The Simple Rules of Love

by Amanda Brookfield

  Her ankles looked steady enough now, though, Roland observed, watching as she slipped a gold band on to Keith's finger and told him, in a strong, clear voice, that she would be his until her dying day. Forgetting the discomfort of his toes, he became aware instead of a swelling in his chest. He had made it happen, after all, cutting out the advert and posting it to Keith, much as a gambler might send a die spinning across a board. Aware of how much his mother liked the man – seeing how hard she had tried to hide her despondency after the trip to Hull with his aunt – baffled as to why a few miles' separation should be so terminal, the idea of sending the newspaper clipping had dropped into his mind like inspiration, a sudden seeing of what could, should, be done. And then when it had all worked so well, Roland had experienced a rush of satisfaction similar to the final brushstroke on a painting when the work was done and something beautiful had emerged. In add-tion to which, their gratitude to him had been thrilling, more than making up for the inevitable sense of displacement at having a third place set at the table and finding strange socks lying on top of the laundry basket. Converting the attic had helped too – an obvious ploy of Keith's to win his affections but done so swiftly and so well: with two dormer windows, the light up there was as good as it would be in the classiest studio and Roland had felt nothing but gratitude. Best of all, Keith loved his mother: it shone out of him, in every cup of tea he made for her, in the way he watched her talk, in the alertness of his responses to each colour in her messy rainbow of moods.

  Roland's trance of contentment was broken by a cry from the back row, a cross between a shout and a squawk, not proper crying so much as a noisy assertion of a small presence based on the recent discovery that vocal cords could do many things. It took considerable self-discipline – a reminder of the correct decorum – for Roland to resist turning round. Next to him Ed stiffened. Maisie and Clem, positioned in the row behind, both sneaked a glance over their shoulders, while Chloe and Genevieve, ignoring their mother's glare, stood on tiptoe to get a good view of their aunt and the new baby.

  Cassie, hot and anxious, wishing she had worn cotton instead of her thick wool suit, tried the tip of her finger instead of the dummy. Gemma sucked hard, making little smacking noises and blinking in surprise. Looking up, Cassie relaxed as Charlie caught her eye and winked. She wanted so badly not to make a hash of things, not that day, not any day. She had never been more exhausted in her life, more out of control, more happy. The cottage remained in a state of merry chaos, the half-unpacked boxes now jostling for space among the paraphernalia concomitant upon mothering a child. During the first few days, she had been prepared for Jessica to come charging down the front path saying that the letter offering guardianship of her daughter meant nothing, that she had changed her mind, and so Cassie had done her best to keep her heart and her bank balance in check, buying no toys, no clothes, doing only what was strictly necessary, dimly imagining that such resistance might protect her from the agony of disappointment. But it hadn't lasted. Half-love was not possible, Cassie had discovered, not for a charge so sweet, or for a carer whose heart was so primed and eager. It was all or nothing, like falling in love, the headlong kind she had despaired of finding, as impossible to resist as gravity. It might go wrong, but so might anything. Life was so miraculously unpredictable – the arrival of Gemma had taught her that – and she had resolved to go with the flow, wherever it might lead.

  They had got to the signing stage now. Serena and Peter had stepped forward as witnesses. Gemma had settled against her shoulder, her cheek tucked snugly into the hollow above Cassie's collarbone, her breathing as quick and warm as little kisses against Cassie's neck. Relieved, truly relaxed now, Cassie let her gaze shift from the signing to the ramrod back of her nephew, who had arrived – deliberately, no doubt – too late for a proper introduction. She felt sorry for him but also a little impatient. It was tricky, of course, but keeping his back turned wouldn't solve anything. If he tried to scoot off after the ceremony she had every intention of running after him, not just to get the introduction over with but to reassure him that he had nothing to be afraid of, that families were often untidy but no less happy and functional for that. In addition, she had something to give him. Tucked alongside the envelope addressed to her – buried among the packets of nappies and baby clothes – there had been another, thinner, one, saying ‘Ed,’ with ‘PRIVATE' printed carefully next to it. Cassie had been carrying it around in her handbag for days, wanting many times to defy Serena's advice about not ringing the doorbell of Melanie's family home but refraining out of respect for the word ‘private' and the certainty that Ed would not like to receive such a document within sight of any audience, least of all his new girlfriend.

  As Peter kissed his sister, then bent forward to sign his name, Helen's eyes flicked to the vase of flowers on a small pedestal behind the desk. It was important to concentrate on real objects, she scolded herself, rather than the hazy swirl of feelings that the ceremony had evoked. It was a civil procedure, after all, nothing grand, nothing sacrosanct, and between two people who had made such vows before and who, one assumed, had broken them. All in all, it was nothing to get too emotional about, though she wished them well, of course. How could one not? Launching themselves back into the stormy sea of compromise and commitment, the impossible challenge of blending two contrary lives, two sets of hopes, two… Helen could feel herself swaying slightly as the flowers – white lilies, pink roses, feathery green foliage – blurred with her tears. She was not going to cry. She was not. Stupid, sentimental, crocodile tears – she wanted none of it. Checking that neither of her daughters was watching, she ran her sleeve quickly under her eyes and reassembled her expression in preparation for when Peter returned to his seat.

  And then, suddenly, it was all over. Charlie led a round of applause while Elizabeth and Keith kissed as bashful newlyweds. As everyone left their seats Keith's boys, who had sat so still and wide-eyed on either side of Irene throughout the proceedings, set off round the room, like exploding fire-crackers, shrieking as they dodged chairs and their aunt. Keith, moving more quickly and with more confidence than his sister, soon had one child pinned under each arm, where they remained long enough for Elizabeth to give them each a small parcel.

  ‘Bribery,’ she whispered, kissing Charlie who, like all the adults, was jostling for the chance to offer congratulations. ‘I've discovered it works wonders… but the moment we get back you'll have to dig out a pump.’

  ‘A pump?’ said Serena, butting in for her own kiss.

  ‘I've given them a football each – really good ones – but they need blowing up.’

  ‘Ed's bike's got one, I'm sure –’ Charlie began, breaking off as Peter pushed through the throng to greet his sister and the registrar called out that, much as she hated to break up a party, it was time for them to vacate the room.

  In the mayhem it was easy for Cassie to tap on Ed's shoulder and slip Jessica's note into his hand. He shot her a look of something like terror, then sidled away. She returned to Gemma, whom Pamela had seized the moment the ceremony was over and settled in the crook of her arm with the deft, gentle – unteachable – authority of a great-grandmother. As Cassie approached, signalling that they should follow the others out of the room, Pamela cradled her charge more tightly, scolding her that one visit a week simply wasn't enough and what was she going to do about it?

  Helen, surveying the scene through still misty eyes, amazed as they all were at Pamela's easy accommodation of the latest twist in the mesh of family life, felt suddenly, horribly, on the outside of it all. The group was moving towards the door now. Genevieve and Chloe had been swept along with them. In the hallway outside she could make out the bobbing heads of the next wedding party. She could see the back of Peter's head too, the neat line of his recent haircut, the crisp fold of his suit collar. He was patting Keith's shoulder, saying something that made him laugh. Desolation swept through her, so violently that she put out a hand to steady herself. It was over
. Peter was gone, and it was over. He had begged forgiveness and she had refused. They were both moving on, moving away. Helen looked again towards the family group, steeling herself for the effort of catching up and joining in with it. As she did so Peter dropped his arm from Keith's back and glanced over his shoulder – looking for her, clearly… or was he? Helen stood very still. She felt bleak and forgotten. She wanted to be remembered, to be looked at, to be cared about – all the things that Peter's sister and her new man still had the luxury of taking for granted. Peter's eyes found hers at last, but only briefly. There was a flicker of a smile – no more than a twitch, nothing warm or reassuring – before he was swept away by his family.

  She caught up with him in the street outside. The light, muted by cloud all day, was already receding and it had turned much colder. The shoppers hurrying by had their heads hunched inside their coats. The bulk of the family party was already moving off down the street towards the Festival Theatre car-park. Peter was holding Genevieve's hand and saying something to Chloe. Next to them Theo, as tall as his father now, was stooping to respond to some pleasantry offered by his grandmother. The group pulled apart as Helen approached. Pamela, tugging on her gloves, said they had better be going, hadn't they?

  ‘Where did you park?’ Helen asked.

  Peter nodded at the entrance to an alleyway across the street. ‘St Cyriac's. What about you?’

  ‘The same… but I think I've left my gloves in the register office.’

  ‘We'll wait, if you like.’

  ‘Don't worry. Perhaps you could take the girls and I'll follow.’ She hurried back inside, returning, gloves found, a few minutes later, to find Peter waiting alone next to a lamp-post.

  ‘I let Theo take charge. He's good at that.’

  ‘Like you.’

  ‘Hmm… probably, poor sod.’

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could we… could we… er… drive in convoy?’

  ‘Convoy?’ he echoed stupidly.

  ‘The one-way system… I always get lost.’

  ‘Of course. No problem.’

  As they turned to cross the road towards the alleyway a motorbike roared up from the roundabout by the theatre. Noisy, within the speed limit, it offered no threat, but Peter reached instinctively for Helen's elbow to ensure there was no danger of her stepping into its path. Helen shook it off and took his hand instead, his big, firm, familiar hand, with the Harrison signet ring slotted on to the little finger, where it had worn a groove for itself. ‘Peter, I don't know how to say this… don't really know what I want to say except…’ They had reached the other side of the street, which was busier. A woman in a Puffa jacket had parked her buggy across the entrance to the alleyway and was talking loudly into her mobile phone: ‘You tell him from me I don't give a flying fuck what the fuck he thinks…’

  ‘Except?’ Peter prompted, trying to keep the hope from his voice, convinced he was to hear more about convoys and one-way systems.

  They stepped awkwardly round the buggy, which contained shopping-bags rather than a child. ‘I cannot forgive you,’ Helen murmured, once they were in the alleyway, ‘but I'm beginning to understand that the day may come when I shall wish that I had.’

  ‘Right. I see,’ Peter muttered, seeing nothing, in fact, but grey cobbled paving-stones and the shine of his black brogues, polished that morning with spit and a tea-towel.

  ‘Those words you gave me…’

  ‘Words?’

  ‘On the envelope, at the gallery.’

  Peter groaned. ‘Oh, those words. I'm sorry about that.’

  ‘They moved me deeply. Love is what you arrive at. I thought that was very good. I've had it sitting on the desk at home, next to all my stuff for the lawyer.’

  ‘Ah, the lawyer.’

  They were nearing the end of the alleyway now. Ahead they could see the start of the car-park and Genevieve swinging on her brother's arm.

  ‘I think it's what has been stopping me.’

  ‘Stopping you?’

  ‘Sending the stuff to the lawyer – my income and outgoings. They've been ready for weeks, only I can't bring myself to post them.’

  ‘Oh, Helen.’ She stopped walking. ‘Oh, Helen,’ he repeated, while the girl with the buggy of shopping strode past, still yelping into her phone.

  ‘I'm not promising anything. I don't know anything. I just… Since you wrote those words and then today, I just don't want – can't – bring myself to give you up. I've been praying too, which I know you won't like to hear but –’

  ‘Praying?’ Peter was almost weeping. ‘Helen, my darling, you pray all you like. If this is what it does, I might try it myself. Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry, so very sorry for everything. I will make it up to you, I promise.’

  They were hugging when Chloe came running into the alleyway, her new dress, which was shorter than her mother would have liked, riding high above her knees, exposing her skinny shins and the curious tasselled suede boots that she had insisted were necessary to complete the outfit. ‘Oh, blimey,’ she gasped, stopping several yards short and looking appalled rather than pleased. ‘We were just wondering where you'd got to.’

  ‘Well, now you know,’ said Helen, sounding arch but grinning with a goofiness that made her look not far off fourteen herself.

  There was something almost bridal about the way Peter and Helen held hands to complete the journey through the archway and out into the car-park. Warned by Chloë, the little group waiting among the cars tried not to stare too hard or look curious; all, that is, except Genevieve, who pointed an accusing finger, shouting, ‘You kissed. Chloë saw you! You kissed!’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Maisie, sighing happily, ‘what a day.’ She reached across her sister and swiped Ed's cigarette from his fingers. ‘I need a drag.’

  ‘I thought you'd given up.’

  ‘I have.’ She inhaled deeply, then handed it back to her brother. ‘You've never smoked, have you, Theo?’

  Theo shook his head, then stuck an elbow into Roland's ribcage as his cousin emitted a hoot of scorn. ‘Not tobacco, anyway.’

  ‘Really?’ Maisie was trying to bat the smoke away from a scowling Clem and raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, next time make sure I'm there, okay?’

  Theo, worried on account of Chloe, who had crept out to join her cousins in the cloisters, said, ‘Enough, okay?’

  ‘I know what you're talking about – I'm not that pathetic.’ Chloe pressed a little nearer to Clem, who had won her heart during the afternoon with several sips of wine and at least two admiring remarks about her new boots.

  ‘Why did you dump Julian, anyway, sis?’ asked Ed, lazily, tossing the cigarette into a flowerpot and tucking his hands under his armpits. Like all of them he was cold. It was hardly appropriate weather to be sitting out on the cloister bench and in deckchairs admiring the view. In fact, there wasn't a view, except of the lawns and the winter skeleton of the pergola. Beyond that the countryside was smothered in a thick mist that looked as if it had rolled down like a stage curtain from the sky. He had come outside originally to have a kick-around with Craig and Neil. When Keith had called them in he had turned to find his sisters and cousins ranged in a small grandstand in the cloisters, chuckling at his eagerness to show off his rusty schoolboy skills.

  ‘Because he was an arse,’ retorted Maisie, after a pause, prompting a round of guffaws, especially from Theo, who said, ‘Good girl,’ and patted her leg.

  ‘So you can play the field at Bristol, more like,’ said Ed. He could feel Jessica's note under his crossed arms, pressed next to the packet of cigarettes in his breast pocket. He had opened it with trembling fingers in the privacy of his bedroom, his heart thick with the dread of threats and recriminations, the certainty of continued entanglement, only to find something quite different, something almost noble, he decided now, recalling each brief word. You were right, I shouldn't have had her, but now she's here I just wanted her safe. I know you'll keep an eye on he
r. Whatever you might think, I did love you, Ed Harrison, once upon a time. Goodbye and good luck and all that.

  So, nothing to dread, after all. Just as the baby – his baby – hadn't turned out to be so dreadful either. He'd had a proper look at her at last, peering into the pram, which Cassie had parked in the hall outside the drawing room, after he had come down from the bedroom. She was like any other baby, small and peaky-faced, like a little gnome. His aunt Cassie had caught him but not said anything, which was decent and just the way he would have wanted her to play it. And then, a little later, after Gemma had woken up and his grandmother had brought her into the drawing room, she'd been passed round like a parcel, admired and gurgled at, and he had held her for a little bit and no one had said anything stupid or made him feel bad. Just like none of them was saying anything now. It had made Ed think that in giving the baby to his aunt, Jessica had probably done the right thing, that his life would be a lot easier, a lot less burdened – not just financially but because it was preferable to know where his daughter was instead of living with the terror of being presented with her at some inconvenient, unguarded moment. She was present already, and it felt sort of okay. God alone knew what and when they would tell her about how she got into the world, but with his faith restored in the supporting network of his family, Ed was sure that wouldn't be so bad either.

  The conversation had shifted to marriage. Chloe, bored and self-conscious, had sloped back inside.

  ‘It's great about your mum and dad, Theo,’ ventured Clem.

  Her cousin made a face. ‘Early days. Dad's behaved like a total tosser. Frankly, I think Mum's barking mad.’

  ‘But then it is barking mad, isn't it?’ put in Maisie. ‘Look at Aunt Elizabeth trying it for a third time. I mean, what is that?’