Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

‘Look, you can’t do anything until you know what action the school is taking.’ She yawned, rolling over to kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll sleep in the spare room. I’ve got a heavy day tomorrow.’

  His wife’s matter-of-fact reaction to his predicament wounded him. What he’d hoped for was unconditional support, a champion to take up his cause and transform him from villain to hero.

  He must have dozed for a couple of hours but he was awake when the central heating clicked on at six-thirty. He heard Kirsty showering but when she slipped into the bedroom to collect her clothes he feigned sleep, unable to stomach her detachment.

  Lewis made an effort to keep busy so that, when Kirsty got in from work, he could report that he had been swimming or gone for a walk on the Downs. He made himself go out but he had little appetite for these solo excursions. He felt conspicuous amongst the young mums and pensioners who were the only people around during the day. He was convinced that everyone whom he encountered must wonder why an able-bodied man of his age wasn’t at work. One rainy afternoon, he went to the cinema, sitting in the almost empty auditorium, not knowing what the hell he was doing there. ‘Good film?’ Kirsty asked but he could remember neither title nor plot.

  At the end of his first week at home, Kirsty insisted he contact his union and engage a solicitor. ‘Hand it over to the professionals. They’re familiar with the procedures. They’ll know how to push for information.’ These seemed premature steps, the actions of a guilty man, but he wasn’t up to arguing with her.

  A union representative, harassed and officious, spent a lot of time phoning ‘headquarters’ and flicking through a fat book of regulations. He left, making Lewis promise to keep him informed of any developments, as though he were the one under the gathering cloud.

  The solicitor, an acquaintance of Kirsty’s, was overly cocky, constantly reassuring Lewis that he had won lots of cases ‘significantly more complex than this’. Considering that no charges had been brought, Lewis wasn’t encouraged to hear his circumstances referred to as a ‘case’. It placed him a whisker away from being ‘the defendant’. He made a statement denying that he had made any advances or improper suggestions to Michelle Haldane. Still without a list of his supposed transgressions, it had to be couched in general terms. His solicitor assured him that, should he be charged with anything, they would be given a detailed catalogue of accusations. Very comforting.

  Half-term came and went. His full salary was credited to his account, the clocks went back and the shortening days raced on. Then everyone seemed to lose interest in him, as though he had no stake in what was unfolding. He wondered how Michelle was getting on, whether she, too, was feeling high and dry. He didn’t know – didn’t dare enquire – whether she was still at the school and, if she were, how she was coping. He felt no animosity towards her. It couldn’t have been her idea. She had been forced into it somehow, making her as much a victim as he was. They were a wronged minority of two.

  Kirsty and Lewis went over the ground so many times that it became treacherous and eventually they steered around it, their conversations dwindling to small talk. ‘How was your day?’ ‘And yours?’ ‘Anything interesting in the post?’ ‘Custard or ice cream on your apple pie?’ It had been this way when she’d miscarried the second baby.

  He held out for a while before telling Tessa or his father. He was certain the business would soon be cleared up and it was pointless worrying them unnecessarily. But, if he were truthful, his reticence was due to embarrassment. The crime he might be charged with was not the sort of thing he wanted to bandy about.

  He put it off, and put it off, until, in the end, Kirsty said, ‘You’ve got to tell Tessa sooner or later. Why don’t you go up to London?’

  Then she added, rather unkindly, he thought, ‘You know how Tessa enjoys a drama.’

  Chapter 34

  ‘The little bitch. I’m going to come down there and give Michelle Haldane a good slap.’

  Tessa’s reaction lifted Lewis spirits. ‘Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?’

  Tessa hugged him. ‘Seriously, Lewis, promise me you’re not going to sit back and let this happen. And what’s Kirsty playing at? She’s the bloody lawyer, after all.’

  ‘She says that it’s best to back off. Wait and see if they’re going to charge me.’

  ‘Is she a Kafka fan or something?’ Tessa demanded. ‘We’ve got to pester them. Make a nuisance of ourselves until they tell us what’s going on. And I haven’t forgiven you yet for not telling me straight away.’

  We. Us. It was wonderful to have a biased ally.

  They were in Tessa’s kitchen. Dan was in Amsterdam, at the opening of an international sculpture exhibition.

  ‘Why didn’t you go with him?’ Lewis asked. ‘Amsterdam’s a great place.’

  ‘A gathering of sculptors isn’t as much fun as you might think. Anyway, I’ve got something on tomorrow night.’

  ‘Boot me out if I’m in the way.’

  ‘You’re not. And you’re welcome to stay. I’m sure Lotte would be delighted to entertain you if you feel like some company. She always asks after you.’

  He raised a hand. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I might see if Jay fancies going to a jazz club. Are the Costelloes around?’

  ‘I think so.’ She stood up. ‘C’mon. Let’s go somewhere. You can treat me to lunch.’

  They meandered through the City, a part of London that Lewis had only visited at weekends when it was deserted but for tourists searching for ghosts of Fagin and murdered princes. Today it was open for business. Pavements throbbed with busy, busy, people; traffic choked the narrow streets; loitering tourists, ever present, got in the way. The clang of scaffolding poles and church bells ricocheted between the buildings. There was a building site around every corner, piling an umpteenth layer of history on the capital. Outside banks an armed police presence was a reminder that not everyone wished to be part of the country’s history. Lewis and Tessa watched a team of grim-faced policemen checking a white transit van before waving it through the gated entrance to a courtyard.

  ‘Doesn’t it scare you?’ Lewis asked.

  ‘It’s a bloody nuisance. Bag searches, Underground evacuations, road closures. But I’m buggered if I’m going to let the IRA control my life. If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen.’

  Typical Tessa. One minute insisting he be master of his destiny, the next turning all fatalistic about her own.

  At lunchtime they were lucky to find a couple of seats in the corner of a crowded pub. Tucking in to bangers and mash, they returned to Lewis’s predicament.

  ‘Do I take it you still haven’t said anything to Dad? And what about Andrea?’

  ‘I had to tell her. The girls were supposed to come for a visit. I couldn’t risk anything unpleasant happening with them around.’

  Lewis’s conversation with his ex-wife had been prickly. He’d detected exasperation, not sympathy, in her voice, as though he’d engineered the incident to inconvenience her. She’d thought it best if he postponed contacting his daughters until the matter was ‘cleared up’, as if he was suffering from a contagious disease.

  Tessa stabbed at a sausage. ‘She can’t stop you seeing your own kids.’

  ‘I know. But I’m going to wait until it’s all sorted out.’

  She shrugged. ‘Your call.’

  ‘Actually I wanted to talk to you about Dad. I went to see them last weekend. I thought I’d gauge the lie of the land before I told him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Something wasn’t quite right. Usually Barbara leaves us to chat but for some reason she stuck around. Like she wanted to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Funny you should say that. Last time I rang, it sounded as though she was standing next to him, prompting him. As though he’d forgotten his lines.’ Tessa groaned. ‘She’s not going to turn weird on us, is she? It would be nice if something went right for this family.’

  ‘Everything’s okay with you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Do
n’t worry about me.’ Tessa leaned across and kissed his cheek. ‘Look at those two over there?’ She nodded towards a couple at a table near the door and mouthed, ‘Spies.’

  With Tessa, nothing was ever as it seemed. The man on the opposite side of the street, the one with the velvet-collared overcoat and shiny brogues, had stabbed his wife at the breakfast table and concealed the bloodstained bread knife in his rolled newspaper. The girl with the bright red lips and fingernails, hurrying down the escalator, was on her way to meet her lesbian lovers. The car, engine running, young man at the wheel, was the getaway car for a bullion heist. It was a childish way for two forty-somethings to carry on, but it was fun and he was grateful to Tessa for trying to take his mind off things.

  Although his sister often played the crazy woman, she was steadier than she used to be. When she was eighteen, she’d jumped out of their life like a skydiver without a parachute, and for years he’d held his breath, dreading a phone call from the police or a stranger bringing bad news. She would always be a pain in the arse but, thanks mainly to Dan Coates, he no longer feared every late night phone call or knock at the door.

  As Tessa travelled south, she thought about Lewis and wanted to punish someone. Lots of people, in fact. She’d line them up. Michelle Haldane, Kirsty, Andrea, Lewis’s boss. She’d douse them in boiling oil then string them up by their toenails. Admittedly Lewis had been na•ve. He’d made a rudimentary mistake but it was unthinkable that he should lose his job and his reputation merely because he’d tried to improve a girl’s life. He didn’t deserve any of this. Still, a night out with Jay might do him good.

  Rundle’s new flat had two bedrooms, a spacious living room and a smart kitchen. It was, as the previous one had been, part of a Georgian house but this time on the northern outskirts of the town where the streetscape was looser and gardens larger. It was some distance from the railway station, but she had her own car and the journey took not much more than two hours, door to door.

  Rundle was waiting for her. ‘I thought you might not be able to get away.’

  ‘Lewis is out on the razzle tonight.’ She took the glass of wine he offered her and drained it. ‘That’s better.’

  ‘I’m glad you came.’ He kissed her, tenderly at first then more roughly.

  ‘Not yet.’ She needed to put her London life behind her. It hadn’t been like that in ‘the old days’ but things had changed. ‘Have you got anything to eat? I’m famished.’

  He heated a tin of minestrone soup and grated Parmesan cheese on top. While they ate, she told him what had happened to Lewis. She didn’t expect him to engage in it – what was Lewis to him? – but eating and talking anchored her in this other existence.

  Tony – he’d asked her to call him that – had cried the first time she came here. She’d been embarrassed and irritated by his display of emotion because it made him attainable, which had never been part of the deal. He was still taciturn but she no longer felt intimidated by his silences. These days, when she asked him a question, he answered. Since they’d resumed their relationship, she’d discovered that his mother, who had moved to Brighton in the late sixties with her second husband, had died and left him this flat; that he had an older sister living in Australia; that he played in a band – bluesy stuff these days; that he kept in shape by going to the gym twice a week. She’d even dared to ask whether the teenage rumours that he’d fathered a child had been true. ‘Not as far as I know,’ was his answer and she’d believed him.

  ‘I met your brother once,’ Rundle said. They were lying in bed, in the dark, sipping whisky and smoking.

  ‘When?’

  ‘After you went to Cornwall with the artists.’

  ‘But that was twenty years ago.’

  ‘He came to my flat. Told me to leave you alone.’

  ‘Lewis? Lewis did?’

  ‘Yeah. He was all fired up. Threatened to kill me.’

  Tessa laughed. ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘No. It’s true.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I hit him. Punched him on his shoulder.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was a plucky kid. I had to stop him before he did anything daft.’

  Tessa pictured Lewis confronting Rundle, terrified yet standing his ground. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘He cried. Then he begged me not to come looking for you. Said it would ruin your life if I did. So I didn’t.’

  She turned her head and bit hard in to his right bicep. He cried out, pulling away and spilling his drink over her naked thigh. ‘Christ, Tessa. What was that for?’

  ‘For hitting Lewis.’

  A week before school broke up, Michelle Haldane changed her mind. Mr Swinburne hadn’t made any improper suggestions after all. She’d been mistaken.

  ‘Great news, eh, Lewis?’ Anson, this time in tweed jacket and grey flannels, slapped him on the back. ‘I told you these things tend to blow over. Given time.’

  Lewis couldn’t remember his saying anything of the sort, nevertheless his initial reaction was relief and gratitude. Now we can all get back to normal.

  But it wasn’t that simple. At the first whiff of scandal, his ‘comrades’ had abandoned him. During his two months enforced absence he’d received only three phone calls and one note from fellow members of staff, all lukewarm. No one had come to see him or invited him out for a drink. No one had asked him for his side of the story, although, come to think of it, he’d never heard the other side.

  Anson sketched in the details. ‘It seems it was that gang of girls, you know the ones – Rachel Philips, Naomi Clark, Chrissie what’s-her-name – that put Michelle up to it. They found out that you were giving her a bit of extra tuition and bullied her in to accusing you of…’

  The very girls whom he’d thought were throwing Michelle a lifeline were using her to cause mischief. Clever. Cruel.

  ‘How is Michelle?’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about her, Lewis. In fact she’s not with us any more.’

  Lewis froze. ‘She hasn’t—’

  Anson laughed. ‘Good Lord, no. I say “not with us” as in “gone elsewhere”. Her parents thought it best to move her to another school.’

  Poor little bugger. Mocked, bullied, exposed as a liar then exiled to a school where she knew no one.

  ‘What made her change her story?’

  ‘Mmmm. That was rather odd. Mrs Haldane said Michelle received a letter. She wouldn’t tell her mother what was in it but it was postmarked London. Typed envelope. The very next day, she admitted that she’d lied.’

  Tessa. How had she got hold of Michelle’s address? And what unspeakable threats had she made in her letter?

  No longer required to retain his composure, Lewis buckled, like one of those figures made from wooden beads that collapses when its base is pressed. Within twenty-four hours he had succumbed to bronchitis and spent the best part of a week in bed.

  Rundle offered to take Tessa to the cinema or for walks along the prom; he worried about her driving back to London on frosty nights; he wanted to know when she might next come.

  What had gone on here? A road to Damascus conversion? Therapy? Something to do with his mother’s death? She knew from experience that death could precipitate startling readjustments. Or – and this wasn’t an easy one to swallow – had he never been the villain she’d made him out to be? Could his surliness have been shyness? His off-handedness, a cushion against her selfishness? She’d cast him as a ‘loner’ but he must get on with people to have held down the same job for so long; to play in a band. Such a radical reappraisal of the man didn’t help because, whatever the reasons for his metamorphosis, the net result was the same. What he now offered Tessa wasn’t so very different from what she had with Dan. In fact the last time she’d spent the night in Brighton, he’d brought her breakfast in bed and she’d automatically muttered, ‘Thanks, Dan.’

  Perhaps she should dump both of them and start again. She might try a toy boy next time. Or a wo
man.

  Who was she fooling? She was almost forty-four. London was awash with gorgeous, confident young women elbowing the likes of her out of the market. She wasn’t prepared to join her desperate friends who were clinging to the wreckage. Look at Lotte Jamieson. A few years older than Tessa, Lotte had resorted to surgery and now resembled a younger, startled version of herself. But her thick toenails and crépey cleavage gave the game away. ‘I insist the bedroom light goes off these days,’ she confessed after a few glasses of wine.

  Lewis spotted immediately what was wrong. It was his first visit of the New Year, the first time he’d been to Salisbury Road since October. His father came to the door – Barbara was in the kitchen and hadn’t heard the bell – and from the wary look in his eye, Lewis realised that he didn’t have a clue who was standing on the doorstep.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Lewis asked when he and Barbara were alone.

  ‘I thought I was mistaken at first. We all forget things from time to time. Then, when it became obvious that it was more than forgetfulness, I thought that if no one else knew, it couldn’t be happening.’

  Lewis thought back to the day of his mother’s death. ‘I understand exactly what you mean. How are you coping?’

  She shrugged. ‘We’re managing. He’s fine most of the time. We just have these little … lapses.’

  ‘Is Dad aware…?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the cruellest thing.’

  Lewis floundered, searching for an on-the-spot solution.

  Barbara must have seen his confusion. ‘We’ve talked to the doctor and found out what to expect.’ She shook her head. ‘Your father’s very cross with himself.’

  ‘He must know it’s just bad luck.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t stop him wanting to take the blame.’ She twisted her wedding ring. ‘As the present is starting to slip away, he mentions the past more and more often.’

  ‘The past?’

  ‘He talks about your mother.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘How beautiful she was. How it was his fault that she had such a sad life.’