Morag Joss: Half Broken Things

It was about one o’clock in the morning when Michael backed the Mercedes out of the stable garage and across the drive to the edge of the side lawn that led down towards the pool. Through the dark the sound of the wheels on gravel was confiding but dismissive, like the gentle rustling of paper being scrunched carelessly in large hands. Next he drove his own van into the stable garage and locked the doors. Silently he made his way across to the pool pavilion, and under the private light of a slice of moon he began the solitary ferrying of bags from the bathroom to the open boot of the car. He could not help counting them. There were thirty-one of them, a fact that he found strangely helpful. Michael’s memory of the man was beginning to seem implausible now; any idea that Gordon Brookes had until very recently been a living, talking person now seemed unreliable. In fact it was difficult even to sustain the thought of him as a dead, silent person any more. It seemed like some trick of perception, too dislocated from the ponderous, overwhelmingly physical and troublesome fact of these thirty-one filled bags to be true. Gordon Brookes had, in the course of events since yesterday, been receding in the way that Michael now imagined must happen when an animal goes for slaughter. For how else could it be done? Since he had been living here he had seen them on the road now and then, those lorries with slatted sides whose interiors clattered with caged life, and he had overtaken one once on a slope, glimpsing as his van strained past a tender nose pushed up against the slats, trailing strings of slime, and one silk-lashed, fearful eye. How could anyone go about the task of transforming that into a number of pink rolled joints on polystyrene trays, unless some human mental law came into force, some benign slackening of the logic that bound the two states together by the act of killing?

So it must be with Gordon Brookes. Gordon Brookes must now be thought of as a packaging, transport and disposal operation. The separation of the man- alive, talking, gesturing- from the stuff he was made of- lumps of gristle, bones, offal, cords of muscle and fat- was essential if Michael were not to go mad. He was still aghast from the discovery of just how much stuff there was and how in all its appalling quantity it had split and spurted, and how parts of it stank, too.

Jean and Steph prowled round between the car and the lighted kitchen doorway, trying to help Michael without looking at or touching the bags. They loaded his food, backpack, blankets and torch into the car, went back for a spade, a pickaxe and the maps. Jean hovered, thinking, and added another sweater, two long raincoats and boots, a box of Charlie’s baby wipes, a bottle of brandy. Just as Michael was ready to go Steph tore back to the house and returned with a photograph of herself, Charlie and Jean. Michael looked at it and tucked it in the top pocket of his shirt.

It seemed somehow too cheery, even profane, to wave at the departing car. Jean and Steph walked alongside as Michael edged it round to the front, and then they stood, each raising a hand, as they heard from the sudden silence that the car’s wheels had left the gravel of the courtyard and reached the start of the drive that threw its black ribbon down into the night.

What I remember thinking most about the day before Michael set off with the bags was how ordinary it must have looked on the surface. Steph and I kept well clear of the pool, and that was all, really, apart from the smoking bonfire that we went out to see to in turns, every now and then.

Once again it was the house that rescued us, with its demands and its rewards. I found things to do: dusting as usual, flowers to arrange, the hearth to sweep, bathrooms and the kitchen to clean. One of the tiebacks of the drawing room curtains had lost one of its tassels, so I sewed it back on. Oh, it’s never-ending, the upkeep of a house like this. A house like this claims a number of one’s daily hours no matter what, and it’s a pleasure to surrender them to it. Because when the flowers are freshened up, the silver cleaned, and the whiff of beeswax and the faint, delicious oil smell from the Aga mix and spread themselves through the rooms, it feels like a reward, or rather, a contract honoured. What a rich repayment for one’s willing attentions to a house, to be given a home in return. With Michael so conspicuously absent and the noise of the saw going on in the background, I thought this on and off during the day, until it seemed to me that we owed it to the house itself, and not only to one another, to keep strong. It may sound silly but it was as if the house would be hurt, too, if we were to neglect it now, or fail to see things through. I worried too, of course. Towards evening I got busy with things that I thought Michael might need, and that kept me occupied until it was time for him to go.

We were grateful for an uneventful day that day. Steph managed to sleep in the afternoon but I could not, for thinking of Michael. She took Charlie back to Sally’s as usual, and when she returned she reported that Sally had been absolutely the same as ever. This was as we had hoped. Steph still seemed to be existing in this half-sleep, taking in things, responding and reporting back as if her brain were some patient machine. There was no question of panic. All in all, things were going well. But that night, after Michael had left, I was reluctant to go to bed. Tired out though I was, I stayed up and walked round the house, going from room to room, slowly and quietly, so as not to wake Steph. I believe I was seeking comfort. Eventually I went to bed and lay awake, praying that Michael would be all right.

For two weeks nothing happened. With Michael away, the grass grew. Jean felt she walked through the lawn, rather than across it. She would go slowly, with eyes down on her way back from cutting flowers, and ache for Michael’s return. Life had become more modest; an air of quiet waiting descended, befitting a household that is observing a period of formal mourning.

One evening in the middle of July Steph entered Sally’s house with Charlie to find Sally sitting red-eyed in the kitchen. She took Charlie from Steph’s arms unceremoniously, with none of the singsong endearments that Steph considered phoney in any case. The silence was uncomfortable so for once Steph, who expected Sally to initiate the talking, started first.

‘All right, Sally?’

Sally answered by sinking her head into Charlie’s neck. When her face reappeared she said, ‘There’s a problem with Gordon. Or there might be, they don’t really know.’

‘Gordon?’

‘You know, Mr Brookes, Charlie’s granddad. They don’t know where he is. The police, I mean.’

‘But he’s on holiday, isn’t he? Didn’t he go off walking or something?’

‘He was meant to be back a week ago. His church lot just thought he must be taking a few extra days, but now the police have found his car. It was abandoned.’

Steph swallowed. ‘Oh, no!’ She could not for a moment remember what she was supposed to know and what she was not, so she sat down hard in a chair. What did the police know? Had they found Michael? Sally’s face disappeared back into Charlie’s clothes again and she began to rock gently. Steph looked round and forced herself to think. ‘Want me to put the kettle on?’ she said.

Sally nodded, her head still buried. Steph rose, filled it and switched it on. As she was washing mugs- every mug in the house seemed to be in the sink- she said in a worried voice, ‘So the police- what is it they’re saying, exactly?’

Sally presented her exhausted face again. ‘They’ve found his car, or what’s left of it. It was miles and miles from here- in a lay-by someplace near Chepstow, all vandalised and burnt out. They don’t know how it got there. It’s miles and miles from where he’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be up north.’