Surface Tension - Chapter 17

Chapter 17

For the first time in weeks the sun might break the unrelenting grey sky and provide warmth.  There's a faint golden hue to the morning sky which gives hope of change. The ground is white, grass covered in winter camouflage.  The frost's so heavy the grass is brittle breaking under foot.  My breath hangs pensive in the air.

            The drive looks different in daylight, you can see how it sweeps behind the conifers and the large house that rises up behind.  In the dark it had been possible to imagine it as genuinely Georgian; in the reality of day such pretence is irredeemably obvious.  It's modern to its core; nothing put a poor facsimile of the real thing.  Much like me. 

Involuntarily I slowly finger my mouth and swollen lip.  There's a salty taste as blood seeps from a wound that has hardly begun to heal.

            This morning is all about facing the music.  I could've gone to work but I'm surprised to find I don't really care. I'm resigned to my fate.  That's the past, can't remake it, can't recast it. So, let's see what I can make of the future. There's a large amount of money in the back of battered blue Micra that’s parked round the corner. I stand at the edge of the drive, puffing away like some train building up a head of steam until I reach the point of release and with a hesitant crunch I step forward on to the gravel drive and into a new world. There are no border guards to give me the once over this time. 

            I trot briskly, enjoying the sensation of fighting against the cold. I round the corner to the large gravelled area in front of the house. Last night it was packed with expensive cars, this morning it’s virtually empty.  The exception’s a large royal blue removal lorry, which judging by the plates is very new.  Red lettering, picked out in gold proclaims that this is RJ Robertson and Son, Executive House Removals and Storage.   A small golden crest, a shield with a lion rampant adds a certain seriousness emphasising the ‘Executive’ nature of the work.

            I walk round the lorry, the tail gate's down and even though it is only 9:30 in the morning the cavernous container is already a third full.  A tall, thin balding man dressed in royal blue coveralls is securing a grandfather clock.   He turns and begins to speak, mopping his face with the back of his hand.

            “'Ere Carl, couldn't give us an 'and? Oh....”

            “Sorry mate.”  I shrug and hurry past, traversing the tail and making my way up the steps. I look back over the garden; the two shrubs in tubs that had been knocked over when I’d been punched were still on their side.  I taste the blood in my mouth again, my jaw aches. 

            The heavy, black door is ajar.  I go to knock. The door gives at my first rap. Coming towards me are two blokes, both dressed in blue overall with a large and obviously heavy table between them.   The one at the front is younger. He's red faced from this morning’s exertions, the other is grey; grey hair, grey face, grey lips, which wear a thin wisp of a smile.

            “Come on, Carl, got another two of these to shift. 'Ere,” the grey man looks at me. “You couldn't just 'old this open, could y'u?” He flicks his head at the door.

            I wedge myself into the gap

            “Tar muchly. Now, careful Carl down steps?”

            Carl makes a hesitant step downwards.

            “That's it son,” Grey face turns back to me. “If it’s ‘er you want, she’s in there,” he gestures with his head, “In sittin' room. Carefully does it Carl, don't rush it.” He teeters down the steps, leaving a thick trail nicotine in his wake. I follow its scent into the house.

            The hall's as dark and as empty as last night though there's no resentful student to take me coat.   I hesitate, I'm ready to back away, but before I've a chance to act the door opposite swings open and crisply dressed woman in her mid to late fifties steps through. She registers my unexpected presence with a flicker of her eyes, smiles gracefully and says:

            “You must be here to see Mrs McClelland?”  It's rhetorical. “We have had a number of callers already this morning.  It is kind of you to come.  If you are willing to wait Mrs McClelland will be more than pleased to see you though as you can see she is busy.   Would that be appropriate for you?”  As she’s been speaking she's moved, clip clopping across the stone floor, to the other door turning the door knob, preparing the way, “Please.”

            I have no choice, I follow.

            She leads me through the large, empty reception room. There’s no sign of last night’s gathering. We cross the room until we reach another door, she stops, holding the door open, ushering me into a room. It's small, sparsely decorated with windows that look onto the garden.

            “Please take a seat Mr…?”

            “Dafoe.”

            “Mr Dafoe , I will tell Mrs McClelland that you are here and she will be with you as soon as she can be.  Please take a seat.” She gestures to an old sofa and a couple of arm chairs. I hope that she'll mention coffee, I'm desperate for one. But no, she backs out of the room without saying anything more.

            I wander to the window and stare out at the frozen world. My breath condenses on a pane. Childishly I draw a smiley face.

            Last night:   more information about Mr McClelland; the push; the punch and waking this morning with the need to protect what I, no we, meaning Bill and I, have got.  Hence the early morning rush to the gym to rescue the duffle bag before someone cancels my membership or something. And then the decision to come here, as if being with the money has reset my compass. I need some reassurance. For what I'm not quite sure but being here seemed like the best idea.

            It's quiet, stuck at the back of the house, no echoes from removal men, no voices, a sepulchral silence. The firs are bowed under the weight of successive frosts, prisoners in white straight-jackets.   Denuded formal flower beds regimentally criss-cross the garden beyond the trees. The frost has given the bare earth the patina of steel.  Scanning the lawn I trace the skip of birds as they try and extract food from the ground, the stealthy tread of a cat watching his prey, reaping 1winter's rewards.  Out of the corner of my eye I catch a movement.  A spider in the tree nearest the window is industrially spinning its web, filaments of glass in the cold. 

            “Mr Dafoe?”

            I jolt round, at the cold, cut voice.

            “Oh, yes, sorry. Mrs McClelland,” I offer my hand, “Didn’t hear you, admiring your garden, even in winter it has a certain…”

            “Not my garden any more Mr Dafoe,” she pauses briefly on my name.  There's a flicker of recognition. “As you can see, I am taking my leave, so pleasantries are not necessary.” 

            She stands impassively waiting for me to speak. Her blue eyes are void of emotion. She looks older than last night; hair drawn back and tied tightly; the makeup is perfunctory, sufficient to face the world, whereas last night's was theatrical, necessary for both the performance and protection. She's shorter, though that is explained by the pumps. The heels have been boxed away. 

            “It is about last night…” I begin hesitantly.

            “I am grateful that you are willing to extend your sympathy at this time,” she interrupts. The word's slide smoothly out as are oft repeated platitudes do.

            Silence.

            “If that is all Mr Dafoe...” her eyes are hard

            She doesn't remember me from last night. I'm relieved.  It makes sense; why would she remember me amongst a morass of so many faces, we only briefly exchanged what amounted to pleasantries. But then there was the incident, the fight (well couple of punches), the broken garden pots. You’d have thought that might have stuck, particularly given the busted lip and swelling eye. She shows no inkling that I was her son's whipping boy last night, so she's either excellent at poker, doesn't know or doesn't care.

            “Yes,” I fumble, “I just wanted to say how sad I was and offer any assistance.”  I'm groping for the right words, as they form in my mouth they feel heavy, wrong, inappropriate and false.  Mrs McClelland stands still, holding me in her gaze, it's a non verbal “well?” “Your husband was a highly regarded…”

            “No he wasn't,” Mrs McClelland snaps, nostrils flaring, a look of disdain curling her lips, “My husband was a thief, swindler and fraud.  If you knew him at all then you'd know that Mr Dafoe.  So at best you’re sympathy is… misplaced and unnecessary.  If you were ignorant of this, believed the cultivated façade that Sandy manufactured, you are naïve and ignorant; if you knew, well, you are plainly little better than him.” Two pink flowers are blossoming on her checks, tight buds opening the more agitated and angry she gets.  “No doubt you want something.  If it's money, fine, see my lawyers.  If it's something you’ve seen here,” she gestures to the house, “Take it, I want rid of it.  I won’t need it where I'm going and even if I did I wouldn't want anything he’d touched,” she spits. She flicks her head, stalks to the door and pulls it open.  “You have done what you came to do, please go.”

            I'm rigid, rooted to the spot, as frozen as the trees outside: “What if I had some ‘property’ that might have belonged to your husband,” I blurt.

            Mrs McClelland lets go of the door and with measured steps she moves towards me, stopping uncomfortably close at the same time as the door clicks shut.

            “Look Mr Dafoe, I really don’t care.  Whatever you’ve got, whatever you've found keep it, gamble with it, give it away, buy this wretched place.  Just go, leave me to get out of here.” Her eyes have clouded, and there’s the tip of a great sadness welling up. “Sandy McClelland was a manipulative, scheming, kniving, philandering man, and believe me I'm listing his good qualities.  If that disappoints you, if you believed the veneer, more fool you.” She draws herself up and tenderly places a hand on my chest.  “And if you knew him, believe me, I don’t want to know you and you really don’t want to know me Mr Dafoe, you really don’t.” She steps away.  “I'm leaving, going somewhere warmer.  I’m using what's left to get away. Believe me after 20 years I deserve something better.” She walks to the door and pulls it open. “So, fine, take what you’ve got and make of it what you will.  Look on it as a gift, an interest free loan which I never want to be repaid.  And now I’d be grateful if you went.” She steps through the door, turning to say: “You can find your way out.”

            The door closes delicately. I can hear her pad away. I turn; the spider’s finished its web. It’s sitting, waiting to catch its prey.

I trudge back through the rapidly diminishing house. As I step outside the cold catches me, I wrap my coat tight round me, though it offers little insulation against the all pervasive chill.  I duck behind the near side of the removal van seeking shelter from the wind’s serrated edge. I pause, leaning back on the van’s side and run my hand over my aching jaw and I let everything Ellen had said last night percolate through. I shiver. This time it wasn’t the cold. With what the departing Mrs McClelland has said the last whispers of doubt have been blown away. Everything Ellen said was true. It wasn't the alcohol talking.