by Liz Byrski
‘Is he on new medication?’
‘No, nothing’s changed except him. I don’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified.’
Polly looks at him in surprise. ‘Why terrified?’
‘Oh well, you can’t tell, can you? I mean, I know he’s never going to get better but I watch him do something he hasn’t been able to do for ages and I get hugely optimistic. Then I get into bed at night and think – what if this is some final sudden burst, you know, a last terrific surge of life before I wake up in the morning and find him dead?’
Polly catches her breath. ‘I see, yes, I see. It’s hard to imagine, looking at him now, but I do understand what you mean.’
They stand there watching as Alistair pulls a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and hands it to the woman sitting beside him, nudging her to fill up the glasses.
‘It’s interesting to see how he does manage himself,’ Steve says. ‘A few months ago he couldn’t have picked up an almost full bottle, now he can, but he knows he can’t quite trust himself to stretch out his arm with it and fill people’s glasses. So yes, he’s right, he can be trusted to manage, to know his limitations.’
Polly turns to look at him. ‘And how do you manage, Steve?’
Steve shrugs. ‘Well, you just do what you have to,’ he says. ‘It becomes a way of life. We’re really lucky, we have enough money, and one of the prerequisites of living here is that you have to employ a local person. And we’ve been so lucky to find Jasmina.’
‘But the responsibility,’ Polly says. ‘Doesn’t that sometimes feel crushing, doesn’t it squeeze the life out of you?’
Steve looks at her, reaches out and puts a hand on her arm. ‘You’re thinking of Stella?’
She nods. ‘Yes, and I know it’s pathetic because I’ve never had to do anything until now, and whatever lies ahead it’s not going to be anything like what you’ve done for Al for years, decades. I suppose I hadn’t realised that I was – am – such a selfish person.’
‘It is different, Poll,’ Steve says. ‘We had a lot of great years when he was fine. You’re struggling with Stella because she’s changing, she’s hard to handle, sometimes she seems like a different person. Al’s changed too, but fortunately he’s changed into a kinder, more loving person – all those hard edges have been knocked off him. In his own way he’s also learned how to care for me. So it’s a mutual thing. I’m not saying it’s always easy, it’s just that he understands what he creates for me, and he works at trying to make that easier. We understand each other. It’s very different from your situation with Stella.’
She sighs and turns to the steamer. ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ she pauses briefly thinking again of what he has said. ‘Okay,’ she says, in an attempt to sound more positive, ‘let’s get this pudding on the road. Can you bring the brandy and matches, please?’
Later, when the pudding has been demolished, Polly sits back in her chair, listening to snatches of conversation, joining in the toasts, and thinking about Leo, wondering again why he hasn’t called. They had last spoken on the morning of the day before Christmas Eve, she was already here in Bali, and he was about to leave to catch a train down to Cornwall. Since then there has been nothing, no Christmas greeting, no call, no noisy Skype tone.
‘Email me your number so I can call you in Cornwall,’ she’d asked, but he hasn’t done so and her emails remain unanswered. What can he be doing that is so important that he can’t call or at least send an email at Christmas? Her attempts to hide her distress are wearing thin, but she feels this abandonment as shame, as though it is she who has somehow failed. His silence builds up in her like layers of concrete forming a hard lump in her chest, a lump of hurt and shame. Questions spin through her head: what have I done to deserve this? Why is telling his sister such a big thing? Is he ashamed of me? Why is this happening?
When he was staying with her there had been times that she had felt him pulling away from her. He no longer took her hand when they walked along the street and if she took his he soon let go. And he began to turn away from her at night, avoiding her attempts to cuddle up to him. Once back on email, some of the old Leo seemed to return, but now, once again, he has retreated from her. She pushes back her chair and gets up from the table, which is still laden with fruit, cheese and chocolates.
‘Where are you going, Poll?’ Alistair asks.
‘To make coffee,’ she says. There is a rumble of appreciation around the table and, smiling, she slips away to the kitchen, puts the kettle on, gets out the coffee and goes to her room to check her mobile. She had forced herself to leave it there knowing that if she kept it with her someone, probably her brother, would notice how obsessively she checked it.
There is neither message nor email. She throws the phone on the bed and walks back to the kitchen. ‘I don’t need this shit,’ she says softly as she reaches up to take cups down from the cupboard. ‘If he loves me why doesn’t he call me? Why doesn’t he want to talk to me? How can this be okay?’
‘It’s not okay,’ a voice says behind her and she turns to see that Alistair has wheeled himself into the kitchen.
She leans back against the sink and hides her face in her hands. When she looks up again Alistair is on his feet, and with the cautious movements of one who is unused to being self-supporting, he walks over to her.
‘It’s not okay,’ he says again, putting his arms around her. ‘Whatever he’s doing it is not okay if it makes you feel like this.’
‘Why is this happening?’ she asks. ‘Why doesn’t he call, or email?’
‘I don’t know,’ Alistair says, ‘but I’d take a bet that this is not about you at all. It’s about him, who he is, and you need to ask yourself what sort of person behaves like this to someone they profess to love.’
‘Profess to . . .’
Alistair nods. ‘Have you tried calling his sister’s place in Cornwall?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t have the number. I asked him to send it to me and he hasn’t. Perhaps he’s had some sort of accident.’
‘Or perhaps he’s just a complete bastard,’ Alistair says. ‘But whichever it is, it is still not your fault. And tomorrow we’ll see if we can find the phone number. It’s probably sitting right there in the British Telecom directory.’
*
It’s been an exceptionally hot day and Joyce is thankful for the sea breeze that came in with gusto around four o’clock to take the edge off the heat. Sitting by the pool in the fading light watching her family, along with Dennis and Nick, she allows herself to feel again the loss of Helen, which she has been holding at bay all day. She can’t remember when there was last a Christmas that the two families had not spent together. Remorse over what she feels was her failure to support Helen through a difficult time still haunts her, as does the continuing tension with Mac. Maybe she should just give up and tell him to forget about the Carol business, but part of her still resists. He created the situation and he should be the one to resolve it. It would take a simple apology and admission of his stupidity. From time to time she wonders if she is being petty, but for too long she has been the one who makes the effort to put things right. How long will it take him to recognise that she really has changed? She had almost succumbed this morning when they had talked to Gemma on Skype; her delight at Gemma’s news made her want to drop back into that old habit again.
Gemma was about to go to bed. ‘If you’ve called to tell me that Santa’s coming you’re too late!’ Gemma had said. ‘The parcel arrived yesterday, such gorgeous presents, thank you so much. I’m so lucky, I especially love the wrap, the colours are perfect. But everything is lovely, it was such a treat opening that big package and then unwrapping everything.’
‘We thought we might come and visit you next year,’ Mac had said. ‘What do you reckon?’
Gemma had grinned. ‘Well actually Dad, you’d be wasting your money because
I’m coming home.’
‘No! How wonderful, darling,’ Joyce said. ‘Is it a holiday? It’s been ages since you were here.’
‘I’m coming home to stay, moving back,’ Gemma says. ‘Can I stay with you until I find somewhere?’
‘Of course, of course you can.’
‘But why?’ Mac had asked. ‘I mean, it’s brilliant news for us, but is this your choice? You love that job.’
‘I do,’ Gemma says. ‘But I’ve got a job with your old firm, Dad. I’m coming back mid-year, having a six-month break before I start there.’
As Mac and Gemma talked about work Joyce could see how much this meant to him. He has always been exceptionally proud of his daughter and the fact that she had wanted to follow him into a similar career and she sat back listening to them. ‘And what are you going to do in your six months off, Gem?’ she asked when they turned back to her.
‘Well,’ Gemma said with a huge grin, ‘I think I’ll be pretty busy! This is the really big news. I’m pregnant. Due in June.’
‘But you’re . . .’ Joyce began.
‘So old!’ Gemma cut in, laughing. ‘Yes, Mum, I know, I’m forty-two, but I’m very fit and really excited.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Mac said, ‘that’s a ripper, isn’t it, Joyce? A new grandchild to spoil, and this time we’ve both got time and space to enjoy it.’
‘It’s the best news ever, Gem, and . . . well . . . what about the father? I mean, when can we meet him? Will he be coming with you?’
‘He’ll be there with me and I think you’ll like him,’ Gemma had said, ‘but I’m not going to tell you anything. Of course you’ll meet him, as soon as I get back. But I want you to meet him cold turkey, then you get to make your own decisions about him without my interference.’
‘Well all we care about, Gems, is that you love each other and he’s good to you, and the baby. Isn’t that right, Joyce?’
‘It is,’ she’d managed to say. ‘Although of course the waiting to meet him is going to kill me! Is he Swiss?’
‘He’s Australian,’ Gemma said. ‘And that’s all I’m telling you for now.’
Joyce turns now to look at Stella, who is sitting nearby fast asleep. She’s dying to share the news with her, and with Polly, but she knows that Gemma will want to tell Stella herself, they have always been close. To Joyce’s relief Stella has been more like her old self in the last few days, calmer and apparently less offended by their efforts to keep an eye on her. Now she moves slightly in her chair, then sits up, rubbing her eyes and looking around.
‘Someone’s missing,’ she says, puzzled. ‘Helen, Helen’s missing, where is she, Joyce?’
Joyce takes a deep breath. ‘Helen died, Stella, do you remember? We all went to her funeral, back in July.’
‘Died?’ Stella says. ‘Died? Surely not. Wasn’t she here this morning in the kitchen, helping you?’
‘That was Vanessa – you know, Ben’s wife.’
‘Really?’ Stella looks puzzled. ‘And you’re sure she’s dead? Helen’s dead?’
‘Quite sure,’ Joyce says.
‘Well that’s very sad,’ Stella says, shaking her head. ‘I should have gone to the funeral.’
‘You did,’ Joyce says.
Stella looks at her with disapproval. ‘I don’t think so, Joyce,’ she says, her tone quite stern. ‘I think I’d know if I’d been to Helen’s funeral, don’t you? Perhaps I was working at the time. Fancy Helen dying. I never liked her much, you know, but it’s sad that she’s gone.’
And she gets to her feet and wanders off to the kitchen where Vanessa and Kara are making tea and coffee. Joyce smiles and shakes her head. What would Helen have made of that? She wonders. Stella had not, after all, been Helen’s favourite person either.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Fowey, Cornwall
On the morning of Boxing Day Leo wakes early, pulls on his warm clothes, boots and a big parka, writes a note saying he’s gone out for a long walk and may not be back until lunch time and leaves it on the kitchen table. Then he lets himself out through the back door and strides out into the newly fallen snow. It’s the first white Christmas for years and its magic is not lost on him despite the blackness of his mood. It’s a relief to get out of the house and he sets off, walking briskly at first light along the steep downward path to the centre of town. There is a little café down by the harbour that opens at six every morning of the year, a rough little place but with the best coffee for miles around, and he heads straight for it. Sure enough the lights are on and there are a couple of other men in there in boots and beanies escaping, like him, he thinks, from the overbearing company of their families.
Leo orders coffee and a bacon sandwich and sits on a stool by the window, looking out over the inlet to the opposite bank where lights in the windows of a few small shops and scattered houses on the steep snow-covered slopes look like an image on a Christmas card.
‘Fuck Christmas,’ he says softly, only it comes out louder than he planned.
‘Hear, hear,’ says one of the men, who is walking out with his coffee in a beaker, ‘but cheer up, it’s nearly over.’
‘Can’t be soon enough for me,’ Leo growls, and he bites into his sandwich. He hates Christmas on principle, the religious side of it, the commercialisation, the stupid rituals, everyone pretending to be warm and fuzzy in the bosom of their family. Most of all he hates having to spend Christmas with his family, having to pull crackers, wear a paper hat, make conversation with his weird cousins and their children, and the neighbours, and constantly being reminded of his responsibilities to Judith and Rosemary, and how consistently he neglects them. He’s only been down here twice this year, as they keep reminding him. They don’t seem to understand how busy he is and how many people rely on him. This year, as usual, his attempt to compensate for his absence has been to buy expensive gifts at Selfridges and have them gift-wrapped in the store. Gifts which were, he had realised as they were opened by the recipients, all slightly misjudged.
‘You really are hopeless,’ Judith had murmured under her breath as his godson unwrapped a copy of the Guinness World Records. ‘You gave him one of those last year and I told you afterwards that he’d given it to the Oxfam shop, before New Year.’
Leo has always struggled with his feelings about Christmas. He loves the house in Fowey, loves Fowey itself, but he hates being there. The whole family thing: the responsibilities, the expectations that might as well be carved in stone given the weight of them, suffocate and scare him. Responsibility – so important to him in his professional life – is something that he finds crippling in his personal life. This morning all he wants is to get as far away as possible, and as he sits there wondering where he’ll walk to, he remembers that the ferry to Mevagissey runs on Boxing Day, and the first one leaves in about ten minutes. He finishes his coffee, wraps the second half of his sandwich in a paper serviette, stuffs it in his pocket and makes his way along the path to the ferry port.
Christmas is made more complicated this year by the Polly factor. She was hurt, possibly offended, maybe both, when he had told her he was coming to Cornwall for Christmas. But what does she expect? Anyway, she’d got over it and gone to visit her brother in Bali. Now, though, he has compounded a difficult situation by not calling her. She has emailed several times and is obviously upset, but he hasn’t responded. He’s bad like this, but he can’t help himself. When he’s cornered he just shuts off and waits for things to go away. Not that he wants Polly to go away, but he desperately wants Christmas to go away, to be over, and to be able to get back to London and resume normal life. It’s difficult too because he deliberately put himself in this situation without any real plan about how he could make it work. What he needs, he realises, is a space in between, something he should have planned for from the start; a neutral corridor to insulate this new part of his life from the rest of it. Great distance,
which had seemed like the answer, now seems hugely complicated. He has taken risks with relationships in the past but those risks were better calculated because they were not based on need. But for almost a year now his fear of irrelevance and loneliness in his old age has confused him. He’s not as good at keeping the balls in the air as he used to be. And he is not even as good at sex as he used to be; in fact his body continues to let him down time after time. Not that Polly had minded; she’d said all the right things, tried to get him to talk about it, but that was impossible for him. He faces into the wind and as he descends the steps to the ferry port he feels the cold stone of fear in his stomach and wills himself to think only of this moment, to push everything and everyone else out of his mind to allow himself to breathe again.
A few people are waiting for the ferry, standing in an orderly line, stamping their feet, shoving their hands in their pockets, their breath puffing out in pale clouds on the cold air. Some speaking softly to each other to avoid being overheard in the still dawn silence. Eventually they file onto the boat, and soon they are out on the open water, the icy wind freezing Leo’s nose and reddening his cheeks. He feels and sees the growing body of water between himself and the house. This distance is what he always loves about the ferry crossing. It transports him from tedious reality into literature and romance. Halfway across the open water, even in this early wintry light, you can see back to the beach and the boathouse, where Rebecca conducted trysts with her lover in Daphne du Maurier’s novel, and beyond that is the wild country of Jamaica Inn, with its images of lusty dark-haired maidens being deflowered by dashing scoundrels behind diamond paned windows in low beamed bedrooms. It’s so long since he read the book he can’t remember whether that actually happens, but it just feels right. Tomorrow, when he gets back to London, he will pay serious attention to how he can manage the future. Meanwhile all he will think about is the wind in his face, and the fact that he has half a bacon sandwich in his pocket waiting to be eaten.
