A Home in the Sun

by Sue Moorcroft

  She frowned, watching him twirl his tumbler in the fingers of his left hand. No wonder he tended to keep his right hand out of sight if his wife had done a number like that on him. She said, ‘That doesn’t sound very nice, either. But it’s still big of you to be so … understanding.’

  ‘It’s more a case of bowing to the inevitable,’ he said with a trace of bitterness.

  He went to make coffee, leaving her hazily brooding on how bad things happened to good people until he returned with two mugs for each of them, fragrant and steaming.

  ‘Two mugs at a time is a great idea. Saves getting up again. Wonder why I never thought of it.’ She began her first mug. ‘So how did you hurt your hand? Lawnmower? Power saw?’

  He shook his head. He, too, had put down the remains of his whisky in favour of the coffee.

  ‘You’re a photographer,’ she went on without giving him a chance to swallow his first mouthful of the steaming liquid and reply. ‘I bet you were in a war zone and had to try to toss a grenade out of a vehicle careening across the desert, caught in a hail of cross fire?’

  He raised his eyebrows as he licked coffee from his lips. ‘You know very well that I’m neither the brave nor the glam kind of photographer. It was a stupid, freak accident.’ Inhaling the steam from his coffee, he half-closed his eyes. ‘I was helping Shelley. She’d taken on the interior decorating of this huge first-floor room, where the clients had knocked the walls out to create “a space”. It was all wooden floors and Swedish furniture that didn’t match.’

  ‘Eclectic,’ Judith put in helpfully.

  He waved the terminology aside. ‘She asked me to take pics. I often did that, so that she had a tip-top portfolio to show to clients. It was a nice house belonging to well-heeled customers. They were keen to get their place into one of the glossy home magazines, so they engaged me to shoot some pics for them, too, so they could approach someone to write it up.’ He paused for another sip of his drink.

  He continued. ‘The “space”, as they all called it, had French doors opening onto a first-floor sundeck. They wanted photos of the family toasting one another with champagne on the sundeck. I was absorbed in what I was doing, trying to get the bloody woman client to shut up so I could get a photo of her not mouthing like a fish. And then someone let these dogs out.’ He shook his head at the memory. ‘Rottweilers, they were – half dog, half monster. They came flying out through the French doors, heading straight at me.’

  Judith clapped a hand to her mouth.

  He surprised her with a sudden smile. ‘It turned out the dogs weren’t aggressive but I didn’t know that. Major heart attack time! I shot backwards. The wooden rails weren’t up to twelve stone of Adam in a panic and gave way.’ He drank steadily until he’d drained his cup. ‘There was a conservatory underneath and I fell through it.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Judith breathed through her fingers.

  He nodded. ‘It just exploded, shattering into my palm and fingers like razors. And my back and my neck.’ He pulled down the neck of his T-shirt to show her a white, curving scar. ‘But those were relatively superficial and healed OK. It was the hand that really suffered.’ He glanced down at it where it lay on his thigh.

  She reached for his hand to examine the crosshatching of thin, white scars on the palm and the tiny dots where he’d been stitched. The three knuckles where fingers should have been were pink, shiny flesh.

  He took the hand back and pushed it into his pocket. ‘I didn’t realise how badly hurt I was, at first, though I was all gashed to buggery and could see the fingers weren’t exactly intact. We raced off to Northampton General, Shelley driving and me with my hand held up in the air and towels soaking up the blood.’

  ‘Were you in a lot of pain?’ she asked, trying to imagine the shock of that kind of trauma.

  He took up his second mug of coffee. ‘I could tell I’d lost a lot of movement. What little I did have sent what felt like electric shocks searing up my arm. It was nerve damage causing that awful pain but it turned out I had everything-damage – tendon, muscle, tissue, artery. Over the next weeks I had several lots of microsurgery but the whole hand looked as if someone had slashed at it with a big knife from my fingers down to the heel of my hand. Then I got a deep infection that resisted antibiotics. The fingers never worked and pretty soon began to wither from the nerve damage and turn pale blue.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Quite quickly I realised that it was about as good as it was going to get. I’d have greater use of the hand without the useless, immobile fingers getting in my way. I was offered amputation and I took it.’

  ‘That’s such a horrific thing to happen to you.’ As he had tucked his damaged hand away, Judith stroked his upper arm instead.

  Looking down at his coffee, he shrugged. ‘Much worse things happen to people. Being in and out of hospital brings that firmly home to you. For everyone who loses a finger, there are others who lose an arm.’

  Judith realised she was crying again and wiped her face with the back of her hand, not knowing if these were tears for Adam or for Giorgio. They just seemed to well up endlessly. She gulped. ‘So Shelley couldn’t cope with the amputation?’

  He shook his head. ‘She turned white at the very word. Couldn’t cope with the injury and gave up completely once she realised the fingers were never going to “be better”. The disfigurement made her skin crawl. That was more painful than the injury and all the operations.’

  Judith tried to imagine if it had been Giorgio instead of Adam who’d suffered like that. Surely she’d have mourned the loss with him? Then she tried to put herself in the place of a woman who loved beauty and couldn’t bear mutilation near her. She failed. Surely love should have transcended the loss of physical perfection? ‘When you compare it to what happened to Giorgio—’

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes were bleak as he accurately divined her thoughts. ‘In comparison with death, my disability’s pretty minor. And that kind of illuminates the quality of her feelings.’ He jettisoned his mug roughly onto the table and it rattled around in a circle, almost spilling the remaining contents. ‘Finishing the marriage was a similar process to deciding on the amputation. A clean end. Cut away what can’t be saved. No point hanging on to something that’s never going to work. Shelley cares for me a lot, but there’s a gulf between “a lot” and “enough”, and you can’t bridge it artificially. She has someone else now and I wish her well.’

  She thought aloud. ‘So that’s why you always hide your hand away.’

  His head whipped around as he fastened a scorching glare on her. ‘I don’t do any such thing. My occupational therapist said people who don’t hide their damage feel better about themselves.’ Then he immediately contradicted himself. ‘But yes, it’s emotionally quite difficult to have it on display. Some people like to have a good stare and others avert their eyes. I don’t know which is worse.’

  She wondered what he’d thought about her trying to stroke it earlier. The fact that he’d taken the limb back probably told her. ‘What about a prosthesis?’

  ‘There’s actually more for hands than fingers and I didn’t like the idea. There are quite a few of us who’d rather put up with the loss of body parts than wear artificial replacements. I do exercises to assist with strength and symmetry, I have one or two gadgets and gizmos and I apply the problem-solving strategies I’ve been taught. I make the best of things.’

  Judith nodded. All that fitted with what she’d seen of him. ‘Like using your left hand a lot?’

  ‘Yes, but not for everything. I can write with my right hand – untidily. I can drive – although it’s better if the car’s modified. I tend not to wear too many buttons but use my left hand for those that I do wear. I use my left hand for the computer mouse, to hold a spoon and clean my teeth. And one or two other things you won’t want to discuss.’

  She managed a watery smile. ‘Yet you’ve done all the decorating here since you lost your fingers?’

  ‘I have a gizmo to help hold things like paintbrushes.
’ His response was short, as if he’d had enough of the subject. He was probably only allowing this discussion to give her something to focus on other than Giorgio. The thought gave her a warm feeling. It would be fairer if she let him go to sleep but something inside her quailed at the thought of being completely alone with her grief. It might swallow her up.

  He yawned again and changed the subject. ‘You’ve mentioned a stepson to me. Have you got kids of your own?’

  She shook her head. ‘Tom wasn’t keen and I felt we had enough with Kieran, my stepson. Your Caleb seems such a lovely lad. I know I was furious at him about the party but it was bad judgement rather than malice. He’s very pleasant and personable. A live wire.’

  ‘Live wire,’ he repeated drily. ‘Polite-speak for Caleb ricocheting from one disaster to another. As you say, there’s no malice in him but from the moment he could crawl he’s been getting into strife. A big shock for us after his brother, Matthias, who was a golden child, bright but with common sense.’

  Judith smiled. ‘I half-forgot you had another child. Tell me more about Matthias – fabulous names your kids have, by the way.’

  Hunkering down more comfortably on the sofa, Adam folded his arms. ‘You know Matthias is in Plymouth finishing his doctorate. He didn’t come home for the summer because he’s got a work placement with some marine biology outfit. Northamptonshire’s too far from the sea for his tastes so I usually go and see him, these days. The boys’ names were Shelley’s choices – I wanted Patrick and Mark. But what can you do against a woman who gets up out of her hospital bed and visits the registrar herself?’

  She gurgled a laugh. ‘Did she do that?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’ His smile was caustic. ‘Patrick and Mark are their middle names.’

  She absorbed the idea of someone who didn’t view the names bestowed upon shared children as joint decisions.

  He let his head tilt back, his jawline a firm sweep. ‘I always indulged Shelley. I laughed at the more outrageous pieces of selfishness and quite admired her for doing whatever it took to get her own way. She got used to it.’

  It was deep into the night, now. Lavender Row wasn’t a main road but all the houses were terraces and so cars parked on the street. When you couldn’t hear any car doors slamming you knew it was late. Feeling guilty at keeping him up now, Judith wondered if she should find him a quilt and leave him to sleep. But Adam suddenly seemed in the mood to talk.

  He crossed his legs comfortably. ‘My mother mutters darkly that Caleb takes after Shelley. Does that mean Matthias takes after me? I’d like to think so, but Matthias is impressive. He’s intelligent, motivated, good-looking and engaged to the most amazing girl. Davina. The divine Davina.’

  Because he’d shut his eyes as he talked, Judith could study him properly. The tightness of the skin across his cheekbones under the fans of his lashes, the burst of deep laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, the cleft in his chin. Where many men, like Tom, sagged and slackened with age, somehow Adam, though she knew he was a couple of years older than her, seemed to have tautened and become wirier. ‘How is she amazing?’ she prompted.

  One of Adam’s eyes opened slightly to look at her. ‘Apart from being frighteningly clever and hardworking, she’s as gorgeous as Lara Croft. Honestly, she’s a goddess.’

  Judith pulled a mock-scared face. ‘Personality?’

  ‘Definitely personality-plus; cheerful, interesting and caring. They’re going to have the most phenomenal children.’

  She found herself relaxing. ‘But is Caleb more fun?’

  The eye shut again. ‘Certainly less predictable.’ He gave several huge yawns, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘My boys are like the anecdote about the guy with two really good friends. The guy gets drunk and ends up in jail. The first friend gets him a solicitor and hides the escapade from his wife. But the other friend is beside him in the cell, saying, “Damn that was fun!”’ He yawned again.

  Adam was a little like the second friend as they’d got drunk tonight. Nothing fun about it but he’d stayed by her side. ‘I ought to go up and let you sleep,’ she said softly.

  ‘Will you be able to sleep if you go to bed?’ he asked.

  She shook her head then, realising his eyes were still closed said, ‘Probably not, but I can read.’

  He smiled. He had a really nice smile. It could be gentle or sympathetic, and, sometimes, wicked. ‘Sleep’s overrated. I can sleep anytime. I’ll stay with you a little longer.’ He pulled himself more upright and opened his eyes to gaze at her. ‘You and I went to the same school, didn’t we?’

  It was the first time he’d indicated that he knew. Maybe Melanie had reminded him. Cautiously, she said, ‘I believe we did.’

  ‘I recognised you the instant I walked into the kitchen when you first called. Judith Morgan, you were. We had a conversation once outside the school gates about Polos and if they’d rot your teeth.’

  He remembered all that! She would never have admitted remembering the detail, in case it led him to suspect the gigantic crush she’d had on him. Weakly, she offered, ‘I still like Polos.’

  ‘Me, too, the mint ones are my favourite. And the fruit, of course. I’m not keen on the butterscotch or the citrus.’

  ‘New-fangled inventions.’

  ‘Absolutely. And the spearmint, with those flecks, they look as if they’re made of washing powder.’ His eyes drooped again. ‘You always insisted on being called Judith; the guys used to sing out, “Hey Jude!” after you, and you’d get sniffy.’

  Her own eyelids were actually feeling heavy now. Maybe she ought to go up to bed after all and leave him to what was left of the night. ‘Paul McCartney sang it so much better.’

  And despite everything, despite the heavy, gluey despair in her heart, despite the gallons of scalding tears waiting behind her eyes for the moment when she stopped thinking about other things and thought again about Giorgio, she couldn’t help feeling pleased that someone had noticed and remembered things about her.

  ‘I always thought it was kind of a shame,’ he murmured, drowsily. ‘I thought it would be nice to call you Jude. The name conjures up someone who dares to be different, fun. Interesting.’

  While she wondered what to say to that she watched sleep steal up and claim him. As if in sympathy she felt her own eyes close and decided to let them. Just for a minute.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Morning. Early. Judith opened her eyes to the sun-filled sitting room despite the drawn curtains and discovered that she’d spent the night with her legs curled and cramped and her head on the sofa arm. Her face felt creased, her mouth and eyes dry.

  Adam was asleep at the other end of the sofa, feet on the table, arms folded, head propped against the upholstered wing of the sofa, as if he’d just dropped off for five minutes during Grandstand.

  He’d stayed, she remembered, because of Giorgio.

  Giorgio.

  Nausea swilled over her, but her eyes were finally too dry for tears. Her mind had cradled the knowledge of his death while she slept, ready to thrust it back at her now with sickening clarity. Giorgio was dead and very soon would be committed to the ground of the island he’d loved.

  Feeling as if the floor was heaving like the deck of a boat beneath her feet, she went to her computer in the alcove and left it to start up while she visited the bathroom, brushed her teeth and showered away the worst of her hangover. Sliding into an enveloping cotton robe, she returned quietly to the computer. Whatever whirrs and bings the computer had made as it booted up, Adam slept on.

  The World Wide Web was a wonderful thing, she acknowledged, contemplating the elegant website of the Times of Malta. The Times could be accessed as easily in Brinham as in Sliema.

  Clicking on the correct link, she watched the social and personal page flicking onto her screen. She scrolled down and, even though she was expecting it, Giorgio’s name leapt out and stopped her breath.

  ZAMMIT. On 27 July 2004, at St Luke’s Hos
pital, GIORGIO, aged 34, passed away suddenly, comforted by the rites of Holy Church. He leaves to mourn his irreparable loss his wife, Johanna née Grech, his daughters, Alexia and Lydia, his parents, Agnello and Maria, his uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces and friends – Rest in peace.

  The funeral leaves St Luke’s Hospital on Tuesday 29 July at 1.30 p.m. for Stella Maris Parish Church, Sliema, where Mass praesente cadavere will be said at 2.30 p.m., followed by interment in the family grave at the Santa Maria Addolorata Cemetery. Family flowers only.

  She’d guessed Maria and Agnello would place the obituary in the Times as well as in the Maltese papers, In-Nazzjon or L-Orizzont. Giorgio had been a businessman; his death would need announcing in both of the island’s languages. She stared at the stark words that confirmed the loss of her lover.

  Adam stirred, and she realised he was awake.

  She had to clear her throat in order to speak. ‘Obituary.’ She nodded at the screen. ‘I must go.’

  He frowned for a moment, levering himself to his feet and crossing to where she sat to read over her shoulder. ‘To the funeral?’ He didn’t precisely try to dissuade her but he rubbed his unshaven chin, making it rasp. Slowly, he said, ‘If you’re sure then somebody ought to go with you. I volunteer, if you can’t scare up anyone better. You’ll need an ally. The family will shut you out. Feelings will be running high. A mother and father have lost their son; children have lost their father. The wife will act with wounded dignity and ignore you.’

  It was an uncomfortable picture. And, unfortunately, a realistic one. ‘You’re right,’ she whispered, her heart sinking to the pit of her stomach. ‘What was I thinking? It would be a horrible intrusion. But thank you. You’ve been really kind, Adam, especially considering that I threw you out of your home.’

  Awkwardly, he reached out and patted her shoulder. ‘You’re having a rough time.’