Once upon a time, we would have known exactly what was happening in each other’s lives, but recently, not so much. Our once close, interconnecting friendship had been the victim of our busy lives. Vee was the books editor on a rival newspaper – ‘Rivals make the best of friends’ – she was on her second marriage and a late-starter mother, while I had been caught up in my job. There was no room in the spaces between these intense, life-building activities to cram in any more.
Vee sounded tired and I felt guilty that I had bothered her. ‘No, I didn’t but I wasn’t looking. He didn’t buy new underwear, or put on aftershave, or read poetry. Vee, I’m sorry I bothered you, but I couldn’t think of who else to turn to.’
‘Of course you should have rung me. But I was on the way to my ex-nanny’s wedding. The last thing I wanted to do on a precious Saturday but all in a good cause. I wanted to make sure that the current one realized how solid and friendly our relationship could be.’
I understood the subterfuges to which a working mother descended. They were justified on the grounds that no moral scruple was greater than ensuring the care and comfort of children – which left pretty much a blank sheet where behaviour was concerned.
‘Look, would you like to come over here? I could fix some supper.’
I was having difficulty focusing on anything, and the idea of leaving the house made me panic. ‘No, no, it’s fine. Just talking to you is enough.’
‘Have you told the children?’
‘I can’t bear to. Not just for the moment.’ Sam would go silent with shock; Poppy’s red mouth would pale and tremble.
‘Rose, I know how you’re feeling, believe me. You must call me, day or night.’
‘Thank you.’
There was nothing more to add.
I went on the hunt for Nathan’s whisky and found it in his study. An empty glass with a thumbnail of peaty residue in the bottom stood beside the bottle. No doubt he had drunk it while he waited for me to come home and planned his escape from our marriage. I disliked whisky but I poured myself a slug and it obliged me by punching into my empty stomach.
I thought of Minty shaking her shiny head, the soft whoop of her laughter, and Nathan joining in. I supposed some of their amusement had been directed at me.
I had the strangest sensation that my body had become a foreign entity to which I held no key; neither did I possess a map to its arrangement of skin, bones and blood. I held out a hand. Would my fingers flex? Would I manage to swallow? Would the air in the tiny alveoli in my lungs perform its chemical exchange? A pain pulsed above my left eye, and my throat was sore from crying. Shock, of course: my body had raced ahead of my mind. Although I had listened to Nathan, heard the front door snap behind him, and I had inhabited an empty house for a day and a night, a part of me did not believe that he had gone.
Nathan loved his study. The notice on the door said, ‘Keep Out,’ and he had insisted on installing two phone lines and purred when they rang at the same time. His study had been the dry run for the office, and in it he reflected on weighty office matters. He had taken pains also to set up systems to deal with bills, insurance and family finance.
I sat down at the desk, opened a drawer and was confronted by his neat arrangement of Sellotape, biros and screwdriver. On the notepad by the phone was written, ‘Ring accountant.’
It was a fair bet that he had – before quitting the study to sack his wife. Nathan always worked methodically through the tasks he set himself.
A long time ago Vee had accused Nathan of being unimaginative, but I argued that he was the opposite. It was precisely because he could imagine only too well the disasters that might overtake his family that he took such pains to anticipate them.
Hanging above the desk, at the point where it would have caught his eye each time he raised his head, was a framed photograph of Nathan and his colleagues at last year’s Christmas dinner. The men – they were all men – were in dinner jackets, which conferred clubbable conformity and suggested that the occasion, which was about eating and drinking, was important. I had teased Nathan about that.
He was seated between the chairman and the editor, and when he first produced it, the photograph had given me pleasure, for he looked so toned and relaxed. It read differently now: shining in Nathan’s expression was not the natural pleasure of a man at ease with his work and home but, rather, the excitement of a man who had embarked on a different course entirely.
Chapter Seven
Early on Sunday morning, I fumbled into consciousness. I had been woken by the sound of footsteps in the hall and someone mounted the stairs.
It was Nathan coming up with the breakfast. As he always did on Sundays. ‘This is our time,’ he said, when the children were big enough to make their own breakfast and then so big that breakfast had become a vague memory. ‘fust you and me.’ Sometimes, he did not wait for me to finish but took away the tray. ‘Our time.’ Lately, conscious of my early-morning face, I had retreated under the sheets and he had found me there.
The air in the bedroom felt sour and despairing, and I no less so. I lay without moving, without curiosity, even, fear absent. If it was the mad axeman about whom Poppy had had nightmares my death at his hands would be easy. No more than a gentle sigh of acceptance and a plea to do it quickly.
‘Mum?’ Sam peered round the door.
Briefly happiness streaked through me and I struggled upright. ‘Sam… you’ve come.’
‘Of course.’ He advanced into the room, bent over and kissed me. ‘I couldn’t let you be on your own. Dad phoned me last night and told me of his extraordinary decision. I couldn’t think what else to do. Except something stupid, like bringing you flowers.’ He looked down at me bleakly. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Join the club.’
He reached over and took one of my hands. I clung to him. ‘You must have got up at the crack of dawn to get here,’ I said.
Sam would have set the alarm in his bachelor bedroom in his elegant town flat, slid out from beside the sleeping Alice, dressed so quietly that she did not stir. Perhaps he had not even told her where he was going. Perhaps Alice had not been there.
Sam was never at his best with high emotion, and he patted my leg awkwardly. ‘You look awful. When did you last eat?’
‘I don’t know. It must have been yesterday, but I attacked Dad’s whisky… OK,’ I admitted, ‘not good, but it won’t become a habit. And I felt entitled to a glass too many.’
He sighed. ‘I’d better get you breakfast.’ Parsley head-butted her way into the bedroom. Sam picked her up and placed her in my arms. ‘Here, take your dysfunctional cat.’ He moved round the room, pulling back the curtains and piling my clothes on to the chair – uncharacteristically I had scattered them on the floor. Damn them, I had thought, fighting with my jeans and sweater, which I had seemed unable to remove last night. Maybe clothes have a point of view too – maybe they’re protesting at my fate.
It was not a good idea to think too much about the previous evening, and I buried my face in Parsley’s warm fur and battled with a heaving stomach. ‘Sam, don’t make me any coffee.’
‘You drink far too much of it anyway.’ He went out and closed the door.
Parsley rebelled at the straitjacket, and I released her. Her green eyes questioned my trustworthiness before she settled down beside me.
Sam returned, bearing tea and toast on a tray. The tea had slopped into the saucer and the toast was spread with the thinnest scraping of butter but my heart melted.
‘Eat now,’ he commanded.
The toast fragmented on my tongue. I thought briefly of other breakfasts – thick, white toast, lashings of butter and an icing of bitter marmalade – which I had shared with Nathan. Already, they seemed to have taken place way back in another life. ‘Was Dad all right when you spoke to him?’ I asked.
Sam’s brows snapped together. ‘Not too bad.’ He was trying to shield me from anything that might cause me additional misery. At the same time he did
not want to hear any fierce, hot words against his father.
I shut my eyes and tried to summon the perfect loyalty to Nathan that only yesterday had been so easy, so automatic. I did not want Sam to shield Nathan. Greedily, I wanted to claim all of my children’s loyalty and affection. Circles of light slid across my vision, and my breath sounded harsh and laboured in my ears.
‘Mum,’ he said, ‘please don’t look like that.’
I pulled myself together. ‘Sam, c-could I have some more tea?’
After I had got dressed, I made my way downstairs and went into the kitchen. Sam was flicking through the Sunday Times, keeping half an eye on the bacon he was grilling. Sam liked a cooked breakfast. So did Nathan. Except on Sundays, of course. A little dizzy, I leant on the doorpost and observed Sam for a moment or two. A turn of the head, the flicker of a muscle, and he looked just like his father.
Sensing my presence, he swung round. ‘I didn’t have time to eat.’ He hooked out a chair from under the table with his foot. ‘Come and sit down.’
I sat and watched him as he demolished bacon and toast, then put down his fork. ‘I just want to say that I don’t know what Dad’s doing, but please don’t think of him too badly’
That was just like Sam. From the word go he had been such a fair, modest person, with an innate sense of natural justice. Even when Poppy had been born and displaced him so thoroughly, Sam had got on with his little life and quietly accepted that he was no longer the prime focus of attention.
‘I don’t know what to think, Sam. Or, rather, there’s too much to think about and I can’t take it in yet. For one thing, I feel shamingly foolish. Stupid, even.’
‘You really had no idea?’
I shook my head.
‘It could be that he’s woken up this morning and realized he’s made a monumental mistake.’
‘Your father told me that he wanted some freedom, and he meant before it was too late. Of course, it’s perfectly natural to have thoughts like that but -’ My voice broke. Sam frowned and I realized that, at this time in his life, Nathan’s ambitions made no sense to him and he would not understand. I bit my lip. ‘It’s going to take a bit of forgiving.’
‘That suggests you think he might come back.’ I shrugged and Sam asked earnestly, ‘Would you like me to talk to him?’
I shook my head.
Sam shoved away his plate. ‘You’ll have to deal with Minty.’
‘I’ve thought of that.’
He smiled grimly. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in her shoes.’ He got up and slid an arm round my shoulders. ‘I’m pretty sure Dad’s going to find out that he’s made a mistake.’
Sam’s championship reminded that there were important, unchanging things amid this mess to which I could cling. I had been lucky. Some families did not have that glue of memory.
‘Give me Poppy’ Nathan steadied himself on the path that led precipitously to the beach. ‘I’ll take her.’ He handed me the picnic basket and swung Poppy into his arms. She gave a little cry of excitement and flopped against him. ‘Stay still, wriggler.’ He kissed her neck, and began a careful descent.
The path was treacherous. I bent over Sam: ‘Keep close to Dad.’ Clutching his spade and bucket, Sam padded behind Nathan, placing one sandal carefully in front of the other, negotiating the loosened stones and pot-holes. I flung the rug over my shoulder like a plaid – a Jacobite soldier off to war, said Sam – and brought up the rear, with the Thermoses rattling in the picnic basket.
‘I’m in front,’ yelled Poppy.
The weather had been dry and hot, and in places the path had crumbled away. Tufts of thrift and wild marjoram pooled across the slopes on either side and, high above, the swifts called to each other. We edged down until we reached the stony lip of beach. At the last minute the path vanished, and we had to jump.
‘Go on, then.’ Nathan swung Poppy to the ground and, a sprite in yellow shorts, she raced across the stones towards the sea, which glittered in the summer sun. Sam jumped and looked back at me to make sure I had witnessed his prowess.
‘Rosie?’ Nathan turned back. I had been about to launch myself at the beach but he caught me and swung me down. In that brief moment of contact, I heard the thud of a steady heartbeat. My own raced with exertion. ‘Light as a feather,’ lied Nathan.
The heat pulsed off the rocks, too much so for comfort, and we chose to sit by one draped with cool, insulating ropes of seaweed. Nathan spread the rug and I anchored it with stones. Poppy’s skinny white limbs waved like an insect’s as I pulled off her T-shirt and shorts. She escaped me and, stark naked, hopped around trying to insert a leg into her swimsuit. I captured my giggling daughter and covered her with kisses. Over by an adjacent rock, Sam had made a base camp for his possessions and he came over to request that they were not touched. I assured him that they would be safe.
From here, the view was of uninterrupted water and the cliffs hid the sprawl of bungalows and houses that crept over the wildness. There was no one else on the beach. The sun made our eyes water, and the coconut scent of the sun-tan lotion on our hot skin was whipped away by a salty breeze.
The children raced off, thought better of it as the stones bit their bare feet, and skipped their way to the edge of the water, squealing as the water splashed over their toes. Nathan sat down on the rug and stripped off his shirt. ‘They’re growing up, aren’t they?’
At six and four, this was overstating the case a little. ‘Way to go,’ I said.
Nathan always got burnt unless I took action. He was not someone who thrived in hot climates. I opened the sun-tan lotion, tipped a pool into my cupped hand and rubbed it into his back. ‘More,’ he demanded, ‘just there,’ as my fingers explored the area by his neck that was knotted and painful with tension.
After a bit he got up and joined the children. I pulled out my book, lay on my stomach and read. Every so often I looked up and watched my family failing to outwit the sea. The book palled and I dropped my head on to my arms. I could hear the sea vibrating, the tiny hiss of displaced sand and the click of stones. If I lay still and quiet enough, I thought, I could melt into this elemental world of sun, water and wide, open horizon.
Sam ran back with a fistful of shells to show me before transferring them to his base. ‘Poppy won’t get them there,’ he said.
I sat up and put my arms around his shoulders that felt so childish, so vulnerable. ‘Poppy doesn’t get everything,’ I reassured him.
He gave me one of his challenging stares. ‘Yes, she does.’
My fingers must have pressed too hard at the junction of his shoulder and arm, just where the nerves flowed under the skin, and he flinched. ‘No, Poppy doesn’t,’ I promised. ‘Wait and see.’
He pulled himself free.
‘Why don’t you help me get the picnic ready, Sam?’
He laid the rug with four different-coloured plastic plates and distributed the individual sandwich parcels I had made and labelled: on Sam’s I had drawn a smiling face, on Poppy’s a big teddy bear, on Nathan’s a pair of sunglasses. On mine, I had written, ‘Sleep’. Then he put out matching plastic mugs, carefully matching the colours to the plates.
We ate cheese and cucumber sandwiches, and drank orange juice. Poppy refused to eat either the cucumber or the cheese and gave them to me. For pudding we opened a packet of bourbon biscuits and a bag of apples.
I edged up beside Nathan so that our thighs touched. Hard, taut muscle alongside softer, sand-dusted flesh. Large though my feet were, Nathan’s were bigger, and the comparison always made me feel ridiculously feminine and cherished. ‘Happy?’ I asked.
He leant over and rubbed his nose gently on mine. ‘Never happier.’
I sighed with contentment. Nathan straightened and rubbed at his reddening forearms. ‘Can’t ask for much more,’ he said. ‘Can we?’
‘I’ll have to get back,’ said Sam. He clasped his hands on the tabletop, and his thumbs knitted together. ‘I think you and Dad need to get together.’
He was hoping to leave with some hope, and it was a relief to have to think about his needs. ‘I’ll make you some sandwiches.’
I cut bread, and buttered it, noting with surprise how competent my movements were. I took care to slice the Cheddar thinly. Tiny parings fell on to the table; I brushed them away.
Sam watched me and accepted the neat foil packet. ‘You didn’t need to do that.’
‘Oh, yes, I did. You don’t know how much. Thank you for letting me.’
‘I was just wondering,’ he said, ‘if you and Dad aren’t sorted out, maybe you’d like to come to Greece in July with Alice and me?’
I launched myself in his direction, caught him round the waist and kissed him. ‘Certainly not, but you’re the most wonderful son for even considering it.’
He held me tightly. ‘Thought I should ask.’
‘A sacrifice too far.’
‘Have you talked to Poppy?’
‘Not yet, but I will.’
‘She’ll take it badly’
‘I know’
When Sam left, number seven Lakey Street returned to silence. I switched on the radio but it was playing a violin concerto. Each sweet, perfect note cut into me, like a knife slicing my flesh. I gasped, gagged, lunged forward, snapped it off and fled from the kitchen.
My study was on the first-floor landing, a space kidnapped from the turn in the stairs. Its window overlooked the garden and fitted badly. I kept a rug on the chair to wrap round myself on cold days when I sat at the desk I had squeezed into the space. The family scoffed at the term ‘study’, and at the idea that I needed one. For years, the children had had their own way of making their disapproval felt: they made a point of thumping up and down the stairs as noisily as they dared – ‘Shush, Mummy’s working in her study,’ they told each other, in whispers guaranteed to penetrate the Tower of Babel. I sat there now, so cold that I had wrapped the rug round me twice.
Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman Page 7
