Elegance and Innocence (56 page)

Crouching down in front of him, I gently pull his coat back over his shoulders. ‘Alex, it’s not that I don’t want to go; it sounds wonderful. And when we do go, it will be a real treat. But we can’t go right now.’

He thinks a moment. ‘We could go tomorrow.’

I stand up, mentally calculating our monthly finances again. There’s very little room for manoeuvre. ‘I know, why don’t I take you to the zoo tomorrow afternoon? We could make scary noises in the reptile house and watch them feed the lions …’

‘We always go there!’ He scowls. ‘That’s so
boring
, Mummy! Everything we do is so
stupid
!’ (He’s developed a new way of saying things; a certain flair for the English language that, as an actress, I have to admire. He drags the
vowels out; a kind of verbal cartoon. Stupid, becomes
stuuuuuuuuuuupid
. It’s an eloquent – for a four-year-old – and exciting way of expressing himself that’s just occasionally maddening for me.)

We round the corner of Acacia Avenue, the tall plane trees filled with lacy, fresh green leaves. They sway gently against the creamy white clouds racing above.

‘That’s very rude, Alex. And what we do is not stupid. It’s fun.’ I sound like the very antithesis of fun.

I don’t have the reserves to deal with Alex’s endless requests – which I should be able to fill, long to fill, and can’t. The constant feeling of failure envelops me; smothers me; makes me tense. I snap at him. ‘And please don’t drag your school bag on the ground!’

He ignores me, his small face a mask of sullen disappointment. He deliberately drags his knapsack through a puddle.

I reach down and grab his arm. ‘Alex! Did you hear me? I said do not drag your school bag!’

He drops the bag. ‘If my father were here, he’d take me! If my father were here, we’d have the best times ever!’

There’s that feeling again: the slap of an unseen hand across my face followed by a thick blanket of numbness, every time Alex mentions the word ‘father’. I let him go. He catapults through the gate, runs up the steps and pushes open the front door. It stands, gaping open, like an affronted mouth. I watch Alex run inside, his entire
being fuelled by a sense of frustration and betrayal.

Will there ever be a moment when that word won’t tear my world apart?

‘Ah, the joys of childhood!’ Bunny’s walking from the back garden, wearing a faded denim apron over her outfit, hands black with dirt, clutching the dead daffodils ruined in the rain last night.

I put on a smile and pick up the abandoned rucksack from the ground. I don’t want her to see I’m having another bad day, all failure and guilt.

‘I must say, darling,’ she continues, throwing the daffodils away in the black dustbin, ‘I’m only too glad not to be young any more.’

She brushes the dirt from her hands.

‘Didn’t you have a happy childhood?’ I’m eager to shift the focus away from Alex and me.

‘Heavens no!’ She wraps an arm round my waist, leads me up the steps. ‘I was never suited to childhood. Full stop. There’s an inherent hopelessness to being a child; a subordination of the will I could never stomach – even at four or five. People who go on about it being the best time of your life are idiots. No offence, darling. We all try to be good parents. Then some children are more docile than others.’ She closes the door, takes off her apron, folds it neatly. ‘And then there are ones, like me, who start raging against the light when they’re five.’

‘So you were difficult, were you?’

She laughs. ‘I’ve always been difficult and will happily die difficult. My poor mother! Of course, it didn’t help that I was also one of those easily stimulated children; far too apt to touch myself in public. It drove my mother mad. “Where are your hands?” she used to say, over and over. I can’t tell you what a relief it was to grow up and get someone else to do it all for me.’ She winks at me wickedly. ‘Now, shall I make us a nice hot cup of tea?’

I laugh; despite all her eccentricities, or perhaps because of them, she’s cheered me up. ‘That would be lovely, Bunny. I’ll be down in a minute.’

I make a move towards the stairs. She stops me, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s not as serious a business as you think,’ she says quietly.

I’m not quite certain what she means but there’s a reassuring kindness in her face. I smile back, as if I understand completely, giving her hand a little squeeze.

Then, as she turns away, from the bright light of the entry into the cool shadowy hall leading down to the kitchen, she’s suddenly an old woman. Head bowed, she clings to the handrail for balance, concentrating on the stairs. She turns the corner and is gone.

I climb up to the top floor. Alex, still in his coat, is sitting on the floor. His back is pressed against his bed, arms round his knees.

I rap on his door frame. ‘Knock, knock.’

Silence.

I walk over and sit down next to him. His hands are clasped tight. They’re covered with bits of paint and paste from today’s art class; the resulting masterpiece is no doubt tucked into the infamous knapsack.

‘I understand that you’re angry at me,’ I say.

He doesn’t move. And I can’t find any more words; any promises to make that will soothe his upset. I have no clever quips to coax a smile. So we just sit instead, watching the play of light on the floorboards.

‘Tell me again,’ he demands, eyes forward, fingers clenched.

I hesitate.

‘Tell me the story again,’ he insists.

In my defence, I didn’t know what to tell him. There comes an age, around three or so, when they start to ask questions. So I told him this. I’m not certain it’s right any more; that it fits. But, of course, it’s too late now. It’s what I told him.

Because maybe some day, somehow, things will be different.

I begin, speaking slowly, softly. ‘Before you were born, before your father even knew you were on your way to join us, he set out on a long journey. He had to travel through uncharted lands, places where there is no map, where no one else had ever been before.’

He flashes me an angry look. ‘Why did you let him go, Mummy?’

He’s never asked that before. I pause, concentrating on the blue sky through the window. ‘I let him go because I couldn’t keep him. When someone wants very much to have an adventure in life, it’s impossible to hold them back, no matter how hard you try.’

‘But you loved him?’ he asks. This sounds more like an accusation than a question.

I nod. ‘Yes, Alex. I loved him. And he loved me.’

He leans his head against my chest, deflating slightly.

I put my arms round him. He nuzzles in close.

‘And so your father went on a long adventure. And there were no phones and no letters. And he may be wandering still. Some day, perhaps he’ll come back and you’ll meet him. But if he doesn’t, then he’s surely watching you from heaven, and sending all good things your way.’

‘Like what?’ His voice is muffled, coming as it does from the depths of my jumper.

‘Like … warm sunny days or Michael Owen scoring a goal or when you lose a toy and you think it’s gone for ever and then suddenly you find it again …’

‘Like my Thomas engine.’

‘Exactly. Or when you have a lovely dream at night, so lovely you hardly want to wake up … these are all messages from your father, watching over you.’

He looks up. ‘Do you think he likes me?’

I gaze into his large brown eyes. ‘Yes, Alex. It’s impossible not to like you.’

‘And do you think that one day he’ll come back?’

We sit a while, huddled together.

‘I don’t know, my angel. Anything is possible.’

He’s still. He’s quiet now. But soon these answers won’t be enough. I’m running out of time.

But, for now, he’s satisfied.

And I resolve that some day I’ll take him everywhere he wants to go, no matter what the cost.

Suddenly I’m falling. The soft green grass gives way to a black, yawning chasm; cold, damp, infinite. I’m tumbling, plunging through the darkness. I open my mouth to scream. There’s no sound. I throw my arms out. There’s nothing to hold on to. Down and down I go, blind, mute, gathering speed …

I come to, gasping for breath. I focus on the ornate ceiling. There’s the sound of waves crashing on the shore. My heart’s beating like a stopwatch. But the bed is solid, real.

I turn my head. Jake’s sprawled on his stomach, his face pressed into a pillow, arms outstretched, a fallen angel barely contained within the narrow frame of the cast-iron bed. He’s unconscious, more deeply asleep than anyone I’ve ever known, as if someone had simply switched him off for the night. He’s living out another, parallel life in a private, inaccessible universe far away. Is he falling too, reaching out his
fingers to grasp something that’s slipping away, before he can even touch it?

It’s still early, maybe nine o’clock on Saturday morning. A thin shaft of daylight cuts across the wooden floor of our room at the Poppy Bed and Breakfast, through the heavy red velvet curtains.

My temples throb; a dull headache looms just behind my eyes.

Everything looks the same.

But something’s shifted in the night; something important.

Carefully, I lift myself out of bed. Creeping as quietly as possible, I cross the floor to the armchair in the corner where all my clothes landed in a heap last night. Pulling on my jeans and a T-shirt, I grope around for my handbag, and slip into the hall. Downstairs, near the front desk, there’s a squat payphone, sitting on a table near the door.

Putting in a handful of coins, I dial and wait. It rings for ages. Finally, Imo answers.

‘Hello?’ I must’ve woken her.

‘Im, it’s me!’

‘Evie! Where the hell are you? Are you OK?’ She’s wide awake now. ‘We thought you’d been abducted! Boyd’s really pissed off. You missed rehearsal. And he says if you’re not in on Monday he’s reducing your part to a walk-on mute maid!’

‘I’m fine. Honestly. I’m sorry about leaving like that, but really I’m fine.’

‘I tried to cover for you, said you were sick …’ Her voice trails off. And I can tell she doesn’t approve of my behaviour. ‘I was really worried,’ she says again. It never occurred to me she’d be so upset.

‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. But I’ll be back tomorrow. Jake had a gig, you see, and he really wanted me to come …’ Suddenly, saying it out loud, it doesn’t sound nearly as urgent or desperate as it had at the time. I abandon explanations and move to my real reason for calling. ‘Im, I don’t suppose the post has arrived yet this morning? I was just wondering if there was anything there for me.’

‘I’ll check.’ I can hear her riffling around on the floor. ‘Evie?’

‘Yeah?’

Her voice is quiet. ‘There is something. It’s a letter. From New York.’

I swallow hard. ‘Open it. Please.’

Paper tearing. Then silence.

It seems like whole minutes are ticking by … she’s the slowest reader in the world.

‘What? What does it say? Imogene!’ I’m shouting. ‘What does it say?’

‘Evie …’

‘What! Just say it!’

‘Evie, you’re in. You’ve been accepted! You’re in!’ she squeals, laughing. I can hear her jumping up and down with excitement.

And suddenly I’m falling again. I close my eyes and the room spins.

What have I done? What on earth have I done?

I wander back to the room.

The bed’s empty. There’s no one here.

He must be in the loo. I sit down on the edge of the bed. Finally, I can hear him padding along the hallway, pushing the door open …

He smiles at me, standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but jeans. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I got in.’ I’m staring at my hands, folded on my lap. There’s a cold hard weight bearing down on my chest. ‘I got into Juilliard.’

I look up.

He’s frowning at me.

‘In New York,’ I add.

And his face goes blank, with no expression at all.

‘I’m going to Juilliard.’ Perhaps if I say it over and over, it will seem real. ‘I’m going to study acting in New York.’

I sit, blinking at him.

‘And this is what you want?’

I feel dizzy; far away. Why is he asking such a stupid question?

‘I did the audition, didn’t I?’ It doesn’t come out quite
the way I intended. A sick tension knots in my stomach; I stare at the uneven patterns of the floorboards. ‘I’m an actress. This is what everyone dreams of.’

He just stands there, looking at me.

What is he waiting for?

‘Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?’

He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Congratulations.’

Suddenly I’m furious. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He narrows his eyes. ‘It means fucking brilliant, Evie! Fucking well fucking done!’

He turns away from me, starts to dress. He’s pulling on his shirt, searching for a sock, yanking on his leather jacket.

Fuck him.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out.’ He runs his fingers through his hair, glancing at his reflection in the dressing-table mirror. He’s not bluffing.

‘Babe …’ I slide off the bed and take a step towards him, hands outstretched.

He backs away.

I stand, watching with a growing sense of indignation; he’s collecting the spare change from the bedside table, along with his cigarettes, lighter; pushing them into his inside jacket pocket.

‘And what am I supposed to do, Jake? Exactly what is it you want me to do?’

He sidesteps me. ‘Do what you want.’

He moves to the door.

I catch his arm. ‘I don’t have a choice! I’m an actress!’

He twists it away. ‘That’s what you keep saying.’

‘Jake!’

He swings round to face me. ‘For fuck’s sake, Evie! What am
I
supposed to do? Huh? What the fuck am I supposed to do?’ The bedroom door swings wide, banging against the wall. He heads down the hallway.

I race after him, the wooden floor cold and hard under my bare feet. ‘Jake, wait!’ I grab his arm again, pressing myself close. There’s a group of American tourists, senior citizens, weaving their way carefully into the breakfast room. ‘Please. Let’s go back upstairs,’ I whisper. ‘Talk to me, please!’

His eyes blaze. ‘I told you’ – he speaks very clearly, very slowly – ‘that I want to be alone!’ Then he twists his arm free with such violence that I’m propelled backwards, landing clumsily against the front desk.