Born to Be Trouble

by Sheila Jeffries

  ‘No,’ said Kate.

  ‘I can’t hear it.’ Sally shook her head.

  They listened again as the fire crackled in the grate and water gurgled in the storm drains.

  Freddie went to the door and stood gazing out at the night, his whole body tense and alert.

  ‘He spooks me when he does that,’ Kate whispered, ‘but I don’t disturb him.’

  Freddie stepped outside and shut the door behind him.

  ‘He’s gone out in that rain!’ said Sally.

  ‘He’s just standing on the doorstep, under the porch,’ Kate said, and they could see Freddie’s shape against the glass.

  Freddie stood so still that he almost forgot he had a body. It was a full moon and between showers the white-gold moon appeared and disappeared from the night palaces of cloud. He was hearing Jonti. He remembered the moment at the altar when he and Tessa had both heard an eerie howling, as if the spirit of Jonti was still around, still warning them – of what? Freddie waited. And he saw a pair of eyes, pale blue with a core of gold, Tessa’s eyes, coming out of the night, calling to him from a place of stone. He saw her chestnut hair spread out over cold stones, her hands curled like the feet of a dying bird. She needed him. And he couldn’t reach her. He couldn’t pick her up and hold her close. Or could he? Freddie knew he had only to remember how to use his own power. Something had happened to Tessa. He imagined holding her against the beat of his heart, giving her the silence of his love as he’d always done.

  He was terrified that the link was broken. He visualised his hand, turned to gold, and reaching through silent miles of night, to hold on to her, to anchor her, to call upon the silver cord that binds the generations.

  Paul felt hollowed out with grief as he sat in the waiting room of the Royal Cornwall Hospital. Guilt and failure were not new to him. Those two imposters had shadowed him for most of his life. Sometimes they loitered on the brim of his consciousness, and other times they charged in like Viking warriors, with stormy skies mirrored in the blades of weapons, the sun sparking triumphantly from helmets. And Paul was never armed, never prepared. They got him, every time. Guilt and failure.

  He blamed his father’s machoistic approach to parenting. He blamed his sister for being born, and his mother for choosing status over love. Tears threatened, but he fought them back as he stared at the floor, at his reflection in the floor, at the ache of accusation that seemed etched on every wall, window and door handle in the hospital.

  Paul’s mind was not his friend. Instead of helping him cope, it kept taking him back to that confetti-spattered moment when he had emerged from Monterose Church and Tessa had given him a heart-stopping smile, her dimples velvet in the sun, her huge turquoise eyes glowing with love – for him. Paul had felt a rare sense of achievement, with Tessa as the glittering prize. In those unique moments, Paul had felt the tingle of magic, he had worn a star-spangled cloak that defined him as a rich, successful, conquering prince.

  But now he was a frog again, guilty and crawling into cracks between stones, hiding from the sun’s penetrating stare. Nobody must know, he kept thinking, and hoping Tessa would feel the same. The honeymoon must be salvaged, reconstructed in time for them both to return to their London jobs a week on Monday. Eight days.

  He hadn’t meant to hurt Tessa. Had he pushed her out of the train? Paul couldn’t remember. Already the memory was hardening, baked like brick in the kilns of his need to survive.

  The hospital clock ticked on, through the night, capping the bubble of their wedding day with bead-black minutes. Paul was glad no one expected a phone call from him. They thought he was blissfully on honeymoon with Tessa. At the same time, he wished someone kind would sit beside him. Someone who wouldn’t judge or lecture him. There never had been a person like that in his life. Paul had dealt with emotional traumas on his own from a very young age, and the only strategy that worked for him now was the shell of cold steel, the shrug, the bolshie retort, the menacing stare.

  At ten minutes to midnight a doctor in a white coat came towards him down a corridor, and Paul felt utterly vulnerable, at the mercy of this confident young doctor who was everything he wasn’t.

  ‘Mr Selby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Doctor Parker.’ The starched white coat brushed against Paul’s knee as he sat down. ‘About your wife.’

  ‘She’s not dead, is she?’

  ‘Goodness – no. But she did suffer a severe blow to her head. We were concerned that she may have a fractured skull.’

  ‘Oh God – no!’

  ‘No – she hasn’t. We have x-rayed her. That’s why it’s taken so long. There’s no fracture. What we are concerned about is that she may have a blood clot on the brain from the injury. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial. She’s still not conscious, and until she is, we can’t tell whether there’s any brain damage.’

  ‘Brain damage?’ Paul blanched. A horrible image of his beautiful Tessa helpless in a wheelchair came into his mind. He wouldn’t be able to cope. He’d run away, disappear and live in a distant town. My life is ruined, he thought, because of her silly attitude!

  ‘We will monitor her constantly in case there is a need for surgery.’

  ‘Surgery?’

  ‘If there’s a blood clot, Tessa will need an operation to remove it from her brain. We are doing everything we can, rest assured, to prevent it.’

  Shock settled like ice crystals clustering around his bones. Paul felt rigid as if he was the only strong unmoving object in a spinning world. He put his hand over his eyes to shut out the giddiness. He didn’t want the doctor to notice.

  ‘I suggest you go home now, and come back tomorrow. There’s nothing you can do here. Try to get some sleep, eh?’

  ‘I want to see her, please.’

  ‘She’s not conscious. And she needs to be kept still and quiet.’

  ‘But – look, I’ve heard that people in comas can hear if you talk to them. Can’t I do that?’

  The doctor frowned. ‘If you believe it will help her, then you can – but only for a few minutes. Can you respect that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And talk to her kindly and quietly. No dramas! Okay? Can you do that?’

  ‘Okay.’ Paul got up and followed the doctor down the corridor, his hand on the brandy bottle still in his pocket.

  He stood by the bed staring desolately at Tessa’s dark eyelashes curled over the ivory-pale skin. It was like looking at a closed book. A book whose pages shivered with evocative stories and enchanted places. But closed.

  He sat down on a chair the nurse pushed towards him. He took Tessa’s hand, his finger stroking the new gold wedding ring that meant she was his. ‘Darling,’ he whispered, ‘it’s Paul. I’m here with you.’

  There was a scarlet silence. Then the bleep of the heart monitor raced alarmingly. Without opening her eyes, Tessa snatched her hand away. She tore the ring from her finger and threw it spinning across the room. ‘Go away,’ she cried. ‘I never want to see you again.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Tresco

  Tessa turned her head away when she saw Paul come into the ward, his arms full of gifts, his eyes anxiously seeking hers. She didn’t want him there. Her head ached and the bruise under her hair was tender and swollen. The doctors had said she would be okay after a few days’ rest, but she didn’t feel glad. She almost wished she was worse so that she wouldn’t have to leave hospital and go with Paul.

  He stooped over the bed. ‘I brought you a bottle of Lucozade,’ he said, ‘and some grapes – and a Crunchie bar. I know you like them.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled ungraciously.

  ‘And – I brought you this.’ Paul slid a cone of rustling tissue paper in front of her face. The paper had little hearts on it, and inside the cone was a single red rose, and a card. ‘Please don’t throw it at me,’ Paul said. ‘It’s a peace-making rose, just for you, Tessa. I wanted you to have a flower to gaze at – a love flower. Remember Flower
Power?’

  She grunted.

  ‘Shall I pour you some Lucozade?’ She heard the squeak of yellow cellophane as Paul unwrapped it from the glass bottle. Then the glug and fizz of the golden liquid being poured into a glass. The sound of Lucozade reminded her of childhood illness times when Kate would bring her that tall sparkling bottle and she’d spend the rest of the day looking at the world through the yellow cellophane.

  Tessa contemplated the red rose’s spiral of velvet, and sighed. Hating took so much energy.

  ‘Come on, Tessa – or I won’t be able to resist drinking this,’ Paul said.

  She read the words on the card. Please forgive me, darling. All my love, Paul xxx. The discreet sizzling of the Lucozade was too much. She turned over and propped herself up, trying not to look at him as she savoured the burn of the fizzy drink on her tongue.

  The same words came from his lips. ‘Please forgive me, darling. I truly never wanted to hurt you. I – I just snapped.’

  Tessa managed to look at him then. He’s my husband, she thought, and he’s only a boy. A haunted, lost boy. She fingered the soothing petals of the rose and studied Paul’s face. He had deep shadows under his eyes. ‘Where did you sleep?’

  ‘On a bench in the waiting room.’ He fished in his top pocket. ‘I’ve got your rings,’ he said. ‘They’re precious to me – you are precious – darling – and I hope you’ll reconsider – take them back and give me another chance. Our love means everything to me. I don’t want to live without you, Tessa.’

  She looked at the rings in his hand. There was something disarming about seeing the palm of someone’s hand. Vulnerability. Truth. Like seeing a badger’s feet.

  ‘Have you told anyone what happened?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Paul said passionately. ‘I didn’t think you’d want your mum and dad to know, after all they did for the wedding. And I didn’t want my folks to know either.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’ Tessa swallowed some more Lucozade.

  ‘I’ll do anything to make it right,’ Paul said, ‘anything you want, Tessa. We’re still on honeymoon, and when you’re well enough we can go wherever you want. I’m sorry I got it wrong.’ His voice broke and he looked at the floor. She heard him taking big breaths.

  Compassion unfurled in Tessa’s mind, wrapping the unwelcome anger in a swathe of silk. She reached out and touched his hand. ‘It’s okay, Paul.’

  He clasped her hand and looked up at her searchingly. She didn’t pull away but let him hold her, both of them breathing in the sweet colours of peace.

  ‘Forgive?’ he asked.

  ‘All forgiven,’ Tessa said. She’d forgive, but not forget. The trust was damaged and she would forever tread cautiously, learn to recognise that flashpoint in Paul, those old remembered hurts that exploded into anger.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  Tessa accepted the pledge in silence. It was like walking down the church path all over again. Seeing the freedom stretched out around her, but choosing the shadowed door.

  She let him put the rings back on her finger.

  ‘It’s only Tuesday,’ he said eagerly. ‘If they let you out today, we can go anywhere you want. I cancelled the booking I made in that place we don’t mention. But we’re here in Truro. We could go up country and stay in Devon – Torquay or Paignton – OR—’ his eyes brightened like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat, ‘we could go to the Isles of Scilly – on the boat. It’s a ship really, and it sails daily from Penzance which is an easy hop on the train. It’s a two-hour sea trip, and apparently you sometimes see dolphins. Then you can explore lots of beautiful islands, some of them uninhabited.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Tessa said immediately. ‘I hope I’ll be well enough. Let’s see what the doctor has to say – here he is now.’

  The doctor shone a torch in her eyes and asked her questions. Then he said, ‘You can go home tomorrow morning, Tessa. But don’t expect to be back to normal for a while. You may get headaches and feel irritable, perhaps need to sleep more than usual.’ He looked at Paul. ‘Can you remember that, too?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll keep an eye on her.’

  ‘If there’s any nausea, or dizziness, or unusual drowsiness, see your doctor immediately, or bring her back here if you’re on holiday.’

  Tessa smiled. ‘We’re going to the Isles of Scilly!’

  ‘Lucky you.’ The doctor momentarily dropped his professional expression. He looked at them with dreamy eyes. ‘I recommend Tresco. It’s a paradise island – white sand, a tropical garden, and it’s full of magic and legend.’

  ‘Tresco!’ repeated Tessa, and a shiver of excitement passed through her mind like a wave. White sand. Magic and legend. Something ancient already touching the forgotten recesses of her soul. Had she been there before in some distant dream?

  ‘I’m tired now,’ she said to Paul. ‘I need to go to sleep.’

  ‘Sensible girl,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Okay, darling – I’ll go and find a phone box, see if I can book us in somewhere, and book the boat – The Scillonian, it’s called.’

  Paul kissed her tenderly, and left, his eyes excited, his walk full of new life and enthusiasm.

  Tessa settled back onto the starched pillows and closed her eyes. Tresco! It was like being given a cloud. A new, silver and white, untainted cloud, catching the sunlight from the last hours of an ancient land. A transformational cloud. She let it enfold her in softness, and as she floated into sleep, she heard a song on the wind.

  Tresco had answers. Silent answers to silent questions, stitched in filaments of lights into the minds of those who could still access the magic.

  ‘I can’t get up. Can’t see straight. Sorry, love, I’ll just have to lie in bed.’ Paul was stretched out on the bed in the Island Hotel, Tresco. ‘And draw the curtains please. I can’t stand the light.’

  Tessa stood looking down at him in bewilderment. She felt fine, happy in her jeans and sneakers, a rucksack on her back with a packed lunch for two inside, provided by the hotel. A perfect spring day with cerulean skies and hardly a breath of wind. Her sea-green bikini under her clothes, a towel in the rucksack.

  On their first day on Tresco, it had been Paul, not her, who was irritable. She thought the stress of the wedding and the accident had affected him badly. Despite her blow on the head and the concussion, Tessa had benefited from the long peaceful hours of sleep. And she loved the boat trip across the dazzling ocean, loved the salt wind in her hair and the swoosh of the waves. Dolphins raced alongside the great white ship, leaping out of the water in arcs of spray. She felt they were looking right at her – at no one else, just her – and smiling, communicating pure joy.

  Sailing into the quay at Hugh Town, St Mary’s, Tessa noticed some small blue-black diving birds on the water, agile and fascinating in the way they flipped into a dive, like a hybrid between a bird and a fish. ‘Manx shearwaters,’ someone told her, and a man handed her his powerful binoculars and let her look at the tiny bright-faced birds. Paul wasn’t interested, and as they waited on the quay for the boat to Tresco, he’d been oddly silent, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

  The ultimate surprise, for Tessa, was landing on Tresco, walking up the stone jetty and hearing a song she recognised. It haunted her dreams. A song thrush. And not just one, but many, shouting melodiously to each other across the island.

  ‘I love song thrushes,’ she said. ‘They remind me of the woods back home in Monterose. It’s my Dad’s favourite bird. And it’s now an endangered species.’

  Paul grunted. He frowned over the map in his hand.

  ‘Once when I was in London, in the middle of the traffic, I heard a song thrush,’ Tessa said, ‘and it was high up on top of Selfridges, singing its heart out – and nobody listening. It made me feel amazing. They’re inspirational, don’t you think?’

  ‘What are?’

  ‘Song thrushes.’

  �
�You’re potty about birds.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it’s annoying.’

  ‘So is your obsession with maps.’

  ‘I am TRYING to see where our hotel is. Or don’t you think that matters?’ Paul’s sunglasses flashed angrily. ‘I hope it’s a decent place. It cost a fortune. I’m surprised at this scruffy-looking place.’

  ‘It’s not scruffy! It’s an island – a wild island with no traffic. And look at these flowers, Paul – sea pink and white campion – and those massive tufts of leaves with giant seedheads. I wonder what they are?’

  ‘Agapanthus,’ growled Paul. ‘Mum’s got some in our garden – remember?’

  Tessa bounded forward to look at something else, a prostrate, creeping plant with a pink flower. ‘These are like sweet peas! Oh, I wish I’d brought my wildflower book.’

  Paul was not impressed. ‘I’ve brought us here to look at Tresco, not study weeds. Come ON, Tessa. We need to get into our hotel. I need a cup of strong coffee.’

  ‘Low blood sugar?’ she asked.

  ‘Something like that.’

  She stumbled after him, carrying her suitcase, and they climbed onto the trailer with seats pulled by a small tractor which took them to the hotel.

  ‘It’s fantastic!’ Tessa said happily as they were shown into the honeymoon suite. A luxurious, soft lit bed, a bathroom to themselves, and two windows full of the shining skies and the blue sea. She longed to go out, but Paul didn’t seem interested. He didn’t want to make love either. He just wanted to sleep.

  Heavy clouds rolled in and rain spattered the windows, and outside in the hotel garden the fat palm trees fluttered and flickered in the wind.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Tessa asked. She sat beside Paul on the bed and studied his face. It was pale as a wax candle, the skin clammy and taut across his brow.

  ‘I’ve got a migraine.’

  ‘Aw, you poor thing. What can I do?’

  ‘Get me some black coffee, and an aspirin. I can’t eat anything. I’ll be sick.’

  ‘What brought it on?’

  ‘The bright sunlight – and probably the stress we’ve been through.’ Paul looked up at her and his eyes looked weak and reluctant. His aura was full of oscillating tendrils of sharp lemon light.