Mercy Seat Page 5

  It was getting dusky in the room before Jenny checked the time. Look at the clock, she said. No wonder Michael’s getting grumpy.

  I started telling them about the cockroach and the students in the kitchen, but they were so disgusted about there being roaches around the place at all that I couldn’t get the story finished. I gave up trying and watched them drink and fool around with Michael. I was remembering my mother from a time when I was six or seven years old – not long after my father had cleared out and a few years before she fell terminally ill. With my father gone we’d moved into a damp, run-down terraced house a few doors down from my grandparents. It was night and I was watching her wipe out a whole colony of roaches – black pats she called them – that had nested behind the fireplace. She’d never have found them except she was having the old Victorian hearth ripped out and getting a gas fire put in. Her brother Roy was doing the heavy work, and he uncovered them. Iesu Grist, Liz, I remember him saying, have a look at this.

  I thought she’d be upset because I knew she hated the things, but she was delighted – exhilarated, in fact – and I can still remember the strange, party-like atmosphere that took over our usual gloom. She got Roy to help her boil up the kettle and a few big saucepans of water and I kept watch on the nest, getting a good look at this wonder because I knew it wouldn’t be there much longer for me.

  It was a winter morning and the roaches were all dormant, plastered to the rotten mortar like a kind of glossy fungus. There were smaller young ones studded among the long slick humps of the adults. I remember longing to touch them, to run a finger over the sleeping smooth bumps, but not daring to wake them. When Roy swept the beam of the torch over their backs they glistened like some Samurai’s breastplate of lacquered, black scale armour.

  When the water was ready my mother came through, Uncle Roy in tow, and stood me back out of the way. She had thick oven-gloves on and held the heavy steaming kettle out in front of her with both padded hands.

  I expected something frantic, but all they did when the water licked over them was drop neatly off and patter into what was left of the grate. It didn’t even seem to damage them. It was as if they were being minted into long black coins. When the kettle was done she took a steaming saucepan from Roy and scoured out the last few of them that had found deeper niches in the mortar.

  I remember what my mother said to me after Roy had gone. That’s the benefit of having family to help you, she told me. You don’t have to be ashamed about what you might find.

  I don’t want any more wine, Christine said at last, and she said it so soberly and definitely that it altered the whole atmosphere.

  Jenny looked around and seemed shocked at how quickly the room had darkened. God, it’s gloomy all of a sudden, she said.

  I’m going to bed, I told them. It’s this virus. I don’t feel right.

  Will you take the cot through? We’ll have him in with us, she said to Christine. We normally keep the cot in here, but he’ll only wake you.

  I wouldn’t mind.

  No, no, said Jenny.

  I dragged the cot after me into the bedroom and set it near the foot of the bed before closing the door behind me. I undressed quickly and got under the covers, desperate to lie down and settle my head. Lying still, I could hear the TV and snatches of their conversation through the wall. It occurred to me that the student teacher could probably hear just as much of our lives every night of the week.

  After about half an hour Jenny came through with Michael sleeping in her arms. She put him to bed without a word then crept over to me.

  Are you awake?

  I grunted.

  We’re just talking, she slurred. I won’t be long. She touched my shoulder with her fingertips. It was very dark in the room. How are you feeling? She bent closer and I could smell the flowery scent of the wine on her breath. She kissed me on the cheekbone. Where are you? she said, and found my lips.

  I waited a minute or so after she’d gone back in to Christine, then got out of bed, pulled on my dressing gown and padded out to the corridor and up to the toilet. There was a smell of dope in the air around the bathroom, but it was faint and could have come from anywhere. Inside, standing in front of the mirror, I had a good look at the sores. Some of them were ugly where I’d scratched them, a map of angry red blotches banding my stomach. I splashed my face and some of the rash with cold water before going back down.

  I don’t know how long Jenny and Christine stayed up talking. I know Jenny would have been trying to fill in a lot of blank space. I don’t know what Christine wanted. Jenny had explained to me the week before Christine arrived that now their father was dead things would go better between them. I thought I’d lost my only sister for life, I remember Jenny telling me in the days before Christine arrived. I thought I’d never know or care if she lived or died. Can you imagine that; your own sister? Your own family?

  I thought I could imagine it, but didn’t say so.

  Now, while they talked, I drifted in and out of sleep, escaping in a sweat from nightmares, then falling back into them. All I remember now about the dreams is the figure of Jenny’s father. He was dead, I understood in the dream, though there was nothing to show it. He was trying to tell me something, calling to me from a small round window high up in a blank wall. One moment it was his face, the next moment he was using Christine’s, at the same window, white and expressionless. When her lips moved I was suddenly awake and listening to the murmurings through the wall, the blood knocking in my head.

  At some point during the long night Jenny came to bed. Even in the state I was in I could sense her happiness and excitement. She lay close and trapped my feet with her own, then she moved a foot up and down my shin. The soles of her feet were deathly cold.

  Don’t Jen, you’re freezing, I murmured. Her feet must be white, it occurred to me, like Christine’s face in the dream. I’m asleep, I said.

  She chuckled. No you’re not. Let me talk.

  I gasped as she slid an icy palm between my legs. I eased an arm free and hooked it behind her head on the pillow.

  I’m so happy she’s here, she whispered. It’s like a miracle. We get on just like old friends. She paused for a while and I could hear her breathing. I thought he’d robbed me for life. I never told you, but it used to make me so lonely. I hated him. I hated him for it.

  Just before I fell back into sleep I remember her lifting her head from the pillow and insisting, I want you to like Chris. I want you both to get on. We’re all family now. I’ve forgiven her everything.

  I nodded.

  Now he’s gone, I’ve got so much hope for her.

  I could sense her staring hard at the side of my face and was suddenly afraid to turn and make eye contact. I could smell the wine on her breath again.

  Do you like her? I know you haven’t had much time, but do you think you’ll like her? Do you think you could love her like a sister? She nudged me and clasped her frozen feet around mine. Luke? she said.

  I’m sure I’ll like her, I said, drugged with sleep, wanting nothing more than to fall away into the dark, away from this strange interrogation.

  I hope so. That’s what I really hope.

  Me too, then, I mumbled. That’s what I hope too.

  *

  Over the next few days the virus got worse and I spent most of the time in the flat, either exhausted in bed or looking after Michael while Jenny took Christine around the town. To begin with I tried to keep working my shifts at the warehouse – I had no chance of sick-pay – but as it took hold of me harder I could barely get up the stairs to the bathroom without resting, so I called Anzani and told him I wouldn’t be in for what was left of the week. Jenny was pleased, despite the lost money: it meant she could use up the last of her holiday leave spending time with Christine, who still had a full month before term started again. She was teaching then in a small prep school outside Cardiff, and sometimes spent a few hours after breakfast preparing, with child-like concentration, meticulous,
colourful lesson plans and projects for her classes – The World Inside a Rock Pool, An Octopus’s Garden, Selkies and Mermaids – though as it turned out she would never get the chance to use them.

  The weather stayed fine, the usual cool summer wind blowing in from the sea most days until evening, then everything growing calm again and the rooms of the guesthouse glowing in the rays of the setting sun. Sometimes Jenny would take Christine out on a bus trip and they’d go inland to little market towns or along the coast to better beaches. At the end of Christine’s first week they went all the way to Swansea, leaving on the early bus and getting back after dark.

  At 6 every morning Christine slipped out quietly, made her way to the far end of the beach in the shadow of Constitution Hill and swam, on calm days, for at least thirty minutes around the headland and back. The first time, Jenny – incredulous, and convinced the currents would sweep her away – insisted on us taking Michael and watching her from the rocks, ready to run for a telephone at any sign of trouble. Christine laughed at her sister’s concern but said she didn’t mind if we really wanted to trail along and be bored. She swam a slow, smooth breaststroke that looked steady enough to carry her all the way to America if she’d wanted. At the furthest point from land she trod water for a time, the dark speck of her head motionless and barely visible against the gunmetal grey of the water. Why isn’t she moving? Jenny asked. What’s she doing out there? Maybe she’s got cramp and can’t swim any more. But after a minute or so the tiny paleness of her face began dipping and reappearing again, and we knew she was coming back to us.

  In the middle of Christine’s second week, on the Wednesday or Thursday morning, I woke feeling much stronger, as if the virus had lifted its siege quite suddenly in the night. Jenny was already up and through in the living room with Michael. I heard her ask Christine if she wanted a coffee and realised she must have already come back from her swim. The first sharp nappy smell of the day drifted through and there was the sound of a new bag of disposables being popped open. Can you hold him just there? Jenny was saying.

  I waited a while before getting up, wondering if the new energy I felt was just temporary or would stand my moving around. I was dizzy when I bent to step into my jeans, but apart from that I felt fine. Even the scabs left by the sores had grown paler overnight and were drying up.

  They were both surprised to see me when I went through. Christine was wearing a big white T-shirt she obviously used as a nightdress. Her hair was still wet from showering after her swim. I hadn’t seen her in anything like bedclothes before – she’d always been up and dressed before me. Now she seemed awkward at my being there. She was kneeling at Michael’s head, distracting him while Jenny changed the nappy and cleaned him, and when I came and stood over them she took hold of the front hem of her T-shirt and pulled it so it tucked under her knees. Look who it is, she said to Michael. It’s your daddy.

  Hello honey, Jenny said, glancing up. She finished wiping around Michael’s thighs, then powdered him. Feeling a bit better?

  Much better.

  Good. I’m glad. Chris, can you take this out of the way? She handed the talcum powder to Christine.

  I wouldn’t mind getting some fresh air today, I said.

  There was silence, except for the pat-pat of Jenny’s hand on each tiny buttock. Michael sneezed.

  Had you two planned to go anywhere?

  No, I don’t think there’s anywhere else you really want to see is there? Jenny asked Christine.

  We’ve done plenty of shopping for a while, Christine said. I’ve spent too much anyway.

  You haven’t bought much, Jenny laughed. I end up buying things though. I’m just weak. She rolled Michael onto his back and fastened the front of his nappy. Are you going to go back to work? she asked me.

  I should, I said. I’ll go into town and see how I feel. I could do the afternoon shift.

  I didn’t mean you should. Don’t if you still feel tired. I was only joking when I said I’d been buying stuff.

  I’d better get something on, said Christine. I’m the only one not dressed. She ran a hand through her hair. What a mess, she said. I keep forgetting to dry it properly.

  You’re on holiday, Jenny said, you’re allowed to be a mess. Anyway, it’s just family.

  I felt too hot outside wherever there was shelter from the wind – I was still a little feverish – but I was glad to be out in the open at last.

  I decided to walk the mile or so to the university library. I’d been able to take out an associate membership because of my OU registration, and I wanted some history books for the module I was studying. I’d fallen behind while I was ill. There was a back way from the seafront to the campus, not much more than a track which climbed steeply through woods, skirted a few long fields and then opened out near the top of the campus hill at a big greenhouse used by the Botany department. I found myself needing to rest more than once on the first sharp climb away from the sea, but once the path levelled out it was pleasant to make my way along the edge of the open fields, listening to the ripening barley whisper and shush in the breeze.

  Outside the library I heard my name called and turned to find Bill Kerrigan striding towards me, grinning and shading his wide, bearded face from the sun with a big hand. Kerrigan was an old student friend of Jenny’s – I always suspected they’d been together for a short time before I met her, which turned out to be correct – and because he’d stayed on to do a PhD rather than dispersing along with most the rest of their circle they’d stayed fairly close. Sometimes he visited the guesthouse to eat and get drunk with us. I liked him: he was vague, shy and shambling – he looked at least ten years older than he was – and rarely spoke unless he had something worthwhile to say. He’d been interested in the farm and had even gone away to research it after I’d told him about my time there. It went back to the fourteenth century, he discovered. The farmhouse had been extended a little in Victorian times, but its dark, low-ceilinged kitchen and living room were medieval.

  Luke, he said, still grinning and shading his eyes. Haven’t seen you in a while.

  We swapped news for a short time and I told him about Christine’s visit. He nodded, frowning, as if trying to recall something. Jenny used to talk about her sometimes, he said at last. When she was drunk. I’m surprised she’s visiting.

  I think Jenny was surprised too, I said. But it’s going fine, I think.

  He seemed to mull it over for a moment, then said: bring her to a party, if you like. I mean if you want something to do with her. Next Wednesday at my place.

  Ok, I said, if we can get a sitter for Michael.

  He scratched his beard, still looking thoughtful. See you there then, maybe, he said, and waved a hand as he turned toward the library steps.

  I managed to get through the afternoon at the warehouse without too much strain: Anzani had drafted one of his sons in to cover for me being away so I actually had had some help for once when the drivers called in to get their vans loaded. By five o’clock I was exhausted though: I’d eaten almost nothing when the fever was bad and now I realised my muscles were running on empty. None of the shipments were particularly heavy, but I was drenched with sweat. You ok? You look like you’re having a heart attack, Anzani’s boy said as we finished the last load.

  I nodded, but hardly had the energy to reply.

  You look like shit. I mean it, he said.

  Back at Bethesda Mrs Clement was perched in her rocking chair in the big bay window, slightly above pavement level, overlooking the prom. She was a big, iron-haired woman who liked to spend the whole day there behind glass, knitting or sewing, and watching the world go by with a fixed, aghast look, as if it were all some kind of slowly unfolding atrocity that she couldn’t take her eyes off. She watched me crossing the street from the bus stop but when I looked up to acknowledge her she stared straight out to sea, pretending she hadn’t noticed me at all. Inside, their flat door was closed for once and there was no sound coming from its living room.
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  Jenny and Christine were out somewhere with Michael. I looked for a note but there wasn’t any. I knew I needed to eat, but at the same time couldn’t face the thought of swallowing anything down. I drew the curtains in the living room and slumped in a corner of the sofa.

  I was still there when they got back. They’d had a good afternoon, Jenny told me, and Michael was so tired now he’d sleep all evening. She didn’t say where exactly they’d been but I supposed it must have been a long walk around town, or maybe along the bay.

  I felt almost too tired to speak, but told Jenny about meeting Kerrigan and the invitation to his party.

  Do you want to go? she asked.

  I shrugged.

  I don’t want to, she said, but I could stay with Michael and you could take Christine. Do you think he’d mind?

  I shrugged, feeling stung that Jenny thought he might not want me there if I wasn’t with her.

  Do you want to go to a party? she asked her sister.

  That would be nice, she said, looking at me.

  Well, it must be boring for you in the nights, because of Michael, Jenny said. It’ll be a change.

  Four

  I was woken the next morning by Michael’s weight settling on my stomach. Jenny laughed when I opened my eyes.

  Don’t move, she said, you’ll tip him off.

  I waited, letting him crawl up onto my chest, letting his little fist dig unsteadily at my windpipe. He rested there.

  Give daddy a kiss, she told him.

  I worked an arm free from under the sheets and rolled him into it, cupping him there.

  Let me see your waist, Jenny said, and knelt on the bed at my side. She hauled down the sheets and examined me. Look how pale they’ve gone, she said. They look a lot better.

  I craned my neck to see. She was right – except for the ones I’d mauled with my fingernails, the pock marks were hardly noticeable now.