Morag Joss - Half Broken Things

Now the sun was slanting across the stone tiles of the roof and glancing off the glass of the upper windows. Light fell and dappled the wall behind the wisteria whose boughs hung in their motionless, frozen writhing as they had done for hundreds of years. Perhaps in the droop of the leaves there was a touch of complacency that flowers would come again next year and every year after that, and that time would bleach the colour from them by such tiny degrees that the blossom would not so much lose its purple as grow graciously towards whiteness, as if acquiring dust. And while the wisteria would flower with or without Michael’s attention, he felt that his admiration was somehow necessary; it was as if he were being shown some important small treasure that lay in the scooped palm of the house, something fragile and elusive in this play of light and shadow on flowers and leaves, of summer sunlight on stone. He must not neglect the privilege.

It seemed that with the same slow, quiet skill of insinuation that bound the wisteria to its walls, this house had woven itself in and among them- Jean, Steph, himself, even Charlie- had gathered them all in towards itself and to one another, and it seemed also that whole centuries of summers and winters were caught in along with them, trapped, stilled, and kept tight in its web. The house seemed to be saying, do not struggle, and do not move from here. Every important thing that ever was, or could be, is here. Like you, it is held in the very stone, it lies under the brushstrokes of the pictures on the walls, it sits on the pages of books and is woven in with every thread. It grows in the garden, is warmed in the sunlight, rests in the darkness. Stay.

Of course. How could he ever have doubted it? He returned across the grass and crouched down next to Jean. She looked up. Her eyes were still frantic.

‘Michael?’

Michael said, ‘Shelley- she can’t know . How could she? Tell me exactly what she said.’

‘She said they were introducing Management Visits. A friendly drop-in, she said, just to see there are no problems.’

She began to cry again. Michael got up, swung Charlie up into his arms and helped Jean to her feet.

‘Oh Michael, what are we going to do ?’

‘You’re not to worry. We’ll do whatever we have to.’ He looked back at the house. ‘We’re staying.’

Jean came out from the back of the house at the sound of Shelley’s car on the gravel, patting her tidied hair and intending to give the impression that she knew her place and never used the front door. She had an idea that Shelley would notice and appreciate that sort of observance. But all of Shelley’s attention was concentrated on heaving herself out of the hot car. She moved with a sense of grievance, as if she were being made to carry a weight that she considered privately was heavier than anything she should reasonably be expected to shift. As she straightened up, puffing herself into composure, she took in the courtyard, stables, outbuildings and the front of the house. She gave a breathy whistle.

‘Oo-ooh. Well Jean, you’ve landed on your feet here, haven’t you?’ she said. She made a face. ‘Look at all this. Just your thing, I should say. Very cut above.’

Jean winced as her words rang round and bounced off the walls of the courtyard. She had forgotten how loud Shelley’s voice was.

‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you,’ she said, ‘on the phone. There are other people here. I tried to tell you on the phone but I didn’t get a chance and then all of a sudden you’d gone. The owner’s cousin’s here.’

‘Oh? Nothing was said about that .’ Shelley drew herself up. ‘In fact, Jean, nothing’s been said, period . You’re meant to ring in once a month.’

‘No, well,’ Jean said.

‘Slipping down on the details, we don’t like it.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘No way do I like slipping down on the details, Jean. Not in this company. You’re getting paid to take sole responsibility, and now you’re saying- oh sugar.’ A rising burble of Yankee Doodle Dandy was sounding from inside her bag. She fumbled and found the mobile phone and began to prod at it with fingers too large for the tiny keys.

‘It’s the office.’ Shelley cast her eyes heavenwards. Jean took her chance to wander off a distance while Shelley shouted at the caller. The ringing of the mobile phone was silently noted by each of them as proof of a slight superiority over the other.

Shelley rang off, turned to Jean and made another face. ‘Sorry about that! Sometimes they do need to access me. Technology!’

Jean had stooped to pull at a few weeds among the catmint and pansies that grew in one of the stone troughs on the edge of the gravel. She jammed the small green clump into her dress pocket. How stupid of her. Had it looked proprietorial, lifting weeds like that?

‘Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter to me, I assure you.’

‘It was just the office. They needed my input on a decision.’

‘I see. Do you want to come in?’ Jean set off to lead the way round to the back.

‘So who did you say was here?’

‘The owner’s cousin, that’s all. It doesn’t make any difference. I’m still doing the job. I’m still house sitting, they’re just relations, they’re just staying for a while. It doesn’t bother me, them being here. In fact, I quite like the company.’ She wondered if she were saying too much. Where on earth was Michael?

Just then he called out from behind them and they turned to see him appear from the front door. He sauntered out of the house towards them, his arms folded. He was wearing old khaki shorts and a soft, floppy shirt and sandals. He had tipped his tattered straw hat back on his head but it was still obvious that he needed a haircut. His dark hair gleamed blue-black in the sun and his fringe flopped in his eyes. Pushing his hair away with one hand he beamed a friendly, nonchalant smile and advanced, extending one hand.

‘Well, gosh, how do you do? Umm- Michael Standish-Cave,’ he said slowly, with what Jean thought was unnecessary languor. ‘You’re the famous Shelley from the agency, I gather? Down for a visit? Good for you!’

‘I, er… the agency, we weren’t aware that there would be any other occupants in residence during the agreed period. Our client-’

‘Oh, um, yes, occupants in residence, ’ Michael said, carelessly amused. ‘Good old Oliver. He came up trumps, and thank God, quite frankly. I’m his cousin, by the way. On our fathers’ side, obviously.’

‘Mr Standish-Cave hadn’t made us aware-’

‘No, of course, well, we weren’t aware ourselves. We did just rather descend, I’m afraid, Oliver said not to hesitate. We’re between flats, actually. I knew Oliver’s place was empty so I just rang him up. I admit I was rather relying on him to come to the rescue, don’t know what else we’d have done quite frankly. He said oh, go straight on down and make yourselves at home, only for God’s sake ring the house sitter first and tell her you’re coming or she’ll have a fit!’

He turned and laughed at Jean, who laughed decorously in reply. ‘I must say it’s grand to be out of town in the summer! And she took it jolly well, didn’t you, an invasion of Standish-Caves!’ He turned to Shelley. ‘She’s doing an awfully good job, you know.’

‘An invasion?’

But Michael had started to lead the way down the path between the rose beds and Jean rather delicately dropped back and allowed him to. He was striding along rather fast now. Behind Jean, Shelley struggled along last with a lumpy shoulder bag on one arm and a ladylike black briefcase in the other. There was another volley of Yankee Doodle Dandy, which Shelley this time silenced with a couple of exasperated stabs. Jean turned and watched her. She was wearing low-fronted black shoes with heels like short pencils, which gave the impression that her thick legs ended in hooves. With each step her foot sank deep into the gravel, so she was taking dainty little steps, as if doing so would somehow make her lighter. The effect was of a cow trying to tiptoe.