Marion woke at three in the morning, her heart racing. She had been dreaming about Bunty, her aunt’s dog; she was barking outside the bedroom window, pleading to be let in. Then Marion realized a real dog was barking out in the street; it was Mr. Weinberg’s Pomeranian. Really he shouldn’t let it out at this time in the morning. It was a disgrace. The pain in her hip was worse too, and it had spread to her lower back. Lying in the darkness, unable to get comfortable, her mind soon filled with troubling thoughts. Why had John fallen like that? Was he sick? What would it mean for her if he got ill? What would it mean for them? John always seemed so strong and invincible, it scared her to see any signs of physical weakness, but what frightened her most of all was the rage he used to mask that vulnerability.
She heard John open his bedroom door and then stomp downstairs. What was he up to at this time? Was he feeling unwell again? She got out of bed and put on her father’s old blue-and-red tartan dressing gown and matching slippers. Putting her hand in the right pocket, she touched a little nest of dried Kleenex. She took it out and used it to blow her nose. She could hear John fussing around in the kitchen downstairs.
After using the toilet she went back to bed. She switched off the light, but her head was too squirmy with thoughts for her to go to sleep, so Marion lay in the dark watching the quivering shadows cast by the poplar trees outside her window and waited for the dog to begin barking again.
“If anything happened to John,” she said out loud, “I think I would die. I couldn’t cope with all the bills and money things. I even forget which day the rubbish bins are collected.”
“You would cope somehow. People manage. People who are blind, people who have no arms and legs live by themselves and get by perfectly well,” said Neil.
“But I can’t live alone.”
“You wouldn’t be alone, Marion, you have me.”
NEIL
Unless I can see exactly where they are and what they are doing, having people in the house makes me jumpy. I can feel them skittering around like bugs,” Mother would say with a shudder. Since she couldn’t stand them being at home all day long during the school holidays, as children, Marion and her brother spent much of their free time at the warehouse of Zetland’s Fine Fabrics.
John studied his science books in the conference suite, while Marion wandered up and down between giant stacks of rolled fabric, pretending they were the walls of some ancient castle or deep ravine. The workmen in their dull blue overalls were ogres, and she had to hide from them to escape being captured.
Neil came to work in the warehouse when Marion was fifteen. She remembered exactly the first time she saw him, that gangly frame that was too big for the blue overalls clinging on to a roll of gray underlay like a drunken dance partner. The other workers were always making fun of him, as if an ability to move rolls of fabric with ease gave them superiority.
Unlike the other workers, he didn’t stand around smoking in the loading area on his break; instead he sat on the pallets reading a book, holding his long, strawberry-colored fringe out of his pale blue eyes. His lips were full and pink like a girl’s, and he bit his fingernails, revealing wrinkled strips of newborn skin. This proof of his sensitivity made Marion heady with tenderness.
The first time he spoke to her Neil offered her a cheese-and-onion crisp, then told her about his plans for the future; he was going to study languages at Durham University, but before that he intended to fulfill his dream of traveling to America and driving all the way from one coast to another. During another break-time conversation she found out that his mother was a nurse and his father an accountant. Afterwards she imagined herself attending dinner at their house, being formally introduced to his parents as Neil’s girlfriend.
“Such a nice, polite girl,” his mother, who always dressed in her nurse’s uniform, even for dinner, would say. “Did you notice how she cleared her plate so thoroughly? Not like those fussy girls who ruin their health with fad diets.”
“So modest and well-spoken,” the father, who always wore a suit and glasses, would respond. “Not like those teenage girls who dye their hair green and listen to rock music.”
“She will make a perfect wife for Neil,” the mother would declare.
Halfway through the summer, Neil was offered a job as a tour guide in Spain and left the warehouse without saying goodbye. Marion blamed the warehouse men for his departure and invented violent deaths for the worst of the bullies as punishment: Big Phil was crushed by rolls of red velvet and Smithy burnt to death in a fire. She comforted herself with dreams of running away and traveling with Neil on the coach, sitting next to sunburnt holidaymakers and listening to him talk about the history of bullfighting and flamenco dancing, how to change money, and whether or not they could drink the local water.
From then on, like a cutting taken from a plant, a separate version of Neil flourished inside Marion’s head. Imaginary Neil provided her with comfort when she was miserable, and company when she was lonely. She often spent hours at a time, lying in the bath or on her bed, creating a fantasy world where the two of them lived their lives together.
They went on holiday, took long walks through forests, and climbed mountains. They had a big white wedding where doves were released into the sky and they ate a cake with five tiers. Sometimes they had children; sometimes she gave names to the children, like Alex and Stephanie. Then Alex fell off a horse and had to be in a wheelchair. Then she changed the story so that Alex wasn’t in a wheelchair but Stephanie got abducted and she and Neil had to go on a TV news conference and ask people for help finding her.
“I just want to die,” she exclaimed. “How can we go on without her?”
“We have to be strong for Alex’s sake. Don’t worry, I know we will find her,” said Neil, because he was always so good at reassuring her when she was upset. Then Stephanie was found, and they were all happy again because she hadn’t been interfered with or anything like that. It turned out she had just lost her memory after bumping her head, and then been taken in by a kindly old woman who had looked after her for a while before sending her back home.
? ? ?
MARION LAY IN bed listening to the doorbell ringing. It was late morning but she was still tired after a sleepless night. Was the doorbell always so loud? It rang so rarely that Marion couldn’t remember. She put on her dressing gown and went to the top of the stairs, afraid to go farther down in case the person outside could see her through the stained glass panel in the door.
Briing—briing.