Come Away With Me

by Sara MacDonald

  ‘Thank goodness I’ve traced you.’ Ruth, breathless, rushed in. She stopped and stared at me. ‘You look terrible. Are you ill?’

  ‘I think I might have flu.’

  She felt my forehead. ‘God, you’re burning up. Right, you’re coming straight home with me. I’m not leaving you ill in a strange hotel bedroom. I’ve been trying to contact you, all last night and again early this morning. You’re not to argue. Let’s just collect your things and get you home and into bed.’

  I was not going to argue. I felt dreadful. And I wanted to see the boy again.

  NINE

  Ruth put me at the top of her house in the converted attic. ‘It’s a bit like your room at home, Jenny.’

  It was completely self-contained and I lay in bed isolated from the rest of the house, feeling cosseted and safe, listening to the comforting, ordinary sounds going on below me.

  Ruth had insisted we drop in to her surgery to see a doctor. He thought I most probably had a virus. I didn’t know what Ruth had said to him but he suddenly looked at me closely and asked me if I was depressed. There was no answer to this and he said gently that he thought I should see my own doctor when I got home. I should not battle on my own when there were excellent modern drugs to alleviate clinical depression.

  He wrote a note and put it in an envelope for my doctor, and this simple act of caring touched me. He walked me to the door and opened it for me. ‘Drink gallons of water, take the codeine and rest. If you don’t feel better in a few days come back and see me. Take care, Mrs Holland.’

  I slept a great deal and sometimes I forgot where I was. The days seemed to flow into one another. I felt as if I were burning up, but I was dimly aware of Ruth bringing me drinks and pills. When everyone was at work Ruth’s cleaning lady came in. She changed my sheets and made me soup and clucked kindly at me in a Birmingham accent I found hard to decipher.

  I couldn’t remember ever feeling this ill and I wondered why my body was letting me down now. After three days I began to feel better and I sat propped up by pillows, reluctant to join the normal world again. I didn’t want to go downstairs and socialise, and Ruth seemed to understand.

  She brought her husband, Peter, up to meet me. He leant against the door jamb smiling at me. He was dark and stocky, not much taller than Ruth. He had a kind, open face etched with tiredness and the beginnings of grey in his hair. ‘Hello, Jenny. I’m sorry you’ve been so unwell. Ruth’s been very worried. No fun to be ill away from home, is it?’

  I smiled back. ‘I’m so sorry to be ill in your house. I’m feeling much better now. It’s been good of you both to have me and I can leave you in peace tomorrow and move back to my hotel.’

  ‘Please don’t. Ruth loves someone to mother.’

  Ruth laughed. ‘It’s true, Jenny. You’re no trouble. I’ll be hurt if you want to leave.’

  ‘You’re being very kind, thank you,’ I said. The words sounded formal and hung in the air. All the time we were talking I was listening out for the movements of the boy in the rooms below. I had only glimpsed him when I first arrived and Ruth briefly introduced us. I lay here in the evenings and listened to the noise of his laughter and the muffled sound of a clarinet being played through the open door.

  Tonight, he self-consciously carried soup up to me. I could not take my eyes off him. He was so like Tom it was eerie and I felt the hairs rise up on the back of my neck. I had the displaced feeling that I had time travelled and I was his mother looking up at the child Tom, the young Tom I never knew.

  ‘Mum will be up in a minute,’ he said, placing the tray carefully on my knees. Then, looking around the room, taking in the silence, an anathema to anyone his age, he asked gruffly, ‘Would you like me to bring my radio up? It has tape and CD too. You could play some music.’

  Before I could answer he was gone, bounding down the stairs to fetch it for me. He brought back Mozart and Beethoven, Eric Clapton, Bryan Ferry, Handel and Barber. Whose taste, I wondered, Ruth’s or Peter’s?

  As he bent to plug in the radio and CD player by my bed I longed to reach out and touch the back of his neck where his hair curled into his collar, where the small patch of white neck lay vulnerable.

  ‘Thank you, Adam, that’s so thoughtful of you.’ Longing to keep him, I asked, ‘Is it you I hear playing the clarinet?’

  He laughed and tossed his head in that achingly familiar way. ’Yeah. I’m not very good yet.’

  ‘You sound good to me.’

  ‘Well…’ He was moving to the door. ‘I don’t want to be, like, concert standard. I just love the instrument. Um, I’d better go, I think supper’s on the table.’

  ‘Thanks for the soup and the music.’

  He stood tall and fair, framed in the doorway where his father had stood earlier. He was half turned to me and I knew for sure that Peter was not the boy’s father.

  ‘That’s OK,’ he said and was gone.

  I sat, listening to the sounds of crockery and voices way below me. Ruth would come up in a minute and have her supper with me. She was still a little like the girl I used to know long ago, when we were close as close and swore that nothing would ever come between us, and our blood mingled from the tiny cuts we made on our wrists.

  If I closed my eyes I could almost believe I was someone else living a different life here in Birmingham; that I belonged to another family who were caring for me. I felt an acute sense of unreality, as if the past and the future didn’t exist. It seemed, as I lay in someone else’s attic, that my own life had ebbed away, or was momentarily suspended. I liked it.

  Ruth had rung Flo for me. Flo wanted to come down immediately and take me home, but I didn’t want that. I wanted to stay here. Soon, I would be well enough to leave, to go back to a hotel or return home, but I liked it up here in my eyrie. I thought about the boy all the time. His image lived behind my eyelids: his schoolboy smell of body heat and biro; his face etched on my brain.

  I heard Ruth coming up the stairs. Her steps were slow as she carried up her tray. Smiling, she sat on the chair beside the bed. ‘I understand you now have, like, music. So sorry I didn’t think of it. I’ve just been ticked off. Is the soup hot enough?’

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  I wanted to talk about Adam and Ruth was only too happy to discuss him. ‘He’s obviously not happy at school. It’s a worry.’

  I played with my soup. ‘What does Peter think?’

  ‘Well, he’s always thought he would be better off at a private school. The local comprehensive is huge.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  Ruth sighed. ‘I was against it. I thought Adam would settle, he’s bright enough, but that seems to be the problem. We’re sure he’s being picked on, although he won’t say anything.’

  ‘Could he change schools?’

  Ruth hesitated. ‘Go privately you mean? It’s a huge financial commitment. It seems unfair on Peter.’

  ‘But you’re working too, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not enough for a private education and the standard of living we’ve got used to, Jenny.’

  I was silent. My soup had got cold and I put down my spoon. I couldn’t seem to edge Ruth nearer to what I wanted to know. ‘Adam’s such a sweet boy. You must be very proud of him.’

  ‘I am. We both are.’

  ‘How old is he? You must have got married very young.’

  Ruth did not meet my eyes. Colour swept over her face.

  I said quietly, unable to bear it any longer. ‘Peter isn’t Adam’s father, is he?’

  Ruth turned and placed her tray on the floor. ‘No. Peter isn’t Adam’s father. I’ve only been married for five years and Adam is thirteen.’ She met my eyes.

  The heat rose under my skin as I tried to do the calculation. ’You…you must have got pregnant soon after you got to Arran?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Jenny.’ She leant forward, took the tray off my knees and put it on the floor with hers.

  Into the silence of the room Adam shouted
up the stairs, ‘We’re off, Mum. See you later.’

  Peter called out, ‘’Bye. Back around nine thirty.’

  The front door slammed and Ruth picked up the trays and stacked them, arranging the plates all together neatly. ‘I’ll take these downstairs and bring you back a drink. I won’t be long.’ She did not look at me.

  I got out of bed and went to the bathroom to wash my face and hands. Outside the bathroom window there was a huge chestnut tree hiding the house next door. A blackbird was singing on a branch. It had been raining and the leaves dripped. If I opened the window I would smell the wet earth. I got back into bed. My mind jittered back fourteen years, trying to remember little signals, little signs I should have picked up.

  Ruth brought back two mugs of tea and sat in the chair again. ‘It makes more sense now, does it? The important bit I left out. My parents sent me to Arran because I was pregnant. That’s why my father took up the job in Canada, to avoid any scandal and having to deal with me.’

  I stared at her. ‘How could you leave without telling me something like that? I thought we were so close.’

  ‘What I told you on the train was true. My parents threatened awful things if I told anyone I was pregnant. I was seventeen, traumatised and scared and…’ Her voice was so soft I only just caught her words. ’I felt I’d let you, Bea, your family, down. I thought that you would all look at me differently. I felt contaminated. I felt unworthy of…’

  I leant towards her. ‘Of our love and support?’

  She nodded and as I looked at her attractive, immaculate face I knew with certainty that the feeling would never entirely leave her.

  ‘We all thought of you as part of the family. Families stick together. You should have had faith. You should have known we would never abandon you. Bea could have made you feel so differently about yourself, about everything.’

  Ruth smiled. ‘Dear Jenny. You talk from the inside of a loving family. I hovered on the outside. I could pretend I was part of your family. I could even have my own bed in your house. But I always knew I had to go home eventually. I knew there were rules even in your household and I had broken one of them. We’re talking about quite a long time ago and we were convent girls in a small community. Getting pregnant was still a middle-class taboo. Something that happened to fourteen-year-olds up on the Trelevea estate.’

  I was silent. Hindsight was blessed. Ruth was right. Did I really know what Bea and James would have felt and done? They had no right to interfere. Ruth spent more time with us than she did at home, but it didn’t give Bea any say in what Ruth’s parents decided for her. Bea would almost certainly have been told to take a running jump.

  ‘You should have run back to us as soon as you got to Arran.’

  Ruth laughed. ‘I probably would have done if my aunt had not welcomed me with open arms. In the end it was a happy outcome. She gave me so much. There was never a question of not keeping my child.’

  I avoided her eyes. ‘What about Adam’s father? Did I know him?’

  ‘No, you didn’t know him. He was visiting Cornwall with friends. I met him just that once at the party. It was one of those mistakes that change your life. I had too much to drink…’

  ‘What made you drink that night?’ I asked. ‘You never drank. I can’t ever remember you having a drink.’

  Ruth fiddled with her wedding ring. ‘I don’t know. I was stupid. I think I wanted to seem older and sophisticated. He was so different from the boys we knew. He didn’t treat me like an adolescent. He talked to me as if I were interesting, and he danced with me as if I were…’

  She looked at me. ‘I couldn’t leave him alone. I can’t describe how stunning he was. It felt so great that he was taking any notice of me because he was quite a bit older. I led him on. I virtually threw myself at him. I don’t suppose he realised I was only seventeen.’ She paused and said dreamily, ‘It’s so amazing, don’t you think, that one quick, wonderful fuck after too many glasses of wine produces a child you have for ever; a person who means more to you than life itself?’

  And a whole happy marriage can leave you with no child at all.

  But Ruth was not looking at me. She was gazing out of the window. She was talking to herself.

  My hands trembled. ‘What happened to the man?’ I asked. ‘Did he ever know?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what happened to him. He never knew I got pregnant. I refused to tell my parents anything about him; that’s why they were so furious. I didn’t see the point of ruining two lives. The boy was at university. He was just starting his career. A month later I don’t suppose he even remembered my name or face.’ Seeing the look on my face she said quickly, ‘It was not his fault, I wasn’t being noble. I knew I’d thrown myself at him. I engineered the whole seduction thing and young as I was I got what I deserved. That’s just how it was.’

  She got up and shook her head as if ridding herself of a familiar demon. ‘I have Adam. That’s all that matters.’

  She looked at me. ‘How do you feel about coming downstairs for an hour? Peter and Adam have gone to see a film.’

  I nodded and reached for my dressing gown. ‘You’re right to be proud of Adam, Ruth.’

  TEN

  Two weeks after I meet Tom at the party in the park I get a postcard in an airmail envelope. Someone has obviously posted it for him in London. It says,

  Hi, Jenny. Here, where there is not a tree to be seen, I think of you in a white and gold dress standing under an English chestnut tree. It is a lovely thought. Tom xx

  I carry the card around with me in my bag like a schoolgirl. I take it out at intervals to see if the words scrawled across a small space could have multiplied.

  There is silence for another four weeks, then Damien, Maisie’s brother, rings. ‘I have a message from my boss. He is flying home on leave next Friday and he will ring you when he gets back.’

  ‘I thought you were in Bosnia again, Damien.’

  He laughs. ‘Oh, I’m darting about all over the place, like the Scarlet Pimpernel.’ He hesitates.

  ‘What?’ I ask quickly. ‘Is Tom OK?’

  ‘Tom’s fine, Jenny. He wanted me to check that you hadn’t vaporised somehow, that you were still there.’

  I smile. ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Good. He’ll ring you.’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Great to have some leave, drink beer and see a woman’s face…’

  I get the feeling he wants to say something. I do not want to be warned off Tom. ‘Were you going to tell me something?’

  ‘It’s just…you’re a sweetie, Jenny, and Tom’s a lovely officer, but he’s training with the roughie toughies, which means he’ll hardly be in England…’

  ‘What do you mean the roughie toughies?’ ‘I’ll let him tell you. Maybe keep it cool, Jen? I’d hate you to be hurt.’

  I am silent. I suspect Maisie’s protective hand. Damien was Tom’s sergeant. Was he doing the same work as Tom, whatever that was?

  I say lightly, ‘I’ve only met Tom once. How could it be but cool?’

  ‘Cool,’ he replies and we both laugh and say goodbye.

  Damien had said great to see a woman’s face? He must have been in the Middle East. Tom must be there too. Roughie toughie? I smile at the thought that Tom needed Damien to check he could still ring me.

  ELEVEN

  The next day I got dressed and went downstairs. Ruth had been coming home earlier since I’d been in the house and working in the evenings.

  In the afternoon I was in the kitchen with her when Adam came in, slamming the front door and calling out he was home. I felt a little thrill. I was getting to know his routine. I was getting to know him. I loved watching him move around in the clumsy way boys have. I loved his sweet boy smell. He seemed so strangely, intrinsically dear.

  Ruth had said to me, ‘Adam is comfortable with you, Jenny. You’re good with him. He can be very awkward with some people; he’s got to that age.’

  When Peter and Ruth wer
e busy, Adam and I watched television together or listened to his music or played cards.

  ‘I wish you could stay longer,’ Ruth said now. ‘I know you’re better, but you still look frail. Unfortunately, Adam and I are going down to Cornwall; it’s his half-term and I promised him we’d go. It’s a bit of a disappointment for Adam that Peter can’t come. Something’s come up and he’s off to Israel again.’

  ‘I’m fine, Ruth, and I must get back to work. I’ve got a couple of appointments I didn’t keep. I can’t thank you enough for having me for so long.’

  ‘Couldn’t the appointments wait until another time? I wish you’d go straight home. I’d feel much happier putting you on the train for London before I leave. You don’t look well enough for work.’

  ‘There are a couple of people I need to see. A night in a hotel, then I’ll go home.’

  ‘Then why don’t you stay on here? You’re welcome to as long as you don’t find an empty house depressing.’

  ‘Really? It would be great as long as you really don’t mind,’ I said, feeling relieved.

  ‘Of course I don’t.’ She moved to hug me and involuntarily I stiffened.

  She looked hurt and I said quickly, ‘I’m sorry. I find it difficult to…in case I dissolve.’

  Ruth smiled. ‘It’s OK. I understand. I just can’t imagine what you’re going through. Forgive me if I’ve been insensitive, talking too much about myself and my child.’

  I drew away from her abruptly. My child. My child. I walked away and looked out of the window at the wintry garden, and the pain pulled and wrenched at my heart. I said brightly, steadying my voice, my back to Ruth, ‘Where are you staying in Cornwall?’

  Ruth was fitting bread into the toaster. ‘Do you remember my godmother? A rather eccentric old lady who painted?’

  ‘Down in St Minyon? In the thatched house by the creek? She used to take us fishing and give us wonderful teas.’