‘Do you do an egg hunt, then?’
‘Always. Dad hides them. I’m not supposed to look but of course I try to. Each year he makes it harder and harder. Last time he’d stuck one into this hosepipe thing and I had to use a knife to get it out. There were twelve, but I’m only allowed to eat three a day, so it took four days, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Sam murmured, sending up a small urgent prayer for his granny to be sick enough and his father busy enough to keep him at the Porters’ through the weekend. Rose had a knack of making the simplest things good fun. Like building the den they were lying in now, nibbling biscuits, slumped among cushions like Roman emperors. He had said something about George’s useless map and the next thing he knew she was leaping around the house ordering him to grab cushions and sheets and tugging mattresses off beds. Their first couple of efforts hadn’t worked too well – collapsing walls, too many rooms – but they had simplified it into a brilliant space with two sections, so high in one bit that they could kneel upright without touching the sheet ceiling.
Sam had never met a girl who was into dens before. Pattie had only ever wanted to do drawings and watch TV. Secretly, he wondered if both of them shouldn’t have outgrown such hobbies. They were thirteen, after all. But Rose, as he had already seen a million times, in her strong, nose-in-the-air solitariness at school, wasn’t the sort of girl who cared much about one was supposed to think or do. And Sam found it made him want to care less too. In the park that morning her dad had sat on a bench reading a newspaper while they played a game of spying on walkers, mostly from the branches of a large tree. She had produced a sugared ball of pink bubble gum, then a squashed cigarette, stolen, she claimed proudly, from a pack her uncle kept hidden in the inside pocket of his coat. ‘He’s trying to give up but just can’t,’ she had claimed, shaking her head as if it was something to be really sad about, then instructing Sam to cup his hands while she struck a match. The flame guttered madly, but Rose puffed till her lips squeaked and soon, amid much coughing and laughing, the cigarette tip was glowing and they were passing it between them. Afterwards they had a bubble-blowing competition, which Rose won by producing a massive wobbling orb that made her cross-eyed and bounced on her nose before exploding across her lips and cheeks, mixing pink flecks among the brown galaxies of her freckles.
How on earth did you kiss a girl? Sam wondered now, watching Rose shovel a fourth biscuit into her mouth and recalling, with some distaste, the cold soggy feel of her saliva on the cork tip of their shared cigarette. Lips, he could imagine, but tongues… Eh-yew, as Rose would say. No, Sam decided, definitely no. He tried to think about something else, only for a vivid flashback to swoop in from nowhere: the half-open kitchen door, George’s dad’s arms across his mother’s back, their faces close. He put his own biscuit back on the plate, feeling too hot, too horrible even to swallow.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, there is. You look weird, like you’re going to puke.’
Sam breathed hard. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
Rose snorted, managing to communicate disdain as well as reassurance. ‘Of course.’
Sam crawled to the sheet hanging over the entrance to check they were alone, then scrambled into a cross-legged position facing her. Mumbling most of the words into his hands, he attempted to describe the obscenity he had witnessed in Suffolk, the one that had ruined the holiday far more than his granny belly-flopping on to the bathmat.
Rose, as he had anticipated correctly, didn’t laugh. She murmured, ‘Gross,’ several times, then refolded her skinny legs tidily and used both hands to push the springy corkscrew curls out of her eyes. ‘Problems always have solutions – that’s what Dad says.’
Sam nodded gloomily. The overhead sheet was starting to sag badly; bits of Rose’s hair were sticking to it as she talked. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she lowered her voice to a whisper and leant towards him, ‘there’s been anyone else your mum’s liked, has there?’
Sam nodded slowly, scowling at the recollection of the hairy-faced estate agent and the bouquet of flowers.
‘Tell me everything,’ she commanded, burrowing to find a pad of paper, then making notes, as if she was a detective in a TV show taking evidence.
Sam obeyed without hesitation, not just because Rose’s enthusiasm and confidence were catching but because, as far as their mattress and sheet edifice was concerned, they were clearly living on borrowed time.
It was odd being on the train during the afternoon, surrounded by returning shoppers and children instead of commuters huddled behind free-sheets, clutching briefcases. It was also unpleasantly warm – the railway network’s heating system had not been adjusted to accommodate the strength of the afternoon sun, now firing directly along the train windows. Dominic loosened his tie, had another go at opening the window, then sat down again, offering a half-apologetic smile at the young woman opposite, who had several bulging shopping-bags and had watched his efforts to cool the carriage with what he had taken to be support. He tried broadening the smile but her face froze into a mask of wariness.
Dominic looked out of the window instead, at the mayhem of warehouses and scrapyards, terraced houses and high streets. He liked being back in London far more than he could ever have imagined; he loved its sheer busyness, so many colours, creeds and personalities living on top of each other, trying to make a living, and, presumably, like him, endeavouring to be happy. There was something noble in the effort, he decided, as the train trundled above market stalls in full flow and strings of pegged washing flapped on tower-block balconies.
Redundant. Dominic tested the word in his head, trying for the umpteenth time to get a grip on his true reactions, but not managing to progress beyond another knee-jerking sensation of personal rejection. The word itself had never been used, of course, not by his sympathetic colleagues or the sharply dressed female MD who had been mandated to deliver the decision. He was being ‘released’, ‘let go’; the bank was rationalizing, economizing, streamlining. Several other heads had rolled as well, although only Dominic could boast the distinction of having been summoned in from a day off for the privilege.
Benedict, in pitching his kindly intended but absurd business proposition the other evening (Dominic had rejected it out of hand), had been right in pointing out that his brother did not enjoy his job particularly, but that did not make the inconvenience of losing it any easier to bear. It was true that he would, in an ideal world, like to spend more time with Rose, and that he did have a lot of savings – although most of the latter had been swallowed up in the purchase of the new house. It was wonderful to have no mortgage but, Dominic reflected bitterly, the overheads of life still required a salary.
He felt somewhat bitter, too, about the timing of his ejection from the world of high finance: the ink on his house purchase was still virtually wet, his daughter had settled into school at last and was at that very moment enjoying the company of her first publicly acknowledged friend since losing her mother (the most unlikely unexpected friend, of course, forced into the open by sheer chance, but that was Rose for you). Such developments had taken so much effort and yet now, with his redundancy, Dominic couldn’t help thinking that the necessity of all that effort had been somewhat undermined. They needn’t have moved back to London. He could have taken their grieving state and his talent for advising clients on investments to Scotland or Bath or Timbuktu.
Dominic hugged his briefcase, brooding over whether the time off round Maggie’s death had done for him, all that compassionate leave; his employers had probably had the knives hovering ever since, paying lip service to accommodating the work compromises required by his personal tragedy while secretly condemning him for it.
He was gripping the briefcase a little too hard, he realized. The girl with the bags was looking at him strangely. Although several minutes from his stop, he left his seat and went to stand by the doors. He would tell no one about his sacking, he decided, at least, not un
til the bank holiday was over; not Rose, not Benedict – especially not Benedict, who would start lining up beer bottles again and telling him what to do. An employment lawyer was what he needed, but not until Tuesday when Rose went back for the start of the summer term.
Dominic walked home via the supermarket, where he filled his trolley with a ridiculous quantity of oval-shaped confectionary of all sizes, several large foil-wrapped rabbits and, for good measure, a box of chicks that squawked, ‘Happy Easter,’ when you tapped their beaks. It was panic-buying of sorts – he was in shock, he knew – but there was also something pleasingly reckless about it. Maggie – zealot of things home-made, of keeping treats in moderation – would have been appalled.
‘Your kids will love you,’ chuckled the woman at the till.
‘I certainly hope so.’ Dominic blazed a smile at her, a little nervous at this inadvertent reminder of their house-guest. Rose had been so thrilled and pleading when he had taken Charlotte’s surprising call for help that morning that there had been no question of saying no, but now he found himself wondering about more practical matters, like whether Sam would eat the shepherd’s pie he planned for supper and whether he should expend any concern over sleeping arrangements. Rose clearly assumed that Sam would occupy the lower bunk in her bedroom, but they were a girl and a boy, teenagers now, and Sam was almost certainly the correspondent Benedict had been told about. Who knew what they had been saying in their letters, or what their hopes were? For a moment Dominic was even tempted to consult the woman at the checkout, who looked the jolly, maternal sort, easily old enough to have been through a few similar quandaries herself.
Instead he was interrupted by the trill of his mobile. ‘Hello?’ Dominic slipped the phone between his shoulder and his ear so that he could continue packing his shopping.
‘Ah, I have you at last.’
‘Petra, indeed you do, so to speak… except that I’m in the supermarket, about to pay for a ton of Easter eggs. If you could give me two minutes,’ Dominic pleaded, struggling now with his wallet, the bags and the phone, and turning his back on the checkout woman, who was clearly enjoying the show. ‘Don’t go away. Keep the phone in your hand. Two minutes – and I’ll call you back.’
‘I want to meet with you, Dominic,’ she said. ‘If you do not want me, please, I prefer that you say it.’
‘Of course I want you,’ he whispered. ‘That is, I would like to meet you very much. And in two minutes I will call you back to arrange it.’
The checkout lady’s face had closed like a fist. From hands-on dad to sneaky husband – that was what she thought, Dominic realized helplessly, as she snatched his receipt out of the till and slapped it into his palm. He offered a firm thank-you but she was already beaming at the next customer, giving a fresh face the chance he had unwittingly thrown away.
He called Petra back the moment he had slung his bags into the car, only to be told, ‘This is Petra, please leave your message.’
Dominic slammed both hands on the roof of the car so hard that his wedding ring clanged against the metal. He remembered in the same instant, with some astonishment, that he had forgotten to buy a goose. Goose, potatoes, carrots, peas for Easter Sunday lunch… Benedict was coming, he had it all planned. He must be in an even greater state of shock than he had thought. A little wearily, Dominic pulled his phone back out of his pocket but found himself studying his wedding ring instead: white gold, engraved with the date of their marriage. Maggie had had it made specially. Tucking the phone under his arm, taking a deep breath, he removed the ring and dropped it into his back pocket. It came easily, even over the knuckle, as if it was ready.
‘I would like to see you,’ he insisted, in response to the recording of Petra’s voice when he dialled again, ‘very much indeed. I will have a lot more free time from now on and will make lunch with you a number-one priority. I’m not one for giving up,’ he added, before stabbing his electronic key lock in the direction of his car and plunging back into the supermarket.
Chapter Twelve
After the flat there is so much space in the Wandsworth house that I dance from room to room with outstretched arms, proving to myself, and Sam, skipping behind, that we can now live and move and have our being without bouncing off walls. Martin, more usefully employed with speaker wire and screwdrivers, pauses to watch, laughing with an abandon that makes my heart sing. A change of geography may not cure, but already it is helping. She – whoever she was (Fiona, probably, but he never admitted anything) – is far away now, a thing of the past, like the too-small flat and the ill-lit street corners and Martin’s ridiculous working hours. I stop dancing, catching my breath as some of the sourness, the suspicion, threatens to return. Fifteen-hour days… He might as well have invited her home.
We heave at furniture together and hang pictures, taking it in turns to balance on the arms of chairs and call out guidance as to where to bang the nail. For supper we order pizza because the oven doesn’t work; a fuse, Martin thinks, but he has no spares and the shops are closed. We keep Sam up late to tire him out, letting him chew the pizza crusts and play among the boxes while we slave at the unpacking. We are a team again, I feel, at last. And when Martin wins the battle with the speaker wire and puts on one of our old favourites, I slip into his arms with something like the reverence of our very first time. We dance, cheek to cheek, eyes closed; a new rare perfect moment. I vow to hold on to it. Nothing with Fiona could ever have felt so good, so close.
A vital screw has gone missing in the move so we can’t put up the bed. We sleep sprawling on the mattress, too exhausted to care. Across the landing, Sam, in his own room for the first time, wakes in the middle of the night and howls, rattling the bars of his new safety rail like a despairing prisoner. Martin growls, ‘Leave him,’ but I can’t. Of course I can’t.
‘Hey, sweetheart.’ His little arms clamp round my neck. I try to lay him back down but he won’t let go. I try a drink of water from his beaker but he blows and spits and giggles. ‘You bad, bad boy,’ I scold softly.
‘Bad, bad,’ Sam echoes, rubbing his knuckles in his eyes,yawning.
‘Come on, then.’ I carry him back to our mattress, trying to keep him on my side so as not to disturb Martin, but within seconds Sam is clambering across me to the middle, fearless – heedless, as every four-year-old must be, of any desires but his own.
Martin, disturbed, groans. ‘He has his own room. Take him back.’
‘You do it.’
‘You know that won’t work.’
‘You never try.’
Moments later my husband and my son are fast asleep, lying on their backs, arms by their sides, as if sunbathing in the moonlight spilling in through the still curtainless windows. Tears prick my eyes, partly because I am tired but mostly because my faith is returning – in us, in the fruit of our love, lying between, the point that separates, but also the one that keeps us whole.
In the end it took a couple of hours to leave the hospital. Jean was having a final test somewhere and Nurse Telson couldn’t be found, which Charlotte took as an opportunity to move the car nearer and make enquiries about nurses visiting patients at home. Feeling a little more on top of things, she did a double-take when the arrival of the patient back on the ward was announced and she turned to find herself staring at a hunched figure in a wheelchair. ‘Mum.’ The word caught in her throat.
‘The chair is just to save energy for getting to the car,’ explained the nurse in charge brightly. We’re doing very well, aren’t we, Mrs Boot? We’ve had a scare more than anything, haven’t we? Right as rain in no time, eh? What a lucky girl to have such a lovely daughter to come and look after you.’
Jean allowed a flicker of a smile to cross her face. Her right arm rested on her lap, like some disconnected, precious object, plastered from the fingers to the elbow. She was wearing her old blue Paisley dress, one sleeve hitched up to accommodate the plaster, and a faded grey cardigan, draped over her shoulders like a shawl. Her legs were swath
ed in their usual too-loose stockings, her feet in ancient sheepskin slippers instead of shoes. Through the stockings Charlotte could make out a couple of inky bruises on her shins and one that looked almost black, spreading from her right knee above her hemline. Her hair, meanwhile, without the attention usually paid to it, had lost its sprightliness and shrunk to flimsy, lifeless strands that made no secret of the chalky liver-spotted scalp from which they grew.
Charlotte waited in some suspense, certain that her real lack of loveliness must be showing through. But all Jean did was glance meekly from her to the nurse and murmur, ‘Yes, indeed,’ in a voice so whispered and flat that it was impossible to know if it was ironic or truly meant.
As they embarked on an obstacle course of stiff-hinged fire doors, over-populated corridors and tardy lifts, Charlotte found herself slipping into the same false heartiness as the nurse. Soon have you home. A cup of tea and lots of rest work wonders. It was a survival technique, a stopper for difficult thoughts. Inside, meanwhile, she could feel the dread she had experienced in the car park congealing into something far worse, something closer to revulsion.
She drove with exaggerated care, asking about the accident and the prognosis, trying not to be irritated by the feeble monosyllables that continued to come in response. As they pulled up outside the house Prue appeared round the corner with Jasper tugging unhappily on his lead. The cleaner, unsurprisingly, given her new duties, seemed delighted to see them, as did her charge, who had to be physically deterred from abseiling up the baggy stockings to have its head patted. It was the antics of her pet, however, that brought the first real smile to Jean’s face, and she talked to it, too, Charlotte noted wryly, cooing nonsense throughout their laborious, hobbling progress to the front door.
Life Begins Page 21