‘I want to show you the orchard.’ His eyes were juicy, young, he was grinning like a schoolboy, he was somewhere inside his own head and the trees were pressing in.
She twisted her hand around to pull at his arm. ‘We’re going back to the house. Come on.’
The only light on in the house shone small through the evening and they crossed the field towards it, Evelyn leading as though she knew what she was doing, her father following somewhere in the back. Distance grew and shrank and soon they were at the stile. Evelyn hopped over and ran the last metres to the house, the flowerbed giving softly beneath her shoes, round the side of the building and into the back door and the kitchen. She put all the lights on, and the oven, and washed her hands and was drying them on the holey, starchy linen tea towel when the planked back door opened and her father came in. He sat at the table.She pulled a soft plastic bag of bread from the enamel bread bin and spread little scoopings of cold butter on it, the knife going through the bread in places, her hands trembling. She pushed a plate and a glass of water across the table towards him. ‘Eat up.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Eat it.’ She turned her back and busied herself with the pizza and an oven tray and didn’t look at him again until she was sure he was eating. She cut the mould off the end of a block of cheese and added it to the plate. ‘This can’t happen any more.’
He rolled a chunk of cheese in a slice of bread and shoved it right in his mouth like his hand belonged to somebody else. He chewed and said gluggily, ‘Is there any peanut butter?’
‘You can’t keep doing this. The not eating, all of it. We can’t keep worrying about you.’
‘Yes, sorry.’ He wiped his fingers on the paper napkin she had torn off for him, and dropped it on the floor.
She laughed, feeling helpless. ‘You’re going to stop?’
From under the table, balancing on his fingertips, patting the floor with the other hand to pick up the paper towel, a slow, uncertain, ‘Yes.’
The stainless-steel sink bench was cold against Evelyn’s back and she tugged down the hem of her jumper. ‘You’re going to look after yourself?’
‘I’m fine.’
She stared at the loaf of bread, its doughy satisfactions, but instead took the cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of her ex-boyfriend’s jacket and lit one. ‘Good. Me too.’
* * *
At the bottom of the stairs she opened the door off the hallway onto her father’s study. The oak table filled most of the room and was spread with a range of open-faced, hardback journals for his History of Theatre project. She flicked through the pile of carbon-copied typewritten pages near by and saw the coloured edge of a magazine, the flat pink of bare flesh. Hastily she covered the papers again. Evelyn looked into space and didn’t move. She listened. It had been a photo of a man. She didn’t want to lift the papers back to check. Maybe it had been a photo of a woman. Maybe it had been a theatre programme, one of those shows her father liked to talk about from the sixties, a kind of performance art. She sneezed in the dust, the shock of that the impetus needed to get out of the room and shut the door.
The guest bedroom was large, with a high ceiling and a view of shorn fields, lumpy in the moonlight. The curtains, sprigged with the sort of daisy pattern Evelyn had longed for as a child, didn’t quite reach the bottom of the window. She held the window wide open and stuck her head out and inhaled the piny air. Stars swarmed overhead. She shut the window latch and shook out the duvet, dust motes floating in the air, the satin fabric smelling coldly of naphthalene. The bedside light was broken so she read with the main light on, moths tapping against the window glass, a couple fizzing on the light bulb. Her father’s room was across the landing and there was the unpausing sound of his footsteps up the stairs and going into his own
She twisted her hand around to pull at his arm. ‘We’re going back to the house. Come on.’
The only light on in the house shone small through the evening and they crossed the field towards it, Evelyn leading as though she knew what she was doing, her father following somewhere in the back. Distance grew and shrank and soon they were at the stile. Evelyn hopped over and ran the last metres to the house, the flowerbed giving softly beneath her shoes, round the side of the building and into the back door and the kitchen. She put all the lights on, and the oven, and washed her hands and was drying them on the holey, starchy linen tea towel when the planked back door opened and her father came in. He sat at the table.She pulled a soft plastic bag of bread from the enamel bread bin and spread little scoopings of cold butter on it, the knife going through the bread in places, her hands trembling. She pushed a plate and a glass of water across the table towards him. ‘Eat up.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Eat it.’ She turned her back and busied herself with the pizza and an oven tray and didn’t look at him again until she was sure he was eating. She cut the mould off the end of a block of cheese and added it to the plate. ‘This can’t happen any more.’
He rolled a chunk of cheese in a slice of bread and shoved it right in his mouth like his hand belonged to somebody else. He chewed and said gluggily, ‘Is there any peanut butter?’
‘You can’t keep doing this. The not eating, all of it. We can’t keep worrying about you.’
‘Yes, sorry.’ He wiped his fingers on the paper napkin she had torn off for him, and dropped it on the floor.
She laughed, feeling helpless. ‘You’re going to stop?’
From under the table, balancing on his fingertips, patting the floor with the other hand to pick up the paper towel, a slow, uncertain, ‘Yes.’
The stainless-steel sink bench was cold against Evelyn’s back and she tugged down the hem of her jumper. ‘You’re going to look after yourself?’
‘I’m fine.’
She stared at the loaf of bread, its doughy satisfactions, but instead took the cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of her ex-boyfriend’s jacket and lit one. ‘Good. Me too.’
* * *
At the bottom of the stairs she opened the door off the hallway onto her father’s study. The oak table filled most of the room and was spread with a range of open-faced, hardback journals for his History of Theatre project. She flicked through the pile of carbon-copied typewritten pages near by and saw the coloured edge of a magazine, the flat pink of bare flesh. Hastily she covered the papers again. Evelyn looked into space and didn’t move. She listened. It had been a photo of a man. She didn’t want to lift the papers back to check. Maybe it had been a photo of a woman. Maybe it had been a theatre programme, one of those shows her father liked to talk about from the sixties, a kind of performance art. She sneezed in the dust, the shock of that the impetus needed to get out of the room and shut the door.
The guest bedroom was large, with a high ceiling and a view of shorn fields, lumpy in the moonlight. The curtains, sprigged with the sort of daisy pattern Evelyn had longed for as a child, didn’t quite reach the bottom of the window. She held the window wide open and stuck her head out and inhaled the piny air. Stars swarmed overhead. She shut the window latch and shook out the duvet, dust motes floating in the air, the satin fabric smelling coldly of naphthalene. The bedside light was broken so she read with the main light on, moths tapping against the window glass, a couple fizzing on the light bulb. Her father’s room was across the landing and there was the unpausing sound of his footsteps up the stairs and going into his own
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