Little Voice...

­What immediately strikes you about Kevin are his film star looks and slightly narrow eyes, as if he is squinting to read something or is troubled by cigarette smoke. In others that might not be alluring. In him, an interesting face and twinkling eyes are part of such initial outward charm that women melt and men are either disarmed or jealous.

As usual, his clothes have been chosen with care. Not overly expensive, but adding to the image of style and substance. Well-polished brown leather shoes. A navy-blue coat draped nonchalantly over his shoulders.

So here he is again, popping up like he’s never been away. Tanned, but not in a sun-bed type of way. Not particularly tall but in good shape. Only a few flecks of grey in his hair evidence that more than twenty years have passed without so much as a word.

Technically, they are still married. Perhaps that suits him. It hasn’t been what Sharon wants but, you know... Inertia? Hurt? Resentment? Probably a combination of all three.

Twenty-three-years, seven-months and a few days and she knows little more about why he went than that brief note, written in his immediately recognisable hand on their cream laid notepaper, folded once and left propped against the still warm kettle. She can still recite it word for word.

He is standing well back from the front door as she opens it. It is eight thirty on a Sunday morning and she is expecting to see the milkman with his monthly bill.  She has her purse open, a coat over her brushed cotton nightwear to make her look decent enough. Never for the slightest moment does she imagine it will be him.

‘What are you doing here?’ is the blindingly obvious question she doesn’t ask. Instead, it is the pointless: ‘You look well,’ as she struggles for the tiniest sliver of composure.

‘Not bad’, he replies, typically flippantly.

Is he back or is it just a flying visit? Her mind races at the speed of light. any courage at a standstill.

‘Sorry to call so early’, he says after the briefest pause noticing, of course, her disarray and discomfort. There is, as always, the slightest hint of a regional accent in his voice, so subtle that it defies geographic definition. ‘I’d like to talk to you – can I come in?’

‘Where have you come from?’ she says as she leads the way. She is really floundering.

‘Oh! You know…’ and his voice trails off.

Now inside, he opens with, ‘You haven’t changed much’, finding the room still exactly as it used to be. She thinks he means that she looks the same, which is flattering but entirely untrue: she has moved from slim and dark in her mid-thirties to slightly plump and a bit grey. It’s how she feels nowadays. The wrinkles are showing.

‘I see you’ve still got your father’s rocking chair in the corner’. Is that what he’s here for?  Twenty-three-years and seven months and almost his first words are about her late father’s bloody rocking chair. The one he said was worth something.

Yet she is still almost helpless in his presence. Just jelly because once again it is as if he has chosen her when he could have – has had - so many others.

Now they are standing facing each other, he unquestionably elegant, his coat draped over his shoulders; she uncomfortable in trodden-down mules with that raincoat buttoned hurriedly over her shapeless nighty.

Awkwardly, he puts his hand in his pocket and fumbles before bringing out a small, square red leather ring-box. ‘This is why I’m here,’ he tells her, holding out in front of him.

She takes it, almost trembling, again completely disoriented by the totally unexpected.  Inside, pressed into the satin is not the ‘I’m Sorry’ jewellery offering she was now somehow expecting to find. It is a small tooth, tiny, a child’s. Surprised, she looks at him for explanation and sees those narrow eyes water slightly.  He was never normally one to show emotion.

‘Remember why I left’, he almost chokes, as if he is the victim here.

Unthinking, she nods, submissive, though a little voice is telling her to be firm. It’s what her counsellor had said, too, after he left.

‘You wanted children so badly it stifled our marriage’, he says. It is his well-practised rationalisation coming out so matter-of-fact. He’s had two decades to perfect his blameless, weasel justification.

‘Kevin, that’s…’

But he is giving no ground. ‘Well, I’m now a father – or I was. Nissa was almost seven when she died. That’s the first milk tooth she lost’.

Is that why he is here, to accuse her of something she has no knowledge of and no connection to?

A little inside voice screams at her to show him the door. Give him no quarter. You don’t need any of this.

‘Sit down. I’ll make some tea. It’s so good to see you again… To have you back. You’ll have to tell me everything.’ She almost calls him darling.

He places his coat neatly on the back of the rocking chair, then turns and sits down.

She backs herself towards the small galley kitchen and switches on the kettle.

‘Do you still take it without sugar’, she calls through the open doorway.

‘Yes’, he says, though his voice does not seem to come from where he was sitting. He’s nearer. She turns to find him looking her up and down from only a few paces away.

‘You’ve put on weight’.

‘It came a few years back, with the change.’ She tries to sound cheery.

‘Doesn’t suit you’.

Slap him, little voice orders.

‘I know’, she says. ‘I’m working on it. Who’s Nissa?’

‘You mean who was Nissa.’ Not giving an inch. ‘She was my daughter. The best thing that ever happened to me. And the worst, when she died last month.’

Little voice is insistent: don’t give him tea, don’t delve. He’ll hurt you some more. Get him out of here. You’ve learned to manage perfectly on your own...

‘Come and sit here. Have you had breakfast?’

He will not join her on the sofa, but takes the best china tea-cup from her and is back in the rocking chair.

She doesn’t know where to start, there’s so much, so very, very much turmoil. He’s arrived without warning; just standing there on the doorstep.

I might not have been in – then what? He’s probably still got a door key… Actually I never imagined any of this could happen…

He breaks her thoughts with: ‘You were right in one sense. I did make a brilliant dad. A brilliant dad, but for less than seven years’. His voice is catching again. Long pause.

She doesn’t know where to start. What has this got to do with her, so many years on? He’s trying to make you feel sorry for him, little voice is telling her. Don’t fall for it.

‘What happened?’ she says almost too softly to be heard.

‘She and her mother were killed. The Russians. Mariupol. They were trying to get out.’

There’s a whole back story she doesn’t know, but for now all she wants to do is comfort him. The space between them is so vast.

Why is he here, little voice is demanding. What’s any of this got to do with you?

‘I have come to realise that you were right. About having children.

‘But you were wrong, too. Back when we were together having children would not have saved our marriage. It wasn’t working. You knew it too if you’re honest. You just weren’t ready to face up to it.’ He’s holding forth now and she can only listen.

‘It has taken me many years to understand what having children is about. I wasn’t ready then. It only happened by accident’.

She doesn’t really understand what he is saying. She wants to interrupt but she’s finding it hard to find her tongue.

‘Kevin, I don’t really know why you’re here. You walked out on your terms without so much as a…’

‘I’m coming to that, let me finish… You and I wouldn’t have made a good team as parents. You were too weak.’

Little voice is yelling. You don’t need any of this. Get rid of him. Now! He wants you to feel sorry for him.

‘But I shouldn’t have left the way it did. It wasn’t very kind. I’ve only recently come to realise that’.

Before she can jump in, he is speaking again.

‘Losing Nissa has made me realise that you can’t just walk away from history, from family, from people.

‘I suppose I ought to say sorry…’ and without so much of a pause... ‘and I wonder, is there still a box in the attic with some papers in it? My mother’s. Me as a child. Are they still there?’

So, he’s come back for some papers. That’s it. Still all about him, not you, little voice is bellowing.

‘Kevin! You’re my husband. Or were. You come back here after twenty-three years without so much as a by-your-leave…’ she’s almost shouting.

‘Yes, yes I know, all that. Let’s not…

At last she has found her voice.  ‘I want you to leave. Now. Get out and don’t ever come back. Take your tooth and your sob story with you. I don’t want to know. There’s nothing for you here. Out, out, out,’ and she’s brushing him towards the door like something foul and smelly.

He’s never seen this side of her before. Or if he has, he’s had two decades to forget it. He snatches his coat and the red box and, for once speechless, he retreats.

She not quite slams the door behind him, her eyes awash with tears. ‘How’s that?’ she says aloud to little voice. You can almost hear the applause.