Vanessa buried her face in his jumper. It was a thick woolly one she’d knitted to keep him warm, as he would never have any heaters on while he was working. She could feel his heart beating against her cheek.
He put his hand to her chin and lifted her face to his. ‘Nessa, darling. Are you all right? Was it very bad?’
‘Where were you, Gerald?’
‘There was a big meeting at the Royal College. The students are fired up about the future of art education. I tell you, this is going to shake up the Establishment.’
‘Why didn’t you phone? I thought something terrible had happened.’
‘My darling butterfly.’ He cupped her face in his hands. His rough skin grazed her cheeks. ‘There was so much going on, I didn’t think. Now, what do you say to the name Esme?’
Vanessa came home from hospital when Esme was four days old. She was a good baby, soon sleeping through the night and contented during the day. Vanessa gave up her attempts to breast-feed and her body became her own again.
She went to the spare bedroom and began sorting through bags of yarn. She picked out a soft white wool with some angora in it. It would drape beautifully and be perfect for the long dress she wanted to crochet for Esme.
When Cordelia saw what she was doing, she asked, ‘Can I do knitting, Mummy?’
‘What about a scarf for your dolly.’
Vanessa found a pair of short needles that she used for knitting belts, and Cordelia chose a ball of bright red wool.
‘I’ll cast on for you and then I’ll show you what to do.’ Vanessa put a few stitches on the needle and placed it in Cordelia’s chubby hand. ‘Hold the second needle like this and put it into the front of the wool … clever girl …’ Vanessa took both Cordelia’s hands in hers. Cordelia’s face was fierce with concentration, her tongue sticking out above her top lip. Together they completed the first stitch. ‘You’ve done it! Let’s try another one.’
By the time Gerald came home, they’d finished. Cordelia thrust the doll, clad only in the red scarf, at him. ‘Daddy, look what I made.’
‘That’s wonderful, Cordy.’ Gerald lifted Cordelia into his arms and hugged her. She clung to him, her arms tight round his neck and her legs circling his waist.
Vanessa tidied the balls of wool into a bag. Over Cordy’s head, Gerald smiled at her. Love for him caught at her throat. It was going to be all right, she thought. It was all going to be all right.
Vanessa wrote to her mother. She described Esme’s big brown eyes, her mop of dark hair, which looked as if it might be curly. She included a photo of Cordelia with little Esme clutched in her lap. She pushed the pram to the post box at the end of the street and lifted Cordelia up to push the letter through the narrow slit.
‘That’s to your grandma in Ireland, Cordy.’
Three weeks later a brown parcel arrived addressed to Vanessa Heaney. Gerald had already left for the studio and Cordelia was still asleep. Vanessa sat at the kitchen table, Esme beside her in the carrycot, and ran her fingers over the Irish stamp, across the lines of her mother’s writing, so familiar with its elaborate loops and curls, and yet until this moment, almost forgotten. Five years without a word and now this. She tore the wrapping from the parcel and smoothed out the tissue paper. Inside was a jacket and leggings, beautifully knitted in a delicate rose pink. Vanessa held the jacket to her face and stroked the soft wool against her cheek. She lifted Esme from the carrycot and hugged her close. She put her lips to the pulse beating against the fragile skin on the top of her head, and rocked backwards and forwards.
She picked up the two sheets of blue lined paper.
My Dear Nessa,
Thank God for the safe arrival of your new baby. The photo of her and her big sister is on the mantelshelf and every day I pray to Our Lady for the poor mites. I’ve asked Father McCormack to say a Mass for you. Hoping you like the outfit. I got Kathleen Crosby – she’s your da’s cousin and a fine knitter – to make it for me, knowing how particular you are.
Catherine and Daniel send their love. Catherine’s a great girl, taller than her mammy now. Daniel’s a grand boy. You should see him in his school uniform.
Now for the big news. I’m getting married. His name is Joe Fitzpatrick and he went to school with your da. He wants us to move to America after the wedding. He’s got cousins in Boston and, God willing, we’ll be able to make a better life for Catherine and Daniel there. At least we can move out of your Auntie Maura’s. It’s been more than cramped with eight of us living here. Please God, you’ll be happy for me. I know your da would be glad we’ll be looked after. The last few years have been hard.
Please God this finds you as it leaves us.
Love
Mammy
Vanessa was in the garden pegging out Cordelia’s skirts and T-shirts. Further along, a row of nappies hung heavy and sodden from the line. The October air was damp and there didn’t seem much chance of any drying.
Cordelia came to the top of the steps that led down to the garden. ‘There’s someone at the door, Mummy.’
Vanessa finished pegging Gerald’s shirt to the line. She didn’t get many visitors, apart from Sabina, and she wasn’t up to a dose of her sister-in-law. But at the front door was a young woman she’d never met before. She looked about nineteen or twenty and was dressed in a bright orange mini skirt, knee-high black boots and a white ruffled shirt. She had waist length straight hair and wore long false eyelashes, which merged with her fringe.
‘You must be Vanessa,’ she said.
‘Yes. Who are you?’ Vanessa was immediately on the defensive. She’d hardly had a chance to look in the mirror today and she was wearing some baggy blue corduroys and a checked shirt of Gerald’s.
‘I’m Frankie.’ The young woman waited expectantly.
‘Oh.’ Vanessa waited too.
‘Gerald sent me.’
‘What for?’
‘I’m one of his students and he asked me to look after the children for a couple of hours, so you could have some time to yourself.’ She must have seen Vanessa’s scowl. ‘He said he’d arranged it with you.’
‘Yes, yes, he did … I’d forgotten.’ Vanessa was blowed if she was going to show how angry she was with Gerald for springing this on her. ‘I’ve been busy with the children.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine. I’ve got five little brothers and sisters.’
Vanessa opened the door wider. At least Gerald hadn’t asked someone completely inappropriate.
The bag with her drawing pad and pencils banged against Vanessa’s hip. She’d left Frankie and Cordelia sitting cross-legged on the floor of Cordelia’s bedroom with all the dolls and teddies in a circle round them, while Cordelia handed out pretend cups of tea. Esme was fast asleep in her cot. She still felt apprehensive about leaving the children with a girl she’d never met before, but freedom for a couple of hours was too tempting.
She wandered through the park looking for a subject. It was so long since she’d tried any serious drawing. She stopped and looked up into the ash tree above her. Thin autumnal sunlight filtered through its cobwebs of leaves, and against it, the branches stood out, bony and dark. Further along the path, a gardener was clearing the last of the summer plants from one of the beds. He worked his way down the begonias and dahlias, lifting the flowers on his fork and throwing them into the back of his truck. Vanessa looked in at the tangle of reds and yellows and oranges and imagined the different shades she could get from mixing those colours, but again walked on without taking the drawing pad out of her bag.
She sat on a bench by the lake and watched mothers with small children throwing bread to the ducks. Her mind drifted.
‘Is it okay if I sit here?’
Vanessa looked up. The voice belonged to a very tall, very thin woman.
‘Yes, of course.’
The woman sat next to her on the bench and took a book from her bag. She was soon immersed in it. Vanessa cast sideways glances at her.
She looked about thirty and was dressed entirely in black: trousers, black polo neck jumper under a black jacket. In contrast her hair was a pale straw colour and her skin was as delicate as porcelain.
Vanessa got out her drawing pad. She kept her gaze in the direction of the lake as if she was drawing something down there, but managed surreptitious looks at the woman at the same time. She didn’t usually draw profiles, but this one was interesting – a strong chin, aquiline nose, an upward curve to her mouth as if what she was reading excited her.
Vanessa glanced again and this time the woman was looking back. Vanessa turned away quickly, embarrassed at being caught out and surprised by the vividness of the eyes. She searched for words to describe their colour – emerald … aquamarine … turquoise – they were like all the greens she could think of and yet none of them.
‘Can I see?’ the woman said.
Vanessa clasped the drawing pad to her chest. ‘It’s not finished.’
‘Perhaps another time. I’m Lizzie, by the way.’
‘Vanessa.’
‘Are you an artist?’
Vanessa shrugged. ‘I haven’t done much for ages. I dropped out of art college when I was pregnant.’
‘You don’t have to tell me. I’ve got three under five. Wednesday afternoons are my bit of sanity.’ Lizzie waved the book. ‘Chance to catch up on my reading.’
‘Do you paint?’
‘I’m a writer.’ Lizzie laughed. ‘Well, I try to write. That’s my goal – to get a novel published.’
‘I’m impressed.’ Vanessa considered what her goal was. To get through the next day. To keep Gerald in a good mood. If she spent more time thinking about her designs instead of feeling sorry for herself, she could be –
‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever manage anything as good as this.’ Lizzie indicated the book she was reading.
‘What is it?’
‘Madame Bovary. Have you read it?’
Vanessa shook her head.
‘Emma Bovary has affairs to relieve the monotony of her dull marriage. It’s set in provincial France in the nineteenth century.’ Lizzie’s voice grew hard. ‘Just think, a hundred years ago and it still applies to women in England now.’
Vanessa felt out of her depth. She hadn’t had an opinion about anything other than what to have for dinner since Cordelia was born.
Lizzie was looking at her watch. ‘My time’s up for another week.’
Vanessa pushed her sketch pad into her bag. ‘I’d better get going too.’
They stood up. Lizzie towered over Vanessa; she must have been nearly six foot.
‘Would you like to meet up again?’ she asked.
‘Yes, will you be here next week?’
‘Same time, same place.’
Vanessa slammed the front door shut. ‘I’m back, Frankie!’
‘We’re down here,’ Frankie’s voice called from the kitchen.
Vanessa ran downstairs. It felt as if she’d been away for days.
‘Gerald!’ He was sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of whisky and the bottle in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Has something happened?’ Her gaze went to Frankie who was standing over by the sink, Esme cradled in one arm, while the other circled Cordelia’s shoulder. She raised her eyebrows.
Frankie shrugged. ‘He got home about half an hour ago. I’ll take the children upstairs.’
As soon as they’d gone, Vanessa drew out a chair and sat beside Gerald. He twisted round and grabbed her head. He pulled her towards him and fastened his mouth on hers. His tongue forced open her lips, and she recoiled. His breath reeked as if he’d been drinking for days.
‘See,’ he sneered. ‘Even you don’t want me.’
‘Gerald, what’s happened?’
‘I’ve been sacked.’ The words were slurred and she had to lean forward to catch them.
‘From college?’
‘Where the fuck else?’
‘But why? I don’t understand.’ It must have been a student. He must have had sex with a student. That was the only reason they’d sack him.
He reached for the bottle and sloshed more whisky into the glass.
‘They locked me out. Can you imagine? Me. Gerald Blackstone.’ He stabbed his finger in the direction of his chest. ‘The best fucking tutor they’ve got. Called the police to remove me from the premises.’ He got to his feet and staggered across the kitchen, waving the bottle in one hand, the glass in the other. Whisky splashed on to the floor.
‘But why? What have you done?’
‘Supported the sit-in … believed in students instead of the authorities …’ He began to sway. ‘What the fuck do those stupid pygmies know about art?’ and he crashed forward on to the table.
Fourteen
‘Darling, you must come and take over.’ Sabina’s voice clacks down the phone line.
‘I can’t. The business – ’
‘Business – Poof! Gerald … he need you.’
‘I can’t just drop everything.’
‘Even for your husband?’
‘Sabina, you know perfectly well we were divorced thirty years ago.’
‘He love you, Vanessa. He tell me so.’
Vanessa ends the call and contemplates the designs in front of her. The lines merge and criss-cross as thoughts assemble, retreat, advance again. What should she do? Gerald’s been home from hospital for a week and Sabina – who’s been looking after him – has to return to Buenos Aires.
She throws her pencil across the room and lets out a shout. Josie, sitting in the corner of the shop knitting up one of Vanessa’s designs, looks round. ‘Problems?’
Vanessa groans. ‘My sister-in-law! Correction – my ex-sister-in-law drives me nuts!’
‘What’s happened?’
‘My ex-husband – who walked out on me and his two little daughters years ago – has just come out of hospital. He’s got cancer and she’s expecting me to go up to London and look after him.’
Josie resumes knitting. ‘Will you go?’
Vanessa listens to the clicking of the needles, a sound she’s always found soothing. Josie’s knitting a calf-length coat in a yarn, which fades in and out of different colours, mustard to pink to black, to grey. It’s almost finished. ‘That’s great, Josie. Exactly the effect I wanted.’
‘I love the way it hangs. I was itching to have a go at it rather than asking one of the knitters.’
‘Could you cope here for a few days?’
‘Of course. If you’re sure that’s what you want.’
‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I want. Half of me says, you must go – he’s sick, he needs you. The other half says, you must be mad – he left you, treated you badly, came crawling back, just when you were happy with someone else … ’
‘Toss a coin,’ Josie says laughing.
‘Okay.’
‘I was joking.’
‘How else can I decide?’ Vanessa goes to her bag and takes a fifty-pence coin from her purse. ‘Right. What’s it going to be?’
Josie shakes her head. ‘You’re crazy. I can’t choose.’
‘Heads, I go; tails, I don’t.’ Vanessa flicks the coin. It lands on the floor and bounces away into a corner. She can see it glinting. ‘Can you get it, Josie?’
Josie puts the coat to one side and crawls under the table. Vanessa stares at her bottom in its tight jeans. ‘Which is it?’ she asks.
Josie wriggles closer to the coin. ‘Heads.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Jake says. ‘What is it with you and old geezers lately?’
‘What do you mean?’ Vanessa is meeting Jake for a drink before going to Gerald’s house.
‘First this fuss about Gerald, and now you’re all wet-eyed because of a taxi driver.’
‘It was a shock. I had no idea he was seriously ill.’ Vanessa thinks of John, the softly spoken man who’
s driven her to the station so often. Recently there’s been a recorded message every time she tried to order a taxi, and today she discovered John is dead. Vanessa wishes she’d known he was sick; she would have sent him a card. ‘He was a really nice man,’ she says, conscious that Jake is studying her.
He doesn’t say anything at first, and the silence is long enough for Vanessa to feel uncomfortable.
Then, ‘Is Gerald a really nice man?’ Jake asks.
Vanessa takes a sip of wine. ‘I wish you didn’t sound so angry.’
‘Wishing doesn’t make things come true. I would have thought you’d have learnt that by now.’
‘It’s not like you to be so harsh, Jake.’
‘Perhaps it’s time I let my feelings out more.’
‘Tell me why you’re upset.’
Jake pauses with the bottle of lager half way to his lips. ‘For real? You want to know how I feel?’
Of course, Vanessa wants to say. You must tell me what you’re feeling, however difficult it is. But the truth is she doesn’t want to know. It’s not going to be good; she can see in his eyes it’s not. Steel-grey eyes, like Andrew’s were that last morning. ‘Tell me,’ she says.
‘I hate the bastard.’ He bangs the bottle down on the table. ‘I hate Gerald Blackstone. I hate what he did to our family before, and I hate what he’s doing now.’
‘What do you mean, what he’s doing now?’ Vanessa says. ‘Before, I can understand. But now?’
‘He’s got you crawling round him. Cordelia put the phone down on me when I mentioned him. And Esme’s giving me grief all the time.’
‘What about?’
‘Should she go and see him? Suppose he dies? Does he deserve another chance? He must be worth something if Vanessa loves him so much. But how can she face Cordelia if she sees him?’ Jake’s been staring at the table, but suddenly his eyes lock on Vanessa’s. ‘Is that enough, or do you want me to go on?’
Vanessa has to look away. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.’
‘What about my dad? No one ever mentions him.’ Jake’s face looks bony and angular as if his anger has tightened the skin. ‘What chance did I have to say goodbye?’
Unravelling Page 15
