The Rye Man (14 page)

‘It was something about Holden Caulfield and wanting to catch all the children before they fell over some cliff. I can't remember exactly and anyway, I only pretended to like the book, like I pretended to like all those other books you made me read and the records you made me listen to. After you'd gone home I'd put on my Abba records, “Dancing Queen” and Elton John and skim a few pages so I could pretend I'd read them.'

They both laughed and she sang a few bars of ‘Dancing Queen', moving round herself in a little parody of a dance.

‘It was Holden's dream where all these thousands of kids are playing in a big field at the edge of some huge cliff and if any of them were running or not looking where they were going, close to the edge, he'd catch them. He'd be the catcher in the rye – that's all he wanted to be.'

She stopped dancing and draped her arm across his shoulders. ‘And that's how John Cameron sees himself – as the catcher in the rye?'

He felt himself blushing, laughing off her suggestion. ‘Don't be stupid, you've been listening to too much junk music. You're brain damaged. And there aren't any cliffs around here for anyone to fall over.'

She ruffled his hair and smiled at his embarrassment then went back into the kitchen to make his packed lunch for the morning. He could still hear her humming and he resisted the temptation to play some of his records on the stereo, knowing that no other music could sound so welcome. He threw the book back into the tea-chest. Perhaps he kept too many things from the past, too many objects which should have been jettisoned. But he found it hard to discard the pieces which fitted together to form the pattern of his memory.

She
was getting ready for bed as he locked up the house. Each night she simply announced her departure and left him to turn off lights and television and lock doors and windows. He should have spent some more time planning the in-service training day, but he could not face it and joined her in the bedroom.

She was reading a magazine and he could see sweeping herbaceous borders, harmonious chromatic progressions. Although he read for a short while his mind was not really on it and when she set her magazine aside he followed suit. As the light went out he snuggled up behind her, his arm protectively round her waist. She was singing gently to herself, like a child lulling herself to sleep, and then she stopped and moved his hand from her waist and placed it on her breast. He cupped it lightly in his hand and kissed the swathe of freckles which ran across her shoulder blades and as he did so he felt her nipple harden. Turning round, she kissed him and held him tightly, then slipped her body under his. He hesitated, and though everything in her body told him it was all right, he was suddenly frightened of hurting her and his fear made him clumsy and she had to help him. Slowly, gently, like it was the first time, and then instinct took over and he was talking to her and kissing her and calling her stupid names like his dancing queen and everything was just like it had been before. But as he gave himself up to the rhythm of his desire, tried to fill the emptiness of his need, it was another voice he heard – the pleading, whimpering voice of his dreams. And across his mind like some frightened bird flapped a jagged series of images which he could not control or stop – Jacqueline's face dropping like a stone on to her book, the gulls falling like snow into the open field, their circling cries above Nendrum. Tumbling after one another in a welter of tangled confusion which swept through him and which he
could
not control. And through them all the distant, plaintive cry of a child and then, in a crystallisation of fear, he knew that what he heard in his dreams was their own child, lost and drifting in some veiled and shuttered world from which he could never escape. Calling to him as he faded back into the gathering shadows.

She had stopped moving and was looking up at him in confusion. He gave himself back to the rhythm but despite his frantic efforts to focus his mind, re-find his passion, he knew that it was gone. He faked a sheepish smile and apologised, then rolled on to his back.

‘What happened?'

‘I just lost it. Maybe I was nervous or something.'

‘It's been a long time – you're out of practice.'

‘Emma, you'll not be buying me one, then.'

‘Buying you what?'

‘One of those mugs that says “world's greatest lover”.'

She nestled into his side and in a few minutes was asleep. He lay awake, his arm under her head until it grew numb, and then he gently eased it free.

He didn't turn on the attic light but paused at the top of the short flight of stairs until his eyes had grown accustomed to the soft sheen of light which seeped in from the moon. The wooden floorboards were cold and smooth under his feet as he picked his way carefully through the discarded sprawl. In his rational mind he felt the incredible foolishness of the thought that now lodged there like some spore. He was neither superstitious nor religious by nature, and clung to no belief in any world other than the one he could see and touch, but the more he tried to brush the image away, the more it seemed to burst and spread through his being.

He sat on an old cane rocking chair Emma had paid too much money for in a jumble sale and stored for the day when
she
would repair it. Then he moved aside the two screening tea-chests and lifted the suitcase on to his knees. He felt his mind existed in some limbo world between sleep and waking. A white-winged moth trembled against the glass of the skylight. Sifting through the contents of the case, he held each object carefully before returning it to its original place. He forced himself to think of the most solid, concrete objects which existed – the document on assessment, the postcard from Reynolds, the brackish pools of water on the railway line. Anything which anchored his mind to the tangible world and blocked out the thought that had so shaken him.

At the bottom of the case he found a copy of the four-month scan. He stared at the monochrome print – fuzzy like some sonar under-water image – but the foetal shape was still recognisable. He had been a good father, had read all the books, knew that at that moment of development fingers and toes and their nails had formed and eyebrows and eyelashes were beginning to grow. It was a strange consolation now to tell himself that the embryo had been carried away in a metal dish, bagged and incinerated. Whatever life had been created through the mystery of conception had ended in that moment. There was no lost child, no wandering, frightened waif calling for his father. There was no other world than this and the only thing which had spawned this misery was his physical and mental tiredness, the stress of a new job. He sat back in the silvery light and surveyed the clutter which swelled all around him and tried to spark some warming memory from a familiar object. When he felt his calm returning he shut thecase and returned it to its place of concealment. Quietly he started to descend the steepness of the stairs, holding lightly on to the wooden rail but halfway down stopped, then retraced his steps. He stood on the cane chair and forced the skylight
open,
feeling the coolness of the air hit his face as the moth fluttered into the dark pathways of the night.

*

They formed an orderly but impatient queue to receive their gear from the store and then filed back outside, struggling not to drop anything. Equipped with their wet suits, hiking boots, buoyancy aids, orange waterproofs and safety helmets they balanced the piles precariously under their chins and lumbered off to the changing rooms. He followed the boys while Mrs Craig accompanied the girls. Hennessy had ensconced himself in the staff canteen and was enjoying coffee and a doughnut. He had been supposed to bring another member of staff but failed to produce one and gave no coherent explanation.

The boys squeezed themselves into the one-piece rubber wet suits with varying degrees of success. Some, suddenly finding themselves with dried and stiff outer skins, did impersonations of penguins, while others stood motionless like sticks of liquorice. He gave help where it was needed, making adjustments to trouser lengths and helmet straps and generally chivvied them on. Some were excited, engaging in competitive bravado, while others masked their nervousness with meticulous checking of laces and zips. They plied him with constant questions. How deep would the water be? Could you drown in the rock pools? Could you keep your watch on if it was waterproof? Then, when most of them were almost ready, he went to collect his own gear, pausing to look into the canteen to ask if Hennessy had got his canoeing equipment from the store.

‘My God, John, you don't seriously think that I'm going to do a Hiawatha impersonation and get into one of those canoes? I'll be doing my supervision from the shore.' Taking another
sip
from his coffee, he winked at him. ‘Remember the dignity of the office John, now, and don't be letting the side down, traipsing around like Jacques Cousteau.'

He smiled and left him lighting up his pipe. Hennessy's apathy couldn't diminish his own excitement. The outdoor pursuits centre had split their day into two activities – bouldering and canoeing. The two schools had been mixed and divided into two groups with a roughly equal mix of boys and girls in each. He was accompanying the group which was spending the morning bouldering, while Mrs Craig was going with the canoeing party. The centre provided experienced instructors and it was a nice break to stand back and watch someone else do all the work. As the instructor played lightly on the dangerous aspect and the need to follow instructions carefully, they listened to him intently, their faces almost unrecognisable under the helmets plumped like bowls on their heads.

A mini-bus drove them the short distance along the coast and they scampered down the path to the sea where one of the many rivers flowed down from the Mournes. Their first activity involved lying on their backs in a narrow little gully, folding their arms across their chests and simply letting the water carry them down into the pool below. Standing in the rock pool at the bottom of the chute the instructor shepherded each child across to dry land. The more adventurous of the children clamoured to go first, pushing with their heels to kick-start their momentum, while others hung back, needing more encouragement. Jacqueline was in this latter group and she and two other girls were obviously nervous about it all, but the instructor coaxed them gently until each one had completed the task and splashed into the rock pool with a mixture of relief and pride.

He felt a little nervous himself as he lay on his back in the
narrow
fissure and for a few seconds wondered if Hennessy hadn't been right after all. Water and swimming weren't his strong points and he was suddenly aware of the opportunities the morning presented for making a fool of himself in front of his own pupils. The gully felt too narrow for him and he remembered the instructor's warning to keep elbows well tucked in. He felt like a corpse in a coffin and as he looked up at the sky he could hear the encouraging cries of the children. At first he felt as if he was stuck, but then he arched his back and levered his body forward with his heels until the water was shooting him forward like a torpedo in a tube. Then, with a splash and an involuntary cry of shock, he was briefly immersed in coldness before bobbing and spluttering to the surface. He swam a few metres to the rocks on the other side and as he pulled himself out children slapped his back in congratulations. Water ran out of him like a tap but there was no time to feel sorry for himself as the group set off walking up the river, short legs stretching and hopping from boulder to boulder while he brought up the rear, encouraging stragglers and wondering what new challenge was waiting for them.

The stream was replenished by recent rain and the water gushed about them with white flurries cascading over rocks in a throaty sluice of sound. They walked in Indian file, each child stepping on the stones selected by the person in front, a caravanserai of orange waterproofs and blue helmets. His boots were hurting him – he'd had to take a size smaller than he usually wore – and for a brief moment he almost wished that Vance had taken up his invitation instead of declining it with something that almost approached a joke. Out of mischief he'd offered Mrs Haslett the opportunity to come, knowing how well she enjoyed playing the role of someone who faced a challenge fearlessly, then enjoyed watching her squirm her
way
out of it. Mrs Craig had been enthusiastic and jumped at the opportunity. She had a relaxed, capable manner with children which he admired and led him to wonder if there were a way he might get her to teach further up the school. But for the moment at least, he turned his full concentration to surviving his next confrontation with stone and water. The instructor made it look easy, clinging to the handholds across a face of rock with practised ease and making the sideways crab-like movements with a minimum of strain. When he had completed it he turned to give final instructions and to warn, ‘If you're going to fall, just let go. Don't try to hold on, just fall back into the water.'

It proved more difficult than it looked and the first half-dozen children fell backwards into the water to a malicious cheer from the spectators. The footholds and crevices were not obvious and as he stood awaiting his turn he regretted not paying closer attention. The instructor squatting on the rock overhead talked the next few children through the crossing and after they completed it without slipping, they too turned to encourage the others across. The rock's surface became more slippery now as it was splashed with more water and the dampness of the clothing which had passed over it.

Soon it was Jacqueline's turn but he could see the hesitancy in her movements as she got closer to the narrow ridge which was the starting point. It pleased him to hear the other girls shouting encouragement but she was crouching lower and lower as she glanced down at the water and he could tell that she wasn't going to attempt it. As she squatted on a rock and looked towards him he told her it was all right and, in a desire to divert attention from her failure, stepped on to the ridge. It felt impossibly narrow under his feet, more like a slight seam than any kind of ledge. He clung to the face, his hands feeling the smoothness of stone for a grip, and then from the
group
cheering him came the chant, ‘Fall in! Fall in!' He suspected the instructor was leading it and in his momentary distraction he was over-stretching, his hand was holding nothing but lichen and he was falling backwards into space. The feeling was curiously pleasant until he smacked the water, felt it rush into his ears and the mouth which he had foolishly left open.