Samantha Harvey - The Wilderness

She had encouraged an excited discussion about the possibilities — a sort of village, as Mr. Rowntree had made for his workers, with everything they needed at hand. But more modern, he had interjected. Yes of course, she conceded, more modern, good roads, and places for cars, they could even have a coffeehouse and a Chinese restaurant. He had been thinking more along the lines of uncluttered horizontal and vertical planes of white poured concrete and roof gardens faced at the sun, and buildings centred around sets of perfect squares so that every house was aware of every other house, to create a—

Close community, Helen had offered.

Quite. Everybody in their own space, but conscious, on a bigger scale, of their shared life.

Helen had been enthusiastic. She still was. He observed the demolition and made site notes, kicked the snow away and dug his heel into the ground to get a feel for the soil. Had the sun been out, this whole small plateau would be drenched with it now. It received thirteen or fourteen hours of sunshine a day in the summer, which meant that with careful planning and decent construction the houses could be warmed through without the need for much heating, and would not suffer damp problems.

He walked back to the Mini and put his notebook of ideas on the passenger seat. Somehow he did not see it happening the way he planned. Somewhere between the ideals and the reality an ingredient would be lost. Money, probably. He did not have the heart to tell this to Helen, or even the heart to tell himself. He turned the radio on — Buddy Holly. He thought of the money under his bed and, charged with the need to trade it for something extraordinary, tapped his fingers as he drove away.

That weekend he and Helen argued, properly, for the first time.

“The house is so cold,” she said, pulling a blanket around herself.

“It's old, what can I do? You wanted to live here.”

“So is it my fault, that we're cold?” It seemed to be a genuine question, so he answered accordingly.

“In part, yes.”

She gave a crazed smile he had never seen before.

“Is it my fault it's been snowing for two months?”

“Of course not.”

“Is it my fault we haven't got any of those gas heaters— everybody has them, except us. Is that my fault?”

“I wouldn't say so, I'll get some. If you want the house to smell of gas that's fine.”

“Jake, they won't make the house smell of gas. Cheryl has one and it's fine.”

“Who's Cheryl?”

“A friend from church.”

“What is it with you, that everywhere you go you just make friends?. You didn't want to leave London because you were happy, and now here you are with all these friends, seemingly happy —”

“Is that a criticism?”

He sat at the piano and played a few high ironic notes.

“Anyway,” Helen said, “I'm not happy. I'm cold.”

“Is that my fault?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And good that everything isn't absolutely one hundred percent brilliant with you.” He turned to her and ceased playing. “Because your perfection gets a bit wearing sometimes.”

He saw her body stiffen. “How terrible for you,” she said slowly and quietly. “How you have suffered in my hands, poor man.” He had never seen her appear so pale and blank. She tugged at the blanket until it was tight around her.

“Everything is supposed to be easy,” he said. “What with me making decisions to carve our future, and your dreams to guide us. What a perfect combination we are! But your dreams are failing us. Where's Alice?” He stood from the piano stool. “Where is she? Why can't you just accept that you're not perfect, you don't know?. You're going blind into every day just like the rest of us.”

“I don't know where Alice is,” she said. “I don't know.”

“That's right. And here we are running after something that doesn't exist, so why don't we give up?”

“Because it does exist.”

“It doesn't.”

“Jake, it does. Why don't you trust me? When you said we were coming here I trusted you.”

“Yes, but you have reason to trust me because I do everything I can to make the future and make it certain, I control it. You just predict it, where's the control in that? At best — if your predictions are right — all we are is victims of them.”

“No—”

“And at worst, like now, gullible victims.”

He went to the fire and fed it with another wedge of ash wood. It was not even that cold, if she only dared to shrug the blanket off, face and challenge it.

“You have to stop playing God,” he said.

She marched to him. “You're the one playing God. I control the future. I make it certain .”

“If God exists we are all victims,” he said, his voice raised. “Look at you, huddled there. The meek shall inherit the earth. Well you'll be first in line — you'll have it, it's yours. You'll last a day. You, your Bible bashers, you'll last a week at the most without people like me to take charge.”

He left the living room by one door, angry, but rather calm. Helen left by the other, disappearing into the study and up the second stairs. He heard her feet soft on them.

In the afternoon he, Helen, the baby, and Sara packed into the Mini and drove out along the icy roads, snow shovelled to the verges. Progress was slow and haphazard as the car slipped along the grooves of other tyres and tried to take several courses at once. They went to his father's grave, where they laid flowers and stood in a frozen breeze, a winter landscape without contrast. Helen, who had never known his father, began crying, and then wandered slowly from grave to grave reading dates and whispering into Henry's ear. She had hardly spoken to him since their fight. She was stiff with Sara, and he was struck by how Sara, in perverse response, warmed to her. She rubbed Helen's arm, commenting on the cold. Difficult for thin women, she said. Difficult to keep the chill away when you've no body fat. He saw Helen smile despite herself, and then retreat again into a defensive gloom.

Then, at Sara's request, they went into the woods. Tucked up and quiet, Helen stayed in the car breast-feeding.

“I like to come here,” his mother said. “The last bit of wood left for miles around — when I first came here it was all wood. Now it's all vegetables. Beetroot instead of trees.” She smiled wryly. “Not so beautiful, hmm.”

“It depends on your idea of beautiful,” he said.

“Mine is trees, not beetroot. I don't suppose I'm alone.”

As they walked she poured coffee from the flask into the first gold-rimmed cup, handing it to him, then into the other. She tucked the flask away in her bag. Even under the trees the snow was thick enough to envelop their feet as they went.

“Your father visits me,” she said suddenly.

“Visits you?”

“Yes, comes to me. At night. He lies in bed beside me.”

“A ghost?”

“Something of the sort.”

“Can you touch him, is he there?”

Sara shrugged. “It's hard to say, you have to be less literal about these things, Jacob.”

They walked on steadily, sipping their coffee.

“Does he say anything?”

“Asch, no.” She flicked the suggestion away. “If we said anything we would only argue. We sleep, and when I wake up he is gone.”

Their feet creaked across the snow as they walked on, slowing unconsciously.

“Did you used to argue? I don't remember you ever arguing.”

“No, we never did, never, though we had this little war going on, silently of course.”