by C F Dunn
“What fuss?”
“Ah,” she grimaced, “I forgot, I shouldn’t say anything.”
“Well, it’s a bit late now; spit it out, Beth, and keep your voice down, because he also has excellent hearing.”
On the other side of the room, Matthew raised an eyebrow. Beth missed it as she observed her children trying to use him as a climbing frame.
“Mum said he has Grandpa’s hair colour,” she reflected, seemingly oblivious to my growing impatience. I plucked her sleeve to recapture her attention.
“Beth!”
“What? Oh, yes. It’s nothing really, it’s just that when you came back and you were… well, you know… down in the dumps.”
“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. Yes, I know, they asked Mike Taylor to have a little chat with me to see if I could be considered a basket case.” I watched Matthew carefully and saw the slight frown cross his brow, confirming he could hear every word we said. I raised my voice to make doubly sure he could hear me.
“And you know he concluded I was nothing of the sort, don’t you?”
Alex was demonstrating something that involved tying Flora’s Barbie up in a part-used ball of knitting wool.
“Ye-es,” Beth hesitated.
“But?”
“But…” she glanced first at me, then at the little group by the window, and lowered her voice. “He did think you might need watching.” I must have been particularly vacant. “Oh, c’mon, Em, do I have to spell it out? That’s why Mum asked me to come over this morning. She’s been worried about you; you’ve been all over the place lately. Mike Taylor thought you might be suicidal.”
“Shh!” I hissed, but too late; Matthew’s head whipped round and he looked directly at me.
Blow, that’s opened a can of worms!
“Beth, that’s nonsense! I’m obviously nothing of the sort. Shows he should stick to his own branch of medicine.”
I tried to sound derisive, but Matthew disengaged himself from the children and started to walk towards us purposefully.
“Thanks, Beth,” I muttered.
“Oops,” she said as she saw Matthew’s expression, but he stopped short as Dad appeared at the door from the dining room, looking incongruous in one of Nanna’s frilly aprons, tied tightly and straining around his middle.
“Lunch is ready, if you would like to come through. I forgot to put the carrots on – sorry it’s a bit later than scheduled.”
He was trying extra hard to be convivial and Beth saw her opportunity to escape, taking him by the arm and calling to the children.
“Let’s see if Mum needs anything doing. Come on, you two, wash hands, it’s lunch time.” She glanced over her shoulder at me as the children scrambled past to get to the door first. I made to follow.
“Suicidal?” Matthew held me back with an iron grip, his eyes as dark as the sky. I craned up and kissed him lightly on his tight lips.
“Don’t be daft; parental over-reaction. Of course I was miserable – what do you think I’d be if I wasn’t with you? But suicidal? Don’t go thinking you’re that great.”
He loosened his grip slightly, but concern still channelled his forehead. “Anyway, you’re here now, so none of it matters any more – does it, Matthew?”
He searched my face for clues. “And you haven’t asked me whether I want to go back with you tomorrow; I might not, you know.”
At that his face relaxed, and he tucked his arm around my waist, kissing my neck.
“‘Compelling’ and ‘gorgeous’,” he reminded me, his breath tickling my ear as his mouth found the sensitive skin below it, sending little shivers of pleasure down my arms.
“All right, you win. You’re not bad-looking for your age, I suppose, but don’t let it go to your head. And behave yourself.”
With a quick final kiss, he sketched an apologetic look that might have been more effective had he meant it.
“I’ll try to, but I might need frequent reminding – I’m a very slow learner.”
“But I’m an excellent teacher,” I pointed out, to which he responded with an impious grin.
Outside, the wind rattled the windows, driving snow against the fragile glass. Archie fussed in his high chair, squirming against the reins holding him in place. Flora offered him another tree of broccoli and he grabbed it, squishing it on his tray as if it were a personal affront, and rubbed his eyes. I sat as close to Matthew as decently possible. He kept up an even flow of conversation with my father who had already consumed two glasses of Burgundy while regaling him with tales of his early days building Bailey Bridges with the Royal Engineers. I sneaked peeks whenever I could, in between snatches of conversation with Beth and Mum about Archie’s teeth and Alex’s latest obsession.
Flora stayed unusually quiet throughout most of lunch. Her horse grazed on the vegetables at the side of her plate, riderless for the moment, while she dabbed small pieces of chicken in her gravy, chewing absent-mindedly. Archie made a grab for Flora’s horse but she held it safely out of reach of his sticky fingers. He picked up his beaker instead and, leaning sideways, held it out and watched it drop to the floor. His mouth turned down at the corners.
“Archie, you did that on purpose!” Flora scolded. He turned his big eyes on her and his chin began to wobble. Beth sighed; she had barely eaten in between interruptions from the baby, who became increasingly fractious. She undid the straps on his high chair and began to lift him out at an awkward angle. I held out my arms.
“Let me take him, Beth – you finish your lunch. Come on, Archie; give your mother a break, huh?” He scowled at me but didn’t complain. I walked over to the French window with him in my arms, and listened to the conversations as we watched the spiralling snow fall onto the grey flags of the courtyard.
“Emma?”
I had been watching Matthew’s reflection in the glass surreptitiously; I dragged myself away from his face.
“Yes, Flora?”
Her clear child’s voice sailed across the room.
“If you are going away tomorrow, does that mean you won’t be here for Christmas?” Conversation around the table came to an abrupt halt. I counted to five before answering.
“Yes, that’s right, Flora, I’ll be in America.”
I waited for Dad to react, for the huffing and the puffing and the remonstration; but instead, he kept his eyes on his half-filled glass, and it was my mother whose tone went from wounded to pleading. I felt the snake-head of childhood guilt rise up, ready to strike. She must have anticipated this the moment Matthew arrived.
“Oh, Emma! You didn’t say you are going back! This is rather sudden, darling; couldn’t you wait a few more days? Surely it’ll take that long to get your ticket – it’s such a busy time of year. Or Emma could join you after Christmas perhaps, Matthew?”
This wasn’t going to be easy. I could see them behind me reflected in the window – Mum’s face unnaturally pinched by a warp in the glass; Matthew still, except for his right hand stroking the stem of his untouched wine glass.
“If we’re going to travel soon, Mrs D’Eresby, we’ll have to do so in the next twenty-four hours. There’s a big area of low pressure developing over the States, and prolonged snow is forecast, so the airfields will shut. It could be a couple of weeks until they’re clear – especially at this time of year, and I don’t want it to stop us travelling.”
I loved the way he said “we” – not “I” or “me”, but “we” and “us”, and I warmed at his words. Archie thumped the window with his fist, trying to squash snowflakes, and the thin glass shivered. My father attempted to work out the logic of it.
“So the big airfields shut down for snow for that long? Surely they can’t operate commercially on that basis?”
Matthew concurred. “Quite so. The big airports stay open most of the year, but we’re not flying to a commercial airfield.”
“But what about Emma’s ticket?” Mum interrupted. “She can’t travel without one and it’ll take days.
It did for us, didn’t it, Hugh?”
Matthew addressed her. “She doesn’t need one.”
I spun around, surprised. “Don’t I?” Archie strained to get closer to the window, starting to fret.
“No, you’re flying with me.”
Crump. The baby managed to thump the window again and Dad winced. I enclosed his hot fist in my hand. He struggled and whimpered but I had just cottoned on to what Matthew said and wasn’t taking that much notice of my nephew.
“Oh – you’re flying. Oh!” I came and sat down, beaming idiotically up at him. Archie began to wail, his arms flailing over my shoulder at the window. The unaccustomed weight of the fidgeting child made my newly healed arm ache and I began to feel the familiar sensation of failure where anything to do with babies was concerned. I made a last attempt at trying to soothe him.
“What’s up, grizzle-chops?” He arched his back and opened his mouth in a big “O”, ready to roar. My arm yelled in sympathy. Matthew put his hands out.
“Emma, let me take him, he’s too heavy for you.” He scooped him from me and held him against his chest. Archie stopped crying and they surveyed each other.
“Teething are you, Archie?” The baby put his fingers on Matthew’s chin and he rubbed Archie’s back. “Never mind, you’ll feel better when you’ve had a sleep.”
“So will I,” said Beth with feeling.
“You have a pilot’s licence, do you?” said Dad, still mulling it over. “What do you fly?”
“A Global Express XRS twin jet; it’s very reliable.”
“And very fast?” I said, remembering his car.
“Quite possibly,” he said, grinning at me over the baby’s head and moving his leg until it touched mine beneath the table.
“You have your own plane?” Mum removed Flora’s plate as the horse trotted around it. “Surely if it’s snowing here it’s far too dangerous to fly anyway.”
I collected Matthew’s plate from in front of him as Archie’s foot came dangerously close to the cold gravy, and stacked my father’s empty plate on top of it.
“These are only snow showers; they won’t amount to much. I wouldn’t take Emma if it were dangerous, but we need to reach Maine before the heavy weather sets in. Also, I have my family to consider, and I need to get back.” Archie gave a little sleepy burp and Matthew patted his back gently. Mum’s head shot around to give him one of her glares, which would have Beth and me quaking when we were children.
“Emma has her family here, and it’s such short notice.”
I didn’t want him pressurized into agreeing with her, and I knew just how persuasive my mother could be, but Matthew regarded her steadily, watching the short, sharp movements that betrayed her anxiety. I felt it echoed in the ball of my stomach.
“Mum, you know I planned on spending Christmas with Matthew.”
“But that was before you were…” She was going to say, “Before you were on the verge of a breakdown”, but she saw the expression on my face and modified the sentence. “… Before you came back home, darling. You’re still not fully recovered and we can look after you. Hugh, please…” She looked desperately at my father for support and missed the imperceptible tightening along Matthew’s jaw.
“I understand that this is sudden, Mrs D’Eresby, and were circumstances different, there would be no need for urgency; but unless she wishes it otherwise, Emma is coming back to Maine with me, and we are leaving tomorrow. We will spend Christmas there together with my family, as originally planned.” He looked at me and I nodded. The tone in his voice hadn’t altered; he had neither raised nor lowered it, but there was no mistaking that he was resolute.
Mum stared at him, and then at Dad, her mouth marking an angry line. She didn’t argue, but her silence spoke volumes. She stalked out, taking a pile of plates, with Dad following. The murmur of voices rose over the clattering of plates and forks. I reached for Matthew’s glass and gulped half the contents in an attempt to drown my guilt, avoiding my sister’s eyes.
“Gosh,” Beth reflected in hushed awe. “Em and I wouldn’t have dared; Mum would’ve had our guts for garters.”
Archie twitched in his sleep and Matthew stroked the baby’s back.
“It must be difficult for her, with her mother ill, and her daughter barely recovered. Change is rarely simple, whether for good or ill, and sometimes decisions are easier to accept when someone makes them for us. Sometimes.” The slow movement of his hand hesitated. So much lay behind the statement – so much history, so much life; but there was something else – an uncertainty, regret. He met my eyes. “However, Emma has her own life to lead, and her own decisions to make.” He smiled briefly, then referring to the sleeping Archie, said, “I think he has the right idea; where’s the best place to stay around here now?”
I didn’t miss the “now” he dropped in casually at the end of the sentence. I arched an eyebrow at him when Beth wasn’t looking, and his eyes widened innocently.
“You’re staying here,” I said. “Or I’m staying where you do; either way, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Matthew shook his head. “I don’t think it will go down well with your parents if you suggest I stay here.”
I scrumpled the paper napkins Mum used for day-to-day meals into a ball. The wine made me gung-ho and not likely to take no for an answer.
“Here, there – whatever – I don’t mind; you know my conditions.”
“Of course, you can always stay with us,” Beth suggested. “We need someone who can tame the Archie-monster.”
Matthew twisted his head to check the baby.
“He’s not so bad. Once that tooth is fully through he’ll settle again.” Archie snored softly against Matthew’s shoulder, cherubic when asleep. “Would you like me to put him down somewhere so he can sleep properly?”
Beth looked less than enthusiastic. “He has a cot upstairs for when we visit, but he’ll probably wake up if you put him down, and then he’ll scream blue murder.” She eyed her son. “And you won’t think he’s adorable then, I can tell you. He can bellow for England; I swear he’s got his eye on being the town cryer. Ask Em, she’ll tell you. He will wake up; it’s guaranteed.”
Archie whimpered as if in acknowledgment, thrusting an arm sideways and exposing a roll of soft, pink baby tummy to the chilly air. Matthew pulled his jersey down.
“No, I don’t think so; he’s out for a while, he’ll be fine. Show me where to put him. You need to watch your lower back; how long has it been hurting?”
And he followed her from the dining room, leaving me wondering how he knew my sister had a back problem.
“You could have backed me up, Hugh.”
In the silence that followed Beth and Matthew’s convivial conversation, I could hear my parents in the kitchen. I moved nearer to the door and their voices became clearer. They stopped whatever they had been doing and I could hear Mum’s fraught tones.
“You know Emma’s not been herself and I’m not convinced she’s fully well. Only this morning she was acting very peculiarly and, just because Dr… Matthew’s turned up… well, let’s just say that I think that he’s the root of all her problems. And now she’s spending Christmas with him! What happens if they break up again and we’re not there to bring her back? We don’t know much about him and certainly nothing about his family. I can’t help remembering what happened after she broke up with Guy. That was such a mess, Hugh; I don’t want her going through that again.”
There was a rattle followed by a subdued thump as the front of the dishwasher closed, then a hiss as water from the spray began the cycle. Dad’s base tone boomed in the enclosed space.
“But as I remember it, it was Guy who ended up in hospital, not Emma. I think she’s probably stronger than we have given her credit for, Penny, and, let’s face it, we’re not doing her any good at the moment. I’ve spent too long protecting her from my gaffes, and one of the things she said to me was that I don’t let her make her own mistakes, and I thi
nk she has a point. So, if she goes back with him now it might work or it might not – but at least it will be her decision and she won’t be able to blame it on us if it does go wrong.”
“Hugh, really!”
He chuckled – a deep, rolling laugh I hadn’t heard in ages, accompanied by a tinny slopping as he washed a saucepan, then the tap running briefly as he rinsed it.
“You know I wouldn’t wish that on her, Penny, but we have to let her go sometime and…”
Thinner, and drawn so tight that it severed the conversation like a cheese-wire, Mum’s voice cut through his.
“But he lives in America – when would we see her? It’s such a long way.”
“Only a flight away, Penny, and he does fly. Fancy owning his own jet,” and he chortled again.
Maybe the wine had ameliorated his mood, or maybe what I had said to him on the return journey from Martinsthorpe had finally made some sense. I saw a side of my father I hadn’t seen since my early childhood – the man he had been before the depression had set in, which, I now realized, had dogged him for most of my adult life, colouring my perception of the man beneath. It had always been my mother who had stood up for me, who had argued my cause and now, it appeared, the roles were reversed. Perhaps only now did she feel me slipping away, whereas before my father had represented the immovable block that prevented me from going very far.
I didn’t hear Matthew come in and only when the air caressed my neck did I realize he had returned.
“Interesting conversation?”
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough. Who’s Guy?”
“A previous life. He’s not important and now’s not the time.” I indicated to where the sound of my parents’ voices drifted towards us from beyond the kitchen door.
“A complication?” he said, keeping one eye on the door, while pulling me closer, making my insides flutter delightfully. I cuddled against him.
“No, not any more, and nothing – nothing – compared with you.”
The door started to creak open and he let me go. By the time they appeared, Matthew was examining an article on the front page of The Times while I was trying my best to look neither guilty nor too innocent, as both would have given me away.
