So, when Pamela had returned with the phone, holding it out to him like a baton, all Ed could think to tell his father was that he needed money, if not for Jessica then for himself, so that he could get away. And when his father yelled and scolded, saying he would receive nothing, Ed had settled upon the idea of leaving anyway. Broke or not – he had forty-four pounds and thirty-two pence in his bank account – his imagination had stalled at the point where he could think of no other course to take. It would solve nothing, of course. He was leaving a time-bomb ticking, but at least he wouldn't be around when it exploded.
Ed walked quickly down the lane, grateful that in the moonlight he could avoid the sludgiest puddles. He tried not to think of how eerie the trees were, or where he was going or what might happen. Instead he remembered a time when he had run away as a little boy. A time before Tina, when his sisters must have been about ten and they were spending the summer holidays – as they always did in those days – at Ashley House with their grandparents and cousins. He couldn't remember the cause of his complaint, only his burning outrage. He had taken a KitKat and a carton of juice and run down the lane, flying and furious, only to take fright at the main road and run all the way back to hide in one of the barns. He had hidden and waited… waited with mounting hope that he would be found, while outrage gave way to hunger. Eventually, after what had felt like hours, he had crept back to the house, only to find that no one had registered his absence. A different outrage had descended then, which prompted him to seek out his mother. ‘I ran away,’ he sobbed, ‘and you didn't notice.’ She had hugged him hard and said she was on the point of noticing and would have found him, no matter what.
Something hooted to Ed's left and he started to run, his bulging rucksack thudding against his back. He didn't like to think of his mother, or her text, or the brief two words he had scribbled on a piece of paper next to his bed. Don't worry. Of course they would worry, but he didn't want them to find him, not this time.
July
On the way to the park Keith stopped at the newsagent's to buy cigarettes and a paper for himself and a couple of bottles of Coca-Cola for the boys. They insisted on having crisps too, even though June had said no snacks in case they ruined their appetites for lunch.
‘Okay, but not a word to your mother,’ he warned, dangling the packets out of reach till they had agreed, relishing the simple pleasure of buying them something they wanted even if it led to trouble. They skipped along at his heels munching happily, then raced ahead when the playground came into view, shouting taunts at each other as they dodged buggies and toddlers and old ladies enjoying the sunshine.
Keith parked himself on a nearby bench and flicked through the paper to the jobs page, as he had every morning of the week since his return to Hull. His sister had promised to ask around on his behalf, but it would be tough, he knew. Building and decorating always went dead in the summer. People were already in the thick of having work done or too busy saving for their holidays to want to start. He studied each advert intently, hopes high, telling himself to keep an open mind, that any form of paid employment would be better than benefits and the lumpy discomfort of Irene's sofa. Soon, however, he was skimming the small print, puffing disconsolately at a cigarette. Computer skills was all people wanted, these days. He could hardly work his sister's DVD-player, let alone a computer. His mobile was so old the boys had complained that he should get a new one with a flip-up screen, loads of games and a camera. One like Barry's, they said. Keith had replied that he liked the one he had and, anyway, his fingers were too big to work the buttons on a smaller pad – anything to avoid conceding inferiority to Barry who was June's new property-developer boyfriend; he had thick hairy wrists, a Rolex and a smile that felt like a punch in the nose.
‘Hey, are those two yours?’
Keith lowered his newspaper, glancing from the woman who had spoken to his sons. They were attempting to climb the wrong way up the slide, tugging at each other's T-shirts in a bid to be the first to the top. Peering down from the platform above them, more angry than afraid, was a doll-like creature with blonde ringlets and small gold loops in her ears. ‘Craig, Neil, stop that! Can't you see there's a little girl trying to get down?’ When they ignored him Keith stood up and slapped his newspaper against his thigh, so hard he felt the sting through his jeans. ‘I said, get off,’ he yelled, trembling with anger, because he had no computer skills, he missed Elizabeth, and his sons, despite his love for them, seemed so obstinately disconnected from him that he thought sometimes they might as well have done a runner – like Ed Harrison, whose selfish bolt had cast such a dreadful shadow over Keith's last days at Ashley House. Serena had carried her son's note with her everywhere, keeping it up her sleeve, pulling it out to show to members of the family, and to the young policeman who had called to ask questions, unfurling it each time like an ancient treasure that might crumble upon exposure to the world.
Engaged in the mental preparation of leaving the Harrisons, Keith had felt the pull of her unhappiness with an intensity that bordered on resentment. He had his own troubles – he didn't need theirs. Yet when Serena had asked him to use what remaining time he had to help in the search he had thrown himself into the task, trawling country lanes and nearby towns at a snail's speed, peering over hedgerows and into the hooded faces of loitering youngsters, certain that it was futile, yet unable to resist trying. When Roland, quiet but as desperate as the rest, had said he suspected something had been going on between Ed and Jessica Blake, Keith had rushed to visit Sid, persuaded the old man to phone his daughter in London, then spoken to Maureen himself, only to be told curtly that Ed Harrison had never shown his face at their flat and neither did she expect him to. When he asked for Jessica, Maureen had said wasn't her word good enough, and put the phone down.
‘I've lost them all,’ murmured Serena, when he returned empty-handed. ‘All my children… all gone.’ Charlie had taken the week off work to deal with the crisis and put his arm round her. Catching Keith's eye, he had reminded her gently that their son was nearly eighteen and long overdue for rebellion. When Serena shook off the arm he had shot Keith a pleading look. ‘Isn't that right, Keith? Teenage rebellion takes many forms, doesn't it?’
Keith had agreed heartily, then fled to the barn to pack, cursing under his breath, as he flung clothes out of drawers, at the hopelessness of the situation and his inescapable urge to help.
Later that evening Elizabeth had found him sitting on his bed staring at the photo of his boys, a tell-tale heap of cigarette butts in the ashtray. Since the night of his confession he had done his best to avoid her, hiding behind a flurry of finishing-off jobs and the drama of Ed's disappearance. ‘The other night,’ she said now, ‘what you told me about the little Pakistani girl… Like I said, it doesn't change anything.’
Keith had looked at her sadly, knowing from the defeat in her voice that she had come to realize that, noble as such sentiments sounded, words were powerless; that what he had told her had, indeed, changed everything. There was no hope for their relationship with such an ignoble secret at its heart, not with a family as close as hers. Even without the new trauma of Ed, which had so clearly – so painfully – cast Serena back into her earlier, more terrible bereavement, it would have been unthinkable. That Elizabeth believed her feelings strong enough to override the situation – to forgive him – was irrelevant. The truth was that Keith still hadn't – and probably never could forgiven himself. Seeking atonement in volunteering his limited skills to the Harrisons seemed in retrospect so laughably native that he blushed to think of it. Getting close to such a family had only made him more painfully aware of the damage he had inflicted on himself and the Pakistani couple, who had sat so silently in court, heads bent, hands clasped like the one remaining link in a broken chain. He could never make up for what he had done, Keith knew that now. All he could do was live with it and try, for ever after, to do the right thing, beginning with being around for his boys, creating something from the rubb
le of his own family. It would be like building a wall, one brick, then another. Every task, every journey, no matter how huge, began with a single step.
‘I'm sorry if I've made you sad,’ he said at length. ‘I never meant to. But you're stronger than you think. And that lot,’ he jerked his thumb in the direction of the main house, ‘they need you more than I do. Roland needs you. So let's end as we began – with a hug – and be done with it. I'm leaving early tomorrow… I won't see you.’
‘Oh, Keith…’
‘Don't speak.’ He had held her tightly, wishing he could squeeze the choke out of her voice. ‘I'm going and that's the end of it. It's for the best.’
‘Nice to have a bit of sun, isn't it?’
Lost in thought, Keith started. His cigarette had burnt down to the cork and put itself out without him noticing. The woman, clearly having forgiven him for his haphazard parenting, had sat down on the bench. ‘All that bleeding rain… They say there's more on the way too, that we should make the most of this.’ She snorted. ‘English bloody summers, don't you love them?’
Keith was in no mood for conversation, but he smiled and nodded, then glanced at his watch. The woman gave him a puzzled look and got out her mobile phone, at which point Keith's own phone rang inside his pocket. Thinking – because she had been in his mind – that it might be Elizabeth, breaking the silence on which he himself had insisted, Keith sprang up from the bench to take the call. But it wasn't Elizabeth, it was Stephen.
‘Is there news?' asked Keith at once, disappointment subsiding with the instant hope that his friend might have something positive to report on the Ed front. Popping into Camden en route up north, he had made Stephen promise to inform him of any developments, knowing that otherwise he would only succumb to temptation and call Ashley House or Elizabeth himself.
‘Nah. Bloody kid. They're all sick with worry. Selfish brat. I know what I'd do if I came across him.’
‘And have you seen the family at all? Do you know how they are?’
‘No, we've been too busy – that is, Cassie's been too busy, working weekends, out and about all the time, and if she's in she's buried in paperwork or guest lists or dress designs for bridesmaids. I – we're sort of hanging on for the big holiday, to be honest.’
‘Big holiday?’
‘Umbria next month. Peter and Helen have booked a sevenbedroomed villa for the entire family.’ Stephen, who was sitting in a deckchair in the garden, reading through a section of his manuscript, checked himself. Umbria, he realized suddenly, was a far cry from Hull. How ridiculous he had been to tie himself in knots about Keith and the Harrisons when there were so many more important things to worry about. ‘So, anyway,’ he continued quickly, ‘what with all that's happened, Charlie and Serena are threatening to pull out, which would be mad, especially as Elizabeth has offered to stay behind…’
‘Has she? That's nice of her… bloody nice… and she's okay is she – Elizabeth?’
‘I think so,’ said Stephen, sounding sufficiently puzzled for Keith to rush on with inquiries as to the health of every other member of the family. He was even more glad in retrospect that knowledge of their brief liaison hadn't become public. Elizabeth might not care what her family thought, but he certainly did. Given the off-stage shambles of his life, the Harrisons' belief in him – their sadness at his decision to leave – meant a lot, an awful lot. ‘Blimey,’ remarked Stephen, in a voice that was not altogether pleasant, ‘and there was me thinking you'd have had enough of the Harrisons to last a lifetime. At least, that's what you said when you came by last week.’
‘Did I?’ murmured Keith, wondering suddenly, and with great sadness, where the easy companionship of their childhood had gone. Six months had passed since their ‘rediscovery' of each other in the bookshop and still they were no better than strangers. He felt he'd tried hard enough but Stephen, he saw, had not let down the barriers. Keith found it hard to imagine why this should be. As children they had looked out for each other, pricking fingers to share their blood, uniting against boredom and bullies alike. A new wardrobe, a new haircut, a healthy bank balance shouldn't affect that sort of bond, surely?
‘Actually, it was because of that that I rang… at least partly… You see…’ Stephen cleared his throat. He had spent more time planning the phone conversation than working on his notes yet, poised now at the purpose of his call, his courage was failing. ‘The thing is, I have a dilemma and I could do with your help.’
‘Really?’ Keith exclaimed, unable to keep the pleasure from his voice. Maybe there was something of the old closeness, after all. Maybe he should tell him about Elizabeth, get some of the ache off his chest. ‘Fire away, anything for an old pal.’
‘What I have to say is in total confidence, you understand.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Keith, eagerly, moving so that he could keep an eye on the boys, who had traded the thrills of the playground for a wrestling match on a square of grass next to the playground.
Stephen tucked the phone tightly to his ear and lowered his voice. ‘It's Cassie… she… I think she might be seeing someone else.’
‘Are you sure?’ Keith laughed, incredulous.
‘No. That's the trouble, I'm not sure. But I need to be sure and I wondered if you knew anyone who could – it's just that otherwise I'm left with the Yellow Pages and any dope can put an ad in there.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Keith laughed again, but with less delight. ‘Let me get this right. You want to spy on your fiancée and you're asking me to recommend a man for the job?’
‘Or a woman.’ Stephen was too relieved to have got out his request to pay much attention to the edge in Keith's voice.
‘For Christ's sake, why don't you just ask her?’
It was Stephen's turn to laugh. ‘Because she'd deny it, wouldn't she? I mean, I already have – sort of – and she's said no.’
‘Maybe she's telling the truth.’
‘Maybe being the operative word. Look, all I'm saying is give it some thought.’
‘No, I won't. It's sick. If you don't trust her you shouldn't be marrying her.’
‘Blimey! Well, thank you for your support. And there was me thinking we were old mates…’
‘Yeah, I thought so too for a while, but you've been weird from the start, behaving a lot of the time like I was intruding on your patch. It took me a while to see it because I'm a daft bastard. And I was down on my luck and you looked like you'd found everything a guy could hope for and I guess that stopped me seeing clearly. Well, I'm seeing clearly now, all right, so, as your mate, I'll tell you that you're a lucky bastard and that if you're having doubts about marrying Cassie Harrison you should be talking to her about them not me.’ He disconnected the call.
Craig had started crying. Neil was hovering next to him sheepishly. They were both spattered with mud from the grass, which had looked verdant but was so sodden that Keith, hurrying over to them, felt it squelch under his trainers. ‘Hey, you two.’ He crouched down and pulled them close.
‘He hurt my arm,’ sobbed Craig, scowling at his elder brother. ‘I hate him.’
‘No, you don't. Here, let's have a look… Hmm, do you think it could still carry an ice-cream or is it too hurt for that?’
‘Yeah… it could… I think.’
‘Okay, well, the deal is you have to say sorry, Neil, and then you both have to be friends, because brothers should always be friends. We'll go to the ice-cream van, then we're going to play footie with that ball over there, which someone has conveniently left for us, and then you'll go back to your mum's for lunch.’
When June opened the door an hour later, all three hung their heads, chocolate smears round their mouths and mud clods on their clothes and shoes, like guilty accomplices. Keith looked up first, his expression defiant. ‘We found a football and had a great time.’
‘So I see.’ She folded her arms. ‘You'll have to take those off for a start,’ she pointed at the boys' footwear, ‘and go straight up for a bath.
’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Keith, kissing the tops of his sons' heads as they were ushered inside.
‘Barry doesn't play football,’ she said, offering him a half-smile before she closed the door.
Jessica was lying in the bath when she heard the door slam. She lay very still, listening to the sound of her mother's heels clack along the lino, praying she had only popped in to pick something up. It was Friday morning, her day for cleaning at Mrs Dawson's in Pelham Road, usually a five-hour stint, although she brought the ironing back sometimes if she was running late. The footsteps sounded purposeful. Jessica sank deeper into the water, her hopes rising. She'd run a hot bath, the hottest she could bear. Her feet were already blotchy and pink, and there was a clear line at the top of her arms – like a sunburn mark – indicating where the water reached. She'd read a magazine article once about a woman who'd got rid of her baby by drinking a pint of gin and jumping into a boiling hot bath. There had been some business about a knitting needle too, which Jessica didn't want to think about. Just the idea of the gin made her feel queasy, but there wasn't any in the flat, just a solitary can of Boddington's, which she hadn't been able to bring her-self to drink, not at eleven in the morning when she was feeling dodgy anyway. Getting the bath so hot had been an experiment more than anything, like challenging Fate to say, ‘Okay, here's a helping hand if you need it.’ Yet thinking through the consequences made Jessica feel even sicker. She'd heard about miscarriages often enough, but never before imagined what they looked like, how one got rid of whatever came out, how much of it there would be. She wasn't good with blood. A nosebleed almost made her faint.
The Simple Rules of Love Page 25
