Ann Cleeves - Telling Tales

The intensity of the sensation had quickly passed. The procession Emma on her father’s arm, two small bridesmaids in a state of imploding excitement had moved on towards the altar and he had to focus on getting the ritual right, but he was left with an optimism which had remained, unshaken, until the recent drama.

Now, sitting in the church, as the sun shone through the window and the elderly priest took his hand, the sense of well being returned. There was, after all, nothing to be concerned about. The unpleasantness of the last few weeks would pass, and things would go back to normal. He would continue to bring boats safely up the river, then return home to his wife and child. Nothing would disturb the equilibrium of their lives.

He had thought Mary and Robert would be unwilling to face the sc rum around the coffee pots and plates of biscuits in the church hall and they did pause for a moment in the porch.

“Would you rather go straight home?” Robert asked his wife. James had always thought of him as a strong and reliable man. The sort of man to hold his family together. And even immediately after Christopher’s death it had seemed he was still playing that role. Today though he appeared indecisive, vague. He wanted Mary to tell him what they should do.

“No,” she said. James saw that Springhead was the last place she wanted to be. “We’ll have a coffee first, shall we?”

Inside the hall she seemed embarrassed to be a customer and was all for rushing into the kitchen to find an apron and begin the washing-up.

“Sit down,” James said. “I’ll bring your drink over.” He stood in the queue and looked at them, holding each other’s hands across the Formica table, not speaking. They looked old. Around them the parishioners circled like birds of prey over a carcass, eager to make contact, to give their condolences. To get news.

Emma had stayed in the church after the rest of the congregation had left. She’d whispered to James at the end of the service that she needed time to herself. He respected that. She was very young to have suffered so much. Now she walked into the hall, oblivious to the sympathetic glances, her face pale and still, without expression. He had never been able to tell what she was thinking, and since Christopher’s death she had become more distant from him. He disliked violent displays of emotion. There had been too much shouting and raving, too many tears, when he was young. But now he wondered if he should have encouraged her to weep, if when she had asked if they might talk, he should have made it easier for her to confide in him.

He set the cups of coffee in front of his parents-in law. Two women had plucked up sufficient courage to approach them and Robert seemed to have recovered his spirits under their attention. James went to Emma, who was standing by the window, looking out over the churchyard, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

“I’d like to invite Robert and Mary to lunch,” he said. “Would you mind?”

“No.” She seemed surprised to be asked, as if usually he would have made the invitation without consulting her. And perhaps that was true, he thought. Throughout their marriage she’d been so passive that he’d always taken her consent for granted. Had he been more like a father than a lover to her?

In the Captain’s House he insisted on preparing lunch. He sat Mary and Robert in the living room and threw some logs onto the embers of the fire. The logs were dry and the bark caught immediately, curling back from the wood and sending sparks up the chimney. The couple stared into the grate, mesmerized, only moving when he handed them a glass of sherry each. Still they weren’t talking. Emma was upstairs settling Matthew into his cot for a sleep. A little later he heard her come down. He thought she would join her parents, but instead she came into the kitchen. She came up behind him and kissed his neck.

“Thank you for being so kind to them.”

She slipped away before he could respond and he heard her voice, no more than a murmur, in the other room.

This is who I am, he told himself. A kind man who cares for his family. Perhaps even a good man. There is no deception here.

At the table Robert became more himself again,

brightening as he had earlier, surrounded by people, in the hall. He said grace and complimented James on his cooking. He drank more than he usually did and James was reminded of Christopher’s last meal in the house. He had never thought father and son had much in common, but now he could detect a resemblance. A dramatic quality. The possibility of excess.

“Why don’t you both stay here for the night?” Emma asked. Mary didn’t like driving Robert’s car and James saw she thought her father was already over the limit. “You can go back early tomorrow.”

“No,” Robert said. “I need to get home. I’d like to go into work tomorrow.”

“Is that wise?” James had never questioned Robert’s judgement before and felt rather brave. “I’m sure they’d understand that you need more time. You could have until Christmas at least. It’s hardly worth going back for a few weeks.”

“I’d prefer to be at work. I brood too much at home.” But Robert reached out for the bottle of wine and topped up his glass.

“Besides,” Mary said suddenly, ‘if I don’t go home today, I’ll never face it.” She saw that she’d shocked them. “I know it’s foolish, but that’s the way I feel. I’ll never be able to walk through the door.”

“Why don’t I drive you back later this evening?” James said. “Then you can stay for a while, relax, have another drink. I’ll pick Robert up first thing in the morning so he can collect his car.”

Emma smiled at him and brushed her fingertips over the back of his hand.

Later there was an old film on the television. The room was hot. Robert and Mary both fell asleep. Mary had her mouth slightly open and snored occasionally. Matthew lay on his stomach on the rug surrounded by toys.

“I think the doctor gave them tranquillizers,” Emma said. “They seem spaced out, don’t they? Dad especially. But a bit more relaxed, at least.”

When they woke she made tea for them, and James toasted crumpets in front of the fire. He crouched and held his arm outstretched because the embers were still so hot.

“Comfort food,” Emma said. She watched with satisfaction as Mary finished a mouthful then licked the butter from her fingers. James thought Emma had worn the same expression when she’d persuaded Matthew to take baby rice from a spoon for the first time.

“We should go,” Robert stood up. The tray was still on the floor, the toasting fork lying on the hearth. “Are you ready, my dear?”

Outside, on the other side of the road, someone was waiting under the bus shelter.

“He’ll be there a long time,” James said, hoping to lighten the mood. “There are no buses on a Sunday. Do you think I should tell him?”

The man turned and stared at them though he couldn’t have made out the words. His face was lit by the orange glow of a street light.

“It’s Michael Long,” Robert said. James had recognized him at the same instant. “Perhaps it would be better to leave him alone.”

James went into Springhead with them. He’d always liked the house despite its discomfort and inconvenience. It was where Emma had grown up and there were reminders of her everywhere. School photos, books with her name in, her Wellingtons just inside the door. Now, as he stood awkwardly in the kitchen while Robert and Mary fussed with the lights, he wondered how they could bear the gloomy paint, the threadbare carpets, the piles of slightly damp books. He was irritated that they’d never organized the improvements which were needed.

“Will you stay here?” he asked. “You won’t move?”