‘I want a dog like that,’ says Connor.
Fen can see where the sea starts now. It is as calm as glass. The fierce, fast-rising estuary tide seems like a myth in these flat shallows where the sea is so placid it can’t even be bothered to break into waves. The sand has turned to darkish mud. Fen has heard of accidents, children getting stuck in the soft, containing mud-sand when the sea was subdued and still and harmless, like this, and nobody panicking, because there was no obvious danger, and adults trying to dig the children out and the tide quietly turning while they struggled with the mud, and then, by the time they realized that the water was hurtling in, it being too late to summon help. Terrible stories. She holds tightly to Connor’s hand. They reach the water’s edge.
She stayed in the boy’s tent all night, pressing herself against him, and they were both bony and their skin was cold. He coughed into his fist, and then he wrapped her in the damp blanket and held on to her, and the tops of her thighs were pressed together, hot and slippery.
Neither of them slept.
In the morning gloaming, she lay on her back under the blankets and wriggled back into her pants and her jeans.
‘Where are you going?’ asked the boy.
‘Toilet. Can I borrow a jumper?’
‘Sure,’ he said. He squinted at her with one eye. ‘You are coming back?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ whispered Fen.
She remembers squatting on her heels while she leaned over to kiss him and him putting his hand in her hair, pulling her head down, and how she felt a little sick and giddy, dry-mouthed, but also how she wanted to fuck him again, to have him inside her with his weight on top of her and her hip bones sticking into him. She liked sex. It was all that stopped her feeling lonely.
‘Bring me a mug of tea, would you?’ he asked. ‘And some fresh orange juice and a bacon sarnie and some hot toast and jam.’
‘Yeah, sure!’ she said, laughing, for these things were the stuff of festival fantasies.
She unzipped the front of the tent and sat down to put on her boots, then she zipped the canvas flaps together again and stood and stretched, gazing out across the site.
It was huge, a city of multicoloured tents – the hues soft in the early morning mizzle beneath a wide, low sky – with the great cathedrals of the stages dominating the central area.
There were curls of smoke here and there; people with carrier bags flat on their heads to keep off the rain squatted and poked at tiny, ineffectual fires, and others emerged from tents, yawning, stretching, rubbing their eyes, their hair all messed up, wearing layers of jumpers over pyjamas. They drank from plastic water bottles, lit cigarettes, brushed their teeth, hawked and spat.
It was like being part of an army on the way to battle, part of a huge army: everyone on the same side, everyone with the same goal.
Connor’s little blue and green tent was in the middle of the field, packed close to its neighbours. Fen was careful to notice the long, triangular flag featuring the red dragon of Wales, which hung like a beacon from a pole on a nearby tent. She would use it as a point of reference. She fully intended to come back. She liked the boy, Connor. She planned to stay with him for the rest of the festival, maybe longer.
Picking her way between the tents, stepping carefully over the guy lines, it took her ages to find a proper path, and she wove such a circuitous route that she was soon disorientated. But she kept looking back over her shoulder, keeping an eye on the pointed flag.
Most of the site was still asleep, but as she came closer to the toilet blocks there were more and more people heading the same way.
Fen did not have to queue. She took a breath, pulled the neck of the boy’s big jumper up over her mouth and nose, closed her eyes and went into the portable toilet.
Afterwards, she tried to find her way back to his tent, but she couldn’t. There were Welsh flags everywhere and she did not know which direction she had come from. She walked for ages. She searched high and low, but in the end she had to give up, and although she scanned the faces of the boys at the site for the rest of the festival, she never set eyes on Connor’s father again.
Connor insists on filling the bucket himself. It takes a while. Fen stands in the shallow water and watches it cover her feet. She watches how the pale skin goes faintly green and mottled when it’s underwater. She wonders where the water came from, where it’s been.
She shades her eyes and gazes out. The two bridges to her right, further up the estuary, are hidden by the Weston promontory. To her left, in the distance and forming the other arm of the bay, is the silhouette of the recumbent hulk of Brean Down and, further out to sea, the dark islands: Steep Holm and Flat Holm. She can’t remember the legend exactly but the islands are supposed to be the exposed head and shoulder of a giant who drowned himself in the estuary out of grief. He accidentally killed his brother or something.
‘Look, Mum.’
Connor holds up his little yellow bucket and sloshes a couple of inches of water back down his arm. He squeals and jumps.
‘Here,’ says Fen, taking it from him. ‘I’ll carry it back for you, baby boy. We need to go back to our things now, the tide is turning.’
‘I’m not a baby.’
‘No, no, you’re not.’
‘Is it ten miles back as well?’
‘At least.’
‘Whoah!’
twenty-eight
‘Fen, hi, it’s me. Listen, would it be all right if I bring the family back to Crofters Road for a couple of hours?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Only they want to see where I live and …’
‘Sure.’
‘Mum’s dying to meet you. I’ve told her all about you and she’s really pleased for me. Well, us – she’s pleased for both of us. She’ll probably ask you loads of personal questions.’
‘Oh, I—’
‘You’ll like her. ’
‘But I’m not at Lilyvale, Sean. I’m in Weston-super-Mare.’
‘Oh.’
Something, some genuine disappointment in his voice touches her. It soothes the sore part of her heart.
‘I told you I was going out for the day,’ she reminds him gently.
‘I know, I just thought that maybe you’d be back by now …’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of other times for you to meet them.’
Fen sucks her lower lip. She looks down at Connor and smiles.
‘Maybe we could go up for a weekend sometime? Would you like that?’
‘Yes,’ she says. She takes a breath. ‘Say “hello” to them from me. Your family. Tell them I’m sorry I missed them.’
‘I will. Fen …’
‘Mmm?’
‘I missed you today. I wish you’d been there.’
‘Oh … I …’
‘I mean I really missed you.’
Fen breathes very slowly.
‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he says, ‘but stay with me. Please …’
Fen says nothing.
He draws a breath. His voice changes. ‘Well, look, have fun at the beach.’
‘OK.’
‘I’ll save you some cake.’
‘Thank you. Sean …’
‘What?’
‘Oh nothing. I’ll see you later.’
She disconnects the call and holds the phone to her heart.
‘What?’ asks Connor. They are sitting on the promenade wall, eating hot dogs.
‘Nothing,’ says Fen. ‘Just that everything is going to be all right. I shouldn’t have worried. I should have known better.’
She leans down to squeeze and kiss her son.
‘Oh, Mum …’ He wriggles away. ‘Stop it! Get off!’
twenty-nine
Connor is fast asleep in the buggy, his head to one side, his mouth slightly open. Fen looks tired. There are freckles on her cheeks and across her nose, her cheeks are pink and e
ven her hair looks a little fairer. A tatty old straw hat slides down her back, its elastic loose around her neck. Her shoulders are sunburned. She smiles at Sean, and shakes her feet out of her flip-flops.
‘Did you have a good day?’ she asks as Sean helps lift the buggy into the hall.
‘I did,’ says Sean. ‘It was great. Did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fen, I …’
‘I got you this,’ says Fen, passing him a white envelope with his name on the front.
He takes it and smiles.
‘An Eastern European birthday card?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘Is there a cheque inside?’
‘You’ll have to open it and find out.’
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Fen …’
‘Yes?’
He takes a breath.
Fen blinks.
‘I’m not very good at this … relationship stuff,’ he says.
Fen looks at his hands as they turn the envelope.
‘I know something’s wrong and I don’t know what it is but I don’t want you to go and take up with some sweet-talking older man just because of something I said, or didn’t say, or—’
‘Sean, I will never stop feeling like I do about you,’ she says simply.
‘Oh.’ He scratches his head. ‘Wow. Thank you. But … what is it, then? Why wouldn’t you meet my family?’
Fen looks at her feet. She is very gauche. Sean’s heart rushes with affection.
‘Lina said something … She wasn’t trying to cause trouble, she just wanted to warn me …’
‘A bout what?’
‘She said that your sister told you to have an affair to make Belle jealous.’
Sean exhales. ‘Yes, she did, and I did tell Lina, but that was before us … Oh Christ, Fen, you know it’s not like that. You know.’
She nods. ‘It’s just … well … I didn’t think I deserved to have anyone like you … I couldn’t actually believe that anyone could like me that much, especially you … and when Lina told me, it sort of made sense … I thought—’
‘Stop it,’ he says.
She stares down at the top of the buggy. ‘It’s just that we don’t ever talk, do we? We’re not the kind of people to say what we want or how we feel …’
‘We don’t have to. We know how we feel. Don’t we?’
‘Yes.’
He thinks for a while. Then he says: ‘When I said I missed you today, well, it was the truth. It was like … um … it was like Sky Sports on Saturday without Jeff Stelling! That’s how much I missed you.’
Fen looks up at him through her hair. She is smiling.
‘You are a bloody idiot,’ he says.
Later, in her bed, he combs her hair with his fingers and he puts his mouth close to her ear, so that the stud in the rim of its curl presses into his lip, and he whispers: ‘Fen …’
‘Mmm.’
‘I’ve been thinking … It shouldn’t be all about my family. What if I were to drive you to Merron? You and Connor? You can introduce me to your sister and the baby and show me around the city’s fleshpots.’
‘There are no fleshpots in Merron.’
‘Don’t be pedantic,’ he says. ‘I’m sure Connor would like to meet his cousin and we’ll take photographs, and you and your sister, you’ll both probably cry and—’
‘Lucy won’t cry.’
‘You’re doing it again. You’ll definitely cry and it’ll all be lovely and then we’ll find somewhere to go, on the coast maybe, and we’ll have a little holiday, just the three of us. I’d obviously rather take you to Paris but, as you don’t have a passport, it’s the best I can come up with.’
She sighs.
‘I don’t know …’
‘Oh, go on, let me take you. We don’t have to stay long. We don’t even have to stay overnight.’
‘I suppose …’
‘What’s the worst that could happen?’
She thinks: Oh, if I told you that you wouldn’t want to take me there.
‘I’ve never been that far into Wales,’ says Sean.
She turns in his arms, wriggles down the bed and he holds her close.
‘Is it all ladies wearing lacy collars and pointy hats and fields full of sheep and men called Dai saying “boyo”?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like.’
He kisses her hair.
‘I can’t wait,’ he says.
He closes his eyes and is at the point of sleep when the phone trills on the bedside table beside him. Fen groans. He turns over and picks up the phone and he can see from the number on the illuminated screen that it’s Belle.
‘It’s Belle,’ he murmurs.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘It might be important.’
Sean presses the green key.
‘Belle? Are you OK?’ he asks.
Fen slips out of the bed, switches on the light, unhooks her dressing gown from the back of the door and leaves the room.
Belle says: ‘Yes, I’m fine. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘It’s only eleven-thirty. When did you start going to bed before midnight?’
Sean smiles to himself. He squints his eyes against the light and touches the warm dent in the pillow where Fen’s head so recently lay. He picks up a long fair hair and draws it the length of his lower lip.
‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Was it a good one?’
‘Yeah, it was great. The whole family came. And thanks for the guitar strap.’
‘That’s OK.’
There’s a pause.
‘Are you on your own?’ Sean asks.
‘Yes. Lewis is away.’
‘Teaching?’
‘Mmm.’
There is another silence. Sean hears Belle take a drink. He hears her swallow.
‘Sorry, ’ she says. ‘I’m a bit tired and emotional.’
He knows she is waiting for him to prompt her to tell him what’s wrong. At the end of the hallway, the lavatory flushes. Fen puts her head around the door, sees he’s still holding the phone, and disappears again.
‘Belle, I appreciate you calling but …’
‘I know. It’s late,’ she says. ‘You’ve obviously got more important things to do than talk to me.’
‘Belle …’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,’ she says, and Sean thinks he hears a sob in her voice. ‘Membury, six o’clock.’
‘Belle …’
It’s too late. She’s disconnected the call.
thirty
Fen checks her watch as she queues at the till. She looks at the dress folded over her arm – it’s a pretty, dark blue, ankle-length sundress – and she smiles and touches the material. She can’t wait to wear it. She pictures herself out walking with Sean and the children, she’s wearing the dress, and the four of them, together, make a lovely picture in her mind.
It’s the first time in a while that Fen has spent money on herself. Usually she relies on Lina’s hand-me-downs and charity shops for clothes. The garments that end up in Bath’s second-hand shops are generally of a very high standard, but still it’s good to buy something new, something nobody else has ever worn. When she tried the dress on, Fen saw herself in the mirror as Sean sees her. She knows she’s not as beautiful as Belle, she’s nowhere near as striking, but she’s all right. She has a nice body, her hair is better now she’s had it cut, and her face is fine. Sean likes it. He smiles when he sees it. That’s all that matters.
The girl behind the till smiles at Fen when it is her turn to pay.
‘This is lovely,’ she says, folding the dress on the counter, slipping it into a bag. ‘I was looking at these the other day. I think I might treat myself.’
‘You should,’ says Fen. She thinks everyone should treat themselves. Everyone should be happy. Everyone should
see the world for the beautiful place that it is.
With the bag in her hand, Fen threads her way back through the city.
She knows something is wrong as soon as she turns the corner into Quiet Street. Vincent is standing by the door of the shop, looking out for her. She’s not late, she certainly hasn’t been gone an hour. She quickens her pace.
His face, gaunter than ever, is hung in an expression of pure concern.
‘What is it?’ she asks as she trots along the uneven pavement.
‘You forgot your phone,’ he says. ‘Now don’t panic, but your sister called the shop when she couldn’t get you on your mobile.’
‘Lucy? What’s happened? Is the baby OK?’
Vincent frowns. He opens his mouth but he says nothing.
‘Oh my God! He’s not …’
‘He’s in hospital. That’s all I know.’
‘Oh no! He’s only a few weeks old! Oh, Vincent …’
‘Hush! We don’t know what it is; it’s probably nothing to worry about. We mustn’t think the worst.’
Fen allows him to guide her into the shop, and he passes her the telephone. She goes into the tiny kitchen, where there is a modicum of privacy, and calls Lucy’s mobile. Her hands are trembling so badly that it takes her three goes to dial the right number.
‘Lucy? It’s me. Are you OK? How is William?’
Lucy’s voice is tired and fragile and hoarse with worry.
‘We’re at the hospital. They’re doing tests. They think it might be meningitis.’
‘Oh God! What happened?’
‘He was a bit hot last night but he slept OK. He slept all night and then this morning I went in and he was burning up and he had a rash and …’ Her voice trails off into a sob.
‘I’m coming up, Lucy,’ says Fen. ‘I’ll be there this evening.’
‘They aren’t sure,’ says Lucy. ‘It might be nothing. They say it’s hard to tell with little babies and he …’
‘Lucy, darling Lucy, just try to keep positive. I’ll see you later.’
Fen cuts off the call. She takes a deep breath. She dials Sean’s number.
He takes a while to answer, and when he does his voice is low and guarded.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Fen, are you OK?’
Fen has never called Sean during working hours before.
‘Sorry, ’ she says, ‘sorry to bother you. Are you in a meeting or something?’
Missing You Page 16