Extract from work in progress:
The Man with the Key

by E. R. Mapstone


Belgium, September 1974

The sun lay golden among the cobbles of the Grand'Place. Kay luxuriated alone in the king-size bed and wondered idly why the architect had created a house into which sunshine could never enter. Then in contravention of the laws of nature, the sun rose in a wave, splashed the gilded facia of proud and ancient buildings, swirled through the lacy stonework of the Hotel de Ville, and surged up the soaring spire. There it hovered, flaming the figure of St Michael, frozen in eternal triumph over his dragon. Should she paint an allegory perhaps? No, something simpler...

On flowed the sunshine in her mind, up the Mont des Arts, past the grimy Gothic cathedral and the post-occupation fortresses of concrete and glass and steel, lapping at the pedestal of good King Godefroid astride his charger and touching with brief warmth the naked flanks of goddesses outside the Musee; on with haste past the baroque Palais where justice was bartered in two languages, out through the former city gate and into Avenue Louise

Then the river of sunshine became a delta as one stream dipped down to circle the Abbey and come to rest in the ancient fishpond where long ago monks kept carp. That was possible ... Grey stone, pointed perpendicular windows like praying hands, reflections in the water... But no, too mediaeval, too contemplative. She wanted a more contemporary structure...

A second stream continued down the wide boulevard, past the pitiful angel eternally raising the fallen airman, past great mansions, embassies and diplomatic residences with gleaming windows and black iron grilles and young policemen in uniform, cradling machine guns; swiftly on into the suburbs, until the sun reached a cruciform building of copper glass, set beside a lake. Yes, perhaps there ...

Getting the glow of sunlight through tinted glass in would be tricky, and the way the building seemed to float between land and sky...

But that was it. The children playing on the grass in the foreground. Andy standing, with a cricket bat perhaps, and Bella diving for the ball, all long legs and arms, and Carrie bouncing in the air with glee. Yes, she would have bowled the ball. A red one. All of them reflected in the water, and shadowed subtly by that astonishing bronze glass building in the shape of the cross.

No. Goddam it, no. No! Every time I work on an image, I see the children being threatened. It will not do.

"Mummee!" The bedroom door was flung open and twelve-year-old Bella pranced in like a young foal, in yellow jumper and yellow trousers trimmed with a band of orange flowers, a burst of sunshine in this shadowed room. "Come on, Mummy Pummy. Time to go downstairs."

She stood in front of the long mirror, examining her appearance, then made a silly face and tucked her long straight hair behind her ears. Kay hated her to do that. It spoiled the frame for her delicate oval face, interrupted the smooth lines of her long slim body, made her look ugly. But she was a filly sired by a racehorse, vivid with promise, almost beautiful.

"When's Daddy coming back?"
"You ask that every morning. I told you, Thursday. Tonight."
"You're just a silly Pummy," Bella retorted, and pranced out of the room. Reluctantly Kay threw back the sheets, grabbed her dressing-gown, and hurried across the landing to Carrie's room where the nine-year-old was industriously rubbing her Brownie badge on a doll's blanket.
"Morning, Brownie." She kissed her soft cheek. Her daughter looked up anxiously. She was dressed carefully in her brown uniform with all its badges, its belt and purse, its yellow tie. Her fair hair was brushed, her round Mabel-Lucie Atwell face pink and glowing. But the dimples were hidden, for once again she had been discovered doing something wrong.
"So where's the polish?" Kay asked gently.
"I don't know."
"It's in the kitchen cupboard, of course. Beside the sink."
Carrie's face cleared. "Oh, yes."
"Come on, then. Breakfast time."
She knocked on Andy's door.
"Yeah?" There was a great swoop of noise and the door opened with a thump.
"Time to go downstairs," Kay said, and she started down herself, her head hurting. Andy followed, long and gangling in his green pyjamas, along the landing, into the lavatory where he crashed the door. This house was made for a fourteen-year-old boy with its black metal door frames. A Niagara fell as she walked downstairs.
"Don't make so much noise!" she shouted at him.
A handle was thrown and the grey Atlantic ocean rushed through the house. Why did the whole world have to follow his every move? The door crashed open again.
"What did you say?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" She put a hand to her head and hurried into the kitchen. Not a headache - she refused to have another headache.
Bella had already set the table. She gave her daughter a quick hug, then got out the makings for their lunch boxes. The routine of making sandwiches each morning was painless now, they seemed happy with the few variations she gave them. Thank heaven, they could get their own breakfast too.
Carrie drifted in dreamily, and went over to the toaster.
"That's mine in there," said Bella.
"Can't I have a piece?"
"No. I want to make a sandwich."
Then it was Carrie's turn and she toasted two slices and prepared to make a toast sandwich.
"Do you have to copy everything I do?"
"I'm not. Just because I like the same thing."
"God. Honestly. Mummy, tell Carrie to stop copying everything I do."
"Don't be silly, Bella."
"You always say that. It's not fair." Kay sighed in exasperation. "Stop going on about it. And go call Andy."
"Why me?"
"Oh, for heavens sake!" Kay got up impatiently, but Carrie, quickly, virtuously, was there before her.
"I will," she said, hurried importantly into the open-plan living room and shouted, "Andy! Andeee! Come on, you're late!"
His door crashed open once again, and a herd of rhino charged down the modern, uncarpeted, wood and wrought iron stairs, swept over the Brownie who was Trying to Be Good, and irrupted into the kitchen.
"Hello," Andy said, wishing to establish his friendly presence and apparently oblivious of the waves of thunderous noise still sweeping in around him. He shredded her heart, standing there in the doorway, in beige flared trousers a bit short above his scuffed suede safari boots, his favourite Wrangler shirt already worn two days, his long red hair neatly brushed to frame his rather spotty handsome adolescent face: half boy, half man. "Hello, sweetheart," she said.
Then he turned to the refrigerator and flung open the door. A milk bottle toppled and smashed on the black slate floor.
"Oh dear," he said.
Anger exploded in her head. "Do you have to be such a stupid clumsy fool?"
"I'm sorry." His voice sounded petulant.
"So wipe it up."
"What with?" She wanted to hit him. Very slowly, enunciating her words with insulting care, she said: "The cloth is in the bucket under the sink, where it always is
." Then she went and stood by the wall that was glass in the living room, and looked out at the silver birches swaying in the wind, their golden leaves splashed with the sunshine that still sprayed the garden outside. Clouds had crept across the shining sky, so that it was now the tattered blue and white sky of a Magritte painting. Those stone men and headless, soulless women - had he seen something she had missed?
Why did she get so quickly, blindly angry with Andy? He was not at fault, not to that degree at least. Perhaps she wasn't even angry with him at all, perhaps he was a substitute for someone else. Who then? Oh, why was she such an erratic mother? Penitent, she returned to the kitchen where Andy was sloshing the milk and glass around the floor.
"I've cut myself now," he said resentfully.
"Run it under the cold tap and make sure it's clean, then put a plaster on. I'll finish clearing up."
"Sorry about this."
She ruffled his hair. "OK. I'm sorry I shouted at you."
He dealt with his cut finger, and returned to the urgent matter of breakfast.
"You're just a silly Pandrew," said Bella, trying to restore normality.
"He couldn't help it," said Carrie.
"Shut up!" snapped Andy, quickly angry in his turn.
Thank heaven, they'll be gone soon, Kay thought. Eighteen minutes to eight. "Three minutes," she announced. "Get a move on."
Flurry and scurry, dishes hastily swept off the table, books and bags and lunch boxes collected. "Do we need coats?" "I shouldn't think so." Kisses for each one, "Have a good day." She stood at the door and watched until they turned the corner to where the school bus would pick them up. Andy and Bella strode on ahead, as usual, while Carrie turned back for another kiss and an unnecessary promise that Mummy wouldn't forget to collect her after Brownies, drifting after the others like the youngest yellow duckling that never stays in line, busy with its own concerns, then scurrying to catch up.

Kay returned to the kitchen, picked up the glass and soaked up the worst of the milky mess with newspaper. She should have told Andy to use newspaper, then he wouldn't have been cut. The cloth he used was full of chips, she'd have to throw it away.

As usual, the hot tap ran cold. Everything in this house was first class except the plumbing: it took several minutes for the hot water to get through to the kitchen and every drop of water wasted down the drain had to be paid for in this country, it annoyed her every day. While she waited, she loaded the dishwater and put the food away, wiped over the bread board, the pine table, the counter. At last, hot water. She filled the bucket, shook in detergent, fetched the mop from outside the back door and began to wash the floor. What a stupid colour for a kitchen floor - black, and the tiles still rough and uneven straight from the quarry. Impossible to keep clean. She'd met the architect who was so proud of his house, strutting around like a turkey cock in spring. He'd obviously never had to live with this rough black slate that looked so good before anyone walked on it, nor had he ever worked in a kitchen. She could give him a tip or two about kitchen design. There, at least the floor was clean now, one job out of the way and only eight o'clock.

The querulous voice in her head ceased and she stood there, feeling pleased, virtuous. She wanted an audience, someone to say, "Well done, Kay", and she laughed aloud as she stood admiring her wet floor. If you clean your house, it must be for your own benefit. Who else cares? An incestuous relationship that, cleaning and polishing for yourself and then admiring yourself. A perfect waste of a lifetime. Irritably, she shook herself, plonked the mop and bucket in a corner of the kitchen, walked along the glass wall to the far end and stood looking out at the golden birches.

Whether she cleaned or whether she did not, it was always the same - interminable arguments in her head, fretting, niggling about trivia. And the housework remained, unnumbered un-Herculean labours stretching endlessly ahead, hopelessly filling the hours, the days, the years, while all the time, her inner critics argued over the relative merits of the claims on her of her house, her children, her husband and her painting. They did agree on one thing though: whatever she did, she was guilty.

© E.R. Mapstone 2005

Elizabeth Mapstone has just retired as a consultant psychologist and expert witness for the Family Courts, and plans to emulate Mary Wesley by being discovered as a novelist, preferably before she reaches 70. Publication of two short stories (one in Cadenza, one in Peninsular) has merely served to encourage this ambition. She was founding editor of The Psychologist (the monthly journal of the British Psychological Society), editor of The New Academic, and has published numerous academic articles, chapters and conference papers. For the non-specialist, she has published two non-fiction books on psychology: War of Words: Woman and men arguing. (Chatto & Windus, 1998; Vintage, 1999 - now only available via her website); Stop Dreaming, Start Living: Discover your hidden powers and transform your life. (Vermilion 2004 - available in bookshops). Contact details: www.elizabethmapstone.com email: elizabeth@elizabethmapstone.com