I'll Be There

by Janet Woods

  His hands stilled their movement as he met her eyes. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Has he ever indicated otherwise?’

  ‘No, but I assumed?’

  ‘You assumed wrong. Dev and I are friends. There never has been, or ever will be, anything between us.’

  Griff’s lips twitched into a wry grin. ‘That won’t stop him hoping.’

  ‘I know.’ Their eyes met in complete understanding. ‘Dev has been good to me but I’m messing up his life, Griff. I don’t want to hurt him any more than I have to.’

  ‘When will you move back to Winterbrook?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve finished the series of paintings I’m working on. Before Christmas, I hope. I can stay with my father until I furnish the place.’ A smile touched Griff’s lips. ‘I’m glad you’ve come to terms with your father. Have you had any more ill effects from the LSD?’

  ‘There have been one or two minor episodes. I can handle them.’

  ‘If you ever need me, you know where I am.’

  She would have asked Griff’s advice about her father, then, but he was paged over a loudspeaker. His smile was rueful as he rose to his feet. ‘No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid.’ He kissed her again, very gently and lingeringly on the mouth. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay longer. Enjoy my lunch for me.’

  Watching him walk away with long unhurried strides, Janey felt so proud of him she felt like bursting. She wished Phil could see his son in this environment. He looked so sure of himself, so confident. Griff had always known the path his life would take, and had never once deviated from it.

  She followed shortly afterwards, made self-conscious by the speculative glances that were aimed in her direction. She wondered if Griff had kissed her publicly in an effort to stop some of the female employees making sheep’s eyes at him. He couldn’t work in such a big hospital and be totally unaware of the attention.

  She lingered on the way home, walking through Hyde Park and enjoying the balmy weather. There were people everywhere, clad in summery clothes. But the leaves were turning, and the heat had left the sun. Soon the mists would creep from the river to blot out the light, the trees would be bare, and the earth would lie dormant once again.

  There was music playing. A group of bare-footed hippies lolled on the grass. Flower-power people entwined in an untidy heap. The smell of pot drifted to her nostrils as she walked past.

  ‘Make love, not war,’ one of them chanted. Easy to say when he’d never be involved in Vietnam.

  Dear Mrs. Jones, it is with great pride that we write to tell you your son has been drafted to serve his country.

  She was glad Drifter hadn’t gone to Vietnam, hadn’t been forced to kill somebody’s mother, somebody’s father, somebody’s precious child –a child like Saffy, only sloe-eyed and dark haired.

  Dear Mrs. Jones, we regret to inform you ...’

  Peace-through-love? Janey shivered. The hippie philosophy didn’t stand a chance against the will of governments. Democracy was just a myth.

  When she got home she wrote to Tim telling him she’d bought his childhood home. She hoped he’d never have to become involved in a war. She tossed up whether to ring Mary and Douglas, but decided against it. Mary would only invite her down, and she couldn’t spare the time.

  Still haunted by her melancholy mood she started work, and was soon absorbed in it.

  * * * *

  September merged into October. Leaves turned from yellow to orange, then brown, littering the gutters until they were sucked into the hungry jaws of the road-sweepers. Grass became pocked with boggy black rain patches. She ran out of autumn colors.

  November brought fireworks and wet clinging mist that intruded into the nostrils and throat. Foghorns honked like dying swans, chimney’s smoked, faces turned pale, cold-pinched and miserable. She ran out of winter colors, and rejoiced.

  The woman in the ferryboat gazed enigmatically out at her from the canvas. Pale tendrils of her hair snaked around a boy child on the shore.

  Janie felt emptied out, as if someone had turned on a tap and allowed her essence to flow from her body. Sinking into a chair she stared at the painting until there was no light left. Mistral’s hair glowed even in the dusk. It was the best painting she’d ever done. She threw a cloth over it.

  After a while, she went downstairs.

  ‘I’ve finished, Devlin.’

  ‘Finished?’ he said stupidly. ‘How can you be finished when there’s a waiting list for Mistral paintings after the American exhibition.’

  ‘Mistral’s dead. I’ve run out of paint.’ Her smile was triumphant, her voice adamant.

  ‘Run out of paint.’ Devlin laughed. ‘What do you need? I’ll get you some.’

  ‘I don’t need any. I’ve given up painting.’

  His eyes were as uncertain as the smile that came and went across his mouth, his eyes had taken on an edgy gleam. ‘Either you’re joking, or you’re sickening for something.’

  ‘Neither.’ She stretched her aching muscles. ‘You’re the businessman. Mistral must have made us both a fortune by now. You never did give me that detailed statement you promised.’

  ‘I forgot.’ He came to stand in front of her, taking her hands in his. She was making a stand. Okay – she was entitled to. ‘Is this what this farce is all about, Janey. You’re mad at me, yes?’

  She felt her heart begin to break. ‘I’m not mad at you, Dev, I’m tired in body and spirit. I’ve bought myself a house in the country and I’m going to raise my child there.’

  Nothing he could say would make her change her mind. He was furious, and made an ass of himself by ranting. She dissolved into tears, making him feel guilty – but she wouldn’t be swayed.

  He pleaded with her. He promised her the earth, the stars and the moon – all the planets of the universe rolled into one. Still, she cried, long shuddering sobs that cracked him up.

  He steeled himself against them. She’d never painted so well, now she was going to trash the gift she’d been born with. Well, damn her! He wouldn’t let her waste her talent. He’d changed her mind twice. He’d do it again.

  ‘Be reasonable. If you don’t work, you won’t have enough income to pay the damned mortgage,’ he told her.

  Her sobs became a watery, mutinous voice. She was fighting him with every weapon she had. ‘I haven’t got a mortgage. I bought it with a legacy.’

  He was affronted. ‘You bought a house without telling me!’

  ‘Don’t do this to me, Devlin?’ she said softly. ‘Don’t make me hurt you.’

  ‘Hurt me - what the hell does that mean?’ He resorted to blackmail. ‘I made you, Janey. I gave you my friendship, my home to live in. I looked after you and Saffy. Damn it! You owe me something.’

  She hit him squarely below the belt. ‘I only owe you your commission, and room and board.’

  ‘How can you throw that at me?’ he shouted, feeling mortally wounded. ‘You’re my guest. I love looking after you. I haven’t taken a penny from you in commission. I’d do anything for you – anything!’

  ‘Then let me go.’ She turned and walked away from him.

  He followed after her up the stairs, desperate, knowing he’d lost. ‘Where are you going? We haven’t finished this conversation.’

  Her voice was choked with tears when she spoke. ‘I have something for you.’

  The abstract she’d taken so long to paint?

  It was executed perfectly in shades of blue, grey and silver. Mirrored shards converged like a web to capture a bubble. There was a naked figure curled inside, a woman with long silver hair winding around her body and binding her wrists and ankles. Her eyes were closed tight and the whole was reflected in the shards of glass, coming from different angles.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ He stared at it, unbelieving. It was brilliant – and it made him despise himself.’

  ‘You’ve got to let me go before we destroy each other. I’m suffocating.’

  He should have listened to her before. He
shouldn’t have forced her to prove herself the stronger. He felt like a middle-aged man as he walked towards the door, his heart as fragmented as the mirror shards in the painting. ‘I’ll move into a hotel until you sort yourself out.’

  ‘Please don’t go.’ She threw her arms around his body, keeping her to him, begging him to stay. ‘I don’t want us to be enemies, Devlin.’

  ‘Damn you, Janey.’ Extricating himself from her grip he glared at her. ‘Can’t you leave a man any pride?’

  ‘Don’t go. I need to know you forgive me.’

  There were tears in her eyes. Paint streaked one cheek, a slash of purple. She smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. Her hair was a straggly mess where she’d drawn it into an elastic band. Bits stuck out all over the place.

  It was agony, loving her, but he knew he’d stay with her until the bitter end – to the day she walked out of his life.

  He’d forgive her for doing this to him, but he wondered ...

  Chapter Fifteen

  Although they were gradually establishing a relationship with each other, living in the same house with her father wasn’t all that easy, Janey thought.

  There was a natural tension between them – too many things left unsaid, as if they’d erected a dam that would sweep them away on a tidal wave of recriminations if breached. Behind the wall of that dam the pressure was building up.

  Seeking ways to lessen it Janey asked him about her mother one evening.

  From his position in front of the fire Jack gazed sharply at her. He didn’t want to be reminded of Margaret, or the manner of her death.

  Crossed-legged in an old-fashioned armchair, she was darning a hole in one of Saffy’s mittens. Her braided hair hung over her shoulder and her mouth was pursed in concentration as she wove the needle in and out.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  She looked up then, her eyes registering surprise at the roughly uttered query. ‘I can’t remember her, you see.’

  ‘Does it matter after all this time?’

  A tiny flicker of hurt replaced the surprise. Her teeth bit through the length of blue wool she’d been darning with. She replaced the needle in a small sewing box, shut the lid, and then sat the mitten on top of its twin.

  ‘I suppose not. They say what you’ve never had you never miss. I’m curious, that’s all. I’ve never even seen a photograph of her.’

  Why did she have the ability to make him feel so guilty?

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have realized.’ Fetching a dog-eared album from the cupboard, he placed it in her lap. As she flipped past sepia photographs he heard himself saying inconsequential things like: ‘Your grandparents ... this is Mary when she was little ... me when I first joined the air force.’

  Janey slipped him a smile. ‘We’re alike, aren’t we?’

  Her observation pleased him. He’d thought he was beyond ego, thought he’d been purged of it in prison. Slightly embarrassed by its re-emergence, he ruffled her hair before stabbing a finger at the album. ‘That’s Margaret ... your mother.’

  Her breath swooped in surprise. It could have been Linda gazing out from the photograph, a softer less poised Linda. Her mother was sitting on a park bench with a baby on her lap. There was a self-conscious smile on her face.

  ‘Is that me on her lap?’

  Jack had lived with the photograph all the years he’d been inside, that, and the painting of the squirrels. He’d lived in the past and had resented Mary telling him of Janey’s success. He hadn’t wanted her to grow up without him.

  ‘Yes, that’s you.’

  Janey thought, it was hard to imagine this woman was her mother and had fed her from her breast, loved her and looked after her. She bore no resemblance to her and looked too much like Linda for comfort.

  She stared at it a long time, as if by doing so she could establish some thread of rapport. But all she experienced was a faint sense of regret. It was Pamela who’d been her mother, Pamela she’d loved. She closed the book with a faint sigh of regret.

  ‘There’s a couple more.’

  ‘Not now.’ Her eyes engaged his. ‘Tell me about her.’

  Jack’s eyes clouded over and he turned away. ‘It’s not a good idea to rake over the past.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to tell me about my mother.’ Anger clawed at her insides. ‘All my life I’ve been told she was wicked, that she brought shame on the family. Her actions rebounded on my life in ways you’ll never know, ways I’m just beginning to come to terms with. I’m your daughter – your child and hers. I need, and have the right to know her. Tell me, did you love her?’

  Her anger took him by surprise. She’d been a baby when Margaret had died. He’d never stopped to consider her death might have had a ripple effect. But of course, it would have. He shouldn’t deny Janey any knowledge he had of her mother. ‘Of course I loved her. How could you imagine otherwise?’

  ‘Quite easily.’ She gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Sometimes men say one thing and mean another. Saffy is proof of that. Even so, I didn’t contemplate doing what my mother did.’

  Now it was his turn for anger. ‘You know nothing of the circumstances. If you’d been as desperate as Margaret . She already had two children and when she became pregnant again ... she must have been desperate. Perhaps if you’d been married to a man who abused –’

  ‘I was bullied by the same man, and for years,’ she reminded him quietly.

  He gazed into the wounded eyes of child he’d so carelessly fathered. ‘Your mother wasn’t bad, she was confused and at the end of her tether. If she’d only told me ...?’ He put his head in his hands. ‘She phoned me the night she died. She said she loved me and she was going to leave him.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Her hand stole up to claim his. ‘I’m not asking you to justify what you both felt, nor am I blaming you.’

  ‘I would have died for her then.’ He shrugged. ‘Now she has no substance for me. I don’t know what to tell you.’

  ‘You’ve told me all I need to know. Shall I make us a cup of tea before bed?’ The tension relaxed and they became easy with each other again.

  * * * *

  It was wonderful to watch her father’s boat taking shape in the garden. He was skillful with his hands, each part lovingly set into place, plank by plank, fitting perfectly together.

  ‘She’s going to be beautiful,’ she said one chilly day as she took him out a large mug of tea to warm him. ‘When she’s finished we’ll sail out into the sunset and find a warm island to winter on.’

  He grinned as he curled his hands around the mug’s warmth. ‘She’s not built to sail so you’ll have to make do with power. The original engine was salvaged, and is still in the boatyard.’ He was boyish in his enthusiasm. ‘It’s being overhauled. If all goes well, the Saffy Jane will be seaworthy early in June.’

  He needed the boat, she realized, needed the companionship of the two men who were helping him build her. It amazed her how well the three of them, so different in temperament, got well together.

  John constantly surprised her. He was astute, having a chameleon-like quality that enabled him to fit into village life as though he’d been born to it. His knowledge was infinite, his mind a sponge that retained everything he learned. Her respect for him constantly grew.

  It was John who told her of country house sales, who advised her on what was a bargain and what was not, who helped her gather together the bits and pieces to furnish her home.

  Among their finds was an oak dresser covered in chipped cream paint, which he was in the process of stripping back and restoring for her. For next to nothing she’d picked up a trestle table and six ladder-back chairs. An upholsterer in Dorchester was recovering the comfortable old-fashioned lounge suite she’d bought at the same auction. Charles had raided his attic, donating a hall-stand and matching oak settle.

  As soon as she’d finished stripping and painting the necessary bedrooms, she intended to buy new bedroom furniture an
d move in.

  They’d have company. Tim wrote to say he was being posted to the navy base at Portland in the New Year.

  If you’re prepared to offer me bed and board I’ll help you redecorate, he wrote. I’m a dab hand at slapping on paint and it will be better than living in navy quarters.

  She accepted his offer, posting the letter when she was in Bournemouth shopping for Christmas gifts. It was hard to juggle with a toddler and over-loaded bags amongst the crowds. By lunchtime Saffy was tired, and wanted to be carried. Bundling them and parcels into a taxi Janey headed for Mary’s house in Westbourne.

  She should learn to drive and buy a small car, she thought, as half her parcels slid to the floor on Mary’s doorstep.

  ‘You look worn out, dear.’ Mary relieved her of the burden of Saffy, and Douglas took the bags. ‘Come through to the lounge where it’s warm. Have you had lunch?’

  ‘A cup of tea and a sandwich would be welcome. I don’t know if Saffy will eat anything. She’s half asleep.’

  Saffy managed a smile when Mary removed her coat and hat, but her eyelids drooped. She fell asleep on the couch, a rag doll Griff had given to her clutched against her chest.

  ‘How are you and Jack getting along?’ Mary asked as she busied herself with lunch.

  ‘Mary ...’ Douglas warned.

  Janey laughed. ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind. Dad and I are getting along just fine. Are you coming to spend Christmas with us? He specifically asked me to invite you, and told me not to take no for an answer. Please say yes right away, because I haven’t got the energy to argue.’

  ‘In that case, we’d love to.’

  ‘We’ve invited John Smith as well. He’s helping Dad build his boat. He’s very easy to get along with, and I think you’ll like him.’

  After lunch, she pulled some of her purchases from the bags and tried to fit them in better. She’d bought her nephew a brightly colored push-pull toy for Christmas and set about wrapping it.

  ‘You won’t mind if I pop out while Saffy’s asleep. I rather thought I’d leave Justin’s present at his grandfather’s office. It will save me carting it home.’