Rebecca Connell - Told in Silence

I frowned, trying to remember. As far as I could recall, Jonathan had never mentioned this man. I had certainly never seen him before. I thought of Harvey’s quiet words to Laura: Actually, I don’t think Jonathan liked him at all. There was no way of telling who was right. The silence threatened to stifle me. ‘He’s not my old man,’ I said.

Max shrugged. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Obviously. He might as well be, though. Seems you’ve been well and truly welcomed into the family bosom. Just shows what an untimely death can do, eh? But for that you might still be knocking on the back door pleading to be let in.’ His voice had dropped, taking on a nasty, sarcastic quality.

A bright flush of anger swept over me. This man was being insufferably rude, and he had no business saying these knowing things to me, as if he knew more about me and my family – for family they were, in a way – than I did myself. I drew in a sharp breath and turned to go. In the same instant, he had leant forward and caught me easily by the wrist, the tips of two fingers still holding his cigarette, burnt down to the stub now, sending heat coursing across my skin.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking straight into my eyes, and I felt my whole body jolt with something strange and dark. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. It just makes me angry to see a girl like you shut away with those two. They’re not so bad, don’t get me wrong, but they’ve got no life to them. You’re, what? Twenty? Twenty-one? You should get out more.’ Incredibly, I thought I saw his left eye briefly flicker in a wink. He dropped my arm, still staring at me. ‘I’ll see you,’ he said, making it sound like a promise and a threat. I backed away from him, breathing hard. My heart was thumping in my chest, as if he had pulled a knife on me.

The next few hours slipped by like minutes. I watched, as I might have watched a scene in a dream, as Harvey commanded everyone’s attention and made a short speech, thanking all the guests for coming and saying how pleased he was that he was able to celebrate his birthday with so many of his friends and family. The polite smattering of applause fell into my ears like rain. As people gradually started to peel away, the sky above began to darken. I helped to find coats, showed departing guests to the exit. The wind was picking up, shaking the green and lilac crêpe paper tied to the chairs, setting up a low insistent rustle across the lawn. Drinks were finished, glasses cast aside, presents left in the hallway. I stood smiling and thanking people for coming, saying the same lines over and over, kissing and shaking hands with what might as well have been so many brightly dressed puppets. ‘ I saw you talking to Max Croft earlier, ’ Miranda whispered as she left, intent on imparting one final sting, ‘ he’s not our sort, not our sort at all. ’ As I waved off the last of them, a light drizzle began to slash against the windowpanes.

I went back out into the empty garden, feeling the rain soaking into my skin, collecting coldly in my hair. Far in the distance, I could see Laura, sitting still on a bench by the rose garden. I walked down towards her, my shoes sucking and sticking to the damp earth. She was gazing at the yellow rose bush, the one she had planted in memory of Jonathan. I remembered her digging the cold ground, her head bent down, shoving the spade in with such violence that it shook her whole body, sending gravel spraying in a fountain around her, muddying her dress. The roses were in bloom now; huge, gorgeous blooms the colour of sunshine, trembling with fat drops of rain. I sat down beside her, and for a long while we didn’t speak. Her face was set and distant, as if she were sorting through her memories and finding nothing new there.

‘Do you ever wonder?’ I said. ‘Do you ever wonder what happened?’

Laura raised her head slowly, searchingly; didn’t speak.

‘I don’t mean…I know that we know what happened,’ I said. ‘But…’ I didn’t know how to continue. All at once, and without warning, I felt the old familiar grief and incomprehension rising to the surface, sending a shiver of nausea the length of my body. As we sat there, I began to cry as I hadn’t done in weeks, huge ugly sobs that shook the air around us. I wanted these feelings gone – wanted them out of me. It seemed that they were here to stay; that however much I wanted it and however much I might fool myself that I was moving on, they wouldn’t ever leave me.

I unlock the door and push it open as quietly as I can, feeling it snag and scrape against loose carpet. As I slip into the dark hallway, I hear the low static noise of the television coming from the sitting room. I move towards it, the familiar smell of must and musk flooding my nose and mouth as I do so. If I stay in this house too long, it starts to cling to my hair and my clothes, infecting everywhere I go. It’s the same with the mess; even when I’m not here, I can see it in the back of my mind, weighing me down. Now, coming from Jonathan’s immaculate flat, it hits me even harder: boxes piled up against the hallway wall containing God knows what, stacks of old yellowing newspapers, a heap of ironing that never seems to get done. I have long since passed the stage of seeing these things as charmingly bohemian.

I creep to the sitting-room door and stand there, peeping through the chink. The room is dark but for the television, light bristling off it like an eerie aquarium, and a small floor lamp throwing dim shadows against the back wall. The backs of my parents’ heads are there, popped up above the sofa and framing the television, motionless. I know they will have heard me come in, despite my efforts to be quiet, but they don’t turn around. I push the door open and come into the room, go and sit opposite them on an armchair that sighs and whines when I settle myself down on it.

‘Nice of you to join us,’ grunts my father, and for a few moments we’re just sitting there silently, all of us together, our eyes trained on whichever stupid quiz show they’ve been watching for however many minutes or hours or days. The pictures dance in front of me, blurring meaninglessly into blobs of coloured light. I think of Jonathan, the hot sharp smell of sweat and sex in his bedroom. Already I can’t wait to see him again.

‘Are you all packed, dear?’ my mother asks idly. I have told them that I have been staying with a friend, Gemma, for the past few days. It seems they haven’t bothered to check. From anyone else this question might be barbed – if she had bothered to set foot in my room, my mother would know that no packing had been done – but from her, it denotes nothing but ignorance. I look at her, her calm and indifferent face. In a minute I will make that mask crack. I can feel my hands growing hot and damp; I wipe them slowly against my skirt.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I haven’t packed, because I’m not going to Manchester.’

The change, in my mother at least, is instant. Her head jerks up and she shoots a sharp glance at my father. He just stays slumped in his seat, watching the television, looking bored and faintly contemptuous. He has heard this before, of course, but he doesn’t know what has changed.

‘We’ve been through this, Violet,’ my mother says in a voice that might be meant to be compassionate, but just sounds hard and impatient to my ears. ‘It’s difficult going to university at first, but you’ll be fine. You’ll make friends. You’ll manage with the work.’

‘I’ve met someone,’ I say. ‘We’re in love.’ Saying the truth here, in this faded room with its threadbare rug and peeling walls, makes it sound totally unreal, a little girl’s fantasy. I dig my fingernails into my palms and will myself to remember. I won’t let these pedestrian surroundings crowd him out. Still, the echo of my words around the room sounds hollow even to my ears. Quietly, my father snickers, a low, unimpressed chuckle that makes me so angry I have to close my eyes briefly, seeing bursts of red pumping across the dark.