The Possession of Mr Cave (6 page)

'I'm your father. It's my job to look after you, even when
you think you don't need looking after. One day you will
thank me.'

Your grandmother was initially silent when we got to the
car. She didn't understand any more than you did.

'You did say you were going to Imogen's,' she eventually
said, without conviction. 'Your father was worried about you.
He didn't mean to make a complete show of himself.'

I glanced into the rear-view mirror and saw you stare out
at the dark fields and farmhouses. At unseen primitive lands,
enclosed by drystone walls, where fathers once commanded
without question.

'I heard you scream.'

'From ten miles away?'

'I phoned Imogen's mother and there was no one there. We
were worried.'

Cynthia sighed, for your benefit. Discomfort at the 'we', I
suppose. She decided to stay with us, in order to 'keep us on
our leads', but said she had to disappear early the next morning.
Life drawing, or something. When we arrived back home you
went straight to bed. I don't even think you used the bathroom.

I sat down on the sofa and Higgins strolled onto my lap.

'Happy?' your grandmother asked, before sipping her glass
of brandy.

I sighed. 'It's not a question of happiness.'

She laughed. A laugh sadder than her usual cackle. I looked
at her. I looked past the cabaret singer's make-up and the
aged skin and sensed your mother there, sharing a joke that
shone inside those eyes. 'No. So, Terence, tell me, what exactly
is it a question of?'

I couldn't answer that, so I answered something else instead.

'You're different,' I said. 'You're a different type of person.'

Of course, this prompted a Cynthian scowl, and an audible
eruption of disapproval. 'Oh yes? Enlighten me, Terence. What
type
am I?

I trod carefully. 'The coping type. You cope. You get by.
You've got a – I don't know – an "inner peace", I suppose.
An acceptance. I don't have it, you see. I just don't have that
capacity.'

You would have thought I had slapped her. Red anger overpowered
her make-up, and those dark heavy eyelashes widened
like dangerous plants. 'Oh, listen to yourself. Honestly. You
don't seriously think there has been one single day in the past
fifteen flaming years when I haven't woken up and yearned
for her still to be here? You don't think I ever accepted that I
lost my daughter, do you? Or Howard? Or that I am in any
better position now to cope with the loss of my grandson?
I've cried myself to sleep God knows how many times. I wake
up in the middle of the night and feel like I could scream
with it all. Nobody accepts these things, Terence. But what
can we do? What can we do? These things have happened.
We will never know why – if there is a "why" to know. I get
up in the morning and get on with things because what's the
choice? What is the alternative? But don't you dare think for
one little minute that when I climb into an empty bed, or
when I think of my poor daughter lying on that floor, or when
I see a tin of Harrogate flaming toffees, that it's any easier for
me. The only thing I accept is that I am still alive, and other
people are still alive, and while we are still sharing that same
crack of light we ought to be making things easier for each
other. That's my
type
, Terence. That's my bloody type.'

This tirade exhausted her, and had frightened Higgins out
of the room. A long silence was left in its wake.

'I'm sorry,' she said, at the end of it. 'I didn't mean to shout.
It's probably just the brandy.'

'No, Cynthia,' I said. 'No. You're absolutely right. It was a
stupid thing to say.
I'm
sorry.'

And I meant it. I really think I did.

'Well, the main thing is we don't let Bryony suffer,' she said.

'Yes,' I said. 'Of course. You're right.'

And I went to bed that night feeling I was truly able to
turn over a new page, a blank one, and write a better future
for us all. But of course, and as always, I was wrong. The next
day was written in the same descending style I was growing
accustomed to, with Terence the Tormented Tormentor about
to take a further plunge into his designated role.

I dreamt it was you. I dreamt you were there, where he was
hanging from the lamp post. You lost your grip and I woke
up, knowing I had to keep you close, keep you safe.

When Cynthia had gone to her art class I went into your
room.

I tried soft words. I tried to offer an olive branch. 'We were
both partially to blame,' I said. 'I know I shouldn't have embarrassed
you in front of your friends. I'm sorry. And I am sure
you were aware that you shouldn't have lied to me.'

You didn't want to listen. You didn't want me there, at the
foot of your bed. 'Please, Dad, just leave me alone.'

'I just think you should say sorry that's all. I've said sorry
and I'll say it again. Say sorry and we can forget about it.'

'No.'

'Apologise. You lied. Bryony, if you don't tell me where you
are how can I know you're safe. Apologise.'

'No.'

'A. Pol. O. Gise.'

At which you disappeared back under your covers and made
a sound like a near-boiled kettle.

I became angry. Something switched inside me and
suddenly I found myself losing control. I sat there, listening
to my own tense words, and wondered what had got into
me. At that moment a new plan occurred to me. A plan
fuelled by desperation, by anger, and by this new dark force
closing in on my soul.

'Well, Bryony,' I said. 'It is a tragedy for me to accept it,
but it seems that we have now reached a point where firmer
action is required. If you are unable to be honest with me,
or to admit your own mistakes, or to show any remorse for
these mistakes, then it seems I am left with absolutely no
choice but to lay down some rules for you to abide by. Rather
than risk the excuse of a memory lapse, I will write these
rules down and I will stick them in the kitchen for you to
read. Now, I want you to remember that these rules are to
be followed to the letter or there will be strict consequences.'

'Huh!' Your response, dulled by the tight blankets that lay
over you.

'Well, Bryony, there is no point setting rules unless there
are consequences for the rule-breaker and I assure you that
if these rules aren't followed or are wilfully misinterpreted
then you will be punished accordingly.' I hesitated, while
my mind turned to the possible punishments I could inflict.
'If you persist in breaking the rules then I will be forced to
sell Turpin. Or I will move you to another school. Or I will
forbid you from leaving the house. Do you understand me?'

I left you and went to my desk. I looked ahead at the
curtains I never pulled open any more, and then I took the
fountain pen from the lacquered case as its Pre-Raphaelite
nymphs watched me with concern.

My hand, trembling with this sudden and alien anger, pressed
the nib to the paper and began to write.

Rules For Your Own Safety

1. You must not visit Imogen. If Imogen must be seen at
all it is to be on these premises.

2. You are never to be out of the house after 7 p.m., except
on cello evenings, or when you are being chaperoned
by myself or your grandmother.

3. You must always eat your meals at the table, so we can
enjoy a little conversation.

4. You must refrain from playing the noise you euphemistically
refer to as music, unless you can do so at a civilised
volume.

5. You will not inform me of an imminent departure when
I am with customers in the shop. You will give me prior
warning, and details of where you are going, and then
I will consider if I approve.

6. You will not leave the house for longer than one hour
at a time without a significant reason. Such as when
you are at school, the stables or the music college.

7. You will not walk home from school. When term begins
you will be picked up by myself every day, without
complaint.

8. You will help in the shop on Saturdays.

9. You will not watch television of a corrupting nature, or
communicate with strangers or males of any kind via
your computer.

10. You will not drink alcohol.

11. You will not spend mine or your grandmother's pocket
money on magazines or other corruptive forms of literature.

12. You will not travel in motor vehicles unless they are
driven by myself or a driver approved by me.

13. You will not enter into a physical relationship with a
member of the opposite gender until I am satisfied
that you have reached the requisite level of emotional
maturity.

A few days later Mrs Weeks came into the shop to buy the
Arabian dancer. In all honesty I was sad to see it go, as it was
by far the oldest item we had on sale.

'Is this an authentic Franz Bergman?' she asked me.

'Yes,' I told her, through her nods. 'The Dancing Arab Girl.
Late 1880s. An amazing period for the decorative arts in Austria.
The detail is quite exceptional.'

Her pretty mouth twitched in a manner that reminded me
of an inquisitive mouse. She raised the small bronze beauty
to eye level.

'I have a Barrias from around the same period,' she said.
'Winged Victory. Not quite as vulgar as many of his others.
This might complement it rather well, I feel.'

I can see her standing there, with her neat blonde bob and
wicker basket, as she contemplated the purchase.

I remember feeling a kind of savagery inside me, knowing
that I was about to trouble this proud golden fieldmouse
with some truths about her son. Yet Mrs Weeks had to be
told. I owed it to her, you see, as a fellow parent. As a trusted
ally against the unseen forces that were corrupting our children.
Oh, it was horrible though, the actual act of telling.
To watch her face as she stood there at the counter, struggling
as it tried to keep its pretty dignity in place. I felt such
a vandal.

'I'm sorry, Mrs Weeks. I just thought I had to tell
you.'

'George? . . . George? . . .' Her eyes, normally so precise,
slipped away to stare at some vague point behind me. 'Mr
Cave, I must apologise for my son's behaviour. I admit he
has been acting strangely recently. The separation between
his father and myself has not been particularly pleasant.
George has suffered a great deal. I will talk to him, be sure
of that.' This was delivered as if in a kind of trance, as though
I were a hypnotist prying for details of her childhood.
'Goodbye, Mr Cave.'

She placed the brown paper parcel delicately in her basket
and walked – or, as it seemed, floated – out of the shop. I
saw her face through the glass as she stood on the pavement.
She sniffed the air and seemed to give a tiny shake of the
head, a gesture that made me think of Higgins flicking away
water.

And then she was gone.

You obeyed my rules, but you still found ways to punish me.
Silence, that was your first weapon during those early days.
You would sit opposite me at the dining table, pushing your
carrots around, and speak only when you saw fit.

I looked at you, my child, and wanted you to understand
what I was trying to do. All I wanted, all I ever wanted, was
to protect you from changing, from losing all that made you
special. To protect you, in short, from turning into me.

'So then, how are your cello lessons coming along?'
Blank stare.

'Turpin seemed a little stubborn today, when I picked you
up. Was he difficult to ride?'

Indifferent sigh.

'Are you going to finish the rest of that?'

Poisoned glance.

And if you were selective about what came out of your
mouth, you were also rather choosy about what went into it.

Up until Reuben's death I had been so proud that I had
managed to raise a daughter who never bothered to check the
calorie content of a raisin before she dropped it into her mouth.
A girl with a healthy figure, who didn't aspire to be like the
skeletal clothes horses and starving pit ponies of the magazines.

It had been a steady decline. A slowing down of your jaw
as it chewed. A mild flinch of regret as you swallowed. A silent
reading of ingredients and daily guidelines, assessing the
numbers with the studious eyes of a stockbroker.

Once the rules were in place the decline steepened. And I
was left wondering how we were going to find a way back up
that slope. Yet every time I thought about reconciliation you
did something to further my anger.

Angelica, for example.

Now, I understand what I said when I saw her face staring
up at me from the kitchen bin but you must appreciate the
shock it gave me.

To see an 1893 Heinrich Handwerck bisque doll's head
detached from its body and lying on a bed of carrot shavings
in a plastic bin liner would be quite a test for even the most
hardened antique lover. Of course, I shouldn't have gone on
about how much it had cost a decade before, or its current
worth now. This wasn't truly the point.

The point was this: Angelica was a special part of your
childhood. You had chosen her yourself, at Newark
Antiques Fair. I had gladly risked a tantrum from Reuben
and sacrificed the chance to buy a pair of second-period
floral-encrusted Aberdeen jugs in order to see the smile on
your face.

For years you mothered this doll – giving her a name,
combing her hair, removing and reattaching her handwoven
cape, talking to her as a living thing, nursing her on imaginary
battlefields, reading her extracts from
Black Beauty
or
Little Women
.

I understood that these activities stopped a long time ago
and it would be a very foolish parent who would want them
to continue towards womanhood. Time, I know, is a rolling
boulder we can't hold back. Yet are we really to aid that
boulder in its destruction? I wasn't expecting you to still be
playing with a doll in your teenage years, yet to discard such
a valuable treasure, such a piece of your own past, was beyond
my immediate comprehension.

'Bryony, I don't understand it. Why would you do such a
thing?'

You didn't answer me.

'Are you trying to hurt me? Punish me for something?'

A word quivered your lips. 'Why?' you eventually said.
'Why? Why? Why on earth? Why?' It was as if you didn't
know anything about it. As if you thought I was responsible.

'Is this about Reuben?' I asked, but got no further reply.

After you stormed upstairs I reached into the bin and held
the pretty head in my trembling hand, as though it were
Yorick's skull. Those large blue eyes seemed to acknowledge
our sorry fates. Both of us, like the doll: broken, discarded,
lost from their complementary parts. All the tragedy and
violence of time, staring out from the palm of my hand.

I arrived late at the stables due to my desperate attempt to
restore the doll, but gave up, unable to find the rest of her.
You weren't there and I panicked. The sky didn't help. Purpleblack
clouds pressed down onto a horizontal stretch of yellow,
as though God's scarred palm was crushing the day.

I switched off the engine and climbed out of the car. I walked
over to the gate. There was no sign of you. There were hoofprints
heading out of the stables towards the road and I
worried for a minute that you had gone out on a solitary
hack, rather than staying within the fenced paddock as I had
always instructed.

I opened the gate and stepped into the yard. It gave the
eerie impression of a Nevada ghost town, for there wasn't a
horse nor a human to be seen. Then I noticed something
even more troubling. Turpin's stable door was wide open,
with no Turpin visible inside. As I walked closer I heard a
noise, a sobbing, and knew instantly it was you.

'Bryony?'

I ran into the stable and saw you sitting in the dark shade,
on the hay, with that boy's arm around your shoulder.

'Get off her,' I said. 'Get off my daughter.'

Denny stood up. He was in his running clothes. 'She's upset.
There were some trouble with the horse –'

'I can see that. Now go. Get out of here. Get out, get out,
get out.'

He looked at you and you looked back with your damp
red eyes. You gave the smallest of nods and he left.

'Where's Turpin?'

You said nothing. This in itself wasn't a surprise. After all,
you'd hardly said a word since I had given you the rules. Yet,
even so, I pressed for answers.

'What was that boy doing here?'

'He –' Your answer peeped outside, before cowering back
in silence.

I looked around. 'Where's everyone gone?'

You stood up, trembling, and followed me back to the car.
It was only later, when I received the phone call from the
stable manager – what was her name, the speed-talking Irish
one? Claire? – that I eventually heard the truth. How was I
to know what had happened?

How was I to know that boy had sought so hard to become
your hero that he had actually risked his life? But don't you
think I wouldn't have confronted your bucking horse and
carried your petrified self out of the stable? Of course I would
have. Yet, I wasn't there and he was.

Everywhere you went, I had to watch you and guard you
against the bleak curse that was still infecting our family.

*