David tried to ignore the silence. It was different today; there was a profound emptiness in the house that he had never felt before.
Evening was winning the battle outside, and the corridor beyond his study door had faded into shadow, but Leila wasn’t back. Well, he had no right to miss her. He could hardly expect her to lighten his darkness. It was just that he wished she was there.
He’d tried to call her this morning, once Christopher had left; and again at lunch time, but she must have nipped out for a sandwich because there was no answer. When he’d tried yet again, the phone was turned off. Perhaps the battery was flat. Yes, that would be it. Happened all the time.
He’d had to go out again, in the afternoon, to see a schoolboy in the hospice. It had been a difficult visit. Awful, really. The young man, exhausted by suffering, had reached some kind of acceptance. He was ready to let go. Perhaps he’d walked alongside death for so long that it had lost its terror. But his parents were in agony. David had felt himself the lucky one, being childless.
He’d anxiously checked the answer machine when he came back, but there was nothing from Leila. Two from Marjorie Patterson, two from the church office, and a recent one from Linda Hooper. The social worker sounded businesslike, ready to confirm the bad news.
Hello, it’s Linda Hooper here. I’ll try your mobile.
David called her back, but her line was engaged. Well, not much point, really.
Now he sat chewing the skin around his thumbnail until it began to bleed. He was supposed to be writing a sermon, but it was going nowhere. On the wall around the window frame he could see cheerful primrose brush strokes, lurid from their days of hope. The ragged lines told their own story. When he’d made that one, they’d been happy. That long, joyously untidy sweep, right along the sill, had been made while Leila was answering the telephone. It was the cut-off point.
On an impulse, he lifted the receiver and dialled Leila’s work, hearing the studiedly languid tones of Jodie’s telephone voice. ‘Kirkaldie’s, New Street branch. How may I help you?’
‘Hello, Jodie. It’s David Edmunds here. Could I have a word with Leila?’
There was a long pause. Then, ‘Leila’s not here, Mr Edmunds.’
‘She’s knocked off early? Isn’t there a staff meeting?’
Jodie muffled the receiver for a moment, as though whispering to someone. He waited, watching Leila glittering in her white lace on their wedding day.
Jodie was back. ‘Um, Mr Edmunds . . . Leila never came in today. She phoned and said she had a migraine.’
David’s stomach abruptly, spontaneously, filled with ice. Dread—he did not want to analyse it, face it—pumped through his veins. He looked at his watch and then up at the window. His own reflection stared back at him from the inky glass.
‘No problem,’ he stammered. ‘Thanks, Jodie.’
Never came in . . . ?
For a bewildered whirl of time he struggled to think rationally, mechanically lacerating his bleeding thumb. Panic flickered in his brain, threatening to shut it down. Where would she have gone? Perhaps she’d left him, in the misguided belief that he would be better off without her.
I shouldn’t go. But I have to.
Perhaps—no, surely not—she’d made a terrible choice, driven by despair. Heaven forbid. It’ll all be over by tonight, she’d said, and now the words took on a horrible significance. She had seemed so anxious, so tender.
No. He was overreacting. She would never do such a thing . . . Yet in spite of himself his mind filled with unbearable images: Leila’s broken beauty on the railway line, solemn policemen knocking at the door.
It’ll all be over by tonight.
Oh God, oh God, where should he start looking? The hospitals? The police? He was breathing fast. Sweating. Eight hours, she’d been missing. A frightening expanse of time.
‘Leila,’ he cried into his hands. ‘Where are you?’
The phone rang. It seemed to bore through his brain like a dentist’s drill. He’d snatched it up before it had time to draw breath.
‘Hello?’ He could hear the desperation in his own voice and shut his eyes, praying silently.
Whoever was at the other end of the line, they were in trouble. He heard a series of choking gasps.
‘Who is it?’ he demanded, his words sharp with anxiety. ‘Leila?’
‘David.’ Her voice was overflowing, singing with emotion.
He clutched the receiver with both hands, breathlessly relieved. Of course. It was all perfectly obvious. Linda Hooper must have called the mobile, confirmed the bad news, and poor Leila had hidden herself somewhere to grieve in peace.
‘It’s all right, my lovely. Where are you, Leila? Come home.
I need you.’
There was another gasp, and a sob that he recognised, this time, as laughter.
‘I’m in Suffolk.’
David actually shot out of his chair, one hand raking distractedly at his hair. ‘You’re where?’
‘Suffolk. Woodbury, actually. I’m out of petrol.’
‘I don’t . . . What the hell are you doing in Suffolk? For God’s sake, stop playing games. This isn’t funny.’
‘I went to court.’
There was a prolonged, slow-motion heartbeat as this statement sank in. And then, at last, David erupted. It was too much. ‘Bloody hell ! How could you be so stupid ?’
‘David.’
Livid, he ignored the interruption. ‘Do you realise I thought you were—I can’t believe you could be so deceitful and irresponsible and—’
‘David. Shut up for a moment and listen.’
But his fury had flared out of all control. ‘No, Leila—you listen!’
‘We’ve got a baby.’
His mouth hung open, like a cartoon character. He was silenced, the white heat of his anger entirely vapourised. Leila’s voice pressed on, sweet and melodic now, delight bubbling through it.
‘Did you hear me? We’ve got a baby. The court made a placement order. She’s to be our child.’
‘Our . . . ?’ David sank slowly back onto his desk chair. ‘How did you do it?’
‘You won’t approve.’
‘Probably not.’
‘I’ll tell you the whole story when I get home. There’s a petrol station just along the road. I’m going to put some fuel in both myself and the car, then set off. I should be home by about nine.’
David closed his eyes. Took a breath. ‘When will she . . . ?’
Leila’s words seemed to shiver. ‘Next week. They want to meet us, tidy up their paper trail. They’ll gradually introduce us. And then we bring her home. What do you say now? Stupid, deceitful and . . . what was it?’
‘After all this time,’ said David. He felt overwhelmed, suddenly, by the long years of waiting. It was as though these years must be confronted and acknowledged before they could be left behind. His mind throbbed as the accumulated sludge of misery was stirred by a powerful tide of joy. It threatened to drown him. His mouth moved, soundlessly.
Leila’s voice again. ‘I can’t hear you. Hang on, I’ll just . . . Hello? Are you still there?’
Pathetic, thought David furiously, as he rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. Absolutely pathetic. A grown man, crying.
‘David?’
‘I’m here,’ he whispered at last. ‘I haven’t gone anywhere.’ He heard her soft laughter.
‘I know. It’s nearly too much, isn’t it? It really hurts.’
He swallowed painfully, his throat overburdened. ‘Leila . . . just come home.’
Chapter Thirty-seven
I was the getaway driver.
Matt stretched out along the back seat, both arms across his face. Debs sat beside me with her eyes closed. I kept glancing at her. Now that she’d stopped pretending, she looked as pale as death.
‘D’you need anything?’ I asked. ‘Shall I stop at the chemist?’
She half opened her eyes. ‘No, drive on, James,’ she murmured drowsily.
The bell
was clanging as we came to the level crossing, and its barriers were just going down. We seemed to sit there for about a year before the train came snorting self-importantly around the corner.
Ah, I thought, this looks like the fast train to London. The lawyers, and perhaps the judge too, would be all cosy in the buffet car, downing a hard-earned gin and discussing the case. I could imagine the silver-nailed woman in her black suit, smiling sardonically. ‘Something very fishy about the whole event, if you ask me.’
The last carriage shot past us with a deafening hiss, and the barriers clunked up.
A couple of miles down the road I heard Deborah whisper, ‘It was you.’
I did a double take. ‘What?’
‘You. You made your cryptic remark in the lift, then shot off. It was so true, what you said. Matt let poor Stuart get out of earshot, then he said, “Jake’s right.” ’
I didn’t comment. I was wondering whether it was really me, or whether Matt had already changed his mind.
‘So we went into a little huddle on the stairwell. I pretended to argue with him, but my heart wasn’t in it. I think he’d been battling with himself all morning, and Leila—with your help—showed him the way out. She truly, desperately wants Grace, and he no longer believes that we do. He says Grace will be lucky to have Leila fighting in her corner.’
‘Well, I think he’s got a point.’
‘Mm. I played devil’s advocate because I didn’t want to feel guilty later. I needed the decision to be made for the right reasons.’
‘And nothing to do with Rod.’
‘Yes. Yes, exactly. Matt reminded me about Perry’s note: Now we are ALL free. That’s a very careful, very specific choice of words, don’t you think? Matt is convinced that Perry intended to spring the trap. That’s why he . . . you know. Did it.’ She trailed off into silence.
‘Matt’s a good father,’ I said. ‘He did the right thing. He let her go.’
And so was Perry, I thought. In the end, he was. He cut through the knot in the only way he could. He let them all go.
When she next spoke, even her voice was pale. ‘That woman, Leila . . . I think she will do a good job, if anyone can. She cared enough to break the rules. She was even prepared to have us hanging around her neck forever.’
Our road crawled into a tunnel of trees at the edge of Coptree Woods. Shadows slithered across Deborah’s face, and her eyes seemed to sink into their sockets.
‘I wish I could have got to know her,’ she said quietly. ‘I feel impoverished, because I never shall.’
It was after dark by the time we drew up at the house. I think we all felt strange about being back there. It radiated hopelessness, somehow.
There were lights on in the hall, and as we climbed wearily out of the car a lean figure appeared in the doorway. For a surreal moment I thought Perry had come out to meet us. Then I saw who it was.
‘Lucy,’ I called, taking a step towards her. As I moved closer, I heard a muffled cry before she hurtled across the gravel and collided with me.
Poor Lucy. She must have been waiting all afternoon, alone in that house. She must have been alone there when the darkness came. Perhaps she’d gone out onto the back lawn and found what the wasps had left behind. I put my arms around her, and she pressed her face against me. I could feel her shoulders shaking. We stood like that for a long time. To be honest, it made me feel better, too.
I stayed with them until after the funeral. They asked me to, and it seemed right. There was no need for me to hurry away any more. There would be no baby howling through the nights and absorbing all their time and love. So I was with them when the undertaker came to ask stupid questions about what sort of wood they wanted for the coffin, and which fabric for the lining. I was there when Stuart Forsyth arrived to discuss the will, and Deborah had to grovel to him for not telling the truth in court. I was there to take down the cot and stash it in the attic.
I was there when Matt and Deborah set out for their farewell visit with Grace.
Eventually, the coroner released Perry’s body. There was no suspicion that his death had been anything other than suicide. He’d been on antidepressants for years, living his half life: a wild black panther in a cage at the back of the zoo. He’d known exactly what he was doing, and made an efficient job of it. Well, you wouldn’t expect anything less of the man.
They burned him on the following Thursday. The undertaker warned us that the crematorium would be squeezing us in between two others. It’s a peak time, he said, as though everyone rushes to get their dying done before Christmas.
The army sent four massive young soldiers to act as pallbearers, and Matt and I helped them carry Perry into the chapel on our shoulders. The coffin was much heavier than I expected. I imagined Perry, the ultimate in dignity, jolting around in there. I was relieved when we were able to put him down.
It’s grim, you know, the carry-on down at the crematorium. They had this electric organ, and the sound it made was truly tacky, like something at a fairground. Lucy looked stunned. Deborah got sort of hysterical giggles, more sobs than anything. She managed to hide it behind the handkerchief I lent her. My mum always nagged me to carry a large, clean hanky at all times. ‘In case you meet a girl who’s crying,’ she’d say. I’d obediently made it a habit all these years although I’d never bumped into any crying girls. But now, at last, good old Mum was proved right. I made a mental note to tell her, next time I phoned.
When the coffin started sinking in slow motion into that terrible pit, to the jolly accompaniment of the hurdy-gurdy, it was like something out of Star Wars. I swear I could see smoke rising from the black depths, and then I needed my hanky back because my nose was running. Bloody hay fever.
The undertaker had hired some caterers, and we had an after-match bash in the church hall, which was all decorated with holly and tinsel ready for a Christmas disco. People who hadn’t seen Perry for years said nice things about him. Superb leader, brilliant in the field, admired and trusted by his men. You can imagine the kind of stuff.
I took Matt away early, though. We’d both had enough. We wanted to be home.
‘I’m so fucking sick of saying goodbye,’ he snarled, as we drove away from the crematorium.
I glanced at the muscled figure hunched in my passenger seat. He looked older than I felt. And he was just a kid. By rights he should have been rattling on about which girls he fancied, or which band had broken up, or how to download a ringtone. But he wasn’t. He was a son, mourning a father. And he was a father, mourning the child he’d lost. And he was grieving for the child’s mother, too.
I drove on, into the woods.
‘He was my dad,’ he said. ‘To them he was friggin’ Lawrence of Arabia. But he was just my dad. I should have been there for him. I should’ve . . .’
I pulled over, sliding to a halt in the mud. ‘He was a soldier,’ I said.
‘He weighed up the situation, and he came to a decision. It wasn’t your fault.’
Matt fumbled for the door handle and just about fell out. He slammed the door behind him, and the violence of it made rooks wheel above the trees. I hopped down and walked around to his side. He was leaning against the truck, both hands spread out on the roof.
‘I feel as though Grace died too,’ he said, gulping. ‘But there’s no grave to put flowers on.’
I rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘No, mate. She’s not dead. She’s still your daughter.’
‘Going to see her . . .’ He was battling for control. He pinched the top of his nose. Then he turned and sank down in the fallen leaves, his back against the front wheel. ‘Hardest thing I’ve ever done. Hardest thing. I had to say goodbye to my little girl with them watching me.’
He lost it completely then. He covered the back of his head with his hands, a boy soldier under mortar fire, and the great shoulders began to heave. I knelt on the damp earth beside him, and waited. It was peaceful, in the woods.
‘She was beautiful,’ he whispered.
In those first few days after Perry died, Lucy stayed with us at Coptree. She was in a hell of a state. Couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat. Sometimes she’d just go and sit at Perry’s desk.
She spent hours holed up in Matt’s room too. I’d hear their voices, late into the night. One time, she came and perched on my bed. She talked, and cried, and my hankie came in useful again. She could hardly stand to be in the same room as Deborah: she still blamed her, at least partially, for Perry’s despair. Debs tried to talk to her, but met a stone wall. It all made for a bit of an atmosphere.
They had to blow up eventually, and it happened the morning after the funeral. Lucy was leaving. She planned to catch up on urgent work at Stanton’s, then spend Christmas with some old friends.When I came downstairs for breakfast, the war was already raging in the kitchen. I stood in the hall like a complete muppet, my hand on the door handle, wondering whether I should try to break it up.
Lucy was insisting she was going to take Perry’s ashes and bury them in her mother’s plot, and have Perry’s name added to the headstone, and Deborah was saying no, Lucy most certainly wasn’t going to do that, they were going to scatter him in a gale like he’d wanted. Lucy started shouting that no, Perry would want to be with Victoria, because she was the love of his life and Deborah was just a fancy whore who’d betrayed him and driven him to suicide; he and Victoria, she said, must be together in death.
Then I heard Deborah laughing—she sounded a bit mad to me—and she yelled, ‘How sweet! Like bloody Heathcliff and Cathy!’
All of a sudden, the door handle was wrenched from my hand—just about dislocated my wrist—and Lucy came shooting out and barged into me, nearly knocking me over.
‘I’m going,’ she gasped. She wouldn’t look at me.
I turned to pick up her bag from where she’d left it in the hall, but she growled, ‘I can carry that myself,’ and stormed past me and outside.
I followed her. It was cold and perfectly still. The lilac tree looked as though it had frozen to death. She’d stopped beside her car, staring up at the clouds with bloodshot eyes.
Freeing Grace Page 35
