. She followed them out and locked the door behind them.

‘Oh good, it's the car,' said Felix.

‘Felix, were you meant to be going to tea with somebody and they didn't come to nursery? Was I meant to be getting you today?'

‘I don't know. But Dad, they have this big tyre thing on wheels. You can sit inside it and somebody, it has to be a grown-up, pulls you round. You could pull me round in that if you came before they put it away.' But all his dad said was ‘Maybe she's at home.'

When they got back home Mummy wasn't there either. Felix watched TV and had some juice, not diluted. His dad kept going to look out of the window and trying to ring her. After a while Felix knelt on the sofa so that he could look out of the window too.

‘Dad, a police car is coming. It hasn't got its light on so it can't be an emergency.'

‘Oh no,' said his dad. ‘Oh no.'

Two policemen came in. One was a lady. His dad started crying. Felix had never seen his dad cry. His face looked horrible, as though it was coming off. Felix started to cry as well. He ran to the mirror in the hall to see what his face looked like when he was crying. Did it look as though it was coming off too? The policewoman came after him. He asked her why his dad was crying.

Was this the bag of an adulterer? Here were tissues; a makeup bag with a cornflower design containing two lipsticks, a compact, mascara (brown not black), a miniature toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste, and a brown tortoiseshell hairclip; a diary containing almost nothing but dates of nursery events and meetings for work; two blue rollerballs; a tube (bent and almost cracked) of anti-histamine cream; a tin containing plasters that were khaki camouflage instead of so-called skin colour, presumably for diminutive wounded soldiers; a letter from the school saying when Felix was due to start and what he would need: a copy of
Mr Golightly's Holiday;
a pigeon feather (‘Mum, will you look after this?'); a packet of lemon-flavoured mints, and her keys with the photo-fob of Felix in his nursery sweatshirt against a background of clouds. The only thing that was a mystery was the old postcard she had been using as a bookmark – toy boats in the Tuileries gardens with the sky an improbable blue. It was captioned ‘Bassin dans les jardins des Tuileries, à l'arrière plan, l'Arc du Carrousel.'
They had never been to Paris. But Susannah had travelled a lot when she was a teenager and student, before they had been together. After all, she was a European.

This bag could have been tipped upside down in public, on any headmaster's desk or live on TV. It seemed that there was little here to be revealed, and nothing to shame her. There had been a once-white silk scarf too, now horribly stained. They hadn't even offered it to him. He had seen it though. Guy did not know that silk scarf. Was it a present? Had it been given to her that day? Perhaps it had been kept secretly somewhere. A once-white silk scarf.

Professor Lovage sat on her pale yellow sofa, drinking a cup of chamomile and spearmint tea. She had been reading a book about Stanley Spencer and resolving that this summer she would take a trip to Cookham. She was looking at one of her favourite pictures, which was of people lying on the pebbly beach at Southwold. She had just turned to the
Resurrections
when she noticed the time, and put on the TV to catch the end of the news and the weather. Ah, the local news. She was constantly impressed by the stories that they floated as local headlines, and astonished by the fixation with disputes between travellers and local residents; but so often she had to switch off something about a case involving cruelty to animals. Today her scalding tisane sloshed onto her lap.

‘A university professor and his companion were killed this afternoon in a horrific crash. Police have named the pair who died as Professor Julius East, and Susannah
Misselthwaite who worked at the university library. Experts at the scene of the crash say that no other cars were involved. It appears that Professor East may have swerved to avoid something, probably an animal, and this caused their car, an Alfa Romeo Spider, to crash into a tree. The police are appealing for any witnesses to come forward.'

Judy gasped. It could not be true. It really could not be true. Her book fell to the floor. Surely there must be a mistake. She could not think of anyone to ring. She knew Professor East only by sight. She didn't know Susannah's husband at all. She had occasionally said ‘Good morning' to him in the botanical garden, but that was all. Oh, that poor little boy. That poor man.

The next day it still appeared to be true. She wrote to Susannah's husband, saying how sorry she was, and sent it (really very tackily, she thought) through the internal mail, because she didn't have his address. She tried to think of something she could do to help. Presumably relatives would arrive to help look after Felix. It was all too appalling.

A few days later she went to a toy shop and, after much deliberation, bought a puzzle for Felix. It had thirty-six pieces. The box said that it was for ages four and over, she remembered that he was about to start school. The picture was of an arctic landscape with an improbable number of species visible. She thought that there couldn't be anything too upsetting in that. So many of the puzzles were too jolly, or of the emergency services, or both. She put it in a jiffy bag and sent it through the internal post to Professor Misselthwaite. She enclosed a note saying that she hoped Felix
would like it, and that she did not need any acknowledgement. It seemed so pathetically inadequate. What use was a new puzzle to a little boy who had lost his mother? Afterwards she wondered if she should have sent Felix something for starting school.

It was a week after the crash, but still before the funeral (and how dreadful to think of her lying there, the terrible cold wait in the mortuary; it should be done, as in some other cultures, the next day, before sundown). Guy thought that he should see where it had happened. Perhaps if he went there he could undo it, turn back time, find some secret switch to unhappen it. He could not believe that it was permanent, that there was no negotiation with its finality. Felix was taken to nursery by another child's mother. This woman was also going to collect him and have him for what remained of the afternoon. Guy could not remember her name. He saw that she had a sad, blotchy face and frizzy hair. He understood that he was to trust her with Felix. He didn't tell the woman where he was going.

When Felix had been taken away (Guy noticed with relief that they were on foot) he went out into the garden and picked some flowers, some Susannah herself had planted, and others that had been there when they moved in – forget-me-nots, French marigolds, roses, sweet williams, standard suburban garden fare – and tied them into a bunch with twine. Then he got into the car. He drove through the city and out towards the forest. This must have been the way they came. What was she doing? What the hell was she doing with that lecher? Good God, Guy
thought, even I know about him. Julius East, whose tastes had often run to final-year students. Susannah was several years older than his usual prey. What the hell had been going on? And for how long? Always the last to know, they say, always the last to know.

Guy realised that he could hardly see the road. He pulled over and punched himself in the thigh to stop himself from crying. He drove on a bit and stopped at a garage. Got petrol and some vile coffee. He scalded his mouth and his fingers as he drove.

Now he was in the forest. They must have come this way. The limit was forty, but people always went faster. Some animal, probably a deer. He expected that was it. The bastard probably swerved to miss one and went into the tree. If he weren't dead, Guy would kill him. He thought of the joke that parents make to their children: ‘Come back safely or I'll kill you.' Of course, it didn't make him smile. He drove on through a village. This must have been one of the last places she saw, these houses and shops, the shop selling beach things where she always wanted them to stop, but somehow they never had.

Soon he was through the village and driving past fields and hedgerows. Suddenly he saw it – he saw the bright colours first – oh God, a bloody roadside shrine. He saw the tree. A hateful sycamore, the trunk hideously dented and broken.

The tree itself was now bleeding to death. You would think that the authorities would have come and cut it down straight away and taken it off to be burnt. It seemed central to the horror, and all around it, the floral tributes.

He stopped the car on the verge and, gasping and sobbing, loped over to it. He began to tear down the stiff,
plasticky ribbons. There were florists' cheap vile bows in all colours, loops and loops of the stuff. The villagers must have done it out of spite, they must have thought it was funny. And there were carnations and chrysanthemums, some hideously dyed, too bright, and some with their petals turning brown already. Some were in supermarket and garage cellophane, with prices and sachets of flower food still attached. He tore at them and began throwing them over the hedge. He was unaware of the cars going by, some slowing slightly, some speeding up to get away from the madman who was shouting and crying and howling. Then he was grabbed from behind and he felt his face hit the mud.

‘Says he's the poor woman's husband,' the policeman said as he accompanied Guy into the station.

‘Reckon he must be, by the state of him. Better get psych over here and give him something.'

‘I do not need to be given something,' said Guy. ‘It was disrespectful.'

‘With all due respect, mate, looked like you were the one being disrespectful. A lot of local people spent good money on those flowers and teddies.'

‘There weren't any teddies,' said Guy. ‘I really don't think there were teddies.'

‘Probably been nicked. It happens.'

‘And you don't understand,' said Guy. ‘My wife, Susannah, she, she … hated flowers in cellophane.'

They pushed a box of Kleenex Mansize across the desk to him, and ten minutes later a mug of tea.

At last Guy looked up.

‘I have to be back for my little boy,' he said. ‘Can I go?'

The original officers had now gone.

‘Can you just show us some identification?' said their replacement.

‘I do have ID. I'm a lecturer at the university.' Guy felt for his wallet and realised it must be on the floor of the car, which presumably was still there, open on the verge. ‘I have to go. My little boy…'

‘All right, mate. Take care. Check out with the guy on the desk. We're all really sorry for your loss.'

It seemed that they didn't have the officers available to drive him back to his car, not for at least three hours. It was a three-mile walk. When he got there a council lorry was taking away the sycamore. What remained of the flowers had been piled on the stump. When no cars were passing he flung them over the hedge. His own flowers were wilting on the passenger seat. His wallet was there too, and his keys were still in the ignition. He quietly put the dying flowers beside the stump and drove away.

When he got home, the frizzy-haired woman was waiting outside in a car with Felix and three other children.

‘Only been here ten minutes!' she cried, all bright and breezy.

‘I'm so sorry,' said Guy, ‘I am so sorry for the trouble.' He held Felix very tight.

‘No problem!' she said, and drove away. He went into the empty, dusty house. Letters of condolence were piling up, opened but unread, on top of the silent piano, on the kitchen table, and on the floor in the hall, just where they had fallen from his hands.