Freeing Grace

by Charity Norman

  ‘Which region?’

  ‘We’re not allowed to know. When Linda—at our end—gave them a piece of her mind they became very defensive and said it was down to their legal department. They’ve told them they have to give the woman a chance.’

  ‘So they’ve shifted responsibility onto some lawyer sitting in an office?’

  ‘That’s right. We don’t really understand how it works, and nobody seems prepared to tell us.’ Leila’s eyes were bright with bewilderment.

  ‘It’s quite appalling,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Maybe you ought to get on to our MP.’

  ‘Will he help?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  David was calm now. ‘We’ve been talking about it all day. We wondered about going to a solicitor, or maybe taking our clothes off and chaining ourselves to the railings down at the town hall . . . just joking. We honestly believe that all we can do at the moment is wait, pray and—’

  ‘—murder Grandma,’ snapped Leila. ‘Interfering old bag.’

  ‘Unfortunately we can’t actually do that, since we’ve no idea who or where she is.’ David forced a smile. ‘So we’ve decided to sit tight while they decide. But if there’s any more cat-and-mouse games, we’re not playing. We’re going to tell them we’re not having the baby.’

  ‘That’s very understandable.’ Swiftly, Elizabeth glanced at the clock and drained the rest of her glass. ‘I’ll love you and leave you. I’ve taken up enough of your day—don’t want Leila to tell me to piss off too.’

  The two women paused on the front doorstep.

  ‘I’m psyching myself up to phone my parents,’ said Leila, peering out anxiously into the gloom. ‘I’m dreading it. Poor Mum. She was as thrilled as we were.’

  ‘They’ve already left for Nigeria?’

  Leila nodded. ‘This morning. No bad thing, really. Otherwise I’d go rushing down to Peckham and howl on their shoulders, and that wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘When are you going to tell them?’

  ‘I’ll give them a day to recover from the journey. But I must do it soon—definitely before the wedding on Saturday—or Mum will have half of Lagos sending baby presents.’

  ‘Your parents have lived,’ said Elizabeth calmly. ‘They will be more resilient than you’re expecting. You concentrate on yourself and David.’

  There was a pause. Elizabeth gazed up at the billowing brown velvet of the city night. ‘Leila.’

  Leila hovered politely, holding the door, wanting to return to David.

  ‘I know you feel that this was your last chance,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’m not going to suggest you’ll get over it. We both know you won’t.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Leila was genuinely grateful.

  ‘But I think you will have a full life.’

  ‘Oh.’ Leila sagged as though under an immense weight, exhausted by the need to be understood. ‘That’s all very well . . . I accept it’s irrational and mediocre and unimaginative to want a baby. But—’

  ‘No.’ Elizabeth held up a hand. ‘No. That’s not my point.’

  ‘It’s not something I can explain easily to you,’ persisted Leila. ‘You’ve had four children.’

  ‘Not so, actually.’ Elizabeth turned over a pebble with one toe. ‘I’m not the mother of Angus’s children.’

  Leila stepped down onto the path, shutting the door sharply behind her. ‘I don’t think I quite . . .’

  ‘When I was a young teacher,’ said Elizabeth, ‘I married a man called Guy Nelson. Dashing, dramatic figure. The stuff of Mills and Boon. But . . .’ She hesitated and then smiled. ‘Guy didn’t want children. It was a stipulation of our marriage. Not negotiable. He insisted that he was too selfish, that the world was already overpopulated, we would have richer lives without them, they would spoil our remarkable partnership. I was utterly crazy about this man, deranged, wanted nothing more than to be with him forever and ever.’ Elizabeth turned away, looking at a pair of black plastic dustbins, shadowy under the hedge.

  ‘We had a wonderful marriage: seventeen years of it. Guy was a brilliant engineer, and we travelled all over the world. Thailand, the Middle East, Australia . . . We lived the high life, I can tell you. Parties, yachts, far too much alcohol. Hard for you to believe?’

  Some part of Elizabeth—of who she really was—fell into place in Leila’s mind. The rector’s wife appeared through a new lens, the flat image springing abruptly into three dimensions.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Not hard at all.’

  ‘I stuck to my side of the bargain and we never had children. I very soon gave up trying to change Guy’s mind. It wasn’t good—I had three bouts of depression, diagnosed and treated. Broke my poor mother’s heart too, but I adored the man—adored him—and we had a colourful, stimulating life.’

  Elizabeth blinked at the dustbins, eyes narrowed in memory. ‘I was forty-three when Guy fell in love with the daughter of a friend of mine. Candy. Inevitable, somehow, that she should be called something sugary. I was the last to find out, of course—everyone knows everything in these expatriate communities. Guy told me that he had to go because young Candy was the love of his life and their star signs were compatible and they were meant to be together.’

  ‘Bastard !’ Leila shifted suddenly, and pebbles ground under her feet.

  ‘It gets worse,’ said Elizabeth, meeting her eyes.

  ‘They didn’t.’ Leila shook her head rapidly. ‘No. Tell me they didn’t.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three. All boys.’

  Leila did a passable imitation of an erupting volcano. ‘I hope you took him to the cleaners?’

  ‘I got the house.’ Elizabeth looked disparaging. ‘Complete with mortgage and dodgy foundations. We hadn’t saved much—too profligate. Guy kept his precious pension.’

  Leila folded her arms censoriously.

  ‘But spare the chap a little sympathy, Leila,’ urged Elizabeth. ‘He’s a complete wreck, lost half his hair, going deaf, looks about eighty. He phones from time to time, moaning about how noisy and messy and expensive his sons are. Reckons he won’t be able to retire until he’s dead. Candy keeps making him go for facelifts and they hurt, apparently.’

  ‘Good,’ spat Leila.

  Elizabeth’s profile was mottled in the streetlights. ‘It isn’t easy,’ she mused, head tilted as if listening to herself. ‘It’s not an easy thing to forgive. The aridity, you know. The loss. The loss.’ She paused. ‘I sometimes think my children were conceived when I was a child myself—conceived in my imagination—and now I’ve lost them. They’ve died.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Leila. ‘I know exactly what you mean. It’s a bereavement.’

  ‘I can’t pretend to be without regret.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Leila, hating the limp words, wishing she had better ones. She imagined her friend, childless and abandoned in middle age. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Reinvented myself,’ replied Elizabeth, simply. ‘Went back to teaching. I had little choice. I was certainly older, and I hope I was wiser. I lavished my time and energy on other people’s children. It was a difficult time . . . my mother fell ill and I nursed her until she died. I met Angus several years later. A divorced vicar. Caused a sensational scandal. Of course, by then it was far too late to have a family of my own.’

  ‘I’m . . .’ Leila shook her head, defeated. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘We don’t broadcast it.’

  ‘Where’s Angus’s ex?’ asked Leila, overcome by curiosity.

  ‘Paula.’ Elizabeth grimaced in wry sympathy. ‘She couldn’t stand it when he went into the church. Well, d’you blame her? I certainly don’t. Ran off with a rich farmer. It’s all very amicable. Their children were almost grown up when we met.’

  ‘The church let Angus remarry?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘Quietly. We had a compassionate bishop. We’ve been married ten years.’

  ‘It’s not what I imagined,�
�� said Leila. ‘Not at all. I had you two down as solid and conventional. Christening photos, family holidays, silver wedding.’

  ‘It’s not what I imagined either.’ Elizabeth chewed her lip, then gave a small shrug. ‘My point is that you can still have a fulfilling life. And I do actually know what I’m talking about.’ She gathered the peacock silk around her neck. ‘And now I must go. You need to be with David.’

  ‘Elizabeth.’ Leila stepped forward, wanting to acknowledge the story somehow.

  But the older woman waved her away. ‘You two should get started on that cake.’ She opened the gate and then looked back, grinning mischievously. ‘You’ll find she bakes a fine sponge, does Marjorie Patterson.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  When I rolled out of bed, the house was unusually quiet. I stooped to take a look through the low window, rubbing a hole in the condensation.

  Outside, the countryside lay unconscious in mist. Nothing stirred. No birds sang. The world seemed to be having a sleep-in. Beyond the garden, ploughed fields merged into white gloom. I looked down at the veggie patch where rows of cabbages crouched, lifeless on the damp earth. I felt like one of them. I had to get moving. I couldn’t become a permanent accessory of the Harrison family.

  Under the eaves, just outside my window, I noticed a row of rather ramshackle nests. I hadn’t spotted them before. They seemed to be made of mud. Swallows, perhaps, or swifts, long gone. They’d be back. Mum used to say that swallows in New Zealand don’t migrate. They don’t feel the need to leave home, she said. It’s the people who go away. And she smiled at me sadly from below her messy, unplucked eyebrows, as though she could see into the future.

  I heard a soft crunch in the mist and Perry appeared around the corner, wearing green gumboots and a baggy jersey, wheeling a metal barrow. He was carrying a shotgun under one arm. Laying it against the picket fence, he stepped into the vegetable garden, took a spade from the barrow and began to dig energetically. I could hear the blade scraping into the earth. It was an alien sound, metallic in the limp stillness.

  The man had incredible stamina. I wondered if he ever slept.

  As I watched him, something stirred over by the compost heap. It was just a small movement, but I glimpsed it from the corner of one eye. It was my old mate the rabbit, peacefully lolloping across the grass. He was hidden from Perry by the fence, and didn’t seem at all disturbed by the man’s presence. Perhaps at ground level the fog muffled the sounds of digging. I watched him. He moved slowly, unhurriedly, his back end tipping up like a rocking horse with each hop, pausing every now and again to sit upright and twitch his ears. Suddenly, for no reason that I could fathom, he broke cover and raced for the hedge. I caught the white flash of his tail.

  I didn’t even see Perry move. I just heard the shot echoing away through the mist, and my rabbit somersaulted high into the air. I don’t imagine he felt anything.

  The man was a hell of a shot, I’ll give him that. He broke his gun, walked over to the crumpled body and picked it up by the hind legs. Then he chucked it onto the back step where it lay, small and twisted, and he went back to his digging.

  I pulled on shorts and trainers, took the stairs two at a time and stepped out through the back door, glancing apologetically down at my little furry friend as I passed. His brown eye was already glazing over. I’d seen that before.

  Perry straightened and raised a friendly hand. His breath billowed into smoke. ‘Ah, Jake. Good morning.’

  ‘Hi, Perry. That was a bloody good shot.’

  ‘Well, you know. One tries to keep one’s hand in. I wasn’t too bad a marksman in my day.’ He lifted the spade again and drove it into the earth. ‘When I was a child, I was very fond of Beatrix Potter’s works. I sided with Peter, of course. But now I’m firmly in Mr McGregor’s camp. The little blighters do so much damage.’

  ‘Can I give you a hand out here?’

  He shook his head. ‘I need the exercise. You look as though you’re off for a run? Well done. I’ll have coffee ready in half an hour.’

  He seemed a good man, I reflected as I pounded down the muddy lane. I liked him, and I enjoyed his company. Yet he killed without any guilt at all. And he lied, all the time. And so did she.

  By the time I panted home, filthy and feeling more than a twinge in that bloody knee, the kitchen was warm and smelled of coffee and toast. Perry’s cage was gilded, all right. I looked around for Deborah, listening for her footsteps. Funny how the place seemed different now that she was home from Kenya. More colourful.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ I asked Perry, spreading butter on my toast. ‘Matt’s at school, is he?’

  ‘No.’ He pushed the plunger down on the coffee. ‘He and Deborah have gone into town to see the solicitor.’

  She wasn’t about to appear, then.

  ‘Could I get online this morning?’ I asked, taking the milk out of the fridge.

  He waved the back of one hand towards the door. ‘Absolutely. Go ahead.’ He rubbed his hands together, brightening. ‘Got your route planned?’ Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into the hall for a second and came trotting back with one of those enormous atlases, big as a tombstone.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ he suggested gleefully, opening the book up on the table. We both leaned over it. Perry traced lines on the page with one finger. ‘You’ll cross the straits, I assume . . . Morocco . . . look in on Fez, here. The Atlas mountains are extraordinary. I know them quite well . . . and over the border into Algeria just here. This’—he placed his palm flat onto the page—‘is Sahara.’

  I glanced at him. He was completely absorbed, as though he was planning this trip for himself.

  ‘D’you want to come with me, mate?’ I asked. It was a pretty crass question, I suppose, but I meant it. I’d have been happy to have him along. Honoured.

  The lines on his face seemed to deepen. ‘Bless you, Jake. No. But I’ll be with you in spirit every inch of the way.’

  Deborah and Matt arrived home as we were debating whether it was practicable to drive across the Congo, nowadays. Perry reckoned it was out of the question. The road was impassable and various militia were still causing havoc. He thought I should go through Angola. Deborah marched in, shot a vicious glance at the two of us and raised her eyebrows coldly. I could tell straight away she was in an odd mood.

  ‘Ah. Biggles and Algernon, planning their next daredevil escapade.’ She dumped two bags of shopping down by the fridge. Matt drop-kicked three more across the floor before disappearing upstairs. No one suggested he should get off to school.

  ‘How was your meeting?’ asked Perry.

  ‘Well, it’s all going according to plan. Stuart’s heard from Imogen Christie. The assessment team—whatever that is—will roll up here on Monday morning.’

  ‘Darling! That’s fantastic!’ gushed Perry.

  Deborah met my eyes and then looked away. ‘Stuart seemed to find the whole thing quite amusing. Says Lenora Blunt was apoplectic when I turned up yesterday.’

  Perry twitched the side of his mouth. It was almost a smile. ‘You’ve certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons.’ He held out his arms as though she was the cleverest, sweetest wife in the world and hadn’t twice tried to dump him for a beach bum. ‘I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist you. Who can?’

  She smiled, slightly flirtatiously I thought, and let him kiss her on the cheek. I was open-mouthed. Last time I looked she was torn asunder by her love for Rod. Now she was all dimpled and fluttery at an empty compliment from Perry. Bloody women. Not that I cared. She wasn’t mine, and she never would be.

  I’d had enough of the games and double-speak. It was all well beyond me, so I grabbed my coffee and left them to their parallel universe.

  In the study, I turned on Perry’s state-of-the-art desktop and waited while it warmed up, soothed by the familiar beeps and clicks. I heard the door open and guessed who was there, but I didn’t look around as she padded across Perry’s deep green carpet. She
came and stood beside me, but I ignored her. I busily scribbled notes while the search engine was looking for Niger and visas. After a minute, she started fidgeting.

  ‘You’re squinting at that notebook, Jacob. You need reading glasses. I’ll bet you’re too vain to wear them, though . . . What’re you doing?’

  I peered at the screen. ‘Visas,’ I grunted, in the end. ‘I’m planning on driving to Cape Town.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  I just laughed scornfully and clicked the mouse.

  ‘Are you cross, Jake?’

  Double click.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she breathed, exasperated. ‘You’re as bad as Matt.’

  She wandered over to the window, pulling back the velvet curtains. The glass didn’t let in much light. I could make out the drive through the murk. There was my car, faithfully waiting on the turning circle, all ready for me to make my getaway.

  ‘He’s my husband,’ she said simply. ‘We go back a long way. And we have a long way to go. How do you expect me to behave?’

  I looked back at the screen, glaring defiantly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her rest her palms against the glass. I scrolled down, trying to concentrate on the job in hand, and then gave up and swung the chair around to face her.

  ‘Look, Debs. It means less than nothing to me whether you go running back to Perry or not. I just find it sort of gobsmacking that you can slot back in and coo away like a pair of bloody paradise ducks. It just does my head in, that’s all.’

  There was a second’s silence. Then she arched one eyebrow. ‘Jake Kelly! Are you jealous?’

  I could have hit her. My dad would have knocked her clean across the room. I forced a derisive snort, and turned back to the screen.

  She took a step towards me. ‘Which of us are you jealous of ? Me or Perry?’

  When I ignored her, she stormed over to Perry’s futon and threw herself down. ‘I come home, having bargained away my life, to find you two all cosily snuggled up over an atlas, droning on about the state of the roads in bloody Burkina Faso.’

  ‘The Congo, actually.’