by Clare Boyd
I checked that Alice and Theo were still busy on the beach choosing pebbles for their bucket.
‘I wish I did see him. We were good friends.’
‘What happened?’
I could have told her about the accident, but I didn’t want her to imagine him as a tragedy. I wanted her to hear about him as the man I loved.
‘I kept something from him. And he hasn’t been able to forgive me.’
‘That sounds complicated,’ she said.
‘Very.’ I smiled.
‘You want to talk about it?’
‘Not yet.’
I gulped back the dregs of my cold coffee and thought about the letter.
‘I’m just going to the loo,’ I said, taking my bag with me.
Safely locked away in the cubicle, I brought out the letter and ripped it open.
Skimming through to the bottom, I read rapidly, impatient to get all the information into my brain as quickly as possible. In stuffy legal jargon, it explained that John wanted to see Alice as soon as possible, on a mutually agreed upon date. Furthermore, they wanted her to stay with Camilla and Patrick for two nights, once a month, at Byworth End. They described it as a familiar base, taking into consideration John’s new circumstances.
Before going on to read the last paragraph, I stopped and clutched the letter to my chest, exhaling, briefly letting some wisps of relief and excitement seep in. One weekend a month was doable, and it would mean I would be seeing John very soon. My heart sang.
There was a bang to my cubicle door and I jumped.
‘Mummy! I need a wee-wee!’
‘One second, darling!’ I replied, looking again at the letter to finish the last paragraph.
It was this last paragraph that delivered the punch.
‘However, as a condition to the above, John would like to communicate his wish that the biological paternity of Alice remain undisclosed to save further distress and confusion to the family, particularly in the light of his accident. He understands that we cannot force you to do so, but he would like to appeal to your good nature, hoping that his wish is respected. Any attempt to undermine this will add more burden to a very challenging situation at home.’
‘Mummeeeeee! I can’t hold it in!’
Alice’s yelling outside the door was a background echo. I stood with the letter in my hand, unable to move.
‘I’m desperate!’ she squealed.
I opened the cubicle. Alice was hopping around, pressing her hand into her skirt to stop the flow.
‘Sorry, darling. In you go.’
The hopping stopped abruptly.
‘Come on, then,’ I said, gesturing to the cubicle.
‘Sorry, Mummy,’ she said, hanging her head.
A pool of wetness was gathering at her feet and a tear ran down her cheek.
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. Don’t you worry. We’ll clean you up.’
As I mopped the accident with a wad of tissues, and washed her legs with hand-soap, and tucked away her pants and tights into a pocket of my handbag, I thought about the letter.
We had become the Tennants’ dirty little secret, we were the skeleton in their closet. While we skulked around in a shame-ridden life, away from them, we could be forgotten about, wheeled out occasionally to salve their consciences. Our occasional appearance in the village would reassure the gossips that Robert’s widow and child were well, that we were still part of the respected Tennant family, that their dead son’s memory could never be disgraced. Any unsavoury rumours could be quashed as an untruth, a fabrication by a scorned ex-boyfriend. In Camilla’s eyes, it didn’t matter what the truth was, it was the keeping up of appearances that mattered. She had created fake news, alternative facts. John had washed his hands of us, too. Two days a month as Alice’s uncle was all he wanted.
‘What about my pants?’
‘You can go commando!’
She giggled. ‘My bum-bum is cold.’
I grabbed her into my arms and rubbed her bottom. ‘It’s going to be very draughty indeed.’ I laughed and I took her hand and led her back into the restaurant.
‘All good?’ Jo whispered, once the children were settled at the table, chatting and drawing with crayons.
I mouthed, ‘Alice had an accident’, and Jo nodded knowingly. She mouthed back, ‘Need some pants?’
I shook my head.
I decided that Alice and I didn’t need anything from anyone any more.
Chapter Fifty-Three
John
‘Alice and Auntie Francesca are coming today!’ Beatrice had jumped onto his bed, her blonde curls bouncing around.
‘That’s right, Buzzy Bea!’
‘And ’member we’re staying for a sleepover at Grandma Cam-Cam’s?’
‘Yes, I remember,’ he reassured her. How could he have forgotten?
He pressed the button on his electric bed, wincing as his stiff hip joints screamed at him. Not that he minded the pain so much this morning. The thought of seeing Francesca and Alice at lunch today at Byworth End for the first time since his accident was enough to cure him completely.
‘Have you packed your rucksack yet?’
‘Yes!’
‘Remembered Teddy?’
‘Yes!’
‘Had breakfast?’
‘Shreddies!’
‘Good. Is Mummy up?’
He imagined Dilys stretched out in their king-size bed wearing her silk eye-mask. She had commandeered their old bedroom for herself, while he now slept in the cramped, featureless spare room. There was enough room for his wheelchair to turn, between the single bed and chest of drawers, but that was about it.
Beatrice brought his bed-table over her little legs and reached into the drawer for her colouring book and crayons. ‘She’s in the gym,’ she answered, colouring in a rabbit’s ear.
Dilys had converted his writing shed into a small work-out space, with floor-to-ceiling windows, kitted out with physiotherapy equipment specific to his needs and gym equipment for hers. She used it almost more than he did. In spite of the symbolism of the shed’s changed purpose, he had to admit, grudgingly, that it had turned out to be a blessing.
Every day, during his two-hour exercise routine with Jenny, his physiotherapist, he stared out across their garden and over the fields, naming trees and spotting birds and noting the little changes that promised spring’s approach. The view was therapy in itself. The state of the art sound system helped, too. Jennifer, who had an earring in her nose and pink hair, had the same taste in music to him, or pretended to, at least. They played The Jam a lot. And some Morrissey when he was feeling low, when she would allow him to wallow in self-pity. The threat of depression seemed so close, hovering behind him; if he turned around, he feared he would see a dark mass ready to engulf him. The counsellors in the rehabilitation centre had warned that it might come. Not yet, John thought, not yet. He had too much to work towards to let depression get in his way.
‘I’m going to make breakfast for you, Daddy.’
‘Yum. Please may I have a bowl of Shreddies, with lots of sugar? And a glass of orange juice. Get Olivia to help with the pouring.’
‘Okay!’
She scampered off.
The self-motivation that he required to get out of bed in the mornings did not come naturally to him. The arduous monotony of his day-to-day routine was about functioning and survival and uncertain recovery. At times, the challenges verged on insurmountable. Each day was a test of his stamina. Nothing was easy, nothing was taken for granted, nothing came automatically to him. In time, he had been told, the simple tasks would become simple again, but after four months, he was nowhere near to mastering it.
Today, however, was not about survival; it was about love and hope. It was about Francesca and Alice.
Before getting dressed, John used a hand mirror and torch to check his backside and the back of his thighs and calves for bedsores. Bedsores could lead to infections, which could lead to septicaem
ia, which could lead to death. He had to check for them every day.
Then, he made his bed, which he would do every single morning, religiously. He had learned how to make it with precision and neatness, unheard of before the accident.
His shower was next. It was a military operation. He made sure everything was in its right place before lifting and scooting across from his wheelchair, over the top of the children’s bath – the en suite was too small for wheelchair access – to the special stool. The care he took to avoid slipping or scolding himself, or failing to dry himself properly, was a life and death business, and took huge amounts of concentration.
He then wheeled himself back into his room and reached for his clothes in the low chest of drawers, balanced them on his lap and slid back onto the bed to dress. A few weeks ago, Harry – his new sartorial advisor – had bought him a pair of jeans and a crew-neck cashmere sweater in navy blue, and insisted that John let a hairdresser come round to trim his wild hair.
As he pulled his jeans straight, his socks rolled onto the floor, a little out of his reach under the bed. He wanted to yell out with frustration. Instead, he breathed in and out, gritted his teeth and got back into the wheelchair, positioned it carefully, and used his grabber to retrieve them. Back on the bed, he used his special method to lift his wasted legs into his trousers and socks, but he was still slow and clumsy with them. They spasmed and quivered. He tried to ignore it, but it slowed him down.
Finally, after an hour and half he was dressed. He felt like a superhero.
When John had left the rehabilitation hospital, he had been intimidated by the prospect of surviving a day on his own. The world outside had been like the Wild West. During the car journey he had been hit by the colours and noises and speed, and felt angry that he was no longer part of the throng of people he saw walking and running about, living out their normal days, taking for granted their two working legs. At home, for the first time, he noticed how the floors in the Round House were wonky and sloping and littered with obstacles. The rooms had seemed large and cold and hazardous. He had craved to be back in the warm wards and to sleep in his well-equipped hospital room with the knowledgeable nurses at hand.
Dilys screeched with laughter as he came down the ramp into the kitchen.
‘You’ve got your jumper on the wrong way round!’
He braked and looked down. So he did. He flushed. The three children were silent.
‘Come here, I’ll do it.’
‘It’s okay, I’m quite capable.’
Humiliated, he wheeled himself out of the kitchen again. He was tired of asking people to help him. The sense of his slowly developing autonomy was vitally important to him, for freedom and dignity, both of which were thwarted frequently. If he fell off the bed or failed to successfully transition from chair to the toilet, Martha, their housekeeper, and his carer, would pick him up with a big, strong grunt and remind him she’d seen it all before. But the humiliation and frustration would leave him in a state of abject misery. He missed Martha at the weekends. He had grown very attached to her. Everything about her was practical and unfussy. John imagined that she had been like a cosy grandmother all her life, with her brown curled bob, and her tucked-in lilac outfits.
‘Better?’ he said, whizzing into the kitchen and twirling his chair around. It was a trick he had recently learnt.
Harry, Olivia and Beatrice clapped and laughed. ‘Very handsome, Daddy!’
‘Go and get in the car, you three,’ Dilys barked, putting on her second high heel.
John watched her muscular calf flex as she pointed her toe. He felt sick at the sight of it. In fact, John had developed a hatred for Dilys that was so strong he worried it would eat him alive. He hated her with a feverish obsession. Everything she did and everything she said grated on his nerves: the lilting tones of her accent; her fast-paced, efficient manner; her high-pitched laugh; her obsessive neatness; her vanity dressed up as health-consciousness and self-discipline. He could barely look her in the eye. Either she didn’t notice or didn’t care. Probably the latter. This made him hate her more. She seemed to be enjoying the control that John’s disability had given her. No longer did she have to pretend to be anything she wasn’t. He imagined she viewed him as her fourth, unwanted child, for whom she was obliged to provide basic care, when it was needed – but not love. This was fine by him.
He was going to get better, and he was going to leave her.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, trying to pull his jacket off the peg in the hallway with his grabber, while balancing the apple crumble that Martha had made for lunch on his lap.
Dilys stood staring at his attempts, and then laughed. ‘That thing isn’t very efficient.’
John dropped his arm. His muscles were jangling with the effort. ‘Could you get it for me?’
‘It’s not surprising you don’t have the energy.’
‘My upper body is probably stronger than yours.’
‘Not physically. I mean, mentally,’ she said, emphasising the word ‘mentally’ as though it was a shameful word.
‘I’m fine, really.’
‘You don’t know what you’re like to live with.’ She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘Your negativity is suffocating.’
He replayed his moods, and felt a stab of guilt. Had he become an emotional burden to the family, as well as a physical one? He needed to get out of these four walls, to see others, to gain perspective, to be with his whole family.
‘Could you pass me my coat?’
‘You won’t need it.’
‘It’s freezing out there.’
‘You won’t be going out.’
‘What?’ He laughed.
‘Bless. You actually thought I’d let you see her, didn’t you?’ She took the apple crumble dish out of his lap.
‘I wasn’t waiting for your permission.’
She guffawed, looking at his legs. ‘No?’
‘She’s my daughter, Dilys.’ John undid his brake and began wheeling himself to the front door. Dilys stopped his movement forward with the point of her shoe.
‘I wasn’t talking about Alice,’ she said, shoving his chair away with her foot.
The chair spun around. Frantically, he wheeled himself towards the door again. Just before he reached the ramp in the doorway, Dilys stepped in front of him and outside, and she slammed the door in his face.
He yanked desperately at the handle to pull it open again, almost coming off his chair. There was a click of her keys in the bottom lock, which double-locked the door. Her footsteps crunched across the gravel. He slammed his fists into the door, shouting, and then wheeled himself through the kitchen to the back door. It was locked, and the key that hung from the hook was gone. She had thought ahead.
His phone.
He raced round to his bedside. It was gone. Surely, this could not be happening. She could not have been that calculating. Then he reminded himself of what she was capable, and why he was in a wheelchair. Of course she could be that calculating.
He had a scream pent up inside him that he wasn’t ready to let loose yet, not until he had exhausted all options.
The landline.
He headed to the sitting room, where the receiver usually sat on its station behind the propped open door. It was gone.
Lastly, he checked for his laptop. Also gone.
Then he remembered the children’s desktop computer in the den. Surely she would not have packed that away.
When he saw it, he punched the air. She had forgotten this. He could email his parents or FaceTime Harry.
The family password blocked him. He tried many codes, including ‘youfuckingbitch2018’ but, finally, his repeated attempts disabled the computer entirely.
He had the same problem with Harry’s laptop, which had been lying next to the family computer.
John wheeled himself around the house, round and round, in utter disbelief, thinking, thinking of ways he could get out, until his arm muscles were so weak he coul
d barely move them.
He stopped, finally, at the locked sliding windows in the kitchen, his arms flopped in his lap. There was no way to get out or to get help. He was caged. A lame animal.
He looked out to his beautiful garden. The daffodils were bending and shrivelling already. He watched the cottonwool clouds scudding across the blue sky and thought of their journey around the earth, and he thought of how small and irrelevant he was by comparison. The roof of his shed – now the gym – was just visible. He missed his commute down the lawn after the school run; sauntering along, thinking of the next scene of his script, carrying a mug for his coffee and his notebook. Since he had arrived home, the notebook had been stacked under a pile of books on his bedside table. Its journey to and from his shed was no longer part of his routine. Its purpose was redundant. Just as he was. He might as well have been shoved under a pile of books and left there.
He looked at his watch. It was one o’clock. Francesca and Alice would be arriving at Byworth End any minute now. The opportunity to set eyes on Francesca’s face and to hold Alice as his daughter was gone. He wondered why Dilys cared that he saw her. Sexually, the doctors confirmed that he was fully functioning, but Francesca would not possibly find him attractive now. The threat of an affair was gone.
Until today, John had underestimated Dilys’ jealousy. Was it jealousy? Or was it possessiveness? Or a fear of failure? Divorce would be a failure in Dilys’ eyes. Dilys did not do failure. Or perhaps it was her psychotic competitiveness. If he chose another woman, Dilys would be the loser and Francesca the winner. It didn’t matter that Dilys didn’t love him; it didn’t matter that he didn’t love her. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered except the need to feed her narcissism. He was a pawn that she moved around for her own gain. How he fared in the game was not her concern. When she had driven her car at him, had she wanted him dead? Was his death preferable to the humiliation of divorce? Thoughts of his accident made him feel anxious, and a prickly sweat broke out across his back.
