Freeing Grace

by Charity Norman

  The child nodded dumbly, her dimpled hands warm and trusting, resting with familiarity on Leila’s knees as though she’d known her for years. She was wearing an old-fashioned blue velvet dress with smocking. She blinked, and rubbed her nose. Then the chubby legs gave way and she sat down

  ‘Pretty,’ she said, grabbing a clumsy handful of grass.

  Glad of the company, Leila slid off the bench and sat beside her, cross-legged. They made a small and rather uneven coronet of honeysuckle flowers, and Leila was just resting it on the child’s hair when a brisk young redhead flurried up.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said coldly, snatching up the protesting little girl as though Leila were a convicted paedophile. ‘My daughter’s bothering you.’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ Leila protested.

  But the woman did not even glance at her before bustling away. ‘I turn my back for five minutes . . .’

  ‘Sweet,’ chirruped Alicia, from the lavender.

  Feeling profoundly irrelevant, Leila watched as the pair crossed the grass to join a gossiping gaggle, the child balanced casually as a handbag on her mother’s hip. The flowers had fallen off her head. She was trying to reach for them, but her mother was too busy networking to notice. The parents stood in a tight knot of complacency with their baby slings and pushchairs, wiping noses and making cosy conversation about whether or not to immunise. They were members of an exclusive club, and Leila wasn’t in it. No doubt they had smug, self-satisfied bumper stickers boasting about their ‘Baby on Board’. For a moment, she hated them all.

  And there was Michael emerging from the house, wearing a cravat and carrying a cup and saucer as though they were about to explode. No. Not now. It was too much. Leila was on her feet, desperate to avoid having to congratulate her brother-in-law upon his impending fatherhood, when her eyes rested upon the slightly stooped figure of Nicky Pertwell, Monica’s husband. He was skulking with the smokers who huddled in guilty comradeship by the greenhouse. She hurried towards him, deftly avoiding the parents’ club and Michael with his Semtex teacup.

  Laughing, Nicky watched her progress.

  ‘Leila. Thank God you’re here. I thought you were going to let me down.’ Nicky wasn’t exactly good-looking. Not even elegant, really. He had an appealing, lopsided smile and an unhealthy pallor, and he never stood up straight. Perhaps he couldn’t. Yet women—all women, even Hilda—loved him.

  ‘Am I glad to see you, Mr Toad.’ Leila let him kiss her genially on both cheeks. She wanted to cry. ‘I’ve never seen so many happy families on one lawn. I’m afraid it’s not helping my state of mind.’

  Nicky stuck a cigarette between his teeth. He did look faintly amphibian, goggling through round, rimless glasses, and she had never met anyone so overtly camp in manner. Had he not been married to Monica, she would certainly have assumed him to be gay.

  He flicked his lighter with a limp-wristed flourish and then snapped the brass lid shut. ‘Where’s David?’ His voice had never quite broken, and there was a mild, friendly accent that Leila assumed was a remnant of his Manchester roots.

  ‘He’s dashed off to scribble down all the good things he can think of to say about his parents.’

  ‘Did you give him a postage stamp to jot them on?’ Nicky snatched two glasses from a tray as it sailed past, and handed one to Leila. ‘Senior Management—I mean Monica—is in full tizz mode. Let’s take cover in the kitchen. Far too many in-laws out here.’

  Hilda’s kitchen was large and chrome and surprisingly scruffy, with piles of junk mail and newspapers on every surface. It was cool, though, and Leila threw herself into a chair with a sigh. A bald chef was standing at the table, frenziedly stirring, while people in aprons ran around like ants.

  Nicky dragged a handkerchief out of his pocket and began to mop his shining brow. His hairline was receding. ‘Whew. So humid. Must be global warming.’ He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair, and then held up his glass. ‘This stuff’s wasted on Hilda and Christopher. Pearls before swine. But Senior Management said I had to wheel out something decent.’ Nicky imported wine. His business and Monica’s had a symbiotic relationship.

  ‘I suppose a lot of work’s gone into all this?’ asked Leila.

  Nicky shrugged. ‘Monica does these bashes all the time. It’s routine for her.’

  ‘She seemed quite uptight when I saw her.’

  ‘Jumpy as a flea. That’s because she’s got no bookings. It’s all dried up. Nobody can afford lavish parties nowadays. Or decent wine, for that matter.’

  He picked up a bottle, squinted critically at the label, then filled two more glasses. ‘Try this.’

  Leila was staring at him, concerned. ‘Nicky . . . are you in trouble?’

  ‘Not yet. I could always go into the church.’ Leila frowned, and he held up his hands. ‘Stop worrying, Leila. We’re not going down the gurgler. I think we’ve covered our bases. The day Monica has to sack her nanny, you can feel sorry for her.’

  Leila let it go. ‘Where are the children? I’ve got a birthday present for Freya in the car.’

  ‘I expect Monica will summon them when she needs some matching accessories to go with her outfit.’

  ‘Meeow!’

  Nicky looked faintly ashamed. ‘Nice girl, the latest nanny. Catalina. Chilean.’ Tipping his chair sideways, he stretched an arm towards the kitchen benchtop and picked up a newspaper, as though anxious to change the subject.

  ‘Gawd, look at this! Hilda gets The Times. Bet she doesn’t read it. Let’s have a squint at the crossword . . . er . . . got a pen? No, me neither. Oh, here’s one. Now, seven down: of avuncular weed. Has to be an anagram. Has to be.’ He wrote the letters in a circle in the corner of the page. ‘Any ideas? We heard you had a disappointment, Leila, with the baby.’

  The remark came without any warning or change in inflection, and Leila was caught off guard. Nicky didn’t look up; he spared her that. She made an effort to sound breezy. ‘We did . . . yes, we did. Never mind.’ She coughed, trying to keep her voice level. ‘Perhaps I don’t need any accessories.’

  ‘We were sorry,’ he said. ‘Monica and I. We were both so sorry.’

  Leila didn’t answer. His kindness had knocked the breeziness clean out of her.

  ‘Any hope?’ asked Nicky.

  ‘Some. Not much. It looks as though dear old Grandma’s going to get the child. But if she wanted her, why not say so before?’

  ‘Have you been given an explanation?’

  ‘Um.’ Leila felt the tears welling up. ‘There’s a total news blackout. We know almost nothing about the birth family. It seems it’s a hanging offence even to ask.’

  ‘Frustrating.’

  Leila laughed shakily. ‘My mum’s threatening to march into social services and give ’em a piece of her mind. They’d better get their tin hats on!’

  Nicky felt in a jacket pocket and dragged out his cigarettes. They were rather squashed. ‘Would your mother really do that?’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t.’ Leila reached into her handbag for a tissue. ‘She’s pretty feisty, Mum, but she wouldn’t actually make a scene like that. Anyway, she’s in Nigeria for another fortnight.’ She blew her nose as inconspicuously as she could.

  Nicky was on the point of lighting up when he met the chef ’s stony glare. ‘Whoops!’ He placed a guilty hand across his mouth. ‘Faux pas. Sorry.’

  As he was jamming the cigarettes back into his pocket, the kitchen door was kicked brutally open and two children barged in. The eldest was half-grown, awkward and gangly. She had frizzy auburn hair and wore hipster jeans and a gold tee-shirt. She rushed at Leila.

  ‘You got here!’ she yelled jubilantly, squeezing her arms around Leila’s neck. ‘We thought you’d had a terrible car crash and your guts were spread all over the motorway.’

  ‘Sorry, guys. Awful traffic.’ Leila hugged the girl, swiftly wiping her eyes with her fingertips. ‘Happy birthday for last week, Freya. How does it feel to be thirteen?’

  ‘Bi
g disappointment. It’s no different from being twelve.’

  Leila forced a chuckle. ‘I love this gold top. D’you think it would fit me?’

  ‘Might be a bit on the tight side,’ snorted Nicky.

  ‘Look,’ groaned Freya, baring her teeth at Leila. ‘Braces! Yeuch! Aren’t they disgusting?’

  ‘No, they’re hardly visible,’ declared Leila. ‘And when they come off you’ll have teeth like a film star.’

  ‘We were all looking out for you from the spare bedroom window,’ scolded Charlie testily, climbing onto Leila’s knee. He was eight, small for his age and pale, with sticking-up hair. ‘We waited for ages. Freya, Dad and me.’

  ‘Oh dear, did you? I feel really, really guilty.’

  Charlie shot a mischievous glance at his father. ‘Mummy got extremely grumpy and said it was bloody typical of you and David to let the side down.’

  Nicky spat a mouthful of wine back into his glass and wheezed with laughter, slapping his thigh.

  ‘Shut up, Charlie,’ said Freya. She elbowed her brother in the ribs.

  ‘Ow! Well, it’s true.’ Charlie’s eyes were wide with exaggerated innocence. ‘She said quite a lot more as well.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s David?’

  ‘Writing a speech,’ sobbed Nicky, still shaking.

  ‘He promised he’d play football next time he came,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m going to hold him to that.’

  Sensible heels could be heard, clacking on the tiles. Monica strode into the kitchen, and Leila was jerked back into reality. The day was to be got through: the celebration of fertility, the jollity, the inescapable grief.

  ‘You two!’ Monica’s gaze swept across the scene. ‘Here you are. Poor Catalina’s looking for you—run along to the marquee, quick. What on earth are you all giggling about?’

  A platoon of girls in black trooped in behind her and began with military precision to fan out across the kitchen, collecting trays. Monica watched them and then clapped her hands for quiet. ‘Right, are we ready to go? Good.’

  The team clearly knew the procedure. They formed a line at the door and sallied forth, trays held high. Monica turned to follow them, pausing briefly in the doorway.

  ‘Dad’s drinking,’ she hissed with an agonised grimace. ‘Do something, Nicky!’

  Round tables were laid out in the marquee, each seating eight. Monica, who was in charge of the seating plan, had deployed the immediate family so that one Edmunds sat at each table, acting as a sort of local warlord.

  Searching the name cards, Leila found that she was to preside over the younger generation—cousins and friends of cousins in their late teens; and for that she was grateful to Monica. At least she hadn’t been stuck in the parents’ club. She passed an entertaining hour listening to the youngsters’ views on sex, war, and the latest James Bond film. Theirs was the only rowdy group, and the waiters enthusiastically tended their glasses.

  Alicia was perched at the next table, listening politely to Christopher’s only surviving uncle. The old man blinked his mauve eyelids in slow motion, like a tortoise. Alicia held herself very straight, a doll with a tranquil smile, taking saintly sips of her orange juice. Just watching this self-sacrifice made Leila stick out her glass for a refill. It was her little rebellion. It didn’t matter what she ate or drank; her body wasn’t a vessel. By the time they came to the coffee, she felt more relaxed than she would have believed possible. In fact, it seemed as though she was hardly there at all. She leaned back in her chair and let her eyes wander, although she had a little difficulty in keeping them focused.

  Across the marquee she could see David, with Freya and Charlie to each side. He seemed to be telling them a long, complicated story, with much waving of hands and wild laughter from all three. Charlie was actually falling off his chair in his hysteria. David caught Leila’s eye, waved, and patted his pocket to show he had the speech in hand.

  And there was Hilda, making gracious little sorties around the tables, greeting old friends with feline tidiness: a lone figure in her brave blue. Christopher would not join her, although his wife glanced at him often with a tight, meaningful smile. She even jerked her head at him—a tiny movement, almost imperceptible—but he just beetled his heavy white brows, lounging in his striped blazer.

  Twice Leila caught him watching her. The second time, she met his eye. I’m not scared of you, you old bastard. Fortified by wine she felt momentarily invincible, but the challenge backfired because Christopher appeared to be delighted. She yawned to show that she was bored, and looked away, but the sensation of his gaze on the back of her neck made her want to squirm.

  Unfortunately, it was at this moment that Hilda paused to bestow a few minutes on her daughter-in-law.

  ‘Leila.’ She slid into an empty seat. ‘I gather consolations are in order.’ And perhaps she really meant to console.

  Leila became dangerously still. Don’t you dare. ‘Consolations?’

  ‘No baby.’

  ‘Ah.’ Leila sat back in her chair, pulse racing. ‘No. No baby, Hilda.’

  ‘Well.’ The mother-in-law pursed her magenta mouth, sorrowfully kind. ‘I’m sure it’s all for the best.’

  Fury was churning at the floodgates, boiling and bubbling. ‘Excuse me? Why is it all for the best?’

  Hilda shook her head, and the wispy fringe fluttered. ‘You knew I had grave reservations about bringing a strange child into the family like that. Anything might have happened. Anything.’

  Leila took a long breath. Then, quite deliberately, she opened the gates. The rage burst free in a glorious, foaming wave. ‘David is miserable, Hilda,’ she snapped, very loudly, and several people at the next table glanced around, eyebrows raised in amusement or surprise. ‘Is your son’s misery all for the best? He just wants to be a father.’

  Hilda recoiled slightly. ‘But my dear Leila, can’t you see? This child would not have made him a father.’

  ‘I don’t think you want your son to be happy. Not unless he plays by your rules.’

  A flush blossomed on Hilda’s cheeks. ‘Well, you know my views.’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ The wave was splendidly reckless now. It flattened anything in its path, annihilating their carefully built façade of cordiality. ‘I do! Actually, Hilda, I’ve had just about enough of hearing your views. For fifteen long years, I’ve put up with your narrow-minded, self-serving drivel.’

  Even as the words left her, Leila knew she would regret them. There was muffled laughter from the teenagers around the table, and it seemed as though a hush had spread across much of the marquee.

  Hilda leaped to her feet. ‘I will assume that’s the alcohol talking.’ She gripped the back of a chair, white-knuckled. ‘Perhaps you’d better have another cup of coffee. Make it a strong one, Leila, will you?’

  Someone was tapping their glass with a spoon, calling for quiet. It was Monica, standing on a chair, looking like a rather buxom statue of Queen Victoria. Hilda stalked back to her own table.

  ‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ bellowed Monica when the hubbub had died to a murmur. She beamed around at the crowd. ‘It’s so nice to see you all here to celebrate with my parents and remember that very special day, forty years ago, when they tied the knot.’

  Leila felt increasingly nauseous; perhaps it was the clichés. Or the guilt.

  ‘Anyway.’ Monica simpered affectionately in David’s direction. He’d made a paper napkin into a hat, and was pressing it onto Charlie’s head.

  ‘My brother David—who likes the sound of his own voice, being a clergyman!—has agreed to say a few words. After all, this is an extraordinary occasion, as we celebrate the long and successful union of two extraordinary people.’

  There was a rumble of assent, and sporadic clapping. It seemed to come from far, far away. Leila felt a cold sweat gather ominously on her forehead. Pushing back her chair in a panic, she ducked under the open side of the tent and trotted across the lawn and into the house. She headed for the upstairs bathroom, away from inquisi
tive eyes. Tearing along the landing she made it with no time to spare, retching violently over the toilet.

  Sounds of merriment trickled in through the open window. The crowd seemed to be laughing immoderately at David’s speech. There were bursts of hilarity, and a cascade of applause. Hunched miserably on Hilda’s bathroom floor, nausea had Leila by the throat. She’d forgotten how grim it felt. She vowed, fervently, never to drink alcohol again.

  At long last, she heard a toast to Hilda and Christopher. She imagined them cutting the cake in a parody of their wedding day, smiling for the photographer.

  She was still crouching by the basin when David came to look for her. She heard the familiar footsteps thumping up the stairs, two at a time, and his worried voice at the door. ‘Leila? You in there?’

  ‘Um . . .’ Shaking, she pulled herself upright and turned on the cold tap. ‘Just a minute.’ Water gushed into the basin. She bent, splashing her face and neck, and sloshed some of Hilda’s Listerine around her mouth.

  ‘You all right, Leila?’

  Pressing her nose into a towel, she crossed to the door and opened it. David stood on the landing, his eyes bright with concern.

  ‘What’s happened? You look awful.’ He laid a hand on her forehead.

  ‘I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not in the club.’

  He smiled gently. ‘Never crossed my mind.’

  ‘I’ve publicly insulted your mother and thrown up in her bathroom. I don’t think it’s possible to disgrace myself more comprehensively. I’m going to have to join the Foreign Legion.’

  ‘Please don’t do that.’ Stooping, he rested his forehead against hers. ‘It’s hard sometimes, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s hard.’ She shut her eyes, and they stood quietly together, taking comfort in one another until they heard footsteps in the hall below.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go home.’

  To Leila’s embarrassment, Monica was waiting for them downstairs.