The Silence Before Thunder

by Kathy Shuker

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just out.’

  ‘Well, my pockets aren’t bottomless young man. You need to earn money if you want to spend it.’

  Harry said nothing, looking down, pushing the toe of one trainer against the instep of his other foot.

  ‘And where were you last night? It was after midnight when you came in.’

  ‘It was a clear night. I don’t like staying in that house. It’s too dark. It gives me the creeps.’

  Gail returned and silently slipped past Matthew, putting the dishes from the recently vacated table to clean. Harry took the opportunity to let himself out of the back door and leave. Matthew sighed heavily. He had tried both the stick and the carrot and nothing seemed to make any difference. Harry was out of his control. He couldn’t even hold a conversation with him.

  Gail glanced across and offered a sympathetic smile.

  ‘He’s fifteen, Matthew. It’s normal, especially after what he’s been through.’

  Matthew heard the shop door open and went back to the counter, his thoughts shifting to the news from up on the headland. Skymeet. It was an odd name to give a house. He wondered how Eleanor was. Preparing the new drinks order, he glanced across at the two writers who were now speaking in quieter tones, the man resting his hand on the woman’s arm. He couldn’t quite place the dynamic between them. Still it had nothing to do with him.

  A few minutes later, they’d gone and he went across to clear their table and wipe it.

  *

  Jo rubbed her thumb over the back of Eleanor’s hand in a movement that had already become automatic. The cardiac monitor still bleeped regularly; the ventilator clicked and sighed. Eleanor, turned on her left side, was as immobile and unresponsive as ever. But she wasn’t any worse so at least that was something. It’ll take time, Jo kept telling herself. Be patient.

  She had been there all day, sitting in that plastic chair, escaping to the hospital café downstairs when staff needed access to her aunt, walking outside a few minutes to get some fresh air. She was exhausted, wrung out. Talk to her, the doctor had suggested that morning; she might hear you. So Jo had tried to think of something to say for hours now, off and on. It wasn’t easy. She had talked about Sidney, at greater length than she could have imagined, and work, and the way she’d redecorated bits of the house since Richard had left, rearranged things, made it feel more like hers again. She was trying to keep it light and happy, avoid anything controversial or upsetting. Perhaps she should go further back. She leaned forward now and spoke confidentially to Eleanor’s impassive face.

  ‘Eleanor, do you remember the first time you took me to see a pantomime? Mum was ill and we went to see Cinderella together. Do you remember how you shouted “behind you” louder than anyone else and stood up every time, pointing? A woman behind us told you to sit down. “Behave yourself,” she said, as if you were one of the children. You told her to get into the spirit of the thing. We did laugh afterwards.’

  Jo studied Eleanor’s face. Nothing. Not the slightest response. She glanced around to see where the nurses were and cast about for something else.

  ‘What about that time we went on a trip to Paris, just you and me? You must remember that. We visited the galleries and drank ridiculously expensive coffee on the Champs Elysées and went on a boat on the river. And there was that man who approached us and you thought he looked suspicious and were telling him to leave us alone, trying to drag me away. “Go away,” you kept saying in every language you could think of, and then you called him a pervert. You’d dropped a glove, do you remember, and he was just trying to give it back, poor man. He clearly understood English. He handed you the glove without speaking and nearly ran away. He’s probably never picked up anything for anyone since.’

  Jo ran a hand across her forehead which felt hot and taut. This one-sided conversation was tiring, embarrassing too in an open ward where her every word seemed to resonate and hang in the air for all to hear. She glanced at her watch: it was after five. She needed some rest. She got up and leaned over to plant a kiss on Eleanor’s visible cheek, promised she would be back tomorrow, and left. The nurses would ring her if there was any change.

  Back at the estate, drawing the car to a halt near the house, she noticed a man sitting on the bench seat beside the broad path leading through the shrubberies to the courtyard. As she got out of the car he stood up and she went across to join him.

  ‘Frank, I thought it was you but...’

  ‘But you didn’t remember me looking so old and grey?’ He grinned, spread his arms wide and gave her a hug. ‘How are you poppet?’

  ‘I’m no more a poppet than you’re old and grey.’ She grinned back. ‘Well grey maybe. But you haven’t changed much.’ It was true. He was of average height but his rangy frame made him look taller. And perhaps his hair was more white now than grey. Even so, but for a few more lines around the eyes, he hadn’t really aged.

  ‘Much?’ he was saying. ‘What do you mean much? Cheeky. I’m in my prime. Well, just edging past it, maybe.’

  She laughed, then remembered Eleanor and her face fell.

  ‘You know, of course,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ He took her hand. ‘Here, come and sit down with me for a minute. You can spare a minute?’

  ‘I’ve got a cat who’ll be desperate for his food,’ she said. ‘It’s the main way to his heart, I’ve found.’ She sat down anyway, savouring the sunshine and the fresh air and the brief sense of freedom.

  ‘Tell me about Eleanor.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell, Frank. I guess you know about her operation?’ He nodded. ‘She survived it, thank heavens, but she’s…’ Jo shook her head despondently, feeling her lower lip quiver. ‘…she’s not there. She’s on ITU, on a ventilator and drips and all sorts of stuff, and there’s nothing happening. It’s like she’s left me.’ Tears threatened and she bit her lip to hold them back.

  Frank put his arm around her shoulder again and squeezed her. ‘She’d expect you to be strong.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Strong. Right.’ She rubbed a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘I heard you’d left that publisher and were working freelance now.’

  ‘I am. Luckily I’ve got a lot of work coming my way.’

  ‘Good. You haven’t been around for a while.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I’m not exactly proud of myself right now. Eleanor and I fell out - but I guess you knew that.’

  He nodded.

  ‘We spoke briefly for the first time in ages, just that evening before she fell.’

  ‘Really? I’m glad. I know she missed you. She loves you very much, Jojo.’ He hesitated. ‘Did she say anything - only you know there are already rumours that maybe she jumped? I mean, was she…?’ He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything like that. It was all just normal stuff.’

  ‘No. Well, look, I waited to see you for two reasons, well, three: I wanted to see you and know you were all right; I wanted to find out about Eleanor; and I wanted to tell you about tonight’s meeting.’

  ‘What meeting?’

  ‘Exactly. I knew he wouldn’t have told you. Lawrence has called us all together this evening in the den. He said he wanted to discuss “the summer”. I thought perhaps you might want to be there too. In any case, the others would like to hear about Eleanor directly from you, I think.’ He looked at her questioningly, eyebrows raised.

  ‘You don’t get on with Lawrence.’ She said it as a statement. Frank had never said much in front of Eleanor - not after their first rows on the subject - but he had made his aversion pretty clear to Jo over the years.

  He dismissed the remark with a wave of his elegant hand. Frank had long, fine fingers which he used expressively and quite unconsciously. His hands always moved when he talked, emphasising, describing. And he was both eloquent and passionate, both of which made him
a brilliant performer; if he was reciting his own poetry, he burned with it.

  ‘I just thought you might want to know what he was planning,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’

  She looked at him a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes. Yes I would.’

  Frank stood up, put out a hand and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Good. We’ll see you at seven-thirty then.’ He kept hold of her hand and waited for her to look into his face. ‘Are you all right, Jojo?’

  She produced a tired smile. ‘Yes, Frank. I am. Thanks.’

  He released her. ‘Go and feed your cat then. I didn’t know you had a cat. What’s his name?’

  ‘Sidney.’

  He smiled and walked away and Jo watched him go. He wasn’t handsome, Frank Marwell, not at all. But there was something magnetic about him all the same and he could be very, very kind. He had been so to her, many times. His relationship with Eleanor might have been stormy but it was easy to see how much it could hurt to know he was now engaged to someone else. And Jo had forgotten to congratulate him. She turned back to the house. Or was she being treacherous to Eleanor even by talking to him?

  God, she was tired.

  *

  Jo arrived late to the meeting. She had eaten, then fallen asleep on the sofa with Sidney stretched contentedly across her and ended up running to try to get there on time. Reaching the big wooden door just before seven forty, she paused, catching her breath, steeling herself. She didn’t want to do this. These people brought too much baggage with them. Baggage of their own. Baggage for her. Baggage for Eleanor too - though it was her aunt who had invited them here in the first place.

  They had all known her mother, Candida, right from those early days when she was the ‘emerging writer’, ‘the talented newcomer’. They had seen Jo grow from a baby. She had been the little girl they bought sweets and ice-cream for, the child they told stories to when she was tired and bored, waiting for her mother to take her home. They had all met when they were young, part of a group of writers and self-styled intellectuals who’d inhabited the coffee shops and public houses of Bloomsbury in London, talking and arguing into the small hours. Partying too. Jo knew about the parties; her mother had loved them. She wondered that these people had stayed friends all this time. Or were they? It wasn’t her idea of friendship - there had always been friction between them.

  A thunder of voices from the other side of the door brought her back to the present. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Then Lawrence called for silence and banged on something, demanding their attention, and Jo took the opportunity to look through the tiny diamond window in the door.

  Lawrence was standing somewhere by the television, out of her line of vision. The others, facing him, were a sea of mostly familiar faces, older than when she had seen them last but still recognisable. There was Imogen Pooley, short and squat with a round, intelligent face, a fantasy and young adult author. Sitting beside her on the sofa was her partner, Mari Williams, slight and looking tearful. She was a poet and an historical novelist. At a slight remove, standing near the door, hands rammed in his pockets, was Vincent Pells with his customary bow-tie and red-face. He was a playwright and literary novelist. Further over, Frank was standing behind one of the armchairs, his hands on the shoulders of the only person in the room Jo didn’t know: an attractive woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and a shuttered expression. That must be Louisa, his new fiancé.

  Jo blew out a long breath, pushed the door open and went in.

  ‘Jo,’ exclaimed Mari. She jumped up and wrapped the young woman in a hug. ‘You poor thing. Are you all right? We’ve been so worried about you.’

  ‘I’m OK, thanks.’

  Mari looked fixedly into Jo’s face.

  ‘You haven’t come to tell us something dreadful about Eleanor, have you?’

  ‘Mari, please?’ intervened Lawrence. ‘I’m sure Jo will tell us all the latest news about Eleanor if you would just sit down.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ muttered Imogen as Mari sheepishly returned to her seat. ‘Who does he think he is?’

  ‘Hello Joselyn. Bearing up there?’ Vincent put a hand to her shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Yes, do tell us how poor Eleanor is.’

  She looked round the expectant faces. ‘Eleanor’s very ill but there’s no change. She’s on ITU, on a ventilator. She’s not conscious. They did say that they might try her off the ventilator tomorrow and see how she copes.’

  There was silence for a minute as this news sank in.

  ‘Are they letting people visit her?’ asked Mari. ‘I’d love to see her.’

  ‘Only family,’ said Lawrence firmly.

  ‘What, haven’t they let you in, Lawrence?’ said Frank dryly. ‘How disappointing for you.’

  ‘Please don’t let’s argue,’ Mari interposed, in her quick, breathy voice, and looked round. ‘We all need to stay strong for Eleanor.’ She looked back at Jo. ‘Can we send flowers?’

  ‘She wouldn’t see them at the moment, Mari. I’m sorry. And on ITU…’

  ‘What are the doctors saying?’ asked Imogen.

  Jo shrugged. ‘Not a lot. They say it’s a wait and see job.’

  ‘I hope we’re still going to get paid,’ said Vincent.

  ‘Really, Vincent.’ Imogen glared at him. ‘This isn’t the time to be thinking about that.’

  ‘You might not need the money, but I do.’ Vincent wandered across to a vacant armchair, descended into it and crossed his stick-like legs. ‘I’m simply being practical. The first students have already arrived in the village. I saw some today and I’m supposed to be running a workshop tomorrow. It’s too late to cancel. I just want to know if we’ll be paid. That’s not unreasonable, is it?’

  ‘Some mightn’t have come if they heard it on the news,’ offered Louisa.

  ‘I have fielded a number of phone calls,’ said Lawrence, ‘and, since you were all here already, I told the students for this week and next to keep to their original plans. As for the rest of the summer…’ He paused, waiting to get their full attention. ‘…I’ve decided to get in touch with all the students to cancel and refund the money. It’s the only thing to do in the circumstances.’

  ‘Is it your decision to make?’ Frank challenged.

  ‘Well it’s certainly not yours,’ Lawrence spat back. ‘Anyway, to answer Vincent’s question, I am in a position to make sure you’re paid for whatever workshops do run. Naturally, it won’t be possible for you to stay on here after that. Oh, and please say nothing to the press. I know they’re camped out at the gates. For Eleanor’s sake we need to keep a lid on this. If they aren’t fed, hopefully they’ll lose interest.’ He hesitated. ‘This is not an opportunity for personal publicity,’ he added, and turned as if to leave.

  There was a rising swell of comment and dissent.

  ‘Lawrence?’

  Jo had been perched on the edge of a chair nearby but now stood up. The room fell silent again as everyone turned to look at her.

  ‘Yes?’ Lawrence stopped, turning back.

  ‘Is that the right thing to do?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Isn’t it too soon? To cancel all the workshops?’ Jo hesitated, glancing uncertainly round the room. ‘Eleanor planned and arranged these from the beginning. She didn’t do it for herself but because she thought a lot of people would benefit; she thought she was giving something back. Her words, I remember, because she thinks she’s been lucky. I don’t think she makes much money from them. Does she?’

  Lawrence cast an accusing glance around the room. ‘No. Sometimes we barely break even.’

  ‘The workshops have been very popular,’ Jo said, ‘and a lot of people will be disappointed if they’re cancelled. But to be honest there’s something even more important to me.’

  The room was still silent, watching her.

  ‘Eleanor is very ill, there’s no denying that, but she’s still alive. Maybe she can hear what’s said -
I don’t know. But…’ She hesitated. ‘…I think she’d want to know that everything was going along the way it was planned. Because it was important to her. I don’t want to have to tell her that the workshops have been cancelled. It would feel like we’ve given up on her. Not now, anyway. It’s too soon.’

  She ran out of words, frowning, and waited. There was no immediate reaction, then Vincent began to clap and the others followed suit.

  ‘Oh you’re so right darling,’ exclaimed Mari.

  Frank winked at her, then stared at Lawrence, defying him to disagree. A muscle had begun to twitch in Lawrence’s left cheek.

  ‘If that’s what you want, Jo, so be it. But you’re being naive. There are issues here about which you know nothing.’

  Lawrence stalked to the door, dismissive and stately. Jo wanted to follow him, to ask him what he meant but Mari was already at her side, giving her a hug and Lawrence had gone. Imogen levered herself up from the seat and joined them.

  ‘Well said, Jo,’ said Mari. ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ agreed Imogen, patting her on the back. Her next remark was so quiet that Jo almost didn’t hear it. ‘But that’s a powerful enemy you’ve just made.’

  Chapter 4

  Jo got up early on the Monday morning, unable to stay in bed, too many conflicting thoughts pounding through her head. Before going downstairs, she hesitated on the landing, then pushed back the door of Eleanor’s bedroom and slipped inside. It was strange to be in Eleanor’s house without her aunt’s commanding presence and impossible not to feel an interloper.

  The room was much as she remembered it: the pale decor, a lightweight patchwork quilt on the bed, a variety of framed watercolours on the few walls which didn’t catch the sun. And there was Eleanor’s handbag on the slipper chair by the door. With all the events of the weekend, it hadn’t crossed Jo’s mind before to wonder where it was. Eleanor kept everything in that bag. If Jo needed something as a child: sticking plasters, crayons, paper, a comb, sweets, a favourite toy, even a magnifying glass, Eleanor almost invariably produced it from her capacious handbag. Jo was fascinated by it, always wanting to look inside but never allowed. ‘That’s a magic handbag, isn’t it, Aunt Eleanor? Do you keep big stuff in there too, like furniture? Or a bike? I’d love a bike.’