Out of Sight

by Isabelle Grey

  A seagull’s cry reminded him of the proximity of the sea. He could hardly believe that he was walking here in Brighton, unscathed. He felt as if, over the past twenty-four hours, he had been through a baptism of fire, emptied out and re-filled, made anew. It seemed impossible that he had survived the trauma of a second ambulance journey, another wait in A&E, and yet, miraculously, all had turned out well. For the first time he wondered if perhaps he had been wrong all these years to regard himself as a leper, an outcast. Maybe that was what Belinda had wished him to understand in her insistence that he had to want a life for himself. He rolled the words around his mouth: ‘My family.’ ‘My partner’s son.’ Here were roles others wanted him to play. Worthy roles in which he could be of use, could serve, maybe even win some small measure of redemption.

  They found Rob groggy after the anaesthetic, and stood hand in hand beside his bed. Rob glanced at his mother, apparently reading in her face a confidence that pleased him. He held out his hand formally to Patrick.

  ‘Just wanted to say thanks, mate.’

  Touched by the gallant gesture, Patrick shook the proffered hand. An image of how Daniel might have turned out at this age streaked across his mind, but he let it go, made no attempt to seize it, smiled steadily through the pain.

  ‘I called in at a chemist and bought you a couple of remedies,’ he told Rob, placing the tiny bottles on the bedside locker. ‘They won’t interfere with whatever medication you’ve been given, but they’ll stimulate your body’s healing responses and help your bones mend more rapidly.’

  ‘My own personal physician!’

  Patrick smiled. ‘And why not?’

  Vicki grinned. ‘I think we’re in good hands now.’ She turned to Rob. ‘Is there anything else you want? There’s a shop downstairs.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind some chocolate. And something to read.’

  Vicki patted his arm. ‘Back in a minute.’

  Patrick pulled up a chair and sat down, unsure what to talk about. Rob was frowning, biting his lip, and Patrick wondered what he was psyching himself up to say. ‘What’s happened to my bike?’ he asked finally. ‘Did anyone say?’

  Patrick laughed. ‘No. I had to abandon mine, too. I was hoping one of your mates would’ve dealt with them.’

  Rob frowned again, unsure.

  ‘If not, then I’ll buy you a new one!’

  ‘Watch it! You have no idea what mine cost,’ Rob warned. ‘Not with all the modifications I made.’

  ‘Just don’t worry about it, okay?’

  ‘How come? You an international jewel thief or something?’

  Patrick grinned, but spoke solemnly. ‘No. I sold a house in France recently, that’s all. An inheritance. The money should come through soon.’

  Rob shrugged, scrutinising Patrick’s face. ‘Sounds like you’re planning to stick around?’

  ‘Yes. I am. I’d like to take care of you and your mum, if that’s okay?’

  Rob relaxed back against his hospital pillows. ‘Sure. Fine by me.’

  Later that afternoon, as Vicki sat playing whist and rummy to pass the time with Rob, Patrick took a bus to one of the bigger villages north of Brighton. There he asked directions in a local newsagent before walking a few streets to a wide horseshoe of small detached houses, settled enough in their landscape to look no longer new. Diagonally across from them was an open area of grass with some swings, a rubbish bin, and a bench on which he went to sit. From this vantage, he could see driveways, garages and curtained front windows. Belinda had written to him when she remarried, a brief and considerate note explaining that she thought he ought to know, and wanted him to hear it from her. He had been gladdened by her news, hoping it meant she had recovered from the worst of her grief, that he had been right to go and leave her free. Since then he had heard no more from her, but, knowing her married name, it hadn’t been difficult to find her address.

  He sat in the July sunshine, his gaze resting comfortably on the place where Belinda dwelt, the unremarkable house onto which he projected his wishes for her peaceful and contented life. It was a quiet Monday lunchtime, and few people came or went, only a postman intent on finishing his round and a few passing cars. He had no real idea quite why he wanted to be here. There was nothing he needed to say to Belinda and he didn’t expect, or even especially want, to catch a glimpse of her. It didn’t occur to him that she might notice or recognise him. He felt like a ghost, invisible, unconnected. His mind registered the fact that a half-drawn blind at an upstairs window was printed with the kind of cheerful, primary-coloured design that usually signified a nursery, but he chose not to speculate further. After nearly an hour, he got up and strolled back into the centre of the village. As he stood waiting for the three o’clock bus, he watched several mothers pushing small children in buggies, and hoped that Belinda now took her place amongst them.

  Riding back into Brighton, looking out at the streets and houses and thinking of all the lives led in them, Patrick allowed himself the indulgence of imagining for himself what he so sincerely wanted for Belinda – a safe haven, an absence of grief and alarm. Yet he also recognised the old thoughts and feelings churned up by such wishes: the terror that it was dangerous even to entertain such a vision, that to do so invited catastrophe and punishment, and that catastrophe and punishment were all he deserved.

  He cast his mind forward to Vicki playing cards with Rob and waiting for him to return, and instructed himself that accidents could and did happen without fatal consequences. The bus lumbered past endless terraced streets: how many of these houses had seen tragedy? Not every one, surely? There must be some houses in which life passed uneventfully and in relative security, where people did not live constantly on the edge of panic.

  Patrick acknowledged how impossible it had been after Daniel’s death to let go of the terror that had possessed him, body and soul, and to believe in a future where the worst might not happen. He thought of Josette, eight months pregnant in 1944 when her husband shot himself; of Agnès born into a time of acute anxiety, anger and guilt. But, recalling with sharp regret his own inability to accept Belinda’s generous compassion, he could summon no admiration for Josette’s iron resolve. He saw clearly now how his grandmother’s rigid self-control, her lack of forgiveness, disguised a cowardice for which others had paid the price.

  He no longer blamed himself for his refusal to allow Belinda’s forgiveness in those first few months after Daniel’s death. He had been deranged by shock – as no doubt Josette had been by her husband’s suicide. But afterwards? Then he had unwittingly copied the example she had set and been as culpable as she in clinging to a secret that barricaded out anyone who offered comfort. Images of Leonie came to mind, of how successfully she had broken through his isolation; and with them a painful flash of recognition that he had failed her more severely than he cared to acknowledge.

  The bus drew up outside the station where its route ended, and, relieved, he got to his feet. As he stepped down, he knew that this was his last chance, that if he did not make good his promises to Vicki and her son he would be lost.

  III

  The evening was sweltering, and Leonie was with Stella heading for an after-work swim in the Ladies’ Pond on Hampstead Heath when Gaby called again. Stella listened with a deepening frown to Leonie’s awkward side of the conversation and, when she ended the call, stood on the path staring at her oddly. ‘You never told me Gaby wants you to go back.’

  Leonie swallowed guiltily. ‘It’s more than that,’ she confessed. ‘She’s offered me a partnership. Take over when she retires.’

  Stella was too generous not to dismiss her own hurt feelings. ‘But that’s wonderful, Lennie! Amazing! Congratulations!’

  ‘Thanks.’ Leonie returned Stella’s embrace with an uneasy conscience.

  ‘So what are your plans? Will you have to buy her out, or what? You’ll be set up for life!’

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’

  ‘Then what’s the matter? The agency’s on
a pretty solid footing, isn’t it? And you loved living there, wanted to stay.’

  ‘I am very tempted, but …’ Leonie sighed and looked down at her feet – red toe-nails and flip-flops.

  Stella coloured. ‘Jesus! It’s him, isn’t it? You’ve seen him again.’ She walked away, hugging her bag of swimming gear tightly against her chest.

  ‘Stella, wait!’ Leonie caught her arm, but she refused to stop. ‘Listen. I knew you’d be angry. That’s why I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘You bet I’m angry. You lied to me!’

  ‘I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you.’

  ‘What’s the difference? Don’t split hairs with me!’

  ‘Okay, I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m sorry. Please, Stella, don’t make me choose. You’re my best friend. No one could ask for better. But … I’m not sure yet whether I might still be in love with him.’

  ‘How can you be?’

  ‘I can’t help how I feel.’

  ‘After what he’s done? That’s pathetic.’

  ‘No, it’s not!’ Leonie almost had to run to keep up with Stella. ‘That’s what love is. You can’t help it. You have to go with it.’

  ‘No, you don’t. That’s fantasy.’

  ‘It’s what life’s about, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s like women who stick with some bloke who beats the shit out of them, just because he says he’s sorry afterwards!’

  ‘What if he can change?’

  ‘So let him change. Then see what you want.’

  ‘You’re jealous!’

  ‘Oh, please!’

  ‘You are! Because you’re too scared to try again, to risk getting hurt! Afraid of love!’

  Stella rounded furiously on Leonie. ‘Look, when I was a kid I dreamt of being a prima ballerina, but I’m not whining that my whole life’s been wasted because I’m too tall to dance at Covent Garden. Sorry, but this is just so much romantic crap!’ Clearly making a huge effort to curb her tongue, Stella appealed less harshly to Leonie. ‘Jesus, listen to us.’

  Leonie took a deep breath and, in turn, spoke as reasonably as she could. ‘It’s not crap to want to see him again. To give it a chance. Make sure I’m not throwing away something precious.’

  ‘And then what?’ demanded Stella.

  ‘I honestly haven’t decided.’ She hung her head again. ‘What if he wants me to stay?’ When Stella did not reply, Leonie looked up apprehensively, expecting contempt, but this time saw perplexity and concern.

  Stella waited until two other women approaching along the path and watching them with open curiosity had gone by. ‘Has he said plainly that he wants you to stay?’ she asked.

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Not quite?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to influence my decision.’

  ‘This man who’s failed ever to tell you the truth about himself, who killed his son and abandoned you when you were pregnant?’

  ‘But what if he loves me?’

  Stella regarded her incredulously. ‘So what if he does? You might as well believe in fairies at the bottom of the garden.’ Then her voice softened. ‘Lennie, how much of this is about losing the baby?’ she asked in a gentler tone. ‘About wanting another child?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So what did he tell you about his son’s death?’ Stella waited in vain for an answer, then, perceiving the truth, shook her head. ‘You still haven’t asked him,’ she stated flatly.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not? Don’t want to upset him, I suppose,’ she observed sarcastically. ‘Too afraid he’ll do another runner? How can you bear it that he never tells you the truth?’

  ‘How do you start to tell a thing like that?’

  ‘How do you live with yourself if you don’t?’

  ‘Can’t we go and swim?’ pleaded Leonie miserably. ‘Talk about this later?’

  ‘If you like.’ Stella shook her head in frustration, but they set off again along the path. ‘Though listen, Lennie. You still have stuff in storage in Riberac to sort out, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why not go do that?’ she urged. ‘Stay and help Gaby for a few weeks. Talk through her offer properly. Get some perspective. Hardly like you’re giving up much here work-wise.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Leonie had to admit to herself how unbearable it would be to turn down Gaby’s offer.

  ‘If Patrick’s feelings are real, then he’ll still be here, won’t he?’

  Leonie nodded, glancing sideways at her friend. ‘But Stella, don’t you want to fall in love again?’ she asked, desperate to understand. ‘Long to really feel? To live?’

  Stella shot her a resentful look, but then evidently thought better. She sighed and shook her head. ‘Doesn’t seem worth it to me,’ was all she said.

  The following evening Stella returned home looking shamefaced and agitated. Her hand shook as she poured herself a slug of wine from a bottle left unfinished the previous night. Leonie was slicing vegetables, and Stella nervously eyed the large kitchen knife in her hand.

  ‘Lennie, I have something to tell you.’

  Leonie put down the knife. ‘Go on.’

  Stella knocked back a mouthful of wine. ‘I went to see Patrick today.’ She held up a hand to forestall Leonie’s protest. ‘I realise it’s none of my business. I’m not sure what on earth I supposed I was doing, but I felt I had to do something. See for myself just what he’s playing at this time.’

  ‘To warn him off!’ said Leonie furiously.

  ‘Kind of. But he wasn’t there.’ Stella took a deep breath. ‘Oh God, this is awful. I don’t want to tell you, but the receptionist said—’ Stella took another deep breath, then went on, articulating very precisely, ‘The receptionist said he wasn’t in today because he was down in Brighton with his family.’

  ‘His family?’

  ‘Lennie, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘But it’ll be some mistake. She must’ve got him muddled up with someone else.’

  ‘No. We had quite a chat. When she saw how surprised I was, she said she had no idea either that Patrick was with anyone. Explained that his partner’s son was in hospital there with a broken ankle.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How old is this son?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Did you tell her about me?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You should’ve done!’

  ‘Well, she made a note of my name. Said she’d tell him I’d been in, so maybe he’ll work it out for himself. I’m so sorry, Lennie.’

  Leonie’s mind was already racing ahead, trying to keep up with the rapidly changing geography of her emotional world. ‘In Brighton, you say?’

  ‘That’s where he lived before, isn’t it?’ Stella echoed her thoughts. ‘Where his son died?’

  ‘The bastard.’ Leonie collapsed into a chair, beginning to tremble uncontrollably. ‘I can’t believe it. Why couldn’t he just tell me the truth?’

  ‘I’ve been dreading having to upset you all over again.’

  ‘You did warn me! And I knew. Deep down, I knew none of it was real. How could I be so stupid?’

  Stella leant across to squeeze her arm. ‘I’m sorry.’ She got up and poured a second glass of wine. ‘Here.’

  ‘He chose to see me again. Took me for a picnic on Primrose Hill. Held my hand. I believed he was being so kind because he loved me. He knew that’s what I felt, and did nothing to stop me.’

  ‘It’s cruel.’

  ‘Someone phoned him when we were together. It was probably her!’

  ‘I wish I could help.’

  ‘You tried your best, and you were absolutely right.’

  ‘Doesn’t give me much comfort now.’

  ‘We sat there for hours. He talked and laughed and we star-gazed. And all the time none of it was true. None of it. Why? Why do that?’

  ‘Did you sleep with him again?’ asked Stella cautiously.

  ‘No. But I would have. Jesus, it makes me feel s
ick.’

  ‘A lucky escape.’

  ‘Thank God I hadn’t said no to Gaby.’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  Leonie shook her head in disbelief, absently sipping her wine. ‘I can’t imagine how he does it,’ she said at last. ‘Was he actually congratulating himself on how clever he was being, spinning his lies and making such a fool out of me? Of her, too, if that was her on the phone. Is that really who he is?’

  ‘Some people keep separate compartments,’ offered Stella. ‘If he doesn’t want to think about something, he just doesn’t. Like he didn’t think about his son that day.’

  Leonie stared at her, dumbfounded. ‘But what does he get out of it?’ she asked herself. ‘That’s what I can’t figure out.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘Though I suppose I did know it was some kind of act,’ Leonie admitted. ‘It was just as much me convincing myself that night, wanting to believe in my fantasy of happy-ever-after.’

  ‘That doesn’t excuse him,’ observed Stella. ‘He doesn’t care about anyone but himself.’

  ‘Maybe he can’t.’

  ‘Such a shit. He’s never going to change.’

  ‘Nor me, pinning all my foolish hopes on love.’

  ‘Well, it’s not stupid to act in good faith,’ declared Stella. ‘And that’s all you’ve ever done.’

  Leonie shrugged, feeling suddenly and intensely bereft.

  ‘His loss, not yours,’ Stella insisted.

  Leonie smiled at her in gratitude, and wistfully agreed.

  Three weeks later, Leonie waited again outside the Angel Sanctuary. At first, she had intended never to see Patrick again. Nor had he called her, though whether from further cowardice or some tardy sense of honour, she had been unable to decide. But even Stella agreed that she deserved ‘closure’.

  To begin with, Leonie had been aware of a huge emptiness within her, a blank space around her heart which until recently had been filled with yearning and conjecture. Though the lack of activity now felt odd, it had taken surprisingly little time to colonise the space with new plans and ideas. As a future partner in Gaby’s business she would be able to afford to rent, or eventually buy, somewhere much nicer to live than her old cramped apartment. Audra could help her buy interesting pieces to furnish a new home. She could have a garden. Martine had mentioned that her brother, who had recently re-located from Paris, was eager to be re-introduced.