Caryl Phillips - The Lost Child

* * *

Julius had received a short, enthusiastic telegram in response to his application for the lecturer’s job, and he now held in his hand the official letter confirming his appointment. It was an early spring day, and he and Monica were sitting together at the living room table. The opportunity to go home and make a contribution, and perhaps try again to revise his dissertation and turn it into a book — this, he told her, was his true future.

“You still have faith in the book, don’t you?” He moistened his dry lips with a quick circle of his tongue.

“Julius, it’s some time since I read the manuscript.”

“Well, what are you saying? Do you feel I should write a new book?”

“Who knows what you should do?” Monica began to laugh and ran both hands back through her stringy hair. “In fact, who knows what you will do from one moment to the next.”

He watched her closely as she poured some milk from the bottle into a teacup and then lifted the chipped vessel to her lips. Having drained the cup, she fumbled at her blouse and undid the top button, for the weather was unseasonably warm. Monica had started to buy presliced white bread, and so she thought about toast, but almost at once the idea seemed too complicated. She put her feet up onto a chair and proudly exhibited her unpolished toenails. Julius seemed confused.

“Can I have some milk?”

Monica poured some milk into the same teacup and passed it to him.

“Back home we drink Carnation milk, but I know you’ll soon get used to it.”

“No, we won’t.” Again Monica laughed, and she began to push up her sleeves, first one arm and then the other. “You’ll be going by yourself, Julius. I’m moving back north.”

“To do what?”

“Is that all you have to say?”

Monica stared at this sad dreamer of a man she had married, and shook her head. Did he truly imagine she was going to just sit around for the rest of her life waiting for him to make all the decisions? Really, just who did he think he was? After the break with his friend, he started to have a go at England, which she knew was just another way of getting at her, but that was it. She knew that she had to take the boys away and make a fresh start. Wake up, you spaz, I’m not going to follow you around. We don’t have much money, only what I’ve been able to save up from the housekeeping, but I’ve got myself a job, and we’re off, okay? I came to you, Julius, because I thought you might be a better kind of man than my father, but you were never really interested, were you? I’ve made a bit of a twat of myself, haven’t I?

“Listen, Julius, tomorrow morning I’ll be taking the boys and leaving, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. Leaving to go where?” He looked angrily into her face. “Why are you doing this to me? To us?”

She pointed to the open window. “Please keep your voice down.”

“For crying out loud, you cannot tell me what to do.”

She watched as he threw himself back into the chair and kicked one leg over the other in what she guessed he probably thought was a study of calm repose. She looked closely at him and wanted to giggle, but she knew this would be mean. After all, she didn’t dislike him; she just felt sorry for him. Seriously, did he think she was barmy enough to pack up her life and her two kiddies and follow him halfway across the world? Julius, Julius, Julius, I’ve already taken charge of the situation and made my own plans.

“Let me ask you, Monica, do you know what love is? You have made a commitment.”

“You need somebody else, Julius.” She wanted to add: perhaps you should buy a dog.

He sprang to his full, lanky height so that he now hovered over her. She could see that he wanted to shout, but as she stared up into his knotted face, a slow ripening into resignation began to smooth out his features.

“For Christ’s sake, Monica. Really, where the hell do you think you’re going? What on earth is the matter with you?”

What’s the matter with me? Nothing, Julius, except I’m tired, poor, and worried that because I don’t know how to be myself, I don’t know how to be a mother to these two boys, who deserve a damn sight more than we’ve been able to give them. I’ve lost myself, you buffoon, which is pathetic, given how much effort I put into looking out for myself before I met you. You didn’t come banging and knocking and demanding; it was me, I came to you, and I now reckon that I shouldn’t have: that’s what’s the matter with me, Julius.

He moved across the room to the settee and sat down heavily.

“So, we’ve come to this. You’ve got nothing to say? No discussion, no nothing, and you’ve made up your mind, and tomorrow morning everybody will know that we’re a failure, is that what you want?”

“I made a mistake, Julius.” She paused. “Sometimes it occurs to me that maybe I’m not worth loving. I know I’ve not got the looks, and I’m hardly the outgoing, vivacious type.” Again she paused. “Anyhow, I’ve got to try and do what’s right for these children.”

“But I love you, Monica. Don’t you remember?”

Monica began to smile. “I’m sorry, Julius, but you never really loved me.”

“And you think running away with the children is going to help you? You know you’ve already run away once. You think you’re strong enough to do it again, this time with two children?”

* * *

The success of being promoted to deputy headmaster had encouraged Ronald Johnson to buy a brand-new semidetached home on an estate on the northernmost extremity of the town, out past the dejected jumble of half-empty warehouses and run-down factories. Once you’d gone through the last roundabout, and just before the start of the Outwood Road, you made a sharp left into a country lane that quickly opened up and revealed a maze of modern houses. They all were laid out like a child’s model playground, with neatly trimmed lawns and freshly planted trees that still needed to be supported by upright sticks and bits of tented string. Ronald Johnson’s house was situated at the end of the first cul-de-sac, and through the window he could see an ever-changing cast of birds flitting about the wooden feeder that he had struggled to assemble one Sunday morning. Spread out before him on the desk in the corner of his bedroom were various pieces of paper whose contents he was trying to collate and then précis into a short, but comprehensive, report of the school’s achievements, both educational and sporting, during the past academic year. Part of his increased responsibilities included making a short annual presentation to the board of governors and then passing around a copy of his report to each person present.

His wife knocked and opened the door at the same time, a habit that irritated him no end as the abrupt rudeness of the second gesture rendered the first pointless.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I expect we ought to be making our way to the station.”

Ronald Johnson slowly replaced the cap on his fountain pen and carefully laid it down on top of the foolscap notepad.

He stood before the bathroom mirror and meticulously dusted the dandruff from the lapels of his jacket. He didn’t feel as though he had aged, but when she looked into his face, what would she see? A greying man who was still moving upwards in his chosen career, and with whom she would now agree that discipline and effort are the twin paths to success. Or would she see a stubborn man, with a solemn expression, who continued to refuse to accommodate her waywardness?

That afternoon, when he arrived home from school, he was surprised to see his wife sitting at the dining table with a letter open and visible next to a carefully slitted envelope. She looked up, as though in possession of news that might disturb him.