‘Nearly everyone in France uses homeopathic remedies,’ murmured Agnès.
‘Absolutely,’ crowed Geoffrey. ‘Billion-euro industry. There’s big money in astrology, too, I daresay.’
‘Patrick is having to turn away patients,’ said Belinda proudly. ‘People come from miles away to see him.’
‘If he’s that good, then all the more shame he threw away a medical career. He could’ve been a top surgeon by now.’
‘I like what I do. The way I do it.’
‘You never would be told.’
‘No.’
‘Your fish pie is delicious,’ Agnès addressed Belinda. ‘You must give me the recipe.’
‘Thanks. It’s very easy. I’ll write it out for you.’
‘You wouldn’t treat Daniel your way, though, if he was ill?’ demanded Geoffrey, adding, out of politeness, ‘Or Belinda, either, of course. You’d take him to a proper doctor?’
‘Of course he would!’ declared Agnès.
‘We’re perfectly responsible parents,’ said Belinda lightly, starting to clear the dishes. Patrick pushed his plate towards her, wishing for silence to engulf him.
‘Children go down with things so rapidly at that age,’ fretted Agnès. ‘You used to get so ill when you were little.’
‘I didn’t, Maman. No worse than any other kid.’
‘But I used to worry so.’
‘I left my glasses upstairs.’ Geoffrey pushed back his chair and walked out of the room. Agnès looked at Patrick wide-eyed.
‘It’s all right, Maman. Everything’s okay.’
They heard a door close upstairs then, a few moments later, the chirruping sob of Daniel woken from sleep.
‘He’s disturbed the baby!’
‘No,’ soothed Belinda. ‘He’ll turn over and go back to sleep.’
‘He won’t be used to hearing strange people in the house! He may be afraid.’
‘No one’s afraid, Maman.’
‘But—’
‘Everything’s fine. Nothing’s happened. Dad’s only gone to get his glasses. He’ll be down in a minute for his pudding.’
‘It’s fruit salad,’ offered Belinda. ‘Or there’s some cheese,’ she added hopefully.
‘Why is she like that?’ Belinda asked as Patrick got into bed beside her. ‘Does he beat her, or something?’ He sighed, not saying anything. ‘What’s she so scared of?’
‘Nothing. He’s never hit anyone. He hardly ever even shouts. He means well, he just can’t imagine anyone not desperately wanting precisely what he wants. And he’s so incredibly tense all the time. They both are. They think it’s normal.’
‘How on earth did you cope as a kid? All by yourself, not even a brother or sister?’
He made a joke of it. ‘Who says I coped?’ Before she could say more, he pulled her to him, covering her mouth with his, his hand already stroking her hip. Both relaxed into the kiss, in no hurry to take it further. He twisted round to switch off the light, then let his conscious mind contract into the single easy focus of his desire for her. But, as they touched each other, he picked up the murmur of his father’s deep voice through the wall, a couple of feet away from his head, heard the bedhead knock lightly against it as one of his parents moved. He groaned, rolling away onto his back.
‘Never mind.’ Belinda kissed his cheek and turned over, snuggling her behind close against him. ‘Sleep well.’
But he couldn’t sleep. He lay there, almost expecting to hear, as he had done in his childhood when his father was abroad on business, the sound of his mother getting up and tiptoeing around the house, checking the locks, making sure the kitchen taps weren’t dripping, that the gas was off. Repeatedly. Sometimes eight, nine times, up and down the stairs, in and out of the kitchen, before she finally remained in bed long enough to fall asleep. The more Geoffrey stayed away, the worse it got. Or, as it had finally occurred to Patrick to wonder after he’d left home, was it the other way around? That the worse it got, the more his father chose to stay away?
The next morning, the family set off to climb the Downs. Patrick led the way, Daniel in a carrier on his back, smothered in sunscreen and wearing a cute cotton hat. The footpath was steep, but he preferred this route because it was less frequented than the more popular trails, especially on a Sunday in July. The sky was cloudless. The hot weather had held for several days now, and was forecast to continue for the rest of the week. Patrick enjoyed the exertion, feeling the muscles in his calves and thighs begin to stretch and relax. Agnès came up beside him, catching at Daniel’s waving hand.
‘You like being up high, with your papa!’ she said to him brightly. Patrick smiled at her. Perhaps today they’d all relax and begin to enjoy one another’s company. ‘You’re a lucky little boy,’ she continued. ‘I never even met my papa.’
‘We’re hoping maybe this year we’ll start a brother or sister for him,’ Patrick told her happily.
‘Oh!’ As usual, he could see that her genuine delight was almost immediately clouded by a rush of anxiety as all the catastrophes that might attend a pregnancy and birth engulfed her.
‘Wouldn’t that be great?’ he instructed her firmly.
‘Yes. Oh, yes, Patrice, of course.’ Bravely, she banished the dread, yet he watched her hand flutter to the buttons on her shirt, then pat her pocket to ensure the handkerchief was not lost, before checking both earrings were still in place.
‘Maybe I could give you a remedy that would boost your confidence, Maman. You deserve to enjoy yourself once you’re all settled here.’
‘A remedy … yes. Not that I need anything, I’m really quite all right. But if you’d like me to have one, I’d like that. I’m sure it would help, if it came from you.’
When they reached the top, there was the slightest of breezes and, with the detail lost in the heat haze, a view of Sussex that seemed timeless. Belinda gratefully removed her own backpack, which contained the picnic, then lifted Daniel out of the carrier. While she handed out cups of water, followed by a splash of white wine, Patrick kept watch over his son’s explorations. He was amused at how swiftly Daniel became engrossed in an investigation of the striped snail shells and dried-out rabbit droppings he discovered in the cropped grass.
Tired by the hot climb, the adults were content to pick at the food – French bread, Brie, green olives and tomatoes – and enjoy the view in companionable silence. Conversation resumed as Daniel napped on his special blanket in the shade of an umbrella propped up on the grass beside him, and Patrick was pleased that their quiet talk of music and concerts and changes in the countryside flowed in an easy way, skirting any potential rocks that might have sunk their pleasant Sunday afternoon torpor. At that moment he felt proud of them all for being a normal family; then, with a cynical laugh to himself, reconsidered the thought: surely no real ‘normal family’ would ever give themselves a pat on the back for being one.
Once Daniel woke up, he wouldn’t sit still. Stumbling on the uneven turf, the toddler discovered that he could roll a little way down the slope. Shrieking with theatrical fear, he began to throw himself down deliberately, rolling over two or three times before Patrick, stationing himself below, caught him and placed him back on his feet, ready to do it all again. Geoffrey watched approvingly: a proper boy, he’d be a good sportsman one day, but each time Daniel began to roll a little further, Agnès became alarmed. She tried to hide it, to join in the laughter, but eventually was overwhelmed. ‘He might tear his clothes!’ she protested anxiously.
‘Won’t matter,’ answered Belinda, not appreciating the scale of her mother-in-law’s distress. ‘He’s nearly grown out of them anyway.’
‘Surely that’s enough, now?’ Agnès pleaded. ‘He’ll be sick.’
‘He’s never sick,’ Belinda responded stoutly, still unaware.
Agnès kept quiet, but her hand flew to her mouth when it looked at one moment like the child might wriggle out of Patrick’s grasp. Finally her fear escaped her: ‘What if he hits his hea
d on a stone?’ she cried.
Patrick took the cue, caught Daniel and held him firmly. ‘That’ll do, young man. Let’s find a quieter game now.’
But as Daniel struggled to escape his grip, Patrick’s foot slipped slightly on the short grass and he trod backwards a single step. He easily regained his balance, but too late to stop Agnès scrambling to her feet in terror, crying, ‘They’re going to fall! They’ll fall!’
Before Patrick could get to her to reassure her, let her touch her grandson and feel for herself that he was perfectly safe, Geoffrey was beside him. ‘For God’s sake, get that child out of here!’ he hissed. ‘Can’t you see he’s upsetting her? Take him away.’
Stretched out on either side of them were the smooth, massive humps of the South Downs, above them a vault of clear blue sky. There was nowhere to go.
Supper that evening was a subdued affair. Agnès commented apologetically that maybe they’d all had a little too much sun, while Geoffrey failed to grumble even about the lasagne being vegetarian. In an effort to distract them, transport them to another time and place, Belinda cheerfully asked what plans they had for Josette’s ninetieth birthday. Maybe they could all go to France together? For a moment no one spoke, then Geoffrey observed that Agnès usually went on her own to visit her mother. ‘Now Josette is so old,’ he added, ‘she may find it confusing to have strangers descend on her en masse.’
‘Strangers?’ queried Belinda. Patrick parried her look of incredulity.
‘She’s as sharp as she’s ever been,’ answered Agnès. ‘I’m sure she’d like a celebration. And she loves children. Doesn’t she, Patrice?’
‘Yes, Maman.’
‘You were very happy there with her, just the two of you, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, Maman. Always.’
‘She would love Daniel, just as she loved you. And me.’ Agnès turned to Belinda. ‘My papa died at the very end of the war, before I was born. Ma mère never remarried. Once I left France to marry Geoffrey, she was alone.’
‘It seemed a kindness for us to let Patrick spend the school holidays with her,’ expanded Geoffrey, and Patrick recognised the familiar dialogue. ‘Much better for a boy to have space to run around instead of being cooped up in an apartment.’
Patrick saw Belinda’s head shoot round in surprise. ‘You never said you spent holidays with your grandmother.’
It was Agnès who answered, in well-worn phrases. ‘It gave him continuity. It would have been unnerving for him to keep coming home from school to different houses, different countries. Josette offered him familiarity, a home from home … didn’t she, mon chéri?’
‘Yes, Maman.’
‘You were seven when you started boarding, weren’t you?’ asked Belinda. Patrick nodded dumbly, concentrating on swirling his wine around the glass.
‘British executives who worked abroad had their children’s public-school fees paid by the company,’ Geoffrey informed her, with subtle pride.
‘So when did you three get to see each other?’
‘I didn’t spend the whole of every vacation in France.’
‘And remember, I was travelling on business all the time,’ added Geoffrey, seeking to clarify matters. ‘I wouldn’t have been around much anyway.’
‘So it was Josette who more or less brought you up?’ Belinda made no attempt to disguise her amazement at only now discovering this about her husband.
‘I told you I used to stay with her,’ protested Patrick. ‘And Maman used to come, too, sometimes.’
‘Yes, but I thought it was just an occasional visit. I’ve not heard you talk about her as if she was such an important part of your life. I never realised—’
Patrick could see that Belinda was stumped. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she had risen from the table, picked up her violin and begun to play, immersing herself in a language that made perfect sense and evading the chaos contained in this ostensibly sensible conversation. But instead, she was staring at him, her forehead uncharacteristically furrowed.
‘You didn’t even invite her to our wedding!’
‘She doesn’t speak English,’ explained Geoffrey patiently. ‘Never leaves France.’
Patrick gave Belinda the open, candid look he gave his patients when they were confused or distressed. ‘I guess a child’s memory of time is different. I was pretty young.’
She nodded, but continued to observe him as if for the very first time. He shrank from her sharp gaze, imagining himself as some chemically stained organism taped under a microscope.
‘Well,’ said Geoffrey, leaning back in his chair, ‘that was quite a meal, Belinda. Thank you.’
The expression on Belinda’s face as she looked at them all around the table, thought Patrick, was the same as when she accidentally struck a dissonant note on an instrument. But, with a slight shake to clear her head, she set about removing the plates. As she went to the fridge to fetch the apple snow she had made for pudding, he became aware that he was breathing through his mouth, that his heart was beating rapidly. Fearing to give himself away, he fought the urge to make a run for it.
After Agnès and Geoffrey had gone up early to bed, he told Belinda he would clear up. That done, he sat at the kitchen table, tracing the grooves in the scrubbed pine surface with a finger, waiting for silence above. Only when he hoped his wife was fast asleep did he go upstairs.
It was with relief that Patrick shut himself in the car the next morning for his drive to Ditchling. Belinda didn’t teach on a Monday, so Daniel didn’t go to the childminder. It had been arranged that Geoffrey and Agnès would stay until Tuesday, but although Patrick had re-scheduled some of his patients, he apologised that he nonetheless had to go to work on Monday, though he would come home early. Meanwhile, Belinda would take them out somewhere, maybe to Charleston Farmhouse or Firle Place.
At Ditchling he parked in the yard and walked down the side of the building, opened the door to his office, and breathed in the still air of rooms unoccupied over the weekend. The solitude acted like a balm, and by the time his first patient arrived, promptly at half-past ten, he felt less bruised, more able to deride his susceptibility to his parents’ dysfunctions. Really! So his poor mother’s anxiety had developed into Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and his father, given half a chance, tended to be avoidant. But hadn’t he escaped from all that, made his own life? He had stopped considering his parents as ‘home’ when he left school. Though he admitted that marriage had been largely Belinda’s idea, he’d been content to go along with it. He loved being a father and everything seemed to be working out pretty well. Now, sitting opposite him was a forty-year-old man in loose faded jeans and work boots, a local builder, who had originally come to him with a bad back and open scepticism and was now arriving at the point where he could admit to having sexual problems. What could be better, on a Monday morning, than to win the trust of a decent, unassuming man like this, and perhaps even be able to help him?
And yet, as the day wore on, that ability to help, to heal, seemed to elude him. All practitioners got stuck from time to time, hit an invisible wall when none of their insights proved useful, when none of the selected remedies, so carefully thought out, appeared to make the slightest difference. And he knew that at such a disjunction his colleagues would advise confidence, clarity and vigour, the courage to see homeopathy as not just a science but an art – an art that took depth and originality to accomplish well. He was experienced enough not to blame his patients for their lack of beneficial response: it was he who was stuck, not they. And it wasn’t as though he had far to look for the reason! His negative state of mind had left him susceptible to an accumulation of unresolved past actions which had imprinted on his vital force. When he had time, he would consult a colleague for a remedy to dispel such influences but, meanwhile, the awkward frustrations of the morning forced him to acknowledge how much his ability to heal others sustained him, too. Yet he resented the insight. He needed such self-awareness to remain unthought, to stay just
out of reach, so that the alchemy of the healing encounter remained unself-conscious. The moment that healing became a conscious act of will, an act, then something precious, the something of value he offered his patients, was irretrievably lost.
And so, when he reached home, even though his family had enjoyed their day out, he was unable to shake off his impatience. Agnès was touched that he had remembered to bring her the promised Rescue Remedy and was certain it would do her good, even though she was equally certain she didn’t need rescuing. Over dinner, the others chatted about their visit to Daniel’s favourite zoo park, fondly recounting his delight in the otters’ aquatic acrobatics, and Patrick admired the scarf Geoffrey had bought Agnès in the Charleston shop. Yet, despite the positive mood of the evening, Patrick could barely wait for Tuesday morning when his parents would leave.
*
It started in the spare bedroom with a tussle over who should carry the suitcase down. As Patrick had anticipated, with Agnès’ anxiety provoked by their imminent parting, breakfast had been tense. Now Geoffrey took his son’s appearance in the doorway as a challenge to his dominant position in the pride of lions and, glad of a release for his tension, began roaring that he wasn’t so past it yet that he couldn’t carry his own luggage! So Patrick followed his father submissively down the stairs to the hallway, where Belinda was getting Daniel ready to go with Patrick once Agnès and Geoffrey had departed.
‘What’s the best route onto the M23?’ Recognising Geoffrey’s man-talk as a peace offering, Patrick gave the appropriate responses. Agnès came out of the kitchen, where she had insisted on washing up the breakfast things, and stood watching uncomprehendingly as Belinda put on Daniel’s shoes. She turned to Patrick. ‘Doesn’t the infant stay home with you?’
‘Patrick’s working,’ explained Belinda.
‘Oh,’ exclaimed Agnès, relieved. ‘He goes with you to work. I didn’t realise.’
‘He comes with me, yes.’ Patrick looked at Belinda, willing her to interpret correctly his appeal to say no more.
Out of Sight Page 2