Chapter Twenty-Four
She still did it, made to turn in at Honeybun Cottage. Had actually pulled up in the wrong drive on occasions, then remembered that she’d moved to Pennybun and giggled aloud before reversing into the lane to drive fifty yards to the next gate. Next door. They lived next door, in freshly plastered rooms, colours they’d chosen together, a mixture of her furniture and Ratty’s.
Honeybun could be rented out, earn its keep like Ratty’s properties, when she got round to it, when she adjusted herself to letting it go and finally moved the last of her things from Honeybun to Pennybun. When she was used to living at Pennybun, had finished grumbling, ‘It does my head in! Everything’s back to front here.’
‘You’ll cope.’ He’d grin, catch her, snatch her close, making her yelp at his suddenness. Kiss her, hands pushing past elastic, flicking open buttons. ‘It can’t be that difficult to sort out a mere five rooms.’
‘But,’ she tipped her head back as his hand pulled gently at the length of her hair, shivering when the scratchiness of his stubble nuzzled the delicate skin of her neck, ‘they’re five back-to-front rooms.’
‘Tess Through the Looking Glass.’
‘That’s exactly how it feels.’
It did feel odd in Pennybun, turning left to the stairs from the kitchen instead of right, or arriving in the bathroom instead of her peaceful blue-painted workroom. It didn’t yet feel like home.
Through the kitchen door that opened the other way, then she put the kettle on the range – where the stairs should be – shouting, ‘Ratty?’ Just in case he might already be home. The tiny wood-framed sofa in the corner beckoned. She dropped into its familiar comfort, clutching hot chocolate. There wasn’t room for a sofa in the kitchen really but Ratty insisted a chair wasn’t enough. Where she might sit he wanted room to squash in.
McLaren laughed down at her from one wall, young Lucasta smouldered from another.
They lived together. Ratty and Tess. Just the two of them at Pennybun.
A beatific existence of exploring each other, shut off from the rest of the world whenever they wanted. Or out together, supplying the wine for Angel’s terrific meals, babysitting, borrowing the children occasionally. No ties to stop them attending a hill climb, camping out at the Cambridge Folk Festival, mixing with the petrolheads at the grand prix, walking hand in hand up the road to The Three Fishes. They even visited each set of parents, occasionally, and, once, risked both sets together at a meal in a restaurant by the river.
But best was being here, the two of them, at Pennybun.
She felt as if she’d recovered after flu. Ratty had cured her, woken every nerve end, wooed her into delicious, watery-legged libidinous intimacy. Whenever he reached for her she was ready and whenever she reached for him ... Joy to be a partner instead of a puppet.
She checked her watch, he wouldn’t be long. Shedding his overalls at the door, trying to hug her without contact with his half-cleaned hands, talking about this Ford Anglia Super and that Wolseley, drawing her up the stairs with his conversation, to be there whilst he showered. Towelling black curls, one step, two step, all damp and hot from the shower, scooping her up for a proper, minutes-long embrace. ‘Kiss me,’ he’d whisper into her neck. Tell her how he’d been thinking about her, melt her with his hot breath, gentle hands, urgent lips.
How often they made love, then, when he’d been those eight or nine hours away from her. How often he smooched her over to the bed in their green-and-gold bedroom, swung her feet up and dropped down beside her into the depths of the duvet. ‘I love you, sexy woman.’
Home soon.
If she sat there dreaming much longer, wondering what was going to happen, unfold, change, he’d be home.
Disappointingly, he phoned instead. ‘I’ve got to take the wrecker to Oundle. Tubb’s in trouble with his Daimler Sovereign.’
‘It’s a nice run to Oundle,’ she remarked hopefully.
‘Squashed in with Harry Tubb?’
Sweaty. Funny smile. No, maybe not. She liked stone-built Oundle, if not for Harry Tubb they could have snatched a bar meal somewhere, been alone in the darkness of the cab of the wrecker to drive home. She could have told him.
And by the time he did stroll in, hanging up his keys, Guy had turned up, and Ratty just kissed her and said easily, ‘Dinner guest?’ Which meant Guy felt invited to stay, desultorily washing salad whilst Tess made spaghetti carbonara.
Then Guy lingered, talked on and on about that holiday in Munich when he and Tess had walked the tall streets among the statues and monuments, supported the German way of setting out benches and tables at every gathering and calling it a Fest. Did she remember applauding the gold-painted mime beneath the Glockenspiel? Standing on the very steps where Hitler gave the Munich Address, attempting a polka in a bierkeller, swaying to drinking songs they didn’t understand? And remember that man who’d refused to say ‘Prost!’ with Tess because, to counterbalance prodigious amounts of alcohol, she had water in her Maßkrug!
They’d lost their way and taken directions from a German Scotsman in a swirling kilt. James had exploded down the phone because Tess rang home drunk at 4 a.m.
Guy had had to borrow money. ‘I don’t know what happened to mine.’
‘You spent it!’
Guy nodded as if the idea hadn’t previously occurred. ‘Probably.’
Then Guy got round to asking Ratty whether he’d be interested in a TR7 going up for sale. Tess loaded the dishwasher whilst they concluded that Ratty wasn’t interested unless it was black and gold, a good seller. But he wouldn’t want to pay a lot.
She tuned it out. Ratty got on with everyone, when he chose. He’d offer unstinting hospitality because Guy was her cousin. As long as Guy behaved, he was welcome. If he displayed any of his occasional tendencies to use her, Ratty would turn on him like an unpredictable Alsatian.
It was wonderful to have someone sticking up for her and she never ceased to appreciate it. And it was nice to see Guy. But she wished he’d go.
‘I thought he’d never leave!’
‘Certainly made himself at home. Did he ask for money?’
‘Not this time. He wanted you to buy that car.’
‘P’raps he’ll get a drink out of it if he sells it. Are you ever coming to bed tonight?’
‘In a minute.’ She shook her hair from its clasp.
‘Here, Princess.’ He held out his hand for the hairbrush. He never tired of sitting behind her, brushing until her hair lay like rose gold down to her waist. Then pulling her down beside him, letting the hair slither through his fingers, pulling her against him.
Now was the time to tell him.
Or maybe not right now. That was too good to postpone.
Whilst their breathing slowed, she snuggled in the crook of his arm, her hand on his chest. It was time.
A jump in her chest. She must tell him but her mouth seemed suddenly reluctant to open and let the words out.
Possibilities turned over in her mind, his likely reactions chased after. If only she could know his reaction first, it would make selecting her approach so much easier.
‘What’s up?’
She jumped, wrong-footed. He caressed her cheekbone as he waited. Seeing through her.
So, time to tell. Feverishly, she re-revised her openings. Women had to tell men this all the time, there had to be ways to make it important, welcome news.
But, if it wasn’t? What if it was a catastrophe?
Blue eyes were turning wary, black eyebrows straight-lining above them. He was wondering. ‘Tell me,’ he suggested, mild, but with that hint of hardness which reminded her that people didn’t mess with him. He could be difficult, though not with her, never with her. Yet. She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, hovering between two opening gambits.
‘Tess!’
She took a deep breath to deliver the news in a reasonable, measured manner. But unrehearsed words pushed past her planned phrases, tumbled past her lips. ‘We�
�ve been a bit careless.’
The eyebrows shot up. The arm around her tightened, gave a slight shake. ‘What?’
Heat rose to her face, she half smiled, half laughed. ‘Um,’ and ‘Well ...’ She tried again. ‘When I was ill, you know, that night, the curry, remember?’ He nodded, dawning suspicion in his eyes. Her gaze dropped to the twin fans of black hair on the power of his chest, her hand rose to smooth them. ‘If you read, if we’d read, the instructions with the contraceptive pill ... Well, we should’ve taken other, um, precautions.’
She cleared her throat, flicked a glance at his poleaxed expression. ‘So what happens, you see ...’
‘Holy crap,’ he croaked. ‘We’re having a baby!’
‘Mmm.’
Expression ludicrous, incredulous, he stared into her eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Mmm.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘I just told you.’ She must be composed. It was vital not to give too much away until he’d reacted, committed himself.
He was very still. Apart from the ridiculous incredulity, she couldn’t read his face. Distaste? Fear? Disappointment? Dismay? Let it be joy! Or, at least, acceptance.
He blinked. ‘You do want to keep it?’
Relief made her head buzz. ‘Of course I want to! Do you?’
‘Why wouldn’t I want to? Tess!’ He dragged her off her elbow and into his arms, burying his face in her hair, hugging her too tightly. ‘I love you!’ Laughing, kissing, rolling over her, ‘Oh my God,’ and, ‘I can’t believe it,’ and, ‘Oh my God,’ again. He kissed his way down to the abdomen where it was all to happen, began a silly one-sided conversation with what he called ‘his foetus’.
Eventually, he just cradled her against the hot flesh of his body. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Dr Warrington, today. He said, “Aha! The incredible baby-producing tummy bug!” And gave me a stack of leaflets showing veiny breasts and screwed-up babies. He’s doing a test to make sure.’
She watched Ratty’s lips descend slowly until her eyes closed and her lips opened to reciprocate his kiss.
Against her mouth, he murmured, ‘Is everything going to be all right this time?’
‘He says there’s no reason to think it’ll go wrong again. But, be very sensible.’
Ratty gripped her. ‘We’ll be more sensible than anyone has ever been before. I love you. We’ll love our baby.’ Kiss, kiss, ‘Everything will be wonderful,’ kiss, ‘because nothing bad is going to happen,’ kiss, ‘nothing could – happen to – spoil – this.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nothing could spoil it. Certainly not so soon. How should she have known that carrying the mail up to open with that first cup of tea, would do it? Suspect, when he opened his eyes, smiled his sexiest and joked, ‘Hullo, Mummy,’ that she shouldn’t have giggled back? There was nothing, then, to stop her abandoning the tray and bouncing in beside him, agreeing that the baby would be their secret for a few more weeks. It was only sensible.
Then, the unexploded bomb was just one of a dozen envelopes waiting for attention.
So she knew the love was still on her face, the tenderness in her eyes when she opened her bank statements, the laugh in her voice when she repeated a remark about her credit card and he didn’t answer.
But she deflated abruptly when he began to swear, softly and continuously.
‘What?’ she reached for the pages in his hand. She gazed in dismay as he leapt up and turned his back. ‘What? Bad news? Rats?’
Two of his strides across the tiny landing and the bathroom door shut. She heard the bolt slide.
She sat, stunned, among the junk mail, the envelopes, the statements, in their bed, her heart hammering blood round her veins, forcing cold sweat through her pores. Fruitless questions swarmed around her mind. Sitting on their bed like a mermaid washed ashore, she felt sick, wondering frantically what had caused Ratty to dive for cover. Had to be something bad.
He was white, when he emerged, hair damp at the front as if he’d rinsed his face. Hesitantly, he sank down beside her, cleared his throat, slid his arm around her.
His eyes, his troubled eyes, it had to be something bad, bad. This was how people were when they had to impart awful news, with gentle sympathy and a grave expression.
‘What?’ She trembled when his gaze faltered and dropped to a thickness of papers clutched in his fist beside him on the bed. She couldn’t take her eyes away.
‘It’s ... a problem. My Christ.’
She waited, swallowing back the rising in her throat. Fresh sweat broke on her swimmy head.
‘The Child Support Agency says ...’
‘CSA?’ Stiff lips, rubber tongue. A voice which sounded something like hers.
He wavered a sigh, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. She watched the sheaf of printed paper as his hand moved.
‘They say there’s a child.’
Her heart thumped right up in the back of her throat as she sifted frantically through his words for the meaning. Could this be something to do with her child, the collection of cells which was apparently inside her, waiting to be their baby? She didn’t see how. And in his face she saw guilt.
‘You’ve got a child?’
‘They say so. I didn’t know, no idea!’
She shook off his arm, battling waves of nausea. Morning sickness. How humbling, how intolerably humiliating if she barfed it all up, here in their bed, in front of him whilst he told her the incredible news that he had a child!
She took a grip on herself. ‘Who? I mean, the mother?’
‘Madeline Gavanagh. Madeline and me ... a couple of years ago. I promise you I didn’t know there could be a baby. Well ...’
He tailed off. His face, that face she’d loved so wholly, was chiselled with misery. And guilt.
A deep breath. She waited for the thudding in her ears to subside. It was imperative that she get this straight. ‘This baby is more than a year old?’
‘Apparently. I don’t know why she’s waited to make a claim.’
‘And it’s your baby?’
‘Apparently.’
‘You had unprotected sex with her?’
He barely nodded. ‘Once or twice.’
She felt a ferocious red tide of anger erupt inside her. ‘Don’t you even know which?’
His eyes were filled with misery.
She gripped her temples with her fingertips. ‘Just let me clarify. After you had unprotected sex with this Madeline, which of you ended the relationship?’
She could see him thinking about lying. The indecision was written on his face as he looked down at the paperwork in his hands, then out of the window. Then at her.
‘Me.’
‘Without knowing she’d fallen pregnant? So,’ she sank her face into her palms. ‘You didn’t bother to find out. You left her up to her neck in it!’
Suddenly she had to get away, off their passionate bed. Such a mockery. She swayed to her feet.
He protested, ‘It was only a couple of times!’ Then, bitterly, ‘I’m usually careful.’
She swung round. ‘Do you really think so? When we got it together, I don’t remember condoms figuring in your Great Plan!’
His eyes were hunted, anguished, hair curling down to thick, dark brows, pallor accentuated the shadow of his day-old beard. ‘I assumed you’d say something if you wanted me to take care of it.’
‘Bloody big assumption!’
‘But with Madeline it was only a couple of times, when I was boozed up! It was unlucky.’ Expression desperate, he moved around the bed towards her; she backed off.
‘Unlucky! I’d say they were persistent little bastards, your “guys”! A boozy session for her, a tummy bug for me and bingo!’
‘It doesn’t have to change anything.’ Desperation, panic in his voice. ‘Don’t let it change what we’ve got, we don’t have to suffer for this. It was before us, before we’d met, even!’ Desperately, ‘If it helps, I won’t see the
baby.’
‘Is it a boy or a girl?’
He hesitated. ‘Boy. It’ll just be financial.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Jason. I won’t see him.’
Step by step he’d backed her up to the doorway. She stared at him as if she’d never seen him clearly before, held up her hands to stay him.
A deep breath. ‘You won’t see him?’ She was screaming, suddenly she was screaming and she couldn’t help it, screaming because she felt screaming was the only means of communicating such disgust, fury, pain. ‘How can you not see your son? Christ, last night you lay there,’ she flung a hand to the bed, knowing tears were making her nose-running ugly and not caring. ‘Carrying on an entire conversation with your foetus, nothing more than a bunch of cells hitching a ride on an egg. And you think you’ll be able to stay away from a living, breathing, loving baby? Your son! And why would you, anyway? How can you suggest it? Does Jason deserve being ignored by his father? And doesn’t Madeline deserve help with the parenting? Do you think that you ought to be able to have your drunken sex and then sail on your merry, selfish, I’m-all-right-Jack way, leaving a child and a changed life behind you?’
She dragged in a huge, ragged breath. ‘If you can ignore Madeline’s baby, you can ignore mine! Is that what I’ve got to look forward to?’
‘Of course not!’
She watched fury flash across his features, before he collected himself, forcing himself to be calm, concentrate. Search for a solution to the problem, ways of gaining ground. Eyes casting about, he located the tissues beside the bed and held out a handful for her.
And when she reached for them he snatched her hand, as she’d known he would, and pulled her towards him. She could almost feel his comforting heartbeat across the few inches remaining between them. Yes, let him soothe her, wipe her face with clean, cool tissues, stroke back her hair where it plastered wet cheeks. Enable her to breathe again, see properly to be disillusioned by his remorseful, hunted, wary eyes.
‘Don’t cry, Princess.’ His hands sidled gently up her arms as if sneaking a halter onto a nervous pony. Inching closer, he slid his arms around, letting their bodies gently touch, pressing a delicate kiss against her forehead, each swollen eye, the tip of her nose, cheeks, and so slowly to her parted lips. A kiss to feel his way, to bridge the chasm the bomb had caused, to coax her that everything would be all right.
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