Sure enough, once the open doors had been secured, the foreman handed Agnès a clipboard, and, laughing and joking, followed her into the house carrying the cardboard box nearest to hand: it was clearly labelled, in French and in his mother’s rounded letters, ‘Kettle, mugs, tea, coffee and biscuits’. Patrick smiled at his father and stood back to take a proper look at the house. Although he suspected that his parents’ bland Euro-furniture would sit oddly against the Edwardian flourishes of this compact red-brick cottage, he could imagine them settling here.
‘What do you think?’ asked Geoffrey. Amazed, Patrick wondered if retirement had dismantled his father’s supportive hierarchies to such an extent that he was now prepared to tolerate his son’s opinions, and hoped that the loss of an executive infrastructure was not about to catapult Geoffrey into helpless old age. He kept at bay the knowledge that it was more likely his own culpability that had dealt the blow.
‘You’d better give me the tour,’ Patrick responded cheerfully. ‘Stay out of the way until Maman’s made the tea.’
The neatly proportioned rooms would need little in the way of refurbishment, and the small gardens, both pretty and relatively private, were manageable, which, Patrick guessed, was what had appealed to his father about the property. ‘I hope you’ll be happy here, Dad,’ he said, daring to place a hand on his shoulder.
Geoffrey nodded. Though he crimped his lips, he did not shrug off the physical contact. ‘I’m worried about your mother,’ he said abruptly.
‘Why, what’s up?’ When Geoffrey did not immediately reply, Patrick went on. ‘I haven’t spoken to you properly since Josette’s funeral. How did it go?’
‘Fine, fine. I mean, she was upset, naturally, but it all went off okay. No, you’ll see. Once the boxes are unloaded. The men do all the packing, but she likes to label them herself.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Geoffrey led the way from the garden in through the open French windows to where the uniformed men were already efficiently stacking up cardboard boxes. ‘See?’ he asked, showing Patrick where, on at least three of them, Agnès had written simply ces choses – those things.
Patrick stared at the words, but the meaning Geoffrey intended him to take from them eluded him.
‘You know how organised she is,’ Geoffrey said, an almost badgering tone creeping into his voice. ‘She has it down to a fine art. Won’t let me interfere. It was the foreman who pointed it out. When I ask, she insists she knows exactly what’s in each box.’
‘Maybe she does,’ said Patrick, realising as he spoke how ludicrous a wish that was, given how many identical boxes there were. ‘It’s just stress,’ he corrected himself. ‘She’s had a lot to deal with. She must be worn out.’ He half-expected his father to round on him, accuse him of causing his mother’s latest aberration.
‘You don’t think I ought to take her to a doctor?’ It dawned on Patrick that Geoffrey’s hectoring was an appeal, that what his father wanted from him was reassurance, command, to be relieved of responsibility.
‘Sure, why not, once you’re settled?’
His father nodded, uncertain.
‘I had some tests recently,’ Patrick hazarded, not wanting to detonate the tripwire of Daniel’s death. ‘Amazing what these scans and things can show.’
Geoffrey sighed heavily, shaking his head. ‘If only you’d stuck with medicine. Such a waste.’
Patrick almost laughed. The familiarity of blame was a relief, and evidence that his father was recovering his poise. ‘But why not wait a week or so?’ he suggested, making sure he sounded bright and optimistic. ‘She may be fine once everything’s sorted. After all, she’s been pretty positive about the move, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes. Yes, maybe you’re right,’ said Geoffrey dismissively, ready now to turn his back on the inconclusively labelled boxes.
Patrick took his cue. ‘I really wouldn’t worry about it, Dad.’ He watched in regretful amusement as, lacking the mechanism to show gratitude, Geoffrey expressed his renewed confidence by going out to the driveway to instruct the men that the dining table should be taken into the dining room. Feeling in his pocket for the remedies he had remembered to bring for his mother, Patrick wished it were possible to offer his father some kind of help.
An hour or so later Patrick went to assist Agnès in making up their bed. All the boxes stacked against the wall correctly declared their contents: duvet, pillows, sheets and towels. But when, delving into an opened box, he asked her which pillowcases she wanted, she looked at him wide-eyed.
He held up two cotton cases. ‘Do you want these plain ones on first, or just the ones that match the duvet cover?’
She looked from one piece of fabric to the other, then at him. ‘What are they?’ she asked. ‘What are they for?’
His heart sank. ‘It’s a covering for the pillow you’re holding, Maman.’
‘Of course!’ She laughed, and held out her hand, but then watched as, deliberately instructive, Patrick picked up a pillow from the bed and began slowly to encase it. Seeing her concentrate on following his example, he wondered how many hundreds of times she had put on and taken off pillowcases in her life. Yet an uninformed observer would have to conclude that she had never done this before. Usually, if somehow made to feel lacking or out of her depth, she would become agitated and apologetic, but Patrick realised that she was too engrossed, too intrigued by the novelty of her actions, to be anxious. In a way, perhaps it was a blessing.
The bed made, Agnès sat down while Patrick flattened and folded some of the unpacked boxes to get them out of the way and make more space in the room.
‘I hope you’ll be happy here, Maman,’ he said.
‘I think so.’ She smoothed the surface of the duvet beside her. ‘And you, Patrice? Can you manage to be happy again one day, do you think?’
‘I’m trying. For Belinda.’
‘Now you can sell Josette’s house and not worry about money. Spend some of it on yourselves. Go on a nice holiday.’
‘Maybe,’ he agreed diffidently. When Josette’s lawyer had first written to enquire about Patrick’s plans for the property, a decision did not seem urgent, so he had put off replying. As a second letter and then a third followed and went unanswered, he had begun to admit to himself the possibility of keeping the place. He had no idea why – it was impractical, and he certainly had no sentimental attachment to it – but he found increasingly that he liked the notion of possessing it.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t with you at the funeral,’ he told his mother.
Agnès nodded. ‘Josette should have married again. She was wrong to shut herself off from life the way she did.’
‘Did you ask her to leave the house to me?’ he asked, still struggling to believe that his grandmother’s bequest had been meant as a genuine gesture of affection.
‘No. It was her decision. She only consulted me so I should not feel passed over.’
‘I never thought she cared for me.’
‘She loved you. She just didn’t know how to show her feelings.’ Agnès twisted round to look across to the other side of the bed. ‘Pass me my—’ She waved her hand impatiently.
Patrick looked where his mother indicated. ‘Your handbag?’ he queried.
She nodded. ‘That’s it. Thank you, mon chéri.’
He fetched it from the bedside table, and she searched in its depths, drew out a manila envelope, then patted the bed for Patrick to sit beside her. She drew from the envelope several small, creased black and white photographs, the edges of the stiff paper crinkle-cut in the fashion of the 1940s. She handed the first one to him.
‘Your grandfather, Patrice Broyard.’
He looked at the image of a reasonably handsome man in his late twenties, wearing wide flannel trousers and an open-necked white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, smiling politely at the camera. Patrick took the second photograph, and smiled. ‘This is the one I used to have. Remember how I used to love old-fashioned adventure storie
s? Biggles and Sherlock Holmes and Rider Haggard? To me, the heroes always looked like this. I used to badger Josette to tell me more about him, but it just made her cross.’
‘I found these in a drawer of her desk. She never really liked me looking at them,’ explained Agnès. ‘You must sell the house now she’s gone.’
‘Do you miss her, Maman?’
Agnès looked up and out of the window for a moment at the new and disorienting view. ‘I wish I’d had more people in my life,’ she answered, studying the drifting clouds. ‘A bigger family when I was growing up. Maybe, if I’d been less alone, I’d have been stronger. A better mother.’
‘Hush, Maman. Don’t talk like that. It’s bad luck to be sad in a new house!’
‘But it’s true.’ She looked at him as if surprised that he should discourage her thoughts. ‘I should never have left you so often with Josette. She was too harsh.’
Patrick was surprised: Agnès had never spoken of her mother so plainly before. ‘I always felt I disappointed her,’ he started cautiously. ‘To begin with, when you left and I’d cry – like any child would,’ he added hastily, ‘she’d tell me I was a coward.’
‘She had no way of tolerating weakness. She’d shake me when I was little, tell me never to be afraid of anything.’ Agnès smiled in self-derision. ‘But I grew up afraid of everything.’
Patrick looked down at the photographs in his hand. ‘I tried so hard to be brave, like him. But I never matched up, wasn’t ever good enough.’ He touched his mother’s arm. ‘I wish I’d known you were grieving for the baby you lost. Maybe, instead of thinking it was my fault you were sad, I could’ve helped you.’
Agnès laughed sadly. ‘I was too afraid of upsetting you. Josette said I mustn’t let you see my grief.’
She shuffled through the remaining photographs, passing them to him one by one. They were all of Patrice Broyard, either alone or with Josette, a young couple standing awkwardly in their best clothes. The last one, the largest, had been taken on their wedding day, and showed Josette glowing with optimism and pride.
‘Such a shame,’ observed Patrick, handing them back. ‘You could’ve done with a dad.’ Instantly, he was pierced by his own failure as a father.
Agnès seemed to sense his shame. ‘I’m glad I can be near you now. Be of help at last. Not that I’m much use at anything.’ Her right hand fluttered to her earrings then down to her shirt buttons.
‘Of course you are!’ he told her brightly, trying to keep on breathing. ‘Let’s go back down. I’ll get the TV and stuff wired up for you.’
‘I shouldn’t have been so afraid to have another child,’ she went on, ignoring his move towards the door. ‘You and Belinda, you mustn’t be afraid.’
He gripped the door handle behind him.
‘You mustn’t shut yourself off from life like Josette,’ she said with sudden, wild determination. ‘Like I did.’
‘Of course I won’t.’
‘Promise me, Patrice?’
‘I promise,’ he answered automatically. He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on. I bet Dad’s ready for a drink.’
After the empty pantechnicon had lumbered away, they ate Belinda’s soup leaning against the kitchen counters. Rinsing out his mug at the sink, Patrick announced that he must be heading home.
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ offered Geoffrey.
‘No, you’re tired. You’ve done enough today.’
‘Order a cab, then. I’m sure we can find a number.’
‘Honestly, Dad, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘It’ll be dark any moment.’
‘I’d like to stretch my legs. Really.’ Meeting his gaze, Patrick wondered if his father was being deliberately obtuse.
‘Do what the hell you like,’ declared Geoffrey.
‘Anything you want me to do before I go? Shall I help you lock up first?’ Patrick said, following the direction of Geoffrey’s anxious glance.
‘Thanks,’ Geoffrey accepted curtly.
They went around the house together, Patrick reassuring his father that all the doors and windows were secure. Reaching to rattle the arm of a window catch, Geoffrey spoke without looking round. ‘It’s not exactly where we thought we’d end up, but it’ll do.’ He cleared his throat; his hand shook slightly and he withdrew it into a trouser pocket. ‘I always tried my best, you know,’ he told his reflection in the pane of glass before him.
‘I know, Dad,’ Patrick acknowledged quietly. He wanted to say more, to thank him perhaps, or tell him everything would be okay, but felt too depleted to come out with something he didn’t believe.
Patrick welcomed the lengthy walk back to the station. As the evening darkened and the autumnal dampness chilled his face, he lengthened his stride, releasing the tension between his shoulder blades. He emerged wearily from the cumbersome train journey back to Brighton into heavy rain blowing in off the sea, and prayed that Belinda would no longer be awake by the time he reached home.
In the morning when Patrick came into the kitchen Belinda gleamed up at him with what he quickly saw was a precipitous excitement. She reminded him of how Daniel used to be when he was over-tired.
‘I’ve had an idea!’
‘Oh?’ he said moving past her in search of coffee.
‘Let’s be like your parents. I thought of it yesterday, while you were over there.’
What?’
‘We can move house. Make a fresh start.’
Patrick reached for the loaf and cut slices of bread with extra care to give himself time to respond. ‘Do you think it would make such a difference?’ he asked. ‘Would a new house really change very much for us?’
‘We can use the money from your grandmother’s house.’
‘I’m not sure how easily it’ll sell,’ he prevaricated. ‘We’d have to wait and see what we get for it.’
‘We can always rent first. Better anyway to be cash buyers.’
‘You’ve got it all worked out!’
‘Yes! I’ve been talking to Grace about it. She thinks it would be good. Said I should go see an estate agent right away. At least find out what this place is worth.’
‘Okay.’ Patrick slowly unscrewed the lid of the marmalade jar. An insanely simple solution had taken sudden root in his mind. Recognising its treacherous perfection, he just as quickly suppressed it, clinging instead to the vague notion that selling a house was a long-drawn-out process that could be halted at any stage. Leave well alone, he instructed himself. Don’t open the door to crazy ideas. Feeling as if he were moving through a thick fog, he reached for the half-full cafetière. ‘More coffee?’ he offered. ‘I can make fresh.’
‘No, thanks,’ she answered impatiently. ‘Well, what do you think?’
He poured a cup for himself and sat down, unable now to avoid her scrutiny. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s all a bit unexpected. Let me get used to the idea.’
He made himself smile. A fresh start promised only failure. Better not to puncture Belinda’s euphoria today; better to let her carry on and maybe realise for herself further down the line that they were fine as they were, just about managing to cling on to what they had. But a second look at her face confirmed his first impression that her excitement was febrile and short-lived, that it hid some more strident despair. ‘Has something happened?’ he asked.
She hung her head, pushing a crumb around her plate with one finger. ‘One of the kids at school yesterday had a birthday. Brought me a slice of cake.’
He knew immediately what she had been thinking. Daniel’s birthday was not until the beginning of February, but this was the house to which they had brought him after his birth, in which they had celebrated his first birthday, first words, first steps. Belinda was right: she could not wait here for constant reminders of loss. Of what he, Patrick, had taken from her. He acknowledged that, in her own way, Belinda wanted to escape as much as he did. Knew deep down that Grace was right: Belinda would be better off without him.
‘I’ll do wha
tever you want,’ he said.
‘No.’ She looked at him straight, as if she had anticipated this answer. ‘You have to want it, too. It’s not just for me. You can’t live through me.’
Patrick began to walk further and further. Whatever the weather, it was the only way he knew not to succumb to the panic that robbed him of breath and filled his head with both dread and liberation. He still took the remedies he had prepared for himself when he first went back to his office, even though they did not help. He knew that his failure to look clearly into himself was to blame for the lack of a beneficial response, and that he ought to consult a colleague, but now that his sessions with Amanda Skipton were concluded he was unable to face speaking to anyone else.
In his worst moments, on days when he knew that Belinda pictured him busy at work, he strode along the South Downs Way trying to walk away from himself. He sought to conjure up an image of himself that he could like, to recover some instant in time when he could regard himself as innocent, as possessing some modicum of goodness, but none came. Instead, the alluring idea sang to him over and over again, a siren call that filled his real self, his better self, with guilt and self-loathing. He sensed a monstrous Doppelgänger in pursuit at his heels, whispering that he deserved to suffer, deserved to be alone. Its eyes bore the same triumphant expression as Josette’s when she had watched him stand, numb with homesickness, as his mother’s taxi drove away; the same hatred as Grace, hissing at him across the coffee mugs. As he walked, trying to outpace the demon, he was lured by the temptation to let it catch him up, and to surrender to it.
Once the For Sale sign had gone up outside the house, and buyers began to come and look around, Patrick used their invasion as a further excuse to walk. Mostly he intended merely to go as far as the seafront and back, but once in a while he found himself going in the opposite direction, on the outskirts of the town, heading along public footpaths towards the Devil’s Dyke. When the realisation of where he was broke through his body’s narcotic rhythm, it was an effort to stop and, with a yearning look at the path ahead, turn for home.
Out of Sight Page 20