‘Do they?’ murmured Henry, his attention fixed on the long curve of Charlotte’s thigh through her jeans and the luxurious prospect of hours – days – with such sights readily at hand.
‘That after these traumas it’s always best to wait, let the dust settle and see how you feel.’
‘Dad hasn’t died,’ Sam snorted, untangling the wires of his iPod. Down the street he could see the postman, the bald skinny one with the earring who winked at him sometimes. It made him think of Rose, of his letter, on its way now, he hoped, to 13 Trinity Hill. Unless they’d moved already. Sam’s heart pounded. Could they have moved already? To that house his mum had raved about. All the houses in London and they had to pick the same one. She had been furious, but Sam had thought it incredible – and sort of nice, like a sign that he and Rose were meant to be special friends.
‘Hey, I thought you were safely plugged into that new machine of yours,’ Charlotte countered, knowing from the snort that there was no suggestion of Sam being upset. ‘Your father, as far as I am aware, is in perfect health.’
‘If he did die,’ pressed Sam, diverted from the possibility of wrong addresses, ‘would we be really rich?’
Charlotte laughed and rolled her eyes at Henry, who grinned back in admiration at her humour, at how well she seemed to deal with everything. He liked the way she drove too, he decided – steady, safe, unlike Theresa, who harried slowcoaches, exceeded the speed limit between cameras and generally made the curtailment of back-seat-driver assistance impossible.
‘No, Sam, we would not. You might get a little something, though – his watch or maybe even his precious record collection,’ Charlotte teased, glancing at her son in the rear-view mirror, loving the new ease between them, evinced most recently by the feasting on wedges of toast, dripping butter and honey on to their dressing-gowns as they kept their feet warm under the sofa cushions. They had watched two cricket teams in bright tracksuits on the other side of the world until Sam had fallen asleep and she had tucked his duvet round him, then retreated back to bed to await the shriek of her alarm. ‘Most of what there is would almost certainly go to Cindy. If you want to know more you’ll have to ask him, won’t you? Oh, my word, yes, Dad would love that,’ she concluded merrily, delighting in the fact of no longer needing Martin for money or anything else, of having left the intensity, good and bad, behind. He could leave his worldly goods to Cindy and good luck to him – if they lasted that long and Cindy didn’t end up scouring his credit-card receipts as Charlotte once had, scrabbling for evidence like a blind cuckold in the dark.
Getting out of London seemed a breeze with Henry directing. In little over an hour they were on the A12, doing a steady seventy with nothing to negotiate but the occasional lumbering lorry and sunshine so bright that she asked Henry to fish out her scratched old sunglasses that lived in the glove compartment. When the Volkswagen started to emit the ominous clunks it reserved for long journeys – one after they had left the A12 and another as she slowed for the infamous humpback bridge – Henry laughed at her groans of panic and promised to give her the number of a brilliant mechanic when they were back in London.
‘Oh, Henry, what a saviouryou are – thank you!’ Charlotte exclaimed, on a little rush of missing – not Martin but some of the manly fearlessness that he had brought to their partnership. She experienced something similar when Henry leapt out to open the heavy five-bar gate at the end of the cottage’s little drive, and then again when he swung the luggage out of the boot on to the doorstep.
‘Your keys.’ He dropped them into her hand.
‘Thank you, Henry, so much –’
‘I’ll take these upstairs, shall I?’
‘Really, Sam and I can manage now.’ Charlotte watched, touched and helpless, as he ignored the refusal and started up the short, narrow staircase with their two bags. ‘I’ll press the override button in the airing cupboard so you’ve hot water right away,’ he called. What about heating? Do you want it on? Or maybe just tonight? Or do you think you’ll be okay with an open fire? There should be more kindling in the shed, but I’ll check. The firelighters are under the papers in the basket next to the hearth.’
‘Henry, please, you’ve done enough,’ Charlotte begged, when he came back downstairs. ‘We’ll be fine. I know you’ve got work to do and we really don’t – we really won’t get in your way. I promised Theresa – the barn is your zone and this is ours. Letting Sam and me camp here is so unbelievably generous of you, it would make me miserable if I thought we were interrupting.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Henry had taken off his glasses and was rubbing the lenses vigorously with the hem of his jumper.
‘I thought we’d unpack,’ Charlotte continued, ‘then walk to that famously well-stocked village post office for some supplies. Tell me what I can get for you – it’s the least I can do, given that you won’t take any rent.’
Henry slipped his glasses back on and shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing as he did so through the hall window at his holdall, which was still sitting on the gravel beside the car. ‘I might come too, if that’s okay… Good to stretch one’s legs after the drive. Bang on the door when you’re ready. Tell you what,’ he added, turning to Sam, ‘if the wind gets up George has a racing kite stowed somewhere about the place. We could have a go with that, if you like?’
Sam sneaked a look at his mother before he replied. He wanted to say yes, of course, but feared that might be the wrong answer, given her little speech about them not getting in the way. ‘Yeah, George told me I could use it,’ he began carefully, adding in a rush, ‘I probably won’t need too much help, though.’
Henry let out a hearty laugh. ‘Oh, trust me, you will. That kind are a pig to get up. See you in a minute, then.’ He was still chuckling as he walked away.
I open my eyes and the Moses basket is there. It rests on the makeshift stand that worries me because it wobbles so. Over it hangs the lopsided canopy I have stitched and hung myself, in a bid to make the basket look less of an object designed for laundry and more like one of the exquisite receptacles for newborns photographed in my maternity magazines.
Drugged still with tiredness, I let my eyes close. Sleep is the new obsession in both our lives now, rare, treasured, fought over. It is Saturday afternoon, an hour since the last feed, after a night without rest. Eve is coming to tea so we can ask her to be godmother. Behind me, curled away, one arm bent over the side of his head, fist pressed against his ear, as if ready to muffle the next cry, Martin, too, is sleeping. Later, dimly, I become aware of Eve in the room, bent over the basket, clutching tulips. Martin is next to her, arms folded across his chest, smiling and proud.
‘We want you to be godmother,’ he whispers.
Eve gasps and flaps her flowers. ‘Ohmygod,’ she whispers back, ‘I’ll be useless – oh, thank you.’ She puts her arm round him as they tiptoe away.
A moment later, it seems, Sam is braying his dry newborn hee-haw, the one that makes my milk flow. The basket creaks as I lift him out. As he sucks, I cup his soft, downy head, breathless with joy, needing nothing else, nothing.
‘When can I see your films?’
‘Well… I suppose when you’re fifteen, unless I get the call-up for the next Narnia blockbuster. That would be nice.’ Benedict plucked a blade of grass and chewed it, squinting at his niece. They were lying fully stretched out on their sides in the park, heads supported on their hands, facing each other across the debris of a supermarket-bought picnic.
Rose pulled a face. ‘I didn’t like the last one – it looked so fake, especially Asian.’
‘I don’t think even the cleverest, bravest lion-tamer in the world could have got a real one to do that stuff, though, could they?’
‘Is it because there’s lots of sex and you have to take your clothes off?’
Benedict laughed. ‘I assume we’re back on the fifteen rating to my latest movie rather than Aslan?’
‘Well, is it?’ Rose dug her nail into a patch of
earth right under a scuttling ant. An earthquake for him, she thought, and just a speck of mud for me.
‘In the latest one you do see my bum, yes,’ Benedict confessed cheerfully.
Rose giggled. ‘Yuk.’
‘Precisely. I couldn’t have put it better myself. Stay away as long as you can, that’s my advice.’ Benedict grinned, reaching out to stroke, briefly, the wild orange froth of her hair, resisting the urge to tell her, as he always wanted to, that she was a creature of violent, extraordinary beauty. He rolled over on to his back and squinted up at the sky, deciding that that was a thing of extraordinary beauty too, a flat blue sea pitted with scudding sails. He loved April, its freshness, its bright promise of summer. ‘So that new school of yours is bearable now, is it?’
‘Yep.’ Rose dug deeper, searching for the ant, which had disappeared. ‘It’s good actually. There’s a boy I like.’
‘Lucky chap,’ remarked her uncle, who, unlike most adults she knew, always said unexpected things, things that made it easier to talk. ‘I hope he knows he’s lucky.’
‘Yes, I think so.’ The ant had reappeared on top of the little pile of mud and was on its back legs, like an explorer peering off the top of a mountain. ‘We write letters to each other, that’s all.’
‘Letters? What a wonderfully surprising girl you are. Don’t change, will you, ever?’
‘Silly, of course not.’ Rose balanced the ant on her fingernail, then blew it off.
‘You look cold, sweetheart, shall we go?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. Your knees are purple – look.’
Rose sat up and examined her legs. ‘They’re always that colour.’
‘We should still go, or Dad will give me a bollocking for loafing in the park till you’re frozen blue and feeding you junk food and not making sure you’ve washed behind your ears or whatever it is I’m supposed to do.’
‘Silly,’ Rose said again, shoving at his chest with both hands and prompting Benedict to perform two backwards somersaults before leaping to his feet.
‘I adore your daughter,’ he remarked later the same evening, sitting opposite Dominic, who was expertly scissoring chopsticks through tinfoil boxes of beef, seaweed and noodles.
‘And she adores you,’ Dominic replied, continuing to eat ravenously, catching dribbles of sauce with the back of his hand. ‘Thank you so much for helping out.’
‘Resting actors have their uses,’ remarked Benedict, drily, picking with more caution at the takeaway, wary as always of overdoing the calories. ‘By the way, she seems to have acquired a sort of boyfriend.’
Dominic, mouth open, the chopsticks dangling with a fresh load, looked across the table in astonishment. ‘Are you sure?’
Benedict nodded.
‘Oh, God.’
‘There’s nothing “oh, God” about it. They write letters, for goodness’ sake. How cute is that?’
Dominic shook his head in wonderment, recalling the handwritten envelope for which Rose had never, after all, volunteered an explanation.
‘And while we’re on the subject of relationships…’ Benedict paused, leaning back in his armchair and steering a space among the cartons to rest his feet. ‘Has Petra been in touch yet?’
Dominic, shovelling loose noodles into his mouth, raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You’re nothing but a meddler, do you know that?’
‘I am indeed.’ Benedict smiled, fixing his large, long-lashed brown eyes on Dominic’s face as he added, ‘I found you Maggie, didn’t I?’
It took Dominic a moment to respond. His brother was probing, he knew, deliberately bringing Maggie into it as he always did – as most people did not dare to – wanting to check how he was, where he was on a scale that, for three years, had been longer, darker than Dominic could ever have imagined. Yes, yes, you did, you bastard, and that was quite enough match-making for one lifetime, thank you very much. But to answer your question, since you put it so nicely, with your usual delicate touch, your Polish starlet friend Petra and I have been playing phone tennis, leaving messages, missing each other. It was my turn last time and she hasn’t got back to me… but I shall pursue the matter,’ he promised, waggling his chopsticks and laughing at the concern on his sibling’s face. ‘I’m all right, Ben,’ he added softly. ‘I really am.’
Benedict, who had been holding his breath, released it slowly. ‘Good, because I’ve got a proposition for you. A business proposition.’
‘Good God, man, have a heart. My women, my house, for Christ’s sake –’
‘That wasn’t me interfering, that was just plain common sense. Katie’s parents were wanting a nice quick sale on a fantastic place and you needed to buy, urgently, to get out of this dump. Sorry, but it is dingy. You’ve said so yourself a hundred times.’ Benedict rubbed his hands together and slipped them behind his head, wriggling deeper into the sofa. ‘Rose seems really excited about the move, by the way. The packers tomorrow, I gather – congratulations.’
‘Why does she talk to you and not to me?’ Dominic burst out, giving up on the noodles and reaching for his bottle of beer.
‘Because I’m outside,’ replied Benedict, quietly, ‘because she hasn’t seen me howling like a dog, because there is nothing between us except my adoration.’
They sat in silence for a while, each absorbing the truth of these observations. Somewhere in the street a motorbike roared, then suddenly cut out.
‘And gay men are always good with women,’ joked Benedict, lifting his feet clear of the coffee-table and starting to stack the cartons. ‘Surely you know that by now, brother.’ He paused next to Dominic’s chair and kissed the top of his head. ‘Even those who haven’t come out and never will, for fear of giving publicists, agents, fans and aged parents multiple heart-attacks. Any chance of another beer?’
‘Of course. Grab one for me while you’re at it…
‘Okay, this business proposition, out with it,’ Dominic urged, once they had successfully – competitively – lobbed the bottle caps into the waste-paper basket. ‘I know you’re busting to tell me.’
‘Just hear me out, okay?’ Benedict entreated, lining up the empty bottles along the middle of the coffee-table. ‘The key things to remember are,’ he pushed one bottle out of line, ‘that you have never much enjoyed working in the City but need an occupation, second…’ he slid the second bottle next to the first ‘… that you want, for a few years at least, to have more time for Rose, and finally,’ he leant forward, abandoning his props and clasping his hands, ‘that although you live and behave as if it were not so, you do in fact, thanks to several years of City bonuses, have enough money to consider a spot of risk and investment.’
‘And let us not forget either,’ quipped Dominic, ‘that you are an exaggerating bastard with too much time on his hands.’ He raked his fingers through his hair with a theatrical sigh. ‘Okay, let’s hear it, then, but make it snappy. Some of us have horrible jobs to wake up for.’
A thin band of mist was floating, as it had each morning, round the walls of the barn and the stout wooden fence that guarded the cottage against the surrounding fields. The trees, their tops frothing with blossom and fresh green leaves, were like statues submerged waist-high in a sea of milky water. It meant good weather not bad, Charlotte reminded herself, hugging her first mug of tea as she admired the scene from her bedroom window, summoning what she could recall of Henry’s affectionate diatribe about Suffolk in early summer, how the chill of a clear night pressed down on the warm air of a clear day, producing this dawn magic carpet that would shimmer ever more thinly as the rising sun got down to the business of dispersing it. He spoke well about such things, with a tender interest that made it impossible not to be enthralled. He would have a good bedside manner, she decided, blowing the steam off her tea, offering that perfect combination of information and kindness that so few doctors managed. Yes, if she ever contracted lung cancer from her teenage years of puffing cigarettes out of windows and on icy school fi
re escapes with Bella, Henry would definitely be her man.
Having embarked on the brief holiday with little more than a vague desire to get away – for a change, for more sleep, for some perspective on the recent tangles of her life in London – Charlotte had been nothing short of astonished at how much both she and Sam had enjoyed themselves. There was only one full day left now and she wished there were ten, or twenty. And there was no denying that this was largely thanks to Henry – Henry, the prospect of whose presence she had rather dreaded but who had lit up each day with his kite-flying and crab-catching and knowledge of the best walks and pubs, and how to lay a fire that roared instead of fizzled. On one level Charlotte felt guilty, of course. The poor man had done barely any work, but every time she pointed this out he insisted that there would be plenty of time after she and Sam had gone and that he would apply himself all the better for having relaxed so well. A lot of the preparation went on in his subconscious anyway, he had explained, chewing the rather tasteless stew she had prepared the night before, so that even when he wasn’t poring over his papers his brain was tussling with problems, thereby making them easier to solve when the push for proper application arrived.
Pulling on a jumper over her nightie, Charlotte spotted the object of these musings up to his knees in mist and striding towards the shack he rather grandly referred to as the garage. A few minutes later he reappeared, wheeling a large old-fashioned bicycle with a broken front basket and two flat tyres. Charlotte watched as he turned it upside-down on to the saddle and began energetically levering off the tyres and pulling out the inner tubes. She was on the point of turning away when he glanced up at her bedroom window and waved.
Charlotte undid the catch on the window and stuck her head out, momentarily catching her breath at the bite of the morning air. ‘A bit early for that, isn’t it? And with all this fog – I’m surprised you can see,’ she exclaimed, laughing.
Henry grinned and put his hand to his brow as if protecting himself from a blinding light. ‘It’s like darkness – much easier to see through when you’re in the thick of it. And tomorrow, when you and your car are gone, I may well be in need of it.’
Life Begins Page 18
