Freeing Grace

by Charity Norman

  Anyway, I’d been proved right. She was one of the best, and she didn’t need me any more. I told her so.

  She had quite a pronounced nose, but I always thought it was her best feature. It gave her face sophistication. She looked down it now, raised one graceful eyebrow and dunked her bread into her soup.

  ‘Of course I don’t need you, dickhead. Bloody ridiculous. I don’t need a feckless drunken colonial like you, no matter how sexy your smile.’ She gazed at my mouth for a few seconds, allowing herself a sinful little smirk. ‘What I want to know is why you’re going, when you decided to go, and why you didn’t tell me? And what’s the brilliant new career you’re heading for, and should I be hanging onto your coat-tails? Because—whatever it is—I’ll be better at it than you are.’

  ‘I’m going to open a massage parlour.’

  ‘Oh, good. Can I be the receptionist? Together, we could go far.’

  ‘No. You’re too indiscreet. Actually, I’m going to be a bum. Look at them.’ I pointed to the yelling, sweating scrum at the bar. ‘Flooded with adrenaline. They’re ready to fight to the death even now, in the half-hour they’ve got away from their desks. And for what?’

  She glanced at the killer mob. ‘Money.’

  ‘Lucy, the system’s on the verge of collapse. There is no money any more. And anyway, I’ve made enough of the stuff. It’s time I got out.’

  ‘When did you decide this?’

  ‘Six o’clock this morning.’

  She blinked innocently. ‘Oh, yes? You had a midlife crisis at six o’clock this morning?’

  ‘Anna threw me out.’

  ‘Ah.’ She nodded calmly. ‘Well, that was inevitable. A woman like that wasn’t going to wait forever. Did you try to change her mind?’

  I shrugged.

  She leaned closer, raking me with searchlight eyes. ‘Do you love her at all, Jake?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said helplessly. Everyone knows I don’t answer that kind of question. ‘What does that mean, really?’

  ‘Honestly! You’ve all the emotional acuity of a dishwasher. Haven’t you ever been in love?’

  ‘Not since I was ten years old.’

  ‘Who was the lucky girl?’

  ‘I had a Jack Russell. Sala. Means Princess. She was neat.’

  She slapped my wrist. ‘Idiot! I was serious.’

  I was, too. But I laughed it off. Always do.

  ‘Look,’ I told her, ‘it feels like a reprieve. My neck was on the block. The drums were rolling and a messenger came galloping up, waving the king’s pardon.’

  She was gazing at me shrewdly. ‘I don’t believe you for one minute.’

  ‘No. Well.’ I sighed. ‘Anna wants kids.’

  ‘That’s pretty normal. Doesn’t make her a psychopath.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Luce, I’m too young to be a father. I’m not ready.’

  She snorted. ‘Jake, you’re forty! You’re wearing it well, I’ll admit that. You’re revoltingly fit, and you’ve a luscious mouth and wicked brown eyes that make women want to mother you, poor tarts. And there’s that lazy antipodean accent.’ She smiled, stretched across and tugged at my hair. ‘But one day soon you’ll find a steely strand in here, glinting treacherously.’ She leaned a little closer, focusing intently on my forehead. ‘Actually, do you dye your hair?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘What do they call that shade? Mahogany?’

  I didn’t like the way this was going. ‘Well, anyway. I do feel reprieved. And I intend to make good use of it because, as my mother always says, life isn’t a dress rehearsal.’

  ‘Really? Does your mother treat her life as the final performance?’

  I picked up the bottle and waved it at her, but she stretched a hand over her glass.

  ‘Well.’ I poured myself another. ‘She made the mistake of marrying my father, and she might as well have thrown in her lot with the devil himself. Every day’s been the same for the last forty-five years. She gets up at five. Then she bakes and cleans and sews and feeds the calves and does the garden and the washing and the accounts, while he roars around on a quad bike with a pack of dogs sprinting ahead and a dead sheep slung across the back with its tongue hanging out. Every so often he stomps into the kitchen, swears, scoffs all the food, and messes everything up again.’

  I paused, tasting the hatred. Knocked back half the glass, but it didn’t take the taste away. Never would.

  ‘They’re reckoned to be a real success story in the district. People say, “That Connie Kelly, she doesn’t waste a minute of her life.” ’ I shuddered. ‘And they’re right. She hasn’t wasted a minute. She’s wasted the whole bloody lot.’

  ‘How far are they from a town?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘They’re in the middle of nowhere, Luce. And I mean that absolutely literally. It’s an hour sliding down a gravel track to a tar-sealed road, and you’re still another hour from the nearest traffic light.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Wish I was.’

  ‘Why haven’t they been over here? You could pay.’

  ‘Dad won’t come, and I wouldn’t see him if he did.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I scowled, and Lucy raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Well, it all sounds very childish.’ She poured herself some fizzy water. ‘Still, I suppose now that you’re single and unemployed you’ll be heading home.’

  ‘I can’t. My place has long-term tenants.’

  ‘Not home to Clapham Common, you idiot. Home to New Zealand.’

  I shook my head madly, holding up both hands. ‘Oh, no, no, no. No way!’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I’ve seen you sniffling away when the All Blacks do the haka.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ I took a bite of steak sandwich.

  ‘It’s not bollocks. You go all misty-eyed when Kiri Te Kanawa comes on the radio, too. I think it’s time you went home, Jake. You need to. Make peace with yourself, and with your family, and buy a vineyard or something. I might even visit you.’

  ‘Never. I couldn’t live without the Northern Line at rush hour.’ I paused, pointing at my cheek. The steak was a bit chewy. ‘Mind you, I’m the only one left. When I first arrived there were sixteen of us flatting in three rooms.’

  ‘How revolting.’

  ‘They all went home in the end. All except me.’

  She looked at me with a new interest. ‘Seriously. What are you planning on doing? You must have a plan.’

  ‘I don’t. I know you can’t imagine that, Luce, but I don’t. In fact, that’s the plan. Not to have one. I’m going to drift around the world, sitting outside cafés in a Panama hat like a pommy toff, reading thrillers.’

  Lucy tipped back her chair, head on one side. She does that when she’s thinking. In fact she was plotting, as it turned out.

  ‘So. You’re a free man, and you’re no longer my boss.’

  ‘Yeah. Your place or mine, darlin’?’

  ‘In your dreams.’ She regarded me steadily for a little time and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘When does Anna want you out?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m out already. My life is all packed up in the boot of a flashy car I never had time to drive and can no longer afford.’

  ‘Where are you going to stay?’

  ‘Not sure. Most of my mates are mutual friends. You know. I expect they all think I’ve strung Anna along.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, well. No comment.’ She reached over and pulled a bit of loose cotton off my sleeve. ‘Look. I don’t like to think of you sleeping in Lincoln’s Inn Fields under a copy of The Sun. Might get bullied, pretty boy like you. I’m heading home again tonight, for the weekend—I mean home home, to Suffolk. You can come too.’

  ‘I can’t just—’

  She waved an airy hand. ‘No, shut up. My father will welcome you with open arms. There’s only him and my brother there at the moment. In fact I’ll phone right now and tell him.’ She started rummaging in her handbag.

  ‘Has
n’t there been some drama, though? They won’t want me clattering around the place.’

  She smiled indulgently. ‘It’s just my brother, as usual. Little Matt’s been getting himself into a bit of bother.’

  ‘Off the rails?’

  ‘Well, slightly. But he’s a bright wee sod, he’ll be fine. We’ve taken him out of boarding school and he’s finishing his education locally, where Dad can keep an eye on him.’ She drew breath to say more, but then she shut her mouth again, and I didn’t ask. None of my business.

  That’s one of the bits of baggage I’ve inherited from my parents. They obsessively practised what they called ‘minding their own business’, to the point of insanity. The neighbour could have cut his own leg clean off with a chainsaw and be writhing on the ground, screaming, the lifeblood hosing out of his femoral artery, but they wouldn’t take a look across the fence because it would be none of their business what he was doing on his own property. Seriously. The next time they saw him, hopping down the street on his one remaining leg, they’d pretend nothing had happened. All interest in other people, as far as my parents were concerned, was just nosy gossip. I could never quite throw that off.

  Good old Lucy, I thought fuzzily, as she got out her phone. I was quite touched. We’re great mates at work, but I hadn’t expected her to invite me into her family home. It all sounded quite tempting. I imagined a freezer full of decent food from the local deli, and Old Man Harrison throwing open the drinks cabinet. I was curious, too. I wanted to see where Lucy came from. I should have known better—after all, we know what curiosity did to the cat. But I said thanks, and let her phone her dad.

  And I suppose if I hadn’t, none of this would have happened.

  Chapter Two

  She was in a hurry, and under siege.

  The worst thing about being a clergyman’s wife, Leila thought heatedly, is the way people look at you when you come in here. They count how many bottles you buy, and when you’ve gone they sidle over to the counter and mutter, ‘Poor Mr Edmunds, his wife does let him down.’

  She wasn’t just the new curate’s wife. She was the new curate’s black wife. She was a curiosity. White elephant, black curate’s wife. Things were expected of her, preferably lurid. Gossip was currency, in the parish.

  She grabbed four bottles of red, more or less at random, and one of gin. The gin was expensive, but David’s father lived for the stuff. She wouldn’t be drinking any of this herself, though. Not tonight. Maybe not for a long time.

  Resting her wire basket on the counter, she smiled at Dora Davies, behind the till. ‘’Evening, Dora.’ She tried to sound friendly but brisk, a woman with no time to chat. Leila had been on her feet all day; she’d dispensed about two hundred prescriptions, meticulously checking each one for interactions and errors in the knowledge that a single mistake could prove fatal. She’d managed anxious customers—some tearful, some aggressive—and shopfloor politics. Finally she’d raced off, nipping into the off-licence on the way home for some last-minute shopping.

  ‘’Evening, Mrs Edmunds.’ Dora wasn’t about to let such a prize slip through her grasp. She began, with agonising care, to wrap each bottle in brown paper. Leila watched helplessly. What the hell was the point of that? She glanced at the clock behind Dora’s head. Already after six o’clock, and they were coming at seven-thirty. Please, please hurry up, Dora.

  The shopkeeper reached for the next bottle. ‘Nasty weather we’re having.’ She tutted disapprovingly and smoothed another sheet of paper onto the counter. ‘I’ve never known such a torrent.’

  ‘Quite a downpour, wasn’t it? Still, it’s the time of year.’ For God’s sake, who cares? Just hurry up.

  Dora hunted about for the sticky tape, musing in singsong Brummie. ‘Actually, I got caught in it when I went out earlier. I had to go, though, to visit my mother. She’s in hospital, did you know?’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t know. I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘I looked like a drowned weasel by the time I got there. Water dripping off me in the ward.’

  Five past six! This is a nightmare. I have to get home and cook dinner for six people, one of whom will be delighted when I make a mess of things. Please shut up, you hag.

  ‘It’s her hip, you know. Mother’s been on the waiting list for . . . ooh, Alan, how long’s Mother been on the waiting list? Alan? A year? No, love, much longer than that. At least two years, because Dad was still alive, and I know he passed away two years ago last month, even though it feels like yesterday. It got postponed five times, her operation did, right at the last minute. That’s the NHS for you. I expect you know about all that, being involved in it yourself. Five times!’

  ‘No! Five? Disgraceful. Er . . . don’t worry about wrapping up the gin, Dora.’

  Dora stopped wrapping altogether. Tucked her chins into her neck. Took off her glasses, very deliberately.

  ‘Anyway. She tripped over the dog last night. Broke the other one.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Lay on the floor all night, only Frodo to keep her warm.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Milkman found her this morning. Luckily he noticed the curtains.’

  Leila was trapped. You could not fail to show an interest in a woman of eighty-five who’d spent a long, painful night shivering on the floor with a broken hip. But it was now almost ten past six, and her pulse was going wild. She imagined herself hitting Dora on the head with a bottle before sprinting out. The security camera footage would be shown on the news, all grainy and blurred, with the headlines ‘Clergy wife in robbery’ and ‘All for a bottle of gin’.

  ‘Thank goodness for the milkman.’ She reached into her handbag. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  Dora shook her forefinger. ‘Wait a minute! You haven’t heard the half of it yet.’

  Nightmare. It’s a nightmare.

  ‘Milkman looks in through the windows, sees Mother lying there, thinks she’s dead, which almost gives him a cardiac, calls the ambulance on his mobile phone. Then he breaks in. Glass everywhere!’

  ‘What a hero.’

  ‘Nah. Silly sod. You’d think he’d find the key under the mat, wouldn’t you? Everyone keeps their key under the mat, don’t they? She wouldn’t let him anywhere near her because she was in her nightie, so he made her a cup of tea and sat down with his back to her. And do you know how long the ambulance took to arrive?’

  Leila shook her head, hypnotised.

  Dora paused for dramatic effect. ‘Two hours.’

  ‘No!’

  Dora nodded, happily outraged. ‘Two. You wouldn’t believe it, would you? He had to sit there with his eyes averted for the whole time. Would’ve been quicker to take her on his milk float, as I told him in no uncertain terms. Well, she’s not too bad now, considering. They’ve put her in a—’

  ‘I’ll ask David to call in. Which ward?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about her medication, seeing as you’re a pharmacist yourself. Because I’m not happy. I said to that doctor—’

  ‘Dreadful! Dreadful. Really, Dora, it’s appalling, but I’m sure they’re doing all they can. I’ll tell David, he’ll visit her. Only I must go now because I’ve got people coming and the house is in such a state.’

  Even to her own ears Leila sounded hysterical, but Dora appeared unconcerned. She replaced her glasses and began to slide the bottles into carrier bags.

  ‘Looks like you’re planning on sinking a battleship. Should’ve had the Chilean red. We’ve got it on offer, look. It’s a lovely wine, that. You’d save . . . er . . . two, four . . . just a minute . . . you’d save about five pounds on this lot. D’you want to swap?’

  Oh, God.

  ‘No thanks, Dora. Honestly. Must go!’ Leila giggled slightly wildly, handing over her credit card. ‘Got the rector coming. Mustn’t keep him waiting.’

  Dora ran the card through the machine, glanced at the printout, then leaned over the counter, beckoning conspiratorially.

  ‘Sorry, my love,�
�� she whispered ear-splittingly, while all the other customers fell silent and pretended not to listen. ‘Transaction declined.’

  Six forty-eight. Leila had cleared a mound of ecclesiastical junk mail off the dining-room table—the overflow from David’s study—and halfheartedly waltzed a vacuum cleaner around the floor. She’d answered the telephone four times, slammed a casserole into the oven and sent a text asking David to drop in at the off-licence to settle up with Dora.

  Which was when the doorbell rang. Insanely jolly, that doorbell. Ping—pong!

  Can’t be them. Just can’t be. Not yet.

  The caller obviously liked the bell. Pingpongpingpong. Ping — PONG !

  Leila wrenched at the door, peered suspiciously out and then smiled. A solid, olive-skinned child in leggings and a red-spotted tunic was just settling herself on the step. She had dark hair in a lustrous plait, all the way to her waist, and a large gap where one of her front teeth had recently been. And she was sniffling. The neighbours’ daughter, six years old and already lonely. Her parents were Greek. They owned a restaurant and worked longer hours than anyone should have to.

  ‘Jacinta!’ Leila crouched down beside her. ‘What’s up?’

  The girl stuck out her bottom lip. She was clutching a box, about four inches across. It was pink and heart-shaped, and it had a red bow on the top. She held it out, unsmiling.

  ‘For me?’ Leila took the box.

  ‘It’s Angel,’ whispered Jacinta.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart. It’s an angel, is it? Did you make this at school?’

  ‘No. It’s Angel.’

  ‘Okay.’ Expecting an angel-shaped chocolate, or perhaps a winged doll, Leila lifted the lid and peered in. Nestling in black tissue paper, glaring glassily up at her with a shining eye, lay a vivid orange goldfish. Leila nearly dropped the box.

  ‘Gosh! It’s um . . . Oh, I see. Did your fish die?’

  Jacinta nodded. ‘I found her in the tank. Floating on the top. Upside down.’

  Leila stared down at the creature, mesmerised by its wide-awake eye. You’d think it was alive. Its body was still bright, but the long, wispy tail curled a little.