Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  Dismissing the magazines piled on the incongruously domestic coffee table, he went to the window, peering into the semi-darkness, trying to find something – anything – to divert him, but the window overlooked a gated yard containing enormous lidded refuse bins and there was nothing to see.

  After half an hour, he retraced his route to the reception desk where yet another nurse assured him, ‘I’ll fetch you as soon as they’ve finished the routine checks. Won’t be long.’ On his way back to the waiting room, he spotted the public phones. Digging in his pocket, he took out a handful of coins and it was only when he lifted the receiver that he realised that, although he knew the individual digits that made up Tessa’s phone number, he wasn’t sure of the sequence. As a mathematician, he understood how useless that was.

  At eleven-thirty, he was dozing, his hand shielding his eyes from the relentless fluorescent light, when a nurse popped her head around the door. ‘You can come and see her now. She’s doing fine. I don’t think it’ll be too long.’

  ‘How long is not too long?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh … you know,’ was all she would say.

  Andrea, clad in a hospital gown, was lying on a bed in a windowless room, propped against a pile of crumpled pillows. Her face glistened with sweat and her hair was damp. The powerful ceiling lights leached the colour from her skin and gave the scene an overexposed quality.

  ‘How’s it going?’ He kissed her, her cheek clammy to his lips.

  ‘Not too bad.’ She gripped his hand. ‘They’ve just given me a pethadine injection.’ She pointed towards a metal dish on the locker just beyond her reach. ‘Could you pass me that? I feel a bit queasy.’

  It took all his willpower not to gag as his wife first heaved then vomited into the dish.

  ‘Sorry,’ she apologised and he felt ashamed. He was to blame for her swollen body and for the pain that she was suffering, yet all he wanted her to do was get on with it so that he could go home.

  The nurse came with an ear trumpet device which she pressed hard into the mound of Andrea’s belly. Then, ear against it, she peered at the watch pinned, like a medal, to her starched apron. Her lips moved silently as she counted off the baby’s heartbeats.

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said, patting Andrea’s hand. ‘Keep up the good work.’ And she disappeared again.

  Time was lurching forward in fits and starts. He glanced at his watch at what he would have estimated to be regular intervals only to find that sometimes two minutes had passed, other times, fifteen. Andrea fidgeted and dozed, crying out when a contraction reached its climax. They hardly spoke and he knew it was because she was utterly focused on the awesomely barbaric process in which she was engaged.

  At six-twenty she asked, ‘Can you fetch someone, Lewis? The pain’s pretty bad.’

  He went into the corridor, momentarily unable to remember whether to turn left or right. He was dithering when a doctor – the first he’d seen since they entered the hospital – came around the corner and he explained that his wife needed to be checked.

  ‘She’s in there.’ He pointed to the door. ‘Could you tell her I’ll be back in a minute? I need to take a leak.’

  It was already light and it occurred to Lewis that emerging as he had from the warm, windowless room into the bright morning was not dissimilar to the journey that his child was about to take. His child. Perhaps, when he saw this baby, this sense of detachment would evaporate and be replaced by whatever was needed to turn him into a successful husband and father.

  After the night’s isolation, it was good to rejoin the world. After he’d been to the lavatory and swished his face with cold water, he followed the smell of cooking bacon to the cafeteria. A cheerful atmosphere filled the place, a sense of relief that another dreary night had passed. He collected a cup of tea and a slice of toast from the self-service counter, downed them quickly then went out into the car park and inhaled the chilly morning air.

  Andrea was twisted to one side, a bundle resting in the crook of her arm. One nurse was gathering up bloodied sheets, a second writing something in a ledger and, seeing him, they both stopped what they were doing and stared at him as though he were a trespasser.

  Andrea kept her eyes on the bundle.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ she announced, her voice quavering. ‘Not that you could give a damn.’ She looked up. ‘Where were you? What was so vital that you missed the birth of our baby?’ She started to weep.

  Andrea wasn’t clever like Kirsty Ross, whose intellect and objectivity had left him feeling vulnerable, she was honest, diligent and conventional. She’d made him feel that he was in charge and he’d married her because he’d thought he could cope with her. But he’d failed to spot the steely determination which, once she’d identified her goals: husband, house, family, kept her tenaciously on course. These weren’t such terrible ambitions but Tessa’s Is this how you thought it would be? had exhumed the disappointment that he’d buried after Sarah was born.

  ‘I’m so sorry, love,’ he said.

  But he wasn’t. He was relieved not to have been there at that moment of ultimate commitment, which would have been tantamount to signing up for life.

  ‘I was feeling faint. You had enough to worry about without my passing out.’

  She stopped crying and patted the bed. ‘Poor Lewis. Sit next to me and hold your new daughter.’

  Chapter 21

  Tessa had not yet inspected her new niece. She wasn’t ready to face those conversations about whose nose the child had; how many hours it slept; whether it had a wet nappy or needed winding. Then, out of the blue, Andrea and the children decamped to Stafford leaving Lewis at Cranwell Lodge. Delighted though Tessa was to be let off the hook, it didn’t make sense that her brother was spending the long school holiday on his own.

  Tessa had been successful in separating her family from her London life. Before his marriage Lewis had come up for the odd weekend, but she made sure to keep him on the move, sightseeing or going to galleries, never at rest long enough to get a close look at her world. Therefore when he’d asked if he might spend a few days with her, the prospect of exposing her life to his forensic examination unnerved her. He was prepared to come whenever it suited her and she could find no reason to put him off. On the plus side, they hadn’t seen each other since their spat several months earlier and she suspected that he wanted to patch things up. She did, too, and their reconciliation would stand a better chance if they were well away from factors that invariably precipitated a falling out.

  Determined to prove to Lewis that he had a completely wrong picture of the way she lived, she tidied her bookshelves, shoved clothes into drawers and dumped piles of yellowing newspapers in the dustbin. She made umpteen trips to the launderette, bought cornflakes, bread, butter and milk and made sure there were coins for the gas meter. She changed the sheets on her bed and put clean towels in the bathroom. While she was engaged in these mindless chores, she pondered whether Lewis and Dan Coates should meet.

  Tessa hugged Lewis. ‘Welcome to my – how did you put it? – “grotty little flat”.’ She led him through to the living room and pointed to the sofa. ‘That’s where you’ll be sleeping. It’s quite comfy, so I’m told.’

  ‘Before I forget…’ Lewis unzipped his holdall and gave her something wrapped in several layers of greaseproof paper and tied with string. ‘From Mum. It’s one of her meat pies. Apparently you can’t get food in London.’

  ‘Has she never heard of Sweeney Todd?’

  ‘Don’t,’ he shuddered. ‘You used to tell me that story every time I went to the barber. I was pooing my pants by the time I sat in the chair.’

  They drank coffee. Tessa asked after Andrea and the children. ‘So what possessed you to call this one Jane?’ She shook her head. ‘Sarah and Jane. Hardly trailblazing.’

  ‘We let Sarah choose. Andrea thought it would be good to get her involved. It’s not easy when a sibling arrives. We know that, don’t we?’ He drained his mug.

  Le
wis worked his way along the bookshelf, checking the titles of Tessa’s books. He did the same with her record collection. ‘It’s funny. I used to know every book you had. And every record. Now,’ he pulled out a book at random, ‘One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovic. I’d never have guessed you’d read Solzhenitsyn.’ He held up a record, ‘Or listened to Leonard Cohen.’

  She frowned. ‘Lewis, what are you on about?’

  ‘There was a time when I knew everything about you and now I know nothing about you.’

  ‘What tripe. I don’t have a clue what books you read when you were a kid, or what you read now. But that’s got nothing to do with knowing you.’

  ‘When you meet someone for the first time, I bet you take one look at their bookshelf and make an instant judgement. I bet you say to yourself this person reads such-and-such, therefore they must be … whatever.’

  Tessa hurled a cushion at her brother’s head. ‘Or this person talks a lot of drivel.’

  A typewriter stood on the table, concealed beneath its fitted cover. Lewis pointed to it. ‘How’s the book going?’

  ‘Okay, I think. D’you mind if we don’t talk about it? I’m a bit superstitious.’

  Instead they discussed the heatwave. It hadn’t rained for weeks and the soaring temperatures were breaking all kinds of records.

  ‘They’re threatening to cut off the water and erect standpipes,’ Lewis said. ‘It’ll be tough if Andrea can’t use the washing machine. The baby gets through half a dozen nappies a day.’

  Tessa yawned. ‘Shall we go for a walk? There might be a breeze up on the Heath.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  It was late afternoon but, although the sun was sinking behind the rooftops, it seemed no cooler than it had at midday.

  ‘Feel the pavement,’ Lewis said. ‘It’s soaking up the heat then pushing it out, like a gigantic storage heater.’

  Tessa crouched, laying the back of her hand on the grimy slabs as if she were a doctor feeling the forehead of a patient. ‘I never thought of it like that.’ She stood up and linked her arm through his. ‘You are such a strange mixture, Lewis. You know all that difficult stuff – maths, physics, astronomy – and I’m sure you’re a wonderful teacher, but you’re clueless when it comes to ordinary things.’

  ‘Ordinary things? What, for instance?’

  ‘Well … like fashion. And music.’ She let go of his arm and positioned herself in front of him. ‘Look at you. Your hair’s too short. Your clothes are too baggy. You look middle-aged. And you act middle-aged. You’re only thirty and you’re married with two kids.’

  ‘I don’t quite see how that makes me “clueless”.’

  She clapped her hands. ‘See. You’re even clueless about your clueless-ness.’

  They bought Ninety-nines from a Mr Whippy van, and walked on, licking the melting ice cream before it dribbled down the cone. There was surprisingly little traffic yet petrol fumes, pungent and metallic, tainted the air. The few pedestrians that they passed seemed to be sleepwalking, as if they had been hypnotised by the heat.

  They turned down a side street. At the end of it a narrow footpath, bounded on either side by high garden walls, led through to the Heath. A summer of tramping feet had worn away the grass and the compacted soil was cracked from the drought. Shouting and laughter echoed from the direction of the open air swimming pool, out of sight beyond the plane trees. Climbing slowly up the path, they reached the vantage point of Parliament Hill. Turning, they looked out across the city which sprawled as far as the eye could see, beneath the bleached sky.

  ‘So spit it out. What’s going on?’ Tessa kept her eyes averted. He would find it easier to open up if she weren’t looking at him.

  He exhaled slowly, blowing out his cheeks. ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘When’s Andrea coming back? She is coming back?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. We have polite telephone conversations. “How’s Sarah?” “Fine.” “How’s Jane?” “Fine.” “How are you feeling?” “Not too bad.” It’s as if we’re strangers.’

  A child ran past, trailing a kite behind him, the multicoloured construction scuffing along the ground, failing to lift off in the still air.

  Lewis pointed at it. ‘My life feels like that. A lot of effort for something that’s never going to succeed.’

  Tessa, unused to seeing her brother so despondent, tried to cheer him up. ‘It’s probably a touch of the baby blues. And, anyway, it’s natural for her to want to spend time with her mother.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not that. It’s me. I’ve been behaving like a shit. But I can’t seem to snap out of it.’

  She gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘We can’t have that. Shitty is what I do. You’re Mister Nice Guy.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  She didn’t press him, knowing that the whole story would emerge during the course of his visit, and they headed across the Heath towards the bus stop.

  They spent Saturday morning in the Science Museum which bored Tessa to tears and failed to engage Lewis. After lunch in the crowded cafeteria, Tessa searched out a public phone and rang Dan Coates.

  ‘My brother’s turned up,’ she said, making it sound as though Lewis had arrived on her doorstep like an unsolicited parcel. ‘I thought we might go out this evening. D’you want to come?’

  She’d been in several minds about introducing the two men. There were too many skeletons struggling to get out of too many cupboards, but desire to dispel Lewis’s melancholy overcame her reservations. At the last minute, to leaven the mix, she invited her friend Charlotte Jamieson to join them.

  Had Lewis been feeling less dejected, he might have enjoyed his sister’s solicitude. He guessed he was cutting a pathetic figure because she was treating him like someone with a terminal illness. However this hadn’t stopped her from cross-questioning him – albeit more warily than she usually did – and he had every intention of telling her the ins and outs of it. But it wasn’t easy to get started.

  Solitude at Cranwell Lodge, coupled with an effort to maintain a faade of normality, was wearing him down. He’d explained to everyone who showed a bemused interest that there were jobs to be done around the house, and that it would be safer if Andrea and the children were well away from hammers, chisels and toxic paint fumes. To back up his story, he’d repainted the kitchen and creosoted the garden fence but physical activity couldn’t stop him thinking and the more he thought, the more bleak his circumstances appeared.

  ‘Who are these people we’re meeting?’ Lewis asked as they were leaving Tessa’s flat.

  ‘Charlotte Jamieson. Lotte. I used to work with her at Ward & Cox. Very rich. Very intelligent. Very … argumentative. And Dan Coates. He’s a sculptor. I’ve known him for years.’

  ‘Let me guess. Very good looking? Very sexy? Very … boyfriend?’

  ‘Must you categorise everything? It’s so unnecessary.’

  ‘I disagree. I find it clarifies things. Saves a lot of time. Saves getting crossed wires. If you won’t tell me, I may have to ask this Dan Coates which category he fits in to.’

  ‘Don’t try and be clever, Lewis. It doesn’t suit you.’ She poked her tongue out. ‘Okay, if we’re going to play that game, which category does Lewis Swinburne fall in to? Failing husband? Unwilling father?’

  They had stopped outside a pub and he nodded towards the open door. ‘Have we got time for a drink?’

  It was unbearably hot in the bar, the air saturated with cigarette smoke. Following the signs To the Beer Garden, they ended up in a shabby yard where there were a couple of dilapidated wooden tables and they sat opposite each other amongst the dustbins, pigeon droppings and crates of empty bottles.

  Tessa reached across the table and caught his hand. ‘If you want to tell me I promise I won’t say “I told you so”.’

  ‘You did, though. Tell me so, I mean.’

  Tessa nodded for him to continue.

  ‘Look at me. I’ve got a nice wife, two nice
kids, a nice home and a nice job. So why am I being such a shit?’

  Tessa frowned. ‘Why would anyone equate “nice” with desirable? It’s a synonym for mediocre if you ask me.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘And a bit true.’

  Lewis pressed the tips of his fingers against his closed eyes. ‘Maybe I’m not cut out for marriage and fatherhood.’ Orange and green patterns swirled on the backs of his eyelids.

  ‘Or maybe you’ve landed yourself with the wrong wife and the wrong children.’

  ‘Maybe. Knowing – admitting – is one thing, working out what to do is quite another. I can’t just walk away from them, can I?’

  ‘Andrea’s the one who’s done the walking. Perhaps she feels the same way as you do.’

  He sighed. ‘I think she’ll come back on condition I promise to play the part of devoted husband and father.’

  ‘And you’re not prepared to do that?’

  Lewis ran his fingers down the sides of his cold beer glass, moisture condensing on his hot skin. ‘I don’t know.’

  Tessa was silent for a moment. ‘No matter what you promise, you won’t be able to go on, year after year, playing a part. You’ll go round the bend. And anyway, you’ve never been any good at pretending.’ She paused. ‘Are you missing them at all?’

  ‘Not really. It’s a bit quiet at times…’

  ‘So turn the radio on,’ she said gently.

  By the time they reached the restaurant, Lewis felt light-headed, a sensation that he attributed more to relief than the beer he’d consumed. Roman Catholics must feel similarly intoxicated coming away from the confessional, the only conditions for their forgiveness a few prayers and an undertaking not to repeat the offence. He had got it off his chest and been forgiven although Tessa wasn’t the one he had offended against.

  Tessa led the way to the rear of the restaurant, where a man sat at a table reading a paperback book. ‘Sorry we’re late,’ she said.

  The man stood up, inserting a bus ticket between the pages to mark his place, and Lewis saw that the book was The Outsider. So Coates was the sort of man who read Camus. A promising start.