“Yes, I do. But I’ve got Paul back and, between you and me…” she leaned over the table and lowered her voice “… he’s my favourite.”
Jenna decided to be just as direct. “They’re very different. But then they’re not full brothers.”
Hazel had turned to look at two junior nurses who were pulling out chairs at the table next to them. Her head swung round, her eyes wide. “Who told you that?”
“Paul did.”
Had she made a mistake in saying that? Hazel was quiet for a minute, puzzlement between her brows.
“Paul told you that?”
“Yes.”
Hazel sat back and gazed at Jenna. “Paul knew Luke very well. I didn’t know he knew you even better.” Heat began to creep across Jenna’s cheeks. She could think of nothing to say. Finally, Hazel spoke again. “Yes, Paul’s father was…” she waved a hand “…I suppose they call it ‘the love of my life’. He was in a dangerous occupation. Any day, he could be blown to pieces. So we didn’t wait for legal niceties, I conceived Paul, and then I lost his father. There wasn’t much of him left to bury.”
Jenna looked down at her carton of juice and squeezed it. “I’m sorry,” was all she could think of to say.
“At that time, there were people who thought I’d been a slut. Including my father! But I was so glad we’d taken what we could while we could. People don’t always, and they lose what they might have had.” She stopped, and Jenna stilled as the words cut deep because they came from someone who knew and because they came from Paul’s mother. “People’s opinion could go to hell! And Paul is so like his father.”
Jenna gave a quick smile. “Then I can understand why you fell for him. And I think Paul’s a bit like you as well.”
Hazel studied her thoughtfully. “Funny. He never mentions you.”
“Why would he?”
“Did you know Dianne has gone back to London? Weeks ago.”
“No.”
“I don’t think she’ll be back. They were never suited.” She sighed. “You probably wouldn’t notice, but he’s not wearing his wedding ring any more.”
“Really?”
“I asked him about it once but he just said it had fallen into the sea!” She laughed at the silliness of it. “It’s too bad, but I don’t think anyone could live with Paul for very long, least of all a Sloanie from London.” She stood and reached for her coat on the back of her chair. “No, don’t get up. Stay and take some time to yourself. You’re worn out.”
Jenna smiled up at her. “Thanks for coming. They’re going to try reducing the sedation to see if Luke comes round.”
Hazel leaned down and put her hand on Jenna’s. “I’ll be praying.” She turned to go and then paused to look back. “I wish Paul could have found someone like you instead. You’re a nice girl.”
After she had gone, Jenna sat and looked down at the table, the drink carton crumpled between her fingers. Yeah. A nice girl called Missy.
A week after Luke was attacked, he moved his fingers. Then he moved his leg – the one that wasn’t broken. The tubes were removed and he began to cough. Jenna and Cora were at his side when the dark lines of his lashes flickered and rose. His eyes were unfocused at first and then they moved round the room until they snagged on his mother. Cora leaned over him, the lines on her face furrowed deeper as the week had passed by.
Luke coughed again and then his voice came, weak and gravel hoarse. “Shit, Mum.” His body shook as his words seared through his throat. “What the bloody hell happened?”
Cora’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. “Hello, Luke. You’re in hospital. You were attacked in the street.”
She caressed his head. “But you’re OK now.”
All Jenna’s bones felt like jelly. She gasped for air, relief flattening her lungs. Leaning over him, opposite her mother, she breathed, “Hey LW. Welcome back.”
Luke’s eyes swivelled to her and he winced as more pain breached his defences. “Throat,” he forced out, and then coughed again.
“You’ve had a tube down your throat for a while. It’ll get better.” Telling him what else had happened to him could wait.
“Where’s Dad?”
Cora answered. “It’s Sunday. He’s taking the services today.” Slowly, Luke drifted away from them again, but this time his sleep was deep and natural. A doctor came and checked him, looked at his notes, pulled back his lids and shone a light into his eyes. Then he turned to Jenna and her mother and smiled broadly. “I think he’s made it,” he said.
When she could think straight again, Jenna looked at her watch. It was lunchtime. Her father would have a service in an old people’s home this afternoon and then the evening service in his own church. He was probably at home now. She went out to the car park and phoned him.
“Great news, Dad! Luke came round and he seems OK.”
Donald gave one shuddering breath before he spoke. “Thank God!”
“I think you should come to see him now.”
“I’d like to, but I can’t…”
Jenna felt anger gathering in her. She had never been angry with her father before. “Why can’t you?”
“Because I’ve commitments…”
Jenna kept her voice level. “You’ve no greater commitment right now, Dad. Luke asked for you; he needs you and Mum needs you.”
“Jenna, I’ll go straight there from the church…”
The tautness in her snapped. “Bloody hell, Dad! Stop being a minister and be a father for once!”
She snapped the phone shut and flopped down onto the wall round the car park. A voice behind her made her jump.
“Shouting into phones is a bad habit.”
Her head swung round. “Will you stop sneaking up on me!” Paul sat down on the wall beside her and the news took over and bubbled out of her. “Luke’s come round, Paul! He’s come round! He spoke to us. He said ‘shit’. He’s going to be OK!”
Paul’s eyes widened momentarily. Then his body folded over his knees and he dropped his brow onto his crossed arms. Jenna watched him, surprised at the strength of his relief. When he didn’t straighten, she put an arm tentatively across his back. She felt the ridge of his spine, too prominent beneath his coat. Her hand strayed to his head, bowed still, motionless. Gently she placed her palm on his hair. As if stung, he jerked upright suddenly and she snatched her hand away.
He let out a long breath. “That’s great,” he said. “That’s just great. Go, Luke!” He ran his hand down the back of his head and closed his eyes again. “The world’s too poor to lose people like Luke.”
She got to her feet. “Come on. I’ll buy you a Coke to celebrate.”
He didn’t reply at once, looking up at her with an expression she couldn’t interpret.
“Come on,” she urged.
Finally he stood up. “OK. A last one then.”
She didn’t know what he meant but was too happy to puzzle over it. For a change they left the hospital complex and found a coffee shop some distance down the road outside. They sat in a corner, where Paul lifted a can of Coke to his mouth and drank deeply. Jenna felt light and happy. She watched his Adam’s apple working and laughed.
“You do realise the gas is going to come down your nose very painfully in a minute.”
He slammed the can onto the table with satisfaction. “That’s the best bit!”
Jenna stirred her milkshake with the straw. The fur edges of the cuffs of her coat brushed the table as she took a long sip. Mouth pursed round the straw, she looked up to find him watching her. A smile was just slipping from his lips as if he hadn’t meant to smile. The beautiful curves of his mouth never ceased to fascinate her. For a full minute, she examined every feature of his face – his lashes, the blue of his eyes, the tousled line of his hair. Always, her gaze slipped back to his mouth, to the corner that nudged slightly higher and made a dimple in his cheek. Then he hiccupped and screwed up his face, his nose creasing.
She sat back a
nd laughed aloud. “Told you it would hurt!” She became serious again, almost shy. “You’ve been great this week. Thanks.”
“You don’t need me any more now, if Luke’s going to be OK.”
Alarm filled her. “Yes, I do!”
He seemed to change the subject. “When I saw you on the phone, you were saying that Luke and your mother needed your dad. Don’t you need him?”
She thought about that. “No.” She spoke slowly. “I suppose I don’t.”
“But you love him.”
“Of course.”
“Yes,” he said. “Those are the people you can leave. The people that you love and need are the ones who really screw up your life.”
Her eyes widened at the bitterness in his voice. She bit her lip and looked down at the table. “Why didn’t you tell me Dianne had left you?”
His lip curled. “Because I’m still a married man, Saint Jenna.”
He was hurting her, unexpectedly hurting her as if, now that the strain of the past week was lifting, he was reverting to the stranger that he had become before. It was unbearable.
“But you’ll get a divorce?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“You don’t care?”
He pushed his chair back abruptly. “As I said once before, you’re a big girl now. You can find your own way home.”
Stunned by his sudden change of mood, she watched in disbelief as he walked past the tables and out the door. Then heads turned as she scrambled to her feet and ran after him. He was nearly at the next corner, his hands deep in his pockets and his stride long and quick.
When she was close enough she called, “Paul! Come back.” She ignored the passers-by who turned, amused at this girl in a furry coat running after a man in the street. She caught up and pulled his arm. Unlike that day on Rossnowlagh beach, he didn’t stop but almost dragged her along. “Stop, Paul. I do still need you!”
She stumbled as he whirled round. “It’s too late, Jenna! It was always going to be too late!”
She was crying now. “It’s not, it’s not!”
He gripped her shoulder and bit out the words. “You walked away from me. Well, this is what it feels like.”
Then he was gone, out of her life again. If he had slapped her she would not have recoiled more. Tears streamed down her face. The shapeshifter had taken many forms but none as ugly as this. A woman with a baby in a pushchair stopped and asked her if she was all right. She nodded and turned away. She searched for a tissue to blow her nose and then ran all the way back to the hospital.
27
EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM felt heavy.
The gear stick was moving though treacle, the steering wheel was fighting his grip, the pedals were stiff under his feet.
But guilt was like granite inside him. With great care Paul nosed the car through a gap in the Sunday afternoon traffic and into his own street. No point in having a wrestle with insurance companies now. His mouth twisted at the thought. Cars were parked along one side of the street, narrowing it. A dog trotted across in front of him; a man came out of a gateway, two children skipping round him like puppies.
His temper was getting worse. He was going to have to watch that. The week had cut canyons in his resolve deeper than he had foreseen; his mind had become more fragile, his tongue unleashed was a stinging whip. Jenna had been right to leave him, to walk away. She just didn’t know how right she was. She also didn’t know just what miracles she had worked in him.
As he approached his own gateway Paul gathered strength into his left arm and ripped down the gears, his movements jerky. Dianne had often called him selfish. She wasn’t the only one to call him that. But Jenna was the first person who had made him care that it was true. She was the first person ever to have made him vulnerable as a man. The day his step-father had yelled at him to go to England was the day he had resolved to give up, to harden any soft centre that still remained, to want nothing from anyone and to live entirely within his own skin. Dianne had been an arrogant self-indulgence, a hostage to his self-interest and pride. If he was still the person he was then, still the golden boy of London society, the ambitious young peacock, then it might have worked. He snorted as he turned into his gateway. Dianne was never going to settle here. He’d known it, and he hadn’t cared.
Jenna had sneaked under his defences, gentle and innocent, and made him open a door long closed and rusted shut. She made him want to take someone else into his life and heart and mind.
That was the first miracle. And it was a big mistake.
But what really annoyed him – he slammed the car door with force – really annoyed him, was the total disarming of his powers of self-deceit. Things shouldn’t stay in his memory when he didn’t want them there. People certainly shouldn’t. When Jenna had walked away from him that day by the sea, he had invoked that power. Never before had it failed him as it did now.
But that wasn’t the second miracle. What really sent angry fear shivering through him was that Jenna had made him realise that everything that had happened to him, everything that was going to happen to him, was not folded away into some neat place of invisibility. It was all there still, all of it. Memory and knowledge are locked in the brain, not erased from it. Somebody had found the key and panic brushed the back of his neck.
That was the second miracle. A bad, bad one.
Thank God Luke would recover and he did not regret answering Jenna’s cry. Paul jabbed his key into the front door lock. But after this week, he had miracles to fight. But not for long. Not for long.
The small hallway still held the smell of toast from this morning. Keys in his raised hand, he paused, nostrils flaring. There was the aroma of coffee, which he had not brewed. He threw his keys onto the hall table where a small swirl of dust lifted and settled again. His coat landed over the bannister and he walked into the sitting room.
Luther Chevalier was lounging on his sofa.
Paul stopped dead.
Luther raised the mug in his hand, his tone hectoring. “Really, Paul. Is this stuff the best you can do now Dianne’s left you?”
Paul pushed the shock down deep inside him and sat in the chair near the door into the kitchen. His guitar was propped against one arm of it.
“Obviously Dianne took all the good taste with her,” he replied evenly.
Luther looked round the room slowly. “Obviously.” He took another sip of coffee and leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the sofa. “This place is quite…” he waved a hand vaguely, “… bijou, I suppose you could call it. If you were being polite.”
Paul watched him calmly. “So Dianne still has her key.”
“Well guessed.” Luther reached into his pocket and held up a key from which dangled a gold fob with an inset of Belgian lace. Paul recognised it; he had bought it for her in Bruges on their honeymoon. She had called it “a funny little trinket”. He looked round quickly.
“Is she with you?”
“Not bloody likely!”
Paul sat forward, tired of this. “What do you want, Luther?”
Luther set the mug on the table in the window and stood up, all sarcasm gone. Instead his manner changed to one of ruthless business, a manner Paul remembered in him. It was unpleasant and forceful.
“I came for the rest of Dianne’s things. Even you have probably gathered that she isn’t coming back to you.”
“She belongs with you. She always did.”
Luther walked past the chair and peered into the kitchen, hands in his pockets. Suddenly he veered back and leaned over Paul, his face close and angry, a pale spray of straw coloured hair trembling over his reddening brow. “I’ve got her back, you bastard. You were just a bit of fun on the way.”
Paul raised one hand to Luther’s shoulder and pushed him away, slowly but firmly. He rose and faced him.
“Well, she was a bit of fun for me too.”
Luther raised his fist. Paul blocked the swinging blow with his forearm. “Do
n’t hit me, Luther. That would be a very bad idea.”
Luther calmed himself with an effort. “Dianne wants to know when you’re filing for divorce.”
Paul laughed in surprise. “I’ve no bloody idea! I don’t even know how to do it. I’ve never been divorced before.” He walked to the fireplace and stood still. When he turned back, Luther was still by the kitchen door, his hands fisted at his sides. Paul strolled to the window. “Where’s your car?”
“Parked up the street, already packed.” Luther’s lip curled in a sneer. “You’ll find things a bit emptier upstairs.”
“Why didn’t you park in the drive? It would have made lugging all that stuff a lot easier.”
“But then you’d have been warned and I wouldn’t have had the wonderful sight of your face when you came in and saw me.”
Paul nodded in understanding. “Ah. Of course.” He strolled back and pulled his guitar upright, twirling it on its base. “I don’t think I’ll bother with a divorce. What does it matter to you two anyway?” He held up his left hand. “I’d just give you my ring if I could, but I seem to have lost it somewhere.”
Luther’s hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of shirt at his neck. The guitar thudded to the floor with a discordant jangle as Paul reacted instantly, wrenching Luther’s hand away and propelling him backwards till his legs buckled on the edge of the sofa and he sat heavily. Paul put his face close to his and hissed, “Touching me is a very bad idea too.” He straightened. “Let’s try and be civilised, shall we?”
Over his head, Paul noticed that a framed picture of Charles Butler was gone from the wall. Everything has its blessings.
“Why can’t she come over for her own stuff anyway? Why can’t she ask about a divorce for herself?”
“Because she’s not well.”
Paul frowned. “How not well?”
“She’s getting over a small operation.”
Paul’s eyebrows knitted further. “Women’s stuff?”
Luther got to his feet slowly and put his hands in his pockets, his smile thin and bitter. “Yes, in fact I’m glad you reminded me. She told me to tell you. Only fair, she said.”
Maker of Footprints Page 27
