Heaven's On Hold

by Heaven's on Hold (retail) (epub)

  Only when he’d nursed his resentment for half an hour did he remember that of course Annet would be out of the office, visiting her mother. But he was still sore, and it was more out of duty than fine feeling that he eventually dialled Marina’s home number. There was no reply. Jackie furnished him with the number of the hospital and he got through to the ward to be told the doctor was with Mrs Holbrook.

  Jackie brought him a baguette at lunchtime, and he called Lara. As he waited for the phone to be answered he wondered why he couldn’t leave well alone. When she did pick it up it was to a background of Freya’s crying and the chitter of commercial radio.

  ‘Boss—? Hang on – hang on – be right with you!’

  The radio was turned off, there was some bumping and scuffling and one tremendous clatter – he guessed the phone had fallen to the ground – before Lara returned.

  ‘Hell’s bells, dropped the phone. Beg pardon, no damage.’

  ‘I just rang to see how things were going.’

  ‘And now you know, bet you wish you didn’t.’

  ‘A bad moment obviously.’

  ‘Your daughter is one cross baggage today.’

  David found this no-flannel assessment more reassuring than any soothing words. ‘She can be.’

  ‘She’s going to be a woman of character. Still, there’s only one way from here, and that’s up.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re being so positive.’

  ‘It’s what you pay me for.’

  ‘That’s true.’ He was starting to feel at home with her conversational style.

  ‘And I bet you’re glad you’re in that office of yours.’

  ‘Absolutely. But I’ll be back by five.’ There was something he had to ask. ‘Has my wife rung?’

  ‘Of course. She always does.’

  Duly reprimanded, he hung up. He got Jackie to call Chris Harper, but she received the message that he wasn’t answering the phone. After a brief consultation he took Jackie’s advice and wrote a letter, rather than sending a fax or e-mail.

  ‘You want to do the gentlemanly thing,’ was how she put it. ‘ I think that would go down well.’

  ‘I suspect you’re right. Take a letter, Miss Jones.’

  ‘Handwritten would be even better,’ she said.

  Once that had been done he tried Marina’s number again, and this time it was answered by Louise.

  ‘We just got back,’ she told him. ‘They’ve given her the all-clear but I’m going to stay here for at least tonight.’

  ‘How does she seem to you?’

  ‘A bit shaky after the journey, otherwise pretty good. We’re having a drink as a matter of fact.’ She dropped her voice fractionally. ‘Annet’s here.’

  ‘I gathered she must be.’

  ‘David, to say she’s angry would be an understatement. Hopping mad would be a more accurate description.’

  ‘I know. I feel bad about it. I obviously made a serious error of judgement.’

  ‘We both did. Anyway it’s Mummy who’s getting it in the neck at the moment.’

  ‘That’s hardly fair.’

  ‘It’s all right, they understand each other.’

  ‘May I have a word with her?’ he asked.

  ‘Hang on.’

  He heard her call his wife’s name, once clearly, from near the phone, once further away. When Louise returned to relay the message, her tone was carefully non-committal.

  ‘David? She can’t come now. She says she’ll see you later.’

  He’d had to be content with that. But he remained restless and unsettled. Once he’d cleared his desk – not an arduous task since Jackie had kept things up to speed in his absence – he prepared to leave.

  ‘This won’t be a habit,’ he explained. ‘I’m not officially back yet.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied, adding ‘Till tomorrow,’ which might have been an endorsement or a farewell, he wasn’t sure.

  In the car he set off in a northerly direction, following signs for the London Road. In his mind’s eye he could see Gina King’s address, in her round, even hand, as it appeared on the top of her letter. He was pretty sure he knew the area it was in: he just wanted to see her house, as she had seen his. The notion that she might even now be watching him, and might gradually realise what he was doing, was titillating. He was leading her on. As he left the city centre he discovered with a guilty pleasure that he was slightly aroused.

  The area he was looking for was a large estate, the Egremont, completed about twelve years ago, with houses ranging from maisonettes and starter homes through to four-and five-bedroom detached villas, all at highly competitive prices. Though they were not remotely in the Border and Cheffins bracket, it was common knowledge that they were a poor investment. The situation, between the local league football ground, the municipal landfill and the London Road was nothing short of horrible, a classic example of the rule ‘location, location, location’ being not simply broken but callously flouted.

  He was, however, pretty sure that this was where Gina lived, for the simple reason that her house was in Raleigh Road, and the Egremont Estate abounded with names of the nation’s explorers, inventors, philosophers and men of letters, perhaps in the hope that the aspirations and achievements of those it commemorated might rub off on the inhabitants.

  Unfortunately, the modest prices ensured that those who bought houses here were not best placed in terms of time or money to absorb the influences of Britain’s greatest thinkers. This was no sink estate, but as soon as David turned off the London Road there were the unmistakable telltale signs of lives lived close to the economic bone. He noticed the scattering of litter … the occasional gate hanging off its hinges … the pointy-faced dogs trotting about on the green areas, leaving mess and looking for trouble … a vandalised and abandoned car with a POLICE AWARE notice on it. The gardens and outside woodwork of many of the smaller houses in particular were sadly under-maintained, with shreds of rubbish clinging to straggling hedges. So it was with Burns, with Shakespeare, with Byron, Dickens, Shaw, Wilde and a host of other literary luminaries.

  When he reached Nelson Way the houses became larger, and he knew he must be closing on his objective. Traffic calming bumps meant that his slow progress wasn’t in any way conspicuous. He cruised along Wellington and Montgomery, down Drake, round Scott and into Kitchener before spotting Raleigh Road on his left. He pulled up opposite the turning but couldn’t see the red Micra anywhere and besides, he told himself, it was far more likely to be somewhere a safe distance behind him.

  He turned into Raleigh. Here, there was definitely a tone being kept up – he noted net curtains, porch extensions, no litter, the occasional shock of pampas grass sprouting from tidy front lawns. A dog barked, but faintly, from behind double glazing.

  He reached number twenty-three, but didn’t want to stop. He decided to go to the end of the road, turn, and pull over a little short of the house in order to inspect it.

  Not that there was anything much to distinguish it from its neighbours. David’s searching eye spotted a satellite dish, a seasonally-bedraggled passion flower clinging to the front wall, a security alarm peeping from below the guttering, and immaculate paintwork. The Kings weren’t people to let things go. On a lamppost next to him hung a yellow sign proclaiming Raleigh Road a neighbourhood watch area.

  He was about to pull away when the front door opened and Gina came out. Her appearance was so sudden and unexpected, that he felt his palms break into a sweat and his scalp stir. He sat motionless, paralysed by this reversal of circumstances. He could only hope that she would not see him because she wasn’t expecting to either. There again, had she been watching his progress up the road, and back to his present position, all the time? There was no red car in the drive – in fact no car at all. He didn’t want to start up the engine and drive away in case that attracted her attention. So he watched, frozen, praying she wouldn’t walk in his direction.

  She was wearing a straight fawn skirt, high heels and
a brown suede jacket with a tie belt that he thought he remembered. A neat white polo-neck showed above the collar of the jacket. Not a fashionable look but pretty and feminine. She carried no handbag, but seemed to be walking purposefully, carrying out some small commission or other. Mercifully she turned away from where he was parked and set off at a smart pace towards the T-junction with Kitchener.

  He waited until she’d moved out of sight over the gentle rise in the road, and then followed. The safer option was to do a three-point turn and leave Raleigh at the far end, but he wanted to see where she was going. This left him with no choice but to drive straight past her.

  On the corner of the junction was a letter box. She was posting her letters as he approached, and turned as he pulled up at the give way sign. He did not, could not look. Two maddeningly-spaced cars dawdled by over the sleeping policemen. His heart was thumping with the sort of thrilling fear that had accompanied dubious adventures as a boy. Without thought to his route he turned left as soon as he could. When he glanced in the rear-view mirror she was no longer there.

  Flustered, his sense of direction gone, he took one road after another, the distinguished names flashing past in mockery of his shabby confusion – Rhodes, Livingstone, and then the shift back to Chaucer, Shelley, Tennyson, Burns … The series of roundabouts that formed the preamble to the London Road were so welcome that he inadvertently carved up a man in a VW, who quite justifiably treated him to an upraised finger and a volley of inaudible insults.

  He was shaking by the time he reached the main road. He turned north and pulled into the forecourt of a garage to take control of himself. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror he scarcely recognised himself. There was his face, but it seemed to be inhabited by someone else – the eyes stared back at him excitably, there were new lines around the nose and mouth, scored by emotions he didn’t care to identify. He wondered if he were going mad – but it was axiomatic that if he was, he would be the last to know it, if indeed he ever knew at all. He could have wept, but there was no one to weep to. Looking in the direction of the shop he saw the youth on the till staring curiously at him, and pulled away into the stream of traffic.

  He was heading out of town, away from home, but decided – insofar as he was capable of a decision – to make a virtue of necessity and go round the ring road rather than take the short route back through the centre of town at a time when people would be starting to leave work. It was also the fact that he wanted to prolong the car journey. While he was driving he could not be required to do anything else – and so could do nothing else wrong.

  It was at times like these when Annet realised that like it or not she and her mother were more alike than she cared to admit. There was a certain tactic, a way of deflecting concern and pouncing on weaknesses, which she recognised as one she used herself. This did nothing to improve her humour.

  When Louise told her it was David on the phone, she simply waved her away.

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Are you sure, he only—’

  ‘Not now, Lou!’

  The moment Louise had left the room, Marina asked plaintively: ‘Why won’t you speak to the poor man? What’s the matter?’

  Marina was also a past master at moving the goalposts. Annet ignored the second question. ‘I’m talking to you at the moment.’

  ‘Talking at me, darling. It’s awfully tiring. And your husband is far more important, always, than your decrepit old mother.’

  This was an observation of such breathtaking insincerity there was no point in arguing with it. ‘I am trying to help.’

  ‘I know but you’re wearing me out. David was perfectly sweet when he came to the hospital yesterday.…’

  Annet felt a headache start up with hammer-blow intensity. ‘ Bully for him.’

  ‘He was at his most charming and gentle … I thought it so kind of him to come.’

  ‘He was off work,’ pointed out Annet. ‘I wasn’t. And no one let me know about this accident or I’d have been over to see you.’

  ‘Oh good Lord darling, work is work, I wouldn’t expect it.…’

  ‘No, work isn’t work when my mother’s had a fall, that’s what I’m trying to explain,’ said Annet through gritted teeth. ‘ I would have come, straight away, but I wasn’t told.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Louise, coming back into the room. ‘My fault.’

  Annet acknowledged the truth of this remark by ignoring it. ‘But now that I am here,’ she went on, ‘I have to tell you I’m not satisfied with the doctor’s analysis of why this happened.’

  ‘I am,’ said Marina, ‘ and as the person most closely affected I should have thought that was enough.’

  ‘But you don’t know what happened. You don’t even remember feeling dizzy. I regard that as cause for concern.’

  ‘It is a worry,’ agreed Louise, ‘but I do think we have to accept what the doctor says.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ murmured Marina.

  ‘Of course we don’t, we could get a second opinion.’

  ‘Please stop talking as though I’m not here.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Annet pressed her palms together. ‘But we want to stop it happening again.’

  ‘It is most frightfully inconvenient,’ agreed Marina, with an edge, taking a sip of her gin and tonic. ‘ For everyone.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it!’

  ‘I think,’ said Louise, ‘that for now we should look on this as a celebratory drink. Panic over, no harm done, and all that. Mummy – cheers!’

  ‘Salut!’ Marina bobbed her glass. ‘Happy days.’

  It was all coming back to Annet, she could feel the old, bad stuff washing through her like a sickness. Nothing could save her. Nothing could stop her reverting to the angry, left-out, misunderstood child of thirty-odd years ago.

  ‘Am I the only person,’ she demanded, ‘who takes this seriously?’

  ‘Darling …’ said Marina sympathetically. ‘It is beginning to look that way.’

  It was as well Louise said something. Somebody had to and Annet was struck dumb.

  ‘My turn to fuss,’ she said, ‘Mummy you should have a rest. Proper rest, feet up in bed. No arguments, I’m going to take some Evian and a glass up for you, and I’ll come and fetch you in a moment.’

  They were left together. Annet leaned her head back and closed her eyes to shut her mother out, but it wasn’t so easily done.

  ‘You shouldn’t get so wound up,’ Marina advised. ‘It’s too tiring.’

  ‘For everyone, I suppose you mean,’ suggested Annet sarcastically, which was the cue for Marina to look wounded.

  ‘No, I mean for you.’

  ‘I’m not tired.’

  ‘You look it. It was the first thing I thought when I saw you.’

  ‘Well I’m not.’

  ‘Is Freya keeping you awake at night?’

  ‘No. She still wakes up of course, but she doesn’t keep us awake for long.’

  ‘Because God knows, that’s exhausting enough without having to go into work all day. I couldn’t have done it but then it was a very different world when I was bringing you two up.’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘Mm …?’

  Louise returned. ‘Come on Mummy, let’s be having you.’

  ‘No peace for the wicked,’ sighed Marina, wavering gracefully to her feet with Louise’s assistance. ‘Still, I know I must be sensible.’

  On the way past Annet’s chair, she leaned towards her. ‘Don’t worry about me. You concentrate on that nice husband and that dear little baby of yours.’

  Coral’s finger was on the bell as the front door flew open and Annet emerged, white faced, and stormed past her as though she wasn’t there.

  Louise and Marina were negotiating the stairs.

  ‘Please,’ said Louise over her shoulder. ‘Don’t ask.’

  Because of the visit to Marina, Annet had driven into London that morning. Now she drove out at the sort of speed that bro
oked neither manners nor negotiation, let alone argument – she took every risk, played every advantage, pushed her luck at every light, used her indicator as a battering ram and changed lanes like an eel, half-hoping the worst would happen so she could legitimately scream a blue streak. She always drove fast, but generally speaking she considered herself a safe driver. This afternoon she drove like a pig. Like a bloody man, she told herself, though that was hardly fair since it was her mother that had put the tin hat on it.

  She knew it was childish, but it seemed she could do nothing right. For God’s sake, she had been treated like a child, information about her own mother had been withheld from her, and then to be accused of neglecting her family by her bloody mother – a blare of horns made her skin jump and her eyes prickle with tears, but she muttered, ‘Fuck off!’ and trod even harder on the accelerator, leaving the bastards for dead.

  And David, what was he playing at? Where had he gone? There seemed to be some conspiracy against her, but she couldn’t put her finger on its provenance, or who was involved. For so long they had been a good team, tongue and groove, sweet and sour, opposite and complementary, without ever having to make anything of it. They understood one another – or she had always believed they did. Now that belief was shaken. Incredibly, David seemed to doubt her, to be harbouring some sort of grudge whose source she couldn’t begin to guess at.

  And there was another thing. She had never known love like that which she bore her daughter – its fierce, visceral tyranny had humbled her, and she’d had to fight to reclaim herself … But that she had succeeded didn’t mean, as it seemed others might think, that the love was less. She hurled the car round a corner, too wide, too fast – what did they want, blood? She would not play their game, would not profess her love and whimper and whine because that was what they wanted to hear – she had never done so with David and she would not now with Freya. But if David of all people, the person who saved her from herself, who knew the passion and tenderness of which she was capable so that there was no need to speak it – if David were no longer there, she would be left alone with her failings. A phrase from some long-forgotten church service floated into her mind: ‘… manifold sins and wickedness’. She wasn’t wicked, but her sins were as manifold, and a great deal more manifest, than the next woman’s.