Freeing Grace

by Charity Norman

  And there seemed to be a party going on next door. It was incongruous. You couldn’t escape the music, just like the techno garbage from the car in London: bommchukka bommchukka. Funny thing, though. Lucy and Perry didn’t seem to be able to hear it. They ignored it completely.

  I was right about the fridge, I’m glad to say. It f lew open as we walked in through the front door, and never got closed again the whole time I was there. Jeez, Perry could put it back.

  He handed me a cold beer and we stood around in the kitchen while he chucked herbs into the chicken thing he was cooking. I tried asking him about the garden, and he bored on about his compost heap and how it was a hundred degrees in the middle. Apparently, this was a tremendous feat.

  ‘I’ll show you where you’re sleeping,’ he offered once the meal was in the oven. As we creaked up the stairs, the party next door sounded louder and louder, until I remembered that there was no house next door. We were in the middle of a bloody paddock. By the time we were at the top, I’d worked out that the racket was coming from one of the bedrooms—bommchukka bommchukka—but Perry behaved as though all we could hear was the chirruping of blackbirds under the eaves, so I did too. It seemed only polite.

  He crossed the landing and led me into a room at the end of a short corridor. It had a beamed ceiling and uneven white walls, and smelled slightly of damp and mothballs. There was a fireplace, a broad window seat, and yet another bookcase full of authors I’d never heard of. Half of the titles weren’t even in English. In fact, several were completely indecipherable.

  Perry caught me peering at them. ‘D’you read Arabic?’ he asked, sounding hopeful.

  I shook my head apologetically and stooped to peer out of the window. It overlooked a vegetable patch with a low picket fence, and a small orchard that merged into lawn. Across the grass, an old yew tree twisted itself out of the hedge. I could see fields and a wood beyond. The sun was just creeping away below a wide, floodlit horizon. It all looked very peaceful, but I could still hear that crazy music.

  ‘I feel I’ve dumped myself on you,’ I said.

  ‘Nonsense. We keep the spare bed made up.’ Perry paused to check whether the bedside lamp was working. ‘Your bathroom’s next door. Come down when you’re ready.’

  After he’d gone, I sat on the window seat and tried Anna’s number on my mobile. I wanted to know how she was. After all, when we woke up that morning we were still together. And now our futures didn’t include one another. I got her voicemail and left a lame message about how I hoped she was all right.

  News travels fast. My message bank was all clogged with people telling me what a bastard I was, or what a witch Anna was. Apparently it doesn’t do not to take sides in these situations.

  I leaned against the window frame and watched a tractor rumbling up and down the stubble field, seagulls fluttering in its wake. A low mist was beginning to settle on the furrows, and the shadow of the yew reached right across Perry’s lawn. I opened the window. The air smelled of leaf mould and earth.

  It seemed only yesterday that it was Christmas, and now they were ploughing again. Spring and summer and harvest had come and gone, and I’d paid them no heed. Time was going faster and faster. Someone had their finger jammed on the fast forward button. Soon I’d be old, and then I’d be dead.

  I’d better have another beer before my time ran out.

  I was heading for the stairs when a door to my left swung open. The music was suddenly ridiculously loud, so bloody loud you’d have to shout to be heard above it.

  A boy slouched out into the corridor. He was about seventeen, and absolutely vast. He wasn’t fat, though: it was all muscle and physical confidence. I remember thinking he should have been in the First Fifteen at his school because no one would ever dare tackle him. He’d break their neck. Later, I discovered that he had been, and nobody did, because he certainly would.

  White-blond hair curled over where his collar would have been if he’d had one, and his eyes were an extraordinary colour. I had an impression of blue and green and even yellow, edged with moody bronze lashes. His eyebrows almost met in the middle, his nose had been broken at least once in his life, and his shoulders were slumped down in that aggressively slobby way teenagers have. He was wearing a baggy tee-shirt and jeans, great wide things that were falling off him and showing stripy boxer shorts. A musky, dusty smoke billowed after him out of his room. I sniffed. I couldn’t believe my nose.

  He stopped dead when he noticed me, scowled as though I was nicking the silver, then stomped back into his room and slammed the door, muffling the music.

  I found Lucy in the sitting room. She was balanced on a footstool laying the fire, with a glass of wine beside her.

  ‘Jake! Come on in. It gets chilly when the sun goes down and the mist comes up off the estuary.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘All under control, thanks. I’ve brought you another beer. There, on the table.’

  I lowered myself into an armchair. It was made of worn, patched leather, and a little puff of dust flew up from it. ‘I think I’ve just met your brother.’

  She tore a sheet of newspaper in half, her lips twitching. ‘Matt? Lucky you.’

  ‘He’s smoking dope in his bedroom.’

  She pretended to look prim, but her smile widened. ‘I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.’

  ‘Does your dad know?’

  She just snorted merrily and carried on scrunching up newspaper. I looked around the room. On a writing table beside the fireplace I spotted a collection of photographs in silver frames, and I leaned over for a closer look.

  There was a little dark-haired girl, presumably Lucy, sledging in the arms of an expensive-looking brunette. I held it up. The woman wore a ski jacket and wraparound shades. ‘This your mother, Luce?’

  She glanced up. ‘Yep. That’s Mum.’

  I knew her mother was dead. She’d mentioned it once or twice, but I’d never asked her any more.

  ‘I think I’ve told you,’ said Lucy. ‘She died when I was four.’

  ‘D’you remember her?’

  ‘Um, yes, in a shadowy way. She had a brain tumour and it all happened very fast. We were living in Germany at the time.’ She piled kindling onto the paper, pressing it down. ‘So we had a nanny instead of a mother.’ The words were spoken with finality, as though the subject was at an end, but after a few seconds she added, ‘And the nanny was Deborah.’

  She flicked a lighter, holding it to the paper. Surprised, I turned back to the photographs. There was Matt wearing a waxed jacket and holding up two dead rabbits with a smug look on his face; Matt holding up a dead trout with exactly the same smug look on his face; and Lucy and Matt, aged perhaps eleven and four, on a beach. They were posing before an enormous sandcastle, and they both had smug looks on their faces. There was also a picture of Perry in uniform, looking rather distinguished.

  Then I saw a photo hiding at the back, and picked it up. A youngish woman in a straw hat gazed warmly out at me, her mouth puckered into a smile, her eyebrows slightly raised as though she was laughing with the photographer. She had a little constellation of freckles scattered across her cheekbones, and wisps of fair hair escaped from under the hat. Behind her, I thought I could make out a white sail and brilliantly turquoise water.

  ‘Wow! Who’s this?’

  ‘Which one? Oh.’ Lucy yawned. ‘That’s Deborah. I took it, actually, a few years ago. We were on a sailing holiday in the Greek Islands.’

  I took another look at the woman in the photo. She couldn’t have been much older than thirty. Although she was tanned to a light gold, her nose was peeling slightly, just across the bridge, leaving a small white patch. It was a delicate nose, and her eyes were the same blue-green as the glittering water around her. Blue-green, with yellow flames around the pupils. Like Matt’s.

  ‘I imagined someone . . .’

  ‘Older?’

  ‘Well.’ I stared at the freckled, smiling face. ‘I certainly didn’t expect
her to look like this. She’s a kitten.’

  ‘Cat, more like,’ Lucy said coldly. ‘It’s out of date. And it doesn’t do justice to her innate ghastliness.’

  ‘What’s ghastly about her?’

  ‘Where do I start?’ Lucy picked up a poker, jabbing it moodily into her smoking pyre. ‘She’s the most dishonest and manipulative person I’ve ever met. Got herself pregnant, then Dad had to marry her. A cheap trick, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oldest in the book.’

  ‘And now she’s frolicking around Africa when she’s needed here.’ To emphasise the word, Lucy aimed a deathblow at a poor, blameless log. Sparks flew up the chimney.

  The woman in the picture laughed out at me. I tried to imagine her—the scheming stepmother—arranging flowers and polishing the silver before setting off to collar an African bandit. I was still wrestling with this image when I heard a door slam, and Matt came clomping down the stairs. Even his footsteps were sulky. He slumped into the living room, ignoring us both, snatched up the TV remote, and threw himself full-length onto the sofa.

  ‘Matt, I gather you’ve met Jake.’ Lucy nodded in my direction.

  ‘Uh.’ He didn’t even look at me. Straightened his arm, squinted down it and took aim at the television as though it were a pheasant and the remote was his shotgun.

  Lucy clapped her hands impatiently, like a teacher. ‘Say hello to Jake, Matthew.’

  He honoured me with a single glance, in which he managed to convey the most sincere contempt.

  ‘Uh. ’Lo.’ He squeezed his trigger, and the TV sprang into life.

  ‘It’s like living with Neanderthal Man,’ huffed Lucy, and stood up. Giving his leg a good-natured smack with a rolled-up newspaper, she headed off to the kitchen.

  I made up my mind to try and have a conversation with this creature.

  After all, he was human.

  ‘Hey, Matt, I see there’s a photo of your mother.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He yawned, flicking through the channels.

  ‘This one, here.’

  Flick, flick.

  ‘Looks like you.’

  He didn’t bother to break eye contact with the screen. ‘Her ? Fuck off. My arse she does. Fucking nothing like me.’

  I gave up. I really didn’t need to get to know him. Perhaps he wasn’t human at all. Instead, I settled back and stared at the screen too. I’m a bit of a channel flicker myself; I can watch four at once, no problem. Used to drive Anna spare.

  Suddenly, on a sports network, I spotted the Big Match. I’d completely forgotten it was on. The All Blacks were playing South Africa that very night, and the first half was almost over. Hell, how could I have forgotten the Big Match?

  ‘Stop there, mate,’ I said. ‘I really want to watch this.’

  And he actually did. In the next hour or so we were almost companionable, in a monosyllabic kind of a way. I spent quite a lot of the time dancing around about an inch in front of the screen, screaming,‘Go, man! Go, go! Yes!’ while Matt craned his head around me and yelled, ‘Lousy pass, you fuckin’ cretin!’ Lucy and Perry came in from time to time and watched too, and mouth-watering cooking smells floated in from the kitchen.

  The Springboks played elegantly but not well enough, and they lost just in time for dinner. And it was then, as we sat around Perry’s kitchen table, that my day really got weird.

  Chapter Four

  By the time they came to eat, David had wordlessly confiscated the gin bottle from his father. Christopher, however, had already downed enough to blind a newt. He’d slid into the bluff, old-sea-dog phase of his descent into drunkenness. As they crossed the hall he was holding forth to Elizabeth, in clipped, military tones, about the dangers of rounding the Horn in a gale.

  Leila listened to his bluster with half-hearted sympathy. Retirement had been a sort of death for Christopher. He was rusting away like a derelict ship, beached and abandoned, lying on its shattered keel and dreaming of the glory days.

  David swiftly surveyed the table. ‘Corkscrew,’ he muttered, and headed off to the kitchen.

  Christopher darted into the seat next to Leila’s, while Hilda sank down opposite and began to make conversation with Angus. ‘Do you have a family?’ she asked, arranging herself precisely in her chair.

  Angus glanced at his wife. ‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘I have four. A gaggle of grandkids, too, who come and destroy the rectory every school holidays.’

  There was something odd about the exchange. Curious, Leila was replaying it in her mind when Christopher began to whisper, his breath hovering by the glinting hoop of her earring. She edged towards Angus’s comfortable bulk at the far end, but her father-in-law was not to be put off.

  ‘You know what your lovely name means, don’t you, Leila?’

  Leila looked bored. ‘Yes, I do actually, Christopher. You’ve told me several times.’

  ‘Dark as night. Dark . . . as . . . night.’

  Leila leaped to her feet and lifted the lid on the casserole. The man is obscene, she thought incredulously, as she snatched up the ladle. Getting worse, too. I bet he was a southern plantation owner in another incarnation, harassing his slaves and fathering their children. For several seconds she battled with her desire to spill a ladleful of scalding gravy onto his bald patch—she could see it gleaming, even though he’d brushed his hair across it. Ooh, sorry, Christopher! So clumsy. Still, they can work wonders with plastic surgery these days.

  Looking up, Leila caught Elizabeth’s eye. The rector’s wife taught in the local secondary school. In fact, she was their longest surviving member of staff, surpassed in longevity only by the janitor, who was deaf and therefore had an advantage. Her hair was pewter-coloured and cut like a helmet, but somehow she managed to look young and alert. Her glance whisked from Leila to Christopher and back again, and then she winked. It was the merest flicker, but it made Leila smile.

  ‘A stew!’ tinkled Hilda, as David reappeared and began to open another bottle. ‘Leila, I don’t know how you do it, in that tiny kitchen. Is it a Caribbean recipe?’

  Leila raised one eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Mum!’ David rounded on his mother, exasperation twisting the strong, spare lines of his face. ‘You know perfectly well Leila isn’t from the West Indies.’

  ‘Nigeria, isn’t it?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Yes, Nigeria. Although I was born and bred in Peckham.’ Leila regarded her mother-in-law mischievously. ‘But perhaps we all look alike to you, Hilda?’

  Hilda’s Persian-cat eyes snapped wide open.

  ‘Leila’s father was a lecturer at the School of Oriental and African Studies,’ David explained hurriedly, filling glasses. ‘Magnificent man, Ayotunde. Terrifyingly clever. He’s retired, but they keep asking him to come back and give guest lectures.’

  Elizabeth played the game, carrying the conversation in her sandpaper voice. ‘When did your parents come to this country, Leila?’

  ‘In the sixties.’ Leila handed her a plate. ‘But they’re still very much West African at heart. Civil war was brewing in Nigeria at the time . . . Angus, is this enough for you? . . . My mother lost a brother in the crossfire.’

  ‘Have they been back?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Often. Their families are still there, mostly. Mum and Dad follow the politics avidly, read newspapers online, keep in touch with everyone. And they’re ardent supporters of the Nigerian football team.’

  ‘They’re going over soon, actually,’ said David. ‘For a cousin’s wedding. When are they off, Leila?’

  ‘Mid November, lucky things. They’ll be gone about a month.’ Leila replaced the lid on the casserole dish. ‘Angus. Will you say grace?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Angus folded authoritative hands. ‘Bless, Lord, this food to our use, and us to thy service.’

  ‘Amen,’ breathed Leila, sitting down. ‘That’s the starting gun.’

  As if on cue, the trill of the telephone wafted gaily in from the hall. David winced, met Leila’s eyes, t
hen pushed back his chair and went to answer it. A short time later he stuck his head around the door.

  ‘Gatecrashers at the youth club,’ he announced, shrugging into an overcoat. ‘Getting a bit out of hand. I’d better nip down.’

  Angus stood up, but David waved him away. ‘Please. Carry on.’

  Leila followed him into the hall, sliding her arms around his waist, imprisoning him. ‘What if I refuse to let you go?’

  He chuckled. ‘I’d look pretty funny, walking down the street like a mutant ninja turtle with you attached to my back.’

  ‘Come home in one piece, then,’ she grumbled, releasing him. She reached up to grip his nose. ‘That’s an order.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Angus, when she rejoined them. ‘They won’t mess with David.’ He glanced at Christopher. ‘Your son’s already brought so much to this parish, you know. Started a football team, and they’re queuing up to join.’

  ‘I’m sure they won’t mess with him physically,’ Leila struggled not to sound petulant, ‘but do they have to interrupt all of his meals? You’ll help yourselves to the rice, won’t you? That is a Nigerian dish, actually.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ll help myself, Miss Dark-as-Night,’ crooned Christopher under his breath. ‘If you’ll step into the kitchen with me.’ He reached across her to grasp the wine bottle, and his forearm brushed hers.

  Leila swung round to face him, eyes glinting dangerously. ‘Sorry, Christopher?’

  He smirked uncertainly, and his glance darted to Hilda and back.

  ‘I didn’t quite catch that,’ Leila insisted, her voice slightly too loud. ‘Could you just repeat it for me?’

  Christopher shrugged and looked sullen.

  Angus intervened, diplomatically. ‘You can both be justifiably proud of your son,’ he remarked genially, slicing through the awkward silence. ‘This is a pretty tough parish. The last curate didn’t last the distance.’

  ‘What makes it such a difficult job?’ asked Hilda, covertly glaring at her husband.