by Hilary Boyd
‘Right. Sounds grim.’ Eric seemed as if he knew just how she felt, although he couldn’t have. His parents lived in a croft in the Hebrides and hadn’t spent a night apart, or had a cross word apparently, in the forty years they’d been together. Although Eve could scarcely believe this to be true.
‘What’s she snippy about?’
‘Everything, because she won’t talk about Jonny.’
‘Your brother?’
Eve sighed. ‘Yes, and I know it’s hard. But keeping it all locked up hasn’t worked for anyone.’
There was a moment’s silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Wish I was home with you, Evie.’
‘Only seven weeks,’ she said.
‘It’ll go in a flash,’ he said.
Maybe for you. She had a pang of envy at his comparative freedom. Even shut up in almost permanent darkness in sub-zero temperatures, he was still in control of his own time. Once you had children, that freedom was gone for good. Every day seems like a lifetime to me, she thought.
She’d been jealous in those first weeks of his sojourn in the icy wastes. There were three women, Eric said, amongst the nineteen scientists wintering on the base, and he’d become friends with Sharon, the base doctor. When he told Eve about the communal candlelit dinners with great food every Saturday, music nights – clever old Sharon played the flute, apparently – skiing trips, the bonding cold, the stunning landscapes she couldn’t even imagine, Eve couldn’t handle it.
‘Send me a photo of this Sharon woman,’ she’d said when Eric had been there about a month.
‘Why?’
‘I want to know what she looks like.’
He’d chuckled. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’
‘It’s not funny. You talk about her all the time. I want to see what she looks like.’
‘OK, I’ll email you a photo if you like. But I’m not sure how that’ll help.’ He’d let out a sigh. ‘I can’t explain this place, Evie. It’s just the most amazing location on earth. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s the Antarctic you should be jealous of, not Sharon. The air is so clear, the light extraordinary, the sunrise and sunsets so mind-blowing … I wish you could see it. But I assure you there’s nothing going on between me and Sharon. I would never, ever do that to you.’
‘So what about sex?’ she’d asked, not at all reassured by his words. ‘Five months is a hell of a long time for you all to go without … don’t I know it.’
Eric had given an embarrassed laugh; he wasn’t good at talking about sex, or about feelings of any kind – his puritan Scottish parents had made sure of that.
‘You’ll have to trust me on this one, Evie.’ Pause. ‘You do trust me, don’t you?’
And she had to admit that she probably did.
When he sent the photo, she had laughed out loud. All she could see was a group of nondescript men and women, wrapped in brightly coloured snow gear, hats pulled so low it almost obscured their faces, grinning at the camera as they stood outside a large green hut, snow as far as the eye could see. ‘Fourth from the left, back row,’ was Eric’s caption.
‘Dad says to come about one thirty tomorrow,’ Eve said as she padded barefoot into the kitchen in her cotton dressing gown on Saturday morning. Her mum was at the table with a cup of coffee and the newspaper spread out in front of her. Arthur must be in the sitting room; she could hear the sound of cartoons on the television.
Stella had been getting the boy up each day, as soon as she heard him stirring and before he’d had a chance to wander in and wake his mother. She would bring him down to the kitchen for cereal and juice, then sit him in front of the television until her daughter got up. Eve was amazed at the difference that extra hour or so made to her day. But Stella, claiming to be an early riser – Eve did not remember this – had insisted.
Her mum nodded, smiled. ‘Have a good night?’
‘Yeah. Weeing, weeing and weeing, but otherwise not bad.’
‘Sit down, I’ll make you some tea,’ Stella said, folding the paper and rising from her chair.
‘Stop it, Mum. I’ll get soft if you keep spoiling me like this. I’m quite capable of dunking a tea bag in a cup of hot water.’
Stella raised her eyebrows. ‘Gift horse and mouth?’
‘True, but you’ll get knackered if you go on like this. You only had shingles in February.’
Her mum sat down again and was silent as Eve put the kettle on. Then she said softly, ‘I’m fine. You know, I’m loving being here with you and Arthur.’
Eve turned and smiled. ‘It’s been really good. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mum.’
There was an awkward pause, both women suddenly self-conscious with each other, and Eve went back to the preparation of her tea.
‘Iain says he’ll be down in time for supper. So there’ll be plenty of scope for a bit of drama at lunch tomorrow.’
Eve groaned.
‘Joking,’ her mum said, a wicked grin on her face. ‘But it’ll be interesting to see how they get on, Iain and Jack. Seems odd they haven’t met.’
‘Hmm, “interesting”? Is that code for “catastrophic”?’
Laughing, Stella said, ‘God no. Your dad’s changed, don’t you think? His crazy work obsession seems to have totally disappeared. He seems more … I don’t know, relaxed? I always assumed he’d just keel over on the job.’
‘I think he had burnout.’
‘Won’t he get bored, doing nothing?’
Eve shrugged. ‘He says he’s writing a book. He wants to learn to ride a horse … I don’t know, Mum. That job of his was relentless. Maybe he just needs a break before getting into something again.’ It wasn’t Iain and Jack she was worried about at lunch. Iain was an old hippy, as Eve saw it: totally laid back, certainly not someone to pick a fight. But her parents hadn’t seen each other since that day of the pub lunch, when they’d told her about Jonny. It amused her – amazed her, even – that her mum considered her dad more ‘relaxed’. No thanks to you, Mum, she thought, smiling to herself as she remembered Stella’s grumpy silence in the pub garden. And the tension would not have gone away since then. Her brother sat like an enduringly tender wound between them, a point of pain so great that the slightest word or look could trigger an avalanche of misdirected angst.
16
Stella woke, disorientated, to find Iain next to her. She’d got used to sleeping alone in the past three weeks. But his presence was comforting, a reminder that she wasn’t just a mother and grandmother, although she was willingly so right now. They had made love last night – very quietly, trying not to let the old bedstead creak, trying not to giggle, although Eve’s room was at the other end of the corridor. She had found herself eager for the sexual closeness, the feel of Iain’s body against hers, and luxuriated in the sudden spike of desire his touch brought. He was a good lover, taking his time to give her pleasure.
‘Morning,’ she said as he opened his pale-blue eyes.
Iain grinned and stretched, pushing his hair back from his face. ‘Hmm … Worth the hideous journey down, that was.’ He rolled over till he could put his arm around her. ‘Should keep you short more often.’
They lay in companionable silence. The morning light was very bright, the air from the open window cool on her skin. She knew she ought to get up, get dressed, be ahead of her grandson when he woke. But sex had made her lazy; she just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep.
‘I’ll be off home after lunch,’ Iain was saying. ‘The traffic will be murder on the A21 on a Sunday night.’
‘I’m dreading it,’ Stella said. ‘I’d much rather hang out here, sit in the garden with you, catch up. Can’t we let them go on their own? Jack and Lisa would probably pay to have us bail. They only asked us because they couldn’t not.’
‘Well, I’m looking forward to finally meeting the legendary Jack Holt.’
‘No, you’re not. You think Jack’s an arse because I’ve told you he is a million times.’
&nbs
p; ‘OK,’ Iain said, grinning sheepishly, ‘well, maybe “intrigued” is a better word. I’m probably not actually looking forward to it.’ They both fell silent. ‘Behave today, Stell. Please,’ he added, his voice quiet but firm.
Jack and Stella were alone in his kitchen. The others were out in the garden. Iain was lying on his back on the small patch of grass, white-blond hair spread out behind him, while Arthur bounced on his stomach, shrieking with delight. Lisa and Eve were watching from the wooden decking, laughing at the antics on the lawn.
Stella had come in to chop up an apple for Arthur. The meal was very late and the child was starving.
‘Hope your boyfriend likes beef,’ Jack said, sweat beading on his flushed face as he opened the oven door to clouds of steam.
‘He’s a vegetarian, actually,’ Stella said, mischievously enjoying the moment. She knew how Jack would react: he couldn’t abide what he’d always called ‘fussy eaters’.
On cue, Jack turned a disbelieving face towards her. He banged the hot roasting tin down on the work surface, throwing aside the quilted pot-holder. ‘For God’s sake, Stella. Why didn’t you say? I’d have done an onion tart or something.’
Stella smiled. ‘No, you wouldn’t. You loathe vegetarians … and you haven’t got a clue how to make onion tart.’
She saw Jack chuckle as he bent to baste the joint with a long-handled metal spoon, watched him put the tin back on the oven shelf.
‘No, OK, you’re right. But what’s the poor guy going to eat?’
‘Potatoes, veg. Tin of sardines if you run to one.’
‘Ah, so he’s not a vegetarian at all. He’s a pescatarian.’
‘Either way, he’s not going to eat your beef, is he?’
Jack harrumphed. ‘You love winding me up, don’t you?’
‘How am I winding you up by telling you my “boyfriend”, as you put it, doesn’t eat meat?’ she asked, raising an innocent eyebrow.
‘What is he, then, if he’s not your boyfriend? I called him your husband the other day and you didn’t like that either.’ Jack wasn’t looking at her as he concentrated on slicing up a sweetheart cabbage on a red plastic chopping board.
‘My partner?’ She shook her head. ‘I hate that word. Consort?’ She laughed at the pretentious option. ‘Boyfriend sounds like we’re twenty-five again.’
There was silence. She was surprised at how easy it was to banter with Jack again after their previous encounter. But now she saw his face fall as he laid the knife gently on the chopping board.
Stella sighed. She thought she knew what was going through his mind. If they were both twenty-five again they could do things differently. Get a different outcome. For a crazy moment she imagined them driving back up the A21 from the Morrisons’ lunch. Evening sun, Neneh Cherry on the stereo, Jonny asleep in his car seat, grass in his curls, chocolate around his mouth from the ice cream he’d just eaten. She would be driving because Jack was tipsy, while they both deconstructed the party – one of their favourite pastimes – picking the guests apart, raving about the food, saying how charming Henry was … The image faded.
‘I’d better take this out,’ she said, lifting the plate of sliced apple and turning towards the door to the garden, eager to be out in the fresh air again, away from Jack and the memories he evoked.
‘Wait, Stella,’ she heard his voice behind her.
She turned back reluctantly. ‘What?’
He hesitated. ‘I saw Giovanna last week. At a book launch in Holland Park.’
Stella stared at him, a sliver of panic winding up through her gut.
‘We said hello. She must be in her seventies now, but she still looked amazing … Henry died last year, apparently.’ Jack spoke slowly. He seemed determined she should hear. ‘Don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence?’ he went on. ‘I haven’t seen her in decades, then I bump into her this week.’
She knew what he meant, but she couldn’t find an answer.
Jack’s expression was puzzled. ‘Given tomorrow’s date? Surely you haven’t forgotten.’
The snaking panic flared, along with anger that he should persist in pushing her like this. ‘Like I would ever forget the day our son died,’ she said quietly, biting her lip and looking away, out to the garden, where things seemed to be going on so normally. She felt her heart racing, aware that she might say something she’d regret, forcing herself not to. What does he want? she asked herself. A nice little memorial picnic under a tree? Forget-me-nots and ham sandwiches, thermos tea to soothe us as we relive the most hideous moment of our lives?
She found she was trembling, shocked by the image she had created. Jack was just staring at her in silence – the air in the kitchen suddenly very still – waiting for her to say something more. She felt as if she might collapse. Putting down the plate containing the apple with exaggerated care, she reached for the back of a chair and leaned on it, not even having the strength to pull it out and sit down. Jack did not touch her, did not speak. He seemed frozen to the spot.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ she mumbled, hand over her mouth as if to stop the cry. The cry she knew she must not unleash, in case it snapped the band that was strung so tightly around her heart it was sometimes difficult to breathe. Not here, not now, not with the family just outside. But she could not control the tears. They streamed down her face as she looked up at her ex-husband. ‘I just can’t.’
The kitchen clock ticked. Arthur shrieked. Iain laughed.
‘It’s OK,’ Jack said gently. She felt his hand rest for a split second on her shoulder. Then she heard Eve’s voice from the garden:
‘How’s that beef coming along, Dad? I’m just about to faint.’
Stella hurried off and locked herself in the downstairs toilet, where she washed her face, tidied her hair, tried to breathe normally again. Her grandson’s apple still to be delivered, the family to face, she didn’t have time to think about what had just happened.
‘That went really well,’ Eve said with a sigh of contentment as they drove home through the still summer evening, the sun slanting dusty and beautiful through the trees and leafy hedgerows. ‘I think Dad was exhausted from cooking the beef, he didn’t say much at lunch. But Lisa made up for it, eh? She’s either totally silent, or like someone’s wound her up and set her off.’ She chuckled mischievously. ‘Did you see how she collared Iain, getting him to tell her the names of the butterflies and birds? I didn’t take her for the Springwatch type. Did she really want to know?’
Stella smiled. ‘Beats an awkward silence.’
‘Thanks, Mum. You made a real effort with Dad. I know you’re not finding it easy, but you seemed a bit more mellow with each other today. Or am I just projecting?’
‘No, I had a good time,’ Stella said, wanting to make her daughter happy.
‘Iain’s cool,’ Eve went on, ‘the way he gets on with everyone. It must be nice to be so chilled all the time, don’t you think?’
Stella nodded but didn’t reply. Her thoughts were crashing uncontrolled around her head. All she wanted to do was have a large glass of wine, a long bath and some time alone to think.
17
Lisa was astride him, eyes closed, body arched back, her full breasts thrust upwards, pink nipples erect as she stroked and pinched them with her long fingers, groaning with pleasure as Jack moved inside her. This was her favourite position, where she controlled the action – Jack wasn’t complaining, his knees weren’t what they used to be – as she lifted her body to slow things down, then accelerated, riding him faster and faster as she neared orgasm. She’d pushed his hand between her legs tonight, instructing him in short, staccato commands to touch her, ‘There … lower … not so hard … yeees.’
But Jack was miles away, just going through the motions. He hadn’t wanted sex. After Eve and the others left, he’d been tired, and longed just to stretch out on one of the two deckchairs in the garden and have a snooze. But instead there had been a painful argument.
He and
Lisa were in the kitchen, clearing up the lunch. She was wrapping the remains of the beef in foil; he was putting the blue pottery serving dishes back in the top cupboard.
‘I’m thinking of staying down tonight,’ he said as he bent to put the last of the tea mugs into the dishwasher. ‘I can drop you off at the station after supper, if that suits.’
Jack knew he should have mentioned it before, but he was a self-confessed coward when it came to confrontation with his wife, preferring to leave things to come to a head, then deal with it – a strategy that sometimes worked, but which failed him spectacularly tonight.
An ominous silence greeted his remark. He turned to face his wife. It was early evening and the sun was still bathing the garden in light, though the kitchen was in shadow and suddenly chilly. Lisa, dressed in a pale-pink strappy dress – she seemed to have hundreds of dresses, seldom wore anything else as far as Jack could see – was standing stock still on the far side of the table, arms crossed tight over her chest.
‘Why?’
Knowing from her expression alone that he was in trouble, Jack ploughed on, affecting a nonchalance he hoped was convincing. ‘Oh, you know, the usual … You’re working all week, and I need to get on with my book. It’s quiet here, not so many distractions as in town.’ He tried for a grin. ‘I might actually get something done.’
Lisa twisted her lips vigorously from side to side, then shook her head.
‘I don’t want to go back to London without you. I hate being alone in an empty house, especially on a Sunday night.’
Jack said cautiously, ‘But you’ll be off at sparrow’s fart. I don’t see what difference it makes. We can still have supper together, then I’ll take you to—’
‘It isn’t fair,’ Lisa interrupted him, ‘slinging me on to a train so you can doss about in the country all week. This isn’t what we agreed.’
‘ “Agreed”?’ Jack was baffled.
Tapping her fingers impatiently on the worktop – the noise sharp from her gel-manicured nails – Lisa said almost casually, ‘You’re a selfish bastard, Jack Holt. I don’t know why I bother.’ She let out a long sigh. ‘It’s always all about you, isn’t it?’
