by Jojo Moyes
Suzanna raised a hand to it.
'Why d'you cut it? I thought you liked it long.'
Suzanna wrinkled her nose. 'Just needed a change. Actually,' she said, stubbing out her cigarette, 'that's not strictly true. I got sick of people telling me I looked like that stupid painting.'
'Oh.' Lucy waited for something more. She reached out and took a cigarette from her sister's packet.
'Neil likes it,' Suzanna said eventually. 'He's always liked me with short hair.'
The sky was cloudy, threatening more rain, and the two pulled their jackets closely round them, each shifting as the cold of the stone step seeped unforgivingly through their clothes.
Lucy took a long drag. 'Two years since I gave up, and the odd one still tastes delicious.'
'So do the odd twenty,' said Suzanna.
There was something peculiar in her tone. Lucy, changing her mind, stubbed out her cigarette and tossed the evidence behind a flowerpot, as if they were still teenagers.
'Are you going to tell me off?'
'For what?'
'For refusing Dad's help. Like Ben did.'
'Why would I?'
'It doesn't seem to stop anyone else.'
They sat in silence, each alone with her thoughts, watching the clouds race across the sky, occasionally revealing the odd game patch of blue.
'What's up, Suze?'
'Nothing.' Suzanna stared straight ahead at the barns.
There was a lengthy pause.
'I heard about what happened at the shop. I tried to ring a couple of times - to make sure you were okay.'
'I know. I'm sorry. I keep forgetting to return calls.'
'Are you fully back in business?'
'In theory. Neil tells me I can't last long at this rate. I'm not really making any money. It's hard - it's hard to know what to do to bring people in.' She smiled at her sister apologetically. 'I don't suppose I'm the most welcoming person at the moment. Not a great draw at the best of times. That's really why I can't see any point in Dad investing in it.'
Lucy leant forward, drawing her knees up to her chest. 'And you and Neil?'
'Fine.'
'I'm assuming the cigs mean Peacock minor is not yet imminent . . .'
'I think the accepted phrase is "if it happens it happens". I guess I'll try a bit harder when I'm feeling a bit . . . brighter.' Her voice tailed away.
'Try a bit harder?' Lucy pulled a face. 'What are you trying to turn into? Some kind of Stepford wife?' She studied her sister's profile, her smile fading when she saw that there would be no jocular reply. 'You don't sound like yourself, Suze. You sound . . .' She couldn't find the right words. 'Married, for a change?' When Suzanna turned back to her Lucy was shocked to see that her eyes filled with tears.
'Don't mock me, Luce. I'm doing my best. Really. I'm trying to do my best.' Her hair, caught on the wind, stood up on one side, looking shorn and brutal.
Lucy Fairley-Hulme hesitated for just a second, then placed her arms round her beautiful, troubled, complicated sister and held her tighter than she had since they were children.
Suzanna was about to close the shop. She needn't have bothered coming back after her parents' lunch. It had probably cost more in petrol to return than she had made in coffee profits. The skies had grown steadily greyer, heralding a premature dusk, and the wind had picked up, sending tin cans rattling disconsolately along the gutters.
She knew the shop looked as unwelcoming as it felt. Despite the builders' promises, the new windows had still not arrived, and the boards that stood in their place looked increasingly faded and grubby, an unwelcome reminder of Jessie's fate. The previous day she had had to peel off several stickers from the outside, offering the chance for 'homeworkers' to make 'tens of thousands' if they only rang the mobile-phone number advertised, and a crude poster advertising a car-boot sale outside the White Hart.
She couldn't seem to summon the energy to chase the builders. She stared around at the unwanted stock, at the empty gaps on the shelving that she hadn't yet filled from the new boxes, wondering how much she would miss it when it was gone. She had accepted now that it would be gone. If she had cared enough, her father's offer might have seemed like a lifeline. Instead it felt like the latest in a long line of affronts, which she no longer had the strength to get worked up about.
Suzanna checked the cartons of milk in the fridge and, out of habit rather than necessity, refilled the coffee machine, noting that with the school-run mothers gone home, she was unlikely to get any further custom that day. She didn't care. She felt tired. She thought of her cool bed, of the deadening comfort of going home and crawling between the sheets. She would set the alarm for seven thirty that evening so that she would be up again before Neil returned. It seemed to work quite well that way.
The door opened.
'Have you seen the jam in the market square?' said Mrs Creek.
'I was going to close.'
'The cars have got themselves into a complete gridlock. All over one parking space. They're all out there shouting at each other.' She removed her hat and sat down at the blue table. 'The market traders are laughing at them. Silly old fools. All because they can't be bothered to pay the forty pence to park behind the church.' She had made herself comfortable and was squinting at the blackboard as if it had changed since the previous day, as if Suzanna had ever offered anything but seven different types of coffee. 'I'll have a cappuccino, please, with those brown cube sugars on the side. The ones from the pretty box. They taste quite different from what you get at the supermarket.'
There was no point protesting. Suzanna wasn't even sure she could raise her voice enough to do it. She thought of showing Neil the till receipts for the day, the fact that this afternoon she would have sold the grand total of three coffees, one for each hour the shop had been open.
She began to prepare the machine, only half listening to Mrs Creek's chatter, nodding as required. Mrs Creek often needed little input: Jessie and Suzanna had long ago decided that she was simply desperate for an audience. 'Nod and smile,' Jessie had once advised her. It gave one the appearance of listening.
'I've been asked to make a wedding dress, did I tell you?'
Suzanna had never asked Jessie if she'd wanted to get married. She could imagine her as a bride; some insane bright pink confection, with beads and feathers and flowers spilling off it. She thought of what Cath Carter had said at the funeral about Jessie's nails, and wished suddenly that she could have had the chance to wear a bridal dress, too. Except that that would have implied she was bound even more tightly to Jason. The thought of him brought the van crashing through the front of the shop again, as it did several times a day, and Suzanna willed the image away.
'You've forgotten the sugars. The ones from that box, please.'
'What?'
'The sugars, Suzanna. I asked for two sugars.'
She thought she might have entered a state where almost nothing could touch her. The pain of Jessie's death had not lessened, but she knew that she was increasingly being cushioned from it by an encroaching numbness, a feeling that little mattered, that circumstances were genuinely beyond her control. Things seemed to be just gently slipping away, and she no longer cared enough to fight for them. It was easier just to allow herself to be carried with these strange new tides. Ironic, she thought, that as she entered this passive state Alejandro had burst out of his. She could still feel the ringing in her ears from when he had slammed the board beside her head, the whoosh of air that told her he had become someone else. But, then, she didn't think about Alejandro.
'It's for the girl from the library. The one with the teeth - do you know her? Dreadful hair, but girls don't seem to care in the same way they did. We used to get a set twice a week, you know.'
'Really?' Suzanna placed the coffee in front of Mrs Creek, and moved towards the remaining window, watching the passers-by, heads down, coats flying up behind them.
'You know, I haven't done a wedding dress for . . . goodn
ess, must be nigh on thirty-five years. I was talking to her about a book in the library. All the Hollywood stars of the fifties, you know. And she said that that was the kind of look she wanted but she hadn't seen it done anywhere. So I told her I could do it. Cheaper than those bridal shops, anyway. You wouldn't believe what they charge for a wedding dress now.'
It was raining again. As it had rained on the day that Alejandro had walked in and made them drink mate. She glanced behind her at the shelf, and saw that his silver pot was still there, shoved behind a pile of things still to be sorted out after what everyone politely called 'the accident'. She could barely believe she hadn't noticed it until now.
'Yup, thirty-five years. The last one was for a wedding in this town, too.'
'Mmm,' said Suzanna. She picked up the pot carefully, held it in both hands, feeling its weight, its smooth silver contours. I'm sorry, Ale, she said silently.
'Beautiful it was. White silk, cut on the bias. Very simple, a bit like what the girls like today. I modelled it on a dress Rita Hayworth wore in . . . Ooh, what's that film where she was a real vamp? Gilda, is it?'
'I don't know,' said Suzanna. She lifted the pot and held it against her cheek, letting the cold penetrate her skin, then feeling it warm gradually against her. The transformation was comforting.
'Come to think of it, Rita Hayworth wasn't a bad model. The bride was a bit of a fast piece too. Ran off - what was it? - two years after the wedding?'
'Oh.' Suzanna had closed her eyes.
'What was her name? Unusual name. Atalanta? Ariadne? Athene something. That was it. Married one of the Fairley-Hulmes.'
The name took several seconds to register. Suzanna turned her head slowly towards Mrs Creek who was blithely stirring her cup, her woollen hat beside her on the table. 'What did you just say?'
'Pretty girl. Had an affair with a salesman, of all things, and left her husband with the baby. Except it wasn't his baby. Oh, they kept it quiet, but everyone knew.'
Time had stopped. Suzanna felt as though the shop was rushing backwards, away from her, as Mrs Creek's words dropped heavily into the space between them. 'That was it. Athene Forster. You probably won't remember the Fairley-Hulmes, you being so long in London and all, but they were a big farming family out here when I was a girl.' She took a sip of her coffee, oblivious to the frozen figure by the window. 'Lovely dress it was. I was very proud of it. I think I've even got a picture of it somewhere. I felt awful afterwards, though, because I was in such a rush to finish it and I forgot to sew a piece of blue ribbon into the hem. We used to do that, you know. Just for good luck. "Something old, something new . . . " ' The older woman gave a shrill cackle. 'Years later, when I found out the girl had gone and bolted I said to my husband, "There you go. It must have been my fault . . ."'
Twenty-Three
Rosemary's cat was dying. The fact that they had all known it was coming, had expected it for several years, did not make it any less sad. The tired, bony animal, now featherlight, its flesh lost to the various tumours inside, slept almost continually, waking only to stagger across the kitchen to its water-bowl, often soiling the floor as it went. Vivi hadn't complained about cleaning up after it, despite her husband's private expressions of disgust. She knew that Rosemary was aware that the cat had to be destroyed but, seeing the old woman's barely contained sorrow, she had not wanted to add to the pressure Rosemary obviously felt to have it done.
After breakfast on the morning after the children's visit, as the wind howled outside and the uncommon cold meant that the fires were lit for the first time that autumn, Rosemary had appeared in the doorway of the annexe to ask Vivi if she would mind calling the vet out. When he arrived, she asked Vivi to place the cat in her arms, and held him there, stroking him with arthritic fingers. Then she told her daughter-in-law gruffly that she would be fine on her own now. She could still talk to a vet by herself, thank you very much.
Vivi had backed out, the vet briefly meeting her eye, and closed the door behind her, feeling unaccountably sad.
An almost indecently short time later, the vet had emerged, said he would send his bill, and announced that, as per Rosemary's instructions, he had left the body in a special bag by the back door. He had offered to dispose of it himself, but the old lady had said she would like her cat to be buried in her garden.
'I'll get Ben to help,' Vivi said, and that morning, ignoring The rain and the wind, she and her son had donned windcheaters, dug a hole just deep enough to keep the foxes away, and laid the old animal to rest, watched at the window by Rosemary's impassive face.
'I suppose you think I was selfish, keeping him alive,' she said afterwards, as Vivi poured tea in the drawing room, her ears still pink from the wind.
Vivi placed the cup and saucer on the table beside her, making sure it was close enough for Rosemary to reach it without shifting position in her chair. 'No, Rosemary. I think only you could know when he was ready to go.' She wondered whether she should ask Lucy to ring Suzanna. The girls seemed closer than they once had been. It was possible that Suzanna might confide in her.
'That's the trouble, you see. None of us is.'
Vivi was wrenched from her thoughts.
'He knew he was a pain,' Rosemary began, her face turned to the french windows, 'he knew he just got under everybody's feet, that he made rather a mess. But sometimes it's very hard . . . to let go of things.'
The teapot was burning Vivi's hand. She put it carefully on the tray, forgetting to pour herself a cup.
'Rosemary--'
'Just because a thing is old doesn't make it useless. It probably feels more useless than you know.'
Outside, one of the tractors was reversing through the front gate, preparing to back into the barn behind the house. They could hear the faint grinding of gears, overlaid inside by the comforting roar of the fire, the regular ticking of the grandfather clock.
'Nobody thought your cat was useless,' Vivi said, carefully. 'I think . . . we all just liked to remember him when he was fit and happy.'
'Yes. Well.' Rosemary put her cup on the table. 'No one ever imagines they will end up like that.'
'No.'
'Bloody awful state.'
'Yes.'
Rosemary lifted her chin. 'He bit me, you know, when the needle went in.'
'The vet told me. He said it was quite unusual.'
Rosemary's quavering voice was defiant: 'I was glad he still had the strength - to tell everyone to go to hell. Right to the last minute . . . he still had something inside.' Her rheumy old eyes fixed intently on Vivi's with a meaning that was not lost on her.
'Do you know what, Rosemary?' Vivi found she was struggling to swallow. 'I'm very glad too.'
Rosemary had fallen asleep in her chair. It was probably the emotion of it all, Mrs Cameron had said sagely. Death could do that to people. When her sister's poodle had died, it had been all they could do to stop her throwing herself into the grave. But, then, she had always been silly over the dog, had framed pictures of it, and bought it coats and suchlike. She had it buried in one of those special cemeteries, would you believe? Did Vivi know you could even bury a horse in such places? Vivi had nodded, then shaken her head, feeling the old lady's sadness seeping, like the damp weather, into the bones of the house.
She had a dozen things to do, several in town, including an invitation to a meeting of the local charity that administered the town's almshouses, and for which Douglas had put her forward when they were first married. But, somehow, Vivi was reluctant to leave the room, as if Rosemary's frailty since the death of her beloved cat had made her fearful for her. She hadn't said any of this to Mrs Cameron, but the younger woman had seen something: 'Do you want me to do the ironing in here? Keep an eye on things?' she asked tactfully.
It would have seemed silly to explain her perturbation. Vivi had told her, with a determined briskness to her voice, that she thought that was a splendid idea. And, trying to brush off The sense of foreboding, she had gone to the utility room
to sort out the apples she had put by for freezing.
She had been there, seated on the old tea-chest, dividing the plastic bags of apples into those for cooking and those too rotten to save, for almost twenty minutes, finding comfort in the mindless yearly ritual, when she had heard the doorbell, and Mrs Cameron whistling as she bustled down the hall to answer it. There had been a brief, muffled exchange, and Vivi, dropping a particularly maggotty example into a cardboard box, had wondered whether the lady who left the charity bags for filling had come a day early.
'In here?' She heard the voice, imperious and demanding, on the other side of the door, and Vivi, suddenly upright, flinched.
'Suzanna?'
The door swung open and Suzanna stood there. Her eyes burnt dark in a face that was deathly white. There were blue smudges on each side of her nose and her hair was unbrushed, telling of some tumultuous night of lost sleep.
'Darling, are you--'
'Is it true? She ran away from Dad and had a baby?'
'What?' Seeing the scorching knowledge on that face, Vivi felt history leap upwards to swamp her, and understood that her previous sense of dread had had nothing to do with the cat. She stood and stumbled forward, sending apples spinning across the floor.
'My mother? Was she talking about my mother?'
The two women stood in the little room, which was suffused with the smells of detergent and rotting apples. Vivi heard Rosemary's voice, unsure whether she was imagining it. 'You see?' it said. 'She causes trouble even after her death.'
Her hands hanging by her sides, she took a deep breath and made her voice sound steadier than she felt. She had always known this day might come, but she had never anticipated that when it did she might have to meet it alone. 'Suzanna, your father and I had wanted to tell you for some time.' She looked for her previous seat. 'In fact, we wanted to tell you on Tuesday. Shall I get him? He's ploughing up on Page Hill.'
'No. You tell me.'
Vivi wanted to say that it wasn't her story to tell, that the weight of it had always been too much for her. And, faced with Suzanna's feverish, accusatory stare, that she wasn't to blame. But this was what parenthood was really all about, wasn't it? The protestations of love, that everybody had meant well, that they thought it was all for the best . . . the knowledge that often love was not enough.
