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Even when he was a small boy, people didn’t warm to Jonathan. He was only at nursery for a month before Nancy took him out and said she wanted to keep him home with her. She said he wasn’t ready for it yet. And when he had to go to school she took a job there, so she could stay close to him. He had friends who came round to play at the house, but he was never invited back. I noticed, though I pretended not to. I think the children liked coming because of Nancy – she was wonderful with them. It was easier to pretend all was well when he was little, but when he hit adolescence, her influence faltered. Still, she was always there to defend him. I should have taken her on, but I knew if I had I would be joining the other side, the enemy, all those who didn’t understand Jonathan. I would have had to do battle with her, my wife the anti-Medea.

Instead, I disappeared into my own fantasy. I used to imagine what it would be like to have one of the boys I taught as a son. A boy I could talk to. A boy who, when you spoke, listened and who perhaps was rude or cheeky at times but at least looked you in the eye, made a connection. After Jonathan died I allowed this fantasy to take hold. I went to pieces.

There had been a boy I taught at GCSE and A level. I pretended for a while he was my son. He wasn’t as clever as Jonathan. Jonathan passed his exams with no effort and an unpleasant scorn for those who struggled. He couldn’t have cared less and looked into his future with the same indifference, which is why Nancy suggested we pay for his trip around Europe. He needed time to find himself, she said.

The boy I ‘adopted’ could not have been more different. When he went up to university, I followed him there. I took the train to Bristol and told anyone who’d listen that I was going to visit my son at university. My wife and I had children very late, I said when I saw them wondering whether it was possible for me to have a son of university age. I spent a fortune getting the train up and down to Bristol. Nancy never knew. I’d taken time off work, but she thought I was going into school each morning. I stopped going after the beating. I was glad for it. It knocked some sense into me.

It is not Nancy’s fault, any of this. It is mine. My love took root in our first twenty years together and I had neither the desire nor the will to undo it, then or now. I still see so clearly the woman I fell in love with; the woman I married and lived with. But now I also see the woman she became after Jonathan was born. An initial blooming, followed by an uncontrolled growth of suckers, branches, straggling unkempt shoots, taking off as she tried to reach out and hold on to him – to keep him safe – to turn him into something he wasn’t. She had to distort herself to do that: she had to become a thorny, knotty creature. I should have taken my pruning shears and cut back the suckers before they got out of control; before they drained the life out of what had been good. You have to be cruel to be kind. Cut back, just so, in the right place, so the plant isn’t starved of nourishment, so it is able to flower.

I have started gardening again: pulling up the weeds, sweeping the leaves into piles ready to burn. The neighbours have complained about the smell. I’m not considerate, they say; they’ve had their washing out. I’m afraid their complaints encourage rather than deter me. I like fires. I like the smell of the smoke on my clothes and in my hair. I relished throwing the photographs on to the fire, took pleasure in witnessing their destruction. The yellow envelope with Kodak on the front turned brown then black and I imagined the negatives inside, shrivelling into nothing. I had looked through them one more time, in case I had missed Jonathan caught on camera. Perhaps his reflection in a mirror or his shadow on the wall, but he wasn’t there. I will burn my son’s belongings next. There is nothing I wish to keep. I have already started chopping wood to rebuild the fire.

Yesterday I took the laptop to Geoff. A present, I said. He was surprised, but I told him that I had my eye on a new one. A lie, of course.

‘How’s the new book coming along?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I abandoned it,’ I said, giving him a cheery wave so he wouldn’t worry. Today I am off to see the ladies in the charity shop.

‘I found a few more things,’ I say, opening up a carrier bag containing Nancy’s evening bag, knitted hat and cardigan. I’ve practically worn the cardigan to death. There are holes under each arm and the top button is missing. I decline their offer of coffee and watch them peer into the bag, reluctant to touch its contents. I wonder whether the cardigan will outlive me after all, or whether those nice ladies will put it out of its misery.

When I get home someone is leaving a message with Nancy. I haven’t been able to bring myself to erase her voice. The message confirms an appointment. It is for a week’s time. Time enough for me to finish what I need do. I sit down at my desk and take out a pen and paper.

57

Autumn 2013

Catherine is shedding layers too. She has told work that she is not coming back. She cannot face it – for the moment at least, it seems pointless to her. She has given up on her therapist too, not bothering to return after that second session, though perhaps she will try again with someone else. She probably should.

She glances over at her mother. They sit in twin armchairs, side by side: Catherine in the one her mother used to sit in before her father died; her mother in Dad’s chair. They are watching some antique jamboree, jolly, carefree, warm TV, both with a cup of tea in their hands. The doorbell rings and Catherine answers. It’s Nick. He said he might pop over and see Granny, but Catherine hadn’t been sure he meant it. The fact that he did and is standing there makes her heart leap.

‘Mum, Nick’s here,’ she calls, and her mother struggles out of her chair and totters over to her grandson.

‘Hello, darling,’ she says and reaches up to kiss his cheek. ‘Are you all better now?’

‘Yes, Gran, I’m fine,’ he says, but he isn’t. He is depressed. He is lonely. He is a drug addict. He needs help. Seeing Granny helps though. She has always adored Nick and Catherine watches her take his hand and hold it between hers, fuelling him with her clean love. He relaxes a little and sits down in Catherine’s chair, taking a handful of sweets from a bowl on the coffee table.

Catherine goes to fill the kettle, hovering on the threshold between kitchen and sitting room while she waits for it to boil. She studies the back of her mother’s and son’s heads; how they move constantly – her mother’s from the tremor which afflicts her now and Nick’s from his manic chewing of sweets. Perhaps she and Nick should have therapy together? She dismisses the thought as soon as she has it: he is already seeing someone as part of his rehab and she doesn’t want to interfere with his progress. She tops up the teapot and takes it in, sitting down on the floor and leaning against Nick’s chair.

‘Do you want to sit here?’ he asks.

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ she says, patting his leg.

She wonders how different it would be for Nick if she and Robert had had more children – if he’d had a younger sister or brother to deflect some of the scrutiny. She was an only child and a very happy one – that had always been her argument to Robert whenever he tiptoed into the arena of whether they should have more children. Nick had almost had a brother, or perhaps it was a sister – she will never know.

Catherine was pregnant when she came home from Spain. She didn’t know it at the time. Her periods were pretty irregular so she left it over a month before she did a pregnancy test. She had been back at work for a week and went out in her lunch hour to buy a kit from Boots, then she locked herself in the toilet. Of course she knew it was a possibility, but she had convinced herself the test would be negative. She deserved one bit of fucking luck, didn’t she? Evidently not, because there it was. A baby inside her. She put the loo seat down and sat for a while, gently rocking to and fro, thinking. It could be Robert’s baby. They had had sex during the holiday. Once. Despite the effort he’d made with her underwear, it was still only the once. Maybe a baby would help. A baby might be the distraction she needed. Not work, but a baby. Whose baby though? What if it looked like him? What if it had dark hair and dark eyes? She didn’t cry and she didn’t make a decision right away. She needed more time. She unlocked the cubicle and dropped the test in the bin, then stood and looked at herself in the mirror.

‘Good news, I hope?’

She jumped. She hadn’t noticed anyone else come in. A colleague was standing next to her, smiling.

‘Your meeting with Tony – did you get the commission?’

‘Oh yes – yes – well, he seemed to like the idea, anyway. Said he’ll let me know tomorrow.’ She smiled and grabbed some paper towel, giving her hands a cursory wipe before dropping the paper in the bin, making sure the pregnancy test was buried. She felt slightly mad, the way she could pretend so easily – make people believe what she wanted them to believe. She’d had no idea she was so good at it.

The more she thought about having another baby, the more she realized it was an impossibility. So she booked herself into a clinic and told Robert she was going to her friend in the country for the weekend. But she didn’t leave London. It was like a sleepover with a bunch of girls in a boarding school. A few of them had come from Ireland. All of them were relieved when it was over – and they sat up in their pyjamas, eating biscuits and drinking tea and joking with a nurse who came in to discuss contraception with them. To make sure that there wouldn’t be any more unwanted pregnancies. And she joined in. It was nice to be with these women, be part of their gallows humour. She didn’t tell them about the rape – she didn’t want to spoil the mood, but she wondered if she was the only one. She was tired and pale when she got home on Sunday evening. It was only then it hit her. It had been a pretty ghastly weekend, she’d said to Robert.

Be with you by 7.
She reads the text from Robert, texts back
Great, see you then.

He is coming to pick them all up and take them out to supper. She looks at the time. It is quarter to six.

‘Mum? Do you want me to help you do your hair before we go out? I could wash and dry it for you.’

‘Yes please, darling.’ Her mother pushes herself out of her chair. ‘Your mum is good to me,’ she says to Nick as she makes her way to the bathroom.

‘You will come with us, won’t you?’ Catherine whispers to Nick.

‘Well …’ he sighs.

‘Oh please, love, Granny’d love having you there. We’ll be home by nine.’

‘Yeah, OK. Oh, by the way, a letter came for you as I was leaving the flat. I had to sign for it.’ He hands her an envelope. There is a stamp from a solicitor’s office in the corner and she rips it open with a frown, wondering what fine it is she has forgotten to pay. She reads the letter twice, then folds it up and puts it in her bag.

Winter 2013

‘Are you OK?’

She nods, letting Robert’s hand rest on hers. He leaves it for as long as he can before taking it away to flick the indicator. They take the next left then slow to a crawl, dragging along until they find a space to park. He stops the car and Catherine releases her seat belt. Robert leaves his on and puts out his hand in gentle restraint.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Yes,’ she says, failing to conceal her irritation. It is the fourth time he has asked her. She opens the door and gets out.

The pane of glass in the front door is still broken, but this time Catherine uses the key to let herself in. It is hers now. The house and everything in it. She walks through, looking around, taking stock. It is even more of a mess than when she was last here.

‘Jesus,’ Robert says.

She goes upstairs, peering over the banister at him standing in the middle of the sitting room, open-mouthed with horror.

‘Disgusting,’ she hears him mutter. Yes, it is. It is all disgusting. She opens the first door at the top of the stairs and looks into Stephen and Nancy Brigstocke’s bedroom: a double bed, dressing table, chest of drawers, wardrobe. The bed is still as it was the last time Stephen Brigstocke lay in it. Catherine will not be the one to drag his dirty sheets from the bed: she has organized others to come in and clear the house in a few days. She hears Robert’s feet on the stairs and within seconds his arm is around her, but she is restless and turns on her heels, marching on to the next room.

It is the only other bedroom. It must have been Jonathan’s. The walls are pale green and there are marks where pictures, or perhaps posters, have been ripped down – clean rectangles of missing things. She walks out, passing Robert, who hovers in the doorway, not knowing whether to go in or to follow her. She wishes he hadn’t come. He looks like a husband whose wife is dragging him around a house he has no intention of buying while the owner looks on. She peers into the last door upstairs. A relic from the seventies. A bathroom with an avocado suite. She closes the door on it and goes down. Robert follows.

They walk through the sitting room to the kitchen and look out at the garden. Since Catherine was last here, someone has been at the plants. They have been hacked at, and their branches thrown, probably, on to the blackened hole in the middle of the lawn. It must have been quite a fire. He was the last thing to go on to it. The neighbours really complained about the smell then. They’d got on the phone to the council when they smelled that other, sickening smell. Catherine heard one of them on the local news.

‘He didn’t make a sound,’ the neighbour said. ‘He didn’t cry out. We didn’t hear a thing.’ Naturally if he had they would have phoned an ambulance, not the council. But nobody had seen. They’d kept their windows shut, after he’d started with his bonfires.

Catherine had been watching television with her mother when they saw the story on the local news. Her mother had tutted at the horror of it. An elderly man, living alone, burned to death. The police did not treat it as suspicious. A can of petrol was found near the body. She hadn’t realized it was Stephen Brigstocke until she met his solicitor and he told her what happened. He had made Catherine his sole beneficiary. This house and the flat in Fulham.