All this means that you must redouble your commitment to her. You must get through this tricky patch, and then things will become clearer, better. She believes that, and so you must believe it too.
You take the back route as you approach the Village, to avoid passing your parents’ house.
‘Where’s Susan?’ are Joan’s first words as she opens the door.
‘I’ve come by myself.’
‘Does she know?’
You like the way Joan always gets straight to the point. You quite enjoy having cold water dashed in your face before sitting down with a streaky tumbler full of room-temperature gin.
‘No.’
‘Then it must be serious. I’ll shut the little yappers up.’
You sink into a dog-scented armchair and a drink is put next to you. As you are gathering your thoughts, Joan gets in first.
‘Point One. I’m not a go-between. Whatever you say stays in this room and it doesn’t get leaked back. Point Two. I’m not a shrink, I’m not some kind of advice centre, I don’t even much like listening to other people’s woes. I tend to think they should get on with it, stop moaning, roll up their sleeves and all of that. Point Three. I’m just an old soak whose life hasn’t worked out and who lives alone with her dogs. So I’m not an authority on anything. Not even crosswords, as you once pointed out.’
‘But you love Susan.’
‘Course I do. How is the dear girl?’
‘She’s drinking too much.’
‘How much is “too much”?’
‘In her case, anything at all.’
‘You may be right.’
‘And she’s on anti-depressants.’
‘Well, we’ve all been there,’ says Joan. ‘Doctors hand them out like Smarties. Especially to women of a certain age. Do they do any good?’
‘I can’t tell. They just make her woozy. But a different kind of woozy from what the drink does.’
‘Yes, I remember that too.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘So what should I do?’
‘Paul, dear, I’ve just told you I don’t give advice. I took my own advice for so many years and look where it got me. So I don’t do that any more.’
You nod. You aren’t too surprised either.
‘The only advice I’d give you…’
‘Yes?’
‘…is have a swig of what’s at your elbow.’
You obey.
‘OK,’ you say. ‘No advice. But… I don’t know, is there something that I ought to know and don’t? Something you can tell me about Susan, or about Susan and me, that would help?’
‘All I can say is that if everything goes belly-up and pear-shaped, you’ll probably get over it and she probably won’t.’
You are shocked.
‘That’s not a very kind thing to say.’
‘I don’t do kind, Paul. Truth isn’t kind. You’ll find that out soon enough as life kicks in.’
‘It feels as if it’s kicked in pretty hard already.’
‘That may be all to the fucking good.’ Your face must look as if it’s just taken a slap. ‘Come on, Paul, you didn’t come all the way down here so that I’d give you a hug and tell you there are fairies at the bottom of the garden.’
‘True. Just tell me your thoughts on this. Susan goes back to see Macleod every so often. Probably more than she says.’
‘Does that trouble you?’
‘Mainly in the sense that if he ever lays a finger on her again, I’m going to have to kill him.’
She laughs. ‘Oh, I do so miss the melodrama of being young.’
‘Don’t patronise me, Joan.’
‘I’m not patronising you, Paul. Of course you’d do no such thing. But I admire you for the thought.’
You wonder if she is being satirical. But Joan doesn’t do satire.
‘Why don’t you think I would?’
‘Because the last murder in the Village was probably committed by someone wearing woad.’
You laugh, and take another sip of gin. ‘I’m worried,’ you say. ‘I’m worried that I shan’t be able to save her.’
She doesn’t reply, and this annoys you.
‘So what do you think about that?’ you demand.
‘I told you I’m not a fucking oracle. You might as well read your horoscope in the Advertiser & Gazette. I said when you ran away together, you’ve got guts, the pair of you. You’ve got guts, and you’ve got love. If that isn’t good enough for life, then life isn’t good enough for you.’
‘Now you are sounding like an oracle.’
‘Then I’d better go and wash my mouth out with soap.’
One day, you return to find her with cuts and bruises to her face, and her arms held defensively against her.
‘I fell over that step in the garden,’ she says, as if it were a known hazard you had previously discussed. ‘I’m getting very trippy, I’m afraid.’
She is indeed getting ‘trippy’. Nowadays, as a reflex, you take her arm as you walk with her and keep watch for uneven pavements. But she also has a giveaway flush to her face. You call the doctor – not the private one she went to for her cheering-up pills.
Dr Kenny is a fussy, inquisitive middle-aged man, but the right sort of GP – one who believes that house calls provide useful background when it comes to diagnosis. You take him upstairs to Susan’s bedroom; her bruises are coming into full colour.
Downstairs again, he asks for a few words.
‘Of course.’
‘It’s rather puzzling,’ he begins. ‘It’s unusual for a woman of her age to take a fall.’
‘She’s been getting very trippy lately.’
‘Yes, that’s the word she used to me. And, if I may ask, you are…?’
‘I’m her lodger… no, more than that, kind of godson, I suppose.’
‘Hmm. And it’s just the two of you here?’
‘There are two more lodgers in the attic rooms.’ You decide not to promote Eric to the status of second godson.
‘Does she have family?’
‘Yes, but she’s kind of… estranged from them at the moment.’
‘So she has no support? Except for you, that is?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘As I say, it’s rather puzzling. Do you think there was drink involved?’
‘Oh no,’ you say swiftly, ‘she doesn’t drink. She hates the stuff. That’s one of the reasons she left her husband. He’s a drinker. Flagons and gallons,’ you add, without being able to stop yourself.
You realize two things. First, that you lie automatically to protect Susan – even if the truth might have helped her more. You also begin to see how your relationship, or rather, your cohabitation, might appear to an outsider.
‘So, if I may ask, what does she do all day?’
‘She… does some volunteer work for the Samaritans.’ This isn’t true either. Susan has mentioned the idea; though you are against it. You think she shouldn’t try to start helping others when she is the one needing help.
‘That’s not much, is it?’
‘Well, I suppose she… keeps house.’
He looks around. The place is clearly in a mess. You realize that he is finding your answers inadequate. And why shouldn’t he?
‘If it happens again, we’ll be obliged to investigate,’ he says. Then picks up his bag and leaves.
Investigate? you think. Investigate? He can tell you’ve been lying. But investigate what? Perhaps he guesses you are her lover, and suspects you might have been beating her up. Christ to that, you think: in your desire to protect her from being thought a drinker, you seem to be opening yourself up to a charge of assault. Perhaps he was giving you a final warning.
Not that the police would necessarily be interested. You remember an incident from a year or two before. You are in the car with Susan and have scarcely gone a quarter of a mile when you notice a couple rowing on the pavement. As you see the man bearing down on the woman you have flashbacks to the Macleod household. He is not exactly hitting her, but looks about to do so. Maybe they are drunk, you can’t tell. You wind down the window and the woman yells, ‘Call the police!’ Now he is holding her. ‘Call the police!’ You speed home, dial 999, and are picked up by a patrol car which takes you to the scene of the reported possible crime. The couple have moved on, but you soon track them down a couple of streets away. They are ten yards apart, bellowing obscenities at one another.