Chapter 9: Looking Both Ways
Joyce was reading in the front sitting room—her back to the window to catch the early evening sun as it reemerged from behind the clouds—when she heard the car, taking its last turn rather too fast. She needn't even look to guess the driver. If nothing else, Tom was right about Gavin's driving habits. Her husband had appeared almost ill the first evening he returned from a day in Gavin's car: he had been appalled, stunned, and more than a little wary of his newly promoted sergeant's road skills.
She returned to her book, one of the many devoted to gardening she and Tom had collected throughout their marriage. Several years old with battered edges and corners, it had seen particularly heavy use after their previous move had offered a blank slate in the back garden. Its glossy pages were bursting with photographs of Aconitum in every color, pastel blue Centaurea cyanus, vibrant Rosa plunging madly over trellises, glossy green Hedera climbing walls and spreading across stones...It was a shame that digging up much more of the lawn would leave no room for the grass. Every time she looked through any of the books on the shelves, she rediscovered another lovely flower or shrub.
A minute went by before she realized Cully had still not come in. It was the sound that drew Joyce's attention, or rather the lack of it: neither a final car door shutting as Gavin prepared to leave nor the front door opening, nothing at all. Turning to the window, she pushed the curtain to one side. They were just standing, talking at the boot of the car. Exchanging a final word about the match, perhaps? Probably. It had gone rather long—
It was so brief, she nearly missed it, and it could have almost been anything. Perhaps one more whispered sentence or a brief laugh, yet it was none of those things, Joyce felt—knew—immediately. Cully's was facing away from her, but both their figures were clear: her fingers on his arm, his hand almost at the small of her back before he pulled it away. And it passed so quickly, it might not have happened at all.
Joyce let the curtain fall, sitting straight again. Unexpected, but somehow unsurprising. For all the words she had spoken on Thursday evening, Cully had said nothing at all. Only the barest outline had been given, like whatever remained was something for her alone. For her and Gavin, the revival of a private world. "What else did you talk about?" Tom had asked, and the only response had been another question, almost an accusation. "Why didn't you tell Gavin I was doing that production of Hamlet?" Tense words from both and no answers.
After another long moment a key turned in the lock, the familiar noise of the street drifting in the open door—but she did not hear a car engine. "Hi, Mum," Cully said, closing the door as she stepped inside, just missing the end of the folded chair.
Joyce closed the book. "I was wondering when you'd be back," she said. "Was it a good match?"
Her daughter groaned, sitting heavily on the couch beside her, the canvas parcel leaning against her knee. She shrank into the cushion, her limbs loose, almost weary. "Well, I thought so."
"That doesn't sound good." Cully's cheeks were tinged red, Joyce saw, and it was already fading. Not from the sun, she thought.
"The way Gavin complained, you'd think it was the worst match of cricket ever played."
"They lost?" Joyce asked.
"Yeah," Cully said quietly. Her eyes were vacant, her mind elsewhere. Still watching the game, Joyce thought. "I thought he played quite well, though."
"He seemed to before," Joyce said.
"I think it was better this time," Cully said, brushing hair from her face. "He had a chance to bat today. They actually got through both innings."
"I'd hope so," Joyce set her book on the table by the end of the couch, sliding forward to the edge, ready to stand. "But now that you're back, best to get dinner on, I think."
Whenever she was at home, Cully took charge of the kitchen and Joyce was only too pleased to step aside. So was Tom, she knew, after one too many evenings had begun with a new and interesting dish—and finished in an affair with indigestion. While her cooking was experimental and adventurous, Joyce never pretended she had produced a gourmet meal, despite many efforts. "Just follow the recipe," the authors and presenters said, "and the result will be fantastic!" Well, she always did so and the results were always anything but fantastic.
Now, Joyce contented herself with heeding her daughter's instructions: cleaning the salad greens—rocket, baby spinach, and freshly chopped leaf lettuce—checking the timer for the quail, removing serving dishes and plates from the cupboards. The air was thick with onion, garlic, and butter, all simmering with the rice. Herbs gave up their earthy fragrance, already laying bruised on the chopping board. Acid cut through the melding scents as Cully drizzled red wine vinegar into a dish of olive oil, whisking briefly with a fork.
"Did Gavin give you a lift?" Joyce asked, setting the cutlery beside the stack of plain white dinner plates. That was all she would say; whatever Cully decided to say about the drive was her choice. As it should be, though there was no answer. "Did the match run long?"
"We talked for a while, after the end," Cully said, staring at the salad dressing as she added a pinch of salt.
"What about?"
"Just—the same sorts of things." Her daughter pushed the bowl aside. "I didn't realize I hadn't told him about the audition at the Playhouse."
Taking the utensils to the table, Joyce asked, "What did he think?"
"He wished me luck." The pan of rice clinked as she moved it to a trivet, the lid still in place to trap the heat until it was transferred to a bowl and the herbs folded in.
The wine glasses already marked each setting as Joyce laid out the knives and forks. "Why wouldn't he?" Opening the oven to glance at the quail, the skin sizzling and crackling, Cully was silent. "He's been to all your plays here, or nearly all of them. Opening night, usually."
"I know, I remember," Cully said, closing the oven door. Standing straight again, she reached for the dressing bowl once more, beating in the salt. Tasting the vinaigrette, she added another dash of salt. "And he told me."
"It's a pity you didn't ask—"
"How much is left on the timer, Mum?"
Joyce ignored the sharper words as she checked the black numbers ticking down on the grey screen. It was more than she should have said anyway. "Three minutes."
Her daughter was a quiet flurry of activity: dropping newly shelled peas into simmering water; transferring the pilaf to its dish before adding the parsley and chervil, then covering it again; stirring the now brilliantly green peas and draining them, steam laced with the vegetal smell rising as she shook the colander. And once the timer began its incessant beeping, she was already prepared with an oven glove, removing the tray of quail from the oven. Perhaps it was the theater training that kept her so aware of everything whirling around her, the talent that allowed her to remember lines, moves, and cues simultaneously. Whatever it was, Joyce was grateful for it, just as she knew Tom would be. Especially Tom.
Long ago, Joyce had observed that men had an uncanny ability to avoid kitchens when it suited them, her husband included. At least he knew to remain outside of the room while sharp objects still might fly and hot pans remained if he muttered endlessly about his work. For whatever reason—Joyce never quite understood how—he knew when the kitchen transitioned from production to presentation, and this night was no different. A quail already sat on each plate, the rice and peas steamed in their dishes on the table, and Cully had just dressed the salad when Joyce heard him approach.
Except for the first few hours of the day, Tom had sat at his desk in the study, bent over files and photographs, and reports. Examining, comparing, reading and rereading, like the first contradiction would suddenly appear, revealing opportunity or motive. Always the same, she thought. He won't really take a moment off until it's finished.
"Ah, Cully," he said, coming into the kitchen. "Good to finally see you again today."
"Hi, Dad," she said, washing her hands a final time, shaking them over the sink before reaching for a towel.
"So, what's going on here?" he asked eagerly, kissing his wife's cheek.
"Salad," Joyce said, setting the final bowl in the center of the table, "rice pilaf, peas, and quail." It all looked and smelled delicious. The dinners she managed often appeared lovely, but something inevitably went wrong.
Her husband bent over the plate at his seat, his eyes narrowed as he examined the bird's crisp brown skin and sniffed it curiously. "More quail?"
"Dad, they're not that bad." Her hands dry, Cully hung the towel up again.
"A lot of work for a very small reward." Now he peered at the bottles of wine on the counter, reading the labels, debating his choice. It was his contribution to every meal, selecting and pouring the wine.
"Don't complain until you try it, Tom," Joyce said, returning to the main section of the kitchen, touching Cully's shoulder gently. "Your daughter's outdone herself this evening."
"I'm not complaining—"
"Really?" she asked, searching through a drawer to find the corkscrew.
He finally reached for a bottle, lifting it delicately. "Or not much."
"That's more the truth of it," Cully said.
Barnaby scowled, taking the corkscrew from Joyce. "I have learned from experience."
The wine was quickly poured, the salad, peas, and rice distributed. More than once, Joyce saw her husband almost speak, then change his mind. Choosing his words carefully, she suspected, as he should.
"How was the cricket match today?" he finally asked, meticulously cutting a piece of meat from the bird.
"They lost by four wickets," Cully said.
Barnaby's eyebrows rose, his fork pausing for a moment in the air. "Glad I won't have to see the aftermath of that." He took a moment to try the first bite before he spoke again. "Very nice, Cully."
"Thank you, Dad." She slid a bit of salad onto her fork slowly.
"How was Troy's innings?" He sliced another piece of quail with more enthusiasm.
"It went well," she said quietly. Her thoughts were still there, Joyce knew. "Not that he'd say that," Cully added.
"Never good enough for themselves, are they, cricket players," Barnaby said, now sampling the pilaf, butter yellow grains dotted with green.
"Competitive people never are, dear," Joyce said.
Her husband smiled. "That would leave Troy happy only if he batted first and still managed to be the last man."
"Dad!"
"Sorry, sorry."
Joyce sighed, reaching for her wine glass. "I'm not sure you'd be much different, Tom."
"Now that's not true." He moved to the salad. "I'd be happy just to outlast the ninth."
Cully rolled her eyes, then looked back to her plate. It was almost like Gavin was there, Joyce felt, sitting at the end of the table. The conversation was about him, but dancing around anything important. It was a relief when her husband and daughter fell silent for a minute.
"Anything else, the rest of the weekend?" Barnaby finally said slowly.
Cully's knife hit the dish, clinking loudly. "No, Dad—my monologue, remember?" Her face was pink again. "I don't think I have time for much else."
"I'm surprised you didn't work on it—"
"Do you want me to go through it with you, Cully?" Joyce asked, louder than she normally spoke. Much more of this and a row might erupt. She couldn't remember how many years had passed since that had last happened.
Cully breathed deeper, just beginning to smile. "Tomorrow, I think, if you could," she said, releasing it slowly. "I've got it all learned, I just need to keep reviewing it."
"I'd be glad to." Tom was the one to read lines and monologues with her most often, but not this time. His mind was focused elsewhere.
The rest of the meal passed tensely, even when the discussion focused entirely on Cully's upcoming audition and her monologue. Her answers were brief and clipped, and she stood up from the table just as she finished dinner—though her plate was only half-cleared—rather than lingering and talking as she usually did.
Tom vanished into the study only a moment after he set his knife and fork down. His eyes had flared, some connection finally revealing itself in the last moments of his meal, a possibility to test or a theory to explore. But the air remained stiff, laden with unspoken words.
Even while they washed up—Cully drying the dishes that Joyce scrubbed in hot soapy water—they did not speak. It was not like her daughter to be so quiet. Cully could choose her words carefully or simply say whatever came into her head, and sometimes it was impossible to know the calculated from the impulsive. The silence was more than abnormal, it was a warning. But of what...A small stack of plates and the cutlery remained to be cleaned when Joyce suggested Cully go to continue studying. It was easier to think without her.
Joyce had never asked what had happened before—a year ago, was it?—she had only seen. Happy when she left, Cully had returned that evening in an ill temper, withdrawn, with nothing to say. Quiet, concerned questions only received brusque responses: "Nothing." "It's fine." Never anything more. In the weeks that followed until she departed for London, Cully suddenly failed to mention Gavin at all; and Tom, always deploring his sergeant's growing presence in their daughter's life, found himself without a word to fret over. Troy no longer said anything about her either, Tom had reported one night, a few weeks after Cully left for London, hadn't even asked where she was or what she was doing.
Rinsing the last forks and setting them in the draining board, Joyce let the water out of the sink, the pale bubbles dancing for a last moment before they vanished. Then, like today, she had asked nothing. But it had been clearer: Cully's anger was bared and raw that night, but now it was vague and muddled. Probably not even anger at all.
The dishes were dried and almost all returned to the cupboards and drawers when she heard her husband return. "That was lovely, Joyce," Barnaby said, kissing her cheek as he so often did. "I shall never doubt quail again."
"I think you should thank your daughter," Joyce said, putting away the final plate.
"I can't leave out my wife. You put together a marvelous salad."
"You're welcome, then." Closing the cupboard door, she turned back to him. "Did you figure something out? Find your contradiction?"
"Not quite." Her husband smiled for a second, but he was staring across the room. Thinking, surely, barely listening. "What time did Cully get in today?" he asked.
"A little before six, I think," Joyce said slowly. One sentence, she thought, tugging her shirt sleeves down, that's all. Cully had said nothing about it after all, had not asked for her confidence.
"That was a long match."
Crossing her arms, she leaned against the counter. "I'm not the person you should be talking to, Tom," she said.
"Hmm?" He had hardly heard her.
"If you want to know, you should ask her." He needn't say that he would not, but the answer would be evasive if he did.
"And I thought you didn't want me to worry."
"I don't." It might set his mind at ease, telling him. There was always value in knowing instead of speculating. The first put your feet on solid ground, the second left you dangling from a thread, wondering how far you had to fall. "I didn't say you shouldn't be interested." No, it wasn't her choice to make.
He was scowling, about to speak— "Tom."
Drawing a deep breath, he shook his head. "That's still what it is, Joyce."
"You don't know what it is." And perhaps it was for the best. She remembered perfectly how he reacted so long ago: shuddering, disbelieving. "No, oh it can't be." Forgetting how stubborn Cully could be. "You can't know if you haven't asked."
"I do have eyes," he said. "And ears."
"I'm glad to hear it," Joyce said, touching his cheek. His skin was cool. "But you can't treat everything like an investigation."
He turned his face from her fingers. "I do not—"
"Because life isn't like that, Tom." She let her hand fall; there was never any point trying to comfort him when he was in this mood.
"It would be a lot simpler if it was."
"Probably," Joyce said. "I think you forget the entire world doesn't lie to you as a matter of course."
Tom looked at her again. "I do catch them when they do. There are advantages to a naturally suspicious mind."
"Sometimes. But Cully certainly evaded you for a while when she was a teenager."
The frown had returned, anger hiding behind it. "All the more reason—"
"Maybe then, not now." The memories were more than unpleasant, they were painful, even those of mere discussions years later as their daughter told them so casually things they had never known. Joyce still wished she hadn't learned about most of Cully's adolescent decisions, wild and foolish choices. She wrapped an arm around him, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder.
He stiffened beneath her touch. "Joyce—"
"See, you're worrying again."
"I'm not going to win, am I?" he asked, the frown slowly disappearing.
"You never do," she said, pulling her arm away. Don't, she decided. Cully was not a child needing guidance. "Go back to work. I'll make you a cup of tea."