Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Cheers then.” He was gone, a long, loping figure.

  “Clio, come on in,” said Jocasta’s voice, and she was not only in the house but held in Jocasta’s arms, and she was crying again, and Jocasta was stroking her hair, and talking meaningless, soothing nonsense and then leading her into a warm, chaotic kitchen where she sat her down and placed a large mug of coffee in front of her and Clio stared at her and thought, as she had thought so long ago, what an amazingly nice person she was, and wished she hadn’t let her go.

  Chad would have been proud of her next day, Martha thought, half impressed, half ashamed of herself; after her feverish, fretful night, she got up early, took Bella the elderly Labrador for a walk (knowing she would meet other dog walkers she might be able to talk to about her political plans), and then attended family communion and the coffee-and-biscuits get-together in the vestry afterwards: saying that yes, it was true, she was hoping to be adopted as the local candidate for the Centre Forward Party, that she did indeed have the support of Norman Brampton, adding that she would be around all week, apart from Monday, that if anyone wanted to talk to her about it further, she would be at the vicarage, and she actually had some leaflets about the new party if they were interested. After that, she went to see Norman Brampton, who was clearly bored while his wife fussed around him.

  “Give anything to be in your shoes,” he said, “going mad here. Anyway, I’m delighted with what’s happened—you’d certainly have been my choice and you’ve obviously impressed them no end. And what’s Jack Kirkland like? I always admired him, but he keeps one at arm’s length rather, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s a bit of an enigma, actually,” said Martha. “He seems so forbidding and stern, but in fact he’s extremely kind and thoughtful. He’s wonderful in the Chamber—”

  “I see you’ve picked up all the jargon,” he said, smiling at her. “Well done. Now, how about another coffee, while we discuss the next year or so?”

  And so the day went on; Martha went home and managed to eat quite a lot of the lunch her mother had cooked—she must have put on pounds this weekend—and helped her clear away against a backdrop of Binsmow gossip. She took her for a drive out to the meadows and walked slowly along the tow path with Bella and then home again, where she helped her father sort out some flyers for a concert at the church in early June. And all the time doing what she had done all her life, suppressing the fear, denying the memory, struggling to control the uncontrollable.

  She had sat for a long time the evening before, in a lay-by, staring at the photograph, reading and rereading the caption, calming herself by sheer willpower. Of course she was being absurd. Hysterical. The country was filled with thousands—millions—of fifteen-year-old girls. Several hundred of them undoubtedly called Bianca. It wasn’t that unusual a name now. Anyway, this one, the one with the beloved grandmother (would you be that close to an adoptive grandmother?—surely not) wasn’t called Bianca, she was called Kate. Bianca was just a middle name, an after thought. And what if she did have that hair? Millions of them had that hair, that long, wild hair. Blond hair. Probably carefully lightened by the newspaper to make her look more glamorous. And she was only fifteen. No—nearly sixteen. They would have said that if she was. In fact, Kate Bianca would have said she was sixteen. All girls of that age wanted to be thought older than they were. No, the whole thing was ridiculous.

  And she put the paper in a rubbish bin, very carefully and deliberately, and texted Ed—she didn’t dare speak to him just yet—then drove slowly home where she sat and watched television with her mother, while her father wrote his sermon.

  First Blind Date, then Casualty, and then a murder mystery, an endless stream of mind-numbing rubbish. Only it didn’t numb her mind quite enough; when she went up to bed it was still throbbing feverishly.

  There was a text from Ed. “All hail to the new PM,” it said. “Love you. Ed xx.” It made her feel suddenly, wonderfully better.

  But not for long…

  She stood at the window, staring out at the starry sky, wishing the night away. It would be better in the morning; everything was always better in the morning. And how often had she told herself that, almost sixteen years ago?

  “I cannot believe this is still going on. Haven’t people got anything better to think about?”

  “What’s still going on, dear?”

  “Look for yourself. Half a page nearly. What’s this garbage doing here anyway?”

  Jim passed a crumpled copy of the News on Sunday across the supper table to Helen. IS THE NHS RIGHT OFF ITS TROLLEY? it said right across one of the inside pages.

  “That’s clever,” said Kate, craning her neck to read it. And then as her father frowned at her: “Sorry, Dad. It’s Sarah’s. She brought it round because there was a story about Robbie in it.”

  “Robbie who?”

  “Dad! Get with the programme. Robbie Williams.”

  “Oh, I rather like him,” said Jilly. “Though I preferred him when he was in Take That. We always loved them, didn’t we, Kate?”

  “Yes, we did,” said Kate. She shot an expression of triumph at her father.

  “Anyway, Jim, why shouldn’t people read about him if they want to?” said Jilly.

  “Gran, it’s not about him. It’s about you!”

  “Me! Oh, how exciting. Is there a picture?”

  “There is no picture,” said Jim heavily.

  “Well, I’d still like to read it. Helen, after you, dear—thank you. Good heavens! Listen to this, Kate: ‘In the week that has followed the latest hospital scandal, and a neglected elderly patient…nearly died on a hospital trolley…57 percent of voters now think the NHS is in a worse state than it was when New Labour came to power in 1997. Will Mrs. Bradford and others continue to nearly lose their lives, as Tony Blair continues to play his guitar, while the NHS burns?’”

  “What does that mean?” asked Kate.

  “It refers to Nero,” said Juliet. “You know, fiddling while Rome burnt.”

  “Well obviously, Miss Smartarse, I don’t know,” said Kate. “It must be so wonderful to be so clever!”

  “Kate,” said Helen, “Juliet was simply answering your question. Now apologise. Please.”

  “Sorry,” said Kate in the flat, automatic tone she always used when asked to apologise.

  “It’s not very clever to display ignorance, you know,” said Jim. “You’ve had a perfectly good education and that is a basic piece of knowledge.”

  “Oh for God’s sake!” said Kate. “I’m going upstairs.”

  “You are not. It’s your turn to clear away.”

  “Oh, for f—OK, OK, don’t say any more.” She got up, started packing the dishwasher very noisily, cramming two plates into the space designed for one, pulling bowls away from people before they were empty.

  “Kate, stop that at once,” said Jim sharply.

  “You told me to clear away. Make your bloody mind up.”

  “Kate! How dare you speak to me like that! Go to your room.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure. And then Little Miss Mealy Mouth can do it all nicely and you can sit and admire her—”

  “Kate, you are not to speak of your sister like that.”

  “I’ll speak about her how I like. Anyway, she’s not my sister, thank God. Not really.”

  “Kate!”

  “I think I’ll just go into the other room,” said Jilly, “watch Monarch of the Glen, it’s so marvellous—”

  “She’s upset again,” said Helen, when she and Jim were finally on their own. Kate had apologised to Juliet and stormed upstairs, and Juliet had been comforted and was doing her piano practice. “I don’t know why. I mean, I do know it’s about her mother, but quite why at this point I—”

  “I’m getting very tired of that as an excuse,” said Jim. “She can’t be allowed to behave exactly how she chooses, simply because she’s had some trauma in her life. We’ve all had our troubles—”

  “Jim, I don’t think anythi
ng you’ve had to endure could compare with what Kate has been through.” Jilly’s voice came from the doorway. “I’m sorry to interfere—and I agree she was very naughty and rude this evening—but knowing she was abandoned by a mother who apparently had no interest in whether she lived or died is a dreadful thing.”

  “Mummy, please don’t—” said Helen, but it was too late. Jim had stormed out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, and the sweet tinkling of Susan Hampshire’s voice had been replaced by the harsh tones of Taggart.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” Jocasta looked at Clio thoughtfully.

  “Of course. I’ll go to these friends in Guildford, and they’ll put me up for a few days while I sort myself out.”

  “You’ve spoken to them, have you?”

  “Of course.”

  It was not a complete lie; Mark Salter had called her and in his sweet, tactful way had said there was no need for explanations, Barbara had told him all he needed to know, and that nothing would make him happier than to have her back in the practice, but that he would have to honour his fortnight’s commitment to the first locum. “I’m only sorry the circumstances are so unhappy for you.”

  She’d had that conversation in Jocasta’s bedroom, having explained it was rather delicate; Jocasta had clearly assumed it was Jeremy, and had made a second jug of coffee. Nick had returned by then and was smiling dutifully at her. Clio had suddenly felt appalling, a burden on a lot of perfectly nice people who were trying to have a normal, peaceful Sunday.

  “I must go,” she said. “Honestly, I can’t take up any more of your time.”

  “Of course you mustn’t go,” said Jocasta, “you’re staying right there. We’re not doing anything, are we, Nick?” and, “No,” he had said, after the most momentary of pauses, “no, nothing. In fact I’ve got to get back to my place and write a piece for tomorrow’s paper—Chris called while I was out running.”

  “Well, there you are,” said Jocasta. “Think how lonely and lost I’d be without you, Clio. It happens all the time, you know, I get abandoned just like that.”

  Clio excused herself and went to the lavatory so that they could communicate in peace; when she came back, Nick was in the shower.

  “I’m sure you think he made that up,” said Jocasta, grinning at her, “but he didn’t. Anyway, we can have a nice day together.”

  Clio was feeling too lonely and dispirited to protest any further.

  She tried not to tell her too much; it seemed absurdly disloyal to discuss a marriage—albeit a failed one—with someone who was not a close friend, but Jocasta was dangerously easy to talk to. She sat quietly most of the time, only speaking when a silence became too long, and then in the most minimal terms—“And then?” or “So you?”

  Clio tried to ignore the prompts, but as the silences grew, it became very difficult, and later, eased into greater intimacy by a good deal of wine, she told Jocasta this. She laughed.

  “It’s one of the first things you learn, the pressure of the silence. Carol Sarler, she’s the Daily Express columnist, you know, unutterably brilliant, she told me that she once sat for nearly two minutes in complete silence waiting for an interviewee to answer one of her more difficult questions. And he did. In the end, everyone does. Or walks out. But I try not to practise it in my personal life. Sorry, Clio.”

  “It’s all right,” said Clio. “I’m sure it’s done me good. In a way it’s better than some mutual friend who’ll feel they’re taking sides.”

  “Hope so. It does sound like you’ve done the right thing. Maybe a bit rash actually walking out, but—”

  “Jocasta, if I hadn’t walked out, he’d have talked me round. He’s a brilliant tactician. You’ve no idea how often I’ve gone into arguments knowing I’m right, absolutely knowing it, and ended up sobbing and asking him to forgive me.”

  Jocasta said nothing.

  “So—I’m glad, really. But it’s been very drastic. I wouldn’t like to relive this weekend.”

  “How many times has he called you?”

  A very long silence, then Clio said, not looking at her, “He hasn’t. Not once.”

  “Clio,” said Jocasta, refilling her glass yet again, “you have done absolutely the right thing. I know I shouldn’t say that, but it has to be true. And at least you haven’t had any children.”

  “No,” said Clio. And burst into tears again. This time she resisted the silence.

  “I think you should stay here tonight,” Jocasta said.

  “Jocasta, I can’t. And what would Nick say?”

  Jocasta stared at her. “I don’t give a shit what Nick says. This is my house, my life. It’s nothing to do with Nick. This is not the 1950s. And we haven’t even started on Martha yet.”

  “Martha! Have you seen her?”

  “Not exactly, but our paths may cross. She wants to be an MP, according to Nick. He’s met her. Says she’s rather important and successful.”

  “Well, she did seem very ambitious, even then. Funny thing, ambition, isn’t it? It seems to be in people’s genes. How about you, are your ambition genes powerful?”

  “Pretty powerful. Yours?”

  “More than I thought,” said Clio slowly. “I mean, when I first married Jeremy, I thought I’d want to give it all up, but I didn’t. I really minded leaving my job at the hospital—”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was a junior consultant. In geriatrics. I know it sounds rather dreary, but it isn’t, it’s fascinating and lovely and very rewarding. And then I really enjoyed general practice. I was so miserable the day I left. It wasn’t just because it coincided with the end of my marriage.”

  “So, now what?”

  “Well, for the time being I can go back.”

  “And long-term?”

  “I don’t know. Funnily enough, just a few weeks ago I heard from a colleague that there are a couple of new jobs in my old department. And they wanted me to apply. Of course it was out of the question, Jeremy was furious at the very idea…”

  There was a silence while Jocasta clearly struggled not to comment on Jeremy and his behaviour; then she said, “But now—why not?”

  “I don’t think I’ve got the stomach for it at the moment. I’m feeling a bit fragile, to put it mildly.”

  “Of course you are. But you won’t always. And it could be just what you need. New challenge, all that. It might not be the best thing, going back to Guildford, where Jeremy is. Look, why don’t you call those people and tell them you’re not coming tonight? We’ve got too much to talk about, and—Clio!” She had obviously read her face. “You weren’t going there anyway, were you?”

  “Not…exactly,” said Clio, “no. But—”

  “Right. You’re staying. Another bottle of wine, I think. I wish you smoked, Clio—you make me feel so corrupt.”

  She fetched a bottle of wine, opened it, and poured Clio a glass. “Cheers. Again. It’s lovely to see you. Even under such unhappy circumstances. Now—” There was a loud ring at the door. “Shit,” said Jocasta. “Excuse me a minute.”

  Clio took a large slug of wine, not really wanting to see anyone either, half listening to Jocasta greeting someone, then speaking rather quietly (obviously telling whoever it was she had an awkward visitor), and then finally walking in and saying, “Clio, look who’s turned up—Josh!”

  And there he was, standing in front of her, not greatly changed, much as she remembered him indeed, only there was rather more of him, all blond hair and blue eyes and wide, white-teethed grin, the cause—albeit indirect—of so many of her troubles. And now what should she do?

  Chapter 16

  “Hi, Martha! Blast from the past. Don’t you dare say you don’t remember me!” For the second time in forty-eight hours Martha felt time jerk to a standstill. She knew that voice so well; that musical, slightly low-pitched voice. The last time she had heard it, it had been calling her name across the crowded station in Bangkok. She felt the heat again, the suffocati
ng humid heat, and she could hear the noise, that strange, unmistakable blend of foreign babble, slurring Anglo-American, and the relentless pumping of pop music; and she felt her panic again, saw herself hurrying away, pretending she hadn’t heard or seen Jocasta, slipping into a tiny narrow street and taking refuge in the chaos of the stalls.

  “Martha? It is you, isn’t it? Chad Lawrence gave me your number. It’s Jocasta. Jocasta Forbes.”

  “No, of course not. I mean, of course I remember you. It’s very good to hear from you.” She could hear her own voice, astonishingly normal, pleasant, friendly, but no more.

  “I’d love to see you, Martha. You know, this weekend, it’s really weird, I’ve been with Clio.”

  “Clio Scott?” This was getting worse by the minute.

  “Yes. Bit of a long story how, big coincidence, I won’t bore you with it. Anyway, Chad tells me you’re joining them.”

  “Well, only thinking of it.”

  “Really? I heard prospective candidate for your hometown.”

  “No! Not yet anyway. I’m only a little way along the road. I’m sure it won’t happen. Look, it’s a bit difficult to talk just now.”

  “Exactly why I’m calling. To try and fix a meeting. Chad called me because he said he thought I might write an article about you for the paper.” God. Dear God. What might she ask, what?

  “In the paper?”

  “Yes. The Sketch, I write for it. I thought Chad had told you.” Pull yourself together, Martha, she must think you’re a complete idiot. “So what about it? It would really raise your profile, you know.”

  “I’m not sure I want it raised,” she said, and her voice now was really cool.

  There was a silence, and then Jocasta said, her own voice changed, “Well, if you’re going into politics you’d better get used to the idea. You can’t run with a low one, I’ll tell you that. Anyway, here’s my mobile number. Give me a call if you want to meet. When you want to do the piece.”