by Jo Verity
When he tried to put a guiding arm around her, she twitched her shoulders, hurrying ahead of him towards the house. ‘No. I can manage.’
Sluicing with cold water revealed a jagged gash, deep and untidy, and Jack sent Neil to the bathroom to fetch a wad of bandage. ‘Hold it firmly against the wound,’ he instructed, ‘until we can get you to Casualty.’
His mother fussed, mumbling about ‘lockjaw’ and severed tendons and, even as they were getting into the car, he could still hear her droning, ‘But how did it happen? They only went to fetch something out of the car.’
He drove to the hospital for the second time that day. The unyielding, barbed silence was the conclusive proof that after five spineless years he’d confronted Fay with the truth – single-handedly, she had driven their son to the other side of the world.
When the triage nurse called her name, Fay dismissed Jack’s offer to go with her and left him surrounded by the jetsam of distressed, bewildered humanity that was accumulating in the A&E reception area.
The X-rays revealed that there was a sliver of glass lodged in the fleshy pad at the base of her thumb, and whilst she progressed slowly from one grubby-walled cubicle to the next, waiting to have the glass removed, then to be stitched, bandaged and given a tetanus jab, she had plenty of time to mull over what had taken place. She could never forgive Jack for keeping Kingsley’s emails secret – she wouldn’t have believed him capable of such calculated cruelty, or, for that matter, of physical violence. She regretted that she hadn’t hit him harder.
After almost five hours she emerged from the treatment room, to find Jack where she had left him.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asked as they made their way to the car park.
‘Yes.’ It didn’t but that was only because of the local anaesthetic – the administration of which had bloody hurt – and why should she let him off the hook?'
‘I’m sorry—'
‘Not now. Can we leave it until tomorrow?
‘Fay, I’m apologising for pushing you over. Nothing else.
As they drove off she noticed that it was well past midnight and the adrenalin, or whatever wonder-substance had kept her going, was seeping away, leaving her shivery and queasy. Her head pounded, her back was aching – maybe from the jolt when she fell – and she needed to pee. The street-lights, as they flashed past, illuminated her bandaged hand, turning it into a huge, exotic mushroom, resting in her lap.
Even with the double bed to herself, her hand kept getting in the way and she fidgeted, turning on her back, then her right side, stretching her left arm out or propping it on a pillow. Without any immediate opportunity to refute Jack’s allegations – she wasn’t even sure where he was – she rehearsed her defence.
Who backed you, Jack Waterfield, when you went through that flaky patch and were close to packing it in and being a – what was it – a greengrocer, for fuck’s sake? And Caitlin. She’s fine now, but it was touch and go when that idiot dumped her and she fluffed her exams. You realise that she’d be a dental hygienist if I hadn’t bullied her into those re-sits. And Dylan certainly wouldn’t have got his current job had I not made a few phone-calls. Mrs. Frankenstein, eh?'
Her examples did seem rather career-orientated but jobs were important and it would have been downright irresponsible to leave them muddling along – disorganised, directionless and clueles.
By four o’clock, her bandaged hand was no longer a mushroom but a throbbing football, exactly as the nurse had predicted.
33
Fay woke at nine and, after phoning school to explain her absence, swallowed two painkillers and sank back into a restless sleep, surfacing now and then to wonder where Jack had spent the night, before reminding herself she didn’t give a damn.
She inspected the neat, clean bandage then pressed it cautiously, experiencing a discomfort, similar to a bruise, where she imagined the stitches were. At least it was her left hand. She would be able to write and apply her makeup, but two-handed activities, or anything involving water, were going to be tricky, especially as Jack might not be around to help.
Finally, the craving for coffee drove her downstairs. The house appeared to be deserted – unusual at this time of day. Her mother-in-law stuck to a rigid routine, hardly ever going out before early afternoon when she caught the bus to the hospital. Neil was less predictable but it was generally possible to detect his presence by the aimless whistling that accompanied his every activity. Wherever they both were, it was a relief not to be forced into explanations of the accident.
A note, propped against the stainless steel coffee canister, read –
Dear Fay,
I have taken Vi home for the morning. She wants to get things ready for when Harry gets out. Jack said it would be OK to take your car as you aren’t going to work today and probably won’t be able to drive anyway.
Cheers. Neil. Hope the hand is OK.
Jack said it was ‘OK’ did he? Three stitches in her hand and he’d decided she was incapable of making her own decisions.
A couple of cushions from the sofa and an unzipped sleeping bag lay on the single bed in Dylan’s old room, indicating where Jack had spent the night. She imagined that he’d gone to work but didn’t want to risk Sheila Pearce’s curiosity by checking. Hell, why should she care where he was?
In other circumstances, a day at home would have been a welcome opportunity to get on with things, but everything she tried to do called for two functioning hands – making the bed, carrying a tray, even pulling her chair up to the table or fastening her bra. She tried to settle with a book but the individual letters refused to form recognisable words as last night’s battle raged on in her head. Eventually, when she could bear her own thoughts no longer, she phoned Laura but there was no reply. In desperation she tried Isabel, slightly ashamed to be contacting a person whom she no longer respected and certainly didn’t trust.
‘Hello,’ a woman answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Have I got the right number? I wanted to speak to Isabel. Isabel Lauderdale.’
There was a pause, then, ‘She’s not here at the moment but hold on, I’ll fetch Geoffrey.’ Her tone was pleasant and assured and she sounded nothing at all like an old cardigan. ‘May I ask who’s speaking?’
Fay had no idea what she would to say to Geoffrey, whom she had only met a few times, and she was on the point of replacing the receiver when a plummy voice inquired, ‘Fay? How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ The truth was too complicated. ‘Don’t let me disturb you, though. I’ll try Izzy’s mobile.’
‘The truth is, Fay, she’s not living here any more. I thought she might have told you.’
It felt good to speak to anyone after her morning of isolation and that encouraged her to take the next step. ‘Geoffrey, we don’t really know each other and it’s very unlikely that we’ll ever meet again, so, can I ask you something?’
‘How intriguing, Fay. How could I resist such an opening? Fire away.’
‘Why did you throw Isabel out? She always told us that you two had an “open marriage”, so I can’t see why you didn’t just carry on carrying on, as it were.’
‘Is that what she told you? God, what a heartless pig I must be.’
Spurred on by the amusement in his tone, Fay warmed to her mission: ‘Actually, what she said was that you decided you wanted to grow old with a ‘comfortable’ woman, whatever that means, and that you weren’t fussed about glamour and sexiness. I’m sorry to ask such personal questions but—’
‘A word of advice, Fay. Never apologise when you’re pursuing truth. It reveals a chink in virtue’s armour and gives the guilty hope.’ He cleared his throat. ‘“Glamorous” to me is a pejorative term, evoking falsity and fakery. “Sexiness”, another dreadful concept, is not at the top of my list either. Of course there should be… a magnetism…a visceral connection between a man and a woman, but it should never be blatant. More a secret shared.’ He cleared his throat and raised his voice a litt
le. ‘Loyalty, companionship, mutual endeavour, and humour, of course – are the qualities that should transcend our baser instincts and set us above the primitives, unfashionable and stuffy though it may sound.’ He paused and Fay pictured him in the courtroom, decked out in wig and gown, putting the case for the defendant in the dock. ‘How am I doing?’
‘Very impressive. But I’m surprised. Surprised that you and Isabel ever got together in the first place. Even more surprised that you stuck together for so long.’
‘Yes, but remember, Isabel is an interesting woman. In the beginning I was naïve enough, arrogant enough, to think I could modify her less agreeable traits – and I know, on her part, my income and status were enough to outweigh my many shortcomings. When we first got together, we did lots of exciting things – trips, parties, moving house. We were constantly on the move – in fact we spent hardly any time on our own. Then, the four children came along – something I will never regret – and we entered into what seemed like, in retrospect, a twenty-year logistical exercise. I admit I spent too much time at work and Isabel looked elsewhere for…companionship. I sometimes think that, if we’d had less money, we might have been forced to pull together more resolutely, but I don’t think that would have appealed to Isabel. It’s not a very edifying story. Now it’s no longer a viable relationship. Viable – from the Latin, vita, meaning life. Isabel found it impossible to come to terms with my need, as I grow older, for loyalty and companionship.’
‘I see.’ She wasn’t sure she did. Despite his elaborate vocabulary and flamboyant delivery, when it boiled down to it Geoffrey’s explanation was slightly agony aunt-ish, and it was hard to understand how such a clever man hadn’t anticipated the inevitable outcome of marriage to anyone as calculating as Isabel.
‘Now it’s my turn, if I may.’ His resonant voice was imposing. ‘How long have you and… Jack, isn’t it?…been married?’
‘Thirty-two years.’ Was she for the defence or the prosecution?
‘And during that time, how many other partners have you had?’
‘Me? None.’ It sounded a pathetic, as if she were some kind of freak, and she added quickly, ‘But I’ve had several offers—’
‘Which you haven’t accepted. That’s loyalty in my book. Next. Do you and Jack enjoy each other’s company? Share the same tastes?’
‘We used to do lots of things together. Concerts. Theatre. Going for walks. Not so much, lately though. We’re always too… too…’
‘Too busy? I see.’
‘And he can be hysterically funny.’ She was determined to clock up some points on Geoffrey’s desirable traits scale. ‘That chippy, subversive, Welsh wit. He used to keep us in stitches.’
‘Did you say used to? Mmm. Rather a lot of ‘used to’s’ aren’t there? Finally, your children. Are they getting on well? Achieving their potential?’
The sleepless night, a throbbing hand and Geoffrey’s probing questions had lowered her resistance and she crumbled, pouring out the whole story, from the day Kingsley slammed the door to Jack’s searing accusation, the previous evening. He said very little, occasionally easing her back on track if she rambled away from the point and, by the time she’d finished, she understood why men like Geoffrey Lauderdale commanded huge sums of money.
‘So, to sum up,’ she found it impossible not to adopt his technique ‘you’re saying that all we need to do is spend more time together? Support each other more? Have a few more laughs?’ She paused. ‘But Geoffrey, Jack’s hobby is Morris dancing. It’s so humiliating.’
‘Rubbish, woman,’ he exploded. ‘I admit I was dubious when you reminded me that your husband is a dentist but Morris dancing…glorious.’ He seemed to be serious. ‘Look, Fay, I’m going to let you in on something.’ He lowered his voice to a near-whisper, ‘Cross-stitch.’
‘Pardon?’ Had she missed something?
‘My hobby is cross-stitch. I’m sure Isabel never mentioned that, did she? My grandmother taught me and I’ve been at it since I was seven. Can’t get enough of it. I’m just completing a replica of the Bayeux Tapestry. A small section, of course.’
Fay pictured a large man – she had only a hazy recollection of Geoffrey Lauderdale – sitting at a casement window, canvas held in a wooden frame, whilst the mysterious Margaret, a shadowy figure threading fine needles with brightly-coloured silks, lurked in the background.
He paused, ‘Go on. Laugh if you must.’
Needing a distraction, Fay walked up the hill to the park and sat on a bench, watching the mothers and grandmothers who had brought their little ones to the play area. It was interesting to observe how the comings and goings of small children, demanding drinks and nose-wiping, removed barriers between strangers. She and Jack had lived in a terraced house, nearer the city centre, and she was working part-time when Caitlin and Dylan were this age. The nearest park was more than a mile away but, regardless of the weather, once a week, sometimes more frequently, she made the trek so that the children could let off steam, learn to take turns with their peers, and she could engage in some adult conversation.
Then, when Dylan was old enough to go to school and she was reclaiming her life, Kingsley came along. Having climbed a few ladders, he pushed her down a snake, forcing her to go back to the beginning. But the rules of the game had changed. It was as if she’d had too easy a time with Caitlin and Dylan, and Kingsley had been sent as a tougher test of her mothering skills.
Kingsley was a colicky, non-sleeper; he walked too soon and talked so late that the doctor sent him for hearing tests. He was a fussy eater and still in nappies when he was three. He screamed when he went to school then cried with boredom at the weekend. He was stubborn, wilful and questioned whatever she told him to do, as if he knew best. When he was older, he liked to start arguments, getting her so incensed that her responses became illogical and she became the petulant child. He relished every opportunity to make her look inadequate. But only, and always me. As far as she could see, everyone else thought he was ‘that good-looking, intelligent and charming Kingsley Waterfield’ and she was his controlling mother. His leaving was his supreme victory and she would give anything to have him back; to have another crack at it.
On the way home, she mulled over Geoffrey’s lecture on marriage, not sure what to make of it. The last time she’d heard marriage commended was at Dylan’s wedding, but surely nobody fell for the sentimental drivel that flowed so freely at weddings. Geoffrey, who was under no obligation to promote the institution which had failed him so badly, may have been pompous and sermonising but she liked what he’d said.‘Was it okay to take the car?’ Neil was crouching outside the back door, cleaning his shoes. ‘How’s the hand?’
‘Sore, but I’ll survive. And how did you get on at Vi’s?’
‘No problems. We opened the windows – gave the house a good blow through. Checked the garden. We picked loads of tomatoes. We thought we’d make soup later.’ His unremitting good humour was becoming tiresome. ‘And,’ he laid his brush and polish on the ground and stood up, ‘we’ve got a plan.’
‘We?’
‘Vi and me.’
‘I. Vi and I. Vi and I have a plan.’ He looked confused and she shook her head. ‘Okay. You’ve got a plan. Carry on.’
‘Maybe I should wait until Jack—’
‘What sort of a plan?’
‘Well, when Harry goes home, which will probably be at the beginning of next week, I’m going to move in with them. We get on great. They’ll need someone to lend a hand for a while. And they’ve got a spare room. I can get some casual work at one of the pubs up there, ’specially if I buy a little car. Nothing fancy. I’ll be able to take Harry to his appointments. It’ll be handy for gigs, too. I’ve got a bit put away. Vi says they wouldn’t want rent. And we’d all be out of your hair. It would be neat for all of us.’ The details popped out, one after the other, making it apparent that he and Vi had been working on their scheme for some time. He raised his eyebrows. ‘So, what d’you thi
nk?’
‘I think it’s a wonderful plan,’ she said truthfully. ‘And Neil…any news from Kingsley?’
Laura must have returned home and checked her last caller but, when she rang, she seemed surprised that it was Fay who picked up the phone. ‘Who else would have rung you from here?’ Fay asked. Then she told Laura about her accident.‘
But you two never row. What was it about? It must be pretty…serious.’ She sounded hesitant, unlike her usual no-nonsense self.
‘It is. Jack’s been keeping quiet about emails from Kingsley. They were to Neil, but Jack knew about them. I can’t believe he could be so cruel, knowing how much I worry about him. Then he had the bloody nerve to accuse me of driving Kingsley away. He made out it was entirely my fault. It was ghastly.’
‘Was it just about Kingsley?’
‘Just about Kingsley? Call me peculiar but I can’t actually imagine anything more important than the loss of a son. And it could well be the end of our marriage, but that’s a minor concern.’
There was an extended silence whilst Fay waited for wise Laura to tell her how to put everything right again.
‘That’s for you two to sort out. You’ll have to decide what’s important – how you want things to go from here.’
Fay was exasperated by this wishy-washy advice. ‘And how d’you suggest we do that, if we aren’t speaking to each other? For all I know Jack’s run away, too.’
34
Routine and instinct carried Jack through the day. He anticipated a bad patch at lunchtime, when there would be no teeth to fill or dentures to fit or crowns to replace, so to keep busy and avoid Sheila’s searching glances, he went out to get something to eat. Queen Street was thronged and, caught up in the cohorts of shoppers and office workers, he allowed himself to drift with them for a while, finally breaking away and heading down a side street.
