She was looking up at him with huge eyes. Her voice was unsteady. ‘I’m sorry, Gav. Yvonne’s just rung … there’s some awful news about your mother.’
Awful, awful, terrible, dreadful, horrible, heartbreaking news.
They made another unscheduled drive up the M1. But there was no urgency this time, no dread of what they’d find. No worst to fear, because the worst had happened when Pauline died that afternoon in a twist of metal on a road a minute from her home.
Gav’s parents’ house, when they reached it, was heart-wrenchingly unchanged. Pauline’s slippers stood at the foot of the stairs, her jacket hung on a peg near the door.
George had taken to his armchair. ‘We’d just lit the fire for the first time,’ he kept repeating, grey, old and disbelieving. ‘It was such a nippy day for September and we lit the fire. We’d got cold.’ Yvonne had arrived before them again and was patting her dad’s hand, tears flooding her face.
George turned to Gav. ‘She only went out to buy her magazines to read in front of the fire. Then she didn’t come back. I thought she’d be chatting, though it seemed ages. But the police came. It was this lorry – well, she’s only got a tiddly little car, hasn’t she? Probably didn’t see her.
‘There’s got to be a post-mortem. Things to arrange with the undertaker.’ He gazed at Cleo. ‘The fire’s gone out now, see, I forgot to feed it, with Pauline and everything. And the police took me to look, y’know. At her.’
George’s eyes were empty. The tremor in his hands was reflected by the quaver in his voice. Cleo patted his shaky hand. It was icy. ‘Shall I light it again?’
George considered. ‘It won’t make any difference now, will it?’
‘It might warm you up.’
George, Yvonne and Gav watched in silence as she screwed up newspaper over the ashes, laid the sticks, the split log, and struck a match.
‘Thanks,’ George said mechanically.
They went on in distant voices chewing over unacceptable things: the funeral, the post-mortem, searching each other’s shocked expressions for answers. Yvonne kept bursting into noisy tears then sniffing, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ George seemed too moribund with grief to comfort her. Gav patted his sister’s arm awkwardly. His eyes kept shifting away from the pudding tummy under her dress.
Cleo made cups of tea that were only half drunk and sandwiches nobody ate. Slipping outside into George’s row-on-row vegetable garden, grown weedy the last few weeks since his heart attack, she rang Nathan from her mobile to explain. Next, she rang her mother and Liza.
And then, in the bright, damp chill, she was struck by the urge to ring Justin’s mobile.
His message service cut in, she listened to his recorded voice: ‘Justin’s phone.’ But she hung up without speaking anyway, breathed in the scent of wet soil and cabbages, and went back indoors.
George’s GP came, his side parting and freckles giving him the odd air of a solemn, middle-aged kid. He perched on George’s footstool, took his pulse and looked into his bewildered face. His voice was low and sympathetic. ‘You know you’re going to have to be careful, don’t you?’
George said, ‘I don’t care, now.’
‘She would’ve wanted you to care. She tried hard to make you well.’
‘I don’t care. Not now.’
‘You owe it to yourself. Your kids.’
George gently freed his wrist and glanced over at Yvonne, Gav and Cleo perched on the sofa. ‘I’m that tired.’
‘It’s to be expected.’
George remained in his chair as everyone else filed out after the doctor and gathered in the square at the bottom of the stairs.
Unsmiling, the doctor gave them what advice he could. ‘See if you can keep him resting. Make sure he’s taking his medication.’ He glanced down at Yvonne’s expectant belly. ‘And how are you? Looking after yourself?’
‘I’m OK.’ Yvonne voice was as small and dull as her father’s.
‘Get plenty of rest. Don’t overdo.’ He turned to Gav. ‘There will be arrangements. Best if you can take as much as possible off your dad.’
Gav nodded and fumbled for Cleo’s hand. His was hot and sliding with sweat and she squeezed it quickly before freeing herself. She sensed his disappointment.
‘I’ll make hot chocolate,’ she said. Once again, the only thing she could usefully do was to organise the family nourishment. She had to do something because she felt a fraud just being there. Though no one could’ve been so harsh as to let Gav face this alone.
The cracks around the curtains were barely showing light and the house was entirely still, when Cleo woke to the instant realisation that everything was wrong.
She turned and tried to settle again. Last night Gav had cried, and she’d put comforting arms around him. He’d tried to make love to her and she’d withdrawn, pushing him gently back into his own space. ‘No, don’t, Gav,’ she’d muttered, feeling a totally wicked witch.
The memory wouldn’t let her slither back into oblivion. Gav. Lillian. Justin. Poor Pauline. They whirled about in her restless mind. It was unbearable lying there, miserably watching the minutes tick by on the clock. She was bored silly but a gripping paperback hadn’t been top of her list when she’d flung their things in bags. Downstairs, she knew, George kept a collection of war stories and crime novels.
She eased herself out of bed and into her robe, visualising a fat mug of hot tea to blow on while she browsed the bookcase. Maybe there would be a Ruth Rendell she hadn’t read, or a Patricia Cornwell.
Kitchen, the door squeaked. Kettle, the water rushed as loud as a waterfall in the early quiet. A sudden sob from the corner made her jump.
Dropping the kettle with a clatter, she twitched around. ‘Yvonne!’
Yvonne was huddled in her mother’s rocking chair, face blotched and swollen with tears. Automatically, Cleo rescued the kettle and abandoned thoughts of the bookcase. When the tea was made, she carried a steaming cup to Yvonne, hesitating as Yvonne stared listlessly out of fat rubber eyes.
‘Would you rather be alone? Or shall I stay with you?’
Yvonne’s voice emerged shakily. ‘I’m so …’ Another sob, a rattled, jerky breath. ‘I’m so frightened.’
Not even the hardest-hearted sister-in-law could ignore such misery. Cleo dragged up a wooden kitchen chair. ‘It’s an awful time. But you mustn’t be frightened of life without your mum, she wouldn’t want that.’
Yvonne’s eyes fixed on her. ‘But she was going to be with me! Allen isn’t any good with hospitals. He faints if he hears the theme music from Casualty. I’m …’ Her sobs burst out again. ‘I’m going to give birth alone! It’s so selfish but I’m frightened. I want my mum.’
Cleo had absolutely no idea what to say, so she simply patted Yvonne’s hand and sat with her while she drank her tea. And thought about the prospect of giving birth alone.
Chapter Nineteen
Cleo folded the last of her clothes back into her weekend case.
She felt mean and low and flattened by guilt.
Still, she’d better get used it, the guilt and the packing. More of both lay ahead. Much more. She felt like crap about deserting Gav at his lowest; but his announcement last night that he’d be staying in Yorkshire another week had prompted her into action.
The taxi was booked to the coach station. She’d be back in Middledip in a few hours.
Gav stepped warily around the bedroom door, closing it behind him, speaking softly so that his father and Yvonne wouldn’t hear. ‘I can’t believe you’re leaving me now. With Mum only just buried and all this trouble at work.’
She shut her case, zipping it around, feeling tears start. ‘I’m sorry. My first instinct was to hang on for a better moment – but then I realised that I had no idea when that would be. Best if I just go, get it over with.’
In two strides he was around the bed and yanking her into his arms, pressing his mouth against her hair, his voice raw. ‘Cleo don’t, don’t! Wait for me at home a
nd let’s talk. Please? We can get over this. Please! I love you.’ And then, voice breaking, ‘We need each other.’
She allowed his arms to remain around her, helplessly hating herself. But she’d gone over this a hundred times in the long nights as he’d alternately slept or sighed wakefully beside her.
There was no good time to leave. She could hurt him more by hanging around sheepishly, waiting for him to seem well enough to be left.
She crooked her head back to look into his distressed eyes, asking gently, ‘Would it truly be any better if I stayed for a few months because now is a painful time for you? Knowing I’d be going? Living apart in the same house? After what we used to have, Gav? Be honest. Is it what you want?’
His arms tightened. ‘Of course it’s not what I want. I want us to forgive each other and get back what we had.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘I’m sorry. But it won’t come back. Not for me.’
‘It will for me!’ The cry hung in the air.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Gently, she released herself, watching his arms drop hopelessly to his sides. ‘I’m really sorry. And there’s … can we sit down?’ She drew him to the bedroom chair, perched herself on the corner of the bed.
Deep breath. This was going to be incredibly hard, making a bad situation truly dreadful. ‘There’s another reason we can’t go on – you’re so definite about not wanting kids.’
His eyes were guarded. ‘And you want them, suddenly? Out of the blue?’
It seemed late in the proceedings to be owning up to her knickers drawer secret, but she owed him a bit of honesty, here, at least, in the dying moments of the relationship. She shifted uncomfortably. ‘I … probably am pregnant. I haven’t done a test – but,’ she shrugged. ‘Every day that passes … well, I must be.’
Slowly, the light died in his eyes. His hands clenched. ‘It’s not mine.’
‘It could be. That time we made up –’
But his head was shaking exaggeratedly, wearily, his hair sliding over his eyes. Eyes that looked so hopelessly into hers it almost split her chest with guilt.
‘No. Not mine. I’m infertile. I’ve known for years.’
Years … The word shot into her brain, lighting the touchpapers of incredulity and shock to rocket around inside her head. Her voice rose. ‘What are you talking about?’
He bowed his head. ‘Years ago, when I lived with my ex, Stacey, we tried for a family. It didn’t work so we went for tests. It was me. Firing blanks. I produce no sperm, there’s a name for the condition – Klinefelter’s. The fluid’s there and everything when I … anyway, it’s untreatable.’ The words almost choked him. ‘It’s why Stace left. I couldn’t give her babies.’
Funny, Cleo didn’t feel like crying. She just felt very, very sick at the many ways in which they’d betrayed one another. Hurt one another. ‘Oh, Gav,’ she whispered. ‘No wonder you’ve never liked talking about Stacey! But making out you’re so anti-children to protect yourself from reality, marrying me without telling me your condition – so many lies! How can you say you love me?’
His face crumpled. ‘You agreed you didn’t want children! And, after Stacey, I couldn’t risk admitting the truth.’
She stared at him, bitter over this betrayal as she never had been over Lillian. ‘And that makes it OK? What if I’d changed my mind?’
Gav dropped his face into his hands.
Cleo raked her hair back from her eyes. ‘This marriage has been phoney, the whole thing. Empty, pointless and fabricated on a huge lie.’
A tear tipped itself over the rim of Gav’s eye and slid down his cheek. ‘It’s not. I love you. You didn’t want children.’
Cleo’s voice emerged around the ache in her throat. ‘But you prevented me from having a choice. You’ve let me take the pill for years, then struggle with the diaphragm, all to protect yourself from having to own up. What kind of love do you call that?’
Gav made himself stand at the window and watch the black cab leave, Cleo’s rigidly held head visible through the rear screen. ‘She’s leaving me,’ he whispered. He wanted to thunder his fists on the bedroom window till they went right through, scream that it was unfair to blame him. She should’ve understood; he needed understanding.
If she’d stayed, if she’d tried, they could’ve sorted everything out. Almost.
If she was pregnant, it could be tricky. Bastard, bastard Klinefelter’s.
The coach was held up by glinting lines of traffic stretching away up the motorway. Other passengers tutted and fidgeted, checked their watches every five minutes and explained to their seat-neighbours about connections they were going to miss or people who would be waiting.
Cleo didn’t care.
It was as if she was encased in an icy bubble, which separated her from her sighing fellow passengers, whether the coach was whistling along in the middle lane or inching up a queue. Her thoughts were all about how the solid ground on which she’d thought her marriage was built could have trembled and so easily cracked. How rapidly it had exploded into a shower of wounding stones and bitter-tasting dirt.
She wiped her eyes; they kept refilling. She thought of the cemetery in which they’d laid Pauline, her favourite in-law. Lilies, chrysanthemums. White, cream, sherbet lemon and baby pink. ‘She would’ve loved the flowers,’ George had said.
Yvonne had wept fresh tears. ‘What use are flowers?’ Her husband, Allen, stolid in a dark grey suit and black tie, had rocked her and stroked her hair and not minded the mascara on his lapel.
By leaving, Cleo was isolating herself from people she’d considered family. Running out on them when they were in trouble, which went against her grain. She just couldn’t see how it was better – or even possible, in view of her missing periods and Gav’s confessed infertility – to perpetuate the illusion that their marriage was OK.
Her heart shrank to remember Gav’s face when she’d finally kissed him goodbye. A gentle peck on the cheek that mocked all the hot, full-on tongue-thrusters they’d shared. Their future together had gone west, and, horribly, so had their past.
What was life going to be like without him? Too big a thought.
Funny how still the house seemed when she let herself in: empty, although she hadn’t yet removed a thing.
Throwing open the windows, she stood in the bedroom to gaze out over the familiar view, the fields, many ploughed under now after the harvest. Shivered. Chilly for September. Down to the kitchen, she tried to organise her whirring brain. She needed to move out of this house. She needed to pack. But she needed somewhere to go. Maybe Liza …? She shoved the thought away. Surely she was too grown up now to cram all her possessions into the miniature spare room belonging to her kid sister.
There was lemon pepper chicken in the freezer; she slid one portion – one portion! – into the oven, stirred pasta into sauce.
One of Gav’s favourites. There was half a jar of sauce left. Oh, wouldn’t it be simple to stay, to give in to the enormous compassion she felt for him? Easy to make things easy for the man she’d once loved, who’d been perfidious in so many, fundamental ways.
The time had come for her to think of herself as single. Possibly a single parent – which would be tough.
Chapter Twenty
In the morning, over breakfast – biscuits dunked in black coffee because she’d had to bin the bread, milk and fruit they’d left behind – Cleo tried to identify a starting point. In order to pack her things, she needed boxes and bin bags. And she could do with somewhere to go.
Pausing at the front window overlooking Port Road she was struck by a sudden unhappy thought – there probably wasn’t much property to rent in Middledip. Her heart sank at the thought of leaving the village. She needed to do some research.
Cleo began at the village shop at the Cross. But Mrs Crowther, in her neat grey overall, couldn’t be much help. ‘Sorry, duck, the remainder of yesterday’s evening papers went back when the morning papers came. But, as it’s Saturday, today’s will be i
n about lunchtime. I’ll save you one if you want to call back for it?’
Cleo nodded gloomily and paid for a bar of wicked, dark Bournville, along with rolls of bin bags. ‘Thanks. I suppose the property supplement was in Friday’s?’
Gwen Crowther nodded. ‘Moving, then?’ She was famed for keeping customers talking while she wheedled out their news, casually squaring up her display of Polos or Fisherman’s Friends. ‘There’s plenty for sale up the new village.’
‘I was thinking more of renting. But I suppose rentals are few and far between in Middledip.’
Moving on to tidy the Tic-Tacs, Mrs Crowther tipped back her head to look through the correct part of her bifocals. ‘Have you tried Ratty?’
Intrigued, Cleo returned to the counter. ‘Have I tried what?’
Mrs Crowther nodded in the direction of the shop door. ‘Have you tried asking Ratty, at the garage? He’s got a few places hereabouts.’
Cleo’s spirits stirred slightly. She knew the men at the garage to nod to in the pub. ‘To rent?’
‘Yes, duck. One of his tenants has just left, I believe, and I don’t know as anyone else took the house.’ Cleo shoved the chocolate into her pocket and, clutching the four empty brown boxes that Mrs. Crowther had kindly slotted inside one another, made the shop bell clank as she barged awkwardly through the door.
On the garage forecourt across the road, five small old sports cars lined up as if on the front of a Brands Hatch grid. Cleo knew the business dealt mainly in classic cars. The garage doors were folded back to show an interior of tool chests and a ramp, a man bent over a beautifully kept, but ancient, yellow saloon and two others welding in masks under an equally elderly sports car on the ramp behind.
Yellow-car man looked up through black curls as Cleo stepped into the oil-scented interior.
‘I’m looking for someone called Ratty?’
‘Yep. That’s me.’ He shook his hair out of his eyes and stretched deeper under the bonnet, craning under an inspection lamp and fiddling with a wrench. His voice came back hollowly. ‘What can I do for you?’
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