Ghost Story Page 8

  When Agatha got up the next morning, she saw the deathtrap remained unsprung on the top of the microwave; she didn’t set it, though she thought about it; more droppings appeared, the mice unseen; that evening Paddy came home with a different design of trap under his arm in a box – one that didn’t kill.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Agatha.

  Paddy felt angered. He wanted to tell Aggie about the surprise he was planning for her – he couldn’t, and it seemed to him that she was controlling every aspect of their lives. This she did by making her mood the mood of the house; so,she decided who would come to their house, and when. Agatha, for instance, that afternoon, had phoned and arranged for her mother to bring Max round at the weekend, probably Saturday for tea. Of course, Paddy, when told, was delighted at the chance to see his son but, emotionally, annoyed that he hadn’t been consulted. The argument was obvious, and not worth having: Agatha would say, why ask when the answer couldn’t be anything but yes? Paddy’s only response pushed him into pettiness: You should because you just should. He meant it as something more: You should because this is a bloody marriage. To this, Agatha could reply: Exactly, that’s why I didn’t ask. He objected most of all to the coming normality of noncommunication. More and more was passing unspoken – their present understanding, though, was based entirely upon past sympathy, and the further they left this behind, the less chance they had of returning to it. Paddy intended his surprise to change things, slightly, slyly.

  On Friday, Paddy arrived home late – and called out from the hall, when usually before he had come to find Agatha wherever she was. (She had not, since they moved into the house, ever run to him returning – in the flat, Max had always directed her attention towards Daddy’s arrival: wanting to see his father as soon as possible, wanting and wailing. When she had been going to work, it was Paddy who was usually waiting at home for her.) Agatha was in the kitchen, making macaroni cheese with the rest of the mouse-Gouda. She stayed where she was. Paddy called again. ‘I’m here,’ Agatha called back. Paddy gave in, walking disappointedly down the hall and into the kitchen. Without speaking, Paddy produced from behind his back a plastic box with a grille across the front. ‘She might be a little terrified,’ he said, crouching down to the floor with it. ‘She didn’t enjoy the journey much at all.’

  ‘You got a cat,’ said Agatha, startled.

  ‘It’s a kitten,’ Paddy said, unlatching the grille.

  ‘Did we agree to get one? I don’t remember agreeing to get one.’

  ‘I mentioned it to Peter,’ who, as Agatha knew, was another philosopher in the department, ‘and his sister’s cat had just had a litter.’ Paddy put his hand inside the box, elbow jutting, which reminded Agatha of too many visits to the gynaecologist – of too many other things. ‘There you are,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll have to take it back,’ said Agatha, as Paddy drew the kitten from its dark den, detaching its soft claws one by one from the blanket. ‘Don’t get it out, you’ll just have to put it back.’

  Paddy was patient (nothing if not); he had the kitten comfortably draped over his hand, its belly in his palm; he could feel each of its tender ribs and, behind them, the thrill of its heart, beating fast but not panic-fast; there was no smell of urine from the carry-case.

  ‘Oh, it’s tiny,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Yes,’ said Paddy, ‘only a few weeks.’

  ‘Is it old enough to be away from –’

  ‘Peter’s sister seemed to think so, and she’s been giving away kittens for as long as he can remember. It was either this or a bag and a bucket in the yard.’

  ‘Paddy,’ said Agatha, saddened by his attempt at cruelty. He was bringing the big-eyed fluffy thing towards her. It was aggressively sweet, that was what she felt: merciless in its undislikeability; a weapon of endearment, a cute-bomb. The kitten’s survival mechanism was hooks in human hearts; Agatha felt them sliding itchily in. ‘No,’ she said, shifting herself sideways away from the thing.

  ‘At least it can have a little runaround. It can’t just go straight back in the box.’

  ‘It can,’ said Agatha. The thing was tortoiseshell with six parallel lines of black furrow down its forehead. Its paws were too big for it, some growing would have to be done before they ceased to look ridiculous. Paddy paused for a moment, holding it. If he had been kitten-confident, he would have transferred it to a pinch between his fingers, dangling it from its scruff like a mothercat would – moving it with her mouth from place to place, out of danger. Paddy made a decision, one he was brave enough for, and gently put the kitten down on the floor. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s been in that little box for most of the afternoon – it would be cruel to put it back straight away.’

  The kitten stood shakily, looking around with its topaz eyes – where, it was feeling, were the soft shapes (with occasional claws) of its brothers and sisters? The tiles were cold beneath its pads, and the kitchen was a vast open expanse. Agatha looked at Paddy, the tears distorting him. ‘Why did you do this?’ she asked. ‘It’s so cruel.’

  ‘I saved it,’ he said.

  ‘Bringing it here, letting me see it.’

  ‘It will help with our mouse problem.’ Paddy seemed to shrink. This had been an inspiration, and he’d been hoping Aggie would recognise it as such. They were always wondering what to do; well, this was something he had done. ‘You’re determined I should take it back?’ Paddy asked.

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ said Agatha. ‘It’s like showing me an orphan. It’s unbearable.’ She stood up and went towards the door. The kitten was investigating the bottom of the oven, throwing tentative little sniffs in its direction. Paddy stood aside to let Aggie leave. He was no longer hugely upset, apart from sympathetically, by her tears; he did not immediately take their blame upon himself – although in this case he gave a moment’s thought as to whether he should. Footsteps along the landing; into the bedroom directly above his head; the door did not slam, he didn’t even hear it shut. ‘Behave yourself,’ he said to the kitten. ‘Don’t disgrace me – or I’ll never forgive you.’ He opened a bottle of red wine and poured out two generous glasses. (He had thought Aggie might start drinking during the day; that was a possibility – it hadn’t yet happened but it still might.) One in either hand, he went steadily up the stairs and through the open bedroom door. Agatha was not going to be easily persuaded. He would refuse to take the kitten back that night – he couldn’t take it back. Where to? Peter’s sister’s farm? He didn’t know where it was. Peter had gone away for the weekend (he hadn’t, but Paddy would say he had). Agatha, for her part, was thinking the kitten should spend the night in its box. ‘Where is it?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s where I left it – in the kitchen.’

  ‘Loose?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘On the prowl,’ said Paddy.

  ‘We had a tortoiseshell when I was nine or ten,’ said Aggie, a while later, the wine finished. ‘Did I ever tell you that?’

  ‘I’ve seen the photograph with you in the garden.’

  ‘I’m holding it like a mink stole, aren’t I? My arms right round the middle. It doesn’t look like it’s got any bones in it at all.’

  ‘And you’ve got glasses on.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Agatha.

  ‘And an eye-patch.’

  ‘I had a squint – it was to correct it.’

  ‘Where is that album?’

  ‘In a box, in the sticker room, I think,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Shall I get it?’ asked Paddy, already sensing he was being too keen.

  ‘No,’ said Aggie, and the moment was ended – but Paddy felt it had been a good one; rare.

  When they went downstairs ten minutes later they found two small craplets alongside a tight circle of piss. Beneath the kitchen table, a few moments after this, thanks to the smell, they discovered an equal-sized splat of puke.

  ‘It’s disgraced itself,’ said Paddy. He looked the long, long way down to the kitten. ‘You’ve disgraced yourself.’

&nbs
p; ‘It can stay,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Really?’ said Paddy, who had been doing his best to let neither his happiness nor his disappointment show.

  ‘Is it a boy-cat or a girl-cat?’ Agatha asked.

  ‘Girl-cat,’ said Paddy.

  ‘Let’s not give it a name just yet,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s wait and see what it’s like before we give it a name.’

  They cleared up the messes, which smelt sweet but were very disgusting – even compared to baby-shit; then Agatha put the fluffy little thing in the corner and poured out some milk for it. The kitten’s tongue was, like all cats’ tasting tongues, a miracle of fast appearing and fast disappearing pink. ‘I still have reservations, though,’ said Agatha.

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I feel about having it around Max.’

  ‘Max isn’t here.’

  ‘You know what I mean – when he is here.’

  ‘Max will love it – it will save him having to nag us for a pet when he’s eight and a half.’

  Agatha turned to Paddy. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I know what you’re attempting to do with this’ – a gesture towards the kitten – ‘and I appreciate it – I really appreciate it, but I don’t know how I’m going to be able to respond.’

  ‘You don’t have to respond.’

  ‘If we run out of milk, you would expect me to go and buy some. There are practical problems.’

  Paddy let his voice darken. ‘We won’t run out of milk,’ he said. Agatha’s confession that going outside the house was no longer something of which she felt capable shocked at the same time as it gladdened: he had been right – and this was a serious problem to be dealt with. To do so now, though, to make of this mentioning a beginning, would be crass. The kitten represented progress, though from a point far back from where he’d hoped Agatha was. He looked at her, very conscious of their marriage, and felt an extreme vertiginous distance. His next thought was of Max – postponing the idea of bringing him to the house; their restitution as a no longer normal but at least attempting-it family. Paddy just then hoped Agatha would be momentarily distracted by something, that the kitten would amuse, because he was terrified by what she might see if she looked at him – what that glance might tell her, and what damage it might do.

  The kitten obliged, but only by continuing what it had been doing. It was almost finished now, its tiny performance of need-satisfied in great contrast to the thoughts and discussion going on at cloud-height above its head. ‘It brings up the problem,’ said Agatha, repeating her confession. ‘And I don’t know how I’m going to be able to cope with that.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll cope beautifully.’

  ‘Coping is never beautiful,’ said Agatha. ‘My coping is angry and botched and unsatisfying…’

  ‘Coping is all we can do,’ said Paddy, ‘at the moment.’

  ‘No,’ said Agatha, ‘I’ve changed my mind – you’ll have to take it back tomorrow.’ When she said this she had been looking at Paddy, not the kitten.

  ‘But you just said –’

  ‘Exactly: look how unreliable and flighty I am.’ Agatha started to cry. ‘Why do you make me make decisions?’ she said, now looking at the kitten – who was sitting in the saucer, mopping up the last of the dampness with her tail.

  ‘At some point,’ said Paddy, ‘you will have to make decisions again – in fact, that’s wrong: I’m sure you make decisions all day long, you just don’t think of them as such.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Agatha. ‘I drift and I follow my appetite. I limit my world; I’m getting into a routine.’

  ‘I spoke to Henry today. I invited them round for lunch this Sunday.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re going to bring Hope, too.’

  Agatha might once have used this moment to begin sulking. Paddy said, ‘You want to see May, too, don’t you?’

  ‘Some time. Not right now.’

  ‘They only live ten minutes away, and that’s walking, with a pram. We moved down here, partly at least, so we could be near them – and we haven’t seen them at all. You might not want to see Hope right now, but you’ll regret it in future.’

  ‘Of course I will, I’ll regret lots of things – some of them I do exactly because I know that I’ll regret them.’

  ‘This involves them, too,’ Paddy said. ‘It was Henry who called me; they want to see you – they want to do what they can to see that you’re alright.’

  Bored with the emptied bowl, the kitten now had her nose up against the French doors.

  ‘Tomorrow it goes,’ said Agatha. ‘Before Max gets here. We can’t have him falling in love with it.’

  ‘I can’t take it back – Peter lives in Hertfordshire. I’ll take it back on Monday.’

  ‘I won’t change my mind.’

  ‘I know you won’t; do you think I don’t?’

  ‘We can’t let Max see it.’

  CHAPTER 9

  A PART from the mouse incident and the kitten evening, their routine had developed smoothly during the first week. When Paddy got up in the morning, Agatha shifted to the centre of the bed; her arms and legs reaching towards its four corners, hands beneath the heavy pillows. She fell asleep again as soon as she had heard the front door shut behind him, and it was a better, less exhausting sleep. This she was grateful for: her nights during the months since had been full of difficulty. There were hours of blackout, welcomed in retrospect; then more often there were nights whole long nights of struggle. She kicked Paddy, hard – and he never got used to it, always woke in an outrage. She babbled words, wardings off; there were witches flying through branches over her head, and now moonlight on the back of a fat rat. Sometimes she was in the forest and sometimes she went everywhere: directed the orgy alongside the obese emperor, hid in a cellar from the SS, escaped from the harem, was buried beneath an avalanche, felt the desert sun burn her face into a permanent smile, forded rivers – or failed halfway across to ford them, was swept over Niagara Falls, Victoria Falls, drowned, sat in the café beside the suitcase containing the bomb, bought sweets in an Arab bazaar which turned out to be seeds for poisonous plants, ate them, turned into a monster, burnt to death in skyscrapers and tenements and crashed cars, went zombie in Haiti after marrying her sweetheart’s brother out of spite, took tea with a murderous imposter Queen, fired a rocket launcher at a Zeppelin which then crash-landed on her, lost jewels down a sewer because her hands were slippy with frog-slime, failed to recognise her father in a crowd, found a book of miraculous answers on a scrapheap but had it stolen before daylight by a gang of naked children, sat beside mothers-to-be on the bus with knitting needles in her fists, underwent spinal surgery which was botched, gave birth to porcupines, bats, rats, all possible deformities, gave birth to Paddy, to herself. In the forest, she was a frog gooed with fecundity at the time of spawning, a wolf in the pack, a tree struck by lightning, an ant milking the Queen, a mushroom knocked off a branch by a bear, a cuckoo in a sparrow’s nest, a lost child. When she was not alone, Max was there, in danger – or was the object of some quest. There were conspiracies against them; he was perpetually being abducted. More often than not, she failed him and he died. She was always late for meetings to arrange his safe passage to a neutral country, or stop the damaged cable-car leaving with him (a young man now) on the roof, or prevent him signing up for the army of an indistinct military. She failed him, and the guilt, which remained with her all day, was never remembered as dream-caused but attached itself to the idea of Max – Max without her. Sometimes, and this was worst, it was all reunion, embrace, safety; her body would remember its feelings of fullness, of sweet invasion. ‘Empty my head,’ she wanted to tell Paddy, ‘flush it like a toilet.’ She was surprised, and proud of herself, for never having wet the bed; she had come, soft orgasms, once or twice, in the middle of some grotesque pulsing image. She wasn’t, as people sometimes said, afraid of the fear, so much as the fear of the fear – or the fear of the fear of the fear. But the d
ull, unmemorable slumber after Paddy had left for work was quite different: she enjoyed it extra-ordinarily, waking as the week went on later and later in the morning.