‘I didn’t want to complicate things. It’s not been easy these past months. I told him I was staying with a friend for a few days – I think he’s pleased I’ve finally managed to get out of the house, I don’t know that he cares where I am.’
Francine thought of Mark, his tough shell, whether it was all an act. ‘I’m sure he does care, in his way.’
Urgent, Evie pressed her again. ‘So, will you come?’
Francine cast an eye around the room, at the piles of paper, boxes of kitchenware packed ready for charity, the half-drunk glass of wine. ‘Of course, I’ll come,’ she said. ‘Just as soon as I can.’
‘Thank you,’ Evie whispered. ‘Can you come soon?’
‘What time is it now? I’m a bit out of touch here.’
‘Ten-fifteen – no, eleven-fifteen over there.’
‘Ok.’ Francine began to gather things together on the table. ‘The last flight went hours ago, but I think there’s an early one from Toulouse in the morning. Leave it with me, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ Francine paused, then said, ‘Evie, are you sure you’re alright? Are you sure you don’t want to contact anyone else – Joanna perhaps?’
‘And say what exactly? By the way I’ve found our mother and I’ve been seeing her secretly for weeks? I don’t think so somehow.’
Francine heard the old spike in Evie’s words, then a moment later it was gone. ‘Sorry, that was unnecessary. It’s been a bit… tricky here.’
Francine stood up, closed her laptop and hunted for her keys. ‘I should be there by nine thirty, your time, all being well.’
‘Thank you, let me know when you get here. I’m in a hotel down the road from the hospital.’
‘Try not to worry. Oh, and Evie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you. Thank you for phoning me. For asking.’
The Cheval Blanc was still full, humming with diners left over from the weekly hunt supper. Thierry showed her to a table in the corner but the place was thankfully too busy for anyone to pay her much attention. She’d no wish to invite more curiosity, though no doubt some would enjoy the intrigue if they knew she was suddenly heading back to England. Whatever Thierry thought was of little consequence now. These past weeks she’d fuelled enough gossip to keep the village busy for a long time and she was way past caring.
She booked her flight, gathered her laptop and left.
Francine managed a few hours’ sleep and drove to Toulouse at three in the morning. The flight was on time, landing at first light. Her eyes itched and she was in need of a decent coffee. On the airport train the overheated compartment stank of fast food: burgers or curry or something equally noxious so early in the morning. She found a seat opposite a young couple holding hands, gazing into the distance, not speaking. Further up the carriage, an argument raged one way into a mobile phone; across the aisle a young woman peered into a small mirror, combed her hair and put on make-up. Private things, pulled out in public. As they approached the city centre the train filled up, workers cramming themselves in with coffee cups, laptops and more food.
Evie had sent a text: See you in the coffee shop, ground floor past reception but she’d been uncertain about timings. She’d been uncertain about many things of late. These months since the baby had left her stranded, without her customary toolkit.
Francine turned Evie’s anxious words over in her head: Can you come please? There’s no-one else. Was she simply the last resort? No, that was unfair. Yet those early, cautious attempts to bond with Evie had never become more than a guarded truce, William always the go-between, arbitrator to Evie’s agitation, counsellor to her own self-doubt. Until that last time, the one that set Evie running, that William still, even now, knew nothing about.
The bakery was thriving. Francine juggled her time with William’s hours at the school but the business did little to placate Evie. Each day after school she complained about the smell of baking in the house, never coming into the kitchen as Joanna did to watch, or help, or eat something from the ‘spares’ rack. I’m not hungry, she’d say, I’ll wait for supper. But in Evie’s room later, Francine would find a stash of sweet wrappers in the bin and know that it was not the food Evie took pains to avoid.
Her moods started up again: hours of silence when she’d skulk around furtively, or a burst of energy when the house shook to the thump of music from her room. She avoided contact, ignored or challenged any attempt at conversation, only this time with William too. They put it down to hormones. Francine managed the bathroom talk about tampons and personal hygiene, and took her shopping for underwear, but instead of cementing a truce, it stretched the delicate threads she’d woven around Evie, and one morning they snapped.
William had left the house early, Evie sprawled at the breakfast table, long legs splayed beneath, a bowl of cereal in front of her. Joanna sat opposite, talking quietly to her Sindy doll dressed as a silver princess.
Evie, Francine said, spreading a bread roll for Joanna’s packed lunch, I need you to fetch Joanna for me after school. Can you do that please?
Evie continued eating, scooping Rice Krispies into her mouth.
Evie?
Yes, Evie said, rolling her eyes, I heard. I’ll do it.
Thank you. Francine wrapped the bread roll and packed it neatly in Joanna’s lunch box. And you’re having lunch at school again?
Evie grunted.
I’m sorry? Evie I’m talking to you. After five years, Francine should have learned when not to push.
Evie jumped up, knocked over the chair and threw her spoon into her cereal bowl with a clatter spilling the contents across the table. Yes! she shouted, I heard you – don’t go on at me!
Joanna sat motionless, her large eyes moving from one to the other. Any other day, Francine would have left it, would have used the wisdom of those years, hurried Joanna into the car and waited patiently for Evie to saunter from the house dragging her school bag. But today they were late, the road into town would be choked with rush-hour traffic and she needed to be back at the shop.
Francine slammed the lunchbox down on the worktop. I asked a simple question. Why do you have to make everything so difficult?
Oh, nothing’s ever simple with you!
Evie, it’s not too much to ask, is it? You have time after school?
I do have a life you know.
I know that. But you could make an effort to help out now and again. You know, without being asked? Is that too much to expect?
Joanna gathered her Sindy doll close to her chest, a large tear rolling down her cheek.
Yes, alright, Evie said. I’ll pick her up. I said so, didn’t I? Why can’t you just leave me alone?
Because… Francine’s voice began to waver, because like it or not, it’s what I’m here for.
Oh, Evie scoffed, like your job, you mean?
No, of course not. It’s not that at all.
Well, I never asked you to be here…
Please Evie, just leave it. Get your coat – let’s go. Francine’s voice had dropped to a whisper, she still hadn’t mastered the art of losing her temper in English, groping for the right words only to find they had gone. Evie leapt on this as she’d learned to do from the start. Pushing Francine verbally put her firmly in control. Francine went to Joanna, still frozen at the table, and touched the back of her head.
Go and get in the car, I’ll be there in a minute.
She fetched a dishcloth from the sink and held it out to Evie. Please clear up the table. We’ll wait for you in the car.
Evie looked at the cloth, then took it, but instead of wiping the table, she flung it across the room at Francine, catching her on the side of her head. Do it yourself! she yelled. And don’t wait for me – I’ll walk! Then she stormed from the room and up the stairs.
Francine picked up the dishcloth and put it back on the draining board, than
kful Evie hadn’t been holding a plate. But as they discovered later, Evie didn’t walk to school. When Francine had gone, she changed her clothes, packed a small overnight bag and walked to the bus stop instead. She caught a bus to the station and from there the train to London.
We’re both so good at running away, Francine now thought. I ran from Maman’s expectations, Evie ran from mine – constantly twisting herself away. Out of Helena’s misfortune, now comes the chance to change things and I need to get it right this time. Life with Evie, she realised, was like an English summer: a month of rainfall forgotten, forgiven, for one glorious day in the sun.
Thirty-Three
Hospitals, like airports and Las Vegas, seem to have no time zones, no diurnal-nocturnal transition, it’s always just one long night. At 8.30 in the morning I buy a coffee and settle down to wait for Francine. I think of the café on Kings Cross Station all that time ago, the dishcloth incident, the row that made me leave. In my haste to be gone, I hadn’t packed much: some crisps, a toothbrush and a spare pair of pants. Not a considered, organised pack, just a few random things grabbed in a rage. I’d also taken money from the jar in the kitchen, kept for paying the milkman or the window cleaner, but most of it had gone on my ticket and I didn’t think to buy a return. I hadn’t even meant to run away, but I’d jumped on a train just as the doors closed and it would not stop before London.
Heavy rain chased across the carriage windows; raw anger still raged. How dare Francine tell me what to do? Why should I do stuff just to help her out? What did my father see in her anyway? I hadn’t even given ‘her’ a name. I hated the fact that Joanna called her Mummy. If pushed, I referred to her as my stepmother but it was easier not to call her anything, persona non grata as my Latin teacher would say, as if she didn’t deserve a title at all.
I took out the first packet of crisps and began to nibble but the woman next to me made tutting noises and swept her coat away, fearing contamination. As the train hurtled south, alone in a carriage full of strangers, my fully justified protest began to subside, replaced by creeping rationale and a far less potent knot of anxiety. By the time I was discharged onto the platform at Kings Cross, I moved in slow motion towards the exit, while the world rushed past me, a speeding blur. My big adventure, this grand gesture of defiance, was fast losing its appeal.
Outside the station, rain fell steadily. I went in search of the buffet, but finding it full and steaming, I turned up the collar on my thin jacket and threaded my way east up Pentonville Road. Jostled and shoved by the crowd, rain seeping into my shoulders and down my neck, I plodded on towards Islington, kicking away wet litter that clung to my feet. I stopped under a bus shelter and stood next to a woman in a beige mac surrounded by carrier bags.
Not in school then? the woman said, eyeing me up and down.
I looked away. I’d skipped school before, many times.
Ill, are you? On your way home? The woman nodded slowly as she spoke, her face peering out beneath a plastic rain hat.
I shook my head, then nodded rapidly. Yes, I muttered. My jaw clamped shut since the morning, now ached with the strain. I’ve been to the doctor’s. In truth, I did feel sick – sick and hungry. I’d eaten little apart from the crisps since my aborted breakfast. Had I really thrown a dishcloth at Francine? It was hard to remember now what the row was about.
Better get yourself home then love, the woman said. Is it far?
I shook my head again. No, just up here.
The woman looked doubtfully up the road. There were no houses visible, only dingy shops with peeling signs and boarded up fronts. I left the bus shelter and carried on, sliding my eyes past the grubby doorways where one or two women stood smoking in short skirts and long leather boots. As I passed them, I caught the smell of cheap perfume, of sweat: the changing room at school after games.
At the entrance to a small park, I stopped again. Empty trees hung limp and dripping, rubbish piled up in corners against the railings. I went in and found a seat near the playground where a mother pushed a young child on a swing, its small cries of joy echoing in the gloom. I thought of the neat park at home where Francine used to take me with Joanna after school, the brightly painted swings and slide, the soft honey coloured houses that bordered it. I took out the second packet of crisps and began to eat but they stuck to the lump in my throat.
Two pigeons braved the rain, strutting in front of me grubbing for crumbs. Every few steps they would shiver, flicking water from their wings. The light was fading, other children began to drift through the park. It must now be late afternoon and school would be out at home. I was supposed to fetch Joanna from the neighbour, the reason this stupid row had started in the first place, the reason I was here now soaked through on a bench in a seedy North London park. How long before Francine realised I’d gone? What would she do? Would she tell my father? Did it matter anyway?
An old man limped towards me along the path and sat down at the other end of the bench. He wore a raincoat, frayed at the hem, his trousers caught with bicycle clips at the ankles. His feet were bare, his toenails black. I clutched my bag tightly and moved further along the seat.
The man took out a loaf of bread and began throwing small pieces for the pigeons. The rain had eased and as more birds appeared around the bench, the man whistled a low warbling sound and I turned to watch as he held out his arm for a sparrow to land. More and more birds appeared, winging down from the wet branches around us until we were surrounded by a clamour of wings and feathers in the damp gloom, like swirling snowflakes inside a glass ornament.
The old man smiled and offered me a piece of bread. I saw the gentle precision of his fingers as he crumbled the bread, the deft circling movement of his hand as he drew the birds in. Just an old man, I thought, so alone he shares his life with birds. I took the bread, breaking pieces off and crumbling them as I’d seen him do.
Keep ‘em small, he said, else you won’t get the littluns.
We sat together in the half light as the old man ran though his litany of bird names. He gave me the Latin names too: passer domesticus, troglodytes troglodytes, sturnus vulgaris, words that seemed too weird and wonderful for the small dull creatures hopping in front of me. So much knowledge to come from this bedraggled being and I wondered what had happened, why he had no shoes, whether he had a home.
It was almost dark when the old man stood up and shook the last of the breadcrumbs from the carrier bag. Best be getting home now love, he said, they’ll be locking the gate soon. Then he turned and walked off towards the other end of the park.
I stood up too. My back and legs were stiff from sitting in the cold and damp; my teeth began to rattle. Bye! I called after him, and in the light from a street lamp I saw him raise a hand as he shuffled away.
I left the park and travelled back the way I’d come. I began to run, past the boarded shops and the sinister doorways and the bus shelter, faster now, crashing into pedestrians, tripping off the pavement into the gutters full of rubbish. I didn’t stop until I reached the station. The great knot of anger that fuelled this escapade had gone, trodden into harsh city streets, and in its place, a sudden, desperate need to be home.
Then, as now, I could not call my father. It was Francine I phoned, Francine who left Joanna with the neighbour and came to meet me on the next train, who held me while I sobbed, and bought me hot chocolate and a large plate of chips. It was Francine who took me home and ran a bath and put me to bed and never mentioned it again nor, as far as I know, ever told my father what I’d done.
When Francine arrives, she pauses in the doorway of the coffee shop, then waves and comes over to the table. She looks older, lines between her eyebrows I’ve never noticed before.
‘You came,’ I say, standing up to greet her. She doesn’t kiss me but rests a hand briefly on my shoulder.
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’
‘I don’t k
now. I don’t know what to think at the moment. It’s all slightly mad.’ My throat tightens, I’m close to tears.
Francine props her case by the table, and bends down to look at Edward. ‘He’s doing well?’
‘He’s fine. Actually, more than fine. It’s odd how well he’s settled.’
‘He’s certainly grown.’ Francine hunts for her purse then takes off her coat. ‘I need a coffee,’ she says. ‘Can I get you another?’
I’m full of coffee but don’t like to refuse.
She fetches two americanos and sits down next to me. ‘How are things?’ she asks. ‘How’s your… mother?’
I stir my coffee, conscious of how bizarre this situation has become.
‘She’s still sleeping most of the time. Stable they said, which could mean anything. But her hip is shattered, her collar bone’s broken in two places and there’s a lot of bruising. None of that’s too bad apparently. But the head injury – that’s the real concern. They don’t know how long she was lying there – in the car. If she fell unconscious, there’s always a risk of compression, even days later. They did a brain scan yesterday and may need to do another one – to check I suppose. To see if they missed anything. We’ll know more when the neurologist’s been round later today.’
Francine stares into the distance, frowning. I’ve no idea what she’s thinking, no idea at all what any of this means to her or even why she agreed to come. What I do know, what surprises me more than anything, is how thankful I am that she’s here.
Thirty-Four
There are two more messages from Mark this morning, and a missed call, but no update from the ICU, which I take to be better news. At least no turn for the worse. I’ll think about Mark later.
The Place Where Love Should Be Page 15
