‘Well, you make the most of it, my girl, that's all I can say – lounging about with nothing to do but read, eating me out of house and home. You just wait. When that kid of yours arrives you won't know what's hit you. Hey, have you been to that solicitor Dot told us about yet?’
On the television a man in a yellow plastic coat was carrying a baby. It had blood on its face and lay very still in his arms. The man was crying.
‘I've told you, I don't need no solicitor.’
‘And I've told you you bloody do, to get down in black and white exactly what those Harrisons are going to pay you so they can't try and weasel out of it again. Not ever. And you could do well by it, you know, girl, very well, if you play your cards right.’
‘And still the death toll rises,’ said a ginger-haired Scottish journalist, pressing nervously at the hard hat perched on his head. ‘One hundred and ninety-six, and well over a thousand injured. The scene here is almost beyond description: the smell of blood, of death, of burnt metal and smoke, a body-blow to the infrastructure of our society, exactly the sort of atrocity the government had feared.’
‘I don't suppose any of them Harrisons would have been in that part of town, would they?’
Jessica shrugged. ‘How should I know?’
‘Hey, make us a sarnie, there's a love.’
‘Make it yourself.’
‘All right, I bloody will. Don't know why I bothered asking.’
Jessica watched from under lowered lids as her mother stomped out into the kitchen, then slipped with her book into her bedroom. All the death and blood had got to her a bit. She felt kind of queasy, like if she saw one more sobbing person or twisted bit of railtrack she might revert to her old trick of throwing up. And her mum made her feel sick too. All that she said and did, it was like living with a CD that had got stuck and kept repeating itself. Maybe she should see that solicitor after all. Maybe, with professional help, Ed's parents could be persuaded to cough up enough money for her to set herself up in her own place, so she'd never have to put up with her mum's needling and whining ever again. Maybe… Jessica sighed and opened her book. The truth was she'd be scared to look after the baby without her mum around. She was a cow half the time but at least she'd know how to change a nappy and what to do when the thing bawled its eyes out.
A few moments later Jessica sighed again, but more peacefully this time. Aziz was leading Miss Quested into the Marabar caves, holding her hand, all excited and keen to please. Jessica found herself hoping that the story wasn't too old-fashioned for them to have a snog. Maybe even fall in love. That would be nice, even though Miss Quested was supposed to love someone else. It was obvious she didn't, really. She couldn't: the guy was a jerk.
Jessica riffled through the remaining pages, half tempted to skim-read ahead and find out what happened. As she did so it occurred to her that at least Aziz' and Miss Quested's lives would be sorted out; that there existed an answer to their tangle, even if it took a little patience to get to it. Unlike real life, which seemed to get knottier and messier, with mums and terrorists out for themselves, with people like her and that poor screaming woman with half an arm caught in the middle. ‘Hey, turn it down, can't you? she yelled at the door, then settled the book on the bulge of her belly and half closed her eyes to read, so that there was nothing in her line of vision but the words on the page.
Serena had put the finishing touches to the new frames on the photo collages and was varnishing a pot when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the path outside. She held her breath, hoping that whoever it was would leave her in peace. Lately she had sought refuge in her studio more and more often, finding comfort in its cosy quietness and the simple pleasure of making things, of creating order on a small scale, even though she might remain powerless on the bigger stage beyond its creaky wooden door.
A moment later all such hopes of peace were shattered as the door swung open with its customary squeak of resistance, letting in a gust of cold air and her mother-in-law, full of the grisly news from London. ‘I only just heard, dear, I thought you'd want to know. It sounds horrific – I put the television on but then couldn't bear to watch. Charlie doesn't go near there, does he?’
‘No, but… I suppose…’
‘Peter,’ said Pamela, already well advanced along all the obvious lines of concern. ‘I know, I've already tried him. There's no reply from his chambers and his mobile isn't switched on. I thought maybe we should ring Helen. What do you think? One doesn't want to be alarmist about these things but…’
Serena was already out of her chair, pushing the pot and the frames out of the way, disrupting the tidiness Ed had so carefully created among her pads and pencils. ‘I'll do it. And Charlie – I must call him too. If only he hadn't gone to work – he shouldn't have gone to work. I told him not to. How many did you say?’
‘How many what, dear?’
‘How many people dead?’
Pamela hesitated, wringing her hands, the old blankness threatening to fog her mind as it often did when she felt under pressure and in most need of lucidity. ‘Nearly two hundred, I think, but it keeps going up.’ She pressed her hand to her heart, winded suddenly at the prospect of her family being caught up in the disaster. For all her recent brave show to Charlie, she knew that there was just so much one could take, after all, just so many times one could pick up the pieces. ‘I'm sure Peter is fine,’ she said firmly, ‘but one can't help worrying, can one?’
‘No, one can't,’ Serena agreed gently, putting her arm round her mother-in-law's frail shoulders in a way that she hoped betrayed little of the anxiety storming her own heart. To think the worst was natural, she reminded herself, only human, espe-ccially for those already too well acquainted with misfortune. ‘I'll call Helen, Peter, Charlie… everybody,’ she promised, a little wildly, steering Pamela towards the door.
As Charlie negotiated the dips of the lane half an hour later, a bottle of amoxycillin tablets on the seat next to him, he was surprised to see his wife's Mondeo heading at speed towards him. He beeped once, then flashed his lights, expecting her to reverse back into the wider section of road just behind her. The next thing he knew they were bumper to bumper and Serena was leaping out of the car, waving her arms and shouting.
Charlie wound down the window. ‘What the hell –’ She was flinging words at him, hair sticking to her mouth, eyes popping. In spite of the cold wind she wore only a flimsy pink shirt, which billowed round the waist of her jeans like a life-belt.
‘The bomb – in London – I thought you – I thought –’
‘I never went to London,’ said Charlie, rather obviously. ‘I went to the doctor.’
‘You never called,’ she shrieked, thumping the car roof so hard he could hear the smack as her rings hit the metal. ‘They said there might be more bombs and you never called – I tried and tried your phone. How the fuck could you not call me? How could you?’
‘I'm sorry, I –’
‘Don't ever do that! Okay? Don't ever, ever do that!’
Charlie tried to get out of the car but she had blocked the door with her body and was thrusting her head in through the open window. ‘Ignore me, shout at me, move us all to Brighton, let Peter and Helen take over our lives – do anything but not call when I need to know where you are. And I'll tell you something else, Charles Harrison,’ she hissed, ‘you can try all you like to piss me off, but I'm never giving up on you – on us! Do you understand? Never.’
It took Charlie a moment to absorb that these last words, in spite of being released like missiles from between her clenched teeth, were not hostile. On the contrary. ‘I'll try to bear that in mind,’ he growled, thinking how typical it was that she couldn't even say something nice nicely – what an indictment it was of the sorry level to which they had sunk. Besides, he was ill. He needed sympathy, not a telling-off. ‘Look,’ he said wearily, ‘I'm sorry I didn't phone. I knew there'd been some sort of explosion, but I've been at the doctor's –’
‘Some
sort of explosion?’ She was screeching again. ‘Six bombs – Charing Cross – two hundred dead, thousands injured and we can't get hold of Peter. No one can get hold of Peter! Helen's going out of her mind.’
Charlie gaped at her, shocked into silence, uncertain, through the throb of his head and throat, whether he was up to mustering the level of panic she seemed to think the situation warranted. He had a nasty suspicion, too, that part of her was enjoying the drama, a fresh opportunity to make him feel bad. ‘Serena, honestly, I had no idea. I see now why you were so worried. Of course I would have phoned – of course – and as for Peter, his chambers are two miles at least from Charing Cross. At worst they'll have had their windows blown out.’ Charlie stared out of the windscreen, gripping the steering-wheel as if the car was on the verge of going out of control rather than stationary in the lane. ‘Let's get home,’ he muttered, as a large lorry appeared in his rear-view mirror, knocking branches off as it lumbered down the lane. ‘Can you reverse?’
‘Of course I can,’ she snapped, turning towards her own car.
‘Where were you going anyway?’ Charlie called after her, sticking his head out of the window.
Serena stopped and shrugged, looking lost. ‘I'm not sure. I – to find you, I think. I…’ She couldn't articulate the sixth sense that had made her grab her car keys, the conviction, somewhere deep inside her, that her husband, geographically at least, was still within reach.
As the two cars turned into the drive Pamela came hurrying to the gate to greet them. Poppy, incorrectly scenting the chance of a second morning walk, was yelping at her heels.
‘He had gone to the doctor's,’ said Serena, flinging an arm in the direction of Charlie, who had returned to the Volvo to fetch his pills. ‘He didn't know how serious the bombings were or he would have called.’
‘Since you left the phone hasn't stopped,’ gasped Pamela, gripping the gate, as Charlie hobbled up to join them clutching his briefcase, the pills rattling in his pocket. ‘There's news!’
‘News?’ Forgetting her fury, Serena reached for Charlie's arm.
‘Peter is fine…’
‘Thank God for that.’ Serena blew out her cheeks, smiling with relief.
‘I thought so,’ muttered Charlie, wishing his mother would move so that he could get through the gate and crawl, with his sore throat and misery, into bed.
‘But Cassie –’
Charlie and Serena looked at each other, their expressions freezing. ‘Cassie?’ prompted Charlie.
‘No, no… That is…’ Pamela knew she was making a hash of everything but there had been so much to take in. Her mind felt scattered, full of facts that no longer joined up or made sense. ‘No, my dears, Cassie is all right… in a manner of speaking.’
‘Mum, for Christ's sake, spit it out. Was she there? Has she been injured?’
‘No, she's called off the wedding and she's on the way down here. And Stephen has gone missing. And she…’ Pamela faltered, trying to recall her youngest daughter's exact words ‘… she fears the worst.’
Charlie groaned. ‘Dear God.’
‘Pamela, you're cold,’ said Serena, gently. ‘We should go inside.’
‘Yes, I am rather,’ she admitted weakly, tugging her thin cardigan across her chest as she turned to walk down the steps. At the bottom Charlie and Serena caught up with her and tried to take her elbows but Pamela deftly avoided them by bending down to make a fuss of Poppy. She might be unsteady and woolly-headed on occasion but she didn't want their help. She didn't want to be so in the thick of everything either – she had done her time on that score. It was their turn now, Charlie, Serena, Peter, all of them. If they wanted her she would be there, until her last breath. When Cassie arrived, she would offer what counsel she could. But at the same time Pamela was aware that the impatience she had felt in Italy was stirring again. It had nothing to do with love. She adored them all – but was growing increasingly fond of the revelation that, at the ripe old age of eighty, it was no longer her duty to prop everyone up, that she had earned the right to remain on the sidelines, the right to a little peace.
‘What exactly does Cassie think has happened?’ ventured Charlie, once the three of them had assembled in the kitchen. He pressed his fingers to his temples and leant against the Aga, relishing the feel of its sharp warmth through his trousers. Serena bustled between them, fetching teabags and filling the kettle, then handing him a glass of water for his pills.
Pamela lowered herself into one of the kitchen chairs, moving stiffly, gingerly, almost as if she doubted its capacity to hold her safely. ‘She just said what I told you… and that she couldn't marry Stephen because she didn't love him.’
Charlie groaned. ‘That bloody girl! I might have known we weren't going to get to January without something like this – pre-wedding histrionics. Of course she loves him, she's just got the jitters.’
‘And Stephen has run off, has he?’ probed Serena, handing Pamela a cup of tea.
‘I suppose that's it.’ Pamela shook her head. ‘She'll be here soon – you can ask her yourselves. Goodness, what a morning. I think I might go for a lie-down.’
‘It's clearly ridiculous,’ said Charlie, after his mother had left. ‘They were fine in Umbria, weren't they? More than fine – like a couple of love-birds.’ He placed a pill on his tongue, grimacing with pain as he swallowed. ‘Pre-wedding nerves. A bride's prerogative.’
‘I never had any.’ Serena had taken up her customary pose in the corner of the sofa and was staring into her tea. ‘Marrying you, I was never more sure of anything in my life.’
Charlie, forcing down the second pill, eyed her suspiciously. ‘A few doubts now, though, eh?’
Serena continued to stare at her tea. She had put in too much milk and there was an oily sheen on the surface. Her husband was ill, she reminded herself, ill and blind. He would get better. They would get better. She had to believe it. As she had tried to explain to Cassie in Italy, marriage was like faith sometimes, believing when there seemed nothing to believe in, when there was no reason to carry on. ‘Poor Cassie.’
‘Poor Stephen.’
‘Yes, poor Stephen.’
‘So…’ Charlie picked up his own mug of tea and pushed himself off the Aga. ‘Maybe that's it, then.’ He was burning up now, he could feel it, as if fire, not blood, was pumping through his veins.
‘What is?’
‘Cassie's wedding. It's like the last brick in the wall, the one decent thing left, and now that's a mess too. A bad end to a thoroughly bad year. Christ, I'll be glad to see the back of it.’
‘Go to bed.’ Serena spoke harshly. As so often, these days, anger seemed the only safe emotion, the only way of not giving up. Where was his relief about Peter? Where was his compassion for his sister? Where was he? She was on the verge of pointing this out – of shouting at him – when she was struck by the humbling thought that maybe this was exactly how she had behaved after Tina, withdrawing into the selfishness of grief, immune to efforts at kindness from her husband or anyone else. Charlie, she knew, had almost given up on her. And it had been a see-saw ever since, she reflected sadly, one up, the other down, no balance. ‘I'll deal with Cassie,’ she said, much more softly. ‘She tried to talk to me once before, when things between her and Stephen were bad, and I never called her back.’
‘Did she?’ Half-way out of the door, Charlie hesitated, a glimmer of surprise surfacing through his self-pity. Serena appeared very small on the sofa, her long legs coiled under her, her arms hugging her chest, her silky hair falling across her face. She looked frail but very beautiful, almost as if adversity suited her. Yet she wasn't frail, she was strong, Charlie reminded himself the kind of woman whom others liked to lean on. Like Cassie, tearing down from London to cry on her shoulder. Climbing the stairs a few moments later, it occurred to him that he had leant on her too, once upon a time, before grief had upset the applecart, making him afraid to lean on anything.
Speeding past flashing grey box came
ras on the M3, Peter felt as if he had slipped into someone else's dream, a terrible dream, full of unfamiliar faces and crises that had no business to be there. He had listened to the news, then switched it off, appalled not so much by the still-breaking coverage of the Charing Cross bomb so much as the realization that he had been one touch away from averting the personal disaster into which the atrocity had pitched him. One touch and the radio would have been on, instead of Vivaldi. One touch and he would have known that the Strand was sealed off, that Waterloo Bridge was closed, that those whose buildings remained out of the fray had had their morning shattered by the screech of sirens and the smell of smoke wafting across the city like a cloud of poison.
But he hadn't known. Delia had been in the poky hotel bathroom redoing her hair. He had been lying on the bed, still dazed by her insistence that she would not meet him again, that they had made love for the last time. Reaching for his trousers, his phone had fallen out of his pocket. Not thinking, more for distraction than anything, he had switched it on, only to find a stack of messages from Helen. He had been puzzling over whether to examine them when the phone had pulsed into life. Helen's mobile number had lit up the screen. She was ringing him. Peter had stared at the digits, fighting conflicting impulses of deep habit and deep fear.
When he answered, Helen sounded so joyful that he almost relaxed.
‘Peter… thank God.’
‘Hello, darling.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Where am I?’ He had managed a laugh. Where indeed was he? Bloody good question. ‘I'm just heading out of the office… for a meeting.’
‘So the bomb –’
Her voice caught, and instead of waiting, instead of thinking, he said, ‘What bomb?’
Looking back, Peter wondered if those two words would have been inflammatory enough. As it was, Delia chose that moment to emerge from the bathroom and say, in her strong, lovely voice, ‘Is one of my earrings in the bed?’
The Simple Rules of Love Page 42
