Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  It came to her out of the blue. She should buy a gift for Lewis. A ‘thank you’ for driving all the way to Birmingham to fetch her. What would he like? She studied the window displays in the gift shops. Cufflinks. Watches. Wallets. Fountain pens. All of these, nice though they were, weren’t quite Lewis. She was looking for something more personal, something to show that she hadn’t forgotten.

  On she went, glancing in the shop windows as she passed. Top Shop, Smith’s, Littlewoods. She was beginning to despair when she spotted the HMV sign. She smiled. Music. That was it. Why hadn’t she thought of it straight away? Lewis adored jazz.

  The jazz department was on the first floor. It was peaceful in here, breathy saxophone notes barely disturbing the air. There were only half a dozen customers and she made for the far corner, where neither they nor the boy standing behind the counter could watch her.

  She flipped through the CDs, the cellophane-wrapped packets toppling forward, clattering gently. Dankworth. Davis. Dean. Dorsey. She moved to her right. McGreggor, Marsalis, Mingus, Mulligan. She edged along, taking one from here, one from there, until she was holding seven square packets. Seven was an interesting number and square was a pleasing shape. But their square-ness was spoiled by a lump of grey plastic on the opening edge of each case. She frowned, not sure what to do about these imperfections.

  She glanced up. The boy was coming towards her. Heat spread from the small of her back, enveloping her whole body.

  ‘Can I help you, Madam? Were you looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘No. I made a mistake. Lewis hates jazz.’ She thrust the CDs towards him. ‘I’ll get him a wallet.’ She hurried away, scanning the store signs, looking for the exit.

  From the descending escalator, she had an aerial view of the ground floor. Dozens of people were milling around. Loud music and the clamour of voices rose to meet her. Suddenly the man studying the display of video tapes at the foot of the escalator caught her attention. Although he had his back to her there was something familiar in his stance and the clothes he wore. Jeans. Leather jacket. Short, reddish hair.

  It was Rundle.

  She stepped off the escalator and, turning her face away from him, she made a dash for the main door. Once clear of the shop, she pulled the hood of the jacket over her head, holding it close around her face, scurrying along as fast as her aching ankle would allow.

  There were stupid people everywhere, watching her, getting in the way, trying to trip her up.

  Shit. Rundle was on the other side of the street now, with a child in a pushchair.

  She took the next turn on the left, her throat scorching as she gasped for air, a stitch nagging her side. She kept going, looking to left and right. Oh, fuck, there, there he was again, by that white van, lying in wait for her. Oh, please God, no.

  She was sweating, the hood funnelling the sound of her fear back into her ears.

  Ahead was a sign – Ladies Toilets – and, with one final effort, she pushed through the shabby door. Making for the furthest cubicle, she locked herself in.

  *

  When Lewis returned from school and found the house deserted, he contacted the police. It didn’t take long for them to make the connection between his call and the woman found in the public lavatories.

  When he got to the hospital, the sight of Tessa curled up, rocking silently, terrified him.

  ‘Tess?’ he called softly.

  She looked up but no flicker of recognition crossed her face.

  He drove home, hating himself for abandoning her there, yet – he was ashamed to admit – relieved that the matter had been taken out of his hands.

  Chapter 42

  At first Kirsty was sympathetic, saying the things that he wanted to hear.

  ‘You couldn’t have done more, Lewis. I’ve made a few enquiries. The hospital’s got an excellent reputation. They’ll take good care of her.’

  As the days went on, her tone modified.

  ‘Are you sure that your spending so much time at the hospital with her isn’t dredging up bad memories?’

  This thought had occurred to him but Matthew Collins, Tessa’s counsellor, explained, ‘Seeing you regularly, someone she’s had beside her as long as she can remember, keeps her connected to the world. It provides stability and reassurance. Both are vital if she’s to get well. Don’t worry too much if she doesn’t want to talk. Never press her. Take your cue from her.’ He hesitated. ‘One thing concerns me slightly. This is a heavy burden for you to shoulder alone, Mr Swinburne. To be frank the worst thing would be for you to burn yourself out and not be able—’

  ‘I won’t let her down,’ Lewis said.

  ‘Is there no one who could share the visiting?’ Collins persisted, ‘A friend? A relative?’

  ‘No, there isn’t,’ was Lewis’s despondent admission.

  Tessa didn’t know where she was or how she came to be there. She’d wondered if she was back in prison but the people who brought her food and helped her dress were gentle and patient. And Lewis was here, in the room with her.

  ‘What is this place?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re in hospital,’ he explained.

  ‘Am I ill?’ she asked. ‘What’s the matter with me?’

  ‘You’ve been … overdoing it,’ he said.

  ‘Can I trust these people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The doctors looking after Tessa were always ready to talk to Lewis. They made no promises, offered no fatuous reassurances, emphasising that, unlike a broken limb or slipped disc, the mind’s recovery process was unpredictable and couldn’t be rushed. The surroundings were austere and the staff could be a little brusque at times but he had faith in them. Despite this, the spectre of his mother and her lifelong struggle lurked obstinately in the back of his mind.

  He visited every weekend and tried to get to the hospital at least once during the week. Kirsty never commented on his absences but her silence was more telling than any criticism. To compensate, he booked tickets for the theatre and concerts, they went to the cinema and he took her out for meals. It was very civilised but about as effective as applying a sticking plaster to a ruptured artery.

  ‘I’m thinking of going to Greece in August,’ Kirsty announced one evening. ‘Will you come with me?’

  He took her hand, hoping that his touch would temper what he had to say. ‘You know I can’t go anywhere at the moment.’

  ‘Why not? It would only be for a couple of weeks. Tessa would want you to have a holiday, wouldn’t she? Can’t you explain to her? Can’t she grasp that?’ Kirsty raised her eyebrows. ‘Or perhaps you don’t want to come.’

  ‘She has no one else in the world.’

  ‘And why is that, I wonder? You’ve got to ease off, Lewis. Take a step back. Anyway, from what you tell me, she’s out of it half the time. She’s probably got no idea what day it is so how would she know if you missed a few visits? I’m worried for you. You’re starting to look … haunted.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She folded her arms across her chest. ‘If you don’t watch it you’ll end up being as crazy as she is.’

  ‘She’s not crazy,’ he said quietly. ‘And it’s not as if she’s chosen to be … ill.’

  ‘I’ll go ahead and book my holiday, then.’ She stood up, signally the end of their conversation.

  He was saddened that Kirsty – a strong, well person – couldn’t find it in herself to be more compassionate.

  Tessa liked Matthew. He was very young – no more than forty – but there was something solid about him. He didn’t look a bit like Dan but he reminded her of him. He had Dan’s way of not crowding her. She assumed he was a psychiatrist but he didn’t prod or poke her mind like that Sophie woman had done. Where was that? Somewhere else. Not here, anyway.

  When term fished Lewis had more time on his hands but, as Matthew Collins had recommended, he stuck to the same visiting regime.

  Kirsty had been right. He was tired. Exhausted, in fact. But it wasn’t
the sort of fatigue that a few weeks on a Greek island could dispel. He’d been carrying a weight, on and off, for the whole of his life. At the moment it was as heavy as it had ever been. But he had no intention of giving up. And it was altogether easier for him once Kirsty went away, taking with her the need for him to pretend that Tessa, and his concerns for her, didn’t exist. He pottered about, listening to his records or tinkering with the old pushbike he’d picked up in a junk shop. He creosoted the fence at the side of the house. Occasionally he went for a walk on the moor. Whatever he did, Tessa was always with him.

  Sometimes when he visited her she was withdrawn. He couldn’t be sure if this was because of the medication she was taking or if it was just an ‘off’ day. She would sit, staring out of the window or bolt upright with her eyes closed, whilst he pretended to read the paper. When he left, she would smile her goodbye and then retreat to wherever she had been. Even though she barely said a word, he knew that she was glad to have him there.

  Sometimes she was restless, pacing the room, edgy and unable to settle. ‘There you are at last, Lewis. Let’s get out of here before we suffocate.’ And she’d lead him round and around the garden as though something horrid would catch up with them if they stopped. Another time, after she’d read an article on Feng Shui , she decided that she’d sleep better if her bed faced the other way and she wouldn’t let him go until he’d moved it. ‘That’s much better. Can’t you feel the increased energy?’

  Sometimes she was brimming with inconsequential gossip. ‘Have you seen the new woman across the landing? She’s lauding it about, telling everyone that she’s Michael Heseltine’s mistress. I said I’d keep quiet about that if I were her.’

  The doctors assured him that they were making headway, but each time the porter released the latch to let him in, he felt anxious for fear that, since his last visit, she’d veered off course.

  ‘D’you feel like company?’ Matthew asked.

  Tessa was sitting on her favourite bench, watching butterflies working on the lavender bushes. She moved her cardigan to make space for him.

  ‘D’you think they know we’re watching them?’

  He laughed. ‘Interesting question. I shouldn’t think they do.’

  ‘I know you’re watching me,’ she said.

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘It would if you denied it.’

  It was some while since she’d been able to find the words or the wit for banter and she felt euphoric, as though a plug of gunk had come away from inside her head.

  Kirsty returned with a deep tan and photographs of hillside churches and azure seas. She brought Lewis a soapstone chess set and a pair of slippers with absurd pom-poms on the front. Peace offerings.

  They inspected the garden to see what had come into flower while she’d been away. Lewis showed her the freshly painted fence and made a few circuits of the yard on his renovated bicycle.

  It was almost an hour before she asked, ‘How’s Tessa?’

  ‘She seems a lot better.’

  ‘I’m glad. Now perhaps we can start getting back to normal. D’you have any idea when they’ll discharge her?’

  Did she really think it was as simple as that, no worse than a nasty dose of glandular fever – all over and done with in a few months?

  Tessa could see that Lewis was avoiding talking about her breakdown. She understood why and it was fine. She and Matthew were working on it and she felt more at ease discussing the complex issues involved with an outsider. In a way she was sorry that Lewis had been caught up in it at all. Poor Lewis. He must be going through a helluva time at home. But she’d done nothing to force him to come, and to keep on coming. It was his choice and Kirsty had always been keen on the individual’s freedom to choose.

  She half-expected her sister-in-law to turn up and give her another talking-to, but time went on and Kirsty didn’t come.

  Increasingly often, the real Tessa was waiting for Lewis. After months of passivity it was wonderful to hear her sniping and moaning again. ‘Haven’t you brought me anything to eat? I’ve got a craving for smoked salmon. Oh, and artichokes. We may be a bunch of loonies but that doesn’t entitle them to feed us slop.’

  She was regaining herself. She looked healthier – fuller in the face, less hunched. He noticed that she was wearing make-up and that her hair was always clean and brushed. She was encouragingly caustic and self-deprecating; attentive and able to maintain concentration. There was usually a newspaper on her bedside table and they often discussed the news – the latest theories surrounding Diana’s death or how the BSE crisis was affecting the sales of beef.

  ‘I’ve started keeping a journal,’ she said one day. ‘Jotting down a few thoughts. I’ve got an idea for a short story. Maybe a linked sequence.’

  It sounded as though she was opening up to Collins too. He knew it for a fact when she asked, ‘Matthew and I have been talking a lot about Gordon. How would you feel if I told him about the doll?’

  After it being entirely theirs for so many years, it hurt him to think of her sharing the secret but he knew that this was absolutely the right time.

  ‘Tessa, you have my permission to talk about anything and everything if it’s going to help you get well.’

  Then she began to speak about ‘when I get out of here’ and, as he drove home, he found himself whistling and giving thanks to the God that neither he nor Tessa believed in.

  *

  Tessa frowned. ‘I don’t think we were wicked children.’

  They sat in Matthew’s office-cum-consulting-room, drinking tea, talking again about how close she and Lewis had been as children and how Gordon’s birth had made them so angry.

  ‘Can children be wicked?’ he asked.

  ‘You tell me. You’re the expert.’

  ‘I can certainly tell you that no child welcomes a new sibling with open arms. Attention-seeking, puking, mewling interlopers. Why would anyone want one of those? It’s years before the newcomer becomes useful as playmate or accomplice.’

  ‘I never hated Lewis,’ she said.

  ‘Believe me you did, in a very basic way. But you don’t remember it because you were only twelve months or so apart. Eventually the “hate”, or whatever it is, mutates and we all end up with a cocktail of feelings towards our sibling. You were unlucky. Your “hate” never had time to mutate.’

  ‘But the thing with the doll…’

  ‘Leaving a lump of plasticine in a phone box is a very mild manifestation of hatred if you ask me. The world would be a happier place if we all left our hatred in a phone box.’

  As if on cue, the telephone on Matthew’s desk rang and Tessa left him to take his call.

  The weather mellowed. Tessa and Matthew took advantage of the Indian Summer and went into the garden for many of their sessions.

  ‘Let’s talk a bit more about your parents,’ he prompted.

  ‘I despised them. Isn’t that an appalling thing to admit? I knew why they were like they were, but that didn’t excuse them.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Letting me down.’

  ‘And what were they like? In your eyes?’

  Tessa waited a while before saying anything. ‘My mother … this sounds ridiculous but it’s as if she was a sort of film extra who was given a few lines to say once in a while. But nothing that moved the plot forward. I try so hard to remember what she was like before Gordon was born. I’ve got this picture of an attractive, energetic woman who laughed all the time and was such fun. Have I invented that?’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘Dad was a bully. No, not a bully. A bigot and a pedant.’

  ‘Did he ever hit you? Abuse you?’

  ‘No. But I’m sure he came pretty near it now and again. He was like most fathers of his generation, I expect. And of course he had to contend with a damaged leg.’ She sighed. ‘I did push him to the limits. It’s just that I wanted him to be…’

  Matthew nodded, ‘You wanted him to be…?’<
br />
  ‘Oh, you know, the man who walked on water, I suppose. At least we patched it up before he died. I’m glad that we did.’

  Matthew offered her a mint. ‘Had enough for today or d’you want to go on?’

  ‘You mean take the money or open the box?’ She chewed her lip. ‘I might as well open the box.’

  She told him about Rundle, the whole thing from breathless start to bloody finish. For the first time since she began exposing her life to him, she wept. ‘The way I carried on was … despicable. Disgusting. Indefensible.’

  He pushed a box of tissues towards her. ‘You weren’t married, you had no children. You had an affair. It’s not that unusual.’

  ‘But it was so sordid. It made me feel constantly dirty.’

  ‘You’re referring to the sex?’

  ‘Of course. That’s what the whole thing hinged on.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me, nothing you two did was outside what might be considered normal behaviour.’

  ‘But it polluted my life. It impinged on everything.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘My relationship with Dan. My choice not to have children; not to get married; not to get a decent education.’

  ‘Really? Have you considered that Rundle might be an excuse, not a reason?’

  She felt let down by his calm appraisal of her obsession. ‘So you’re not going to allow Rundle to be the villain who screwed up my life?’

  ‘No. It seems to me that Rundle provided excitement. A secret to be kept from everyone. When, for whatever reason, you no longer had the need for that excitement, you finished it.’

  ‘Finished him, you mean.’ She was cross with Matthew for making it out to be no more than an ordinary little affair. ‘Stabbing ones lover with a vegetable knife can’t be considered “normal behaviour”.’