‘Well, not exactly that. I haven’t a job though, so I could be around.’
‘Really?’ She did not believe him, and anyway did not want this.
‘I thought I might sell the house in Newcastle. It’s in my name, so there’s no problem about that. I’d have a bit of capital to draw on and I could even move up here if Kate wanted to stay in the area. Property prices are much lower.’
‘Move here?’ Go away, she pleaded silently, I wish you’d go and leave us alone. After two glasses of wine, she was less guarded. ‘Don’t you have a life in Newcastle? What would you do here? Anyway, what if Susan comes home, and you’ve sold the house? You can’t do that.’
‘You don’t want me here.’ He leaned forward. ‘Is there a boyfriend, is that it?’
‘That’s absolutely none of your business.’
He abandoned this. ‘Well, I don’t see the point in waiting for Susan. I have waited, quite a long time.’
‘I can’t believe this.’ She set her glass down with a sharp clink on the wooden floor. ‘You’re giving up on your wife, barely four months after she disappears. You said yourself she was ill. She could be in desperate circumstances. Alec, she could be dead.’ She stopped, appalled. Only the wine could have made her say this.
‘Well, if she’s dead, there absolutely no point in hanging about.’
‘You really are a useless husband.’
‘Christ, you’ve no bloody idea. None at all.’
‘Have you gone off her, is that it? How long did it take you to start being sorry, regretting your wild elopement?’ Her voice rose.
He did not answer, and in the silence her words echoed.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she said, trembling. ‘I’ve had too much wine, I’m not used to it, and I’m saying things I really would rather not say.’
His voice was low, but she did not mistake the words. ‘Of course I regretted it. What else? But when you’ve made a decision like that you’ve got to stick with it.’ They looked at each other in silence, then he pushed the flick of hair off his forehead and smiled. ‘Fran, you made it impossible. There was no way back.’
‘I don’t want to hear this,’ she said. ‘I’m going to bed.’
He watched her go and did not try to stop her. Instead he sat down, finished the bottle and opened the Bordeaux, letting the whole terrible day settle into a cloud of confusion, dimmer now, less painful, nothing hurting except a long way off.
It was awkward, that stage where you knew you were both thinking about it, but you weren’t familiar enough yet to say anything. Gillian sometimes thought the best way to deal with it was to get drunk, then you didn’t care so much how it turned out, and you could feel less responsible anyway.
Back in the flat, she seemed to wake up, sobered, and went into her tiny kitchen to make coffee.
‘Put some music on,’ she suggested, but he followed her. The place was so narrow she could not move without brushing against him, so she stood still, filling the kettle. He put his arms round her, and looking down she saw his hands clasped round her stomach, the nails clean but slightly too long, and his gold signet ring.
‘I don’t want any more coffee,’ he said. ‘Do you?’
She set the kettle down on the draining board.
‘Actually, I’d rather have tea.’
He let her go but he was still there when she turned, and held her again, pushing her against the sink, bending to kiss her. She slid away from him. ‘Sorry, must go to the loo.’
In the bathroom mirror her own face looked back at her, makeup gone, skin flushed, a piece of hair sticking up at the back. She splashed her face with cold water, dried it roughly, combed her hair and patched with concealer the blotchy area on her chin. Better.
He was looking along her bookshelves. Do I want to go to bed with you? She stared at his turned back, the space on his brown neck between hairline and collar, the specks of dandruff on his jacket, the trousers expensive but a little too tight at the waist, the polished shoes. You’re a stranger.
He turned and smiled then and she thought, he is very nice-looking, you’ve got to admit that. We’re getting on fine, no need to panic.
They sat on the sofa, Paul with a beer, Gillian with her mug of tea.
‘It was a lovely meal,’ she said. ‘I’ve only been in that place once and I’m sure it wasn’t as good.’
‘New owners,’ he explained. ‘My mate Chris tipped me off. They used to have a place in Glasgow he went to a lot.’ He put his arm along the sofa behind her. ‘You Ok?’
‘Fine.’
‘You want to go to bed?’
She laughed, disarmed. ‘The approach direct. … Oh God, I don’t know.’
‘Best to know where we are, eh?’ He leaned over and began nuzzling her neck, so that she gave way and let him kiss her again. Why not, she thought, nothing to stop me.
In the bedroom in the dark, they collapsed in a tangle of clothes half-pulled off, and she gasped, wait, wait, helping him, undoing his belt buckle, pulling her shirt over her head. She leaned into him, hands on his warm back, the smoothness of his olive skin, the movement of muscles underneath. This was it, this was the moment, she knew, as she kicked off her trousers, when they would see each other for the first time, and in all the confusion something would be clear at last, that it was right, or wrong, a mistake. His hand came down under her pants, between her legs, warm, cupping her underneath, a finger rubbing, then pushing deeper and she cried out No! She grabbed his arm and thrust it away, flinging herself off the bed and away from him, tugging bra straps up, staggering back.
‘What the – ’ He stared at her, then jerked up his trousers, without zipping them, leaving his belt dangling. She could still feel his finger hot inside her.
‘I don’t want – I don’t want you to do that.’ She began to cry, tears streaming down, hands over her face, shaking. He waited a moment to see if she would stop, then got off the bed and went back to the living-room, picking up his shirt as he left. She ran to the door and pushed it shut behind him, then lay on the bed till the sobbing died away and she was still.
Silence.
Perhaps he had gone. Well, she didn’t care. Let him think she was off her head, frigid, weird, whatever. She didn’t care. She sat up and blew her nose, rubbing her face with a clean tissue, then put her dressing gown on, tightening the belt with shaking fingers, damp with tears.
He was sitting on the sofa with a fresh beer, waiting for her.
‘Thought I’d better not go till I saw you were all right.’
‘That was nice of you.’
‘You want to talk, tell me what’s wrong? I don’t think I misread the signals.’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Sorry.’
‘You want a drink? Do you have brandy? You’re white as a sheet.’
‘No, I don’t want a drink. Maybe a cup of tea, I don’t know.’
She listened to him moving about in her kitchen. He did not once come back and ask where she kept anything, but reappeared in a few minutes with a mug of tea.
‘Couldn’t find any sugar.’
‘I don’t take it.’
‘So I put honey in. Here, drink it up.’
She could taste the honey, clover sweet.
‘I must look terrible. I feel terrible.’
‘I can tell.’
He sat beside her while she sipped her tea. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but if you’d like me to stay, I will.’
‘Stay?’
‘Just stay. Sleep on the sofa, or in bed with you if you want a cuddle. That’s all.’
‘You must think I’m totally weird.’ She leaned against his chest, his arm round her.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said.
In Michelle’s bedroom, top to tail with Amy on an assortment of blankets and sleeping bags, Kate slept, waking once in the night from a dream about her mother. Susan was in Frances’s garden and she wouldn’t come into the house, however hard Kate tried to persuade her. Then
she said she wanted coffee but when Kate went into the kitchen to make it Frances was there, and she was afraid to tell her Susan was outside. She began lying to Frances, began worrying that if she didn’t take the coffee out soon, Susan would have gone. She woke in the hard panic of worrying what to do. Next to her Michelle lay on her back with her mouth open, snoring.
In Balmoral Crescent an ambulance drew up at the kerb, blue light flashing, and a man and a young woman got out. By this time Grace was kneeling beside Jim, afraid to move him, trying to listen to his breathing, which was faint and hoarse. Debbie hovered nearby, wishing she had put a jacket on, but not liking to leave Grace. Maybe he would die. She hoped he would not, since she had never seen a dead person and it would be so upsetting for Grace. The paramedics moved Grace gently out of the way and bent close to her husband.
In the night, Frances’s telephone rang on the bedside table. She woke in a fright, heart thumping. Downstairs, Alec heard it but made no move to answer, having finished the bottle of Bordeaux by this time.
7
Frances left a list of instructions with Alec and called a sleepy Kate at Michelle’s house. Kate muttered, ‘it’s so early, nobody’s up yet’, and then, taking in what Frances was saying, gasped, ‘Are you going away?’
She was not frightened for her grandfather, scarcely known; her alarm was all because Frances would not be there.
‘When are you coming back?’
‘Friday, probably. Andrew will be home on Saturday, so I’ll have to be home then. It depends how Grandpa is and how Granny is coping.’
They were not Granny and Grandpa to Kate, but Frances used the names without thinking. Kate lowered her voice,
‘Did you tell him?’
‘What? Oh yes, he knows. Don’t worry, Kate.’
‘I’m not.’
Back in Michelle’s room, where the other girls, still drowsy, lay wrapped in duvets, she said, ‘My Grandad’s had a heart attack.’
Frances was on the road by nine. She spoke to her mother before she left, a less frightened and confused Grace by this time, the panic gone from her voice.
‘He’s stable,’ she reassured Frances. ‘They think he’ll be all right, but it depends on the next few days.’
‘I’ll be with you by lunch-time. Should I meet you at the hospital?’
‘No dear, come to the house and have a bite to eat first. You’ll need it after the long drive and we can go up in the afternoon. They’ll phone if there’s any change.’
‘Have you slept?’
‘Not really.’
‘Go to bed then, get some rest. See you soon.’
Grace sighed. ‘Maybe I’ll do that. Oh dear, I can’t get over it. In the street. What a good thing that lassie was there.’
‘Have you spoken to Gillian?’
But Grace had called only Frances, because she was the one they turned to, knowing she would take care of everything.
Gillian had slept in after a night of fitful dozing, restless with someone else in the bed. She had forgotten to set the alarm and when Frances called at half past eight, she woke with a start and stumbled out of bed, grabbing the phone on the table beside her. ‘Oh God, look at the time – hello?’
Frances was so calm it took Gillian a moment or two to understand just how serious her news was. She turned away from the bed, not wanting Frances to know there was anyone else there, and cradled the phone with a hand over her free ear, concentrating.
‘He’s going to be all right, though? ’ she asked, as Paul got up and went into the bathroom. ‘What will I do? Should I come up now? I’ll go to work first, I have to. Oh God, he’s not going to die?’ She could not imagine her father submitting to the indignity of a hospital bed. ‘Will you call me when you’ve seen him? I’ll come up tonight, that’s best. Do you think?’
‘Calm down,’ Frances said. ‘Mum said he was sleeping quite peacefully this morning. He’s survived the worst and he’s strong for his age.’
‘So I’ll wait to hear from you?’
‘Yes, don’t worry.’
Paul was in the shower. Gillian saw him turn, naked behind the screen, and had a spasm of lust, shaming and inappropriate. Too late now. She fetched him a clean towel and he stepped out, taking it from her.
‘What’s up?’
My father’s had a heart attack. My sister Fran is going to Aberdeen this morning. I think I’ll go too, maybe tonight.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘Fran seems to think he’ll be all right.’
They faced each other in the steamy bathroom. He put out a finger and smoothed it down the side of her cheek.
‘See you when you get back, then. Hope everything works out.’
‘I’ll call you. Sorry, better get on, I’m incredibly late. Help yourself to breakfast.’
There was something disquieting about how readily he made himself at home in her flat: using the toaster, finding butter and honey, clearing dishes left in the sink overnight.
‘You want toast?’ he asked.
‘I’ll just have tea. I don’t usually eat breakfast, and I really couldn’t face it today.’
‘You should try, you’ve had a shock.’ He smiled at her and pushed another piece of bread in the toaster. Gillian gazed at him, not sure what she felt, still stunned by fear and the inexplicable guilt which her father seemed to spark in her.
She was used to being alone in her flat in the morning, and to silence. Paul turned on the radio and sat eating toast and drinking coffee on her sofa. The smell of these things penetrated the whole place too early, too strongly. He leafed through the section of yesterday’s paper she usually reserved for morning. How long was he planning to hang around? She couldn’t fix her makeup in the living-room mirror which had the best light, while he was there, so she went into the bedroom instead, feeling put out. She straightened pillows on the tousled bed and folded the duvet back, but the room when she left it still had a louche, dissevelled air.
In the street they parted and Gillian walked to work in sunshine. Along the pavement people strode, some with mobile phones already clasped to their ears. The thin trees lining the street were coming into bud and their sparse branches quivered with a haze of palest green. Gillian, setting off in a hurry, turned back to catch a glimpse of Paul at the far corner, not looking back at her.
All the rest of the way to office her thoughts buzzed dementedly between the night just gone and anxiety about her father. She sank into guilty acceptance of what must happen. He would die. Their mother would be on her own and she would have to come and stay more often, needing the company. She pictured her mother bereft and lonely, but somehow that didn’t seem true. She might be quite different, Gillian thought as she reached the office and pushed through the glass doors. Free of him she might flourish; she might even be happy. Restless and anxious, Gillian avoided the lift and ran up two flights instead.
Frances reached her parents’ house at half past twelve, and her mother, who had been standing by the bay window watching for her, came to open the front door. Awkwardly, since they were not a demonstrative family, Frances hugged her, conscious Grace seemed smaller these days, plumpness dissolving with age.
‘Come away in. I’ve lentil soup heating so we’ll have a bite before we go up and see him.’
‘How is he?’
‘No word since I left the hospital this morning. He was sleeping then, he seemed not so bad.’
When they reached the hospital about an hour later visitors were beginning to straggle in with their flowers and magazines and newly-washed nightwear. A nurse met them at the entrance to the Intensive Care Unit and told them Jim had been moved out. He was in a small side ward with four beds, in Cardiology. One had screens round, one was empty and in the other a skeletal old man lay asleep with his mouth open, nose in the air like a featherless bird.
Frances’s father lay in bed with a drip stand on one side, the swivel tray table on the other still bare except for a grey papier mache sick bowl. H
e was drowsy but awake and raised one hand in greeting. He seemed hardly to be there under the green hospital blanket and white sheet, barely lifting them from the mattress. Frances swallowed her fear: surely everyone felt like this about hospitals, seeing how the people they loved were diminished simply by being there. Jim, though, had a gleam of resentment in his eyes as he watched them approach the bed.
‘How are you feeling, Dad?’ She bent and kissed his dry cheek, smelling disinfectant and starched linen instead of his own scent, masculine and weathered.
‘Very frustrated,’ he said. ‘They won’t let me get up.’
‘I should think not.’ Grace sat on a plastic chair on the same side as the drip stand. ‘But I see you’re not wired up to that machine any more.’ She turned to Frances. ‘They had him on a monitor, with those lines going across it on a screen.’
‘Get yourself a chair.’ Jim turned his head and nodded at the bed opposite. ‘Take one of those – he won’t be having visitors.’ He meant the sleeper, who had not stirred. For a few seconds Frances wondered if he had actually died, with no-one noticing. ‘Down and out,’ said her father. ‘Nurse told me they had to give him two baths to get him even half clean.’
Frances fetched a chair and sat down. ‘You seem fine to me,’ she said, ‘for somebody who had a massive heart attack last night.’
‘Massive, rubbish. Moderate. Nothing to get in a state about. Be home soon.’
‘We’ll see,’ Grace said, looking doubtful. If he’s all right, Frances was thinking, I can go home soon. Tomorrow. Especially if Gillian will come and do her bit. Glancing at her mother, that tight pursing of the mouth, the way she sat upright in the hard chair, she was flushed with love and pity and did not want to leave her. All those feelings, she thought, that you have for your parents, always changing, the love all mixed up with resentment and pity and irritation.
As if he wanted to remind them who was in charge here, her father raised a hand again and asked, ‘Gillian coming?’
‘Sometime today.’
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