Morag Joss - Half Broken Things

Michael listened to make sure that the house was quiet. Then he pulled a tartan rug from one of the library sofas, brought it into the utility room and spread it out on the floor. He thought that he would be safe from interruption here, even if Jean should wake up.

They had not had lunch until after half-past three. Neither of them had commented on Steph’s absence. They had chosen to assume that she must be resting and therefore did not remark on it- in this way they disallowed the possibility that there might be any significance in her failure to appear. Because as long as a thing remained unsaid, it could be deemed to be not happening. It would remain untrue, for as long as they did not draw attention to it, that dozens of little hairline cracks in their arrangements were about to open into fissures. They were afraid to refer even to how late it was to be eating lunch, lest it make them take a mere irregularity in mealtimes seriously. Since Miranda’s death everyone had been rising late and, in between daytime naps and lie-downs, scratching effortfully at things, in search of some sort of purpose in anything. To mention a lapse in the punctuality of lunch might be to suggest that they were failing to find it, or even that they might be falling apart. What did it matter, anyway, what time they had lunch? It was only time after all, told by a clock somewhere, and these days, except to notice that there seemed to be too much of it, they were hardly aware of it. Time did not seem to have any need of them nor they for it. Lunch itself, a sparse soup that had been getting weirder as well as sparser by the day, had not been worth waiting for anyway. This was its fourth manifestation, and since flavour had quite deserted the original stock, which had been made with the last cube, today Jean had added a shake of angostura bitters and a small tin of macaroni. Defeated by the effort of pretending it was edible, she had left hers unfinished and agreed to lie down for the rest of the afternoon.

Michael moved silently in bare feet through the house while he pictured her sleeping above, trusting but unaware. He was conscious of the first pleasurable sensation he had felt since before Miranda died, an agreeable certainty that what he was working quietly at now, without her knowledge, would please his mother. From the library he brought first a set of leather-bound volumes with the title The History of Scotland, during the Reigns of Queen Mary and of King James VI dated 1752, and placed them on the tartan rug. Then from the library desk he carried a brass inkstand, a pair of Sиvres inkpots, and two lace and ivory fans from a glass case that contained seven or eight others, and put them next to the books. That would do for the library. Jean would not notice. In the dining room he opened the corner cupboard that held some of the silver. He took a ladle, a sugar shaker and four salt cellars and spoons, and altered the spacing between the things that were left, dozens of them still, so that the losses were concealed. From inside the sideboard he took a porcelain tureen with a ladle and two or three lace cloths, but left the decorated blue and white pieces that stood on the top.

Back in the utility room he notched it all up. Even at Mr David’s prices there should be at least three hundred quids’ worth here. In fact, he might take the books to a proper dealer and do better. The thought of actually declining to sell to Mr David anything that Mr David was prepared to take was unfamiliar and delightful. He might make a point of doing it. He could afford to, he really only needed to make a couple of hundred to keep them all going. Michael felt a hot, excited bubble of pride rising inside him. He would take care of them; even if he had not been able to save Miranda he would take care of them now. He thought of coming back tomorrow with fresh milk, bread, meat, eggs, vegetables, fruit. Then he pictured Jean taking one of her cakes out of the oven, with happiness written all over her hot face, and told himself not to forget butter, sugar, flour, syrup, dried fruit. Chocolate for Steph. Her huge appetite had vanished since Miranda’s death, but she might be tempted by chocolate.

Using dusters and newspapers from a pile in one of the sheds he wrapped his haul carefully, arranged the pieces in the back of the van and covered them with the tartan rug. First thing tomorrow he would go over to Bath. If he got off first thing then he might even be back before Jean and Steph were up, and he would make breakfast for them and they would wake to the smell of bacon and toast and coffee. The little smile that had been on Michael’s face all afternoon widened. He closed the van doors and turned to look properly around him.

The afternoon was wearing to its end now but evening had not come; the earthy, growing smell of the spring day would not leave the air. He strolled out of the courtyard, drawn by the red gleam of the sun going down behind the hills miles away, far beyond the limits of the house. He followed the wide bend where the drive curved round to the front of the house before it straightened out to the half mile that ran down to the invisible road. Steph was walking towards him, though she did not appear to have seen him. Her arms were rigid against her sides, her hands apparently pushing the pockets of her jacket to the ground, and her head was down. Then she looked up and it seemed to Michael, from the angle of the lift of her head and the infinitesimal shake of her hair, that she had experienced pleasure at seeing him, perhaps for her, too, the first sensation of pleasure since before her baby had died. All at once the thought of tomorrow’s grand surprise breakfast seemed inadequate. He wanted Steph to be in on the secret too. How much better it would be if they did it together! He began to run towards her. She would be so delighted when he told her the plan; he would take her with him in the van tomorrow, and they would do the whole thing together. He would include her in everything, even show her off to Mr David.

‘Steph! Steph, listen! I’ve had this idea, it’s all set up, I’ve done it all, it’s ready to roll.’ He stopped, gasping. He felt sick and light-headed; it was such a long time since he had eaten properly.

Steph looked faintly interested. ‘Oh?’

‘I’ve took some stuff from the house, not much, nothing we’ll even miss, but worth a bit.’ He took her arm and steered her towards the house as he spoke, as if she had not been heading that way in any case. ‘Listen. It’s in the van, all ready, tomorrow we go and see my contact, you know, I’ve got this contact.’

‘Mr David. The one that rips you off.’

‘Yeah, well, this is better stuff, more saleable. It’s not the best in the house, so it’s not like it’ll get noticed, right, but it’s nice stuff, small stuff. He’ll take it. It’ll give us enough, anyway, and it’s cash, right? Enough to see us right till the next pay cheque’s due, and there’ll be an extra two hundred quid there, don’t forget. Six hundred instead of four. And if we need to, I can always do it again, there’s loads of stuff. I’ve only touched two rooms. Come with me- we’ll go early before Jean’s up, get the cash, go shopping, surprise her. You are coming, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, Michael. You and your small stuff. I can’t come with you.’

‘Why not? We won’t be out that long. If you’re worried about leaving Jean on her own… I mean we can always-’ He stopped, panting, his hands on his hips.

‘Aren’t you even going to ask me where I’ve been?’

Michael looked at her, stricken. Why had it not even occurred to him? She was leaving.

And she was smiling, actually smiling in a way Michael had not seen for weeks. She placed her hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoe with excitement. ‘I can’t come. I can’t come with you tomorrow ’cause I’ll be at work. ’Cause I’ve got a job, haven’t I?’