by Hilary Boyd
They had certainly tried to persuade her that she was in no way to blame back then. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ was a sentence she had learned to hate. Because whatever anyone said, however many times they said it, however much they meant what they said, it was an absolutely indisputable, cast-iron fact that if she hadn’t taken her eyes off her son that day, he would still be alive. It was unquestionably her fault – hers and Jack’s.
‘Don’t cry, Bibi.’ Arthur was at her knee, his little hand stroking hers oh so gently. And she realized there were, indeed, tears pouring down her cheeks. ‘Sorry, darling. Sorry. I’m OK, just a bit tired.’ She kissed the top of his head, his curls salty with sweat, and reached into the pocket of her linen trousers to find a tissue.
‘Mum …’ As she turned to look at Eve, she saw the dismay on her face. ‘God, Mum. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But I didn’t mean … I wasn’t …’ She too came over and sat beside Stella, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘I really didn’t mean it. I got scared, that’s all. It’s the first time I’ve left him for a night. Mum? Forgive me? I’m so sorry.’
Stella heard her daughter’s words and smiled automatically. She knew she hadn’t been referring to Jonny. But it doesn’t change a thing, she thought, bleakly. Nothing, as long as I live, will ever change that one moment of catastrophic inattention.
‘Your dad’s put duct tape over the door catch, so it can’t shut like that again,’ she said, desperate to block her thoughts. ‘And I’ve put that weighted goose thing Arthur had in his bedroom on the bathroom floor as a doorstop. But we should get it seen to. Maybe the door needs shaving off a bit at the top.’
‘Yeah,’ Eve straightened up and sighed. ‘I’ll phone someone on Monday.’
23
‘Why is Stella calling you again?’ Lisa asked. She had picked Jack’s mobile up from the table in the garden and brought it in to him. It was Sunday morning, not yet nine, and they had been sitting outside in the warm early-July sunshine, both with bowls of muesli – homemade, Lisa brought it to the cottage in a Tupperware box – blueberries and yoghurt, orange juice and the Sunday papers. Jack had gone inside to make more coffee for himself and chamomile tea for Lisa when his phone rang.
He shrugged at his wife’s question before quickly answering the call. The situation with his daughter was a constant source of unease in the back of his mind.
‘Hi,’ Stella’s voice was low. ‘Bit of a situation here. Eve’s OK, but she seems really worn out. I think she could do with a day off from all of us. Let her talk to Eric in peace.’ She paused and he heard the sound of the radio playing Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s instantly recognizable ‘Heart of Gold’ in the background. ‘Be gentle, Arthur, just stroke him softly,’ he heard her say, then she was back on the line. ‘Muriel-next-door’s one-eyed cat has just wandered in and I’m not sure how user-friendly he is. Anyway, I thought we might take Arthur to the beach instead of doing lunch. I’ve checked and Camber Sands is less than an hour from here. It’s such a beautiful day. What do you think?’
‘Know it well. That’s the beach we used to go to when I was a child. It’ll be heaving on a Sunday, but if we get there early …’
‘So you’re up for it?’
Jack was calculating how this would work for Lisa.
The problem yesterday had been that the sex they both used as balm for any marital discord was not working at the moment. Jack would find himself suitably aroused, but as soon as they got going, his erection would crumple and peter out. No amount of silent fantasizing or encouragement from Lisa – humiliating for both of them – had any effect. Jack blamed it on the beta-blocker medication he took, but he knew it wasn’t that. Nor was it the worry that Lisa would trick him into pregnancy. It went deeper than that.
‘Umm, yes.’ He took the plunge now, deciding to have the argument with his wife later, if necessary. She had picked up a magazine and was leafing through it, pretending not to listen, but he could tell from the set of her face that she absolutely was. ‘Good idea. There’s a café there, right on the beach by the main car park, so we don’t need a picnic.’
‘Great, see you around eleven thirty then, at the café? I might even swim.’
‘Might even myself. The sea should be boiling after all the sun we’ve had.’
As he clicked off, Lisa raised her eyebrows in question. ‘The beach?’
‘Yes, do you fancy it? Stella wants to give Eve the day off and she was suggesting we take Arthur to Camber Sands.’
‘You and her?’
‘No, of course not. All of us,’ he assured her, although Stella had not mentioned Lisa.
‘Really? Won’t that be a bit weird?’
‘In what way?’
‘Well … You, me and Stella …’
‘Don’t be daft. Of course you’re coming. You love the beach.’
She pulled a face, although he could see a grin lurking behind the frown. ‘I love the beach in the Med or the Seychelles. Not sure Camber Sands quite does it.’
He laughed, thoroughly relieved to see her smile. ‘Yeah, well, take what you can get, eh?’
‘I’m definitely swimming,’ Lisa said, suddenly almost childishly excited at the prospect. Jack wondered if she was pleased Eve wasn’t going to be there.
‘Wow,’ Stella said, ‘you have the most amazing figure, Lisa.’
They were sitting on large towels near the dunes at the top of the beach. There was a slight wind by the water and the dunes afforded protection from any flying sand. The tide was miles out, the expanse of beach, a ruffled sea and a perfectly blue sky stretching ahead of them to the horizon. It was a beautiful day.
Jack kept his shirt on, with only his legs exposed beneath his khaki cargo shorts. His skin was fair and burned easily. But Lisa, as soon as they agreed on their spot on the sand, had stripped off, and was now standing above them, revealing her perfectly toned stomach and lightly tanned limbs. Her bikini was bright red and skimpy, with crisscross fastenings at the hips to expose even more flesh. He had to admit, she did look stunning.
Lisa, at Stella’s remark, glanced sideways at her, perhaps wondering if she was taking the piss. But Stella’s tone was absolutely genuine and he saw his wife blush and fiddle with her hair.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, folks,’ Jack joked to dispel the awkward silence, ‘but I can’t compete. Couldn’t find my budgie-smugglers anywhere.’
‘Eugh, Jack!’ Lisa pulled a horrified face, while Stella grinned and the tension evaporated. ‘Shall I take Arthur for a swim?’ Lisa asked. Arthur jumped up and down at this suggestion. He was dressed in one of those sun suits that covered most of his body – Eve had insisted on it – and had been happily ladling sand into a bucket, then tipping it back out.
‘No!’ Both Jack and Stella chorused in unison, so loudly that Lisa almost jumped back from where she stood in the soft sand.
‘Sorry.’ Stella – who was sitting, legs stretched out on the towel, wearing her dotty-old-lady panama, long linen shorts and a T-shirt – held her hand up in apology. ‘I didn’t mean to shout. It’s just that Eve said on no account was Arthur to swim.’
Jack wondered if this was true. He couldn’t decide whether it was Stella’s paranoia, or if Eve was losing confidence in her parents where childcare was concerned.
‘I mean, obviously he can’t actually swim yet,’ Stella was saying, ‘but she didn’t want us taking him in the water. “Just paddling,” she said.’ Then she hauled herself to her feet. ‘I’ll come with you.’
As the two women and his grandson made off across the beach, Jack lay back on the towel, pulled his faded blue baseball cap – with the New York Yankees logo – over his eyes and prayed that Stella and Lisa would find some smidgen of common ground that didn’t include the character assassination of Jack Holt.
When they came back from the long trek to the water’s edge, Lisa glowing wet from her swim and looking more Baywatch than ever, the two women were getting on like a house o
n fire, laughing and chatting as they swung his grandson – also wet, his curls corkscrewing around his beaming face – between them. They all fell down on the towels, clearly elated.
‘That was fantastic,’ Stella said. ‘I’m going in later, Lisa says it’s gorgeous.’
‘And Arthur did some surfing in the shallow bit, didn’t you, Arty?’ Lisa said, patting the boy affectionately on the shoulder.
Arthur nodded, leaning on his grandfather’s tented knees. ‘We saw a wobbly jellyfish on the sand, Grandad. Bibi wouldn’t let me touch it.’
‘Quite right. You know one day, when I was about your age, we came to the beach and it was covered from top to toe with jellyfish. Couldn’t put a pin between them.’
Arthur’s eyes were wide. ‘What did you do?’
‘We went home. We didn’t want to be stung.’
Arthur looked a bit disappointed by the prosaic outcome of the story and went off to pick up his spade.
Lisa offered to take Arthur to get an ice cream when they were both dry. Stella and Jack sat in silence, watching the two figures weave their way through the grouped families dotted along the sands.
‘She’s lovely,’ Stella said. ‘We had a very amusing chat about television.’
‘Yeah?’ he said. He felt stupidly proud that Lisa was his wife, but also detached from her prettiness. It didn’t seem relevant any more. ‘Good to see you getting on.’
Stella glanced at him. ‘Eve will come round.’
‘I hope so. Lisa tries so hard. But they’re very different, I suppose.’
‘There’s probably a bit of possessiveness on both sides.’
He frowned, and didn’t respond to Stella’s comment, saying instead, ‘She wants a child.’
‘Right. Eve thought as much.’
Neither spoke for a moment, both gazing out to sea.
‘And you don’t?’ Stella asked.
Jack let out a sigh. ‘You know how it is.’
Stella swivelled round, legs bent to the side. ‘We shouldn’t keep punishing ourselves, Jack.’
Jack shrugged. Easy to say, he thought. Although he had the feeling none of it was any easier for Stella than it was for himself. On impulse, he wriggled over till he was by her side on the towel, thighs touching.
‘Look at the two of us,’ he said, surprised at how much he relished Stella’s closeness: a quiet comfort, undemanding, effortless. He let out a long breath. ‘Just a couple of old ducks on a day out at the seaside.’
He heard her laugh, a sparky, infectious sound, ‘Except we’re not.’
‘Not old ducks, not at the seaside, not on a day out?’ He looked down at her. ‘I think you’ll find we are.’ Assuming she was enjoying the joke, he put his arm around her shoulder. But Stella stiffened, quickly shook him off and turned to him, eyes full of surprise.
‘What are you doing, Jack?’
Taken aback by his own impulsiveness, Jack scuttled quickly away across the towel. He didn’t know what he was doing, genuinely didn’t have a clue. He had just wanted, instinctively, to be close to Stella. It felt right. But now it felt wrong, too, and he was embarrassed.
An awkward silence ensued, Stella crossing her legs, hunched over, her face hidden by the panama.
‘It’s odd,’ she said, not looking at him, her voice so quiet that he had trouble hearing it above the wind.
A gull, huge as a turkey with evil yellow eyes, settled by a patch of marram grass at the top of the dune and gave them the once over. Jack clapped his hands loudly, but the gull paid no heed, just cocked his sleek head at a superior angle and scanned the horizon like a sailor checking for storm clouds.
After what seemed like a long time, Stella went on, ‘Seeing you again … I feel sort of …’ She stopped.
‘I do too,’ he said quickly, although he didn’t know what she had been about to say, or what he actually felt, only that it was odd, seeing Stella again. He barely had to say anything to her to feel understood. Even her irritation with him seemed like a familiar connection – like the one they’d lost so long ago.
Into the silence that followed this enigmatic exchange, Jack screwed up his courage and said, ‘So did you think about what I said? About Jonny’s birthday?’ He watched as Stella, after a long pause, during which they both seemed to hold their breath, gave an almost imperceptible nod.
‘All right,’ she replied under her breath, face obscured beneath her hat. ‘I’ll do it, whatever you want me to do, I will. I’ll do it.’ Her voice rose, sounding childishly earnest, as if she were making a sacred pinky-promise with her best friend.
‘I’m not forcing you, Stella.’ Jack resented being cast as the villain of the piece; the one coercing her against her will.
She shot him a sardonic look. ‘Oh, but you are, Jack. That’s exactly what you’re doing.’ Her voice softened. ‘But, I understand why. I do.’
He wasn’t sure if Stella was annoyed with him still. He saw her shoulders droop as she looked away towards the sea, and he felt for her. It’s as if I’m driving her from cover towards the guns.
The café was sandy underfoot and sweaty with bare, sunburnt flesh and steam from the coffee machine. It smelt of chip-fat and suntan oil. They sat squashed in a corner at a laminated-wood table by the salted-up window and ate bacon sandwiches on thick white bread – even Lisa – and tea out of corrugated cardboard cups. Arthur sat on Jack’s knee with a squishy carton of apple juice and a straw. His face was pink, his damp curls stiff with sand from being chased up and down the dunes by Lisa for the past hour, both of them sliding in the loose sand and squealing with pleasure.
‘Great day,’ Jack said, realizing he was exhausted, although he had barely left his towel, except to go for a leisurely swim as the tide came in. He had that slightly dazed feeling of coming inside from the beach, all swept about by the sun and wind and sea to a blissful windless calm.
‘You’ve been so brilliant with Arthur,’ Stella said to Lisa.
‘We’ve had fun, haven’t we, Arty?’
Jack had never seen her so responsive with the boy, and it gladdened his heart. But the earlier conversation with Stella had disturbed him. He felt they were both floundering, almost inarticulate – for two obviously articulate people – regarding the changing dynamic between them. Because there was a change. And clearly she felt something too, although what, he had no idea. It was frustrating. He wanted clarity, and each time he saw her, he just became more confused. She had agreed to his request, though – he was pretty sure. That was something. Now he only had to work out what he meant by it … What he was actually asking her to do in remembrance of their son.
24
September 1990
Before Jonny died, Stella and Jack’s marriage was like fine bone china: flick it with your finger and it sang out a clear, sweet note. But if you flicked your finger on the bone china of the Holt marriage after Jonny died, the only sound would be a dull thud. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, cracks, thin as a single hair, began striating the vessel. They hadn’t stopped loving each other, but both were being crushed by the sheer weight of their grief. It stood on them like a heavy boot and silenced the song.
Stella, thirty weeks pregnant when Jonny died, had clung to Jack at first – as he did to her. He was her oxygen. When he left the house in the morning to go to work, she would feel a small shaft of panic, as if she were suddenly lost in a strange, dark place. Home didn’t feel safe. She would try to find things to distract herself, like weeding the garden or ironing Jack’s shirts – something she’d never done before. But she dreaded going out, even to buy food, the panic building to fever pitch at the thought of being amongst people she didn’t know.
Throughout the day she would be aware of a dwindling energy, as if her body were literally running out of air. Jack would find her slumped on the sofa, barely conscious, when he got home in the evening. Only his arms around her, his voice in her ear, his warmth and gentle kisses, would gradually revive her.
They did not talk o
f Jonny. Jack had tried in the early days, but she’d silenced his attempts. Then, as the weeks went on, he began to talk of their unborn baby.
‘We have to get ready, Stella,’ he said. And when she didn’t reply, he continued, ‘We’ve got to sort the room out, buy stuff … It’s not long now.’
Stella was unable to imagine – despite her growing belly – giving birth to another child.
‘We can’t put it in Jonny’s room,’ she said, her voice low and hoarse from a day-long silence.
‘OK,’ Jack said after a minute, pulling her close. ‘It can come in with us, then, till we move all the junk out of the spare room.’
Stella nodded her agreement, relieved that he seemed to understand. Because these days she felt she was constantly fighting her husband’s desire to move on. Jack, her mother, her friends – even her best friend, Rosie – seemed intent on urging her forward, like a horse, over the finishing line. Implying, without actually saying the words, that this baby would be the answer to everything. It would all work out – she would see – when Stella had a little boy or girl to love. When she was a mother again. But all she heard was ‘replacement child’, and she wanted to scream at them.
Even people she passed in the supermarket wanted to talk about the baby: ‘When’s it due?’, ‘Is this your first?’, ‘Boy or girl?’ They assumed, like everyone else, of course, that she was excited about the baby. But she had no feelings for it one way or the other any more. It was just there.
Eve, when she came, seemed to know, instinctively, that her mother wasn’t up for any bother. She was born without fuss, inside of three hours from the first twinge, a week early. Jack barely had time to get them to the hospital.
Despite her feelings about her pregnancy as it progressed, when Stella held the small bundle of newborn baby against her breast, the little fists clenched, face pink and swollen from the birth, her heart almost broke with love.
‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ Jack said as he looked down on the two of them, a proud smile on his face. ‘She looks just like me!’ he joked.