A Home in the Sun

by Sue Moorcroft

  But then … She studied Caleb, wide-eyed and pasty white. Caleb might well get arrested. Charged. She’d be responsible for getting him a police record. The house stunk of dope – he and most of his unattractive mates were off their faces. The government might’ve seen fit to downgrade grass but she wasn’t sure she wanted to put that benevolence to the test when damage to property was involved.

  And how would she feel if it was her stepson Kieran standing there in Caleb’s place, knowing he’d messed up in a big way?

  She was saved from further heart-searching by the banging of the front door as it slammed back against the hall wall. And, slowly, in stalked Adam, striding down the hall, gazing around himself with eyes that seemed to emit sparks. ‘Shitty death,’ he ground out dangerously. Judith watched his progress as he carefully skirted the girl at the bottom of the stairs and the evidence of her excesses, peering into the sitting room, wincing, and heading inexorably for Caleb.

  Father and son stared at each other. The square-cut man who’d been breaking the glass advanced, fists clenched, but Adam shoved him irritably in the chest and, with a stagger, he ricocheted harmlessly onto the back door. It obligingly opened, leaving him to collapse to the ground outside.

  Adam had eyes only for his son. ‘Are you all right?’

  Caleb nodded, and swayed. ‘Sorry, Dad. They, like, got completely out of hand.’ For an instant, he looked as if he might burst into tears.

  Then Adam spotted Judith. His eyes crackled like a winter sea in a moment of infuriated pride. ‘Oh, hell.’ They stared at each other. ‘I take responsibility. I’ll get it cleared up,’ he ground out.

  She folded her arms. ‘You bet.’

  It took till mid-afternoon just to empty the house of unwanted bodies.

  Luckily, none of the unconscious proved to need hospital treatment. Showing great inventiveness, Judith thought, Adam filled a plant-sprayer with icy water and strode around squirting the slack faces of the comatose young people who didn’t respond to a shake of the shoulder. ‘Come on! Up you get, son, on your way.’ Squirt. ‘Wake up, wake up! You must leave. You! Hey, you! Wakey, wakey.’ Squirt, squirt. ‘Time to go.’

  Grunts, snarls or squeals greeted his efforts and he was equally impervious to each. ‘Out, now. Now, I said. On your feet and get out.’

  One moment of high anxiety came when the bathroom door remained obstinately locked for all Adam’s knocking and he had to kick his way in. There, a waxen girl was out cold on the floor, the room a filthy mess where her stomach had ejected its contents. She did, however, respond to the plant-sprayer treatment. When Adam asked for her home number so he could phone her parents she got up and scuttled out of the house.

  Caleb lurched about, gathering cans and bottles into plastic sacks between swigs of water taken at his father’s command. Periodically, Adam grasped his son and stared into his eyes, satisfying himself that Caleb was in no immediate danger from any of the poisons he’d put into his body.

  Judith patrolled the clean-up operation with hands on hips at this insult to her home (even if it wasn’t, strictly speaking, her home at the moment). After ejecting the last reveller, Adam swept up the glass then borrowed a wet/dry cleaner from a friend and scoured the carpets, improving the situation but failing to return all of them to their state before cigarette burns and unsavoury stains.

  Gradually, the smell of carpet cleaner and bleach began to overpower tobacco, beer and vomit. An emergency glazier arrived to make the appropriate repairs to the windows and doors. Caleb was finally permitted to haul himself upstairs to collapse on top of his duvet and sleep.

  Slowly, Adam returned to the kitchen where Judith waited, furious and stunned by everything she’d seen. As it hadn’t been Adam’s party she managed to ask, ‘Is Caleb going to be OK?’

  ‘I think so,’ he said, flatly. ‘I need him to live so I can ground him for the rest of his life.’

  Despite her anger, she almost smiled. It hadn’t escaped her that Adam’s first words to Caleb had been ‘Are you all right?’ rather than a screamed ‘What the hell have you done?’ which she was sure would have been Tom’s reaction had Kieran been the culprit.

  With brusque movements, Adam made coffee and set out a biscuit tin.

  They sat down facing one another at the pine kitchen table.

  Adam passed his good hand over his eyes. As so often, his damaged right hand was out of the way in his pocket or beneath the table. He looked exhausted. ‘So now you have perfectly good grounds for immediate eviction,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘In anyone’s book,’ she agreed.

  He nodded. ‘Can I have seven days, Judith?’

  She stared into his eyes and saw a mixture of defeat, determination and resignation. She felt sorry for him but she did want her house back and what had happened was more than anyone could overlook. ‘Of course. You can use the time to get the repairs done. I doubt the key money will cover it.’

  Chapter Ten

  Judith found herself in the odd position of working for Adam at the same time as chucking him out of his home. During the planned shoots on Thursday and Friday, each adopted the policy of speaking only as necessary. their previously friendly chats or exchanges of jokes noticeably absent.

  At the end of the week, Adam used the Sunday to move out of Lavender Row, all his possessions piled in a hire van by him and a subdued Caleb. He’d secured a flat to move into in about twelve days but she hadn’t felt able to ask him where he was staying prior to that. If truth be told, she was feeling guilty that she hadn’t given him longer to sort himself out.

  However, she hadn’t done that so, on the Monday, she moved back in. The insurance company had yet to stump up for the tiles and the fire surround to be refinished, some of the carpets to be replaced and for the bathroom door to be repaired, but the house was habitable.

  Her furniture arrived from the storage unit where it had spent the last few years. She’d half-forgotten her cottage suite in shades of blue and lilac, the bed with the carved wooden headboard, the maple wardrobes and the dressing table with the mirror.

  The phone line was returned to her name so she was suddenly overtaken by a desire to ring Giorgio’s aunt Cass in Malta and pass the number on. Suppose – just suppose – there was a change in Giorgio’s condition, no one would be able to tell her if they had no contact details and, of course, she’d cancelled her Maltese phone contract. She completed the tasks of arranging the furniture with the idea dancing in the back of her mind then, at the first opportunity, nipped into town and bought a house phone with built-in answering machine.

  Once plugged in, the shiny grey plastic set seemed to taunt her, waiting to see how long she’d hold out before looking up Cass’s number. Judith told herself to be careful, though. If Giorgio’s uncle Saviour knew Judith was calling his wife, Cass’s life would be made difficult.

  Stomach twirling with apprehension, she dialled. The first time, Saviour answered but Judith had anticipated the eventuality and quickly assumed the voice of a confused tourist. ‘Oh, dear. Is this the Park Hotel?’

  She heard a deep chuckle from the man she’d seen from afar once or twice but never met. ‘You call the wrong number.’

  Judith – or rather the confused tourist – apologised and hung up.

  In the evening she tried again – and this time she heard Cass’s high voice. ‘Cass, it’s Judith,’ she whispered. ‘Can you talk?’

  Cass sounded tense. ‘Saviour’s not here, if that’s what you mean. But I have nothing to tell you.’

  Disappointment sank through Judith. What had she expected? A miracle? ‘There’s no change at all?’ Her voice was hoarse.

  Cass’s voice held a note of sympathy but also warning. ‘He won’t suddenly begin asking for you. You know that, Judith.’

  ‘Can I …’ Judith had to clear her throat. ‘Can I give you my new phone number?’

  ‘Of course.’ Cass sounded sad, weighed down by the words she didn’t speak: if you think there’s any
point.

  Judith’s breath deserted her so that she could scarcely get the numbers out. After the call, she heeled her hands fiercely into her eyes, holding back the scalding tears.

  The tears wouldn’t be held. They burst from her eyes and flooded down her cheeks, ran into her mouth, burned the inside of her nose and filled her throat.

  It was two hours later when, her entire head aching, she came to a decision.

  She would cry no more for Giorgio.

  It was pointless now, wasting energy that she was going to need to build a new life that didn’t include him. She had to accept that she’d never again see laughter in his dark, dark eyes, or desire as he reached for her. There would be no phone calls to interrupt meetings with long-wooed clients, no waves from the windows of buses returning after a day trip. No waking in the morning to find he’d kicked off the sheet and was spooned around her, sharing her pillow.

  No whispers, no laughter, no hanging entangled beneath the waves as they waited out a decompression stop before they could surface.

  ‘That was then, and this is now,’ she told herself aloud, treading up the stairs. ‘This is Brinham, this is England, this is my life. I’m going to finish unpacking my cases. I live here, now.’ She blinked away a fresh burning in her raw eyes.

  She’d ring Richard tomorrow and ask him to ship the things that had been too bulky to bring in her suitcases from her Sliema apartment: a few small items of furniture, several watercolours of the island by local artists. Giorgio had bought her two: one depicting the ferry crossing Marsamxett Harbour to the bastions of Valletta; the other showing the promenade along Tower Road with The Chalet projecting starkly into the sea – the place where they’d first met.

  She emptied her first two cases, which produced enough stuff to fill a wardrobe and spill over into the spare, and then began on the third, a grey giant filled with what she’d judged she wouldn’t need much. She stood for a painful minute clutching the neoprene of her wetsuit, the silicone mask and fins, breathing in the familiar smell, remembering long sunny days when she and Giorgio had dropped together into the quiet and cool green-blue depths.

  Then she bundled it quickly into the built-in cupboard in the box room. She wouldn’t need it. She doubted she’d go under the waves again.

  There were no photoshoots in the following week. Judith felt blessedly peaceful now that she’d winkled Adam out of the house and given Molly and Frankie their spare room back. She had time to do …

  Almost anything.

  She had time to think. Time to grieve, time to be freshly aware of what she’d lost. Time to wish she’d never left Malta but also time to realise that leaving had probably been for the best. Brooding made the time go slowly and left her unable to sleep or develop an appetite.

  She needed physical activity. The garden looked a good project. She watched garden makeovers on TV and thought gardening might be just what she needed. She began cutting the long, narrow lawn, which was growing strongly. It took ages with the small lawnmower she’d left in the shed and even longer to neaten the edges with clippers that needed sharpening. The raw smell of cut grass made her sneeze and caused her eyes to run. She remembered how much she hated gardening.

  Obviously, getting out and about was what was needed. She abandoned the garden and rang The Cottage retirement home to say she was coming to take her mum out. Even so, Wilma was flustered at her appearance and Judith couldn’t decide whether it was with pleasure to have an outing or irritation that she’d miss Neighbours and The Natural World. Nevertheless, Wilma agreed to her wheelchair being folded up and wrestled in through the hatchback of Judith’s car.

  Knowing how much Wilma loved a good browse around the shops, Judith whizzed her in the car into the neighbouring county of Buckinghamshire to Milton Keynes. On the ice-smooth floors of the shopping mall the wheelchair bowled along and she began to congratulate herself on making a good choice. ‘OK, Mum?’ she called gaily.

  Wilma folded her arms over the handbag in her lap. ‘It would be lovely to go outside to the market, wouldn’t it, duck?’ Taking this as a request, Judith manhandled the heavy chair through the glass doors and onto the uneven ground of the market place where the chair moved like a bent supermarket trolley through mud. Wilma clung on as they rattled past stalls of fruit or cleaning fluids or jeans and at the end of the first row said, ‘It’s too much for you over this rough ground.’ She wouldn’t be swayed from this stance and, truthfully, Judith was thankful to bump the chair back into the smooth-floored mall.

  Wilma’s eye fell immediately on a nearby kiosk. ‘That frozen yoghurt looks lovely. And they’ve got peach.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, Mum.’ Glad for a minute to recover her breath, Judith chose strawberry and finished up the tub in record time, licking her spoon and her fingers.

  Wilma laughed, still trying to manoeuvre the tiny blue spoon with arthritic hands. ‘It’s all on my chin and my hands. Have you got a tissue, Judith? Then we can go and look for a new bag for me.’

  But after they’d rolled around the mall from department store to department store for what seemed to be hours, Wilma sighed. ‘They’re jolly expensive, and I don’t like any so much as my old one. And you must be getting awfully tired, heaving me about.’ She sounded suddenly dreary.

  Judith squeezed Wilma’s shoulder. The shopping trip seemed to have ended up as more a trial than a treat. She cursed herself for not properly appreciating her mother’s world and her lack of mobility. Molly would have known. Molly always knew the right thing to do for their mother. ‘Is this all a bit much, Mum? Would you rather I took you home?’

  Wilma dimpled, dreariness apparently forgotten. ‘We shouldn’t leave without having a cup of tea first, should we? And a scone, with lots of jam. John Lewis does lovely scones.’

  Two scones later they finally set off home, Judith reminding herself that she really must stop pouncing on her mother on a whim, interrupting Wilma’s routine and not giving enough thought to whether she’d actually enjoy what Judith decreed a treat. Wilma reinforced this resolve by looking excessively relieved to be delivered home to her room at The Cottage.

  During the following week, Judith met Kieran for dinner, accompanied, naturally, by Bethan, taking Molly with her because Frankie was at work. Then the insurance company paid up and she chose new carpets for the main living room, hall and her bedroom, and was waiting for them to be fitted.

  She was glad that next week she’d have her part-time job as a photographer’s assistant to occupy her again. She hadn’t begun scouring the sits-vac ads yet because helping Adam wasn’t demanding, was generally interesting and often fun. Hopefully, the froideur between them would soon thaw because being a full-time lady of leisure gave her too much time for a flea-jump mental process in which she flitted from thought to uncomfortable thought. Also, she needed some money coming in. However much she’d yearned to be on her own, now that she was she felt unlike the self she’d always known; it was like hearing a familiar song with the words changed.

  Thinking about Adam made her finally get round to contacting Melanie, the old school friend who’d put up Adam to be Judith’s tenant. At Brinham Grammar she’d been an absolute knock-out, the one with a lush figure that all the lads fancied rotten. Her clear skin had tanned beautifully in the days when a deep tan was considered a desirable sign of health and set off her sultry brown eyes. She’d peaked early, unfortunately. Her busty body soon became soft and less shapely and people began to say, ‘Shame, because she’s got a lovely smile.’

  But so far as Judith was concerned, Melanie was still Melanie with a ready grin, a dry wit, and a sympathetic nature. They hadn’t seen much of each other in the last decade but she had her phone number.

  Melanie was enchanted to hear from Judith and demanded a girls’ night out that very night. ‘I’ll organise tickets online to see the play that’s running at the Derngate Theatre in Northampton and book a table in a wine bar afterwards.’

  Judith readily agreed
and it was wonderful to see Melanie again, to be yanked into a big, squashy hug, Melanie’s cry of delight ringing in her ears. ‘Judith, how I’ve missed you! How fantastic that you’re home!’

  Judith felt unexpectedly choked. ‘I’ve missed you, too. I wish we hadn’t bothered with the play, now. I just want to go somewhere and talk our heads off.’

  Melanie beamed. ‘But Ian’s waiting outside in the car. He said he’d chauffeur for us to allow me a decent session at the wine bar afterwards.’ Sure enough, Ian’s eyes twinkled through his big, silver-framed glasses at his wife and her friend squashed in the back seat of his Punto so they could talk without drawing breath all the way to Northampton.

  By the time they got there they were ready to settle down and watch the play about murder and betrayal. It was great, although they agreed that they preferred the old Royal Theatre next door, joined on to the Derngate now, and the pantomimes there when they were kids. The ice creams had seemed bigger and the performances even more magical.

  After the curtain, Melanie threaded them through the streets to a wine bar with primrose frontage and a grapevine painted across the windows. ‘So,’ she said, pouring big glasses of deeply red wine. ‘Poor old Adam blotted his copy book and you had to throw him out?’

  Judith felt a flush heat her cheeks. ‘His son, Caleb, had a party and trashed the place. Adam instantly agreed to leave. Hard luck on Adam, I realise, but it’s good to have my own place back.’

  ‘And it’s your house, of course. But, yes, hard luck on Adam. And he’s had enough bad luck lately.’ Frowning, Melanie fanned her face with a beer mat.

  Judith’s flush deepened. ‘I know he’s a friend of yours. He’s a great guy.’

  Melanie’s ready smile burst across her face, making her twinkling eyes almost disappear into her laughter lines. ‘A friend of Ian’s, really, but yes, Adam’s lovely. He’s moving in to a new place this weekend, a flat.’

  Judith didn’t say she was all too aware of that. She sipped her wine, realising that all her restlessness and lack of concentration this week had been guilt that in leaping at the opportunity to reclaim her house after Caleb’s party, she hadn’t much cared where Adam went until the day came for him to go. ‘He’s been staying with friends, I suppose?’