She couldn’t start to cry, because that would do it, would defeat her, she mustn’t, she couldn’t, and she fought it off, pacing the kitchen, her arms still folded in front of her, but the tears were stronger than any resolve she might have and finally they broke through, great waves of weeping, each larger and more painful than the last.
She would not be driving to London this evening to start her new, joyful life; she would not be telling Richard she was going; she would not be telling Richard anything at all, except that lunch was ready, or the children wanted to play some game or other, or that there was some football on the television…And at the terrible, aching banality of recognising that, of looking down the drab, love-starved years, she gasped aloud with pain.
And then because the kitchen, the walls of the house could no longer contain her, she put on a coat and a pair of Flora’s boots and walked out into the garden, down into Flora’s Meadow, and paced round and round it, sobbing loudly, and once or twice she screamed, the sound mingling with the cries of the seagulls and the crash of the sea. And then she went finally indoors, exhausted, and lay quietly on the kitchen sofa, to contemplate her new, dutiful life: and to try and dredge the strength from somewhere to telephone Joel and try to explain.
Joel went shopping. He wanted everything to be as perfect as possible for Debbie when she arrived. He had already put fresh sheets on the bed, cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen, and filled every vase he possessed with the best post-Christmas flowers he could find. He had bought her some presents too, silly things that he knew she would love: some white lace briefs from Knickerbox (she only liked white pants, said colours were tacky), a tape of Madonna doing the songs from Dick Tracy, a video of Back to the Future, a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates which she always declared naff and then consumed in vast quantities, and a framed photograph of the two of them giggling, taken by his delayed-action camera. All designed to make her laugh, make her relax, make her glad to be with him. He bought supper too; she would probably say she wasn’t hungry, but it would be awful if she wanted something. Some smoked salmon, some bread, and some Brie, so ripe it was ready to walk out of the flat. And some champagne. Of course.
He took his mobile phone with him, but it didn’t ring. When he got back, there was still no message on the answerphone. Well, it was only eleven, she had probably hardly started to talk to Richard. Or, as the children were there, maybe hadn’t started. But she had promised that she would do so by lunchtime, that she would ask Flora to take the children for a walk, so they wouldn’t have to wait until the evening.
He sat down and read the papers, and then wondered if it was too early to have a drink. It was Christmas after all; and a glass of wine might make him feel less jittery. But then if she wanted to meet him in Cardiff, he had to be very sober. He made himself a jug of coffee instead. And sat down again, by the telephone, and tried not to look at the clock.
“Richard, I’m going to pop out for a bit. I feel like a breath of fresh air.”
“Shall I come with you?”
“No! It looks like it’s going to rain. I just thought I’d stretch my legs. Is that all right?”
“Yeah, OK. And then we can have lunch when you get back. I’ve found some soup in the freezer, thought we could have that.”
“Good idea.”
“I’ve got rather a dab hand at making soup myself. Morag’s given me a couple of recipes. She’s a marvellous cook—”
Suddenly, she could stand it no longer. “Richard, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m getting just a tiny bit tired of hearing about Morag’s virtues. I’m sorry. Could we give them a rest for a day or two, do you think?” She had meant it to sound lighthearted, funny even; it came out heavy and almost bitter.
He looked at her, surprised. “Oh, all right. Sorry,” he said, rather more patiently than she would have expected. Perhaps he was trying to make allowances, after the events of yesterday.
“Thanks. Right—well, won’t be long.”
She walked out to the car as briskly as she could, in case he was watching her. Every step was a huge effort, she had to literally force herself along, one foot after another.
She got into the car, drove up to Cefn Bryn. The mobile reception on Gower was very poor, she had discovered; you had to be at one of the highest points to be sure of getting any reception at all, and even then you could get cut off mid-sentence. She had considered using a public phone, but the thought of having this terrible conversation with Joel from a stinking call box—they all seemed to smell, a mixture of beer and pee—was horrendous. She looked at her watch. God! It was half past one. Joel would be expecting to have heard from her by now; would be sitting there—she pictured him in the flat, thinking about her, happily and confidently, or perhaps a little anxiously by now—and she wondered what he was wearing, jeans probably and a white shirt, and no doubt bare feet, he never wore shoes in the house, and she had to close her eyes briefly, so awful was the contemplation of what she could have had, and that was now barred to her.
A new wave of grief hit her; it was like the pain of childbirth and she thought she must wait for it to pass, cry, release some more of it before she started to speak to him. She couldn’t break down mid-sentence. She had to be strong. Stronger than she’d ever been in her life.
This was awful. It was twenty to two. What was she doing? Keep calm, Joel, she’s probably still talking to the bugger, it was never going to be a quick conversation. But she had promised to call him by one; it had been one of her promises to him. “I swear, just so you’ll know everything’s all right. Even if we haven’t quite finished. All right?” It had comforted him, that timetable; he had been able to get through the morning, less anxious, less impatient.
But she—and it—had failed him now.
He’d just wait till two and then he’d really have to ring. Ring her mobile, not the house. He sat down, watched racing on the television; anything to take his mind off the crawling clock. It crawled on, and at two o’clock he dialled her number.
She was standing by then on the moorland of Cefn Bryn, had parked the car and taken her mobile out of her bag. And seen she had a message: from him, about meeting her in Cardiff. The sound of his voice was almost too much: for a moment she would have gone, left everyone and everything behind her, but then she pulled the broken pieces of herself together again. She must do it quickly, before he set out for Cardiff. What if he already had? How would she be able to resist that, knowing he was less than an hour’s drive away? She stood there, gazing down at the lovely stretch of wooded bay that was Oxwich, and as she did so, her phone rang and it was him.
“Oh, hello,” she said, amazed that she could sound so ordinary, so cool; and then interrupted him as he started to talk and said, “Joel, I’m not coming.” Just like that.
“Can we go and see Granny?” said Rachel.
“Of course we can. Tomorrow.”
“I want to go today. I’m worried about her.”
“So am I,” said Emma.
“So am I,” said Alex.
“Rachel, Daddy’s just got back from seeing Granny,” said Debbie. “She’s fine. He told you.”
“But that was ages ago. She might be worse. She might be lonely. Why can’t we?”
“Emma—” Debbie stopped. Why not? It was moving around, distraction…
“Well, maybe I could take you. Daddy’s very busy. Go and see what he thinks.”
Emma came back, beaming. “He says it’s a good idea.”
“All right then,” said Debbie. “Let’s go. Quick, into the car.” They stared at her; grown-ups usually spent hours getting ready to do anything.
“What—now?” said Alex.
“Now,” she said, and she could hear the desperation in her own voice. “Yes, now.”
She really wasn’t fit to drive. She felt rather as if she was drunk: drunk and exhausted and coming down with some horrible illness, all at the same time. She couldn’t think, either; couldn’t think how to get to Swanse
a, even had trouble getting the car into gear. She stopped at the top of the drive, looking at the headlights of the traffic streaming along, wondering if this was actually such a good idea. But anything was better than sitting in that room, hurting, hurrying out of it every now and again to go upstairs or outside to cry. This was good, it was moving around, shifting the pain about, making it briefly more bearable. The traffic blurred; she had been about to move forward, had to slam on the brakes until the view cleared again.
“You all right, Mum?” said Alex.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Sorry. Just—just getting a cold, I think, that’s all. Right. Off we go.”
He’d been so angry, that had been the worst thing.
“Right,” he had said. “Well, thank you for telling me. I suppose I should have known better. Goodbye, Debbie.”
And her mobile had gone dead. And she stood there, staring at the sky, trying to bear it; and then walked for a while, stomping along in the cold, the sheep and wild ponies which roamed the Bryn pausing in their grass-chomping to look at her, wailing and moaning like a madwoman. And then finally she felt strong enough to return to the car and go back to the life that had claimed her so irrevocably.
“Darlings!” Flora held out her arms. “How lovely. How are you, Rachel, how’s your poor head?”
“It’s fine,” said Rachel, and then clearly mindful of all the spoiling it had already brought her, said, “Well, it’s quite sore.”
“Like my leg. Quite sore.”
“When can you come home?” said Alex.
“Oh, not for a couple of days. I’ve got to be able to get myself around first. They’re going to bring me some crutches tomorrow, see how I get on. The minute I can sprint down the ward on them, they’ll let me go.”
“Sprint!” said Alex. “I don’t think so, Granny.”
“Oh, you just watch me. Debbie, dear, are you all right?”
“Yes,” said Debbie, “yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Must—must just go to the loo. Back in a minute.”
She looked appalling, Flora thought, and she had clearly been crying. Maybe she’d had a row with Richard; maybe it was just shock. She smiled at the children. “Well, what an adventure we had, didn’t we? Never let Granny take you on the Worm again.”
“Of course we will,” said Alex. “We love the Worm. It’s fun.”
“Well, quite fun,” said Rachel. She seemed very cheerful; obviously not seriously affected, saved by the blessed resilience of childhood. Unlike her mother, Flora thought, looking at Debbie coming back now, managing to smile.
“So, what have you been doing today?” she said.
“Not much,” said Rachel. “It’s boring without you.”
“Thanks, Rachel,” said Debbie.
“Sorry, Mummy. But it is.”
“How’s Colin?” said Emma. “I liked him, he was so kind.”
“He is, very kind,” said Flora, “and I’m glad you like him. He’s coming in later. You might see him.”
“Excuse me,” said Debbie suddenly, and hurried out of the ward again.
“I don’t think she’s very well,” said Emma, looking after her. “She seems to have a terrible cold, poor Mummy. She was trying to be brave and not cry after lunch, but I could tell…”
God, Flora thought, she’s been seriously traumatised by this and no wonder. How on earth are she and I ever to become friends now?
“I can hear a phone,” said Alex.
“A phone? Can’t be.”
“Well, it is. Listen…”
“Honestly,” said Emma scornfully, “you’re just hearing things—oh no, I heard it then too. Sounds as if it’s under the bed.”
“Might be Mum’s new mobile she got from work,” said Alex. “Here, give me her bag. No, it’s stopped. I wonder if…” He started rummaging in Debbie’s bag.
“Alex,” said Flora, “you shouldn’t do that, handbags are private things.”
“How can it be private? It’s always open. Here it is. I wonder if there’s a message.”
“How on earth do you know about mobile phones?” said Flora.
“My friend’s dad’s got one, he was showing me it the other day. It’s just like Mum’s. It’s really good, you know. It doesn’t just make calls, and take messages, you can find out about the traffic on it and share prices. Anyway, yes, she’s got a message, let’s see who that was. Dad probably…” He looked up at his mother who was coming back to Flora’s bedside, smiling determinedly. “Mum, your phone just rang, you’ve got a message.” He was listening, looking mildly puzzled; then he said, “Mum, who’s Joel?”
And Flora watched as Debbie’s face went first white then very flushed, and she snatched the phone from Alex and ran away again, out to the corridor: but Flora could still just see her, and she was holding the phone and listening very, very intently and then she switched it off and leaned against the wall, her hand held over her eyes. It was quite a long time before she came back.
“Poor Mummy,” said Emma, “you do look so sad, and why are you crying? Is it because your cold is so bad?”
“Yes, I…I think so,” said Debbie, and her voice was thick with tears. “Children, we must go.”
“You’ve only just come,” said Flora, “don’t be ridiculous. Now you three, I want you to see if you can find yourselves some drinks or some sweets. There are some machines on the ground floor, quite near where you came in, and on the third floor as well, I think. Take my purse, there’s lots of change in it, and you can buy two things each. All right?”
“Ye-es!”
“Flora, they’ll get lost,” said Debbie. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Debbie,” said Flora firmly, “if they can survive a picnic on the Worm in midwinter and being cut off by the tide, they can survive a walk round a hospital. Children, if you get lost, just ask a nurse or a doctor where Ward Six is, all right? And don’t leave the hospital.”
“We won’t.”
They rushed off; Debbie sat staring after them, too overcome now even to pretend not to cry, tears streaming down her face.
“Debbie,” said Flora gently, “why don’t you tell me what the matter is. It’ll help you.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can. And if it’s anything like I think, then let me tell you, I won’t be shocked, which is obviously what you’re thinking. Not in the least. In fact, if it is what I think, let me tell you I’ve been through it myself.”
It had been so different, listening to that message. So different from listening to him before, being cold and angry and hostile. She had played it three times, unwilling to let it go.
“Debbie, it’s Joel. I’m sorry about earlier, about being so angry. You must do what you think is right, and I’ll try to understand and do what you want. New York is probably a good idea, yes. I don’t think I could bear to be in the same city as you and not be with you…But I want you to know I love you, so much, and that this time with you has been perfect. Absolutely perfect.” A pause and then, his voice shaking: “Bye, Debbie. Remember I love you.”
She felt she could cope now, bear it now. It would go on hurting, but it wouldn’t be quite as bad.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Flora. “Can I have one of those tissues?”
“Of course.” She passed her the box. “Now do you want to tell me? I promise you it’ll help.”
Debbie shook her head. “I can’t. I really can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Not fair to who?”
“You. And—and Richard.”
“Ah, so I’m right. Well, there’s no need to tell me, of course. Certainly not now. Maybe another time—whenever you want to. Or not at all.” She reached out, stroked Debbie’s hand very gently. “But—you are staying? Staying with us?”
Debbie nodded helplessly. How did she know this, how could she? “Good. I’m glad. It’s the children who bear the brunt of these things. And you’ve made such a happy family. Really happy. Those children are the gr
eatest credit to you.”
Debbie nodded again. “I’ve tried to,” she said.
“And you’ve succeeded. Debbie, listen. I know how difficult Richard must be to live with. He’s exactly like his father. Demanding and possessive. My wings were clipped quite severely in the early years. I longed to do more with my work, my photography, but William wouldn’t hear of it. It was unbearably hard at times.”
Debbie stared at her. “I thought—I always thought…”
“That I thought my son was wonderful? Yes, well I do, of course. And I also know he’s good and kind and totally devoted to you all. But I’m not one of those blind mothers. I can see how he is, very clearly.” She paused, then said, “It’s going to be very hard for you. I know exactly how hard, in fact. It will hurt like hell. Bit like childbirth, I thought. Comes in waves.”
“Oh my God,” said Debbie, staring at her. “That’s what I thought too. Exactly.”
“Well, there you are. You see, I do understand. But it does end. Finally. And in a way you don’t even want it to. You feel disloyal, mending, starting to forget. But you will, I promise you, you won’t be able to help yourself. Things, little things at first, will start to work on you. You just have to be patient. Put up with it. Because it will be worth it. I promise you that.”
Debbie sat there, gazing at her, feeling as if someone had given her a powerful drug, feeling suddenly able to go on.
“You’re wonderful,” she said finally, “and I’m so, so sorry I’ve been—been—”
“Oh, now don’t let’s start on all that,” said Flora. “I’m just glad that finally I can be useful to you. Now listen, Debbie, I’d tell Richard you don’t want to go to Scotland. That you won’t go.”
An Absolute Scandal Page 59
