Surface Tension - Chapter 24

Chapter 24

 

Winter strips bare.

            As a kid I longed for the transforming snow. I’d watch weather before going to bed, then wake with baited breath. I’d rush to the window, rip the curtains back anticipating the icing world outside, knowing that as I gripped the curtains I stood between disappointment and excitement.  Here and now, I'm lying in bed, staring at the cracked sky judging the quality of light which comes from the shrouded world outside, a world re-created by snow,  sculptured into unrecognisable forms yet knowing that beneath the coddling blanket the original features lie, ready and waiting to reassert themselves.

            I push myself upright, finding myself rolling out with childish enthusiasm.  A couple of steps and I'm at the window, with a sense of rising anticipation, even though I know what’s there.

            Since sleep finally caught up with me it’s snowed again, the new snow’s coated everything, a clean, freshly painted, white gloss world.  Immaculate. 

I must’ve closed the window, though I can’t remember doing so. It opens with a reluctant pop.  I'm greeted by a thick duvet of sound, of nothing.   A flake floats down, performing a solitary gavotte until it nestles with its companions on the ground.  The next, I catch on my hand.  It sits there, its edges becoming translucent as it melts, then it's gone; no more a flake now a droplet.  I go to wipe it off pausing as I remember reading that if you refreeze a snow flake it returns to the exact same crystalline form, that somehow there's a memory of its former self even when it's gone through such a fundamental change.  I rub my hand on the sill, smearing the flake in its altered state across the wood.

            I turn back into the room.  It’s been freshly decorated; there’s still that lingering fresh paint smell.  The theme’s floral-picturesque; one wall is papered with wild roses, a motif that the duvet and upholstered chair in the corner share.

I shiver. I'm not dressed.  I'm pleased to see the two bags on the floor, one a duffle bag, contains my future.

            “Hoy, Tony.”  The voice, hale and hearty, comes from outside the window.  I turn back, now very conscious of being naked.  It's Richard.  He's wearing jeans and a thick brown sweater and a navy cap, from which wiry yellow hair escapes.  Beneath the cap is a smile a mile wide.  He drops the hay bale he's carrying. “You up?”  The pointless question is deadened in the soft, snowy air.  “Good!” I’m coming in for breakfast in 10 minutes.  Josie said not to disturb you, you looked so knackered last night, but if you’re up, come and enjoy the nosh.”  He takes a look at his watch, “Yeah, 10 minutes or so.  I’m starving, been taking feed out round the back,” he flicks his head back gesturing to a place round the corner.  The hat slides back on his head revealing another sprig of hair.  “See you,” he grins as he hulks the bale back up again, turning to go; “Oh yeah, be a mate – put some clothes on will ya!”

            Twenty minutes later I nose my way into the kitchen, a scene of bucolic haphazardness.  A large pine table fills the centre of the room, skirted by an assortment of wooden chairs, only two of which betray the same heritage as the table.  Similarly, two sides of the kitchen are stocked with bits of furniture, cupboards, a dresser; each of which bears no relationship to anything else in the room.  In a nod to modernity there's a vast American style chrome fronted fridge freezer which has muscled in between two sets of oak fronted cupboards.  There’s a door in the far corner next to an impressive Aga. Opposite is the sink, a large white basin with two taps, a wooden drainer and a long wooden work top.  The washing up has failed to be contained in the sink and is slowly making its way across the counter top and then there’s Josie, as tall and elegant as ever, trying to retrieve cutlery from the sink. 

It's a long time since I've seen her.  Whenever it was, some wedding or perhaps a christening, she'd have been dressed to the nines. Now, it's faded jeans, a black polo-neck jumper, her auburn hair in a long French plait trailing down her back. She always possessed an innate stylishness; she made Richard glow; he'd go from slob to dandy to gentleman in her presence.  Even turned away from me, dressed casually I can see she's still got that something. But as she bends and stands and works away along the work tops there's   something else present, it is in the way she holds herself, a certain discord.         

Richard's sprawled at the table.  His face glistens; cheeks reddened by the cold now glowing in the prodigious heat of the kitchen.  He's engrossed in one of several newspapers in front of him, one fist wrapped round a fork from which a piece of bacon dangles, the other hand holding a piece of buttered toast.  He takes a meditative bite from the toast and jabs the fork at what he's reading spattering grease.

            “Seen this,” with his mouth full, “Ridiculous.” Josie does a backward glance and shrug. She catches me as she turns back.

            “Tony,” she gives me a wholesome smile.

            Richard pauses in his masticating stride, looks up, head half cocked as if something has just registered:  “Josie, turn the radio up – sport.” 

            Josie ignores the request, “Richard,” as if talking to a child, “Here's Tony.” She turns to me again, wiping her hands on a towel. “Good morning Tony. Glad to see you are up, sleep well?” 

All the right boxes are ticked but it seems forced, her eyes say so.

            “Tony, Tony!” Richard pushes himself from the table making the chair screech reluctantly across the terracotta floor tiles.  “Should’ve been down 10 minutes ago man.  Want some porridge?  Just what you need on a morning like, eh Josie?” He shoots a galumphing great smile across at Josie, who's retreated to the Aga, her back to the room.  Her shoulders rumple in a non-committal kind of way.  Back to me now: “No?  Well, cooked breakfast.  She makes a grand cooked breakfast.”  He's off the chair, which rocks violently, moving towards his wife, gripping her round the waist and spinning her 180o so she faces me.  Richard buries his head in her neck, kissing it with a loud slurp.  He surfaces again, with the wide smile still in place giving me a huge theatrical wink.  Josie’s face remains, non-committal at this display of affection.

“Yes? Cooked brekkie?”  Richard asks and I nod ascent.  “See, country air that’s what it does for you”. 

He spins her back round, squeezes and releases her, gently slapping her on the backside.  Josie starts, her shoulders ripple suggesting discomfort.  Richard doesn’t notice, he’s back at the table, busily stuffing himself with more toast.

            At some point in the next half hour, between gulps of coffee and mouthfuls of toast with great globs of marmalade on Richard invites me to ‘walk his estate’.  The request is proffered with a grand flourish sending a piece of orange rind across the table.  All I want is to retreat to the bedroom.  But Richard is enthusiastically insistent and clearly I need to be the good guest, after all, as he points out, I’ve turned up 24 hours earlier than anyone else.

            We wade through the snow. It crunches and squeals underfoot.  Richard jabbers away, blissful in his activities and happy to have an audience.  My grunts and shrugs are sufficient to maintain his flow.  He describes his success in the City, the bonuses, the champagne and black tie lifestyle that gradually became a drudge and the growing realisation for something more meaningful along with.  The final push, the decision to go: finding this place on the internet (and the fact that you could barely by a two up two down in town for what he got this place for.)  Paid for – cash down, of course. 

            We're humping bales from the back of his truck, taking them out to the sheep in the fields furthest from the farm.  My arms are burning with the effort. We pause; looking back to the house and barns, their partly white washed walls looking grubby against the pristine white snow, the grey of the slate merging with the grey of the sky.

            “It’s beautiful,” I murmur.

            “It is, isn’t it,” Richard replies with a trace of sentimentality. “Best thing is - you see those two buildings to the left,” he points, “Excellent potential for conversion, holiday cottages or something.  Fishing’s good, can’t stand it myself – as boring as hell - but some like to come and play at being country on a weekend.”  Richard's not playing.  “And, I’ll let you into a secret,” he taps his nose, “still got my investments, just run it off the PC; best of both worlds, Tony, best of both worlds.” He sighs and claps his hands enthusiastically. Two crows, startled, rise from a twisted Oak. “Anyway Tony, there’s opportunities here, you fancy it?”

            “Sorry Richard, don't get it.” Truth is I've only be half listening.

            “Got something salted away Tony that you can use to make a mint?”

            “What?” I’m starting to think we should be moving again, my feet are getting colder.

“This,” he throws his arms wide as if he’s trying to embrace the buildings, “thought you might like to be part of this.” He gestures. “My plan’s to convert this to a retreat, looking for investors. That's what this weekend is about. You in Dafoe?” He slaps me hard on the shoulder.

            “You mean you want to do business?”

            “Yup, well Josie wanted a shindig and I thought it would be a shame to miss the opportunity,” he grins.

            I think of the bag in my room.

            “Think about it, yeah.” We clamber back into the truck. “Oh, you won't mention it to Josie will you, gets a bit tetchy.”

 

The heat of the kitchen hits hard. It’s as warm and wet as a dog’s tongue scrapped across your face.  

            “Come on woman, where’s lunch, food, grub?  The men have returned from the field and they’re hungry.”  Richard’s at the table, knife and fork in hand.  “Kids, kids,” he bellows, “grubs on its way.”  There's the thunderous whisper of feet in socks and three children explode into the kitchen, hugging their father and diving for a seat.  Each in turn pauses and takes their knife and fork in each hand and then looks to Richard.  Very gently at first Richard begins to beat out a rhythm on the table – tap, tap, tap.  They follow suit – tap, tap, tap.  “We want food,” mouths Richard silently, making the words match the beat which grows in volume and so does the chant. 

            Josie delivers steaming plates of stew to the table just as the mantra reaches a pitch that the crockery starts to vibrate and dance.  She sits, bows her and quietly says: “It used to be funny.” It’s lost on her family, the gulping down what she’s laid out.

            Richard's plate's half empty. He begins talking, picking up from when we were outside.  I'm treated to more of his gospel of self-sufficiency, how much the kids enjoy the space and freedom, the time that he and Josie now have, the quality time.  Josie doesn't look up from her plate.  There's a brief respite where I'm asked about work (non-committal response), a joke about the thrusting world of libraries and then we're back, his keenness to share the new found idyll with his ex-University and city friends and so he goes on .  Through it Josie sits, exuding a resentful compliance.

            I'm finding it hard to follow.  The food, the work, the heat; the world’s closing in.  With a great effort I stifle a yawn, grimacing like a gargoyle.  Richard, despite looking straight at me, doesn't falter.  My face goes through contortions again, still no respite. 

            “Tony, you’re tired.”  It's Josie, clear and collected.  I wave my hands trying to deny only to be attacked by another yawn.  “Look,” she continues, “why don’t you get some rest.”

            “I was going to…”

            “No Richard.” Josie's look is fixed. Richard tenses, he turns, his lips part but no sound follows. Seemingly calm waters boil furiously for a moment. “Tony was late last night,” says Josie pointedly. Richard twitches wanting to speak but he chooses to bite his lip. The waters subside. “We don’t want you falling asleep this evening when everyone is here, do we Richard?”

            Richard pauses weighing option but then the country farmer's back, “Ah the power of fresh, good, northern country air. Never slept better. Eh Tony?”

            I make some polite protestations, but face stretches into another yawn.

            “Go,” says Josie.

            I'm up out of my chair feigning regretful, not wanting to look too keen to leave their company. Truth is couldn't stand an afternoon with Richard's relentless jollity, his needling and the implicit requests for money.  Besides I do want to sleep.  And then there's the money. It's been unattended all day, it needs my company.

            I'm backing out the door, then up the stairs, grateful to be on my own.  The kitchen door closes sharply, in a way that suggests anger but all sound is muffled by the heavy, thick walls of the house.  I push my bedroom door open and belly flop face down on to the bed.