Samantha Harvey - The Wilderness

They sit quietly for a moment.

“So what happened about the letters?” Henry asks. “Have any more come?”

“No, no more. I have them, here, do you want to see them?” His hand cradles them in his pocket and he goes to put them on the table.

Henry bars the offer with his palm. “I don't want to see them. They're Helen's. It's like putting her underwear on the table or something.”

Yes, he thinks. Rather like that. Rather an exposure.

“I opened them,” he tells his son, “and I know who they're from. A man called D, David.”

Henry narrows his eyes. “Last time you were here you gave a long speech about how you wouldn't open them — it wasn't morally right, an unopened letter is the property of the sender, etc. etc.”

He has no recollection of those words or that visit; it is bleached out like the pattern from a tablecloth. No recollection of when he last saw Henry, no traceability for his own words.

“Well,” he replies eventually. “I did read them, and the sender is a man called D. It's short for devil.” He smiles, feeling genuinely amused for a moment. “And he was your mother's lover, another Bible lover, he used to come to her Bible groups. I've met him in fact.” He adds, dishonestly, “He's extremely ugly.”

“Her lover?”

“Yes, and the letters are very animated.”

Animated, he thinks, but not at all erotic. He leans forward, puts the letters on the table, and spreads his palms on the— what is this, what can it be called? — this table plastic. “They are about Moses and the Mountain of Solitude. And the Ten Commandments. You go up the mountain to pray, and down the mountain to have sex. You see, you have to go down the mountain sometimes. D says there is nothing wrong with what he and Helen did. It's about weeding. It's in the Bible.” He bangs the table softly as he says this. “It's in the Bible.”

His son looks quizzical and forlorn, and so he reaches forward and takes the small hands, overwhelmed by a need to protect and restore, and be a father, a good open-minded father.

“Henry, she will have had her reasons for what she did,” he assures.

They sit like this for some moments and he is surprised that Henry does not recoil, or that he himself does not. Henry appears to know nothing about his disease — surely he would recoil if he did. The timid little child was always afraid of infection by others. He would whip his hands away now if he knew his father's mind was rotting, but because he does not there is a sense of victory, over the disease itself and its captious, jeering nature: something is only a fact, he tells himself, when a lot of people know it. Until then it is an unfledged rumour.

There is clatter from the — the tea place, the tea shop; the woman has dropped something and its smashed pieces mosaic the floor. He sees the liquid spread, hears some ragged applause and a quiet opera of sounds he cannot place, sees everything as if in slow motion and for the first time. Seeing it miraculously, roundly, sharply, red, blue, white, quiet. He blinks at leisure. The experience is new, he thinks, as if he has just fallen to earth. Everything mint and unreasoned.

In time he relinquishes hold of his son, and Henry turns the letters in his hands.

“They're not even opened, Jake.”

“Let me see.” He takes them from his son and observes the sealed V of paper. “No, no they aren't, you're right.”

“So how did you read them?”

“I don't know, but I did read them. I remember it.”

Henry leans back and looks around.

“When I get out of here we'll go flying. You know that flight I bought you — we'll do it together next time.”

“I must have fastened them again,” he says quickly. “Yes, I definitely did that. I used the sticking things.”

“I'll be out in about five months. Maybe less. We'll go flying.”

“I used the sticking things — that's right, let me see—”

Henry draws his finger to his lips to signal silence, then reaches into the pocket of his trousers.

“Here, Jake, I got you a present.”

On his son's palm is a glass dome, and inside the dome is winter. Loose white, like snow. Inside, navigating the snow, is a mother and child. They hold yellow hats on their heads against a wind nobody else can feel, and their yellow scarves snake up on the same wind, to confirm its direction. It blows across them, left to right. Their long coats are as white as the snow and the yellow is everything, all the colour in the world, the yellow is what makes the white white. Henry shakes the dome and holds it between thumb and forefinger. Without the scarves and hats the mother and child would be phantoms in the flurry.

Henry hands it over. “Here,” he says. “My cell mate was given it by his grandma and he threw it away. I took it out of the bin, I thought you might like it. The poet wanted it — because I had it, such a fucking child —he tried to take it.” He gestures, yours, have it. “That's what the fight was for, if you must know.”

“For this?”

“Yes,” Henry says. “For that.”

“But even if you could find Mrs. Crest and buy that land, how could you build on it anyway?” Helen asked. “It's foolish.”

She held Henry above her head, both of them grinning and gurgling, then she turned and became serious.

“I'm sorry, Jake — but it is a little foolish. Isn't it? You can't build on the peat. It's useless, when I just walk on it I sink—”

He sat on the sofa, his knees wide. “Have you seen the plans for the new M62? It goes right across the Pennines, across miles and miles of peat moor. Do you know the lengths they'll have to go to just to be able to stand on the peat and cut it out? If they can do that, Helen, I can do this.”

“You said yourself that there's land for sale everywhere all around the moors. Just not on the moors.”

“Right, not on the moors.”

He took a mouthful of cherry wine; it was raw in his throat.

“Why must you always prove yourself?” she asked.

“I want something good for us.”

“This is good. Everything we have is good.”

Some emptiness made itself known to him; a hole, a distinct yearning for something more than this. “I just want it,” he said, spreading his arms. “Glass, coloured silks, a sea of black. Some sense of achievement and—”

“Control,” she said, hugging the baby. “Power.”

“No. Satisfaction.”

“You're spilling your wine.”

He looked down to find there, on the carpet, a wine stain. “Satisfaction,” he said, correcting his hold on the wine glass. “When did you start walking on the moors anyway?”

“While you're at work, we go don't we, Henry? We love it. It's magical.”

She began waltzing the baby slowly around the room. Beyond her the late-evening sun glared through the window, holding her in silhouette. Birds flew up behind her in the garden, startling colours flashing and beating on the air.

“Sometimes we go and see Eleanor,” she said. “Sometimes we talk to the peat cutters, and they show us what they've found. Little wooden Bronze Age tools and Roman whistles. From time to time, Jake, they find whole trees preserved in the peat, did you know that? Birches and oaks.”

He nodded. “Yes, I did, yes. When I was a child—” He dismissed the sentence and passed his eye over the stain. That sensation in his gut again, yearning, fear of nothingness. “So — you're happy here?”

She stopped her waltz and smiled. “Yes. We're happy. And you?”

We, you, as if Helen and Henry were one, and he a quite separate other.

“I'm happy enough, yes, but I want this house. I'll show you the drawings. Let me get them.”