‘No,’ she said. ‘Clifton Road.’
‘I’d offer to take you in the car, but we never leave Jonathan on his own. My wife’s very strict about it – always telling me these horror stories about babies choking to death the minute you turn your back …’
He laughed – a hollow laugh, she felt. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t even want her there, couldn’t wait to get shot of her. And yet it might have been so different. She realized that she’d missed her chance, answered the wrong way. He had asked her how she was, and that should have been her cue. If she’d treated the question seriously, she might still be sitting close to him, filling in the minutiae. The answer could have taken her all night – starting with her head, and progressing through her body, including every limb and organ, every cell and function – her blood pressure, digestion, the coursing of her blood around the veins, the beating of her heart, the condition of her skin. ‘How are you?’ was the most vast discursive question in the world, and she’d simply shrugged it off, rebuffing his first overture.
‘Shall I fetch your coat?’ he asked.
She nodded and stood up, extracting a last sad snatch of pleasure from the sensation of his hands brushing against her shoulders as he helped her put it on. She’d give anything to keep them there, to turn round and feel the hunger of his body, lose herself in the blaze of his embrace. But he had already stepped away, was hanging up his own coat on the fancy wooden stand.
‘Goodbye, then,’ she said flatly.
‘Hold on a sec. We owe you something, don’t we?’ We. The married we this time – him and Joyce, him and Mrs Edwards.
‘No, honestly, don’t worry. I’ve only been here an hour and a half.’
He ignored her protests, fumbled for his wallet, and as he pulled a banknote out, she glimpsed a photo of his wife, flaunting in the centre section, behind a transparent square of plastic. She reeled back as if he’d hit her; could almost feel his clenched fist in her stomach, or smashing her front teeth. If Dr Michael Edwards carried photos in his wallet, then she must be the face in them; she the one nestled close against his body, soaking up its heat, accompanying him everywhere, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing and his heartbeat.
He pressed the note into her hand, then opened the front door. ‘Goodnight,’ he said. ‘And thanks.’
She stepped out into the cold and dark, felt herself swallowed up in mist, dissolving into damp and clammy nothingness. She wheeled back, close to panic; had to see his solid smiling face again; the rectangle of saving light which framed it in the doorway. Both had disappeared; the door slammed shut, the face now lost, as he rejected and abandoned her.
Chapter Nineteen
Tessa trundled her trolley round the corner, stopped once more at the baby foods – tins and jars of purées, dried milks, Farex, rusks. She glanced at her watch – ten o’clock exactly. She’d been wandering round the supermarket since it opened at 8.30, but still no sign of the Edwardses. Last Saturday they’d arrived at nine, and having trailed them for a good half an hour, she’d contrived a ‘chance’ meeting at the checkout; told them that she always shopped at Sainsbury’s. In fact, Tesco’s was marginally cheaper, and certainly much nearer, but she wouldn’t meet the Edwardses there, so she’d changed her usual shopping habits and now toured Sainsbury’s daily.
She trudged further down the aisle to the baby soaps and nappies, hoping nobody was observing her on the internal security system. She’d be a prime suspect for a shoplifter, loitering here so long, especially as she kept peering over her shoulder, and must obviously seem nervous and strung up. Maybe Mrs Edwards had done her shopping yesterday, and was now relaxing at the Leisure Centre, which had a pool and saunas – and also ran a crèche. Since she’d learned Joyce was a member, she had returned there several times, either hanging around outside, watching people come and go, or venturing in to ask for information. She knew there was an infants’ swimming session at eleven on a Saturday, so she might catch sight of baby Michael if she went there straight away, stationed herself in the foyer. It was ten days since she’d seen the baby, so her anxiety was growing. She had told him she’d be back in just a matter of a day or two, but she’d had to break her promise. It wasn’t up to her – she had to wait for a phone-call from the Edwardses, asking if she could babysit again. She hadn’t heard a word from them, so she assumed they didn’t want her; maybe even disapproved of her, and were now deliberately avoiding her by shopping at the corner store.
She drifted towards the till, took her place in the long and straggling queue. Everyone around her appeared to be in families – fathers pushing trolleys, toddlers cadging sweets; the man in front trying to stop his baby son from using the Air-Fresh as a teething-ring.
‘Hello!’ called a voice – Joyce Edwards’ voice – soft and slightly girlish.
Tessa’s hands tightened on the trolley, her grip so fierce it hurt. She hardly dared look round, but when she did, her hopes were dashed in an instant – the woman closing in on her had an upswept curly chignon and gold-framed spectacles, not limp brown hair and doggy Bournville eyes.
‘How are you, Mrs Johnson?’ she asked dutifully, trying to hide her disappointment. She had worked for Michèle Johnson just last week – not babysitting, charring – had also cleared the garden, washed the car, and shampooed her two bad-tempered dogs, as well as half the carpets in the house. She took every job she could now, in the hope that Mrs Edwards would hear about her skills, employ her as a cleaner or a gardener, if not as trusted nanny.
‘I’m fine, my dear, but Zsa-Zsa’s in a sulk. We changed her basket, but she doesn’t like the new one. She did a poo-poo on the bedroom rug, to show us how put out she was. What a stroke of luck to bump into you like this! I’ve been searching high and low to find your phone number – I know I put it somewhere, but my desk is such a mess. I was hoping you could come again next week – say, Tuesday? You did a grand job on those carpets!’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Tessa, adding silently: Please tell Mrs Edwards how good I am at cleaning; how long I spent cutting back those creepers in the garden; be sure you let her know I’m careful and reliable.
She picked up a Family Circle from the rack beside the till. There was an article on baby-care – how to stop the pain of teething. Michael had more teeth to cut, including the large and painful back ones. ‘What time do you want me?’ she enquired of Mrs Johnson, already counting hours. By Tuesday morning, it would be more than three hundred since she’d last laid eyes on Michael.
She finalized the arrangements, paid for her mini-pack of Kleenex and her small tin of baked beans, then set off for the Leisure Centre. Several sporty-looking types were jostling through the doors – muscly men in satin shorts, girls in tracksuits, children with their swimming things. She couldn’t really understand how they found the time for leisure. Her own life seemed packed with myriad tasks, and when she wasn’t doing jobs for other people, or scouring streets and shops in pursuit of both the Edwardses, then she was working on her Michael thesis, widening its scope. Yet if they had a part-time vacancy here for a waitress or a pool attendant, she must somehow squeeze it in, since it would afford her one more chance of seeing baby Michael.
She ventured in to the foyer, which was already wreathed with tinsel; a huge decorated Christmas tree glittering in its scarlet tub. She dreaded the thought of Christmas Day. The Edwardses would be closeted at home, their doors locked and barred to the outside world; the surgery deserted; even Sainsbury’s and this Centre closed, so there wouldn’t be the slightest hope of seeing either of the Michaels. She faltered to the desk, embarrassed to discover that the girl on duty was the one she’d bothered several times already. At least on this occasion she was asking for a job, and not for her fifth consecutive membership form.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the girl, ‘but the man who deals with staffing doesn’t work weekends. You’ll have to come back Monday.’
‘I see,’ said Tessa, frowning. ‘Look, I don’t want to be a nuisanc
e, but I wondered if there was any chance of having a quick look at the pool – just to …?’
‘No, sorry,’ said the girl again. ‘Only paid-up members are allowed past that green door. You were going to join, weren’t you?’
Oh, sure, she thought bitterly – if I had two hundred quid to spare, and nothing better to do than loll naked in the sauna or stretch out on a sun-bed.
A woman pushed in front of her, to book a facial in the beauty salon and something called a mud-wrap, handing over a small gold card with ‘Privileged Member’ stamped across the top. Another doctor’s wife no doubt, splurging all her husband’s cash. Who ever met a doctor on the breadline? They were always filthy rich; made their money killing babies, or yanking out women’s wombs and ovaries. Doctors were beginning to disgust her, especially Dr Edwards, who had clearly told his wife not to let her in the house again. They couldn’t be away. She checked on them twice daily; stealing past their house each evening to make sure the lights were on; then visiting the Health Centre every weekday morning, hiding in the bushes so that she could watch the doctors arrive. Dr Edwards was often the first, and always in his sheepskin. It was affecting her quite badly – that curdling mixture of longing and resentment the merest glimpse of him could rouse in her; the way she had to stop herself from racing after him and begging for a word. She was sometimes tempted to book appointments every day, except she’d no wish to be his patient. The relationship she craved was seductive mistress, beloved wife.
She backed away from the desk, her eyes fixed on the entrance. Mothers and babies had begun trickling in for the swimming class – one girl wearing an exotic fox-fur jacket; another sporting thigh-length calfskin boots; no one dressed by Oxfam. How smug they were, with their plush lifestyles, wealthy husbands, their children in the pink of health. They took it totally for granted that the expensively-dressed bundles in their pushchairs were flawless little specimens, not deformed and stunted corpses.
No child escaped her scrutiny, even those muffled up in shawls and woolly hats. All she had to do was scan the eyes, and so far none were dark enough, none wild and bright and intense enough.
Half an hour limped by. Most babies’ eyes were blue – boring blue, anaemic blue, frustrating maddening blue. She was compelled to admit defeat; let the door slam shut behind her, grimacing at the cold. She decided to go home, make a cup of coffee to warm her from inside, but her feet refused to co-operate and were already steering her a different way – in the direction of the Health Centre. Dr Edwards wasn’t on – she’d double-checked last night – and the Saturday morning surgery was always very brief, with just a skeleton staff. But something might have changed: another doctor gone off sick; an accident, emergency, which would keep it open longer. No. The doors were bolted, and there was no sign of life at all; only garish Christmas streamers mocking her grey mood. She dared not try Tregunter Road, nose around his house again. She’d been snooping there so many times, his neighbours must have noticed by now, and might well have got suspicious, even alerted the police. Dr Edwards made her feel a criminal – a woman with designs on him, always skulking, spying – yet all she actually wanted of him was his attention and his love.
She set off for home once more, calling in at his newsagent en route, in the hope he might be there, perhaps cancelling a paper or paying the account. The shop was full of kids, riffling through the comics, squabbling over sweets, their voices shrill and yobbish. She was praying for another voice, deeper, more refined. She hung around a while, to give him time – after all, he was busy and committed, like herself. She’d changed her own newspaper from the Guardian to the Telegraph. Although she didn’t like its politics, it pleased her to be reading the same articles and features at perhaps exactly the same moment as Dr Edwards read them. She had also switched to the Edwardses’ brand of coffee, gladly paying almost half as much again, so that she, as Mrs Edwards, could drink the same brew as her husband.
She made one last tour of the shop, bought herself a Twix for lunch, then dawdled down the road, still looking back, looking back, watching for that dark red car. She had never noticed Citroëns till last month, but now she saw them everywhere; the two inverted Vs in front like a tiny secret symbol, sending out a shock-wave, a thrill of recognition every time she spotted it. There was even one parked in her own street, though not a red estate. She turned in at the gate, greeted by the blare of Eric’s radio. It was difficult to work at home on Saturdays, with both the lodgers insisting on loud musical accompaniment to their often noisy chores. At least Frank wasn’t busy with his power-drill, only cooking curry.
‘Hallo, treasure! You look as if you’ve lost a tenner and only found a safety pin. Want to try my chicken vindaloo?’
‘No thanks.’
‘You’re as bad as Eric, you are! He’s bought these slimming biscuits for his dinner, and he’s so thin already, you can’t hardly see him sideways on.’
‘I’ll try some later, Frank. I’m busy at the moment.’
‘Busy working on your book, I take it?’
‘What book? What d’you mean?’
‘Your Mum said you was writing your memoirs. And if you plan to sell the film rights, make sure I’m played by Arnold Schwarzenegger.’
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘you’re on.’ She gave him the thumbs-up sign, then closed her door hurriedly on a burst of wild applause. She wasn’t keen on television game-shows, but was forced to listen second-hand every time Frank tuned in to ‘Find Your Fortune’. It was all the more frustrating because she’d tried so hard to turn her room into a place for serious study – a hushed and solemn shrine, like the Camera or the Bodleian. She had put away the frivolous things – her Walkman and her cuddly toys, the dried flowers on the windowsill, the posters on the walls – leaving the room as austere and bare as possible, so that she could apply herself to work without distraction.
She sat down at her desk (keeping her coat on, to save the cost of heating), then spread out all her papers and her file-cards, to plot her graph of Dr Edwards’ life. She had already sorted all the random facts into different labelled sections and could begin to see his biography taking shape: his schooldays at Bourne Hall; his training at Birmingham Medical School; followed by three years at the Leicester Royal Infirmary; his first job as a GP in a well-heeled Leicester suburb, and his eventual move to the south. There were still a lot of gaps, and the whole period in Leicester was shadowy and un-fleshed-out, but she’d done pretty well, considering all the obstacles. The people she’d approached had often been wary or tight-lipped, and she’d had to invent sound convincing reasons for her enquiries, to allay their fears, coax out more information. She’d phoned the General Medical Council and the Royal College of GPs; talked to local patients and two of the Health Centre receptionists; tracked down a hospital porter at Birmingham, who’d been there thirty years or more and remembered Michael Edwards as a student. She’d sent for brochures from the hospitals he’d worked at, and also from Bourne Hall – a so-called minor public school, which was housed in a Rothschild mansion and charged astronomical fees. Money had never seemed a problem for the Edwardses. The father had been rich – another Michael Edwards, who’d made his pile in property and left most to his son.
She was working on an index of all the names and places she’d come across so far, and kept jotting down any other sources she could check. She had managed to arrange her life so that she was alone for most of the day; going out to babysit when the others in the household were expected back from work, and missing ‘family’ meals whenever possible. Tonight she was sitting for the Wentworths – a doddle of a job, since there was only one docile child, who’d already be asleep in bed by the time she arrived at eight. It would save her from an evening of her mother’s interrogation: when was she going to find a nice reliable, boyfriend who had no other irons in the fire? Why was she only picking at her food, and what was wrong with toad-in-the-hole, pray, when she’d never turned her nose up at it before? And was it really healthy to be so anti-s
ocialist, stuck up in her room for hours on end?
Sundays were the worst. It was hard to escape at all then, and everyone was in; three separate radios often playing at full blast, and April insisting she sat down to lunch and tea. She didn’t want her mother to see her Dr Edwards thesis, so she locked it in a drawer each evening, pretending she was still working for her degree. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. She’d come to the conclusion that history was a sham. How could anyone be expected to take in such a Niagara Falls offacts – chronicles and archives, battles, treaties, statutes? And there wasn’t a hope in hell of understanding the past without at least a grounding in loads of other subjects – things like anthropology, sociology, geography – not to mention several foreign languages, and a grasp of economics. The average student would be pushed to cover such a tough assignment in fifty years, or a hundred, let alone the paltry three that Oxford meted out. She was currently investigating the history of one single man, and that was daunting enough, but at least she had some hope of getting to grips with it, and there was less distortion and deceit. A lot of so-called history had been churned out as propaganda, to give people what they wanted – victories and heroes; a reassuring rubber stamp for the dogmas of the age; and also to provide boundaries and structure for those terrified of foundering in a tidal wave of purely random events. She was far safer studying Dr Michael Edwards, limiting herself to one essential subject, ignoring every other period save the forty-one-and-a-quarter years from his birth in Loughborough in September 1950, to the official nine-month birthday of his son, which must have been last Tuesday.
She laid her pen down, bitter once again at her exclusion from the Edwardses’ house. Michael might have cut another tooth by now, learned another word, be struggling to stand up or take a step, and she wouldn’t know, wouldn’t be at hand to witness his achievements. She abandoned her graph, turned instead to the huge stack of local newspapers she had collected from the houses round about. She had told her friends and neighbours that she’d decided to write a history of the area and needed all the information she could lay her hands upon. Some old crones had papers going back a decade, so she hadn’t found the time yet to gut each and every one. But she’d combed through several dozen, her eyes alert for news of Dr Edwards – snippets, photos, maybe awards he’d won or controversial views he’d aired, or reports about the Health Centre – its construction, its official opening, or even …
Michael, Michael Page 27
