by Fiona Gibson
“I’m looking for my daughter and her friend. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
Nancy swooped down her eyebrows as if to say: you are interrupting.
“Perhaps they’ve gone to the beach,” the man said. “I saw two girls heading that way. One was pretty upset….”
“That ridiculous Zoë girl lost her shoe,” Nancy interjected. “Honestly, Jane, she expected me to spend the best part of my afternoon digging through mud to find it. A silly old shoe! What possessed you to bring her?” She exhaled noisily, then picked up the lump of stone at her feet and caressed it, making it her friend.
Jane found the girls hunched on a rock at Seal Bay and got Zoë’s frantic retelling. Armed with a knobbly length of driftwood, they headed back across the fields. “I think it’s here,” Zoë announced.
“You think?” Jane snapped.
“No. Yeah. It looks kind of familiar….” Zoë stepped back, as if to distance herself from a potentially messy procedure. Jane delved through the mud, but each time she managed to work a solid object to the surface, it would be nothing more precious than a stone. It was almost dark, and the moon cast an eerie silver glow.
“Dad,” came a small voice, “what’s that lady doing?”
Jane looked up and peered toward the house. Two figures were approaching; it was Conor, with a boy by his side. The reason, she surmised, for his disappearance at 3:00 p.m. today. “We’re looking for something,” Jane said, feeling foolish; island people didn’t lose shoes in bogs.
“What?” the boy asked. Up close she saw a distinct resemblance: Conor’s pale eyes and mischievous mouth, but a shock of reddish hair instead of the brown.
“Zoë lost a shoe,” she explained.
Conor glanced at the girls, and looked as if he was trying to affect a concerned look, but a smile escaped. “Can I help?”
“I’ll find it,” the boy announced, stumbling forward.
“Jane,” Conor said, “I haven’t introduced you. This is Lewis, my son.”
“Hi, Lewis—”
“Dad, let me dig! I’m really good at finding stuff. It’s like a treasure hunt….”
“It’s okay, Lewis,” Jane said, “I know where I’ve already looked. I’m trying to be…”
“Systematic.” Conor chuckled. “Must be a very special shoe.”
Jane wished they’d stop watching. She’d hoped to run in to Conor outside the studio, but not like this: ankle-deep in bog, her boots and jeans splattered with mud. She felt ridiculously city-ish.
“Dad told me about you,” Lewis added with a smirk.
“Did he?”
“Yeah. He said your drawings are the best.”
Jane stopped stirring and felt herself blushing. “Really? Thanks.”
Conor smiled and took his son’s hand. “Come on, Lewis. I thought we were going to the beach for sticks.”
“I want to watch her.”
Jane met the boy’s gaze. “Tell you what. You have one dig around, and if you can’t find it we’ll give up, okay?”
“We can’t give up,” Zoë lamented.
Lewis rejected Jane’s stick. Instead, he plunged his arms up to the elbows into the bog, clearly relishing the feel of cold mud squelching up his coat sleeves, and laughing a minute later as he plucked out one solitary, mud-plastered shoe.
“He’s found it!” Zoë yelped, pelting toward him and snatching it.
They all peered at it as if it were some priceless artifact. Conor unwound a woolen scarf from his neck and used it first to wipe as much mud as he could from Lewis’s hands and coat, then took the shoe from Zoë and rubbed at it. “Will it be all right?” she asked anxiously.
“It’s a bit storm-damaged,” Conor said. “You’d better take it to the house for a proper cleanup job.” He held out the shoe. Clearly visible now, its label read: Regalia for Feet.
Jane rested a hand on Lewis’s shoulder. “You’re a clever kid,” she said.
He grinned up at her. “I know. C’mon—me and Dad are going to get some sticks from the beach for my costume. You can help.”
“The tide’s nearly in,” Conor contradicted, “we’ve left it too—”
“I’d love to,” Jane said. “Come on, I’m sure there’ll be some driftwood lying about.”
“Well, okay.” Conor smiled shyly.
As the girls headed to the house, and Jane strolled with Conor and Lewis to the bay, she silently thanked Zoë for bringing her here at precisely the right moment. Perhaps, she thought, dumb high heels were pretty useful on an island after all.
“D’you watch Doctor Who?” Lewis asked as his father pushed open the unlocked door of their cottage.
“I did, a long time ago,” Jane replied. “Me and Hannah used to watch it together.”
Lewis hovered at her side as they entered the low-ceilinged living room. “Did she get scared?”
“No,” Jane said, laughing, “Hannah was never scared of anything on TV.”
“Neither am I,” Lewis declared. Flecks of mud were stuck to his forehead.
“Of course you’re not,” Conor teased him. “That’s why you watched it last week with a cushion over your face.”
“Didn’t—”
“Yes, you did! Anyway, are we going to sort out this costume?”
Jane glanced at the assorted Dalek components that were strewn around the floor: sheet of cardboard, cans of gold paint, a battered wicker laundry basket. Ancient armchairs and a sofa crowded the room. On the walls were drawings of stars and planets; Saturn’s ring had been sprinkled with glitter. A sheet of black paper had been splattered with fluorescent paint and entitled The Univerz by Lewis. There was no sign of a mother, no hint that a woman lived here.
While Conor made tea, Lewis glared at the laundry basket. “It’ll never be a Dalek,” he muttered. “Dad said he’d help but he’s always too busy working. It’s not fair.”
“It might help,” Conor called from the kitchen, “if you didn’t keep changing your mind. You wanted to be a Cyberman then a Martian then—”
“Yeah,” Lewis retorted, “Gavin’s going as a Cyberman and Robbie’s a Martian. I want to be different.”
Jane smiled, remembering Hannah being asked by a day care nurse at Nippers if she went to ballet classes. No, she’d retorted, I’m different.
“Mum used to make stuff for me,” Lewis murmured.
“Did she?” Jane asked cautiously.
“Yeah.” He pointed to the Univerz picture. “Now she’s there.”
“Oh,” Jane said, “I’m sorry.”
As Conor entered the room, she searched for some hint of how to respond. He placed mugs of tea on the table and rested his hands on his Lewis’s shoulders. “What about these sticks?” he asked.
Lewis delved through the driftwood he’d dumped on the living room floor. The smoothest and straightest would be the sticky-out bits—the bits from which fatal rays would blast, should Lewis feel inclined to exterminate. “Can she help?” he asked.
“Jane,” Conor said gently. “Her name’s Jane.”
She smiled and said, “Between the three of us I’m sure we’ll come up with a completely terrifying Dalek.”
“And you can stay for supper,” Conor added. “If you’d like to.”
“I’d love to.” His eyes met hers over the top of Lewis’s head, and the glow that flooded through her was so unfamiliar, she’d forgotten it was something her body could do.
31
Before he was fully awake, Max was aware of every muscle and bone in his body. He ached all over. Even his eyelids ached. He opened his eyes slowly, trying to ascertain whether he was in the chalet or his bedroom at home. It didn’t smell like home. It smelled as if vegetables were being overboiled in some distant kitchen. He was aware of hushed female voices, someone’s hacking cough, and a soft rattle that sounded like an approaching trolley. For a moment, he’d decided he was on an airplane and a stewardess was bringing coffees and teas.
No, not on a plane. In a hos
pital ward. Of course; he’d been brought here at some point—it could have been an hour or a day or a week ago—aware of little more than a searing pain in his right leg. All he’d thought, while he was being examined, was that he wanted the fleshy-faced doctor to take his prodding fingers off him and let him sleep.
A nurse with her hair pulled back into a severe ponytail approached his bed. “So,” she said, “awake at last. How are you feeling?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered.
She smiled pertly and checked the clipboard, which was attached to the foot of his bed. “Hungry?” she asked.
“Not really.” Max had never been less hungry in his life.
“You’re lucky your girlfriend was with you,” the nurse added. “You’d lost consciousness after you hit the rock. You have a concussion. She’s the one who called the rescue team.”
Max had no recollection of any rescue team, and couldn’t figure out who the nurse was referring to when she said “girlfriend.” He was pretty sure Veronica hadn’t been involved. For all he knew, he could have been brought here by dog-sleigh. “Where is my, um, girlfriend?” Max asked.
“She’s been sitting with you, waiting for you to wake up. I think she’s gone for a coffee.”
Max nodded, then, feeling foolish, asked, “Where am I exactly?”
The nurse laughed. “Chamonix hospital. Don’t you know what happened?”
A hazy image formed in his mind; of Hettie, with that spotty thing bunched around her neck, standing beside him at the start of the green run. He remembered the swill of nerves before he took off. After that, just pain and blackness.
The nurse poured him a cup of water from a plastic jug on the table beside his bed. “You’ve ruptured your anterior cruciate ligament,” she added.
At the word rupture, Max winced. “Is it serious?”
“It’s very common. People like you, who go skiing without preparation or lessons—you take unnecessary risks. It might need to be operated on, but only if you’ll need it—”
An anterior cruciate ligament sounded like something everyone needed. Max didn’t relish the idea of being without one. “What do you mean?” he asked, panic rising in his throat.
“Some people find that they can recover and manage even if the ligament is damaged. But if you exercise a lot, especially running or cycling, then you’ll probably need surgery…”
“I cycle,” Max said faintly. “I have a cycling shop. It’s what I do…it’s my life.” Put that way, it sounded pathetic. Thirty-eight years on this earth and what did he have to show for it? A bloody bike shop.
A cluster of children in bobble hats had burst into the ward and gathered around the bed of the coughing man. The man was hugging them and laughing. Max wondered if he’d ever laugh again. “Cycling might be difficult,” the nurse continued. She checked her watch, adding, “I’ll let you rest and come back with your painkillers in half an hour. Look, here’s your girlfriend now.”
The figure approached, smiled at the nurse and at Max, and perched on the edge of his bed. “So,” Hettie said, “how are you feeling?”
“I’ve felt better,” Max said.
“Poor you.”
“Where’s Veronica?” he asked.
“Um…. I’m not sure.” Hettie shuffled awkwardly. “I couldn’t reach her on her cell.”
Her eyes held his for a moment. She was probably lying, but was also very pretty, he realized, with those soft blue eyes and dainty chin. Despite the nagging pain in his leg, her presence was making him feel marginally better. “Don’t be too hard on her,” she said gently.
Max shook his head despairingly. He must have been out of his mind to come on this holiday. What had happened to the old Max—the Max who’d made his own decisions and known his own mind? It had all started with the arrival of Veronica’s hot meals. Jesus. He’d always thought of himself as a modern man—a sensitive father who cared about his daughter and ex-wife, who’d cared so much, in fact, that he’d taken the ludicrous step of buying a clapped-out house that was way beyond his means in a wretched attempt to lure them back. And what had happened? He’d been seduced by Veronica’s tarragon chicken and pneumatic breasts. He was barely one step up the food chain from a slavering Neanderthal.
Max shifted his position in bed, groaning as the pain seared up his leg. “I don’t understand,” he groaned, “why it was so important for me to come.”
Hettie studied her clipped, bare nails. “These past few years she’s come with us. It’s been fine—Veronica’s an old schoolfriend and great company. To be honest, I get a bit sick of Jasper….”
“But he’s your husband—” Max interjected.
She smiled tightly. “We’ve always welcomed her but I know Veronica’s always felt like a spare part—you know, a tagger-alonger….”
“So she wanted me to even out the numbers,” Max said dryly.
Hettie shook her head. “She’s crazy about you, don’t you realize? You’ve been so good for her. You’re the first decent man she’s met since Anthony left and totally screwed her up….”
Despite the burning sensation at the back of his knee, Max was intrigued. “What did he do?”
“He was a shit, Max. He’d been seeing some other woman—some fancy banker woman—for years. Since Zoë was little, she thinks. You know what he said when he finally left her? That she’d never amount to anything without him. That’s why she’s so determined with this aphrodisiac stuff. She wants to show him she’s…somebody.”
Max reached for his cup and took a sip of water. “She doesn’t give that impression. She’s the most driven woman I’ve ever met.”
“An act she’s perfected over the years,” Hettie said. “She’s read all the articles in the women’s magazines—followed them to the letter. She’s reinvented herself, Max. It might sound weird to you, but I kind of can’t help admiring her.”
Admire her? Max supposed he could try. Yet admiring a person, and truly knowing them, were very different. He thought of Jane, who was probably striding along some windswept beach with her hair blowing all over her face. She’d be wearing her chunky black sweater and ancient jeans. Her hands would be grubby from working with lead and solder. He was aware of a different twinge of pain, this time from his heart. “Where is she anyway?” Max asked.
Hettie flushed. “She’s a bit annoyed, Max. Said this wouldn’t have happened if you’d listened….”
“Hettie, I had no idea how to ski! She zoomed off without me….”
“She thinks,” Hettie added, “that you did it on purpose. To make a point.”
Max covered his face with his hands. “Yes, that’s right. I have a habit of storming off and deliberately rupturing my cruciate ligament.”
Hettie frowned. “Is that serious?”
Before Max could respond, a hefty figure with sturdy thighs straining the seams of his trousers burst through the swing doors and strode jauntily toward them. “So,” Jasper boomed, “some pickle you’ve got yourself into, eh, Maxy?”
32
“What does the inside of a stomach look like?” Lewis asked the following evening. He was breathing heavily over his kitchen table, squirting yellow paint from a fat plastic tube on to a sheet of black paper.
Jane laughed. It was her second visit to Connor’s, and already she was comfortable there. “I imagine it’ll be full of the shepherd’s pie we’ve just had.”
“No, I mean the stomach. The actual stomach.”
“It’s probably quite dark,” Jane replied, “but maybe some light gets in there. Babies are supposed to be able to see a glow of daylight through their mums’ tummies.” She stopped. Was any mention of mothers out of bounds?
Conor had explained earlier that day, as they’d walked back to the studio after lunch, that cancer had stolen his wife. “It’s at times like that,” he had added, “when you’re staring at a laundry basket with a can of gold spray in your hand that it hits you. You’ve no idea when it’s going to happen. You can’t pre
pare yourself.” Jane had tried to find words to show that she understood, but the way he looked at her had suggested that she didn’t need to say anything at all.
Lewis swirled gray paint over the yellow. “What are clouds?” he asked.
“They’re tiny droplets of water,” Jane said, “which look fluffy but are really—”
“Are you a mum?” he interrupted.
“Yes, I am.”
“D’you have a baby?”
Conor glanced round from the sink where he was washing up. “Lewis, stop plaguing Jane with your questions.”
“It’s okay,” she laughed, enjoying Lewis’s perpetual chatter; he reminded her of Hannah, when being by Jane’s side was all it had taken to make her happy. Since the lost shoe incident, the girls had filled their time by hanging around the village. “Hannah was my baby,” she added, “but she’s fifteen now—nearly a grown-up. You met her yesterday when you rescued the shoe, remember?”
Lewis nodded, splodging on a trail of shooting-star white. “When are you going home?” he demanded.
“Lewis! Don’t be so—” Conor interjected.
“I mean your real home, in London.”
“In four days’ time,” Jane said, trying to sound as if this were a positive thing; returning to her proper, grown-up life.
“Can we come and see you? I’ve never been to London….”
“Of course, I’d love to see you—”
“Great, ’cause we like you, don’t we, Dad?” He turned to his father, who had busied himself by refreshing Lewis’s water jar at the sink, even though the water hadn’t needed changing.
Jane grinned. “I like you, too,” she said, looking at the man, not the boy.
Over the next two days, Jane began to turn her favorite sketch into Max’s panel. She worked with a new confidence, aware that Conor was rarely far away. In London she would deliberate for days over a single shade of glass, whereas here she went with her instincts.