‘That doesn’t seem quite right,’ she muttered, still rooting under the counter.
‘It’s fine,’ said Tessa, seizing it, before it could vanish into the litter-bin. With ‘TESCO‘ printed on the front, she could disguise her glamorous dress as just a bag of bits and pieces from the supermarket.
The woman touched her arm – a fleeting awkward gesture which still conveyed great warmth. ‘Good luck,’ she murmured. ‘Take care.’
‘Yes, best of luck!’ the other girl called out, as Tessa walked towards the door. ‘Have a lovely wedding.’
‘I will,’ said Tessa, breaking into a delighted smile. Both of them had wished her luck, restored her lucky horseshoe with their words.
‘Hello, Mrs Hughes. I was wondering if …’
‘Good gracious! Tessa Reeves! I was beginning to think you were avoiding us on purpose. We haven’t seen your face in months and months.’ Mrs Hughes’ own small bewhiskered mouse-face expressed a whole range of emotions in succession – surprise, resentment, relish, indignation.
Tessa shuffled her feet on the doorstep, stared down at the mat. She knew she was in the wrong – ignoring an old friend, cutting off all contact with unconvincing excuses.
‘Well, come on in, and mind that wretched step. You were always tripping over it when you were knee-high to a grasshopper and used to come dashing in with Pat. She’ll be really pleased to see you. She told me just the other day that she thought she must have offended you, though she didn’t have the foggiest notion why. ‘‘Pat,’’ I said, ‘‘if we’re talking about offence, I reckon the boot’s on the other foot,’’ if you understand my meaning, dear.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Tessa faltered, as she closed the door behind her. ‘I’ve been … ill again.’
‘Yes, so Pat kept on telling me. And your mother said you haven’t been yourself. I suppose I shouldn’t let this out, but she’s worried sick about you. She rang again last week, asked me for the number of this funny bloke my husband knows who’s into nature cure, but I don’t trust quacks, do you? And anyway, I can’t see any point in stuffing yourself with rabbit food, when you look half-starved already. You’re almost as skinny as our Pat now, and if you’ll forgive me speaking plainly, it suits her better than you. Are you still under the doctor?’
‘No,’ said Tessa, nervous at the mention of doctors. ‘I’m … better now, much better.’
‘You’re very pale and peaky, though – lost all your lovely colour. I’m sure Pat will notice the difference.’
‘How is she?’ Tessa asked, hoping to divert the conversation from herself.
‘Never better! We’re all thrilled about the wedding, and Tony’s such a love. Did April tell you he’s been made a director?’
Yes, ten times at least, Tessa didn’t say.
‘You’d never believe the perks! Trips abroad, at the drop of a hat. International conferences, big trade exhibitions – you name it, he’ll be there. Last month it was Switzerland, and he’s off to New York at the beginning of November – taking our Pat, too, of course! And he’s got this swish new car – a Vauxhall Cavalier in a really tasteful blue – what they call Dawn Mist. He’s teaching Pat to drive it, and she’s doing ever so well. You’re lucky to find her in. They’re usually out together on a Saturday, either going for a spin, or buying things for their house. We need a bigger place ourselves, just to hold the gear!’
Tessa followed Mrs Hughes along the dark and poky hall, which hadn’t changed in all the years she’d known it – sombre patterned wallpaper, thin brown haircord carpet. It even smelt the same – a faintly doggy smell, overlaid with Airwick. Pat had heard her voice and came charging down the stairs. They had never been best friends, in fact, but they embraced now as if they were – the long absence, and the wedding, and even her own illness, somehow lending real emotion to their meeting.
‘God! You’ve changed!’ Pat exclaimed. ‘You must have lost two stone. Have you been on some crash diet?’
‘No,’ said Tessa, forcing a laugh. ‘Just shed my puppy fat.’
‘Tea?’ asked Mrs Hughes, waddling into the kitchen and filling up the kettle.
‘Yes, please,’ said both the girls.
They took their mugs of tea upstairs; waited to talk privately until they were ensconced in Pat’s bedroom with the door shut; a packet of Jammie Dodgers between them on the floor, to remind them of their schooldays. Tessa had already endured wedding-talk for a boring half-hour, trotting after Mrs Hughes as she was shown several dozen photographs of the future son-in-law, plus the wedding invitations, a copy of the menu, a photo of the cake they’d chosen, and finally the wedding dress itself. But now she and Pat were alone at last, so she shook out the Tesco’s carrier and revealed her own creation.
Pat was almost speechless, consumed with curiosity, though clearly fighting jealousy as well. Her own dress was much plainer, less impressive altogether. ‘What on earth …?’
‘I’m getting married too, Pat, but you mustn’t breathe a word. My mother doesn’t know.’
‘Christ! You’re a dark horse, aren’t you? Who to, for heaven’s sake?’
‘His name’s … Michael.’
‘Michael? I thought your Mum told mine you were seeing some bloke called Ivor.’
‘Oh, Ivor’s just a casual friend. I only pretend I’m going out with him because I daren’t tell her about Michael. I know she’d disapprove.’
Pat prised apart a biscuit, tongued out the gungy jam. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ she asked.
Tessa hesitated. ‘Well, the main thing is his age. But there are other problems, too – his looks, his lack of prospects – oh, everything, in fact.’
‘So why the heck are you marrying him? Don’t tell me you’re pregnant again!’
‘No,’ snapped Tessa. ‘And I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Oh, come on, don’t be mean. You can’t leave me dangling like that! At least let me know his age. I won’t be shocked, I promise. Sharon Brown’s just married this guy of forty, and she’s a whole year younger than us.’
Tessa refused to be drawn, crammed her mouth with a biscuit, so she wouldn’t have to talk.
‘Well, tell me what he’s like, then.’
‘Nice.’
‘I should bloody well hope so, if you plan to spend your life with him.’ Pat laughed, a shade uncomfortably. ‘What else?’
‘Kind and sort of … gentle. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Loves animals, and …’
‘Fair or dark?’
‘In between, with hazel eyes.’
‘Tall or short?’
‘Middling.’
‘And when’s the big day? Or I suppose it won’t be big, if your mother’s not invited, and it’s all so cloak and dagger.’
‘Yes, that’s another worry. I must admit I’m more concerned about Mum than almost anything else.’ Tessa frowned, licked a smear of jam from her hand, while carefully choosing her words. ‘Listen, Pat, you may think this a cheek, but I wondered if I could ask you a big favour? I mean, you’ve known my mother all these years, and she’s always …’
Pat slammed down her empty cup. ‘You’re not expecting me to tell her, are you? I draw the line at that.’
‘No. I plan to leave a note, explaining what I’ve done, but it’ll be an awful shock for her, and she’ll probably start going up the wall, so if you could sort of … calm her down, or try to make her see that …’ The sentence petered out.
Pat was looking more and more uneasy. ‘I probably won’t be here,’ she said, edging into the corner, as if trying to absent herself, at least symbolically. ‘The wedding’s in two weeks, and we’ve booked a fortnight’s honeymoon, and after that we’re spending a few days in the country, in Tony’s parents’ house.’
‘No, you’ll be back in time. Mum knew all your plans, so I’ve worked it out already.’
‘So when’s your wedding going to be?’ Pat asked, reaching for the Oxfam dress, so that she could examine it more closely.
&n
bsp; Tessa eased up to her feet, stood leaning on the window-sill, glancing out at the small sun-gilded garden – a froth of rosy blossom on the apple-tree, a green haze on the willow, even a peacock-butterfly soaring past the daffodils. It was already kindly weather – things budding and relenting – and in another month or so, nature would have reached its prime. She turned back to Pat, who was still scrutinizing the dress, picking at the little pearls as if she’d like to wrench them off.
‘Or perhaps you haven’t fixed the date,’ Pat added. ‘I know how tricky it can be. We wanted April the eleventh, which is Tony’s birthday and the date we first went out last year, but the vicar already had three weddings on that Saturday, so then we tried to …’
Tessa interrupted. ‘I know the date all right,’ she said, grabbing at her dress, so that she could return it to the safety of its bag. ‘There was only one day it could be – one important to me personally.’
‘April Fool’s Day, I suppose,’ quipped Pat, with just a touch of malice in her laugh.
‘No,’ said Tessa softly. ‘The first of May – May Morning.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘Thanks for the lift!’ Tessa jumped down from the lorry, stretched her stiff cold legs.
‘Good luck!’ the driver shouted as he accelerated away. She gave a cheery wave, stored his ‘good luck’ in her pocket along with the new penny she had received as change in the Oxfam shop. She treasured it as her replacement charm, and if she hadn’t sold the bracelet it would be weighted down with horseshoes now. Wherever she went people wished her luck, as if they knew about her wedding, even though she hadn’t breathed a word. The sole person she’d confided in was Big Bill, the lorry driver. It seemed only fair when he’d driven her all the way to Leicester, without trying any funny business. Hitchhiking had always been forbidden, especially on her own, and she’d been regaled with gruesome stories about drivers who molested you, then flung your battered body into a ditch. But the journey with Bill had been quiet and uneventful. All he’d done was offer her a Polo every half an hour and complain about the roadworks on the motorway. At least there hadn’t been much traffic. She’d deliberately travelled in the early hours, to arrive first thing on May Morning, Just as dawn was breaking. There was no sign of the sun yet, but the light had changed from pewter to pearl-grey, and what had once been blurry shapes were now coming into focus; the scene unfolding from dark shadowland to a large and solid town.
Bill had set her down by the bus station, which looked totally deserted. She had originally planned to take the coach, but why waste £15? Her mother would have answered ‘to keep you out of the clutches of those murderers and rapists’, but she knew that she was safe – somehow unassailable – even if she’d hitched a lift from the most dangerous thug imaginable, instead of dozy Bill. Her luck was solid gold, and encased her from top to toe like a suit of shining armour.
She consulted her map, though more as a formality, since she’d studied it so many times already; walking her fingers in Dr Edwards’ footsteps. He’d spent eight years in this town; had arrived at Leicester Royal Infirmary as a pre-registration houseman, after his initial training at Birmingham; stayed on at the hospital for another couple of years before moving to his first post as a GP. The surgery and his private house were both in Stoneygate, a pleasant leafy suburb just a mile or two from the centre. He had lived there with his first wife, who’d been moody and artistic, and had once run a little crafts shop near the marketplace. Tessa located the street on her map, realized she would skirt it on her way to the Royal Infirmary. She had planned to wander slowly through the town, finishing up at the hospital; assimilating Dr Edwards’ traces, breathing the same air he’d breathed, imprinting on her mind all the sights and landmarks he must have known so well.
She only wished the place looked slightly smarter. The street she was standing in seemed dreary, almost stagnant, with flyblown shops cowering beneath ugly faceless office blocks. ‘For Sale’ boards sprouted everywhere – shops and businesses for sale, office space to let – as if each enterprise had foundered and was stranded in limbo, begging for a new owner, the chance of a reprieve. The weather didn’t help. The day was cold and overcast; a light but sullen drizzle beginning to spatter on her face. But then it had rained on May Morning last year – a vicious, lashing downpour, which had soaked her clothes, turned her hair to rats’ tails. And the sun had been equally reluctant to break through. She’d understood, much later, that it had been simply biding its time, waiting till she was in the car with Michael, before sailing out to bless their union. The same would happen again. She had to wait, that’s all; was already much more patient than she had been a year ago; had gained her honours degree in Waiting.
She rearranged her clutch of plastic bags – two in one hand, three in the other, so they balanced more or less – then set off down the street. She turned left into Church Gate – a more salubrious area – the shops less cramped and squalid, the pavements free of litter. Had Dr Edwards shopped here – perhaps bought his Daily Telegraph from the newsagent on the corner; or taken his smart brogues to that snazzy-looking shoe-repairer’s with the stuffed crocodile in the window? Church Gate led her to the clock tower and the centre of the city, though it still seemed like a ghost town – the shops all shut and barred, no buses on the roads yet, no other living soul around, save a tramp sprawled in a doorway and a bearded Asian hobbling on two sticks. She wished him a good morning, though he only muttered in reply. But she didn’t need companionship with Dr Edwards as her guide. She was sure he would have patronized the familiar shops now jostling on all sides – Marks & Spencer, Burton’s, Tie Rack, Hallmark Cards. She hoped he’d shopped without his wife; didn’t want that heartless bitch tagging along beside them – Alison, the cruel first wife, whom he’d married when he was only twenty-three, and who now lived with an architect in Rhodes.
She dawdled on down Gallowtree Gate, shuddering at the name. Images of death still kept drifting through her mind, but she knew that they would dissipate before the day was over. She was reminded of the scrapyard they had passed whilst driving up – a rusting heap of battered cars, which might look superficially like wreckage, but was about to be reforged, transformed to a new life.
She continued into Granby Street and branched right past the Grand Hotel. She could imagine Dr Edwards there, downing a quick sherry in the lounge or lunching with a colleague in the carvery. Again, she banished the wife. Alison had no right to slap-up meals when she’d behaved so callously, proved herself a quite unnatural mother. It had been difficult to ferret out the facts about Dr Edwards’ first (elusive) wife. Michael Chalmers had told her everything he knew – reluctantly, shamefacedly, aware that he was betraying Eileen’s trust, yet honour bound not to break the promise he’d made so recklessly in bed. He’d also introduced her to Dr Reynolds’ wife, but Paula Reynolds was a reserved and uncommunicative type, and had eventually put her on to someone else: an old schoolfriend of Alison’s, who’d proved much more forthcoming. She was a widow with no job or kids and nothing much to do, and therefore seemed to welcome the chance of a good natter, though it had taken ingenuity (and a whole new web of lies) to extract the crucial details and even wheedle a few photographs. She had brought the snapshots with her, in the carrier bags, with addresses, other maps, her Dr Edwards thesis, and of course her wedding gear. She stopped a moment to make sure the dress was safe; well-wrapped in its polythene, protected from the rain. The drizzle was now heavier, a more persistent shower, but she didn’t let it bother her. It was only another form of tears, and all tears and grief would pass.
The daylight was still grudging, as if night and morning were sleeping in each other’s arms, and had merged their breaths and bodies. The streets were silent; the sky murky, overcast; a lone white gull soaring into the greyness and being swallowed up and lost. She started as a dustcart clattered down the road; its whirring circling brushes scouring debris from the gutter. She was now in Welford Road, a wide but charmless thoroughfare
with graffiti-scrawled buildings, some boarded up or propped and braced by scaffolding, like cripples with their zimmer frames. An old man with a mongrel was weaving his way towards her, and as he shambled past, she caught his whiff of whisky and stale sweat. She increased her pace, breaking into a run, the carrier bags bouncing at her sides. She was almost at the Infirmary, where Dr Edwards’ traces would be so thick they’d coat the walls. But another wall was rearing up – the grim façade of Leicester gaol, menacing and merciless with its crenellated towers in lowering dark grey stone; the vast brick wall sweeping to the right, with searchlights glaring on the top – a barrier so high and solid it dwarfed mere human scale. She paused to read the notice by the heavy wooden door: ‘It is an offence for any person to help a prisoner to escape.’ She was smiling as she crossed the road, turned her back on prison bars. She herself had already escaped, slipped her chains, and was on her way to freedom.
She had reached Infirmary Road; gazed up at Dr Edwards’ famous hospital with a mixture of reverence and elation. This was the older part of the complex: a nineteenth-century building in mellow weathered brick, which combined solidity and grace. She hurried round to the old main entrance, which she knew from her researches was no longer used, though when she tried the doors she found they were unlocked. ‘This reception area is closed’, said a placard on the desk, but she ignored it, walked straight past. Nothing could be closed to her if it had links with Dr Edwards. She glanced around the foyer, impressed by its quiet elegance – the dark red-patterned carpet and tall-case antique clock – so different from most modern arid hospitals, which were sternly, plainly functional. Even the indicator-board looked venerable – probably Victorian, with its highly polished wood and hand-painted gold lettering. The names of all the doctors working in the hospital were printed on that board, so Dr Michael Edwards would once have been included, outshining all the rest.
Michael, Michael Page 43