Freeing Grace (13 page)

‘Ah well.’ I sighed. ‘My hopes weren’t high.’

‘I’m afraid you’re wasting your time,’ he said, moving away to drop the tailgate on his pick-up. This is a small community, and we don’t get many rogue English bluestockings.’ He chuckled gently. ‘But I’ll keep an eye out, tell her to call home if I spot her.’

He began to load up the truck with crates of empty bottles. He seemed to be in a hurry, all of a sudden. ‘Right then,’ he called briskly, without looking around. ‘You’ll be off now?’

I picked up a crate. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

‘No need.’ He glanced towards the beach. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be done in a jiffy.’

But I had nothing better to do, and he seemed to be in a rush, so I stayed. His parents still farmed inland, he told me over the clatter of crates. He was on his way there right now, because his father had slipped a disc and was yelling for help. He asked where I was going next. I said I hoped to get in some climbing, and we talked briefly about Mount Kenya. He didn’t push advice onto me, didn’t know it all, didn’t tell anecdotes to show how clever he was.

Once we’d slung the last crate aboard he stood for a moment, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘You’ll be heading back to Mombasa, Jake?’

I opened the door of the jeep. ‘Yep, I’m off. Probably make tracks for Mount Kenya first thing tomorrow.’

‘Sounds good.’ He waited until I’d started my engine, then swung easily into his seat. ‘C’mon, Cheza,’ he called, and the big dog jumped up behind, shaggy tail gently swishing.

I motioned to him to go ahead of me. This was his place, after all, and it was hardly fair to make him drive in a coppery cloud of my dust. Raising a hand, he began to rattle up the track.

We set out in convoy, but Rod was much gunnier at negotiating the obstacles—I supposed he could do it blindfolded—and as the minutes passed I began to drop further and further behind. Creeping around yet another pothole, I watched the pick-up disappear among the trees. Feeling mildly depressed, I stopped the jeep on a wider section of track.

I was hot. I had dust up my nose, sweat in my clothes. Insect bites. Heat rash in places I’d rather not think about. I imagined all that irritation floating away into the kind waters of the Indian Ocean.

‘Bugger it,’ I said, jamming the stick into reverse.

Five minutes later the jeep was parked in its original spot, and I was strolling to the edge of the beach. The sea spread itself out in bands of darkening blue, winking coquettishly at me all the way to the horizon. Just below the bar, where a group of palms leaned across the sand, three figures were bent over a board game of some sort.

I was in the water within seconds, and it felt like a warm bath. I lay in the pale, glimmering shallows, running my fingers along the seabed. The sand was the colour and consistency of my mother’s sugary fudge. I swam out a couple of hundred yards until the creamy turquoise darkened, and then dived down to the bottom and scraped up a handful of fudge sand.

I think it was then that I decided to stay at Kulala Beach. Just for a night or two; just while I washed away the grime, and the frustration of my pointless search. I didn’t intend to disappear forever, like the mythical Mrs Harrison.

Wading back through the shallows, I took a closer look at the group I’d spotted earlier. Two of them—a man and a woman—were battling over a soapstone chess set with frowning concentration.

It was the third figure who caught my attention. A girl with long silver hair like something out of a fairytale, and an absolutely mountainous bust. Seriously, it was spectacular. She wore a rather inadequate halterneck bikini—the skimpy little top simply wasn’t up to the job—and a tiny skirt of tie-dyed cloth knotted around her waist. Around her neck, wrists and ankles were shells on plaited leather thongs. She was reclining on her elbows in the sand, drawing in it with a purple toenail, and pouting. I’d have said she was bored. She yawned, caught my eye and waved. Perhaps that
proved
she was bored. Anyway, I waved back. Then she pointed at a cold box beside her, held up a bottle of the local beer—Tusker—and beckoned me over.

Obviously I didn’t need to be asked twice. Would you? I couldn’t believe my luck. I was out of the water and across the scorching sand in about five seconds flat, rubbing my hair with a towel. She passed me the beer as I dropped down beside her.

‘Hi,’ she whispered, her head tilted close to mine. ‘I thought you looked lonely.’

‘I was.’

‘My name’s Karin.’

The bottle hissed happily as I prised off the cap. ‘Jake.’

Her accent was European, perhaps Scandinavian. Things were looking better and better. She murmured, ‘We have to be quiet as little mice, because Susie and Erik are
so
busy with their very important tournament.’

She rolled her eyes and jerked her chin towards the others. Their heads were bent over the board, and the man’s brows were drawn together. He was bearded and earnest and probably ate mung beans. The woman— Susie—sat very upright on a driftwood log, smiling down at the field of battle, hands in the pockets of khaki shorts. She looked as though she smiled often; I could see the lines radiating from the outer corners of her eyes. Beside her feet lay a long row of the black pieces she’d already taken prisoner. There weren’t too many left on the board.

Something made me look twice. She was in her thirties, I’d have guessed, and there wasn’t much of her. On one tanned arm hung twisted copper bangles, the sort I’d seen sold on the streets in Mombasa. Her hair was bleached and tangled, pale honey streaked with beeswax. She’d hooked it back behind her ears. There was sand in her hair and on her cheek and up one arm, as though she’d been lying on the beach.

I stared, stupidly.

The leaves of the palms shivered in the first breath of evening. Still smiling, she glanced across at me and for a second she met my gaze. She blinked, and then the smile was switched off. I thought of a gazelle, wary and poised for flight.

Abruptly, she turned back to the board and moved one of the pieces. The sea breeze stirred her hair, tugging fretfully at her shirt. Her opponent lit a cigarette, shaking his head. He had only a few pawns and a bishop left, huddling loyally in front of his king. Karin was laughing at him. I felt her silvery hair brush my shoulder. Steadily, luxuriously, she drew one of her purple toenails along my calf. I should have been in heaven, but I hardly noticed because my mind was racing.

Susie’s eyes glittered, the same blue-green as the sunlit sea, and there was a little constellation of freckles scattered across her cheekbones. Although she was tanned to a light gold, there was a small white patch on her nose where she’d peeled.

I knew that face. I knew it very well indeed. And I couldn’t believe my eyes. I leaned closer.

‘Mrs Harrison?’ My voice sounded horribly loud. ‘Deborah Harrison?’

Everything seemed to freeze. It was odd, like the silence before thunder. Slowly, very deliberately, she lifted her face and looked right into my eyes.

‘No,’ she said.

Then she lifted her queen, swung it like a mallet, and knocked Erik’s bishop clear off the board and onto the sand.

‘Checkmate,’ she announced, standing up. And she walked away.

Chapter Ten

She’d tried to keep her chin up. Really, she had.

In the weeks following the lost pregnancy, Leila was as cheerful and efficient at Kirkaldie’s as ever. She had time for everybody. She covered for another pharmacist whose mother had died, arranged birthday drinks for the boss, and mediated between two technicians who loathed one another. She even flirted valiantly with the mechanic at the local MOT garage, but he still failed her car.

But the bleakness slithered in, a chill draught under the door. It didn’t lift; it didn’t lessen. It drained her energy. It engulfed her in the dark hours and stole her sleep. She did her best to hide it from David— after all, he was bereft as well. He didn’t need to have her burdens dumped on him.

When she looked at him she felt guilt. David would make the perfect father; but he was childless. And time was running out for him.

One Thursday, the pharmacy was ridiculously busy. Leila worked all day with barely a break, just a hurried sandwich for lunch, and there was still a queue at closing time. She managed to appear upbeat and energetic until the doors were locked behind her, but by the time she reached New Street Station she felt as though she had lead weights in her shoes. She trudged along the platform, past metal seats and timetables, towards the arch of tired light at the far end. There were the tracks, stretching away into open space, their paths ever parallel but never touching.

The station heaved with commuters. Leila leaned against her usual pillar, turning up her collar against the wind, winding her scarf around her ears. An ungainly figure came hurrying along the platform towards her. With a sigh, Leila recognised Jodie, a genial, frizzy-haired school leaver who worked at Kirkaldie’s.

‘Hi, Jodie.’ She forced a smile of welcome as the girl skidded to a halt, bent double, gasping for breath. ‘You nearly missed it this time. The train’s just coming in, look.’

‘Thought I
had
missed it.’ Jodie sold shampoo and photo frames and sparkly lipstick. At seventeen, she was an odd mix of patronising maturity and irritating childishness. She lived with her parents in a suburb two stations beyond Leila’s, and had adopted Leila as her train friend.

‘Had to stop for passport photos,’ she panted.

‘Sounds glamorous.’

‘I’m sodding off to Spain when I’ve saved up enough money, getting out of this dump. Going to get a job in a bar.’

Leila offered the girl a polo mint, shouting above the exuberant bellow of their train as it slid alongside them. ‘Alone?’

‘That depends on whether my useless boyfriend gets his act together.’

‘What does your mum think?’

‘Doing her nut.’ Jodie pushed her tongue through the hole in her mint. ‘Thinks I’ll get trafficked as a prostitute.’

The carriage was rank and steamy. There was only one pair of empty seats, a little distance from the door, but Jodie was a very competent young woman. Aiming for the valuable spot with her elbows out, she barged past less determined commuters, plonked herself down in triumph, and signalled to Leila by furiously patting the space beside her. Leila slipped apologetically between her fellow travellers and sat down.

Jodie grinned. ‘Got a seat, for once.’

‘You certainly did. Another mint?’

Jodie pulled off her anorak as the train gathered speed, and continued to talk. Leila let her mind wander, features set in listening mode, as they rattled towards the suburbs. Sitting next to Jodie was like having your head in a metal dustbin while someone hammered on the outside with a spanner. Leila felt wearied by the sheer irrelevance of it. Mind you, the whole world seemed irrelevant, nowadays.

As they reached the high school playing fields, Leila hoisted her handbag, ready to stand up. Jodie seemed to have been waiting for this moment. She leaned closer, determination dimpling the cushioned expanse of her face.

‘I saw you selling yourself a test a while ago,’ she muttered conspiratorially.

Leila’s fingers tightened on her bag, but she feigned blank incomprehension. ‘A test?’

‘You know. Pregnancy test. Sorry, I’ve been
dying
to ask.’ Jodie was blushing now, a flood of mottled mauve seeping down her neck, and Leila felt a sudden fondness for her.

‘Oh, that,’ she exclaimed, as though light had finally dawned. She swept the back of her hand across her brow as if to show she’d had a near miss. ‘Negative. Whew! Big relief!’

‘Oh.’ Jodie pouted. ‘I was hoping you was banged up.’

‘Blimey.’ Leila forced a merry laugh, rolling her eyes at the narrowness of her escape. ‘A rugrat! That’s the last thing I need.’

The train swayed past the canal bridge and began to slow down. Leila stood and staggered, gripping the back of a seat. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Jodie took out her iPod. ‘Aren’t you going to have kids, then?’

‘Well.’ Leila blinked. ‘I’ve got a career.’

‘I am.’ Jodie stuffed in her earphones. ‘Two. A boy and a girl.’

As soon as the doors opened, Leila fell out and into the blessed quiet of the evening. Jodie’s moon face appeared briefly at the window, and then the train slid away.

Dusk was falling. Gloomy, and spitting with rain. The shortest way home was through the housing estate, and then across the canal and around the churchyard. Leila left the station, negotiated the main road and turned into the concrete desolation of Priory Park Farm. Pulling on her gloves, she made her way across the wretched play park with its defiant graffiti, threading a trail among dancing crisp packets and other detritus. The place looked like the set of a futuristic film. It was impossible to imagine that any child had ever played on the empty swings. Someone had systematically dug up the ground and thrown broken cement down the slide; the metal would be no good at all for sliding on ever again. It was pockmarked, twisted, hopelessly dented, with broken bottles scattered around its base.

She walked slowly. She mustn’t cheat by hurrying past. On every side, despairing tower blocks reared over her with blank eyes, whispering,
What are
you
doing here?
Only a smattering of lights gleamed among the windows. These flats were half-empty, she knew, the glass broken and boarded up, and the smell of urine on the staircases made your eyes water. David came often, dutifully climbing the concrete stairs and visiting people whose doors opened onto bleak and windswept balconies.

As she passed beneath the furthest tower, she could make out a small child watching her from high up. Little hands gripped the bars and a pale, pinched face jutted forwards, jammed between them. She stopped, hopefully, and called to this other soul in empty space, but he turned away as if bored. And so did she.

The canal bordered the estate and touched one corner of the churchyard. She could smell the water before she could see it, oozing under the bridge. Plastic bags and shopping trolleys littered the grimy brambles on both banks. There were more miles of canal in the West Midlands, she’d read, than in Venice. It had sounded funny at the time. She paused halfway across the bridge and leaned on its cast-iron parapet, gazing down at the unmoving green.