When God Was a Rabbit (15 page)

The Christmas we disappeared is still as clear to me as yesterday. We left as soon as Uncle Phil came back from the Red House and fell asleep and we took the car to an abandoned car park where Mum had booked a minicab. Everything was about covering our tracks you see. Mum had been advised by a womens refuge in Liverpool and they told her what to do. We stayed a couple of nights in a small hotel in Euston, I think, before taking the train up north. We lived in the refuge till Mum got back on her feet. We couldn’t call from there or let anyone know the address, something about endangering the others. Thats why you never heard from me. Even when we got our own place, Mum said our previous life was dead. I had to forget about it all. About you. About all that had happened to her. She was so frightened. What she’d turned into no one should turn into and I couldn’t tell anyone. I called you once. One Christmas about ten years ago. At the end of the day, like we used to. You said hello and I heard laughter. I put the phone down. I think it hurt too much. Hearing what I was once part of. What I could of been. Could of had.

I did get married. It wasn’t a happy marriage although at first I thought it was. I thought it would give me everything I missed, or that my mum missed and thats all I can say really. I don’t know if you believe in destiny but I know he was mine.

I looked up. Ginger was singing loudly and had managed most of the words, even though she seemed to make up a few of her own in the third verse.

I’d love to read Arthurs book when you’ve finished editing it, also any articles you’ve written for magazines. I’ve got plenty of time to read you see. I work in the kitchen here and its quite good. Before I came here I used to have a company called The Tranquil Path, just me and a girl called Linda. I did tarot reading and massage mainly – aromatherapy, intuitive, even Indian head massage. I got quite good. Quite successful. Funny how life turns out.

Oh, Elly, this feels so good writing to you again. I’m trying to forgive myself for what I’ve done and its proving the hardest thing for me to do. I’m down to serve nine years at the moment. They say I’ll probably get out before with good behaviour. I should of got less, everyone said so, even the police. They didn’t think it was murder

‘Fuck!’ I said, and the Pelynt lot turned towards me. So did Arthur and Ginger.

they knew it was self-defence and so I eventually got done for manslaughter. The judge was so nice, so understanding but as he explained to me, he had no choice. Its all about precedent you see and mitigating circumstances, but I expect your dad can explain more about that.

‘What?’ mouthed Ginger, who’d suddenly got bored singing.

‘What?’ she said again.

‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ I hissed, and continued to read.

‘Tell me now,’ she said, and started to laugh.

I hope this letter finds you well. Even though I said the M words please don’t be frightened of me. I’m still me, Elly. Not the monster some people said I was.

Om shanti and cheerio.

Love, Jenny

PS. I do understand if you don’t want to write to me again. Just thought it best to get it all out in the open. My diabetes is still under control. Thanks for remembering.

PPS. Stamps would be great. Legal tender in here.

I put the letter away as Ginger leant towards me and held my arm.

‘Jenny Penny’s murdered someone,’ I said in time with the music.

‘Ssh,’ I heard from behind me.

‘What? That strange girl with unmanageable hair?’ said Ginger.

‘Tell Arthur,’ I said, and she moved towards him, grabbed his head and pulled it towards her mouth as if it was a first-of-the-season peach.

I nudged my mother and whispered in her ear.

‘What?’ she said.

I told her again.

‘Murder?’ she said. ‘I don’t believe it.’ And as the music slowed to its desultory end, she grabbed my hand and sang loudly to the heavens, ‘Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home.’

Amen.

After a monotonous reading about the responsibilities of parenthood, the message of which, thank God, must have bypassed my own parents with the temerity of a stolen car, I was grateful when Ginger finally stood up to sing. Alan and Alan junior beamed. In their eyes Ginger was a star because she had sung with Frank Sinatra (which she actually had done), and therefore it was really only one step away from having the great man there himself. And so when Ginger unnecessarily bowed on reaching the front, Alan senior couldn’t help but emit a tiny cheer. However, when she dedicated her song to, ‘Jenny Penny, our friend who’s been wrongly imprisoned for murder,’ I winced, and couldn’t have felt more exposed had I sat there naked. She’d been given
carte blanche
to sing whatever song she felt was right for the day, but as she sang the opening line to ‘I Who Have Nothing’, even I wondered what her thought process had been.

‘A child comes into the world with nothing,’ she said later, downing a large Scotch, as if she didn’t know what all the fuss had been about.

No one ever turned in for an early night down there. It was unheard of, like a silent rule; it just wasn’t done. We slept only when talk was exhausted, when we had wrung out its last vestiges and the space it left was empty, lifeless,
tired
. Many times I had sat with my mother watching the sky change from its French navy to a haloed hue, when the sun encroached upon the horizon, pushing upwards the blanketed dark to make room for its light that appeared golden and orbed and unnatural, and sometimes we would take the boat out down to the mouth of the harbour (sometimes beyond), and sit wrapped in blankets whilst a new day appeared.

But after the christening everyone seemed eager to retire, and by eleven the house was quiet and slightly forlorn. I made a fire because the spring dampness had intruded after the sun had gone down. I could feel it now, cool under my jumper, and I wanted to disperse it, and I wanted the comfort and the smell of flame. I held the match under the newspaper and fed slithers of dry wood, until they smoked and glowed orange and finally lit.

‘Hey,’ I said.

‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna change phones.’

I heard a click. I heard him pick up the replacement.

‘Hey,’ he said, and I heard him swallow.

His voice was low, devoid of energy – his accent quite American when he was tired. He had a beer and I was glad about that. Something to lift him.

‘What’s new?’ he said, and I told him about the christening, told him about Jenny Penny’s letter.

‘I don’t fucking believe it. You’re kidding me.’

‘No. It’s true.’

‘Who did she kill?’

‘I don’t know anything yet.’

‘Mum’s old boyfriend?’

‘Now there’s a thought,’ I said.

‘Jesus, Elly. What are you going to do?’

‘What can I do? Keep writing, that’s all. Get the truth. God, it’s so weird, Joe. She was my friend.’

‘She
was
weird,’ he said.

‘Yeah, but
this
? This wasn’t her. She had too much imagination for this.’

‘Elly, you don’t know her. You knew her as a kid. You can’t freeze someone in time,’ he said.

Silence.

I poured out more wine. I’ve frozen myself in time.

‘What happened to the job, by the way?’ he asked.

‘Panicked.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Can’t settle. You know me, restless. Turned into Nancy. No big deal.’

‘You sure?’

Silence.

‘Sure, Ell?’

‘Yeah. I’m good. Just hate being tied down,’ I said and finished my glass. ‘So what are you doing tonight?’

‘Falling asleep with a beer in my hand.’

‘Sexy,’ I said.

‘It just hasn’t been a good day, or a good week.’

And I heard the darkness fall again across his back. Silence. I held my breath.

‘Come back,’ I said. ‘I miss you. We all do.’

Nothing.

‘You know I have to be here.’

‘Still?’

‘Yeah. Work. You know.’

‘You hate your work.’

‘I love the money.’

‘You’re an arse.’ I laughed. I drank. ‘That job’s not you.’

‘Maybe. But what’s me, Ell?’

We both went quiet.

‘You need to meet someone,’ I said.

‘Given up on that.’ He yawned.

‘Isn’t there anyone in your choir?’

‘We’ve done each other.’

‘Ah.’

‘It’s what we do.’

‘I know.’

‘I have no friends,’ he said, and I started to laugh again. Good, I thought, we’re back onto this game, this game was familiar.

‘Me neither,’ I said. ‘We’re freaks.’

He prised the lid off another bottle.

‘How’s Ginger?’ he asked.

‘Hanging in there.’

‘Fuck.’ He drank loudly.

‘You should call Mum and Dad.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Send them my love.’

You could do that yourself, I thought.

‘Just a bad day,’ he said.

I put a log on the fire.

‘We’re singing at a mate’s wedding next weekend,’ he said, trying to sound happier.

‘That sounds great.’

‘Yeah, it will be. It’s like our first proper performance.’

‘Fantastic.’

‘Yeah, it will be,’ he said.

‘Something to look forward to.’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘I miss you.’

‘Same,’ he said.

The fire spat out minuscule embers onto the wide hearth where I watched them fade like dying stars. My brother had episodes like this, ones that eclipsed the brightness that he was; that he could be. My mother blamed it on rugby, on the frequent knocks to his head, the concussion. I blamed it on the secret I made him carry. My father simply thought it must be quite lonely at times, being gay. Maybe it was a bit of everything, I thought.

17 March 1996

Dear Jenny

I hope you are well. I can’t imagine what life has been like for you and that has made it hard for me to write this letter. Thank you for your honesty; I feel no desire to turn away; on the contrary, I just want to know more – what could have happened to my friend that she ended up where she is? If you wish to tell me more, I am here. I spent the last week in Cornwall and have thought about you all the time. Everyone wishes to be remembered to you. Joe especially – he’s in New York. Everyone sends you love. I’d like to see you, Jenny. My father said that you would need to send me a V.O., a visiting order, I think. Is that right? I really would like to visit you, but I don’t want you to feel awkward. I know it’s quick – maybe too quick. I’ve become like that. I find letter writing hard and have sadly lost the art. I have so much to say, so much to tell you, as if I’ve waited so long to tell only you what’s gone on in my life. Have enclosed stamps and also a postal order. Dad says you probably need money to get your own duvet or stuff like that, anything to make your room more personal. It never occurred to me, the whole catalogue-shopping bit. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.

I hope people are kind to you. Stay strong.

Take care.

Love, Ell

Three weeks later she told me everything. It tumbled from her pen like a confession, but not one she was forced to write because there were both sides to this story; intention and undertaking, freedom and consequence, she hid nothing.

The months leading up to the act were written unpunctuated as if every blow and insult ran from one to the other without a pause or break until she ended up bloodied on the bathroom floor with a shower nozzle forced into her mouth, drowning. She would have done it then, she said, as he leant over, playing with the taps. But there was nothing close to hand and anyway her wrist was broken and it dropped uselessly at a right angle and so she stayed leaning over the bath until the assault had passed, the footsteps receded, and the front door slammed shut.

I put too much salt in the spaghetti bolognaise!
That’s what she wrote; with an ironic exclamation mark. It had the power to break a heart.

She didn’t report him. Instead, that night, she dragged herself into the rain to a secluded and notorious alleyway and emptied the contents of her bag over the ground and then stumbled to a phone box to call the police. She had been mugged, she said. They took her to hospital and looked after her and yet she knew they didn’t believe her, because no one ever believed the catalogue of ‘mishaps’ that had befallen her third and fourth years of marriage – not even Linda, nor the neighbours, who hid their disbelief behind a stuttering veil of silence. And when he came to pick her up he wept and said he’d murder the bastard who’d done this to her, and that’s when she realised what she was going to do and that’s when it became nine years.

The night it happened he came home to a take-out meal rather than the beef stew she’d promised to make him, and it was a Chinese meal, something she liked more than he did, something she hadn’t dared to order in months, but she needed his rage, you see. She got it from one of the oldest restaurants in Liverpool, the Golden Lotus. It was her favourite restaurant, which made her favourite dish – prawns with chilli, garlic and ginger – one of the few things that gave her confidence, together with a nice cold glass of Soave. Although her bruises had almost subsided (it had been six weeks), there were still dark rings under her eyes that made her look pitiful and harmless, which was quite useful, she wrote. He sat down and said nothing. She put rice on his plate and asked about his day and he told her to shut up. She ate a prawn cracker and handed him a beer. He smashed it over her head.

She fell to the floor, taking with her a bowl, a plate, a vase of budded flowers and her chopsticks. (She never used a knife and fork because it was important for her to be authentic whenever she ate Chinese food.) But that’s why she’d used a chopstick: it was the only thing close to hand; a pointed, black metal one that had been part of an unrequested wedding gift. It was reflex, you see; he’d leant over her and spat and had forgotten to hold down her arms. She thought it was his shoulder at first. Only afterwards did she realise it was his heart she’d punctured fifteen times.

‘Here,’ I said to my father, giving him the letter. He put the saw to one side and sat down on an old armchair that was covered in wood shavings and dust. He felt around for his glasses in pockets crammed with everything but, until I pointed to his head and he felt for them and pulled them down over his eyes. Those were the sole moments that gave away his age; chinks in the armour of our eternal boy. I watched him read. His face was still, placid, as he read over the initial greetings. He hasn’t turned the page yet, I thought.

I went outside and freed myself from the smell of sawdust and grease, the smell of his workroom. I hung out down there as a child, watched him make things: the shed, the jetty, climbing frames for our neighbours, cupboards, shelves, and our table, of course. I used to think it was just as well he didn’t have a proper job, because he really was simply too busy making things. He used to give me solid cubes of wood that I would plane and sand smooth until they resembled pebbles, good enough to give. He taught me about the grains of wood, the textures, how oak was a pale brown wood whilst beech was sometimes reddish brown; how oak was coarse, and sycamore fine, and ash good for bending. My life was full of moments like that, moments I’d taken so wonderfully for granted. But Jenny Penny had never known her father. She’d never been around a man who’d taught her about wood or fishing, or joy.

‘Elly.’

My father called to me. I went in and sat on the arm of his chair. He handed me the folded letter and said nothing. I expected more: a sigh of disbelief, a wise comment,
something
; but instead he lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes, as if he’d seen the brutality of her life, rather than had read about it. I put my arm around him in case his thoughts had gone back to Jean Hargreaves, the ghost we all thought he’d laid to rest, but maybe never had.

‘She said she sent a V.O.?’ he said.

‘Yeah, for next Wednesday,’ I said.

‘Are you going?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good,’ he said, and he got up and leant on his worktable. A nail fell to the floor and sounded like a tiny distant chime. He bent down to pick it up – never knew when he might need it.

‘She might not—’ he started.

‘Can you help her?’ I said, interrupting him. ‘If we got the papers and stuff from her lawyer, if we knew more. Could you help her?’

‘We’ll see,’ he said.

His voice promised nothing.