Monica lay back on the bed and looked up as the man reached clumsily for a cigarette and lit one. She watched the tiny orange circle glow into life as he took a deep pull. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. She touched his cheek with a finger as though making sure that he was for real; then she noticed his surprisingly weak chin. She tried not to think of the chaotic trail of clothes that she imagined lay on the floor between the kitchen and her cupboardlike bedroom, but she realized that at this very moment she should be factoring in the consequences of one of the children’s waking up and walking in on her.
Derek was concentrating hard, and then he blew a perfectly formed smoke ring, which gave him another reason to be pleased with himself.
“Do you have anybody special, Derek? I should have asked.”
He carefully laid the cigarette down on the pack in such a way that the lit end was hanging over the edge of the box and would burn itself out at the filter. Then he rolled over next to her and pulled her close.
“I do now.”
He moved in and kissed her quickly on the mouth.
“I’m not like Victor, with birds everywhere. As I said, I’d be keen to see you again.”
“Go steady, you mean?”
“Well, one step at a time, but something like that. My situation’s a bit complicated as I’ve got a wife, and so has Victor, but unlike him, I’m kind of separated.”
She watched him disengage himself from her, and then he hauled himself out of the confusion of bedding and propped himself up on a supporting arm.
“We were really young when we wed, so things haven’t been that straightforward.”
She felt as though she’d been slammed up against a wall.
“Look, I’d best be going before your boys wake up.”
“They’re fast asleep, but I should probably go and check.”
“No, you’re alright.” He clasped a gentle hand to her shoulder. “You look great just like that.”
When exactly, she wondered, had he worked the wedding ring off his finger? She could see him looking closely at her, as though somewhere inside of himself he was celebrating a kind of muddled triumph.
“I’m sorry, Monica, but I’ve really got to get back.”
She watched him spin slowly out of bed and begin to step into his underpants. Then he lit another cigarette and picked up the now-empty pack and went in search of the rest of his clothes. She heard water running in the bathroom, then the toilet flush, and then he was back standing over her and raking back his strawlike hair with one hand while carrying his shoes in the other. She guessed that he must have flushed both the old and the new cigarettes down the loo. He gestured to the shoes.
“I don’t want to wake up the young ones, so I’ll put these on outside.”
She pulled the sheet around herself and swung her legs around so that her feet were now touching the floor. Doubling his chin, he looked down at her.
“I’ll come and see you at the library,” he said. “Really, I will.”
“It’s the Ladyhills branch,” she said. “Not the main one.”
Monica wanted to add, the one with stained carpet and old volumes that smell of dirt and dust; the branch where men wait for me to climb the ladder before they sneak a look up from their books.
“I know which library.” He stooped slightly and kissed her on the forehead; then he tousled her short hair and smiled. “And I’ve left my work number on top of the telly with my extension and everything, so they’ll put you right through.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe we can go for a drink after work one night this week? Just me and you, not Victor or your friend. Would you like that?”
It didn’t make any sense to suddenly start feeling bashful, but she nodded and looked down at her crooked toes. When she raised her head, he was gone, and a moment later she heard the painful screech of the front door closing and then the click of the lock as it jumped into place.
Monica was alone, but she could feel herself hovering on a precipice and in danger of being swept away by a torrent of emotions, among which guilt and shame featured with some prominence. She left the bedroom and quickly picked up her clothes from the kitchen floor. She puzzled as to why he had rescued his own but left hers lying there. Then she put the chain across the front door and hurried back to the bedroom and flung her wrinkled dress and knickers and bra on top of the dishevelled bedclothes and pulled on her dressing gown, but she couldn’t afford to linger. Her task in the kitchen was clear. She washed out the glasses and put away the now depleted brandy bottle and continued to try to hide any sign that her flat had been visited by these people. Once she was satisfied, she checked on the children and discovered Lucy staring up at her with eyes wide open, although the girl’s body remained rigid with fatigue. “Go back to sleep, love.” She looked at Ben and Tommy and remembered their afternoon in the park, and what a slog it had been to get them back to the flat as the rain began to fall. But they were good kids, all of them, even Lucy, and it wasn’t their fault. None of it was.
In the living room she leaned up against the window, where drops of rain were shivering to life and then transforming themselves into thin, hesitant lines as they descended the pane. Down below she saw a man crossing the new bridge over the dual carriageway, and then scuttling down the stairs on the far side by the brewery. It was him, Derek Evans. Maybe she would write to him at the Post and simply say thanks, and tell him that she’d had a good time. She already knew that calling him on the telephone would be too much for her. If somebody else picked up the phone, she’d only get flummoxed, and how was she to describe herself? Jesus, Monica, what have you done? She could see that up in the sky there were no clouds to obscure the thin pendant of moon and speckling of stars, and down on the ground no evidence of the late-afternoon storm, aside from the odd puddle that cars continued to splash through. Despite the light drizzle, the world seemed quiet, peaceful almost, and then she noticed that he’d left his empty pack of cigarettes on top of the television set, and a dog-eared business card and a ten-shilling note were tucked underneath it. She picked up the discarded box and moved it to one side. He’d left money for her, which meant that either he’d got the wrong idea about her or he really cared, but as she turned and watched him disappear down the street that ran parallel to the brewery, she didn’t know what to think.
IV. THE FAMILY
The creaking of the door announces the late-morning arrival of her dear sister, who she knows will be bearing a discreetly lacquered tray upon which a bowl of broth will be carefully balanced. A full submission to nourishment will be demanded of her before she is left alone to linger through another feverish day. She opens her eyes and attempts to lift her head from the damp pillow, but the weight is too much. She unseals her lips and moistens them with the tip of her tongue, and then moves her mouth in an attempt to form words, but no words emerge. Through the slender window she can see the naked branches of the oak tree beating frantically in the keen morning wind. The funereal December light illuminates this macabre dance. Heavy limbs, like her own, but she never danced. I never danced. Not once, although Papa never forbade it. Five girls and not one of us a dancer. Branwell frequently danced in the streets of the village when befuddled with drink. The rascal son who danced, but not the girls.
She watches attentively as Charlotte sets down the tray on the chair next to the narrow bed. Her clothes make a tremendous noise. Silk on cotton. Cotton on silk. Once again her sister is occupying too much space in the room. Dear, dear Charlotte. Please, no more of this. But she must be considerate to her sister, for she understands that it was her own guilty preoccupation with the worlds of the Grange and the Heights that occasioned a distance to grow between them. Please, Charlotte. Forgive my selfishness. An arm begins gently to burrow beneath one shoulder and tunnel its way across her back. A free hand cradles her head, and in one unhurried motion her bones are levered up and forward. She can feel Charlotte calmly stuffing a dry pillow behind her, and then her sister releases her, and — lo and behold — she is balanced upright. Charlotte’s are affectionate brown eyes, although around their perimeter they are now decorated with the furrows of age. When her sister smiles, pages of the calendar turn. Poor Charlotte: her one true love released her, and no one was there to catch her as she fell.