‘Just look at all that seaweed,’ she exclaimed. It lay in huge drifts like autumn leaves on the sand. ‘You’d think they’d compost it or something.’ Young children in swimsuits were dodging around the heaps on their way down to the sea, which looked an intense shade of postcard blue through Jane’s sunglasses; nothing like the slate-grey waters she had swum in as a child. ‘Wait here a moment,’ said Erica, abandoning the buggy and clattering down the shingle to take a picture of the pier, a curious mixture of well-preserved Victorian and crumbling Art Deco. She returned a minute later, disappointed. ‘I can’t fit it all in.’
They abandoned the buggy on the stones and carried Yorrick down to the water’s edge. The seaweed was unexpectedly spongy and yielding underfoot. It reminded Jane of her night on Erica’s mattress, but she desisted from making the comparison out loud. Instead she took off her sandals, rolled up her trousers, and felt the wet rippled sand and wormcasts massaging her bare feet.
Erica was paddling in the warm incoming tide, and trying to persuade Yorrick to get his feet wet. Every time she lowered him towards the water he drew up his fat little legs, refusing to be dunked. ‘What’s that place?’ Erica asked, looking east along the coast to the white hotels and glittering tower blocks in the distance.
‘That’s Brighton,’ said Jane, laughing at her ignorance. ‘That was the Big City when I was growing up. When the girls in my class – the real no-hopers, I mean – were asked what they wanted to do when they left school, they’d say: “I’m not sticking around in this dump. I’m going to Brighton.” As if it was the Promised Land, or something.’
‘I would have been one of those girls,’ sighed Erica. ‘I couldn’t wait to leave school. I tried to get expelled, but the bloody nuns kept forgiving me. I didn’t even go to university until I was twenty-two. I worked in the local dry-cleaners. That’s how much it put me off education.’
‘Why did you hate it so much?’ asked Jane. As someone who had shone at school, but felt herself growing progressively dimmer ever since, she had nothing but fond memories of the place.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve got no respect for authority, I suppose. I think there are people who like order and rules and discipline . . .’
‘Like me,’ Jane interrupted.
‘Yeah, like you,’ Erica agreed. ‘And people who hate being told what to do and automatically rebel. Even now if a law strikes me as illogical or stupid, I’ll break it. Your Sophie – now she’s a natural respecter of rules. She’ll have a tidy bedroom and neat writing. Harriet – she’s more like me.’
‘An anarchist, you mean?’
‘Well, if I could have a girl, I’d choose a Harriet any day.’
‘That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me,’ Jane replied. ‘You’re the only person who’s ever actually admitted to liking her. Except James and Kerry, who think she’s cute. But they’ve got nothing to compare her to.’
‘You know the worst thing about having all boys,’ Erica said, kicking water into the air and watching the arc of crystal droplets catch the sunlight. ‘None of my experiences will be of any use to them. I’ve got nothing to pass on.’
‘Perhaps that’s what Guy feels about the girls. He’s never said so. Perhaps that’s why he likes having James around the place. So he can pass something on.’
‘I certainly feel as though there’s a big part of me that will go to waste,’ Erica said.
‘You can be Harriet’s moral and spiritual guardian, if you like,’ said Jane. ‘Then I can blame you when she goes off the rails.’
‘Thanks,’ Erica replied. She had edged deeper into the water. Jane, who was standing further back, had rolled her trousers above the knee.
‘Or you could try for a fourth,’ Jane suggested. Although she had found two children more than plenty, she often found herself urging other people to increase the size of their family. Like an anorexic pressing everyone else to second helpings.
‘I might do that,’ said Erica, holding Yorrick up in the air and nuzzling his tummy until he squealed. ‘I’ve often thought I might pop one more out before I’m forty. There’ll be nothing better to do in Kuwait.’
‘What if it’s a boy?’
‘It would be. It would probably be twin boys. You can’t cheat fate. Oh!’ She gave a gasp as a wave rode up over her knees, soaking the bottom of her shorts. ‘I wish I’d brought my swimming costume now. I didn’t think I’d fancy going in.’
‘You could just strip. I’ll look after Yorrick and your clothes,’ said Jane, without so much as a smirk.
Erica shuddered. ‘It’s not a nudist beach.’
‘No, but you’re a rule-breaker and an anarchist, remember.’
‘Yeah, well. Even we anarchists like a day off now and then.’
‘Speaking of days off, I wonder if I should just ring James to check that everything’s okay,’ Jane mused, slipping her handbag from round her neck and ferreting for the phone. ‘Blast. I forgot to take it out of the car. Now I won’t know if he’s been trying to ring me.’
‘A Freudian psychologist might say there’s no such thing as accidentally forgetting,’ Erica said, retrieving her shoes from the breakwater, and following Jane back up the beach.
‘You think I subconsciously want to be unobtainable?’ asked Jane. ‘Maybe there’s something in that.’
‘I don’t think anything,’ Erica replied. ‘I didn’t do psychology.’ She strapped Yorrick back into his buggy and flexed her aching shoulders.
‘What was it you studied?’ said Jane.
‘I did English and Fine Art at one of the humblest establishments in the country. When I told my father-in-law where I got my degree, he said, “Oh yes, I always think of it as the last stronghold before the polytechnics.” Neil and I still laugh about that one.’
They walked back to the car, where Jane discovered she had left the phone switched off. ‘Brilliant!’ she muttered, punching in her home number. ‘That’s odd,’ she said, having let it ring and ring. ‘No reply.’
‘They’ll be out in the garden,’ said Erica, who was, as Jane had noted before, not a worrier. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’
‘Kerry, Kerry, I winned at picture dominoes,’ said Harriet, dancing up and down on the doorstep as Kerry sauntered down the path towards her.
‘Did you? I winned at my driving test,’ she replied, taking Harriet’s hands and lifting her off the ground.
‘Congratulations, I knew you’d do it,’ said James, sidestepping Harriet to give Kerry a kiss. ‘What did he ask you?’
‘Stopping distances, parking restrictions. All the things you tested me on. Do you want to come for a drive?’
‘I can’t. I’m babysitting.’ James pointed downwards at Harriet, who had interposed herself between them to frustrate, or join in with, their cuddle.
‘Where’s Jane?’ Kerry asked in surprise. After the incident with the burnt pie-crust she hadn’t expected them to be left in charge again so soon.
‘Gone out for the day. She can’t take Harriet to her in-laws because they’ll die if they catch a cold or something.’
‘Why? Have they got AIDS?’ Kerry wanted to know.
‘I don’t know. Anyway, I’m looking after Harriet.’
‘Yes, and you’ve got to play with me,’ announced Harriet.
‘She can come in the car with us, can’t she?’ said Kerry, ignoring this. ‘We’ll strap her in the back. Just a quick spin round the block.’
‘Yes, me come, me come,’ Harriet cried, turning excited circles like an untrained puppy.
‘Okay,’ said James, glancing at the telephone. ‘We’ll strap you in the back.’
Erica changed Yorrick’s nappy in the boot of Jane’s hatchback. ‘Very handy for this sort of job,’ she said, approvingly. ‘I can never use mine because it’s always full of garbage. You know I’ve had a FOR SALE sign stuck to the back windscreen for two weeks now and I haven’t had a single call.’
‘Maybe it would be more saleabl
e without the garbage,’ Jane hinted. ‘Anyway, if you can’t sell it before you leave, I’ll do it for you.’
‘Really? You are a mate. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s never given me a day’s trouble. And the mileage is quite low. For its age.’
‘You don’t need to talk it up for my benefit,’ Jane reminded her. ‘I’m not buying.’
‘Anything you make on it you can keep,’ said Erica. ‘Or you can take it to the knackers’ yard. Whatever.’
‘Done,’ said Jane. They had walked back to the promenade by now, where Jane stopped to buy two soft, whipped ice-creams and Erica launched a tirade against a particularly ugly example of sixties architecture, in the form of a featureless concrete block alongside a row of elegant Regency hotels. ‘Who could possibly have thought it would be a good idea to put that there?’ she ranted.
They turned inland, having exhausted the possibilities of the beach itself, and strolled through the precinct, looking in shop windows. Yorrick, lulled by the movement, dropped off to sleep with his thumb in his mouth, his free hand holding his earlobe. Erica went into a jeweller’s to get a new battery for her watch, which had stopped some weeks previously. While she was being served, Jane scanned the trays of jewellery, hoping to find something that might do as a parting gift. It had to be unusual, tasteful and interesting, but not too expensive. She didn’t want to embarrass Erica into reciprocating, and besides, now they were paying James there wasn’t much spare cash around for luxuries. She settled on a small gold lapel pin – or perhaps it was a large nose-stud – in the shape of a question mark. The shop assistant polished it with a scrap of silk, before dropping it into a tiny velvet pouch.
‘What are you buying?’ Erica asked, peering over Jane’s shoulder as she signed the credit card slip.
‘Nothing. Just a present for you actually.’ Jane handed it over, as casually as possible, as if offering a bag of sweets, and watched Erica tip the tiny stud into the palm of her hand and examine it for a second or two before clipping it on to her shirt collar. Jane was relieved. Only a truly ostentatious person would have worn something that size in their nose.
‘It’s lovely,’ said Erica. ‘The question is, what is the question?’
Jane smiled. ‘It’s just a general expression of uncertainty,’ she explained. ‘I should have got one for Guy; he could swap it for his crucifix whenever he has his attacks of Doubt.’
‘I’ve got something for you,’ Erica said. ‘Or at least I will have. But you’ve got to work for it,’ she added cryptically. ‘Come on.’ She led a puzzled Jane through the precinct and back to the beach, and this time they carried Yorrick’s buggy like a sedan chair over the stones so as not to wake him.
‘Where are we going?’ Jane wanted to know.
‘Just sit there, against that breakwater,’ Erica ordered, pointing to a section of wood, worn almost smooth, and bleached white as bone. ‘Perfect.’ She unzipped her camera bag. ‘Now, just look out to sea and ignore me while I sort myself out.’
‘Oh, I don’t take a good picture,’ said Jane, reluctant, self-conscious and flattered, all at the same time.
‘I’m taking the picture,’ Erica corrected her, producing a small Olympus camera, and crouching down on the shingle. Jane had expected her to own something bigger, flashier, with an armoury of light-meters and giant lenses, and was nonplussed when Erica presently stood up and packed the camera away.
‘No good?’ she asked.
‘Yes, all done,’ said Erica. ‘I’ll get them developed when I get home and let you have a copy. To remind you of today.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jane. ‘That was quick.’
‘Well, you have to work fast with people, before they start getting all rigid and uncomfortable.’
That’s right, thought Jane, staring at the sodium glow of sunlight on the water. Work fast: avoid discomfort. ‘Erica,’ she said out loud. ‘I do love you.’ The blood in her ears sounded like waves crashing on rocks and when she looked up black and red blobs shimmered and swam before her eyes. Erica was dancing up and down on the stones, twitching her arms and legs, as if possessed by seven demons.
Oh my God, thought Jane, paralysed with shame and regret. What did I say that for? Her heart gave several loud knocks as if asking to be let out.
‘Bloody wasp flew down my shirt,’ said Erica, giving it a final swipe before coming to rest. ‘Die, you bastard! Sorry, what did you say just then? I missed it.’
‘Nothing,’ said Jane, faint with relief, the red snakes still seething in her line of vision. Her cheeks were burning with the shock of her brush with certain humiliation. ‘Nothing,’ she said again.
‘Ssh,’ said Erica. ‘What’s that noise?’
Through the booming in her ears Jane could make out the feeble, but close, metallic trilling of a telephone.
39
When the call came Guy was in his office looking at plans to replace the two mobile classrooms with an L-shaped block, which would enclose the playground. There were architectural drawings all over his desk; somewhere beneath them the phone buzzed like a trapped insect.
It was Nina, fated again to be the bringer of bad news, who called to tell him about the accident. She had heard it herself from Bob. Kerry had been the only person in the car carrying any identification, so he was the first to know. It was only when Nina and Bob arrived at the hospital that they discovered there had been a third person in the car – a small girl. Nina had realized instantly whose child she was.
‘She’s alive. Yes, yes, she’s alive,’ Nina had assured him, over and over again.
‘But is she all right?’
‘She’s going to be all right,’ Nina said. ‘She’s in the High Dependency Unit. They’re looking after her.’ These were just platitudes. Nina had no idea what was happening: the doctors had told her none of the details of Harriet’s condition.
‘How am I going to reach Jane? I don’t know where she is?’
‘I’ve rung her. She’s on her way,’ Nina assured him.
It was only towards the end of the conversation that Guy thought to ask after James. His anxieties about Harriet had driven out all thoughts of his unofficial son. ‘Is he . . . ? Is he . . . ?’
‘He’s in theatre at the moment,’ Nina said, in a choked voice. ‘His spleen or something. They don’t even know. I can’t talk any more.’
‘I’m coming now.’
Guy had rushed out of school, on foot, and was half way down the drive when he remembered he had another daughter, still in her classroom and for whom he was responsible. Like the shepherd who abandoned the flock to go after the lost sheep, Guy’s thoughts were all for the one in peril. He swung round to see the school secretary, Mary, running after him as fast as her high heels would allow, waving a bunch of keys.
‘Take my car,’ she said, stopping to shake the grit out of her sandals.
‘What about Sophie?’ Accustomed as he was to giving orders, he felt confounded by the simplest decision.
‘I’ll look after her: you go.’ She had to push him in the direction of the car park.
Mary’s Volvo was an automatic. It took Guy several attempts to get going. She’s okay, she’s okay, she’s okay, he kept telling himself, all the way, as if it was only his confidence that was keeping her alive. There was a sick, vacant feeling in his stomach and sweat was streaming down his back, even though he had the windows open and the airflow was cool. When he stopped in traffic, he tried to wriggle out of his jacket, but the lights changed before he’d worked himself free, and he had to drive on, one arm and shoulder still caught up, and a yard of wool gabardine bunched behind his back.
At the hospital he joined the queue of cars crawling around in search of a parking space. If it hadn’t been Mary’s he would have dumped the thing in a towaway zone and taken a chance. Just ahead of him a blue Metro was indicating to pull out. The driver in front began to reverse, but must have caught sight of Guy, hunched grimly over the wheel, pressing forward, and thought bett
er of it, as he presently screeched away.
Guy tossed aside his crumpled jacket and sprinted for the main block, following Nina’s garbled directions to the High Dependency Unit, which was in a dead end off a long, highly polished corridor. The double doors, like most of the doors Guy had passed, were locked and operated by a combination keypad, and there was no one about. A sign on the wall alongside read: Authorized personnel only beyond this point. Please ring for assistance. He pressed the bell and, hearing nothing, pressed it again, harder. A moment later the door was snatched open and a nurse stood there, a look of impatience on her face. ‘Yes? Can I help?’ she asked crisply.
‘My daughter’s in there,’ Guy said, identifying himself.
‘Ah. Right. She’s with the doctor at the moment,’ the nurse replied, more kindly, now that his impatience could be explained. ‘If you wait in the relatives’ room’ – she pointed across the corridor – ‘she’ll come out and see you in a minute. Five minutes,’ she corrected herself.
‘You mean she’s up and about?’ said Guy, with a great surge of joy, which subsided instantly as he caught the nurse’s expression.
‘I meant the doctor,’ she said, mortified.
‘But . . . but . . . Harriet is okay?’ Guy had a sudden, terrible suspicion that she was already dead and no one wanted to tell him. ‘She’s alive, isn’t she?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the nurse. ‘Yes.’ Her relief at being able to offer this grain of encouragement was palpable. ‘The doctor will be with you soon,’ she added, retreating.
She doesn’t want to make any false promises, Guy thought, pushing open the door to the waiting room. He would have preferred to leave it open, but it was on a stiff spring and slammed shut behind him, cutting off the sounds of the hospital and leaving him standing in a room about eight feet square. It was furnished like the lobby of a cheap hotel chain or conference centre, with six upholstered curved-backed chairs and a glass-topped coffee table, on which lay copies of the Spectator and Ideal Home. On the walls were a series of watercolour prints of wild flowers – blown up versions of cheap birthday cards. In the corner stood a Klix machine and a cold water dispenser in clear blue plastic. Looking at it Guy was suddenly reminded of the meteorological station in In Salah, and he sat down, dizzily, and wiped his forehead on his shirt cuff. How anyone could be expected to drink coffee, much less read a magazine at a time like this he couldn’t imagine.
A Dry Spell Page 34