Heaven's On Hold

by Heaven's on Hold (retail) (epub)

  Lara came into the room, carrying Freya. ‘It’s Mrs Keating, to find out how you are. I said you were asleep, but she’s still on the line if you want to talk to her.’

  ‘Yes – yes I will.…’

  ‘Shall I bring it in here?’

  ‘No, I should move. I’ll come.’

  ‘Okey-dokey, up to you.’

  He heard Lara say: ‘He’s on his way, but you’ve got time to write that memo!’

  Partly because he was stiff and a little muzzy in the head, but also out of curiosity, he paused near the window where the woman had been standing. But though her image in his mind was strong enough to have masked the events of the previous day, there was no lingering trace of her – all was bright and everyday. The caul broken.

  ‘How are you doing?’ asked Annet.

  ‘Better, thanks.’

  ‘Better, thanks.’

  ‘Lara said you were having a kip.’

  ‘I was. I went out for the count for a couple of hours and it’s done me good.’

  ‘Poor old darl.’

  David’s heart leapt. For the first time in days there was something in her voice – the ironic warmth, the mutuality, the recognition of how things were with them. Even, he dared to believe, the love.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘you shouldn’t do these things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Go being a justice crusader. Picking fights with rough boys.’

  He laughed, but his eyes stung. ‘I know.’

  ‘Anyway, so long as you’re on the mend.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Don’t do anything about supper, I’ll call in at the Fortune Cookie on my way home, good idea?’

  ‘Very good.’

  That afternoon he slept again. Lara took Freya out in the backpack, and turned the answering machine on, but if the phone rang at all he didn’t hear it. His sleep was deep and untroubled. He heard Lara return, and not long after that the front doorbell rang. This time he called: ‘I’ll get it!’

  He walked stiffly but not quite as painfully to the hall, and opened the front door. There was an Interflora van parked in the drive, and the man on the doorstep carrying a large square box.

  ‘David Keating?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Present for you.’

  David was left holding the box as the van disappeared. He closed the door and Lara appeared from the back of the house, carrying Freya, both of them still pink-cheeked from their walk.

  ‘Hey – a secret admirer?’

  ‘I somehow doubt it.’

  As he began picking at the tape that sealed the box it crossed his mind that perhaps it was some appalling revenge device from the Kings. But when the two flaps swung open it was to release a huge heart-shaped balloon, in yellow and silver, which floated to the ceiling, trailing a kite-like tail decorated with silver bows. On one side of the balloon were the words: ‘ Keep your sunny side up!’ and on the other a smiling, sun-like face.

  ‘Wow, brilliant!’ cried Lara. ‘ Who from?’

  He rummaged in the box and found the card. ‘To Mr Keating from Jackie and all at B and C.

  ‘Good on Jackie,’ said Lara. ‘She your secretary?’

  ‘My PA, yes.’

  ‘Sounds like you lucked out there. Look, look at Daddy’s balloon …!’ She reached up and caught the balloon’s tail, tugging so that it bobbed, beaming, across the hall. Freya, captivated, also beamed in Lara’s arms as they chased it. The phrase ‘a picture of happiness’ seemed for David to have found its moment. He had to remind himself that Lara had her own worries, that she was simply doing her job.

  He went to make tea. He was still sore, but his mood was so much restored that he ventured to say:

  ‘Lara, why don’t you knock off early? I think I’ve skived for long enough today. Annet won’t be long.’

  ‘Mrs Keating won’t appreciate my going off and leaving you after your ordeal,’ she replied doubtfully.

  ‘You’re Freya’s nanny, not mine,’ he reminded her gently.

  ‘Yes, but leaving you in charge when you’re groggy.…’

  ‘I’m no longer groggy. I’m on the up. Honestly. Get on home and ring your family. In fact—’ he felt the warm, expansive glow of generosity – ‘ ring them from here before you leave. My treat – please.’

  ‘I don’t think so!’ She studied her watch. ‘It’s five in the morning in Cooney Bay.’

  ‘I thought you colonial types leapt out of bed in the small hours and bagged something furry for the pot before sun-up?’

  ‘Darn, you’re right!’ she laughed. ‘ I’ll do the tea, you do the quality time. Promise I won’t be more than two ticks.’

  He assured her she could be as many ticks as she liked, but she was barely one and a half. When she re-entered the drawing room he refrained from opening the batting in case it was bad news. She came and sat next to him on the carpet and ducked her fuzzy mop of hair at Freya to make her smile.

  ‘Thanks boss,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘Nan’s taking the lightly boiled egg as of last night. Dad says she’ll live to get pissed at another Christmas dinner, worse luck.’

  He was surprised at how delighted he was by this, almost as if he’d made it happen.

  ‘That’s terrific. Would you like a drink to celebrate?’

  She grinned, a little misty-eyed. ‘You keep trying that one, but the answer’s still no.’

  In fact, good girl that she was, she didn’t leave until she’d bathed Freya and left David sitting by the fire giving her her bedtime bottle.

  ‘Night, night,’ she said. ‘And now Lara’s off to get lashed at the wine bar. See you Monday!’

  Under the circumstances, Stoneyhaye was the very last place Annet should have visited. She knew that. But the house and its occupants had been on her mind since Harry had dropped the bombshell about leaving. And the very circumstances which should have prevented her, now compelled her to go for what might be the last time.

  The attack on David had knocked her for six. These things happened – you read of them in the paper all the time – but seeing the evidence on his body had been horrifying. She kept rehearsing in her mind the events as David had described them – the empty car park, the fierce, frightened youths, the sudden hail of blows and kicks – and it made her feel physically sick. But as usual her shock had rendered her undemonstrative, the more so because her current emotional turmoil was too large a beast to unleash. The more that needed saying, the less she could say it, it had always been that way and David had always understood. But had he, this time? His injuries were like a grim warning of the distance between them.

  She understood him, too, more than he knew. The suspicion that he might be being less than truthful was like an open wound on her own heart, reminding her how much she stood to lose.

  So the visit to Stoneyhaye was a farewell. She’d been able to leave the office even earlier than she’d anticipated on compassionate grounds, and it was still light when she reclaimed the car from the station car park. She went first to the Fortune Cookie and picked up a feast – a hostage to fortune, which she put in the boot of the Toyota.

  The weather forecast on the radio was appalling – storm-force winds, especially in the south east, with a strong possibility of structural damage. But in a way she was glad of that, because the storms would drive her back to her husband and daughter, and sanctuary. In her rare moods of self-analysis Annet conceded that the phrase ‘ her own worst enemy’ might have been invented for her. There were times when her wilful urge to self destruct was in indirect ratio to her ability to put the brakes on. She knew exactly what was happening, and did it anyway. In this instance the elements, already beginning to bully and threaten, were on her side.

  She turned off the road into the secretive driveway. The woods on either side of the drive lashed and fretted and she could hear the angry rattle of the security barrier being shaken on its mountings. The wind was from the south west, turning
the shallow valley of the Plinn into a natural wind tunnel. The grassy slope of parkland running down to the house seemed to stream away from her like water, and the Toyota wavered, its roadholding no match for the brute blast of the gale.

  The only two cars in the yard were the Land-Rover and Harry’s Mazda. Simon Acourt ran out, carrying a torch, the collar of his Barbour up round his ears, and yelled through the window at her.

  ‘Hi! You must be mad!’

  She lowered the window a chink. ‘I know, I shan’t be long – came to say goodbye!’

  ‘If you want Harry, he’s round the back with the others, trying to make the pool safe!’

  ‘OK!’

  She got out, and felt the wind smack against her with such force that she staggered for a moment, her mac whipped round her legs and her hair into her eyes as she fumbled to lock the car.

  Acourt shouted something, produced a key and signalled her to follow. He took her into one of the open garages and unlocked the door at the back.

  ‘Short cut – I’ll leave it open for the moment, you can come back this way …!’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too long if you’ve got to get back in this – it’s revving up for a shitstorm!’

  As she emerged the other side it was starting to rain. Harry and some of the others, men and women, were fighting to secure the plastic covering over the still unfinished pool. Great green waves of the stuff reared up above them, snapping and booming in the darkening air. Harry and his team were like the crew of a sailing ship, struggling to hold course. She saw him coming towards her, leaning outwards against the weight of the sheeting. Intent on his task he expressed no surprise at seeing her there, braving the tempest in her work clothes and high heels. A loop of hard, wet nylon rope was thrust into her hand, his face came close to hers, eyes narrowed against the stinging rain.

  ‘Grab this and don’t let go! We’ll start pegging from the other side!’

  Instantly she felt the fierce tug of the plastic, and the rope seared her palms. She hauled backwards, her heels driving into the ground like tent pegs while the girl next to her slithered and staggered in trainers.

  It was an interminable five minutes before the sheeting was all secured. Another two before Harry was satisfied and the soaked and shivering team were dismissed and ran, heads down, for the house.

  He made a hand movement, yelling, ‘Drink?’

  ‘No thanks!’ She shook her head. ‘I came to say goodbye!’

  It was around half past six when David noticed how hot Freya was. Sitting by the fire they had been cosy. As the wind got up outside it had been comforting not to know where his warmth ended and hers began. Only the thought of Annet out on the roads spoiled the snug peace inside the house. For the first time in weeks, when he parted the curtains to look out of the window it was in the hope only of seeing his wife.

  Another reason that he hadn’t noticed Freya’s temperature sooner was that with evening his aches and pains returned somewhat – he had a dull headache, his crotch was still agonisingly tender and he was stiff. When he rose to take her up to bed he was obliged to creep the first few steps like an old man and the effort involved in simply straightening up and taking his normal stride made him sweat.

  It was one of those evenings when Freya hadn’t finished her bottle, appearing to fall asleep with the teat still in her mouth. When he got her upstairs – an operation which tweaked a hitherto undiscovered injury in his back, presumably incurred on the Kings’ front path – he laid her in her cot while he went to take some paracetamol in the bathroom. After the pleasant fireside fug of the drawing room it was cooler up here, he shivered as he ran a glass of cold water and swallowed the pills, and went to the bedroom to pull on a sweater before returning to his daughter.

  Now, he noticed, she was not asleep. Her eyelids were lowered to reveal a mere slit of eye, and she lay perfectly still, her arms and legs in the unnatural akimbo position of a doll. Her cheeks were pink.

  Aware of the smallest pinprick of anxiety he lifted her out and laid her on the changing mat on the divan. It wasn’t strictly necessary to change her before putting her down for the night, but it was a process likely to elicit a reaction.

  There was none. Or none to speak of – she made a couple of halfhearted little mewing sounds when his cold fingers removed her nappy and touched the hot skin, but she felt curiously limp (the word lifeless sprang to mind and he beat it back) and her slitted eyes seemed not to focus on anything. When he’d finished changing her he wrapped her in her patchwork shawl, bringing it up round the back of her head so that with the fronds of black hair on her forehead and her red cheeks she resembled a Russian doll.

  He told himself not to overreact. She wasn’t crying, so she wasn’t in pain, and less than an hour ago she had been completely well, kicking and smiling on her rug. He must apply common sense. After all, he reminded himself, Lara had taken her out for a long walk in the backpack on an afternoon which even then had been windy and bracing – anyone would be flushed and soporific after such a walk. Or she might have caught cold in which case the time-honoured remedies applied – warmth, comfort, perhaps some more milk in due course since she hadn’t finished her quota.

  He carried her downstairs and laid her against the sofa cushions while he made up the fire. The strengthening wind was beginning to find out Bay Court’s weaknesses, whining under doors and inserting sharp, scrabbling fingers of draught through the frames of the sash windows. In spite of himself, worry was beginning to drag on David’s spirits. He did not yet feel justified in ringing the doctor, and wished Annet were here to share the responsibility … It was then he hit on the bright idea of calling Mags.

  ‘Hello? Oh, hello!’ she said. ‘We were only just talking about you.’

  He noted the ‘we’ and was encouraged by it, but not enough to ask what they had been saying.

  ‘Mags, I need your advice.’

  ‘If it’s mine to give, it’s all yours.’

  ‘Annet’s due back soon, but it’s extremely stormy up here—’

  ‘And here, like banshees!’

  ‘—quite, so she may be late. And Freya appears to have a temperature. Or at least she’s hot and has a high colour … is there anything I should be doing?’

  ‘Not worrying, mainly,’ said Mags. ‘They run a temperature at the drop of a hat at that age.’

  ‘What about speaking to a doctor?’

  ‘I think a doctor would say the same thing at the moment. I mean she hasn’t got a rash or anything has she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Vomiting, diarrhoea?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Keep her warm and cosy and give her some water to drink, consult with Annet when she gets back – call the doctor on duty if you’re really concerned a bit later.’

  He felt calmer, and was grateful. ‘Thanks, Mags.’

  ‘My pleasure. One of us was going to be in touch anyway – not now but over the weekend, perhaps – with a ginormous favour to ask.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  She laughed. ‘Under the circumstances it’ll keep! Tim and I are thinking of taking a long weekend together before Christmas, and we need to put a few backup systems in place … We’ll talk another time.’

  ‘OK. We’d be glad to help.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure! Anyway, anon, anon. You go and look after that little daughter of yours. But don’t stay too close – a watched tot always boils!’

  After he’d hung up he put on some music, American in Paris, to shut out the noise of the wind and establish a more harmonious mood in which to think sensibly. When he next studied Freya her eyes were fully closed, and he felt cheered by this small sign. Sleep after all was the great healer. If she could sleep she was all right, though her breathing was a little more pronounced and shallow than usual … He longed for Annet’s return. But in view of the weather and the fact that she was already later than she’d predicted, he was not optimistic.

  In
the end Annet accepted a shot of Jack Daniels in the kitchen, to counteract the effects of the cold and wet.

  ‘Here’s to you then,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘And good luck with everything.’

  ‘Sod luck,’ he said. ‘ Graft more like. I tell you what, I wish I could write the songs that make the housewives’ hearts beat faster … Anyway I’ll be here while the house is on the market.’

  ‘Has Chris already gone?’

  He nodded. ‘ Back to London. And Lindy’s in Switzerland with Jay.’

  ‘You must miss him.’

  ‘I do.’ He swallowed the last of the JD and put his glass down with a bang. ‘I will. But there you go, I brought it on myself.’

  ‘How?’

  He seemed to consider, briefly, what answer to give before saying: ‘As the man said I can resist everything but temptation and this business is stuffed full of them.’

  They ploughed heads down like Arctic explorers back to her car, and he braced the door open as she settled in the driver’s seat.

  ‘You know what,’ he shouted against the wind. ‘You and I are two of kind.’

  She switched on the engine. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Not that it’s anything to be proud of!’

  Their eyes met for a moment, before he slammed the door and raised a hand in farewell. By the time she’d reversed and turned, he’d gone.

  The car shuddered and wavered on its way across the park, but driving through the wood was worse, like being below the surface of a rough sea. She flinched as the huge branches scythed back and forth, black on black, pouncing suddenly into the headlights and then disappearing. By the time she’d passed through the barrier and was back in the lane her heart was racing. She felt acutely vulnerable, and wanted to be home.

  When Freya had been asleep for half an hour David lifted her gingerly and carried her upstairs to her cot, laying her on the mattress as gently as he could, still wrapped in the shawl, and covering her with the duvet.