Freeing Grace

by Charity Norman

  ‘You listen, Christopher.’ Leila was breathing like a marathon runner; she felt powerful and in control as she took a menacing step towards him. ‘And you listen carefully. This has gone on long enough. You’re David’s father, so I’ve let you get away with it until now. But you have to stop behaving like a total creep, or you will never set foot in this house again.’

  ‘I was only . . .’ He stopped, massaging his cheek.

  ‘Yes, but you have no right.’ She tapped her head. ‘Think about it! To you it’s a little harmless flirtation to pass the time, but it’s insulting to me—and to David—and it makes you ridiculous. Where’s your dignity, for God’s sake?’

  Christopher was still exuding hurt pride, but he was thinking. She saw a flicker in the watered-down eyes.

  Behind her, the kettle boiled. Christopher pulled out a chair and sank into it.

  Leila began to spoon leaves into the teapot. How eccentric, she thought, to be making a nice cup of tea when you’ve just clobbered your father-in-law. She watched him from under her lashes. He looked shrunken, suddenly, in his careful collar and jacket. She imagined him slowly dressing in the mornings: brushing his hair, knotting his tie, keeping up appearances; trying to look smart for another pointless day. She lowered the teapot onto the table and sat down opposite him, but he turned his head away. He’s sulking, she thought. Well, let him sulk.

  ‘I was fibbing,’ he said.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Hilda doesn’t know I’m here. Hilda knows nothing about me.’

  Leila looked at him, trying to gauge his mood. He rapped the table with his knuckle. ‘Her fondest wish is that I’ll go quietly. She has a little leap of the heart every time a police car cruises past our drive. Hopes they’ve come with glad tidings.’

  ‘Glad tidings?’

  He smiled. ‘Coronary, maybe. Or car crash.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish, Christopher. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.’

  ‘She’s got her outfit planned, you know. Ever the optimist, is Hilda. Nice charcoal pillbox with a lace veil. Very tasteful. Hits just the right note.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘No, really. It’s in her cupboard. I’m going to be buried in St Mary’s churchyard.’ He shuddered. ‘Awful thought.’

  ‘What, dying?’

  ‘No, no! Rotting away in St Mary’s churchyard among all those old, dead people.’

  It was like meeting an actor backstage after the play, except that Christopher had not entirely lost the dissolute gleam in his eye. Leila poured tea and shoved the biscuit tin in his direction.

  ‘Ours was a marriage of convenience,’ he said, taking a HobNob. ‘Not like yours.’

  ‘I’m lucky,’ said Leila.

  He dipped his head. ‘You are. Most people never find what you have. I hope you realise that.’

  ‘I do,’ said Leila. And as she said it, she knew that it was true.

  ‘My son appreciates how bloody lucky he is. Never mind about the children thing. Children don’t make you happy if your home’s a cold place.’

  Christopher reached for the milk, and she saw with a jolt of compassion that he had a tremor in his hands. How long had he had that? He poured very carefully, concentrating, placing the little jug back on the table with a small nod of triumph.

  ‘There’s a wonderful woman in Hong Kong,’ he began. He stopped, mouth slightly open, thinking. ‘She was always pleased to see me.’

  ‘I’m sure lots of women—’

  ‘No, Leila. Just the one.’ He sighed. ‘Just the one. A widow. She isn’t beautiful like you are, but she is the love of my life.’ He used the words entirely without irony. ‘For ten years, Kimmy gave me happiness. Then they made me take a shore job and I couldn’t see her any more.’

  ‘Is she still . . . ?’

  ‘Alive? Of course. Retired from her job at the university, but still going strong. We write. Email is a wonderful invention. We talked about my going to live there, but it isn’t possible. Immigration, money . . . I’m too old to be an illegal alien. And Kimmy has grandchildren. She can’t leave her home.’

  Leila was lost for words. She imagined her father-in-law—younger, happier—hailing a taxi at the harbour gates, buying flowers from a stall, racing up the stairs of an apartment block. ‘Couldn’t you visit?’ she suggested.

  Christopher fiddled uneasily with his mug, eyeing her from under tangled brows.

  ‘Oh, well . . . you know. I’m a doddery fool by now. I do own a mirror, you know.’

  ‘But she must have grown older too.’

  ‘Repulsive, you said. That was what you said, wasn’t it? Kimmy sent me a photograph a while ago.’ He touched his breast pocket. ‘At the beach, with her grandchildren. She hasn’t changed. Grey, of course. She doesn’t dye her hair, never has. Grey suits her.’

  He was reaching into the pocket when the front door rattled and a gust of damp air swirled into the room. Christopher dropped his hand and lurched to his feet as David appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking windblown.

  ‘Dad!’ David shrugged out of his coat. ‘I saw your car.’

  ‘I’ve been making a nuisance of myself,’ said Christopher.

  David’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘He has to be in Nottingham tomorrow,’ said Leila quickly. ‘Funeral. So he’s staying the night.’

  ‘Am I?’ asked Christopher, bowing to her with a hint of his old flirtatiousness. ‘I am. Thank you.’

  ‘Hong Kong,’ breathed Leila, with a giggle of intrigue. She and David were huddled at the table, late that same evening. Their voices were muffled by the shriek and shudder of the gale.

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said David, throwing a furtive glance at the door. Christopher was upstairs in the bathroom, but David dropped his voice still further. ‘He never seemed to take much shore leave, especially towards the end. Must have been stopping off there instead.’

  ‘D’you think Hilda knows?’

  ‘I’d be astonished if she doesn’t. She’s pretty sharp. Poor Mum.’

  Christopher’s footsteps creaked down the stairs and into the sitting room where they’d made up the sofa bed. David shook his head in guilty admiration. ‘How hard did you hit him?’

  But Leila suddenly seemed oblivious, Christopher forgotten. She jerked upright, head tilted as if straining to catch a distant sound.

  ‘Woodbury,’ she murmured intently. ‘Woodbury.’

  ‘Erm.’ David scratched his ear, puzzled. ‘What?’

  Leila listened, alert, gazing into the distance as a furious gust flung itself against the window, beating its fists on the glass. Then, briskly, she pushed back her chair. ‘There’ll be trees down tonight. Power cables.’

  ‘Somewhere in East Anglia, isn’t it, Woodbury?’

  ‘Forget it.’ Leila leaned down and kissed him. ‘I’m turning in.’

  ‘I’ll be right up,’ said David. ‘Five minutes. Just want to catch the news.’

  At the door Leila turned, casually, as though a rather inconsequential thought had just struck her.

  ‘Um, will you be needing the car tomorrow?’

  Chapter Thirty

  I spent much of Wednesday packing up the truck, ready to beat rush hour the next morning. I didn’t see Perry at all during the day, but Matt stopped to give me a hand on his way in from school. That cheerful weatherman had known his stuff, when he predicted mayhem. A hell of a wind had got up. The boughs of the trees in the lane were doing a giant Mexican wave. I could hear them creaking and groaning, and bits of twigs and leaves started whizzing about. If you leaned forward with your arms spread out, the wind actually held you upright. Both of us were tottering around like drunken sailors, and I had to shout to make Matt hear me.

  Just before dark everything took on this weird, nicotine-stained glow, as though we were wearing yellow-tinted goggles. The world seemed unnaturally bright and distorted. Then someone turned the lights out altogether and we felt the first spots of rain. I was afraid a
tile might fly off the roof and plant us, so I parked the truck in a sheltered corner behind the garage and we staggered into the house. Between us we managed to force the front door shut, but the wind still wailed eerily underneath it like a desolate banshee.

  Matt hung around in the hall next to Deborah’s chocolate box Christmas tree, his schoolbag on his back. He looked like a man with a lot on his mind.

  ‘So.’ I cheerfully rubbed my hands, ignoring the banshee. ‘You all ready for the big day tomorrow?’

  He scowled. ‘You could stay, you know.’

  ‘No, mate. I value my sleep. Rugrats and sleep don’t go.’

  ‘Grace won’t come here tomorrow! There’ll be all sorts of pissing about first.’

  ‘All the same. I’ve bludged off you people long enough.’

  He swore, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  ‘You’re going to keep texting me?’ I asked, in my new, uncle’s voice. He just grunted, so I tried again. ‘Go to school today?’

  He nodded sourly, told me I was as bad as his frigging mother, and trudged off upstairs. I felt oddly traitorous, because I was leaving and he couldn’t.

  Wandering into the sitting room, I found Deborah perched at her desk. It was one of those antique jobs, the desk, with a leaf that folded down. From the look on her face, I could tell she was trying to write to Rod. I didn’t ask; instead I nipped into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Perry’s Isle of Jura, and poured us both a hefty tipple. I reckoned it was called for on such a filthy, drowned-rat night. Our last night.

  Deborah looked up and smiled as I balanced the glass beside her letter. ‘Thanks, Jake.’ She looked awful this evening, pinched and bruised.

  I gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘I haven’t seen Perry,’ I said, unfolding a newspaper and plonking myself down in my favourite armchair by the fire. ‘He okay?’

  ‘Plastered already,’ she said. ‘No one else would be able to tell, but I can. I know him all too well.’

  She returned to her letter, and we sat companionably for a long time. The gale worked itself up into a frenzy outside, screaming and sighing down the chimney, hurling handfuls of rain against the old windows. I listened to the scratching of the pen, and the gentle spitting of the fire, and tried not to wish that this was all mine.

  It must have been well after six when I heard Perry’s study door swing open and his measured footsteps in the hall. A moment later, he was striding into the room with a face like a death mask. I don’t think he even saw me.

  ‘I can’t go on like this,’ he said. His voice was clipped and flat.

  Deborah shut her writing pad, double quick, and rested a hand over it while her husband crossed the room to stand behind her. I could see the silver threads in his hair, gleaming in the soft light of the standard lamp beside the desk.

  She twisted around to face him. ‘I don’t know why you’re so miserable, Perry,’ she trilled brightly. ‘We’ve won.’

  He towered over her. ‘Yes. But you didn’t want to win, did you, Deborah? In fact, you don’t want to be here at all.’

  She blinked. Perry wasn’t sticking to their script.

  ‘Of course I want to be here!’ She laughed, shakily.

  Perry didn’t move a muscle. ‘Really? Who are you writing to?’

  She picked up the pad and slung it into a drawer. ‘My aunt,’ she snapped, and slammed the drawer shut.

  He still didn’t move, just gazed at her with his panther’s eyes. I’d have sworn he could see right through her face and into her mind. I’m sure he knew he’d lost her. She might live with him and care for his granddaughter, but he’d lost her nonetheless. I began to stand up, intending to sneak out, but something about Perry stopped me. I didn’t like to leave her alone with him. In his present state, I thought him capable of anything.

  ‘Shall we both give up lying for Lent?’ he said.

  She lifted a shoulder. ‘It’s not Lent. In any case, why change the habits of a lifetime?’

  Perry stretched out both his hands, and for one awful second I thought he was reaching for her neck. I tensed, ready to spring up. I’d never seen him like this. He looked to be in physical pain, crabbed and angular.

  ‘Please,’ he croaked, as though begging for morphine. He dropped his hands, sinking onto a stool. ‘I need reality. My feet don’t touch the bottom of the lies any more. I’m drowning in them.’

  A great mallet of wind pounded against the window, and the old house shook.

  Perry shook, too. ‘For pity’s sake, Deborah. Help me! Let me hear some truth!’

  His despair seemed to light some flame of anger in her. Perhaps his disintegration infuriated her, or perhaps his invitation to tell the truth was irresistible. I saw a hardening around her mouth.

  ‘The truth hurts, Perry.’ She folded her arms, raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Okay. Truth. Where shall we begin? How about the unhappy fact that you have used our grandchild as a pawn?’

  He ran one hand through his hair. ‘No. No . . . I knew you’d want to save her.’

  ‘Precisely!’ yelled Deborah. ‘My point exactly. I had absolutely no choice, did I? You said fetch and sent faithful Jake haring off to find me. Jake, your gundog. And here I am. You’ve got what you wanted, and I hope it makes you happy.’

  ‘But you aren’t happy.’

  ‘Oh, I see. It’s not enough for you to keep me rotting in this house. I have to enjoy it as well!’ She began to laugh. It was crazy. ‘Well, since you’ve asked for the truth, let me assure you that I don’t enjoy it. It’s like being walled up, actually.’ She grabbed her glass and downed it in one. ‘It’s like being buried alive. You buried me alongside you when I was twenty years old.’

  ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, Deborah.’

  ‘And now you’re going to bury Matt too. You’re using a baby to trap him just as you did me. We’ll be prisoners here, shut in with you until we’ve no life left to live.’

  ‘Matt? . . . No.’

  ‘And here’s another thing that’s true.’ Deborah was letting loose half a lifetime of regret. ‘I don’t think you even like me very much, Perry Harrison. I think you need me, but you don’t like me, do you? In fact, I think you find me utterly contemptible. After all, I’m nothing like your beloved Victoria.’

  His eyes blazed with intensity. ‘I adore you!’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’ She slammed down the glass. ‘Actually I wonder, my darling. Did you really like Victoria, or was she a crutch as well?’

  Perry sat for a moment, looking as though she’d just hit him squarely between the eyes with a carefully aimed slingshot. Then he stood up and walked out. I think he might have seen me as he passed, but he didn’t show it. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Deborah let out a long breath. She looked as though she might cry.

  ‘I should not have said that.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed, folding the newspaper with a disapproving snap. ‘You shouldn’t. That last bit was well below the belt.’

  ‘I’ve always been jealous of that woman. Always.’

  I probably looked as though she’d used the slingshot on me too. I mean, how could Deborah possibly be jealous of Perry’s first wife? When she next spoke, her voice was a little wobbly: the row had shaken her up.

  ‘You haven’t got a clue, have you, Jake?’

  ‘Clueless,’ I admitted, laying down my paper. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘All my married life she’s been looking over my shoulder. Lucy’s fairytale mother. Perry’s perfect wife, who broke his heart.’ She blinked, wiping her eyes on the heel of her hand. ‘You can’t fall hopelessly in love, at the age of seventeen, with someone fascinating and cultured and powerful, bear his son, raise children with him, share two decades of experiences, live with him through mental illness, be comforted by him when your parents die, and have no feelings for him.’

  ‘But you left him, Debs.’

  She stood up impatiently. ‘Yes, I left him. He makes me terribly unhappy. But we go back
a very long way together—can’t you see that? We go back almost into my childhood, and he’s an incredible man. I still admire him. I still . . .’

  She walked to the door and pulled it open. A wild draught burst joyously past her and danced among the flames in the grate.

  ‘No matter,’ she said. ‘This time tomorrow, we’ll have a baby in the family.’

  This time tomorrow, I thought, I’ll be gone.

  We had a surprisingly good evening, in the end.

  Come suppertime, I ventured up to Matt’s den and persuaded him to join us. Then I knocked on Perry’s study door and he came out too. Perry and Deborah seemed a bit wooden at first, and they weren’t looking at each other. I supposed that almighty ding-dong was still on their minds, but they were both too well-mannered to carry on slinging insults with me around. Matt stuck to Pepsi but Perry, Deborah and I got quietly canned, making serious inroads into the Hawke’s Bay wine while the wolves howled outside.

  We’d all brightened up by the third bottle.

  Perry—who seemed to be making a mammoth effort—regaled us with stories of army cock-ups, and I told them about the time I ran with the bulls in Pamplona and very nearly got mashed. I’d been rescued by a Spanish policeman who dragged me over a fence by my hair. We laughed with the slightly hysterical, guilty jollity you get after a funeral. Even Perry laughed.

  ‘Well,’ I burbled eventually, holding up my glass and squinting at the three of them. ‘Here’s to you all, and thanks for your hospitality.’

  ‘And here’s to your death-defying expedition, you lucky bastard!’ cried Perry, and tossed his back in one go.

  ‘And to the future Mrs Jake, and all the little Jakes!’ added Deborah, giggling wildly. ‘Bring ’em to meet us.’

  Matt ran out of steam and lurched off to bed first, and Deborah soon followed him. After that, Perry stopped laughing. He was sitting very upright, staring at nothing with his bottomless black eyes.

  ‘So, Perry.’ I carried our plates to the dishwasher. ‘You did it. You’ve put your family back together.’

  ‘Yes, I have, haven’t I?’ He opened a bottle of Scotch with the exaggerated concentration of the truly drunk person. I’d never seen him lose control like this before. Not really. As a rule, alcohol just made him more and more dignified.