The Only Game

‘But that could be anything. In weather like this …’

‘They found this too.’

An orange life preserver. Stencilled on it ‘The Crazy Jane’.

Still she protests. ‘But that doesn’t mean …’

The second man, impatient of hope, cuts in. ‘He was wearing it, Mrs Beck. We’ll need you for identification.’

She begins to sway, clutches the door frame for support.

Behind her, deep in the house, a child begins to cry.

‘So you’re back,’ said her mother. ‘You could have given me a bit more warning.’

‘It was a snap decision.’

‘Act in haste, repent at leisure, always your way. And he’s dead? Drowned, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m sorry for your sake. I can’t say more than that, never having had the pleasure of meeting him. And this is the boy.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Come over here, Oliver, and let’s be taking a look at you. What’s up with the child? I’m your gran, Oliver. Though it’s maybe not so odd he’s shy. Most kiddies know their gran before they get to four.’

‘He’s a bit tired. And we … I call him Noll.’

‘Noll? He’ll not thank you for that. What’s the point of baptizing a child if you’re going to start fiddling with his name?’

‘It’s what I want to call him. And he’s not baptized.’

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God. How can you take such a risk? We never know the moment when we’ll be called. You should know that better than most, you who’ve had both your da and your man snatched away from you in their prime. Never mind. We can soon put that to rights.’

‘No!’ she cried. ‘I don’t want him baptized, Mam. And it’s no use bringing in the Inquisition, I’ll not talk to any priests, especially not old Father Bleaney from St Mary’s. He’s half dotty and he doesn’t wash!’

‘You’re not wrong there, girl. He smells of more than sanctity, there’s no denying it. But he’s a holy man for all that. And you’d better understand this. I’m the one who says who’ll come into this house, and you’re the one who’ll be polite to them while you’re living here. God preserve us, if you’d come a half hour earlier you’d have met Father Blake. What would you have done then, my girl? Turned on your heel and flounced off like you used to do?’

‘No. Of course not. Who’s Father Blake anyway?’

‘A colleague of your Uncle Patrick’s, rest his soul. Do you not read my letters as well as not answer them? He comes across from time to time to inspect the Priory College where your uncle worked. He always calls to pay his respects and he brought me pictures of Patrick’s grave. You’ll meet him if you stay long enough. And you’d better be polite. How long are you staying, anyway?’

‘Till I get settled, if that’s all right.’

‘All right? This is your home, whatever you may treat it as. What do you mean, settled?’

‘Till I find a job.’

‘Did he not leave you provided for? Typical Yank. All show. Any man rich enough to drown in his own boat ought to be able to leave his wife looked after. What’ll you do? Try the teaching again?’

‘No!’

Mist on Ingleborough. Not yet thick but blowing in patches. A crocodile of teenagers descending, now visible along its length, now segmented.

Two girls crouching in the lee of a rock to light cigarettes.

‘What are you two playing at? Didn’t you hear Miss Marks tell you to keep close?’

We’ll be along in a minute, miss. We’ll soon catch up with them wallies.’

‘You’ll get along now. Come on. Put those fags out and move yourselves.’

The girls exchange glances, neither wanting to show weakness.

‘For heaven’s sake, don’t act so stupid. Don’t you know how dangerous it can be out here in the mist?’

‘We’re almost down, aren’t we? And who are you calling stupid?’

‘Don’t give me any of your cheek, Betty. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Move it.’

One girl rises, the other lowers her head sullenly, draws deep on her cigarette, mutters, ‘Get stuffed, you smelly dyke.’

Mist on Ingleborough. An experienced teacher might play deaf, save it for later.

‘What did you say, Betty?’

A glance at her friend. Too far for retreat. The cigarette dangling from the side of her magenta mouth. ‘Everyone knows what old Ma Marks is like. Same with all PE teachers, I expect. Is that what the hurry is? Can’t wait to get us in the showers?’

‘You foul-mouthed slut! And put that cigarette out!’

A hand snakes out. Flesh cracks on flesh, the cigarette goes flying in a trail of sparks.

‘You rotten slag! I’ll get the law on you for this! My mum’ll have your eyes out when I tell her.’

‘Betty, come back. Not that way. Betty!’

‘No need to shout,’ said Mrs Maguire. ‘You always were too sensitive, even as a child. Stop dwelling on things. You’ll never get anywhere if you’re always lugging the past along with you. Oliver, that’s not to play with. Oliver, put that down … There, now look what you’ve done. Are you not going to chastise him then? It’s the only way he’ll learn.’

‘There’ll be none of that, not with my son, Mam.’

‘No? Well, it’s your business, I suppose. And it’ll be you who gets to suffer later. But I’ll tell you this, my girl. I kept that ornament on that shelf all the time you were growing up, and it never got broken. So make what you like of that!’

The streets of home, unchanged but measuring change, familiar sights that no longer include her, that make her a ghost.

Then suddenly a welcoming and welcome voice.

‘Jane? Jane Maguire! I’d know that hair anywhere. I didn’t know you were back in Northampton.’