“Is that right?” Marion felt a sudden chill in her middle.
“Don’t sound so ruddy pleased about it.” John’s voice wobbled with hurt. “Anyone would think you were happier without me.” He let his spoon fall into the metal ice cream dish with a clatter.
“Don’t be daft. Of course I want you to come home, love. The house doesn’t seem the same without you,” she said, trying to sound like a caring sister. “But we want to make sure you’re all right first, don’t we? I mean, you hear about them sending people home too early just to free up the beds.”
“You look different, Marion,” said John, his eyes squinting at her like the stone-lidded shellfish that clustered under Northport Pier. “Is that a new coat?”
? ? ?
MARION DREAMT THAT night she was running down Grange Road. She passed dozens of large Edwardian houses and hundreds of poplar trees, yet no matter how far she ran, she never seemed to reach her own home. Then suddenly she found herself at the top of the cellar steps. The door was open, and she could hear screams from below. She ran down the steps and found Lydia lying on one of those awful mattresses and chained to the wall. She rushed to help her, but John was standing there holding a hammer. Before she could do anything, he moved towards her, swinging the hammer, then everything went black.
? ? ?
THE METER TICKED up to ten pounds just as they turned onto Grange Road. John, unshaven and wearing his pajamas beneath his coat, sat next to her on the wide backseat of the taxi. He kept glancing at Marion.
Marion examined the contents of her purse for a suitable amount to pay the driver; she knew she ought to tip, yet was never sure of the right amount. If she gave him too much, she would be left feeling like a fool, yet if she didn’t give enough, the driver might get angry. If only John would deal with it, he was the man, after all, but he seemed too busy being an invalid to bother himself with matters like that.
As the taxi pulled up outside the house Marion noticed that Mr. Weinberg was standing outside his house watching them. After John and his bags had been placed onto the pavement, Marion thrust an amount just twenty-five pence more than the price on the meter into the driver’s hand, then hurried away without waiting to see if he was annoyed or not.
As she helped John down the path, she realized how much weight he had lost. Illness had chewed the meat right off his bones. He kept clinging to her arm, as if he was frightened of falling over, and had to be detached, finger by tightly curled finger, while she went to unlock the front door and carry his bags inside. She supported him down the hallway and then once he reached the lounge, he managed to make his way across the room by gripping bits of furniture. It seemed he didn’t even notice that all the junk and clutter had been cleared from the room.
“Always nice to get back home,” he sighed, then sank into his place on the sofa and picked up their copy of the Radio Times.
“You know, Marion, I’d love a cup of tea.”
She stood in the doorway staring at her brother, holding her breath and waiting for him to ask about them.
He turned to look at her. “What are you doing standing there like a wax dummy? Put the kettle on. And let the girls know I’m home. I won’t be able to get down to see them just yet. Those cellar steps are a devil.”
? ? ?
AT NIGHT, JOHN slept on the living room sofa. During the day he watched TV and read books, eating his meals from a tray on his lap. To begin with, her brother needed Marion’s help with everything: washing, dressing, and even using the bedpan. John didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed by any of this.
“My toenails need doing. And make sure you don’t cut them too short,” he ordered as she was pulling off his socks before bedtime.
Disgusted by the thought of touching his swollen yellow feet, Marion went to fetch the nail clippers. As she was clipping his big toenail he screamed out loud. “Watch what you are doing, you clumsy bitch. You must have cut right to the bone.”
? ? ?
TWICE A DAY she unlocked the cellar and then stood at the top of the steps for several minutes, shivering with horror. When she came out again, she slammed the door loudly behind her. By doing this she hoped to fool John into thinking that she was still looking after the girls. It surprised her that he never asked about the baby. Did he really think a child could survive down there with his mother in chains? Perhaps he was afraid of knowing the truth.
A district nurse came regularly to check on John. Despite Marion’s cleanup, no amount of Mountain Breeze air freshener could disguise the sickly rotten smell that hung in the air. As soon as Sister Pam walked through the front door her lip curled in disgust. A house that produced such a stink was clearly not a suitable habitat for someone recovering from major surgery. “You know your brother is still very vulnerable to infection. A squalid environment could prove lethal,” she warned Marion, shaking an immaculately scrubbed finger at her.
Andrea, the terrifyingly cheerful physiotherapist in her crisp blue polyester uniform, came three times a week to bully John into exercising. After he had been home a fortnight she finally forced him into climbing the stairs by himself.
“If you don’t get moving now, you will stay in that chair for the rest of your life.” Andrea had a way of making even threats sound jolly.
As John strained up each step, clutching the banister as he went, Marion willed the carpet beneath his feet to wrinkle so he would slip and tumble down the steep stairs. Then he might never have to discover what lay down in the cellar. But John did not fall; instead, he struggled all the way to the top and then stood there panting and grinning at the physio, desperate for teacher’s approval.
“I did it, didn’t I? Can you believe that?”
? ? ?
ONE MORNING, NEARLY a month after John was discharged from hospital, she heard a roar of misery echo through the house. When she found him, he was sitting at the kitchen table weeping.
“Are you all right, John? What’s the matter?”
He refused to even look at her. She knew then that he had found them.
“How could you, Marion?” His voice sounded strained, like a rope was tightening around his throat. “They were all I bloody had. I loved them. They loved me too in their way. You could never understand.”
The tea towel that he used to wipe away his tears had a map of “Bonnie Scotland” on it, and the head of the Loch Ness monster peeped out from John’s clenched fist.