‘I wanted to tell you, but I knew you’d ask me why. I thought you’d hate me if you found out the truth.’
‘So you didn’t trust me enough?’
‘Perhaps. I’ve had a lot of time to think these last few weeks, and I can see I don’t know anything about normal relationships. I only know twisted angry ones.’
‘I haven’t been much good at relationships either. Or why would Savannah’s dad dip out the minute he knew I was pregnant?’ Cordelia feels Patrick’s eyes on her – it’s the first time she’s admitted Jason left her rather than the other way round – but he doesn’t say anything.
‘Is it too late to learn?’ she asks.
He doesn’t answer.
‘Could we do it together?’ Her voice trembles as she says ‘together’.
His head is sunk so low, it’s almost resting on his chest. A thin stream of mucus hangs from his nostril. She’s shocked: Patrick is such a fastidious man.
She searches in her bag and hands him a tissue. He stares at it blankly.
‘It’s clean.’
He takes it and wipes his nose. ‘I’m scared,’ he says, clutching the tissue in his hand.
‘It is scary,’ Cordelia says. ‘All relationships are scary, decisions are scary, life is scary – ’
‘No,’ Patrick’s voice cuts in. ‘I’m scared of me. Of what I might be.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’ve never physically hurt anyone, or anything. It sounds stupid but I’ve never even killed a fly like most people have. Any sort of violence makes me ill. But I’ve got his genes in me. I look like him … sometimes when I make a certain face, it feels like one of his expressions. It’s the strangest thing. Suppose I’m like him in other ways? Suppose deep down, I’m a monster like him?’
‘Don’t say that! You’re not a monster.’ Cordelia takes his hand. Patrick’s always been the one to lead, the one in control. She’s allowed him to make decisions for both of them; let herself be vulnerable. Now the situation’s reversed. With each sentence he speaks, a power grows inside her. She must be the strong one.
Light spills across Cordelia’s face. Someone is calling her name and pulling at the blind – it’s making that horrible squeak. She covers her eyes.
‘I’ve brought you some coffee.’
She spreads her fingers and peers between them. Savannah’s face fills her vision. She turns on her side, snuggling into the duvet.
Savannah shakes her shoulder. ‘Wake up, Mum.’
Cordelia hugs the pillow. ‘Go away.’
‘It’s eight o’clock. You’ve got a class at nine, haven’t you?’
‘What day is it?’
‘Thursday.’
Cordelia remembers her life drawing class. She squints up at Savannah. ‘Okay. I’m awake.’
‘Here, have your coffee.’
Cordelia pulls herself up against the pillows and takes the mug from Savannah. ‘It used to be me dragging you out of bed. When did you become Miss Sensible?’
Savannah perches on the end of the bed and crosses one leg over the other. ‘Since you became an art student.’ She’s wearing a cream polo neck jumper, a blue mini-skirt and black opaque tights. Her hair is smooth.
Cordelia runs her fingers over her cheeks. She was too drained to take her make-up off last night and her skin feels dry and tight.
Savannah brushes a piece of fluff from her skirt. ‘How did it go?’
‘It was difficult.’
‘What have you decided?’
‘We’re still talking.’
‘Still? You didn’t get in until two o’clock.’
Cordelia yawns. ‘Two?’ She gulps her coffee. ‘No wonder I feel ropey.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Patrick knows a late night bar.’
‘I was worried.’
Cordelia puts her mug down on the bedside table. ‘Savvy, I’m sorry.’ She opens her arms. ‘Give me a hug.’
Savannah doesn’t move.
‘Please, Savvy.’
At last Savannah moves up the bed and clasps her arms round Cordelia’s waist. Tendrils of her hair tickle Cordelia’s nose. ‘Savvy … ’
‘What?’
‘Whatever happens with Patrick – ’
‘I’m frightened, Mum.’
Savannah’s voice vibrates against Cordelia’s chest. It makes her daughter feel very close. ‘Don’t be.’
Savannah retreats to the end of the bed again and pulls at her bottom lip like she used to when she was a little girl.
‘Patrick knows there are a lot of things to work out,’ Cordelia says. ‘He’s going to get a flat, and we’ll take our relationship very slowly.’
‘Do you love him?’
The question is so direct; Cordelia’s hardly faced it herself yet. ‘Yes, yes, I do,’ she says. ‘But I’m not rushing into anything.’
‘I talked to Granny last night.’
‘Did you?’
‘Your dad’s going into a hospice.’
Cordelia blinks. A twitch has started up at the corner of her eye. It must be the stress over Patrick. ‘A hospice? Where?’
‘Somewhere near Granny’s house.’ Savannah pauses. ‘People go to a hospice to die, don’t they?’
‘Not necessarily. They might go for respite care, to sort out their medication.’
‘Your dad’s going there to die.’
Cordelia laughs. It bursts from her lips. She sees the look on Savannah’s face. ‘Sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘I’m not really laughing. It’s just – ’
‘If you don’t go and see him soon, you might not get a chance.’
Cordelia’s head jerks back. For a minute, she thinks Savannah’s slapped her. She meets her daughter’s cold stare. ‘Is that what Granny said?’
‘I’m not a child, Mum. I don’t have to be told what to think.’
‘I know that.’
‘It’s just when Granny was talking about him, about what a great sculptor he used to be, about how much he loved you, I wondered how you could bear not to see him. What it would be like if you were going to die, and I didn’t come to see you.’
Cordelia wishes she knew how to explain her feelings to Savannah. The hurt she’s carried round with her since she was a little girl. The anger that’s fuelled her since she had her own child and knew she could never leave her. The pride when she first heard people admiring her father’s sculpture, and the awe when she discovered his work for herself. The longing for everything to be all right between them. The fear that he is going to die. The loneliness when she thinks she might never see him again. A maelstrom of emotion churning her insides until they ache.
‘I’m going to school.’ Savannah hesitates by the door, her fingers curled round the edge. Her eyes have that hooded look. ‘Can I ask you something, Mum?’
‘What is it?’
‘How come you can forgive Patrick and not your own dad?’
Cordelia turns off the motorway. The steering wheel is sticky with sweat. She lifts one hand and then the other from the wheel and rubs the palms against her jeans. Her mouth is dry. She left home in such a hurry she forgot to put in a bottle of water. She should stop at a garage to buy some, but something tells her if she stopped, she would turn her car in the opposite direction and head home. She presses on.
There’s not much traffic and the empty road stretches ahead. She passes through villages, the occasional small town, but for much of the journey, fields spread out on either side. It’s restful after the intensity of the motorway, but that allows her to think. She turns the radio on. It’s Norah Jones, one of her favourites: Come Away with Me. The plaintive music and powerful voice fill her head. She switches it off.
At last the road sign says Lyme Regis. She turns left on to the A35 and then right, down into Lyme. The car seems to sense its way now. She negotiates the junction at the bottom of Silver Street, keeping her eyes averted as she passes Va
nessa’s shop. Her mother should be at work today and the last thing she wants is for Vanessa to recognise the car and come rushing out.
She drives through the town and pulls into the car park. She looks up at the Royal Lion Hotel and tries to work out the room she and Savannah stayed in one Christmas. Esme and Jake and their partners came as well and there wasn’t room for all of them in the house. They had good fun, she remembers. Savannah was about eight and it was the first Christmas they’d all spent together since she came back from the States. There was that one moment before they sat down to dinner, when Jake proposed a toast to lost fathers, and the room was suddenly full of ghosts. She’d glanced quickly at Savannah: she was laughing at something Esme’s boyfriend had said and didn’t seem to have noticed. Vanessa said it was nearly forty years since her father had died and somehow the moment passed.
She decides to leave the car. She walks down the hill, left by the river and past the water mill. She loves this bit of the town, the bustle at the bakery, where tourists often gather to watch the bread making. Then the quiet stroll alongside the River Lim, low at the moment, after the summer. She arrives opposite her mother’s house and stares across at it.
Which window is her father behind? Her eyes flit between the sitting room and the kitchen. The glass glints back at her. Her gaze moves up to the bedroom. Her heart jumps. Surely that was a movement. Perhaps he’s in there, looking down at her. Not that he’d recognise her. He probably thinks of her as she was years ago when he last saw her.
She crosses the little bridge and turns left up Sherborne Lane. She pushes open the gate and goes along the path. There’s usually a key in a Wellington boot on the bottom step near the front door. She’s bending down, feeling deep inside the toe, when she hears a voice above her head: ‘Hello.’
A woman in a blue and white dress, like a nurse’s uniform, beams down at her. A large leather holdall is in her hand. Everything about her is polished and energetic: blue eyes shine in her plump face, fluffy grey hair springs from her head.
Cordelia straightens up. ‘Hello.’ The nurse must be really short, because she’s standing on the second step, and Cordelia’s eyes are level with hers.
The nurse holds out her hand. ‘I’m Kathy. You must be Esme.’
Cordelia’s about to correct her, when she adds: ‘Gerald said you were coming today, although he wasn’t expecting you until this evening.’
Cordelia’s eyes shift under Kathy’s direct stare. ‘Oh, yes, I probably did say that.’
‘He’s in the lounge having forty winks. He’s had his shower, so he’s all nice and fresh for you.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ll love you and leave you. Tell Vanessa it will be Margie tomorrow. I’ve got a few days off.’ The nurse squeezes past Cordelia and sets off down the path. Cordelia stares at her enormous backside, the material of her dress stretched across it. At the gate, she turns and waves. ‘Go on in. You’ll do him more good than any medicine.’
Cordelia opens the front door and listens. She can hear nothing. It’s not too late. She can creep outside, go back to her car and drive home. She’ll get there about the time Savvy will be expecting her from college. Nobody knows she’s come, and nobody will know she’s run away. Nobody? Do you count yourself as nobody? The voice in her head is insistent. You will know. You will have to live with the knowledge that you came to see your father and you ran away. She turns and looks at her reflection in the full-length mirror in the narrow hallway. She leans closer until her face is almost touching the mirror. She can see the frown lines between her brows, some redness on her chin that probably means a spot, the open pores across her cheeks, and in her eyes that look – what the counsellor calls her cornered animal look. What are you scared of? Scared you might hate him, or is it that you might love him? She stands back from the mirror, straightens her shoulders, and begins counting.
When she gets to six, she pushes open the sitting room door. Her eyes move from the armchair to the sofa. He’s not there. He must have gone upstairs in the few minutes since the nurse left. She doesn’t want to follow him up to the bedroom, and yet she’ll burst if she has to wait another second. She hears a sound over to her right. Next to the window is a low chair with a blanket covering it. The blanket moves and emits a soft groan. When she looks again, she can see the top of a head sticking out.
She squeezes her way between the dining table and a low bookcase that divides the room. She pulls one of the chairs from under the table and sits down. Something in the movement must disturb him because he shifts his position and the blanket falls back: a fur of white hair covers his scalp. The skin of his face is a strange yellow colour and looks paper-thin. His lips are parted and his breath comes in regular sshing sounds as if he’s telling her to keep quiet.
‘Gerald,’ she whispers.
He doesn’t react. She repeats his name, louder this time. He moves his head from side to side as if he’s easing his neck muscles. His eyes remain shut.
‘Dad.’ Her voice is louder. His eyelids twitch. ‘Daddy.’
He opens his eyes. They are still brown as chocolate, and the light in them fights with the pallor of the rest of his face.
‘Cordy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it really you?’
‘Yes.’
He pushes the blanket from his knees. Leaning on the arms of the chair, he levers himself to his feet. He’s wearing a brown sweater that hangs from his shoulders, and the material of his trousers flaps around his legs. He lets go of the chair and she sees his mouth tighten as he concentrates.
She stands up. Clasping her arms round him, she puts her cheek against his. For the first time in her life, she’s taller than her father.
Gerald clings to her, his hands clutching at her T-shirt, his head against her chest, as if he is a child seeking comfort. She holds her breath, afraid of the taint of disease and old age, until she’s forced to breathe in and the fruity scent of shower gel fills her nostrils. She waits for torrents of emotion to cascade through her: anger, joy, relief, sadness. But there’s nothing. Surely she should feel something? Where’s it all gone? The feeling that’s crippled her all her life? She checks her reactions one by one, but the only tingle she can detect is embarrassment. She wants the embrace to end, and she pats his back gently. He mumbles something but it gets lost in the material of her T-shirt.
‘What did you say?’
He repeats the words, but she still can’t catch them. This is becoming farcical. Her big reunion scene, the one she’s planned to the tiniest detail, is turning into a joke.
‘Shall I make some tea, Gerald?’ She steps away from him, and he grabs the back of a chair as he starts to sway. She reaches out for him again. ‘You sit down, and I’ll make us a cup of tea. Or perhaps you’d rather coffee.’
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. You’re as bad as your mother, always trying to get me to eat or drink something.’
As bad as your mother. It sounds so normal, a comfortable mixture of affection and irritation, the sort of thing any father might say to his daughter about the woman they both loved. If only it were as simple as that. If only they were normal.
‘What did you say just now?’ she asks.
He clutches the edge of the table as he lowers himself into the chair. ‘When?’
‘You said something when we were standing together, but I didn’t hear it.’
If she could see something of the father she remembers in this old man, it might be easier, but there’s only the blaze of the dark eyes to speak to her across the years.
‘I’m a foolish fond old man.’
‘Who said that?’
‘I just did! You asked me what I said, and I’m telling you.’
She catches her breath: they’re never going to get anywhere like this. ‘I meant, does it come from somewhere? I seem to recognise it.’
‘It’s Lear. King Lear says it.’
‘From Shakespeare?
’
‘That’s him.’
‘The one who named his daughter Cordelia?’
‘The very one!’
‘He loved her more than anything?’
‘You remember?’ His voice suddenly booms out and he laughs, his wonderful laugh that fills the room and makes you laugh with him.
She takes his hand and holds it between both of hers. It feels cold. His nails are long; he always used to keep them clipped short. Knotted blue veins form ridges on the back of his hand. She turns it over, and something like an electric shock passes through her. The palm is just as she recalls, thick and fleshy and criss-crossed with lines and scars from its years of labour. There’s a really nasty one, still bumpy and raised, on the soft pad of flesh at the side, where his chisel slipped once. When she was little, he used to make up stories about how he got the wound in a fight with a dragon.
‘I remember,’ she says and bends forward to kiss his cheek.
Twenty-six
Beech trees line the driveway that winds up to the hospice. From the taxi, Vanessa squints up at the leaves. She loves the autumnal reds and golds, colours that often feature in her designs, but generally this time of year unsettles her.
She pays off the taxi and watches it set off down the drive. It’s strange how she and Gerald have swapped attitudes. When they were younger, he was the one who chafed against routine. Now the regularity of life in the hospice comforts him, but she hates the restrictions. Like this long narrow corridor she has to walk down each evening. The mustard-coloured walls close in on her. Some compulsion draws her gaze into the rooms lining the corridor, even though she knows the faces staring back will force her to avert her eyes at the last minute.
The previous night she was lying on Gerald’s bed. His fingers were inside her bra, stroking her nipple, when the nurse came in. She affected not to notice. She put the water jug on his locker and plumped up his pillows. Vanessa felt her face burn. What must they look like? Poor old fools who should have given up on sex long ago. She pulled her bra straight and rolled off the bed, shutting herself in the bathroom, until she heard the nurse leave. Gerald laughed, said if he could manage it, he’d be doing more than stroking her nipple, but Vanessa can’t shake off her feeling. If she could have persuaded Gerald to stay at home with her for longer, they would have had peace and privacy for whatever time was left. She thinks of her early dream: that they would light up rooms wherever they went. How could she have imagined their world would be reduced to this small space?
Unravelling Page 29
