He thought about it for quite a long time and then gave an honest answer. ‘Not altogether, no,’ he said. ‘He’s taken quite a bit of blame to himself being it was their relationship that did the damage. But I think he blames me for other things, for not seeing it coming, not preventing it, not being there to stop the girls running away. I could be wrong. But it’s what I feel. I’d be more comfortable here if you’d put up with me.’
‘I’ll put up with you and put you up,’ she joked. ‘And I’ll let you do the washing up. How’s that?’
‘Handsome. You’ve not to let me keep you up, though. I tend to talk all hours when I get the chance. As you see.’
‘No problem. When I’m tired I go to sleep.’
‘Now what?’ he asked. ‘Shall I make some coffee?’
She took him up on that offer too, but followed him into the kitchen to talk on. They had progressed to such an extraordinary state of intimacy that she felt she could ask him virtually anything.
‘When we were all together at Christmas,’ she began, ‘you said something rather odd.’
‘Sounds likely,’ he said, measuring instant coffee into her two mugs. “All the world’s queer save thee an’ me, an’ I can be reet odd when I like.”’
‘It was something you said about the Quennells. You said, “They include you in.” What did you mean?’
He explained easily, standing before her, teaspoon in hand. ‘They never make you feel an outsider. They extend the circle and include you. But …’
‘But you feel an outsider just the same,’ she said as the kettle boiled. ‘Welcomed but not part of the family. I felt that too. It’s because they’re so close.’
‘That’s part of it,’ he admitted, as they carried their mugs into the living room. ‘But there’s more to it than that. The truth is, I’ve never felt welcome. Tolerated would be nearer the mark. Not welcome.’
It seemed ridiculous that anyone could feel unwelcome in the Quennells’ friendly house. Welcoming was what they were good at. And yet Andrew had made all this trouble for her by speaking out of turn. ‘Why not?’ she asked, sitting at the table.
He drank his coffee, debating whether to confide in her. ‘I was a jobbing gardener when I met Susan,’ he said at last. ‘Very lowly sort of job, is that. Especially to a doctor. I never felt approved of. I always had the feeling they thought I was below her. Not the sort of husband they wanted for their daughter. And they were right, seemingly. I’ve failed her altogether now.’
She dismissed his pessimism and sprang to their defence. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong,’ she said. ‘They’re very fond of you. I’ve heard the way they talk about you.’
‘Oh, they’re fair,’ he admitted.
‘Not fair,’ she told him, irritated that he was misjudging them; ‘fond. They’re fond of you.’ But the smile he gave her showed he didn’t believe her. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve got an axe to grind now – I’ll tell you about it later – but I know you’re wrong about this. Andrew may have all sorts of faults.’ Hadn’t Nick told her he wasn’t perfect? ‘We all have. But he’s not prejudiced and he’s not a hypocrite. If he says he likes you, then he does. He tells the truth. It’s one of his strengths.’
‘An axe to grind?’ he said. That was as hard to believe as everything else she was telling him. ‘You? About Andrew?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Me. About Andrew. It was his fault I was burgled. The burglar as good as told me so.’
‘What?’
‘He’d brought a newspaper with him. Said it was all over the front page that I was a millionaire so I deserved to be burgled. It was too. I saw it. There was a picture of me and a picture of Andrew. He’d been talking about me on some television show.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It was in the paper. I saw it. It’s in the bin now but I’ll show it to you if you like.’
He finished his coffee, thoughtfully. ‘I think you’re making a mistake,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t talk about your private affairs in public. Not Andrew. It’s not his style,’
She shrugged.
‘What does Nick say about it?’
‘Nick’s in Paris,’ she said shortly, and when he raised his eyebrows: ‘We had a row and he went off with his friends.’
‘Ah! When was that?’
‘Wednesday evening. We were going to spend the evening together but then he proposed to me and I said no and he went off in a huff.’
That made him laugh. ‘And you’re surprised?’
She felt she had to justify herself. ‘He said I needed looking after and I ought to marry him.’
‘And you said, no thanks. I don’t want your pity.’
There was a hint of mockery in his voice and hearing it, she didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed that he’d understood her so well. ‘Very perceptive,’ she said.
‘It’s one of the first things I noticed about you,’ he told her, speaking seriously. ‘Your independence. You were independent at the party, wheeling yourself about, determined not to be a nuisance to anyone. You made your own bed. You washed the carpet when you spilt your coffee. We were impressed.’
‘Actually,’ she remembered, ‘Nick washed the carpet.’
He gave her his wry smile. ‘So you do let him help you sometimes.’
‘I was in a wheelchair,’ she pointed out, with some asperity.
He smiled at that too. ‘Point taken. So. Nick’s gone to Paris and missed all the excitement. Does he know what’s been going on in his absence?’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ she said. ‘He phoned earlier this evening and I told him about the burglar but then the time ran out and he didn’t ring back.’ It still upset her that he hadn’t tried to contact her again. This time she had hoped it would be different. But it hadn’t been. He didn’t care. ‘He made sympathetic noises but he didn’t ring back.’
‘We’re a pair,’ he said. ‘Rejected lovers the both of us. You’ve been on your own since Wednesday and I’m on my own tonight. Our stars must be crossed.’
‘Something’s crossed certainly,’ she said. ‘I’ve never known a day like today. Nothing’s been what it seemed.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Not much. I feel as if I’ve been at sea all day and in a force nine gale. I’ve got a pupil who usually sits in a heap and won’t talk, and this morning he suddenly finds his tongue and turns out to be a really nice kid. I come home for a bit of peace and quiet and catch a burglar. Your girls turn up.’
He joined in the litany. ‘My sensible Susan locks herself in her bedroom.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘It must be the stars. And then there’s you. I thought you were the most laid-back, contented guy I’d ever met and you turn out to have a chip on your shoulder.’
He was stung to hear her say such a thing but swallowed and took it. ‘Is that how it looks?’
She returned his gaze, afraid that she might have gone too far but standing her ground. ‘That’s how it looks.’
He considered for quite a long time. Then smiled. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘you might have a point. But …’ returning fire with fire, ‘what about you? I thought you and Nick were in love.’ And when she made a face: ‘OK. OK. That’s what it looked like at the party. And yet you bawl him out when he proposes.’
She winced at that and decided to close the subject. ‘You’re right about one thing,’ she told him. ‘You talk too much. I’ll get your blanket.’
He took the hint. ‘Right. I’ll do the dishes. As promised.’
As she walked through the hall towards the bedroom, she remembered her original plans. ‘I was going to have a bath,’ she said. ‘My stump’s a bit sore. I’ve been on my feet since five o’clock this morning.’ And as she pulled the spare blanket out of the wardrobe, an idea occurred to her. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t lift me out when I’ve finished, would you? I can get into a bath, but getting out’s tricky.’
‘I’d be honoured,’ he said, ‘if you’ll trust me.’
‘After all the things we’ve been saying to one another this evening, I think I could trust you with anything,’ she said. And limped into the bathroom.
It was bliss to be lying in hot scented water at last, letting the warmth ease the ache in her stump and listening to him clattering about in the kitchen, knowing that the chores were being done. Domestic bliss, she thought, and the idea pleased her. It was quite a disappointment when the water chilled and she had to get out.
She hung on to the handrail and straggled to her remaining foot, got her balance, pulled the bath towel round her as well as she could and called.
He appeared at once, in his shirt-sleeves, his hands speckled with traces of soapsuds, his hair untidy. The change in his appearance made her suddenly aware of how attractive he was, of how he must look at work, Rob the gardener, with his strong shoulders and those competent hands and that thick springy beard. He seemed to have brought his outdoor life into her little steamed-up room. She half expected trees to branch out of the walls, or fruit and flowers to blossom among the tiles.
‘OK,’ he said.
She waited for him to stand still so that she could lean on him while she hopped over the edge of the bath but instead he scooped her up in his arms and lifted her out like a child. It was done so quickly and so easily that she was being held before she could protest. And very pleasant it was, this sense of being held close and protected.
He stood for a while, with the steam swirling behind him and looked down at her as she lay against his chest, one rosy arm flung about his neck, her dark hair damp, brown eyes lustrous in the muted light of the little room. And as she looked up at him, the moment held and extended and became unreal. It was as if they were under a spell. Then he recovered his common sense and lowered her gently into the chair, sat on his heels before her, so that they were eye to eye, and tried to joke.
‘Aren’t you taking risks,’ he said, ‘allowing a strange man to see you like this?’
The Elastoplast had come unstuck. She peeled it all off and threw the tatty pieces in the bin. ‘You’re not a strange man,’ she said and was alarmed to realise that she was breathless.
‘I’m a man.’
She struggled to control her breathing. ‘That’s no problem,’ she said, speaking as lightly as she could. ‘I’ve got one leg.’
‘Ah!’ he said and there was a depth of meaning in that one little sound. ‘And you think that makes you unattractive. Is that it?’
‘Well it does, doesn’t it,’ she said, looking round at the discarded clothes littering the floor and the prosthesis standing against the bath in the full glare of its surgical ugliness. And she tried joking too. ‘I haven’t got a leg to stand on.’
‘Is this what it is between you and Nick?’ he asked. ‘You think he’s pitying you. That he only loves you because you’ve been injured. Is that it?’
She hadn’t faced it quite so squarely and his question confused her; she knew there was more to Nick’s love than mere pity. But she tried to answer. ‘Well possibly. Yes. I think it might be. I mean …’
‘No man alive could pity you,’ he told her. ‘You’re gorgeous.’
She looked a question at him.
‘Yes,’ he told her honestly. ‘You’re turning me on.’
She should have been shocked to be in such a compromising position, shocked to hear him say such a thing. But she wasn’t. She was delighted. Suddenly she felt superb, normal, worth loving. ‘Really?’
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. ‘There isn’t a man in his senses who wouldn’t be turned on by you. You. As you are now. Gorgeous.’
It was a wonderful moment. You. As you are. But a very unfair one. ‘If that’s the case, you’d better clear off and let me get respectable,’ she said.
When she hopped out of the bathroom, swathed in her bathrobe and very respectable indeed, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I needed …’
She nodded to show that it was all right and then continued with their conversation as if there’d been no intermission. ‘I was rotten to Nick,’ she said. ‘I should have explained. Not bitten his head off.’
Rob had been thinking much the same thing. ‘I was rotten to Susan,’ he confessed, ‘shouting at her like that.’
‘I shall explain next time.’
‘I shall try your placards.’
‘Very sensible,’ she approved.
He put the cigarette in his mouth and picked up his bedding. ‘Time to sleep,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘And we’ve come a long way.’
He gave her his wry smile as he left the room. ‘True,’ he said.
Chapter 36
When Gemma woke the next morning, the first person she thought of was Nick. It was nearly half-past nine, the birds were singing in the garden, the room was warm with sunshine and Rob was gone. If it hadn’t been for the pile of bedding left neatly on the sofa, the events of the previous evening could well have been a dream.
Then she remembered that the police were coming and got up at once to wash and dress. I should have set the alarm, she thought, as she pulled her last clean Ottobock sock over her stump.
That wasn’t all she should have done. As she walked through the hall to the living room, she saw her shoulder bag and the bag she took to school flung in a heap in the corner, and with them the carrier bag from Monsoon. She’d left her lovely, new, expensive dress lying on the floor all night and forgotten all about it. What a way to go on! She took it into the bedroom and hung it up at once to make amends. Then she got her breakfast.
She was touched to find that the table was laid, complete with a blue vase containing six newly picked daffodils, a newspaper propped against the milk jug and a leaf from a notebook lying across her plate.
Thanks for everything. Have phoned Amersham Road. The girls and I are going back to York on the first train to write our placards. Saw the daffs in the garden and thought you would like them. Found this newspaper in the bin and have read it. Suggest you do too. Very interesting. Will ring when I have any news. R.
It was the Daily Chronicle that the burglar had taken out of his pocket and flung on the bed. There was her picture on the front page, and Andrew’s, and the headline: TV GURU AND CRASH HEROINE. What a lot had happened since then. It was as if she’d seen it first in another lifetime.
She read it as she ate, as if it were an ordinary day and an ordinary newspaper. And discovered, to her horror, that it hadn’t been Andrew who had talked to the press, after all, but her wretched father. What a load of rubbish, she thought. Tug of love! What does he think he’s talking about?
The more she read, the more upset she became. How unfair I’ve been, she thought. Rob was right. It’s not Andrew’s style to give trashy interviews to the press. I condemned him without looking at the evidence. It shamed her to remember how readily she’d jumped to conclusions. As soon as these damned policemen have come, I’ll go round and put things right, she decided. And at that moment, with perfect timing, the police car arrived.
Her visitor was a stolid, middle-aged sergeant who took his time over everything and kept checking his facts. He wrote down every word she said, and when she handed over the stolen cash cards, not only did he produce a plastic envelope and seal them away, but he composed an elaborate description of each and every one and where and how they’d been found.
‘Well ma’am, you’ve given me an excellent description,’ he told her, when he finally put away his notebook. ‘We should be able to find our chappie with all this information, especially the tattoo, and the cash cards. There’ll be a few people happy to see them again. I assume you’d be prepared to attend an identity parade.’
She would.
‘Splendid!’ he said. ‘Now I’m sure you won’t mind if I give you a little warning before I leave you. It’s sometimes necessary to point this out, you understand. Having a go is often admirable – it was in your case – but usual
ly I have to say it’s foolhardy. You don’t mind me pointing this out, do you?’
‘But I caught him.’
‘Yes, ma’am, you did. But you might have been hurt.’
‘I lost a leg in a rail crash,’ she told him with pride. ‘My burglar was nothing compared to that.’ She was delighted to see that she’d thrown him.
‘I’m sure he wasn’t,’ he agreed, recovering quickly, ‘It’s not wise for all that.’
But I’m not wise, Gemma thought. I’ve never pretended to be. I’ve always made mistakes. I shall probably make a lot more today, and the day after and the day after that.
He stood up to take his leave. ‘Your daffs are pretty,’ he said. ‘First I’ve seen this season.’
In York the daffodils were still in bud. Their straight leaves massed like spears on the grass embankments below the city walls but the blaze of their flowering was still to come.
‘It’ll soon be spring,’ Rob said to his daughters. ‘Let’s buy some daffodils for your mother.’ There was just time to pick up a bunch from the stall before the train to Poppleton was due. ‘Two dozen,’ he said to the assistant. A single bunch was nowhere near enough. Massed, they might cheer her.
The house was full of sounds, music playing and people talking. They could hear it all quite clearly as they stood on the doorstep.
‘There you are,’ Rob said, ‘she’s up and about.’
But to his disappointment, it was only the radio playing. He must have left it on when he went rushing out. And as it was still playing, Susan must still be locked away. So they went upstairs to see, and called her, one after the other, and all together. But it was a waste of time.
‘Never mind,’ Rob said. ‘I know what we’ll do if you’ll help me.’
They were ready for anything. So he led them to the garage and between them they carried the ladder round the side of the house and propped it against the bedroom window. Then they got a basket and a length of rope and the daffodils and several sheets of card on which they wrote messages. And when everything was ready, he climbed up to the window.
Gemma's Journey Page 40