by Simon Brett
“Money’s not a problem.”
It was a line Carole had longed to be able to say all her life, but never would. Money was always a problem. Even now, with her secure index-linked pension and modest outgoings – only herself and Gulliver to look after – money remained a problem. Not so much a real problem, as something about which to feel a constant undertow of anxiety. A middle-class upbringing made that unavoidable. She was surprised that Stephen hadn’t inherited it.
“No,” he went on, “my worry with the Hopwicke Country House Hotel would be whether the placed be big enough.”
“Big enough? Why, how many guests are you proposing to invite?”
“Hundred – hundred and twenty…”
“Goodness. Well, you may be right. As I recall, they could only do sixty for a sit-down meal. But I suppose, if you have a buffet – ”
“No, we’ll have a sit-down meal.”
The firmness with which he said this made Carole wonder once again exactly how her son made his living. His particular combination of finance and computers certainly seemed to be lucrative. “Anyway, Gaby and I know the Hopwicke, so we don’t need to look at that. But, if you’re ready, Mother, let’s go and see the other three. And you’ve shortlisted some potential caterers too, have you?”
Dutiful and efficient, his mother assured him that she had.
They were in his newly registered BMW on the way to a converted tithe barn near Fedborough when Carole brought up the subject of Gaby’s parents. Tentatively, she tried to find out what Stephen really thought of them.
“They’re fine,” he said, unhelpfully.
“Rather shy, I thought.”
Carole probed.
“Yes, but nothing wrong with that.”
“Oh, no. No…Howard must be quite a lot older than Marie.”
“Yes. And he misses a lot because of his deafness.”
“Mm. Still, he looks very fit for his age.”
“Yes, he is, remarkably. Apparently he had cancer seven or eight years ago.”
“Really?”
“Yes, bowel cancer. Gaby told me. She was terribly worried at the time. But he had surgery and radiotherapy, and made a complete recovery.”
“He certainly looked fine, and he really tucked into his food.”
“He’s in very good nick for someone pushing eighty.” Stephen sighed, almost with satisfaction. “No, I don’t see the Martins being a potential problem as in-laws. They’ll keep a low profile. All the skeletons will stay firmly in the closet.”
Which, Carole thought, was rather an odd thing for her son to say.
Gaby had rung Stephen from her mobile on some pretext, but with the real purpose of ensuring that he and his mother had left High Tor before the taxi from Fethering Station brought her to Woodside Cottage.
Gita had gone for her first outside trip alone since her arrival. Jude had carefully shown her the way to the beach, naming cafés where she could stop if she felt exhausted, saying it’d be no problem if she returned while Gaby was still there. In fact, she had fussed so uncharacteristically that Gita, with a wry smile, had eventually said, “It’s all right, Jude. I’m not about to walk into the sea with my pockets full of stones.”
“I know. I didn’t mean – ”
“Yes, you did. And I know exactly why you did. But don’t worry. From my recollection of Fethering Beach, I’d have to walk about a mile before the water got up to my knees.” An exaggeration, but not a huge one. “An even less efficient way of topping myself than the last one.”
It was said with bravado. Increasingly over the last few days, Gita had been mentioning her suicide attempt, daring herself to bring it out into the open. But the words still made Jude wince.
“I’ll be all right. I’ve got to start being on my own sometime.”
“I know. But this girl’ll only be here till about twelve. And it’s not a problem if you’re back earlier than that. You can just – ”
“Jude, I will not be back earlier than that. In fact I won’t come back.”
“What?”
Gita smiled at the ill-disguised anxiety in her friend’s voice. “You come and join me. I’ll buy you lunch in that pub – the Crown and Sceptre, is it?”
“Anchor.”
“Right. See you there twelve-thirtyish.”
So only Jude was there to greet Gaby. Her back was clearly bad. The girl’s body was skewed, and she walked gingerly, uncertain which footfall was about to trigger another explosion of pain.
Jude had prepared the sitting room, stripping the throws off what looked like just another shapeless sofa to reveal the hard flat couch underneath. This she raised by a hydraulic mechanism to about three feet above the floor. On a small table she set out a row of bottles of oil. She lit two scented candles, and smiled inwardly at the image of Carole’s reaction if she’d walked into Woodside Cottage at that moment.
There was nothing magical about Jude’s preparations. Their aim was simply to induce calm and relaxation in her client.
She asked Gaby whether she’d be more comfortable standing or sitting while she asked a few questions, and the girl opted to stand. Quickly, Jude ran through the details of Gaby’s medical history, scribbling notes on a file card. She started with her date of birth. Twenty-fifth of March 1974.
The girl’s general health had always been remarkably good. Her eyesight was poor but was aided by strong contact lenses, and everything else worked as it should. Three years previously, she had had some stomach trouble and been worried that it might be bowel cancer. But extensive tests had ruled out the possibility and diagnosed Irritable Bowel Syndrome. A slight adjustment to her diet – the total exclusion of onions – had solved the problem almost completely. She had had very rare recurrences of the symptoms.
“Pity, though,” Gaby concluded, “because I really like onions. Still, small price to pay.”
Jude agreed. Then she asked Gaby to remove her top, trousers and shoes, and manoeuvred her on to the bed. “See if you can lie on your front.”
With fierce intakes of breath as the pain stabbed at her, Gaby managed to achieve this.
“Do you want me to show you where it’s hurting?”
“No, I think I can see that,” Jude replied.
“See? Is it inflamed?”
“No. I can see from the way your body’s moving, the movements you’re trying to avoid.”
“Ah.”
“Now could you just do a couple of movements for me? Stop as soon as it hurts. Can you point ahead of you with your right hand?” Gaby couldn’t. The pain stopped her dead. “Try the left hand. OK. Thank you. Now can you just try bringing your heels together?” The mere attempt brought a whimper of pain. “OK. Stop it. Don’t push yourself.”
Jude moved closer to the couch, and placed both her plump hands on the dent in the flesh at the bottom of Gaby’s spine. “That’s where the pain’s coming from, isn’t it?”
“Well, I’m feeling it all along my arms and legs.”
“Yes. But this is where it’s coming from.”
“Do you think I’ve slipped a disc, or trapped a nerve or…?”
“No.”
Jude’s fingertips ran lightly over the girl’s lower back, as if reading some Braille message from the hurt within. “No, it’s not an injury in that way. It’s just tension, and the tension is throwing you out of balance, so the way you sit and stand puts pressure on your spine.”
“Do you think it’s something to do with the chair I have at the office? Because I spend most of my day on the phone.”
“Yes, Carole said you were a theatrical agent.”
“That’s right.”
“I used to be an actress myself.”
“Did you, Jude?”
“You can tell how long ago it was, though, from the fact that I say ‘actress’. All of today’s young women in the theatre call themselves ‘actors’.”
“Which I have to say I think is pretty silly. I mean, if a director’s casting somethi
ng, he knows whether he wants an actor or an actress for the part.”
“Of course he does.”
“And in Spotlight – that’s the professional directory for actors – ”
“I know.”
“Well, there they still have categories for ‘Actors’ and ‘Actresses’. If they didn’t, nobody would be able to find their way around.”
“No, that’s true.”
Gaby wasn’t aware of the magic that was being worked on her. Jude had the same effect on everyone she met, and nobody was ever aware of what was happening. People just found it easy to talk to her. Her presence soothed anxieties and encouraged confidences. Jude herself didn’t even think of it as a skill, or a mystery, just a quality with which she had grown up.
“Now, what I’m going to do, Gaby, is put some oil on my hands and work on the centre of the pain.”
“When you say ‘work on’, do you mean manipulate it?”
“No, I’m not an osteopath. And what’s wrong with you doesn’t need the attentions of an osteopath. You’re just out of balance. You need to get yourself back in alignment.”
As she spoke, Jude was opening a bottle of oil on the table. A herbal aroma, redolent of Mediterranean hillsides, joined the scent from the candles. Jude poured oil on her hands, rubbed them together, and wiped the excess off with a small white towel. Then once again she stood over the girl on the couch.
“So it won’t hurt?” asked Gaby.
“No. It certainly won’t give you any more pain. And, hopefully, it will diminish the pain you’re already suffering.” Jude put her hands again on the small of Gaby’s back, and started to move her fingers. There was only the slightest of pressure, but the placing of the fingertips was very exact.
Gaby sighed, as she felt the warmth melt into her locked-up vertebrae.
“Funny,” she said drowsily. “Out of balance.” That’swhat you say when someone’s off their rocker. Well, not that exactly. “Unbalanced’, I suppose is what you say.”
“Very sensible description. Amazing how many of our bodily metaphors actually work on the literal level. You speak of someone ‘being on the back foot’. That’s how they are physically when confronting danger. ‘Showing a bit of backbone’, ‘backing off’, ‘putting someone’s back up’, ‘putting someone’s back out’ – they all mean exactly what they say.”
“Mm…” Gaby murmured.
There was no effort in the movement of Jude’s hands, but there was an intensity about her body. Though her ministrations seemed minimal, almost casual, a lot of energy was being put into her actions.
“So,” she asked lightly, “can you think of anything specific that may have ‘put your back out’?”
“I don’t know…” But the words weren’t said as a deterrent. As Gaby relaxed, she seemed increasingly ready to talk.
Jude let the silence continue between them, knowing that, in her own time, Gaby would break it. “Well, you know I’m getting married?”
“I certainly do. Living next door to Carole, there is absolutely no way I couldn’t know that you were getting married. She’s very excited about it.”
“Yes, so’s everyone.”
Jude caught on to the wistfulness in the girl’s words. “Meaning you’re not?”
“No, not meaning that at all. I’m as excited about it as anyone else. God, they’re all sick to death of me at work. They can’t wait till I actually am married, and then they hope I’ll stop talking about it.”
Again Jude let the silence stand. She wasn’t probing. If Gaby wanted to volunteer more…
Inevitably, Gaby did. “I’m ecstatic about getting married. Steve’s the man I’ve been looking for all my life. And he seems to feel the same about me, which I sometimes can’t believe, but deep down I know it’s true.”
“Sounds pretty good to me,” said Jude.
“Yes.”
Again the slight wistfulness.
“What is it that you think attracts you and Stephen to each other?”
“I don’t know. Don’t like to question it too much. If you analyse things, you can spoil them.”
“Very true.”
“But I think with us – well, we have a lot of similarities in the way we were brought up – I mean, very different homes, but both homes where – well, there were always secrets – nobody quite said exactly what they meant – ” Suddenly Gaby was aware of who she was talking to. She shifted her head sideways to look apologetically at Jude – a movement, incidentally, that she couldn’t have performed twenty minutes earlier. “I’m terribly sorry. Carole’s your friend, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she’s my friend, but that doesn’t mean I have any illusions about how relaxed or otherwise she is in her approach to life.”
Jude’s grin took the edge off her words.
Gaby grinned too as she straightened back out onthe couch. “So Steve grew up where there was always tension between his parents.”
“Carole’s never talked to me much about her marriage.”
“No. I get the feeling she has put the lid firmly down on that particular pressure cooker. But according to Steve, the atmosphere at home wasn’t great, even before they started thinking about the divorce. He coped as kids do – putting his head down, getting on with his school work, trying to avoid situations in which he might be expected to take sides. And then, like me, getting the hell out of the family home at the first opportunity. So I think that inculcated a kind of…I was about to say deviousness, but let’s call it caution, in his approach to life.”
“And where does your deviousness – or caution – come from?” asked Jude casually. “From what Carole told me, your parents seem to be absolutely devoted to each other.”
“Yes, they are, but, you know, there were things in their past history, things that happened before they got married. My grandfather died around that time, and then Grand’mère had a major breakdown and…” The deviousness – or caution – which Gaby had been talking about asserted itself, and her words trickled away to silence.
Jude let the stillness continue, as her fingertips fluttered over the slowly unknotting muscles of the girl’s lower back. She knew that, when she was ready, Gaby would again pick up the conversation.
“And I think it’s that that’s making me tense.”
“The baggage of the past?” Jude hazarded.
“Mm. No worries about marrying Steve.”
“Worries about having a family?”
Jude had hit a spot there. “Slight anxiety, I suppose. The fact is, I was born quite premature and – I mean, I’ve been absolutely fine since, but maybe it was touch and go when I was born.”
“Have you talked to your mother about that?”
Gaby laughed at the preposterousness of the suggestion. “You don’t know my mother. I’m afraid that kind of detail doesn’t get talked about in the Martin household.”
“Oh. So are you really worried about your ability to have healthy children?”
“No, not really. Well, it’s another worry to add to the list, you know, when my head’s full of worries, but not really a problem.”
With a visible effort, the girl pulled herself together. “No. As I say, no worries about marrying Steve. No worries about the arrangements either, really. I know we’ve left it late, and I’m sure there’ll be various panics and crises along the way, but equally I know we’ll be able to cope with them. Steve and I are both organizers by nature and profession. No, all that’ll be fine. It’s just…”
“What?”
“It’s the thought of the wedding bringing back to life things that should have been long forgotten.”
“Things to do with your parents’ wedding?”
“Not really. Well, things that happened round that time, I suppose, but – No, I shouldn’t be talking like this. It’s disloyal.”
“You can’t be disloyal in the abstract, Gaby.”
“What do you mean?”
“By definition, don’t you have to be being dis
loyal to someone?”
“Yes.” The girl didn’t answer the question directly, but her next words were still revelatory. “The fact is, my parents are fine. Well, as fine as they’re ever going to be. I don’t mean they’re happy. I think they both find life too difficult and challenging ever to be actually happy, but they’re content. They’ve got a small, circumscribed life which they can cope with. I don’t want that put at risk.”
“And why should your wedding do that?”
“Well, it’s a public thing. A lot of people will find out about it.”
“And are there people – or a person – who you don’t want to find out about it?” Gaby didn’t answer. “An ex-boyfriend? An ex-fiancé?”
But no. Jude had lost her. “That feels so good, down in my back,” said Gaby determinedly. “Amazingly warm. Is it the oil that does that?”
“No, not the oil.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing, it really seems to be working.”
“Good.”
“I feel I could leap up and play a game of squash.”
“I wouldn’t advise you to do that straightaway. I’ll give you some exercises to do, to keep you loose.”
“So do you think this’ll cure it? The pain won’t Come back?”
“The pain won’t come back when you’ve got rid of what’s causing the pain.”
“But you said there wasn’t any injury, nothing actually physical causing it.”
“Right,” Jude agreed. “That’s what I said.”
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Six
Gita pushed the remains of the Crown and Anchor’s fisherman’s pie around her plate. She hadn’t eaten much. For the first time since Jude had collected her from the clinic, she seemed actually depressed. Maybe the effects of the medication had decreased as her body got used to it. Maybe for the first time she was facing the reality of what she had done, the division made in her life by the suicide attempt, and the fact that she now had to face the continuity she had tried to escape.
“I must try and get some work,” she said, not for the first time.
