The Telling

Cate tottered over to the kennels. The Gore-Tex family had gone. She hunkered down to peer in, her pinafore dress lifting up, her backside sticking out. We followed her, crouched at her side to look in through the wire mesh. In the darkness of the kennel, a collie lay on newspaper. Her belly was turned towards us; puppies squirmed over each other to get at her teats. The dog looked back at us, her eyes wide and wet with anxiety.
    We bought Cate a Mini Milk in the café and coffee for ourselves . I forgot to get napkins; Mark went back for them, tucked one into Cate’s pinafore, mopped her chin with another. Afterwards, Mark swooped her out of the highchair, set her down on the floor, and hitched up her tights. They must have been sagging all morning, by now the crotch was down around her knees. He straightened up, didn’t look at me; I think he must have been waiting for me to do it.
    *
     
    Cate was sleeping in the next room. I sat on the floor, staring at the heap of my parents’ possessions, with an almost superstitious unwillingness to do anything, even to move. I could hear Mark downstairs, rattling around in the kitchen, opening and shutting drawers and cupboards, unable to find something. I felt a thin bright thread of resentment at his sending me up here. Dinner in half an hour, he’d said maybe fifteen minutes ago. I mustered the will to lean forwards and drag a shoebox towards me. I lifted the lid and took out one of the paper-wrapped bundles. I peeled away the paper. The things inside were slim, heavy for their size; they clinked together. Underneath the newspaper there was dark blue tissue paper, still sealed with shop-counter Sellotape. I picked at it; the paper tore and I pulled the rest away. A pair of blue- and-white ceramic candlesticks. I turned them over; the green Oxfam label was still stuck to the base of one of them; I had an image of her in the High Street, cheeks flushed, swinging into the Oxfam shop with a bleep of the bell, to buy ethically sourced candlesticks for her country cottage. Such small domestic victories made her disproportionately happy. The next package I unwrapped was lighter, but in the same deep blue tissue paper. A pair of creamy beeswax candles; I raised them to my nose, but they’d lost their scent with time. I brought them and the candlesticks downstairs. I set them on the mantelpiece.
    Mark had his back to me, grating Parmesan. He didn’t seem to notice, didn’t comment on the candles. We ate pasta and tomato sauce. That night we slept curled on our sides, our backs to one another.
    *
     
    Their bags were packed, the travel cot folded; it had all been transferred out to the car. I had my clothes and books to pack up. I had to bundle up the crockery, the china, start bringing whatever we were keeping down from the box room and out to the cars. Start slinging the rest into the bin.
    ‘I’ll get Cate out from under your feet,’ he said. ‘We’ll go up to the shop and buy a paper. Give you a chance for a last look around.’
    He kissed me on the cheek, then he scooped her up, and they were gone.
    I’d forgotten that there was a shop. I just stood in the living room, looking at the pewter jug of limp daffodils, the shiny patches on the sofa arms, the grey trails across the carpet, alert for a hint of static, but there was nothing. Birdsong. Cate’s high twittering voice as they walked away up the village street. Nothing more.
    I brought down the brown suitcase and the shoebox. I put them in the boot of Mark’s car. I heaved the clothes out of the wardrobe and laid them on the bed. I threw the Radox and the soap into the bin. I sat down on the edge of the bath. I fished the soap out again, turned it over and over in my hands, looking at the crevasses and canyons, the grey streaks through the yellow, feeling the palm-smoothed shape. I set it back on the edge of the basin. I went downstairs and started on lunch.
    They came back. Cate was all fresh air and smiles; Mark glanced around the room, taking it all in: the candlesticks, the jug, the nothing-very-much-achieved between his going and his coming back. He looked at me, an enquiring crease to his brows. I avoided it, focusing hard on making sandwiches.
    Cate was pushing her toy car around on the living-room floor. It beeped and flashed as she scooted it across the carpet. She made a wet brumming sound with her lips. Suddenly the air was bubbling with electricity. My arms were rough with goose bumps.
    ‘Don’t