Something Might Happen (18 page)

Ow. Stop it. What are you doing?

I don’t know, I tell him truthfully. I notice in a distant kind of way that my eyes are closed.

I don’t know either.

He sounds hurt. As he speaks I feel his hardness sliding away. He gives a long sigh and reaches for his watch and tips the
face to read it.

I don’t know what’s the matter with you, he says. I can’t begin to work out what the matter is. Don’t you want me any more?
Is there something else you want?

I lie down in silence, arms folded on my chest like a stone person on a tomb.

Is there?

I close my eyes. The world tilts. I’m spilling out of it.

Is there something or someone else? he asks me again, and as he says the words, I try to listen, try to ask myself the same
question, Is there?

Speak to me, Tess, he says as sleep comes up and punches me in the face.

In the morning, the garment is somehow off me, down by the side of the bed. Downstairs I can hear the sound of the TV and,
above it, the children shouting. My head hurts and my throat is sore. Mick brings me coffee.

Last night, he says, a weird thing happened.

I know, I say.

He doesn’t seem angry any more. He sits there on the edge of the bed in his old saggy jeans.

No, he says, not that. I mean while you were out.

I’m sorry, I tell him.

He ignores me.

Well, at about six or six thirty, the dog went crazy—barking furiously as if there was someone there—and when I went down,
there was no one. But the back door was open—

I sit up.

My God, Mick, I say, but who’d have opened it? Were the kids downstairs?

Well, he says, it could have been anything—the wind, or maybe it wasn’t properly shut in the first place—

It shouldn’t open on its own like that.

No, he agrees, but listen. That’s not all. Fletcher was really going berserk, you know, running in and out and growling and
growling—

Someone was there?

No. But I could hear the sound of talking. Just a very
low, quiet voice, barely audible—and then I realised Jordan was in the room and he looked like he’d been crying and I asked
him what was the matter and who had opened the door and he wouldn’t tell me.

My heart goes cold.

It wasn’t Bob? You’re sure Bob hadn’t just popped round and forgotten to close it or something?

No. It wasn’t Bob. In fact Jordan said it was Rosa who’d opened it. So I called her down and I could tell by her face that
she knew what was going on, so I assumed he was telling the truth. And then I got quite cross—and guess what she told me?

I stare at him and shake my head.

She said that Lennie had done it.

I take a sharp breath.

What?

She said that she and Jordan keep on seeing her.

Panic squeezes my heart.

I don’t—

Mick looks calmly at me, watching my face.

Just that. That’s what she said.

But—I put my coffee cup down—seeing Lennie? What do they mean, seeing? Mick—?

She said they keep on seeing Lennie and she keeps on telling them things.

Oh God no, I say. What sort of things?

He laughs suddenly.

Tess, he says, look at you. You look petrified. You don’t believe it, do you?

But—

Come on, he says, it’s one of Rosa’s funny stories. Except it’s not funny—she’s scaring Jordan. I told her so. I’m not having
it. It took a while to calm him down.

Jordan’s seen her too?

Mick sighs.

He says he has. Christ, please don’t get in a state about it, Tess. Or I wouldn’t have told you. It’s a game, clearly.

I say nothing.

It’s perfectly natural. It’s a child’s game, a way of dealing with a terrible situation. The only slightly worrying thing
is the door.

But—I thought it was Rosa?

No, I told you, Jordan said it was her, but she denied it. She swore she’d been nowhere near it. And for some reason I believe
her.

But someone opened it.

He frowns.

The wind? There’s no other explanation.

But—you’re just going to leave it? Aren’t you worried?

He thinks about this.

I don’t know, he says. Are you?

Suddenly his face collapses and he looks a little tired. He looks at me.

At least I was sober, he says. Christ, at least I was bloody well here.

ALEX HAS NEARLY FINISHED THE COFFIN. IT LIES ON THE
workbench in the draughty outhouse where he works—a huge, sleek thing, carved out of the reddest wood I’ve ever seen.

He watches me look at it.

Well?

I shiver.

It’s beautiful, I say, it’s very—big.

Yes, he says softly. Yes, I wanted it big.

He waits, clearly expecting more.

I like how the sides are curved, I say. It looks like it’s been blown from inside—

That’s the wood. It’s the best stuff to work with—you can do just about anything with it.

I run my fingers over it. It feels warm.

Expensive, he adds, and hard to get hold of.

It’s lovely, I say.

He tells me that both boys helped him polish it.

They wanted to, he adds quickly as if I might have doubted it.

Rosa comes in. Stops when she sees it.

Is that—?

For her, I say quickly, yes.

She frowns.

It looks more like a bath.

Alex smiles.

Oh well, he says, fine. That’s OK. I think that’s cool.

Rosa gives him one of her looks.

Rosa—I take her firmly by the shoulders—shush. Go out. Find Jordan—go on, I mean it. Out.

Alex pays no attention.

And look, he says, touching my arm, have you seen?

He shows me where he’s sanded a small area on the side and the boys have drawn pictures. Even Connor. A pirate with strange
bobbly feet, waving a flag saying Mum. Max has carved his name and a long and steady row of kisses.

He wouldn’t do a picture, Alex says. I left him alone and that’s what he did—one kiss is for every year he knew her, that’s
what he said.

We stand there for a few moments. He wipes his hands on his jeans. So, he says, how’s things?

All right.

Still seeing Lacey?

I flush.

What do you mean?

He smiles.

Al, I say, for God’s sake.

I’m sorry, he says, keeping his eyes on me. But look here, don’t you ever think of Mick?

He slides a cigarette from a pack on the bench and lights it.

What do you mean, think of Mick?

He says you got drunk. You and him.

I sit down on the bench.

He told you that?

Yes. It’s funny because he said nothing to me about it.

Who? Who said nothing?

Lacey.

Why would he?

No, he says in a colder voice, I suppose you’re right. Why would he?

I look at him, standing by the empty coffin, smoking and waiting.

So is it true?

I look at his cigarette.

Give me some of that, I say.

He passes it.

Is it true? he asks me again louder.

Yes, OK, we had a drink. So?

He smiles and says nothing.

We both look at the coffin.

All we need now, he says, is to get her back—

I stare at him.

Her body, he says, to go in it.

Ah.

You know, the undertakers recommended I put some kind of upholstery in it.

Really? I say, enjoying the dirt-taste of smoke in my mouth.

Oh you know—they’re so conservative these people, wanting to do things in a certain way. I’ll have that back now, he says
about the cigarette. You shouldn’t smoke you know.

Neither should you, I say. Handing it back.

He takes it. His fingers are filthy, the nails yellow.

No, he says, but you really shouldn’t. I’m expendable.

What a ridiculous thing to say. Your boys need you.

He looks at me.

They needed their mother, too.

You know what I mean.

He sighs a long sigh and stubs out the cigarette.

There, he says, OK?

Ignore them, I tell him, the undertakers—you don’t have to do as they say.

Oh I did. I am. I told them—it’s only going to be bunged in the ground for fuck’s sake—

Quite.

He smiles.

But then I went one better, he says. I told them I’d make my own lining anyway. And do you know what I’m using?

I shake my head.

Con’s old baby sheet. The flannel one he used to drag round when he was little—

I swallow.

The one he had to take with him everywhere, remember?

You’ve still got that?

Upstairs in a chest. Lennie must have put it away for, well, I don’t know for what.

It’s not something you’d throw away, I tell him quietly.

Women, he says. Typical Lennie. I mean, I wouldn’t have kept it.

I shake my head.

But it’s come in useful now, he says.

But is it big enough? I ask him. It’s not very big, surely?

He laughs.

Do you think she’ll mind what the fuck size it is?

No.

He passes me a roll of kitchen towel and I wipe my eyes, blow my nose.

I don’t understand you, he says at last.

What? What don’t you understand?

You were always there for me, my best friend, I could say anything to you.

Al, I say.

And then—

No. Don’t do this.

Lennie dies and—

Al—

You stop loving me. Just like that.

I say nothing.

I’m serious. I really don’t understand it, he says.

It’s not like that—

Well what is it like? Tell me, Tess, I really need to know. What happened?

What happened to what?

To us.

Nothing, I say, nothing happened.

I’m squatting by the freezer, trying to pull out two frozen pizzas without spilling ice and peas everywhere, when the phone
rings. Fletcher nudges at me and I push him away.

I hear Mick talking for a moment, then he comes in and hands the phone to me.

For you.

I take it and feel him watching my face. Fletcher tries to poke his nose in the freezer.

Oi, says Mick and grabs his collar.

Good news, Lacey says, I just told Mick. They reckon they’ll release the body within maybe ten days—

Oh—I turn my face to the cold blank square of the window—that’s good.

I mean, they haven’t named a day, but they reckon it’s safe for Alex to make arrangements.

Arrangements?

For the funeral.

I take a quick breath.

Oh God, I say, I can’t believe it.

I know.

I’m silent for a moment.

It’ll be tough, Lacey says, especially for the kids. I mean now, after all this, to see her buried.

He wants that? Not cremation?

Yeah. I just don’t think he wants anything further done—to her—

He pauses and I hear his breath.

And you, he says more quietly, are you OK?

Oh yes, I say as brightly as I can. Fine, we’re all fine.

I meant you.

Yes.

You knew I meant that?

Yes, I say again.

Mick looks at me.

Yes, thanks, I say again.

Mick gets the airline to extend Bob’s ticket, for reasons of compassion, though a small supplement has to be paid. Which Mick
says is totally out of order—he’ll probably write and complain when all of this is over. He says this, but we both know he
won’t. He doesn’t let Bob know about the supplement of course. Bob phones his neighbour who says he is only too happy to take
care of the dogs.

The boys won’t recognise me when I go back, Bob says sadly. I’ll be a stranger to them.

He shows Jordan a photo—two hefty, elderly chocolate Labs gazing at the camera from a driveway strewn with golden leaves and
pine cones.

Give them lots of treats, Jordan advises. Spoil them. Mum and Dad always bring us something if they go away.

What do you mean if we go away? says Mick. We never go anywhere.

You did once, Jordan says. You went to London.

Oh, says Mick, yeah. For one night.

Get them some treats, says Jordan again and he goes over to Bob and puts a hand on his knee. Bob acts like it’s perfectly
normal to be touched this way but you can see he likes it. He picks up the small, grubby hand and holds it in his own. Jordan
leans against him.

Aha, he says, but I have to be careful of their teeth. And their weight, you see. Too many treats and the goddamn doctors
would be onto them just as they are onto me—

You should never give a dog chocolate, Jordan says. Not human chocolate—

Is that so? Bob says. Well, I must say I didn’t know that. Where did you hear that, boy?

On the internet, Jordan says. You can find out all sorts of stuff on the internet, like do you know what the word for a girl
dog is?

That’s enough, Jordan, says Mick, but it’s OK, Bob is already laughing.

Normally plots at St Margaret’s are expensive and extremely hard to come by, but Canon Cleve has somehow managed to get Lennie
a place. She’s going to be buried on the west side, not far from the ancient yew whose
dense black branches spread into the playground on Tibby’s Green.

Rosa seems exceptionally pleased. That yew is her favourite tree.

I once left something extremely precious in it, she says, and when I came back it was still there. After a whole week!

Really?

Yes—she looks triumphant—it’s the tree. It has these powers—

Powers?

She smiles.

You wouldn’t understand. But basically it looked after the thing for me.

Great, I say. So what was it? What did you leave?

My lucky stone, she says; the one with a hole in it. I left it in the hidey-hole. Lennie knows which one.

She talks about her in the present tense, I tell Mick later, as if she’s not gone at all.

I know, he says. I’ve heard.

But—isn’t it weird? Why’s she doing it? Do you think it’s OK?

It’s a habit she’s got into. Once the funeral’s over, maybe that will change things.

Maybe, I say.

Everything’s weird at the moment, he says. This is such a weird time—a time of nothing happening. Nothing and everything.