The Simple Rules of Love
Page 54
By early evening the strong winds teasing the north of the country had moved south, gathering sufficient force along the way for weather forecasters to issue warnings about motorists limiting their journeys and children being kept indoors. Lying on the sofa, her tender, bulging ankles propped on a cushion, her head throbbing with an intensity that made it hard to watch telly, let alone think straight, Jessica felt each squeak and rattle of the flat's ill-fitting windows like a drill in her temples. Maureen, snapping unconvincing sympathies between putting in her rollers and packing for a week's holiday with her new boyfriend, had instructed her daughter to take some tablets and get some sleep. In her weak state Jessica had readily complied, only to discover that this new supersonic headache was beyond the reach of Panadol and that closing her eyes made her feel sort of seasick, like the room was swaying because the wind had got the entire tower block in its clutches and was trying to prise it out of its concrete roots…
‘Jess… I've been calling, are you deaf or what?’
‘Sorry, I…’ Jessica switched off the television and stared bleary-eyed at her mother, who was standing in the doorway to her bedroom holding up two flimsy dresses, one sequined and black, the other a shiny red.
‘Well?’
‘They… Are they new?’
Maureen rolled her eyes. ‘Why do you think I'm showing them to you, dummy? Stan bought them for me, didn't he, to wear in the evenings and that… It's his own villa but he says we'll be out to dinner every night and he wants me to look…’ Maureen broke off and shook the dresses at the sofa. ‘I'm not having this, okay?’
‘Not having what?’ rasped Jessica, struggling to concentrate on whatever might be coming next.
‘Stan's said it often enough and he's right.’
‘Said what?’ asked Jessica weakly, rubbing her knuckles into her temples, desperate to clear her head.
‘That making me feel bad is your number-one speciality. My first decent bleeding holiday in years and you have to take to the sofa like Madam Muck, pressing the guilt button with your headache and sore legs and whatnot. Well, it's not going to stop me, okay? I'm going to walk out that door when the taxi comes and I'm going to have me a good time. You got yourself into this mess and there's nothing I can do now to get you out of it. You ruined my life once, girl, and I'm not going to let you do it again.’
Jessica opened her mouth, then closed it without a word.
‘That's it, go on, do the silent thing, make me feel as bad as you possibly can.’ When still Jessica did not reply, Maureen squeezed her eyes shut and blew out a long, wheezy breath towards the ceiling, as if her patience had reached its limits. ‘It's only a week. The rent's paid, there's food in the fridge, and all you're doing these days is lounging around, isn't it? So it's not like me going will make a diference, will it?’
‘No, it bloody won't,' Jessica blurted, glaring at her. ‘I want you to have your sodding holiday with sodding Sidney –’
‘His name, as you know bloody well, is Stan – Stanley.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Fuck me.’ Maureen turned back towards her open suitcase. ‘I don't know why I bother.’
Half an hour later she was tottering towards the front door in a new pair of spindly high heels, her hair a riot of white-blonde curls, her suitcase banging against the paintwork. As she opened the front door it caught on a gust of wind and flung itself back against the wall with such a thunderous crack that Jessica, momentarily forgetting her bulk and her discomfort, sprang forwards and peered with some concern down the hallway. ‘You okay?’ She could just see her mother in the outer passageway, her hair already a crazy tangle from the wind as she tried to reach over her suitcase to get the door closed.
‘I'll live.’
‘I'll do it.’ Jessica heaved herself off the sofa and lumbered down the hall. She felt dizzy but rather liked the blasts of cold air on her face and in her hair. Reaching the front door, she grabbed the handle just in time to stop it swinging back against the wall again. ‘Have a nice time, then.’
‘I've got to go or the taxi will piss off. I'll send a postcard, okay?’
Jessica nodded, although she knew it wouldn't happen. Her mum hated writing anything, mostly because she was no good at it.
She peered over the balcony and watched until Maureen had emerged from the lift shaft and got herself and her baggage into the car waiting below. Then, unable to bear the thought of shutting herself back into the suffocating stuffiness of the flat, she grabbed her handbag and keys and set off down the passageway. She would treat herself to something in Blockbuster, she decided, then maybe stop by Mr Patel's for a sweet drink and something stronger to sort out her head.
By the time she stepped out of the lift Jessica was wishing she had thought to bring her coat. The stuffy hemmed-in feeling had gone and she was shivering with cold. The wind made walking even harder than usual. It played games the whole way, pushing her from behind one minute, then leaning into her face the next, like it was trying to bully her into turning back. She had gone a few yards down the street when her headache, which had stalled at a bearable point, suddenly shifted to a higher gear, so violently that Jessica, reeling against a lamp-post, half wondered if one of the estate's more delightful members had crept up behind her and sunk a fist into the back of her skull. Across the street an old man yanking at a dog lead looked at her, then glanced away. She tried to gesture at him, to explain that she was having difficulty standing, but could make no sound above the roaring of the wind in her ears. Her fingers were on the cold, gritty metal of the lamp-post but for some reason she couldn't get a proper grip. Her arms, her legs, were jerking, buckling, bringing her down. Then there was nothing but the hard cold solidity of the pavement and the warm darkness spilling like water inside her head.
‘What weather!’ exclaimed Serena, cheerfully, swivelling in her seat to check on Pamela, whose eyes were closed, and to see that Elizabeth and Cassie were still following safely in the car behind. Both Roland and Ed had elected to stay on at Clem's where, with Theo in exuberant form and the arrival of Jonny, Flora and Daisy, there had been a party in the making. Maisie had made an early, sheepish exit to see her boyfriend, while Peter, in spite of much pleading, had left them all at the gallery, assuring Roland that he would claim his painting the moment the exhibition ended and promising to see them all at Christmas.
By the time the remaining group arrived at the flat, both Clem's complexion and the general atmosphere among the family had returned to normal. A mood of celebration had descended, aided greatly by champagne and Theo slipping his completed film into Flora and Daisy's DVD player. Teenagers and adults alike had clustered spellbound round the television throughout the showing, then burst into applause as the final strains of Jonny's soundtrack swelled round the last shot of the bedraggled but reunited lovers and the ensuing list of credits. With Theo, Clem and Jonny taking their bows, Roland beaming and Ed so thrilled for his sister and his cousin, the older members of the party had gawped and murmured admiringly. ‘I love happy endings,’ cried Serena, ‘and it's such a clever story… Oh, Charlie, aren't the children so clever?’ She seized her husband's hand, relishing both that he shared her wonderment and the sheer joy of finding that they could feel the same things again, at the same time and so effortlessly. And then, as if all that wasn't cause for jubilation enough, Clem had chosen the moment of their departure to produce a letter from a publisher, full of encouraging remarks about some writing she had submitted, saying if there was ever a completed manuscript they would like to see it.
‘Manuscript? What manuscript?’ Charlie had boomed. ‘How dare you do something else so amazing and not tell us? And what on earth are you doing becoming a press officer when you're already such an accomplished actress and a novelist?’
‘Because, Daddy darling, I'm not accomplished at anything yet, and I need to pay my bills,’ Clem had replied demurely, poking his ample stomach with one finger as she reached up to give him a farewell kiss.
Even when they rounded the bend in the lane and the car's headlights fell upon the splintered remains of the old oak, its thick, gnarled torso lying across the lawn like a felled giant, it was the sense of being protected rather than threatened that struck Serena first. ‘Oh, Charlie, the poor old tree. How lucky that no one was nearby to get hurt.’
‘What a shame, but it will make good firewood, I suppose.’ Charlie turned carefully past the debris of branches into the drive. ‘We'll need professional help to get it cleared. Poor old Sid wouldn't know where to start.’
There was a whimper of dismay from the back seat.
‘It's all right, Mum, it hasn't done any damage,’ Charlie told her, his voice full of good cheer and confidence. ‘The roof is still on the house, that's the main thing.’
‘Yes, dear, of course.’ Exhausted after her long day, too moved to say more, Pamela pressed a hand to her mouth and stared at the wreckage through the back window as Charlie eased the car into the garage.
‘I'll phone the council first thing,’ offered Serena, briskly, once they were inside, greeting Poppy and peeling off their coats. ‘I think she's really upset,’ she added, after Pamela had taken herself upstairs and she and Charlie were sitting at the kitchen table with mugs of soup and some hastily made ham sandwiches. ‘She's always loved that tree.’ She sighed, blowing a few ripples across the top of her soup. ‘She hides it well, but she's still pretty fragile without John and likely to remain so. It makes me think that maybe this move to Crayshott is what she needs, after all – it really is the most beautiful place, her rooms are lovely and, of course, there are all those nursing staff… just in case.’ She took a bite of sandwich, adding absently, ‘In fact, I respect your mother enormously for forging on with the whole plan when we told her not to. That takes real courage, if you think about it. And it might be good for us, too, don't you think?’ she added carefully, peeling off a piece of crust and crumbling it between her fingers. ‘Charlie?’ She raised her eyes timidly to her husband's. ‘Just being you and me… will be good, won't it?’
Charlie put down his sandwich. He had been watching the beam of one of the ceiling lights move across his wife's face and hair, lighting up the threads of silver among the chestnut and the flecks of grey in her eyes. It was quite something, he mused, to have known the physical terrain of another creature for so long, to know it so well. The lines of ageing were sharp and clear under the blaze of the electric bulb, but so, too, were the traces of the youthful beauty that underlay it. And when those last traces were gone the memory of them would remain in his perception of her, as vivid as reality, impossible to erase.
He picked up her hand and held the palm to his cheek. ‘You are incredible,’ he said quietly. ‘Did you know that?’
‘No, I'm not,’ Serena replied, her voice surprised and shy.
‘Yes, you are.’ Charlie moved aside the plates and mugs of soup and picked up her other hand. It was a little cooler than the first. There was a faint white scar across one of the knuckles, an ancient memento of some domestic accident, a kitchen burn, or the slip of a knife. He couldn't remember and it didn't matter. They were full of scars, most of which were invisible. He kissed it. ‘If the floor wasn't so hard I'd get down on my knees.’
‘Silly.’ She laughed softly. ‘Whatever for?’
‘To make a speech.’
‘Silly,’ she said again. ‘You made a speech at Clem's, telling Roland he was a star. It was lovely.’
‘But there are things I want to tell you. I want, for example, to say, from the bottom of my heart, how truly sorry I am for all that I've put you through, all the doubt – all the… Hey –’ he broke off, frowning. ‘Is that your phone?’
‘It doesn't matter.’ Serena tried to keep her hands on his face, caring for nothing now but his soothing voice and the closeness, which, after weeks of slow flowering, had blossomed that afternoon into something on which she felt that she might again be able to rely. But Charlie was already plucking the offending item out of her handbag, which lay on the table next to them, and joking that his speech would be all the better for the accompaniment of a little wine. ‘I might nick something good off one of Peter's racks.’ He chuckled, and added, as he headed for the cellar, ‘If it's Ed tell him, no, I haven't forgotten his driving test is tomorrow afternoon and, yes, I will pick him up from the station.’
But it wasn't Ed, it was a doctor from St George's Hospital in Tooting, saying that one Jessica Blake had been admitted by ambulance suffering from severe eclampsia, that she had consented to a general anaesthetic for an emergency Caesarean section and presented this phone number as belonging to the only person whom she wished to be informed of the situation. It was only fair to emphasize, the doctor continued, that the condition of both mother and baby was of the gravest possible nature.
Serena could hear Charlie whistling as he came back up the cellar steps. It was clear to her that she had to get back into the car and drive to London, to St George's, Tooting. It was a hospital she knew well since it was where she had had checkups, then given birth to Tina – an almost comically easy process, two hours from start to finish with a pain that she had ridden like an expert surfer, too close to exultation to mind the suffering; the sort of labour one didn't mention much to other women for fear of appearing smug.
It was also clear to Serena that Charlie would not understand, that all his beautiful gentleness would turn to despair, soured by new justification for the very mistrust they had fought so hard to leave behind.
‘I'll confess my crime to my dear brother at Christmas,’ announced Charlie, grinning broadly as he entered the kitchen, a dusty bottle cradled in both hands. At the sight of Serena, already in her coat, her handbag over her shoulder, he stopped in astonishment. ‘What the…’
‘Charlie.’ Serena gripped the strap of her handbag. ‘It's my turn for a speech. I'm going to say something and I want you to promise to forgive me before I say it.’
Charlie laughed uncertainly. ‘I'm not sure I can do that. You might be about to announce a long-held secret love for Sid or the milkman.’ He stepped towards her. ‘I say.’ He laughed again, with even less conviction. ‘Darling, you're not leaving me, are you?’
‘Never.’ Serena's lips sealed the word, making it hard for a moment to say anything else. ‘It wasn't Ed on the phone, Charlie, it was Jessica – or, rather, a doctor.’
‘Jessica? Since when did Jessica have your mobile number?’
Serena could hear the dismay curdling his voice. He had dropped the wine bottle on to the table with a thump, heedless of its delicate contents. ‘Since I gave it to her,’ she said quietly. ‘I sent her some baby clothes and gave her my number. I told her to call if ever she needed help.’
Charlie scratched his head in a mockery of perplexity. ‘Let me guess… she needs a little money, does she?’
‘No, Charlie, she's dangerously ill.’
Charlie groaned and rolled his eyes. ‘Of course she is.’
‘No, Charlie, she really is. That was a doctor who called –’
‘And where, pray, if Jessica is so ill, is her own mother – the lovely Maureen? Shouldn't she be the one on call in such an emergency?’
‘I don't know,’ Serena admitted. ‘But this doctor said Jessica's got eclampsia – she has dangerously high blood pressure and has had some sort of fit – and they're about to opera
te to try to get the baby out before it's too late, and when they asked who she wanted them to call she said me.’
Unmoved, Charlie shook his head. ‘Has it never occurred to you, Serena dearest, that this odious child planned the whole thing from the start? That is,’ he continued, in response to Serena's evident bafflement, ‘that after years of hovering in the shadows of Ashley House, like a kid with her nose pressed against a sweet-shop window, Jessica deliberately set out to entrap Ed, hoping, somehow, to worm her way into our family. I mean, at one point she was even implying Peter had tried something on with her, wasn't she? Or have you conveniently forgotten that particularly preposterous detail?’
‘I haven't forgotten anything,’ replied Serena, coldly, glancing at her watch, and adding, as her desperation mounted, ‘although, given the way Peter has behaved, maybe it wasn't quite so preposterous.’
‘What?’ Charlie slapped his palm against his forehead. ‘Jesus Christ, now I've heard it all, I really have.’
‘I'm sorry,’ Serena muttered. ‘I shouldn't have said that and I didn't mean it. I wasn't thinking.’
‘Hah,’ interjected Charlie. ‘Now, there I agree with you.’
‘But I have got to go,’ she wailed, edging towards the hall. ‘You said it yourself, Jessica's a child. Of course she didn't plan the whole thing. She's got herself into a terrible mess and needs help to get out of it, and if my compulsion to offer that help is connected to my – our – loss, then so be it. So be it.’
‘So be it indeed,’ said Charlie, softly. They stood staring at each other from opposite sides of the kitchen, all the closeness of the day like a lost dream.
‘I'll take the Volvo. I'll be back as soon as I can. I… What are you doing?’ Charlie had seized the kitchen pad off the hook next to the kettle and was scrawling something across it with a felt-tip pen.
‘I'm writing a note to my mother in case she wakes up before we get back and wonders where we are… if that's all right with you.’