فصل 46

46

Sunday, 23 August

PATRICK

The dream Patrick had of his wife was always the same. It was night, and she was in the water. He left Sean on the bank and dived in, he swam and swam, but somehow as soon as he was close enough to reach out for her, she drifted farther away and he had to swim again. In the dream, the pool was wider than in real life. It wasn’t a pool, it was a lake, it was an ocean. He seemed to swim forever, and only when he was so exhausted that he was sure he’d go under himself did he eventually manage to grab hold of her, to pull her towards him. As he did, her body rotated slowly in the water, her face turned towards his, and through her broken, bloodied mouth she laughed. It was always the same, only last night, when the body rolled in the water towards him, the face was Helen’s.

He woke with a terrible fright, his heart pounding fit to burst. He sat up in bed with his palm flat against his chest, not wanting to acknowledge his own fear, or how it was mixed with a deep sense of shame. He pulled back his curtains and waited for the sky to lighten, black to grey, before going next door to Helen’s room. He entered quietly, gently lifting the stool from beside the dressing table and placing it at her bedside. He sat. Her face was turned away from him, just as it had been in the dream, and he fought the urge to put his arm on her shoulder, to shake her awake, to make sure that her mouth was not full of blood and broken teeth.

When she finally stirred, rolling over slowly, she started when she saw him, jerking her head violently backwards and banging it on the wall behind her as she did.

“Patrick! What’s wrong? Is it Sean?”

He shook his head. “No. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Then . . .”

“Did I . . . did I leave some things in your car?” he asked her. “The other day? I took some rubbish from the cottage and I meant to throw it away, but then the cat . . . I was distracted, and I believe I left it there. Did I?”

She swallowed and nodded, her eyes black, the pupils squeezing the irises to pale-brown slivers. “Yes, I . . . From the cottage? You took those things from the cottage?” She frowned, as if she was trying to figure something out.

“Yes. From the cottage. What did you do with them? What did you do with the bag?”

She sat up. “I threw it away,” she said. “It was rubbish, wasn’t it? It looked like rubbish.”

“Yes. Just rubbish.”

Her eyes darted away and then returned to his. “Dad, do you think it had started up again?” She sighed. “Him and her. Do you think?”

Patrick leaned forward and smoothed the hair back from her forehead. “Well, I’m not sure. Maybe. I think maybe it had. But it’s over now, isn’t it?” He tried to get to his feet, but he found that his legs were weak and he had to haul himself up with one hand on the bedside table. He could feel her watching him and he felt ashamed. “Would you like some tea?” he asked her.

“I’ll make it,” she said, pushing back the covers.

“No, no. Stay where you are. I’ll do it.” At the door, he turned back to her. “You got rid of it? That rubbish?” he said again. Helen nodded. Slowly, his limbs wooden and his chest tight, he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. He filled the kettle and sat at the table, his heart heavy in his chest. He had never known Helen to lie to him before, but he’d been fairly certain, back there, that she had.

Perhaps he should have been angry with her, but mostly he was angry with Sean, because it was his mistake that had led them here. Helen shouldn’t even be in this house! She should be at home, in her husband’s bed. And he should not have been placed in this position, the ignominious position of cleaning up his son’s mess. The indelicate position of sleeping in the room next door to his daughter-in-law. The skin on his forearm itched beneath his bandage and he scratched at it absent-mindedly.

And yet, if he was honest, and he always tried to be, who was he to criticize his son? He remembered what it was to be a young man, rendered helpless by biology. He had chosen badly for himself and he still felt the shame of it. He chose a beauty, a weak, selfish beauty, a woman who lacked self-control in almost every regard. An insatiable woman. She had set herself on a self-destructive path and the only thing that surprised him now, when he thought about it, was that it took as long as it did. Patrick knew what Lauren had never understood—just how many times she had come perilously close to losing her life.

He heard footfalls on the stairs and turned. Helen stood in the doorway, still in her pyjamas, her feet bare.

“Dad? Are you all right?” He got to his feet, prepared to make the tea, but she put her hand on his shoulder. “Sit down. I’ll do it.”

He’d chosen badly once, but not the second time. Because Helen, the daughter of a colleague, quiet and plain and hardworking, was his choice. He saw at once that she would be steady and loving and faithful. Sean had to be persuaded. He had fallen in love with a woman he’d met as a trainee, but Patrick knew that wouldn’t last, and when it went on longer than it should have, he put an end to it. Now he watched Helen and knew that he had chosen well for his son: Helen was straightforward, modest, intelligent—wholly uninterested in the kind of celebrity trivia and gossip that seemed to consume most women. She didn’t waste time with television or novels; she worked hard and didn’t complain. She was easy company, quick to smile.

“Here you go.” She was smiling at him now as she handed him his tea. “Oh”—she inhaled sharply through her teeth—“that doesn’t look good.” She was looking at his arm, where he’d scratched it and torn away the bandage. The skin underneath was red and swollen, the wound dark. She fetched warm water, soap, antiseptic, fresh bandages. She cleaned the wound and bound his arm again, and when she was finished he leaned forward and kissed her mouth.

“Dad,” she said, and pushed him gently away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” And the shame returned, overwhelming now, and the anger, too.

Women brought him low. Lauren first and then Jeannie, and on and on. But not Helen. Surely not Helen? And yet she’d lied to him that morning. He’d seen it in her face, her candid face, unused to deception, and he’d shuddered. He thought again of the dream, Lauren turning in the water, history repeating itself, only the women getting worse.