by Claire Sandy
‘What truth?’ Tallulah was sliding into panic, shredding the edge of her nightdress between her fingers. ‘Will Daddy run off with Penny?’
‘Darling, no.’ Fern attempted to put her arms around the wriggling girl.
‘Are you having a divorce?’ Tallulah asked, urgently.
Shocked into laughter, Fern said, ‘Well, we’d have to get married first!’ Then, too late, she took in her daughter’s expression. ‘You know Daddy and I aren’t married, darling.’
‘You are married!’ Tallulah stood firm. ‘Mummy, you are!’
‘No, we’re really not.’ They’d never seen the point. They’d asked each other Why fix it if it ain’t broken? And neither had had the energy to withstand Adam’s mother across a guest list. Perhaps Fern’s habit of calling herself Fern Carlile had helped their darling daughter grab the wrong end of the stick; in Tallulah’s head, mummies and daddies were automatically married. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I beg to differ.’ Nora gestured for Tallulah to come to her, and the girl ran into her arms as if escaping an abductor. ‘Here was me thinking you were just rude and hadn’t invited me to the wedding. I never imagined in a million years you were actually living in sin.’
‘We weren’t,’ said Fern. ‘We were living in this house.’
‘That’s right, missy. Laugh it up. There’s a comfy little pit being prepared in hell for you. You won’t be joking then.’
Donna groaned; she’d heard enough about hell at home without it coming up at Homestead House.
‘I don’t want Mummy to go to hell.’ Tallulah began to sob.
‘Merry Christmas, everyone!’ said Ollie.
‘I can’t believe this.’ Donna shook her head. ‘It can’t be happening.’ She seemed to be overreacting wildly to Nora, struggling to her feet, repeating, ‘No no no.’ Something in her face, a broken look about the mouth, snapped Fern out of this delusion. ‘The baby!’ She shot to her feet.
‘I’m breaking in two.’ Donna staggered, put her hands on Fern’s shoulders.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’ Nora covered Tallulah’s eyes.
‘Ambulance, Ollie. Nine nine nine, now!’ Fern’s order snapped Ollie out of his trance.
His mobile, never far away, was in Ollie’s pocket. As he stabbed the numbers he said, ‘It’s too early, Mum. The baby hasn’t finished growing.’
‘I’m scared.’ Donna looked so young.
‘It’ll be fine.’ Fern had almost worn out that phrase.
CHAPTER SEVEN
New Year’s Eve: Salade
Luc chopped vegetables like he did everything else. Neatly, swiftly, with minimum fuss, he was putting together a wintry Gallic salad of red cabbage and carrot. Fern, watching him from the kitchen table, idly wondered if he made love like that. If he removed his underpants and folded them carefully before saying whatever the French was for ‘Assume the position, wife.’
‘Do you like fennel?’ Luc held up a green sprouting bulb. He pronounced it fen-nel.
‘Oui.’ The fib exhausted Fern’s French. ‘Is it just salad for dinner?’ she asked, trying to sound nonchalant even though she was voicing her deepest fear.
‘Non,’ said Luc. He spoke briskly, without frills. ‘There is duck.’
Phew. Fern admired the way Luc and Layla cooked in their dark, beamed kitchen that looked out through small wooden windows onto their courtyard. Organic. Local. Seasonal. She aspired to it. But then I’m tempted by a rosy tomato in November. Viennetta wasn’t seasonal, thank God, and could be enjoyed all year round.
The old stone house in the centre of Saint-Martin-de-Ré had stood for centuries, and withstood all sorts of human crises; its composure had soothed Fern when she’d arrived, a day late and flustered. Sitting by the roaring stove, she’d told Luc and Layla about the white-knuckle drive to the hospital, the dash through pale corridors. ‘Donna was screaming like a wild animal. It didn’t sound like labour pains. It sounded like she was being murdered.’
Hours had passed in a pastel waiting room as Fern’s brain busily concocted catastrophic outcomes. She’d coughed to distract herself, or stood up and sat down, or focused on the anaemic artwork that’s always to be found in hospitals.
Perched on the edge of a plastic chair, she watched Adam pace the flesh-coloured lino. Accustomed to grabbing him at times of stress like Tallie grabbed her teddy, Fern wrapped her arms around herself.
Every few minutes Adam’s phone buzzed. ‘Penny again?’ she asked.
‘Poor thing’s worried to death.’
Hospital waiting rooms aren’t the place to air dirty laundry, but Penny’s showy anxiety felt faux to Fern: surely she knows better than to pester us at a time like this? She suspected that Penny hated the notion of her man and his ex being thrown together at such an emotional time. She closed her ears to the phone, glad when Adam finally turned it off. ‘Had enough?’
‘Just conserving the battery,’ said Adam.
Fern rubbed her eyes. Adam’s refusal to acknowledge Penny’s mind games was especially galling in the tense atmosphere. A few feet away new life was kicking its way into the world, but here in the waiting room, thought Fern, things went on as usual.
‘It’ll be all right, won’t it?’ asked Adam suddenly, as if the question had been torn out of him.
‘Yes.’ Fern was adamant. If she was wrong, they could face reality when they had to.
‘But it’s, what, four weeks early. And Donna seemed so distressed.’
‘That’s a first-time mum for you,’ said Fern, although she shared his fears.
‘But what if—’
‘Adam.’ Fern closed her eyes. ‘Please.’
They’d retreated into their own thoughts. Adam knows I can’t predict the future. Resentment at Adam’s need for her to make everything A-OK, as if she was the parent and he the child, clotted deep inside her. A glance at Adam told Fern that he, too, was battling annoyance at her refusal to wade through worst-case scenarios.
Making an effort, they talked of inconsequential things, about Kinky Mimi’s rehearsals, about Fern’s ambition to buy a heated clothes airer. Every so often the real, the only, topic reared its head and they sat quietly, eyes on the floor, both of them lost in thoughts of the baby, of Donna, of their boy.
Listening to the story later, Layla had said, ‘I’m so glad you and Adam were together to help each other. See? You still have that bond.’
Better not tell her about the argument, Fern thought. The discord had seemed to come out of nowhere, but now Fern saw how their individual grudges had been heated to boiling point in the cauldron of the waiting room.
It had started innocently enough. In fact, they’d both warmed up a little, reminiscing together.
‘I wonder how Ollie’s bearing up.’ Adam plonked himself down on the chair beside Fern’s.
‘He’s probably holding her hand right this minute. He’ll be shocked. They don’t call it labour for nothing.’
Shuddering, Adam said weakly, ‘The blood. And you in such pain. It was a war zone.’ He sighed, looked at her with a gentleness that had been absent from his gaze for a long time. ‘Everything the doctor did only seemed to hurt you more.’
Memories overwhelmed Fern. Adam the colour of milk; the midwife shouting, ‘No fainting, please, Daddy!’, the lamb-like cries of a tiny, gory Ollie.
As they leaned back on a shared past, the tension in the waiting room eased.
When Adam said, ‘Your dad’d be so proud of Ollie,’ Fern loved him, loved him, for bringing her father right into the present.
‘He would,’ she agreed with a tired, soppy laugh. ‘Don’t know what he’d make of all this DJ-ing though.’
‘He’d encourage him.’ Adam reminded Fern that his father-in-law had always supported Kinky Mimi. ‘He was devastated that we never made it.’
Racking her brains, Fern couldn’t recall this devastation. ‘Hmm,’ she said non-committally. ‘Not so sure he’d support the band’s midlife crisis incarnatio
n.’ Despite thinking this at least once a day, Fern had never described Kinky Mimi’s resurgence in those terms to Adam before.
He gaped at her. ‘Wow,’ he said eventually.
‘Oh, Adam!’ Fern swatted him, but she’d misjudged the extent of their sudden rapport, and he pulled his arm away as if she meant to harm him.
‘Penny’s right.’ The name lit a firework in Fern’s chest. ‘Seeing me happy makes you want to spoil it.’
‘Please don’t quote your lady friend to me, Adam. Penny doesn’t know me.’
‘I know you. I know you want Kinky Mimi to fail just because you’re not involved.’
‘Are you mad?’ Fern snapped, all the rosy glow dissolved. ‘Why would I want that?’
‘Because you’re bitter. You’d like me to collapse without you. You like to be the centre of everything.’
‘One thing I’m not,’ said Fern, ‘is bitter.’ Although I might take it up if you carry on like this.
‘Come on, Fern.’ There was a sneer in Adam’s voice. ‘You even boycotted your own mother’s wedding because of bitterness.’
It was Fern’s turn to gape. ‘That wasn’t a boycott. It was a crisis.’ Adam knew the pain she’d been in; he’d nursed her through it.
‘Your mum needed you there.’
‘I bloody went!’ yelled Fern. She’d only made it to the registry office because of Adam. He’d listened to her tearful raving as she’d put on, taken off and put on again the chiffon horror of a dress she’d bought for the wedding. He’d plodded fearlessly through the complex swamp of feeling, refusing to give up.
When Fern’s mother moved on so quickly, the scars caused by her father’s sudden death had opened up, smarting as though they were fresh. Fern had felt guilty, selfish, but above all, confused. The sensible part of her – the part that ensured there was milk in the fridge and remembered who was allergic to what – had applauded her mum for this life-affirming step. The part that was still a child and needed her parents had wanted to sob and lash out and hide under the covers.
In the maternity unit waiting room, Fern remembered how Adam had cajoled her back into the dress, kissed away her tears and insisted that her eyes didn’t look that puffy. It was a beautiful memory, one she returned to often. You stopped me making one of the biggest mistakes of my life. ‘I thought you understood!’ yelled Fern.
‘I thought you understood!’
‘Seems we were both wrong.’
Glaring at each other across the room, shivering with indignation and the need to throw something, they didn’t at first notice the nurse at the door.
With a coughed ahem, the nurse asked, ‘Would you like to come and meet your granddaughter?’
Brought back to the here and now by the clatter of shoes on the wooden stairway that wound through the tall house, Fern stood up when Layla appeared.
As tall as ever, hair exploding around her broad, handsome face, physically Layla was unchanged, but her dress sense had evolved since her move to the island. The striped jumper and linen trousers were so elegant they could only be French. ‘Nice nap?’ asked Fern.
‘Sorry I wasted some of our time.’ Layla looked as grey as the stone her house was made of. ‘But I just felt . . . urgh.’
‘Sit down. I’ll make you some tea.’ Not real tea, strong enough for a mouse to trot across, with two lovely sugars; the house speciality was weak, herbal and smelled of mildew. ‘We’ve got plenty of time to chat tonight, waiting for midnight and the New Year.’
Luc asked, ‘Would you make the vinaigrette, darling?’ and Layla took the requisite ingredients out of the oak cupboards her husband had built himself.
‘This is Luc’s recipe,’ said Layla, pouring extra virgin olive oil into an earthenware jug. ‘You won’t have tasted better.’
‘Never quite understood the concept of extra virgin. You either are, or you aren’t, surely.’ Fern, who always meant to make her own salad dressing but usually grabbed her trusty bottle of lite mayonnaise, said, ‘It’s weird seeing you cook.’
‘I always ate at your place,’ smiled Layla, expertly whisking in cider vinegar and a dot of mustard powder. ‘The seasoning’s key.’ She held out a spoon to Fern.
‘Bloody hell.’ The dressing was a revelation. ‘My compliments to the cheffette.’ She fumbled for her phone. ‘Some new photos arrived while you were lying down.’ There was abundant cheese and fruity red wine in this harbour village, but the internet connection was patchy. The only images Fern had been able to share so far were of an indistinct blob, a piece of liver in a bobble hat. ‘Look, Amelie’s out of the incubator.’
‘Thank God,’ said Layla, with feeling.
‘Aw look, she’s fast asleep.’ Fern held up the screen. ‘I was relieved when they told me her name. Youngsters have odd ideas about baby names. Look at those tiny hands!’
‘I’ll have a good look later.’ Layla moved away, reaching up for bowls and cutlery. ‘Could you lay the table?’
‘Um, yeah.’ Fern, not so much quashed as puzzled, put away her phone. She and Layla shared a brain when it came to celebrating each other’s joys and setbacks; they giggled and cried together. She tried to catch Luc’s eye, to throw a look of what’s up with Layla? at him, but he was diligently head down, arranging slices of duck on a platter. ‘Amelie goes home to Donna’s parents’ house tomorrow,’ she said. This was important news; the baby was doing better than anybody had dared to expect.
‘That’s good,’ said Layla.
‘Yup,’ said Fern. Something was amiss. The naps. The pallor. The lack of interest. Layla was limp, like a T-shirt washed too many times. Fern’s heart lurched behind her ribs as she watched the couple go methodically about their business.
Luc, his jet hair standing up like a cliff above his forehead, gave nothing away. His reserve wasn’t useful at a time like this; if, God forbid, something was wrong with Layla, she’d need warmth and support and a pair of strong arms around her.
‘I’ll go and see what my daughter’s up to.’ Fern had to get away, file her thoughts tidily before they ran away with her.
‘Probably next door with Simone,’ said Layla, laying a baguette on a wooden board. ‘That was love at first sight, wasn’t it?’
Popping out into a misty chill that carried the tang of the sea, Fern changed her mind and turned her feet towards the harbour. Drawn by the lighthouse, she thought of Tallulah as she passed shuttered houses on the quiet, blue-grey street.
The girl had blossomed like a Christmas poinsettia, the moment she’d touched down on French soil. The heavy load that had settled on her shoulders in England had been shrugged off as she got her mitts on the local salted caramel and the little girl who lived next door to Layla. The language barrier was no hurdle when there was running and jumping and tormenting Simone’s older brother to be done.
It’s deserted. Islanders stayed indoors at night, by their fires, munching their fennel. There was no corner shop for emergency purchases of milk or bread or horrible tights, no garish pub buzzing with tipsy talk and the clamour of fruit machines. Fern could have been alone in Saint-Martin-de-Ré at this tail end of the old year, just her and the fog and the lighthouse rearing up before her like a giant willy. A giant willy with a flashing light on top of it – quite a landmark to have at the end of the street. At the end of Fern’s street there was only a dry cleaner’s.
Tucking herself into a niche at the foot of the lighthouse, Fern ignored the frosty stone beneath her bottom and lost herself in the view of the sea. It was a satin blanket, softly churning in the dark. Every few seconds the lighthouse bit a white slice out of the blackout; it was reassuring the way it kept coming around. Fern could rely on that light.
In her pocket was the letter she’d snatched from the ribboned box as she packed. It was a goodbye. In 1993, Adam had given up.
Dear Fern
You win.
I’ve poured my heart out to you and written two songs and bugged your friends and mooned about like an idiot. I
can’t do any more.
I still love you. I will always love you. Even when you’re with somebody else and I’m with somebody else my feelings won’t change. Fern will always be my first and best love. But I can’t force you to be with me.
A x
The ruse had worked. Fern was on Adam’s doorstep before the ink was dry. They’d sped to his bed as if there was a pot of gold under his rarely changed duvet. Tangled together afterwards, sweaty and happy, they’d vowed never to split up again. Not ever ever ever.
Teenagers haven’t seen enough of life to know how the years change people. Fern was Adam’s first, but maybe the best was yet to come for him. She made an unhappy noise as tears slid down her cheeks; I’m the bitter woman he left behind.
The feeling of the year slowing, coming to an end, should have straightened out her thinking, but when Fern examined her feelings about Adam, she couldn’t dig past the dismay and, yes, she had to admit it – the bitterness. She was bitter that he didn’t appreciate their life, that he wanted to rub it out and start again, this time in better trousers.
If there was love left, Fern couldn’t find it, no matter how she scrabbled about. She missed loving him, missed the soft cushion it provided. Did that negate the time they’d spent together, when love painted their walls and provided the carpet under their feet?
The sea had no answer.
Tallulah lay along the low sofa by the stove, entwined around the great shaggy bear of a dog named, appropriately, Bear. She’d been keen to stay up for the chimes, but her adventures with Simone had worn her out, and she snored gently into Bear’s fur.
‘Duck,’ said Fern, ‘is where it’s at.’ She put her knife and fork together on her empty plate. Her tummy was full of waterfowl and her brain was pleasantly muggy with the blood-coloured wine that cost the same as a Mars Bar. The French have got their priorities right. ‘Luc, you’re a genius.’
‘C’est mon plaisir,’ murmured Luc. He’d said little throughout the meal, leaving it to Fern and Layla to supply the conversation.
Or just to me. Fern had done most of the talking. Layla had sputtered out halfway through the starter, as if somebody had pulled her plug. She’d given one-word answers to the questions Fern had saved up. There’d been little or no curiosity about Amelie, about Donna, about recent goings-on at Homestead House.