Freeing Grace

by Charity Norman

  ‘Sorry, Jake. Sorry.’

  I looked up too. The sky was pallid and heavy. ‘He was tired of being ill, Luce. He wanted it to end, for his own sake and everybody else’s.’

  ‘But she still could have lifted him out of it. If she’d loved him enough.’

  ‘Forgive her. She did her best.’

  ‘But if I don’t blame her, I have to blame myself . . . And even him. How could he do this to me? How could he? He didn’t even say goodbye.’

  ‘Nobody’s to blame,’ I said firmly. But I was thinking about how I’d left Perry alone, poured his whisky down the sink.

  She buried her face in the wool of my jersey, and her voice was muffled. ‘I can’t cope, Jake. I can’t see my way through, I can’t imagine how life can go on . . . This is too big for me.’

  After a few minutes she dragged a tissue out of her sleeve, blew her nose, and smiled wanly at her own distress. She was far too pale.

  ‘Better go,’ she whispered shakily.

  ‘You shouldn’t drive,’ I fussed, but she shook her head.

  ‘I’m okay now,’ she said. ‘Really, I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll say sorry to Deborah, and we’ll talk . . . but not today.’

  I opened her car door for her.

  ‘Thanks, Jake.’ She laid a hand on my hair. ‘Each one of us owes you thanks, including Dad. I saw you weeping for him at the crematorium. That’s something I never thought I’d see.’

  ‘Hay fever. All the lilies.’

  ‘Ah, of course it was. You’ve even led the prodigal son back onto the path of righteousness. I can’t think how you managed that.’ She kissed me solemnly on both cheeks, slid into the car and started the engine. I shut her door.

  ‘So. Tell me. Which of us were you in love with?’ she asked, through the open window. ‘Which of the four of us?’

  Smiling, I shook my head. ‘All of you.’

  And in a way, it was the truth.

  ‘But what about her? The viper?’

  ‘Deborah Harrison is . . . how did you put it? The most dishonest and manipulative woman I have ever met.’

  I wasn’t expecting her to believe me, and she didn’t.

  ‘You’re not fooling anyone.’ A tear meandered its way wearily down her face. She reached out a knuckle to nudge my cheek. ‘Poor Jake. She got you, didn’t she? After all these years, Jake Kelly finally got bitten. There’s no antidote.’

  I didn’t argue with her.

  She wiped her face and laughed sadly. ‘Go home, Jake. Go home. Go and buy that vineyard. There aren’t any snakes in New Zealand, are there?’

  She let out the clutch, and I stood back as she swept regally by in a spray of mud and gravel. I watched her car as it disappeared between the trees. My friend, Lucy.

  Go home, Jake.

  I didn’t know Deborah was beside me until she spoke. ‘I don’t think Perry would want to end up in an army cemetery, do you?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Just above us a group of seagulls swirled around, mewing like cats. Debs squinted up at them. ‘But what do I know? I’m just a fancy whore.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Well, thank God that’s all over. We’ve got past the dreaded funeral.’ She linked her arm through mine and we began to stroll down the lane, away from the house, like two old twerps in a National Trust garden.

  ‘Coptree without Perry,’ she said with a strange little laugh. ‘He had extraordinary power. The place seems insipid without his presence.’

  I knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘I don’t feel guilty, you know.’ She glanced at me. ‘I know I’m supposed to feel desperately guilty, but I don’t. I feel darkened. I feel horrified. But Perry died because his life had become intolerable. And that wasn’t my fault. I think the seeds of his end were sown before I ever met him.’

  ‘I don’t reckon he blamed you, Debs.’

  ‘Ah, but Lucy does.’

  ‘Not really.’

  She patted my arm as we wandered on. ‘Feels like snow.’ She stretched out one hand as though to catch the first flakes. ‘Look at that overloaded sky. And tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.’

  I didn’t answer. I was wondering what it would be like to grow old with this woman, to potter arm in arm every day under the changing colours of the trees.

  She twisted suddenly, staring up at me, and I couldn’t look away.

  ‘Jake. You’ve been more of a friend than any of us deserve.’

  ‘Well, maybe. Also your page boy, bodyguard and bit of fun at the top of the stairs.’ I was having trouble keeping the bitterness out of my voice.

  She squeezed my arm. ‘I’m so sorry. It was unforgivable. Actually . . .’ She smiled, and I felt a tug of longing. ‘I’m not sorry.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Didn’t mean anything at all.’

  That was my moment, I suppose, but I could no more tell her the truth than I could fly to Mars on a vacuum cleaner. I had my pride.

  We reached the top of the lane and she leaned her back against a gate, swishing a wind-felled branch, slicing the tops off nettles. I stood on the verge with my hands in my pockets, scuffing my feet in the long grass and trying not to contemplate just how empty my future looked.

  ‘I’ve been negotiating with Matt’s previous headmaster,’ she said. She mimicked the man’s weighty tones. ‘ “In these, er . . . unique circumstances, we’re prepared to take him back.” ’

  I was surprised. ‘Back to boarding school? Matt?’

  Swish, swish. ‘His own idea. He’ll be better off there, with his friends. Normal boys who haven’t fathered children, haven’t seen their dad blown into pieces. Matt and I have become far closer but he needs routine, away from this house. He’s hopelessly behind with his coursework— may well have to retake a year—but he’s motivated. Thanks to you, I suspect.’

  I looked at her and then down at my shoes. ‘So. You’re free to go back to Kenya.’

  ‘Soon. There’s the winding up of Perry’s estate to get underway.’ She smiled to herself, and suddenly she was as I first saw her, sitting on that piece of driftwood. It’s hard to define exactly what made it so. A lightness around her eyes, I think. Susie was back. ‘Rod’s waited eighteen years. He says he thinks he can manage a little longer.’ She chucked her stick over the gate and took my arm. We turned back up the drive.

  And so they abandoned me. I wasn’t needed any more.

  Back in my room, I phoned Anna at work. I was lucky; she hadn’t yet knocked off for Christmas.

  ‘Hello, Jake.’ She recognised my voice before I’d said two words, and sounded resigned, accusing and warm all at once.

  ‘Er . . . hi. You busy?’

  ‘Wildly. What can I do for you?’

  Now, there was a question. I didn’t know. Anna was my comfortable past. In the familiar voice I heard affection and sanity and fun. Anna didn’t lie to me; she didn’t come weighted down with unbearable burdens. She was reassuringly predictable.

  ‘I’m going to Africa,’ I told her. ‘Overland. In a four-wheel drive.’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded genuinely intrigued.

  ‘Want to come with me?’ I wasn’t serious. Obviously not.

  Silence. ‘Oh, Jake. You’re too late. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh. Well, it was just a thought. Um . . . why too late?’

  ‘There’s someone else.’

  I should have been delighted for her. I should have been waltzing around the Harrisons’ spare bedroom, scattering congratulations like confetti. Anna was a magnificent girl who deserved to be happy. But I didn’t feel very delighted. In fact I felt as though she’d just kicked a soccer ball into my stomach: even she no longer needed me.

  ‘Oh, good,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m, er . . . Well. That’s great. Anyone I know?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Philip O’Neill, from the squash club.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Well . . .’ She chuckled, embarrassed. ‘He was waiting in the wings.’

  ‘
It’s okay. I had my chance, and I didn’t dance.’

  ‘He’s taking me to Venice for Christmas. In fact—what’s the time?

  We’re flying out of Gatwick this afternoon.’

  I looked out at Perry’s yew tree, hunched under a ghost sky, and I felt lonelier than I had ever felt in my life before.

  ‘Well.’ I swallowed. ‘That’s great, Anna. Marvellous. I hope you have a really fantastic Christmas.’

  There was a slight pause. When she spoke again there was—I like to kid myself—a tinge of regret in her voice.

  ‘You too, Jake. Happy Christmas.’

  It was only a couple of hours before I heard from Lucy again. I was in the High Street, picking up one or two presents for the Harrison clan, and she sent a text. I was so pleased to hear from her, that’s the funny thing. I’d been wondering how she was doing, back at work.

  So I smiled. Stopped on the pavement, breathing out icy mist, while shoppers edged around me, looking hopefully up at the swirling sky and talking about white Christmases. And I read the message three times.

  Your bro called Stanton’s. Phone home 2day. Urgent.

  I couldn’t understand it at first. Couldn’t get my head around it at all. My brother? I hadn’t spoken to Jesse in years. Couldn’t imagine him spending twenty dollars on a call, just to wish me all the blessings of the festive season.

  I found a bench on a ragged patch of green and tried to remember Mum’s number. I always struggled to remember it, even though it hadn’t changed in living memory. It came back to me in the end, though, and I listened to the series of clicks and whistles as my little plastic box connected with hers.

  I heard the ringing tone, and smiled as I imagined it jangling away in the hall, and Mum trotting through, drying her hands before picking it up. Mum always sounded eager. She’d never despaired. Dad wouldn’t answer the phone even if he was standing right by it. That was her job, as his butler and cleaner and cook and gardener and punch bag. She always got to it on the fifth ring.

  One. Two. Three, four.

  ‘Hello?’

  It wasn’t Mum’s friendly, hopeful voice. It was a man. I was startled for a moment, wondering if I’d made a mistake with the number.

  ‘Er . . . Who’s that? Jesse?’

  ‘Yeah. Hi, Jake.’ He sounded the same as ever. Flat, bored, unimpressed. He’d be standing in the hall in his socks, his gumboots waiting for him at the kitchen door, his farm dogs doing disgusting things in the yard.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I got your message.’

  There was a long silence. Long enough for me to remember that Jesse wouldn’t be in his socks. In fact, he shouldn’t be there at all. It was midnight in New Zealand.

  ‘Jesse . . . what are you doing there?’

  I could hear his breathing. ‘Mum’s in hospital. She’s checking out.’

  I felt flames of panic rising in my chest. There was no air. None at all. ‘What d’you mean, checking out?’

  ‘Hasn’t got long. A week. Two, maybe. But she could go any time.’

  The world darkened and twisted, and I had to screw my eyes shut. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ The echo of my own fear bounced back from the satellite, mocking me.

  ‘She’s been crook for months. Wouldn’t see a doctor.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I said.

  ‘No. Well, you’re not here, are you?’ A brief, accusing pause. ‘We had to call an ambulance a couple of nights ago. She’d lost the plot. They opened her up, tumours everywhere, bowel’s blocked. So they didn’t bother doing anything much. Just sewed her up again.’

  I couldn’t think. Couldn’t understand it at all.

  ‘You still there, Jake?’

  I breathed in, and out, forcing my brain to engage. ‘Yes, still here, mate.’

  He grunted. ‘They’ve got her on morphine. Hopefully she’ll see Christmas.’

  I still had my eyes shut. I couldn’t bear to look at the daylight, and flashing Santa with his sleigh, and McDonald’s across the road. I felt the first gritty touch of snowflakes on my bare hands.

  ‘You coming?’ He didn’t sound bothered.

  ‘Um.’ For some reason it was difficult to speak. I seemed to have something stuck in my throat. ‘Of course I’m coming, for God’s sake. But I don’t want to see him. I hate that bastard. He’s killed her.’

  ‘Dad? Christ, get over it, Jake. He isn’t a monster any more. He’s just a sad old git with watery eyes and a hearing aid. He forgets everything, dribbles into his tea, can’t even dress himself without her to help him. I have to wheel him into the bloody hospital. He’s lost it, hasn’t stopped crying. It’s horrible.’

  Good, I thought. I hope he suffers until the day he dies, like she has.

  ‘Okay,’ I said finally. ‘I’ll hire a car, drive straight to the hospital from Christchurch. Tell her I’m on my way, she has to wait for me . . . you hear me? Tell her I’m coming back.’

  The line crackled. ‘Better get a move on.’

  I must be getting a bit clumsy. I dropped the phone, and it clattered onto the concrete under the bench. I had to sit with my head in my hands, just for a minute, just until the dizziness passed, and I was still having trouble with my throat. It really hurt to swallow.

  I looked up and saw a couple of kids with skateboards and bobble hats standing there, staring at me as though I was a sad old wino. One of them wordlessly picked up my phone and handed it to me, and I thanked him, pushed myself up onto my feet, and lurched off down the street.

  There was a travel agent on the corner, and I found the staff at their desks, looking out at the thickening snow. They couldn’t believe their luck when I walked in. Could they book me on the next flight to New Zealand? Was the Pope a Catholic, sir? Just one problem. No seats left in economy. Never to worry! They’d fit me onto business class at twice the cost.

  I packed a bag, and Matt and Deborah drove me to the airport, but none of us found much to say. I had so much to tell Mum; it filled my mind.

  We were short of time. Heathrow was crazy, as usual. Once I’d checked in—a slick operation, thanks to my business class ticket—we had barely fifteen minutes for that awkward cup of coffee, the one nobody really wants but feel they have to have, all of us compulsively watching the departures board and making feeble conversation about the connection in Singapore, and how long I’d be in the air because the whole journey was more than twenty-four hours, and whether it’s quicker via Los Angeles.

  And sorry about your mother, Jake.

  Lucy came dashing up just as we reached security, where I’d have to say goodbye. I heard the clatter of her heels over all the airport chaos. She looked dishevelled. Her beret was jammed on at a very eccentric angle.

  ‘Thank God I’ve caught you,’ she panted. ‘Jake. I’m so sorry. Your mother.’

  I hadn’t expected her. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Deborah phoned me. Look, there must be something I can do to help. Something. Anything.’

  ‘No,’ I said, straightening her hat. ‘There’s nothing.’

  ‘Call me when you get there,’ she insisted, kissing me. ‘Any time of day or night. Don’t try to be brave.’

  Matt stood, frowning and looking staunch, as I shook his hand. ‘I’ll take care of your wheels, mate,’ he muttered.

  I slapped him on the shoulder and then met Deborah’s eyes. I knew every freckle of the constellation, every wisp of the wild honey hair.

  ‘You were right,’ I told her. ‘You can’t run away. A whale eats you up and spits you out, right where you started.’

  She stepped forward quietly, and rested her cheek against mine. I can still feel it.

  I wanted to say more, to all of them, but I couldn’t think of the words. So I turned away. Handed over my passport. Then I looked back at them for the last time. They were standing side by side, watching me. Three pairs of eyes.

  ‘You’ve no idea,’ I said suddenly. ‘No idea what you’ve become.’

  They waved and nodd
ed. They smiled a little sadly to see me go. But they didn’t belong to me, and they never would.

  I stepped behind the screen.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  By four o’clock on Christmas Eve, the streets glittered in a diamond twilight. Down at the pedestrian precinct, shop fronts were still extravagantly lit. The council had parked a giant, slightly grotesque model of Father Christmas in the middle of a roundabout, and he waved a sinister yellow hand at the traffic seething past. In the church, the rector and his wife were preparing for a candlelight service, with the doubtful assistance of the confirmation class.

  Angus pottered cheerfully along the pews, distributing candles on small clay saucers, four to a row, while Kevin rehearsed the lesson he was to read. The boy paused in his rendition of the story of the shepherds, draping himself over the lectern and squinting into the cardboard box Angus was carrying.

  ‘Where d’you get those little flying saucers, Rev?’

  Angus glanced up at the lanky teenager. ‘As a matter of fact, these are clay birds, Kevin. My brother and his family in Scotland are very fond of shooting. These do the job rather well, I think.’

  ‘Wicked!’ Kevin jumped down for a closer look.

  Beside the pulpit, Elizabeth was struggling with the Holy Family. ‘Mary keeps falling over,’ she complained. ‘What on earth’s happened to her since last year? She’s had one too many down the King Herod, I think. I’ll have to prop her up against the manger . . . Vanessa, see if you can get Baby Jesus wrapped up in swaddling clothes, would you? I’ve brought some torn-up pillowcases.’

  The organist’s daughter held up a doll, doubtfully. ‘It’s not newborn, though, is it? Just about shaving, this one. ’Cept it’s a girl.’

  ‘Nobody will notice in the candlelight. The mice ate last year’s Baby Jesus, unfortunately.’

  ‘Where’s Mr Edmunds been all week?’ Vanessa grasped the doll in expert hands, winding cloth around its unyielding plastic legs. ‘Funny time for a vicar to take a holiday, right before Christmas.’

  Unaccountably, Elizabeth—who was not deaf in the slightest—didn’t seem to hear her. ‘I’m sure we used to have more oxen than this . . . Bloody mice . . . Kimberley, how are you doing with those fairy lights?’