The Girl in the Red Coat

5

The maze was fading to a distant memory.

It was Saturday and we’d been shopping. We were walking down the lane with our Tesco bags when we saw Paul’s red Peugeot parked outside the gate. He got out of the car when he saw us and stood with his arms folded, smiling at Carmel. Then he opened his arms up wide as she raced forwards and flung herself at him.

‘Daddy,’ she screamed.

‘My girl,’ he almost shouted. ‘My lovely girl.’

He never looked at me once the whole time, but maybe, after all, I was relieved. I’d tried to keep myself together in the time since he’d left, for my own sake and Carmel’s — flowers on my blouses, deep berry colours, or summery yellows. A dash of lipstick, cheap and cheerful. The same with the house — I’d put bright orange curtains at the windows and hung little mottoes up on the walls, to try and fill the gap he’d left. But typically Paul had caught me on the one day we’d rushed out to catch the bus, me still looping my hair into a haphazard ponytail. And Carmel was ecstatic to see him and I didn’t want to spoil that so I unlocked the front door to let us in and waited till she went to hang her coat up.

‘What’s going on?’

He sat at the kitchen table looking bigger than I remembered. Tall and handsome with his legs lolling about like our little kitchen chairs were from a schoolroom. He smelled strange though, the chemical scent of fabric conditioner hung about him.

‘I’ve come to see our daughter, that’s OK, isn’t it?’

Then I heard her coming down the hall so I didn’t mention access agreements or how he was supposed to see her every weekend and hadn’t been near us for nearly five months. I was just glad for her that he was there. Carmel was bringing armfuls of things to show him — a cushion she’d made at school with her name painted on it; her last report; her new umbrella which had ears sticking up in little flaps when you opened it.

‘Never mind all that.’ Paul stood up and he looked so strong and handsome that I had to harden my heart. ‘Let’s you and me go and watch a film in town and you can choose a place to eat afterwards.’

He leaned down and unpeeled a strand of hair stuck to her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. Such a tender gesture. I wondered how he could have beared to stay away for so long. Then, like he’d been reading my mind: ‘I’ve been wanting to see you so much, Carmel. I’ve just been waiting till everything was settled …’ I realised he meant till I was settled. ‘We’ll have a lovely evening now. We’ll stuff our faces with popcorn.’

‘And Mum?’ Carmel was looking over at me. God, how alike they looked: clear hazel eyes; curly hair; strong bones.

‘No, let’s leave Mum in peace for once. Just you and me.’

I chimed in with a smile as bright as a piece of tin, ‘Yes, you two go. Enjoy yourselves. I’ve things to do.’

Carmel looked suspiciously at my tin smile so I softened my face and said, ‘I’ve got lots to do here, Carmel. I’ll be able to read in front of the fire without the television on.’ So she slowly put her things down and went to get her coat.

‘You could come, but probably for the best, eh? It would only spoil it for her, wouldn’t it? I mean, if us two fall out again.’

I said, ‘Yes, Paul,’ and turned away, conscious that my hair was in a scruffy ponytail with scrappy bits falling around my face and hating myself for caring. ‘You go,’ I said and willed myself not to ask about Lucy, and whether they still lived together, but I didn’t need to ask really. It wasn’t just the smell of fabric conditioner that was new, anyone could see he’d been dressed by a woman. Pink-and-green polo shirt, sweetie colours. A chunky Patek Philippe watch gleaming on his wrist.

‘I needed to talk to you anyway, Paul.’

‘OK.’ He braced himself.

‘About Carmel.’

‘Oh, yes.’ He relaxed.

‘We’ve had a parent — teacher meeting. They think, well, they think she’s quite special.’

His face dropped and he frowned, then looked round at the space where she’d just been. ‘What, like special needs?’

I let my breath out in a slow one, two, three.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, the opposite. Clever, you know. Very bright … but …’

‘What?’

‘Dreamy. Too dreamy sometimes. Have you not noticed?’

Was it just me who saw those absences? When she stood rooted to the spot and her eyes became strange and stony — then as soon as they came, they went. Fugues, I began to name them. I wanted to talk to someone about it. Perhaps Paul was closer than he realised in his meaning of ‘special’. But after all, I couldn’t be sure — how can you tell when you only have one child, when there’s nothing to measure these things against?

Paul didn’t want to talk about this, I could see. I remembered how he used to be on accepting people as they are. ‘Maybe. But …’

‘What?’

‘I’ve always thought it was more like she has an old soul. The Chinese say that, don’t they, or the Hindus?’

‘Oh, Paul. She’s so pleased to see you,’ I burst out.

He looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry I felt I had to wait until, you know.’

I did. Divorce is never pretty. Ours wasn’t.

‘But now. Now it’s all settled.’ For him I suppose it was. ‘Now things have settled we can do this more often, all the time.’

‘Look, Paul. I need to go over it with you, the meeting, there’s more.’

That’s when we heard Carmel coming down the stairs, so the conversation ended.

‘C’mon, curly mop,’ he said. ‘You and me hit the road.’

I watched their tail lights disappearing down the twilight road. Then once the last blink of red had gone I went and fished out some tobacco from the dresser drawer. The tobacco was old and had hardened inside the plastic pouch so it looked like chocolate-flavoured sugar strands. When I rolled the cigarette I had to twist both ends so the tobacco didn’t spill. I lit it and sat next to the window, smoking and looking out.

It wasn’t just a marriage with Paul — we’d run a business together buying and selling ginseng and specialist teas. When he’d left I’d been proud and angry and told him I’d rely on the reception job I’d found — not quite full time. We agreed that he would have the business and I would have the house. He had no need of a house now he was moving in with Lucy and it was better for Carmel to stay in the same place. Lucy had a small newbuild on the outskirts of town. I knew, because I found it one night, mad with jealousy. To her credit, she asked me in. So much younger than me; I burned at the cliché. As I was following her I looked at her behind, tiny in tight-fitting white jeans. My eyes followed the contours of her backside down to between her thighs and I thought, ‘Paul has put his cock inside there.’ And the thought made me feel sweaty and ugly.

Her feet were bare, with tiny pink painted shells of toenails, and I realised — remembering the shoe rack by the front door — that this was the sort of house where you’d take your shoes off in normal circumstances. Would Paul really do that? I looked down at my feet and wondered if after I’d gone, she’d be there with dustpan and brush and squirty carpet cleaner, rubbing at the cream carpet where my boots had been.

She told me they were in love and she was sorry. She seemed nice enough — I’d wanted her to be heartless and hard-faced and she wasn’t either of those things. But as I left I couldn’t help saying spitefully to her, ‘He’s unreliable and untrustworthy. He’ll do the same to you.’

She tried to still her face but I saw the movement flick deep behind her eyes, knowing what I’d said was possibly true. And I relished that flicker — took it home with me and turned it over later, Gollum-like, as though it was something to be treasured. It shames me now, to say that.

After Paul had gone the house slowly emptied of his presence. Every time the door opened the wind blew in and took with it a bit more of him. The smell of tea faded. We’d kept the dresser full of stock and it exuded smoky smells of Lapsang and deep stately tannin with a flowery trill of jasmine riding its wake. The smell of tea still makes me think of Paul. Even passing the tea section in the supermarket or taking the lid off the pot in a cafe to check the contents brings back our time together and the feel of him. After the dresser was emptied these tea smells faded away until it was strangely only the thin scent of jasmine that remained. I’d catch its sharp delicate breath in odd parts of the kitchen. Occasionally I’d find a piece of ginseng in a kitchen drawer, the rude rooty stub a reminder of something base and earthy. Once I came across a knotted ball of Japanese tea that had rolled behind the log basket. The dense packed ball looked like a form of root too but would reveal itself when boiling water was poured, growing in the cup into the form of a chrysanthemum.

The house became very quiet. The noise I made as I blew out smoke was a rushing wind in my ears. Sometimes the floorboards would creak upstairs or the old heating would clink rapidly for a few seconds. I stayed there until I saw the headlights of Paul’s car returning. I must take her out more, I thought.