‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘She looked nicer when she was swimming around,’ lamented Jacinta. She reached out and stroked the tiny body. ‘My sister’s looking after me.’
‘Daria?’
‘Mmn. And she’s snoggling with her boyfriend on the sofa and she said if I don’t get my bloody fish out of the house she’s going to flush it down the toilet.’
‘Snoggling, is she? Shame on her!’ Leila glanced surreptitiously at her watch, calculating rapidly. ‘C’mon,’ she ordered, straightening up. ‘Shall we give your glorious Angel a decent send-off?’
Seven o’clock. They’d dug a grave by the hebe bush and lowered the coffin into it. They murmured a sombre goodbye, standing hand-in-hand in the light from the kitchen window, then hummed the theme tune of Neighbours. Not the most funereal of melodies, but it was Angel’s favourite song, apparently.
‘It’s a shame David isn’t here,’ said Leila. ‘He does a lovely funeral.’
With a tragic flourish, Jacinta threw a handful of soil onto the pink box before Leila buried it. Then, lest Jacinta’s greedy gingercat should exhume the dear departed, they covered the little mound with stones.
‘We’ll make it into a rock garden in the spring,’ promised Leila, leading the way back into her brightly lit kitchen. ‘Little alpine flowers, and a cactus or two.’ She reached into the freezer and dug out a Cornetto.
Taking a giant bite, Jacinta looked at the jumble of photographs on the fridge. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked, pointing.
‘My nephews.’ Leila smiled proudly. ‘Simon—he’s eleven, very clever, like you—and Daniel, who’s a little monkey. And the baby’s a girl called Sade.’
‘Where d’they live?’
‘In London. But the boys are coming to stay here after Christmas. They’d love to play with you.’
‘Okay. Can you and me make a cross to go on Angel’s grave?’ asked Jacinta, licking ice cream off her sleeve.
‘Yes.’ Leila steered her visitor towards the door. ‘But not tonight. I’ve got people coming any minute. Tell your sister to stop her snoggling and make your tea.’
As soon as Jacinta had gone, Leila shot upstairs. She took the fastest shower in history (how did half the garden end up under her nails?) and pulled on a flowing black skirt and an emerald wraparound blouse.
The curate’s house, a modern semi provided by the parish, was hopelessly cluttered. The piano, festooned with Leila’s sheet music, was jammed into what should have been the study. There weren’t enough shelves, and books lay in piles around the hall. Leila tripped over a box full of parish magazines as she scurried back and forth, trying to bring some order to the chaos, forcing gold hoops into her ears, all the while prattling distractedly to herself.
Catching sight of her figure in the hall mirror, she stopped. Pulled her stomach in and her shoulders back. Made a mental note to start a low-fat diet immediately. Almost immediately.
‘It doesn’t really matter, though,’ she said aloud.
The woman in the mirror smiled warmly out at her. She had elegant cheekbones and even, white teeth. It didn’t matter that David was late; it didn’t matter that she’d gained at least a dress size in the last year and was now a trifle squeezed in a twelve; it certainly didn’t matter that both the boss and the parents-in-law were due in a nanosecond, and the place looked like a bombsite. Because the miracle was happening, at long last. Someone was growing inside her, and life was about to change. This time she was sure.
Humming under her breath, she began to adjust the turquoise band she wore around her hair, retying the knot at the nape of her neck. When she heard David’s long steps on the path she winked at herself in the mirror, flickering with secret delight. She wouldn’t tell him yet. No. Not yet. There had been too many disappointments over the years of their ghastly rollercoaster ride. She’d do the test first, and then she’d wait a while longer, to make certain.
David burst in, a whirl of movement and vitality, and the house seemed to shrink.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he spluttered, cheerfully and without a hint of contrition. He paused to hang up his coat, fair hair flopping over a broad forehead. Leila felt as though he’d recharged her just by walking through the front door.
‘My beautiful wife!’ Briskly crossing the hall, he draped his tall frame around her, running his mouth along one of the tight plaits that covered her head. ‘Ah, my favourite silky shirt. What happens if I pull on this little bow at the back?’
Leila wriggled away, tapping her watch, trying to look severe. ‘What time d’you call this?’
‘Sorry! Got cornered by Dora.’
‘You too?’
He scratched his long nose. ‘Didn’t make my escape until the queue of customers behind me was halfway down the High Street, rioting. I had to get a writ of habeas corpus.’
It’s all right. Everything’s all right. She put her hands on her hips. ‘That wretched card had a nervous breakdown. Half of Birmingham was watching.’
‘Oh, no!’ Laughing, he kissed her. There was a fan of creases at the outer corners of his eyes, so that he seemed permanently to be smiling. It gave his face an ageless quality. ‘I forgot to pay it off.’
She leaned happily into his warmth, prolonging the moment. Then, reluctantly, she whispered in his ear, ‘You do realise that your guests are due to arrive in just under four minutes?’
‘Blimey!’ He was gone, thundering up the stairs, tearing off his dog collar as he turned the corner. It was a toy house, and a dolls’ staircase. David, long-legged and athletic, could spring up it in three bounds.
‘Your job this evening is to stop your father drinking too much,’ she yelled after him. ‘If he says anything smutty I swear I’ll break that Roman conk he’s so proud of.’
‘Allow me.’ She could hear David’s chuckle, then a thud—shower door—and the splash of running water.
He was still upstairs when the doorbell rang. That will certainly be the in-laws, thought Leila sourly. Don’t even have the decency to be late. I’ll bet they’ve been skulking around the corner in their car, waiting for seven thirty-one. She dragged her most welcoming smile out of its box and glued it into position. She’d had plenty of practice at sticking on smiles, since David took this job. On the way to the front door, she checked her expression in the long mirror. It looked like rigor mortis.
Must look them in the eye. Must look them in the eye.
Throwing open the door, the curate’s wife stood well back. Her face was alight with radiant welcome.
‘Hilda! Christopher! How lovely!’
Eight o’clock. Angus and Elizabeth were late, of course. Bless them.
Leila had run out of excuses not to join the others in the miniature sitting room. There had never been open hostilities in her dealings with David’s mother; never, in fifteen years. Instead, uneasy tension spilled into short bursts of sniper fire on both sides. It was exhausting. Blatant warfare might have been easier.
Lingering in the kitchen, she could hear David regaling them with that awful story about the coffin that floated when it was lowered into the grave. After the shocked laughter, she made out snatches of Hilda’s voice. ‘Monica’s much in demand,’ she heard, and ‘Michael’s been forecasting this recession for years.’
Well, bully for Michael and bloody Monica.
There was an agenda, of course. David, like his younger brother and sister, had also been a source of pride until he gave it all up, well on his way up the management ladder in a tentacular agrochemicals company. Hilda was still grief-stricken at his abandonment of her ambitions.
Now her mother-in-law’s sugary tones took on a strident edge. ‘Leila? Aren’t you going to join us? Can I help, at all?’
Bugger. Cornered, Leila blew out her cheeks and marched into the enemy camp, smile firmly fixed in place. Christopher leaped gallantly to his feet and stood to attention. He was every inch the dapper merchant seaman, weathered across the cheekbones, eyes a watery blue beneath the
cloud-white sweep of his hair.
‘You’re working too hard,’ he gushed, straightening his tie. ‘Look at that, you’re wasting away!’
‘I wish,’ said Leila.
She accepted a glass of apple juice and balanced on the edge of the sofa. She could sense Christopher watching her, a half-smile lifting his heavy brows as though they shared a little secret. He’d been handsome in his day, she grudgingly supposed. You could see the ghost of it still: the careful posture, proud features—strong, like David’s—coarsened now by gin and boredom.
He leaned down to her. ‘Got any—what d’you call ’em?—gigs coming up, Leila?’
‘We’ve got a fiftieth birthday in Edgbaston tomorrow. Hospital administrator.’
‘Wish I could be there,’ sighed Christopher. ‘I love to hear you sing.’
Hilda perched vigilantly in an armchair, legs neatly to one side like a little Persian cat. She looked powdered and tidy in a rose silk shirt, and not at all poisonous.
‘You were a saint to allow David to go into the church, Leila,’ she said, her voice dipped in syrup. ‘You’ve had to make so many terrible sacrifices. Living here.’ Her disapproval seemed to encompass the little house, the dingy suburb, the great heaving mass of the West Midlands. ‘It’s worse than the last place. And no prospects.’
David rubbed his nose, risking a surreptitious smile at Leila. ‘Depends what you call prospects, Mum.’ He held out a porcelain bowl. ‘Cashew?’
‘I mean real prospects, for your actual future,’ snapped Hilda, ignoring the peace offering. ‘Not airy-fairy celestial ones.’
Christopher crossed the room to the drinks tray, unscrewed the gin, and helped himself. ‘Stop fussing, Hilda,’ he said amiably, with a small wink in Leila’s direction. ‘They’re bound for Lambeth Palace. David will make a very sporty archbishop.’
‘Only a matter of time!’ Leila was grateful for the vote of confidence. ‘And I’m fine. My job’s better paid here, actually, and there’s far more back-up. There are three of us pharmacists on duty at peak times. I can normally work Saturday and have Wednesday off with David.’
‘Kirkaldie’s,’ mumbled David, eating the cashews himself. ‘Near New Street Station. Pretty hectic. Leila seems to dispense a lot of methadone.’
There was a cynical twist to Hilda’s lips. ‘Well, you won’t starve, then.’
Christopher lowered himself stiffly into the seat next to Leila, suppressing a wince. ‘I’ve taken up golf,’ he confided, in an undertone. ‘What d’you think of that?’
‘Well . . . I’ve never played.’
‘Don’t.’ He leaned closer. ‘Boring people, pointless game.’ He gestured at his wife, who was obviously listening. ‘She makes me go. Gets me out of the house.’
The doorbell. Angus and Elizabeth. Thank God.
‘Hello, hello!’ Elizabeth bustled in first, turning to shake her umbrella out onto the step. ‘Angus is parking the car—awful night—sorry we’re late. Come on, Angus! Leila’s standing in a howling gale!’
Elizabeth’s voice was always a surprise; it didn’t match the rest of her. It was deep, like a drag queen’s, and had the huskiness of a chain-smoker, which Elizabeth wasn’t.
Leila could see the rector’s stocky figure rambling up the path, a newspaper over his head, bearded and grizzled and good-humoured. Angus came from Inverness. Leila liked to picture him striding through the mist with a deer slung over his shoulders, or leaping to the bagpipes in a stone-flagged hall.
‘Good evening, Leila.’ Handing over a bottle of wine he shook himself, spraying droplets. ‘Something smells good. Sorry we’re late. Got caught in the off-licence by Dora.’
‘You don’t say. You’re not late, anyway. We’re just having drinks.’
‘Oh, good!’ Angus rubbed his hands together.
‘You’d better come and meet David’s parents.’ Leila took Elizabeth’s arm as they crossed the little hall. ‘Brace yourself,’ she whispered.
Chapter Three
I spent the rest of the day in the gym, and picked Lucy up in the early evening. The rain had cleared completely, and I had the roof down. Steam rose gently from the streets.
Lucy had changed into jeans and a soft, mushroom-coloured jersey. She greeted me with a whoop, dumped her bag in the back, and vaulted over the passenger door without opening it. I’ve never dared try that.
I forced my way into the traffic, and we sped towards the East End.
Actually, of course, we didn’t speed anywhere at all. We inched along in a deep sea of humanity and carbon monoxide. It would have been quicker to walk.
London had its faults. It was grubby, cold for much of the year and had rows and rows of identical houses. In recent times the market munch had added a hefty dash of gloom. Yet on a warm October evening, when the bars were spilling out onto the pavements, and the smell of beer and fallen leaves and hot tarmac all mingled together— well, there was nowhere like it. I always hoped my mother could see it one day.
For the first twenty minutes or so, Lucy chatted merrily about her afternoon: how Len Harvey wanted my job, but she reckoned he was about to get the chop.
I turned the music down a bit. ‘Your old man still working?’ I thought I should get a bit of background, since he was kindly going to share his fridge with me.
Something unhappy flickered across her face. ‘He was in the army. Retired early as a major, got the pension. He works from home now, translation work. Arabic, German. For pity’s sake, don’t bother asking him about it. Outstandingly boring. Even he nods off in mid-explanation.’
‘So what do I talk about?’
‘Gardening.’ I couldn’t tell whether or not she was serious, but she seemed keen to end the conversation. I wanted to talk, though. I was fizzing with freedom. Once we got onto the A12, I tried again.
‘So they’ve been abandoned for the weekend?’
Lucy started flicking through my CDs. ‘Actually,’ she said, wrinkling her elegant nose at Bruce Springsteen, ‘Deborah’s been away for months. Dad’s wife, Matt’s mother.’ She made her arm writhe like a snake. ‘The venomous viper.’
‘A journalist, isn’t she?’
‘Freelance. It’s a sort of posh hobby, really.’
‘So where’s she gone?’
‘East Africa. She went off to try and talk to some of the murderers who ran amok after the 2007 elections.’
‘Wow! I’m impressed.’
‘That’s what she does, you see. She finds these people, then she gets their side of the story and humanises them for all the liberal lefty types. She hopes everyone will say, “So that’s why they’ve been maiming babies all these years. Well, why didn’t they say so?” Then they’ll get their independence, or their share in the government, or whatever, and everybody will be happy.’
We’d stopped in a queue at some lights. The car in front of us was playing techno music at an unbelievable volume; I could actually feel the vibrations through my feet.
I was intrigued. I wanted to meet Mrs Harrison. ‘When’s she coming back?’
Lucy didn’t seem to hear me. She was taking a keen interest in a pornographic advert for ice cream, up on a billboard. Then the lights changed, and we moved on. The boy racer in front accelerated away with a sound like Concorde taking off.
After about a minute she said, ‘In fact, we don’t know where Deborah is at the moment.’
‘You mean she’s disappeared, or what?’
‘She found her perpetrators.’ Lucy sounded casual. ‘Wrote the piece. It appeared, in various forms, in a few rags. Then she sent Dad a postcard. That was ages ago.’
‘And?’
‘Well, and nothing.’
‘Mobile phone?’
‘Switched off. Or no reception. Probably both.’
This didn’t sound good to me. ‘So . . . are we worried?’
She crossed her arms, looking supremely unconcerned for her stepmother’s safety. ‘I suppose she may have been eaten by a lion in th
e Serengeti—there’s always hope—but I’d pity the lion. More likely to be shacked up on an oil tanker with a Somali pirate whose body was made for love.’
‘Like mine?’
‘Like yours,’ she said, and chuckled cruelly until London was behind us.
Lucy’s father was waiting for us. I saw a lean figure in the shadows as we rolled around the turning circle outside their house. She jumped out almost before we’d stopped, and he hurried across and wrapped his arms around her. Anyone would think they hadn’t clapped eyes on one another for years, the way they carried on.
I stood there, clutching her case and feeling like a complete pillock, until Lucy looked around for me. ‘Dad, this is Jake Kelly.’
He took a brisk step towards me. ‘Perry Harrison. Good of you to give Lucy a lift.’
He shook my hand and held on to it for a time, gazing into my face as though I’d come for a job interview. In fact I had, only I didn’t realise it at the time. Even after he’d let go, I sensed him watching me. I assumed he was just trying to decide whether I was sleeping with his daughter or not.
As he led us into the house I found myself trying to work him out, too. Perry Harrison was certainly striking. Well into his fifties, I’d guess, maybe older. He still had plenty of hair, though, almost black and shot through with streaks of silver. His eyes looked bloodshot and they drooped slightly at the outer edges, as though he was dead beat. He seemed to be wearing eyeliner, but I worked out later that his lashes were just unnaturally dark. It was hard to imagine him storming a desert fortress with a submachine gun on his shoulder, but he’d look perfectly at home in a painted caravan, with a gold earring and a slightly chipped crystal ball.
The house was outside a village called Coptree, in the depths of Suffolk, not far from the sea. The place was hidden up a narrow farm track overhung with trees. It was one of those seriously old farmhouses the poms go for if they can afford it: deep red walls and dark wood, and doorways that lean down and bash you on the head every time you go anywhere near them. The floorboards creaked and smelled of beeswax. They were wide and pitted, and so uneven that there were little blocks under the table legs to stop them wobbling. There were bookshelves everywhere, lining the rooms; there was even one in the downstairs bog, as I later discovered.
Freeing Grace Page 4
