by Susan Lewis
‘Charlotte,’ I breathed. Edward stood aside as I ran to the bed. ‘Charlotte, my darling. It’s Mummy. I’m here, angel. I’m here.’
The nurse came in and turned on the overhead light. She tried to push past me and I all but threw her out of the way. Now I was closer I could see that Charlotte’s eyes were dilated and wondered whether she could see me.
‘Mummy?’ she croaked.
‘Yes, darling. Mummy’s here.’
‘Mummy?’
I looked at Edward in panic. She couldn’t hear me.
Two huge tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. ‘It’s dark. Where’s my Mummy? I want my Mummy.’
– Alexander –
– 23 –
Henry gave a low whistle as his ball sailed into the sky and came to land only a few feet from the eighteenth green. ‘Damn good shot, if I say so myself.’ He stood back to make room for me. ‘So, how much did you win?’
‘Ten quid.’
‘Ten! Is that all?’
‘It was twenty,’ I said, selecting a number one wood, ‘but Froggo refused to cough up the other ten. He claimed I hadn’t said the exact words.’
‘So let’s hear how you managed to slip in this little nugget of blasphemy.’
I placed my ball on the tee, then leaning on my club, recounted my summing up of the day before, when Froggo, the barrister originally briefed to prosecute in the Saxony case, had bet me twenty pounds that I couldn’t slip the phrase ‘Take up thy bed and walk’ somewhere into my speech. As the case had concerned an armed wages snatch at a bedding warehouse in the East End, when I delivered the line, ‘And so, members of the jury, I ask you to consider the evidence put before you very carefully, because to allow any of the accused to take up their beds and walk from this courtroom, free men, would be tantamount to inviting them to put more lives in jeopardy . . .’ I’d had the gratification of a rare wince from the normally impassive Judge Burr.
Henry grunted. ‘You’re not normally as corny as that, old chap. Losing your flair.’
I shrugged and took up my stance to hit the ball. We both watched in disgust as it sliced off the end of my wood and rocketed towards a clump of trees, to land God only knew where, probably in the lake behind.
‘Jesus, Alexander, that’s the third time you’ve done that today. What the hell’s got into you?’
‘Fellow can have an off-day, can’t he?’
We picked up our clubs and started off down the fairway.
‘Everything all right at home, is it? Jessica’s OK?’
‘Henry, you’re not going to start an amateur analysis on me because I’ve hit three bad ones, are you?’
‘Just asking. Tell me, how did you fare with fair Rosalind what’s-her-name?’
‘Rosalind who?’
‘Don’t play dumb with me, old chap, this is Henry you’re talking to. You know, the solicitor in the Godwin case.’
‘Rosalind Blake.’
‘Well, anything doing?’
‘Henry, ever since you’ve become a respectable married man you seem to think every other man in the world is leaping in and out of bed with any woman he can lay his hands on. The fact is that I’ve given up that sort of behaviour for good. It’s all in the past for me now, I’ve told you. Why won’t you believe me?’
‘Because it’s against your nature.’
‘Not when I’ve got a crippled wife who might not be crippled if I hadn’t . . .’
‘I wouldn’t say the loss of three fingers on her right hand makes her a cripple, Alexander. And you hardly notice the limp these days.’
‘When you live with her, I can tell you you’re required to notice her limp, and every other blemish, and do penance for them several times a day.’
We parted company then as I went off to find my ball.
Life with Jessica was, indeed, even worse than it had been before the accident. Her self-confidence had been destroyed, and even though I never stopped trying, nothing I said or did seemed capable of restoring it. I couldn’t blame her for not trusting me, but during her bad weeks things were so unbearable that all I wanted to do was walk away and never come back. I couldn’t do it, of course, my conscience would never permit it. And should I ever be in danger of forgetting my conscience, Jessica would be at hand to remind me of the way I had disappeared with my ‘slut’, leaving her to tear round the countryside trying to find me.
‘I was the one driving that car when the lorry hit us! The lorry that killed your mother! And my baby! You might just as well have been the driver of that lorry!’
I knew now why she had lied to me about my infertility. As it so often was, her reasoning had been convoluted and perverse: she’d wanted there to be something in my life I couldn’t have; she’d wanted to see me suffer in the way I’d made her suffer all the years of our marriage. My desire to have children had been like a gift to her, she told me, because nothing hurts a man more than to have doubt cast on his manhood. When I explained that the kind of lie she’d told me could come close to destroying a man, she answered, quite calmly, that I deserved to be destroyed . . . . But once she had sensed she was losing me, getting pregnant had been the only thing she could think of that might make me stay. I made the insensitive mistake of asking if the child had been mine and she flew at me, hissing and spitting like a wild cat.
All this was while she was in the clinic recovering from the breakdown that had followed her accident. The doctor insisted that her mental condition was caused as much by the fear that she might never paint again as by the trauma of the accident – and my infidelity. The fear that she might not paint again had vanished now. She painted every day, and the centrepiece of her first exhibition after leaving the clinic had been a macabre impression of the accident. It was gruesome, and made even more so, I felt, by its dedication to me.
The affection that had grown between her and my father since he had withdrawn his resignation from the Cabinet and moved into Belgrave Square, both surprised and annoyed me. They talked endlessly about my mother and how special she had been to them both. In fact Jessica and my mother had never hit it off, and though I knew this was her way of trying to cope with what had happened, I despised her hypocrisy.
Her moods were so erratic that I took to working late into the night at chambers – anything to avoid going home. Only the week before she had presented me with a portrait of myself. She was touchingly shy about it, but the following evening I arrived home to find ugly scars daubed across it and a dagger plunged into the throat. A thin trickle of blood ran from the wound down over the frame. As I stood transfixed by the sheer horror of it, Jessica walked into the room, smiling pleasantly and waving a large brown envelope at me. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said. ‘Can you give me the address of your girlfriend, I thought she might like the painting. As a memento.
It was three years since I had gone to Sark, and still she was making me pay. At least I had never told her about Charlotte. But, hardly a minute of the day passed when I didn’t think about my daughter – and the longing that swept over me for Elizabeth, for the uncomplicated way she had loved me, was at times almost unbearable . . . .
‘Hey!’ Henry shouted. ‘Are we playing a round of golf or aren’t we? You’re miles away, old chap. Come on, let’s get it over with. I’m freezing, and in sore need of a drink.’
We finished the round in double quick time, and sauntered back in the direction of the clubhouse. ‘Henry,’ I said, as we walked down the hill past the seventeenth hole, ‘I want to tell you something, but I don’t want you to make a big deal out of it.’
‘Fire away.’
‘It’s about Elizabeth.’
He stopped. ‘What about her?’
‘You’re going to think I’ve lost my marbles, but I think she needs me.’
When he didn’t answer I went on, ‘I don’t know what it is, it’s not something I can put into words, but I have this feeling that she . . .’I shrugged. ‘Probably just my imagination.’
He turned slowly and walked on down the hill. ‘Are you going to do anything about it?’ he asked eventually.
‘What can I do? I tried to find her once before, remember? I don’t even know her married name.’
We were at the clubhouse now and Henry was bending down to take off his shoes. ‘I suppose you could always try mental telepathy,’ he said.
‘What kind of an answer’s that, for God’s sake?’
‘Just a suggestion, old chap.’ And slapping me on the back, he went inside to order the drinks.
I saw a lot of Rosalind Blake during the build-up to the Godwin trial. She was an unusual woman with chaotic red hair and bright blue eyes that sat oddly with her somewhat aloof and efficient manner. I enjoyed her company and was rather proud that I had managed to establish a friendship with a woman in which neither of us was trying to get the other into bed.
The niggling feeling that Elizabeth needed me had disappeared, and if I thought about it at all, I put it down to a lack of sleep and tricks of the subconscious. After all, reason told me, if she had needed me, she would have found a way to contact me.
After the first day in court, with opening speeches completed and the first witnesses called, Rosalind and I went for a drink. I wasn’t happy with the way things were going, and was angry at Godwin’s apparent failure to appreciate the seriousness of the case. Euthanasia might be his word for what he had done, but murder or manslaughter was the way the law termed it. Rosalind tried to calm me down, saying things would be better the next day, and I snapped at her for patronising me.
We wound up at her flat. By that time, although I had drunk enough to sink a battleship, I still felt sober – though extremely morose. We’d talked all evening about Godwin and what he and his wife must have been through before he helped her out of her misery. Enough to make anyone depressed.
Rosalind’s flat was a surprise. With her pre-Raphaelite looks I had expected to find her home furnished with antiques. However, hi-tech modernity seemed to suit her quite well, too. Her heels clicked across white tiles as she walked down the hall, kicking a rug into place, as she went, and I followed her into a kitchen that seemed to have every gadget imaginable.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘How does anyone on my salary afford such luxuries.’
‘Well, I must admit . . .’
‘My husband. Ex-husband. It’s all his, or would be if he came back to claim it.’
‘Where is he now?’
She shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue. He went off to work one morning three years ago, and I haven’t seen him since.’
‘But didn’t he tell you . . .?’
‘Oh yes. I had a phone call a week later, telling me he didn’t want to be married any longer and he was going off to do his own thing. I was devastated at the time, but more for my son than myself.’
‘I didn’t know you had a son.’
‘He’s at boarding school. Charterhouse, down in Surrey. He’ll be thirteen next week. I’ll go down to see him, but the best present he could have would be his father turning up. At least the bastard left enough money for me to educate his son. Be thankful for small mercies, eh?’
I sighed. ‘Do any marriages work out these days, I wonder?’
‘Some must.’ She turned to look at me, her eyebrows raised. ‘Don’t tell me yours . . .?’
‘Don’t let’s even speak about mine.’
We took our coffee and moved into the sitting room. ‘She’s a feminist, your wife, isn’t she?’ Rosalind said, curling her feet under her at the other end of the white leather sofa. ‘She did a lot of good work back in the late sixties, early seventies. I remember her name was always in the papers. How did you cope with all that? Did it annoy you?’
‘Like hell. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against equality of the sexes. What I objected to were Jessica’s motives – not that I think she knew what they were herself. But she used the cause as some sort of weapon against me.’
‘Weapon? Or shield?’
I looked into her blue eyes. ‘Do I look like the kind of man you need to shield yourself from?’
‘You are exactly that kind of man. And I can just imagine what you were like at university. If you ask me, Jessica was a brave woman to take you on.’
‘Especially when she knew I was in love with someone else.’
‘You were?’
‘Still am.’
‘Poor Jessica. It must have been very difficult for her.’ She paused. ‘And the other woman? Does Jessica know you’re still in love with her?’
‘Oh yes. She knows.’
‘I’d like to meet her. Jessica, I mean.’
‘Then you’ll’ have to get someone else to introduce you.’ I looked at my watch. ‘I suppose I ought to be getting along.’
‘Do you have to? You could always stay here tonight.’
I was surprised but assumed she was offering me the spare room. Only when I looked at her face did I realise she wasn’t.
‘Are you shocked?’ she said.
‘I suppose I am, a bit. I mean, I didn’t come here expecting . . .’
‘I know you didn’t.’ She put her coffee cup back on the table. I moved along the sofa, took her in my arms and kissed her, waiting for the stirrings of desire to begin. After a while she led me through the dark hallway to the bedroom at the end. As she started to undress I watched, still waiting for my own response, but not until she was lying naked between the sheets did I realise that I couldn’t go through with it.
I begged her to forgive me. It wasn’t because I didn’t find her attractive, I told her, it was just . . . I couldn’t meet her eyes, and like a petulant schoolboy I hammered my fist against the doorframe in frustration. Then, to my horror, I was sobbing in her arms.
I pulled myself together quickly, fumbling out some lame excuse about too much to drink, a lot on my mind – and bolted before I could disgrace myself further.
It was past one in the morning when I finally arrived home, to find that Jessica had packed her bags and left. It was, I knew, another empty gesture. I went upstairs, threw a few things into a suitcase and made an early start for Suffolk, where I was going to have to spend the weekend sorting out the aftermath of the heaviest snowfall for years. I left a note for Jessica, knowing she would follow – she always did.
The following Monday, when I saw Rosalind again, she made no reference to what had happened. Embarrassed as I was, I still felt great warmth for her. I was so accustomed to Jessica’s sneering if I made any show of weakness that Rosalind’s kindness touched me in a way that reminded me of Elizabeth.
Godwin was found guilty and received a two-year suspended sentence. Rosalind and I took him and his daughter for a quiet drink later.
When they’d gone, on impulse I invited Rosalind to come to the gallery where Jessica’s latest exhibition was opening that evening. I called Henry and arranged for Rosalind to go with him and Caroline – if she turned up with me, Jessica would throw a fit.
Jessica was in good spirits when I arrived, and busy sorting out last minute details. My father was already there, giving the benefit of his advice as usual, so I helped myself to a glass of wine and stood back to watch.
Jessica’s exhibitions were always well attended, and little red stickers found their way quickly on to frames. The theme for this latest one was rather sober for her, in view of her past excursions into surrealism and the abstract. We had spent a month in Tuscany that spring, and she had made the Italian hills and valleys the background for a series of paintings entitled ‘Child Lost in Tuscany’. The child, which had to be searched for in every painting, bore a striking resemblance to Jessica herself, though in one or two pictures it appeared only as a foetus. She’d taken me through the paintings some weeks before, in the belief that I would otherwise never understand their hidden message. The use of the foetus was pointed enough,’ I thought, without her having to add: ‘I like to think our child is somewhere beautiful, don’t you, darling?’<
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As I watched her now, excited, moving with ease among the guests, I was suddenly gripped by an overpowering desire to walk out. I didn’t belong in this world of hers, I never had. I hated the farce we staged every time she had an opening. People talked about us, even wrote about us, as a loving couple, when nothing could be further from the truth. It was only guilt that bound me to her now; all I really wanted was to get as far away from her as I could. . . . But she was coming towards me now, smiling and holding out her hand for mine. She whispered something in my ear that I didn’t catch, then planted a kiss on my cheek.
‘I’ve been neglecting you,’ she said. ‘But you must blame your father. He’s invited so many people and wants me to meet them all. Did you have a good day?’
I nodded absently, then looked down into her eyes. Successful Jessica might be, but I knew how fragile she was, too. There was still a long way to go before her shattered confidence could be completely restored. She needed me now in a way she never had before. It was as if she were afraid to do anything without me, even though she couldn’t stop herself hurting and resenting me.
‘Jess! There you are!’ My father clapped his hand on her shoulder. ‘The chap from The Times has arrived, come and say hello. Henry’s looking for you,’ he added to me, as he led her away.
I found Henry and Caroline – Caroline was more than halfway through her third pregnancy – standing next to the table that had been set up as a bar. I looked around for Rosalind. ‘Gone to the ladies,’ Henry whispered. ‘She tells me she’s dying to meet Jessica. Do you think that’s wise, old chap?’
‘I’ve got nothing to hide. Besides, I don’t think Rosalind is going to let on we already know one another.’
‘Got you. So who is she?’
‘A friend of yours, of course . . . .’
Half an hour later I noticed Rosalind standing in a corner with Jessica. They were looking at one of the paintings, and I could almost hear Jessica as she explained to Rosalind what she was trying to convey. I watched them for a while, touched by the similarity of their lives. One way or another both had suffered at the hands of the men they loved. I hoped they would become friends, they would be good for each other.