Freeing Grace (33 page)

Matt didn’t notice her. He was still staring out at my car, defiant among the monster trucks. ‘Thing is, Jake, she’s a nice little kid, is Grace,’ he said. ‘I quite like her.’ He blinked and then looked down at his mug, apparently not surprised at the fact that it had magically refilled itself. He wrapped his fingers tight around the handle, but I could see the tremor in them.

‘I didn’t know what it would be like. I hadn’t a bloody clue. I thought I’d be able to take her or leave her. But when I first picked her up, it hit me like a train . . .
Wham
!’ He blinked, stunned. ‘It’s like there’s a cord coming from her and pulling at me somewhere around here.’ He pressed a fist into his solar plexus, fixing me with wide, haunted eyes. ‘It hurts. It
really
hurts. I’d kill for her, Jake. I swear I would.’

I felt completely ignorant. Matt spread his hand protectively across his chest, still eyeing me.

‘Maybe it makes sense for her to go to a better family,’ he said. ‘A normal one. Ours is bloody bonkers. Dad collapses if he steps out the front gate, and he drinks a bottle of whisky a night because he’s so fucking miserable, and he can’t live without Mum, but he hates himself for it.’

He’s
right
, I thought, surprised at Matt’s insight into his father. Perry’s need for Deborah filled him with self-loathing. I hadn’t thought of all that.

‘And Mum. Huh. She was brilliant when we were kids, but she doesn’t want to look after another baby. She doesn’t even want to be here. I know that. I’m not stupid.’ He shook his head. ‘Which leaves me. And I’m not up to the job.’

I felt sorry for him. ‘You’re just young, that’s all. You could be a great dad.’

He swilled the tea around in his mug. ‘Maybe, maybe not. The truth is, I’m scared witless. Just like Cherie was. I reckon she couldn’t handle it, you know? And I can’t either. It’s too big for me.’

‘So . . . why not let the kid go?’

‘I can’t. I owe it to Cherie.’

‘She’d understand. She ran away herself.’

‘I’d never stop worrying. These people who say they want her, they don’t even know her. They just want a baby,
any
baby. They don’t love my Grace. When she gets a sore stomach and cries all night, they’ll get frustrated and hit her. There’s no cord attaching her to their chests.’ ‘But, like you said, if it’s a more normal family—’

‘How’s she supposed to understand? She won’t know who she
is
. She won’t know where she belongs. She won’t have a clue whether she looks like her mother or her father or her great-great-uncle.’

‘That’s true. No roots.’

‘When the doctor asks if there’s a family history of . . . shit, I don’t know, flat feet or something, how’s she going to feel? She won’t
have
a family. She won’t be one in a long, long line of flat feet, stretching away into blue infinity. She’ll be all alone! Jesus Christ, Jake, how fucking sad is
that
?’

I was silenced, because he was right. We’re all links in a chain. Even me.

He shook his head. ‘No deal. Apart from anything else, she’s Dad’s only hope. With Grace at home, Mum and I will stick around. Otherwise, he’s going to be alone. He’ll go to pieces.’

I knew I was losing this argument. ‘He’ll get over it, surely?’

Matt hunched over the table. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. He puts on a show for people like you. A bloody impressive show. But after Mum left, it was horrible. Lucy had to come home every weekend. Thank God for Lucy! He stayed up all night drinking, spent his days digging like a maniac in the garden, talking gibberish to himself. He stopped working. Stopped washing. Stopped sleeping. I used to hear him crying at night, down in the kitchen. It kept me awake. I had to get blasted just to blot out the sound.’

‘Jeez,’ I said. ‘Perry seems very together to me. Stiff upper lip, polish your boots, don’t mention the phobia.’

He sighed. ‘Grace has given him hope.’

‘So you can’t give her up.’

‘No way.’ He thumped his fist onto the table. ‘No
way
.’ He got to his feet, and his chair scraped across the lino. ‘Thanks anyway, Jake. But it’s supermarket shelves for me.’

I dug out my wallet and paid the lovely Dana. She leaned across the counter as she handed me my change. ‘How did you get on?’

‘Fell at the last fence,’ I said, grimacing.

She made an anxious face and pinged the till shut. ‘Don’t give up,’ she breathed. ‘He needs a bit of a friend, does our Matt.’

I put a hefty tip in the tin and followed my friend out to the car. The mist was starting to burn away, and I could see patches of stonewashed sky.

I reckoned one more morning’s bunking off school wouldn’t hurt, so I took Matt with me to visit the car sharks. They all salivated over mine, and I got a decent deal for it. We found an eight-year-old Land Cruiser that was in pretty good nick. Matt spent about twenty minutes under the bonnet, and then squinted at the pedals and the seat. He claimed that was the easy way to spot whether it had been clocked or not. When he emerged he seemed impressed, and I agreed with him. Dad used to have one, actually, and I’d done the maintenance. Dad wasn’t welcome at the local garage; he didn’t pay his bills.

We had a test drive and took the truck around to a Toyota specialist place I’d found in the Yellow Pages. I wanted them to look it over before I bought it. There was no one in the office. There never is. In the workshop, though, we could hear someone turning the air blue with curses before we spotted some legs sticking out from underneath a car. The mechanic pulled himself out on a little trolley and rolled to his feet, wiping his hands on a rag.

‘Heap of junk.’ He gave the bumper a kick and then turned to us. His face was covered in oil, and he looked about twenty-five. His name was sewn onto his overalls, barely legible through a layer of grease:
Jonty
. When I explained what we wanted, his face lit up like a beacon.

‘Yeah?’He threw down the rag and strode out to the truck. ‘I’ve done that. Cairo to Vic Falls. Eastern route.’

I recognised the accent. I always do, instantly, even after all these years. It’s still the sound of home. It calls to me. I didn’t mention it, though. There’s a code of conduct. It’s not cool to fall on someone’s neck just because they come from the same tiny corner of the Pacific.

Jonty opened the door of the Toyota and made the bonnet pop up, and then he strolled around and leaned in. Matt and he had a fine old time, babbling on about head gaskets and rad valves and differentials.

‘You talk like Jake,’ said Matt suddenly.

‘Yep,’ Jonty grinned. ‘That’s because we’re both from Godzone.’

‘Where?’

‘God’s own country. Godzone. Aotearoa. New Zealand.’

‘Why d’you call it that?’

Jonty met my eyes, and we both smiled. ‘Because it is,’ he said simply.

‘Well, if it’s so great, what are you doing here, then?’ Matt sounded defensive.

Jonty put a hand to his chest. ‘Following my heart,’ he said. ‘There’s a nurses’ hostel down the road.’

‘That’s not your
heart
you’re following, mate,’ I said, and he chuckled. Under the oil he had a freckled, lively face. I was willing to bet he did all right down at the nurses’ hostel.

He winked at Matt. ‘But Godzone it is, and always will be. Imagine a world,’ he was warming to his theme now, ‘where the women are all super fit and tanned and play netball in teeny-weeny little gym slips. Where you can ski, surf, and trek through subtropical bush all in one day. Where the sun shines all year round, there’s no traffic, and nobody’s ever so much as
seen
a queue. They don’t even have the word in their vocabulary. A world where the scenery is so totally awesome that people don’t even bother to talk about it.’

Matt looked sceptical. ‘Is all this true, Jake?’

I thought for a second and then nodded. ‘Yep. Pretty much.’

‘So what’s the catch?’

I didn’t want to have this conversation. ‘Er . . . dunno. What’s the catch, Jonty?’

The mechanic was leaning right into the engine, his feet barely touching the ground. ‘Catch? There isn’t one,’ he replied, straightening. ‘That’s why we’re all homesick. That’s why we all go home, in the end.’

He got down onto his back and slithered underneath the truck.

‘Jake’s not homesick,’ insisted Matt. ‘And he’s not going back. You’re not, are you, Jake?’

‘Hell, no,’ I assured him. ‘Twelve thousand miles is only just far enough from my old man for comfort.’

Jonty reappeared, looking cheerful. ‘You’ve found a good one,’ he announced. ‘Treat her right and she’ll get you there and back five times. Treat her wrong and she’ll dump you in the desert. Typical woman, really.’

Chapter Twenty-five

‘It’s going to be a nightmare from start to finish. It’ll be awful getting there, and awful getting back, and
unbelievably
awful while we’re there.’ Leila turned her back so that David could zip up her dress.

‘Now, now.’ He took hold of the zip pull and tugged. ‘There must be a bright side.’

‘Isn’t. Ouch!’

‘Sorry. Did I pinch you?’ He leaned down and kissed the injured patch of skin, and then raised the zip more carefully.

Leila stepped into her shoes. ‘No, David, there isn’t a bright side. It’s two hours’ drive each way, and I’d rather spend all day arranging church flowers than one minute in a marquee in Hilda’s garden with that insipid Alicia, all blooming in her maternity smock.’

‘You’re ranting, my lovely.’ David was crouched on the floor, peering under the wardrobe. ‘D’you think it’s going to be cold?’

‘Probably. It’s almost December. I wish we were going to spend the day with
my
family.’

David’s head was underneath the bed, now. ‘Oh, so do I! Let’s find the time to shoot down to Peckham after your parents get back.’

‘I might have to go by myself. Christmas isn’t what you’d call a slack time for you holy types.’

‘Um, have you seen my brown shoes?’

‘On the kitchen table. I polished them for you.’

‘What a woman!’ cried David, springing to his feet. ‘Did you find a present?’

‘Got them an electric carving knife. I thought they could cut each other’s heads off with it. And I got a gorgeous jewellery box for Freya, lined with burgundy velvet.’ She stood in the middle of the floor, uncomfortable in her high heels, scowling forlornly. ‘Do we
have
to go? Can’t you develop a migraine?’

He clutched at his head and staggered theatrically, and then laughed. ‘You look pretty spicy in that little red frock thing. Clingy, isn’t it?’

Ah well, thought Leila. If I can’t get out of going altogether, at least I can make sure we’re extremely late. She reached over one shoulder to undo her zip, and then she stepped out of the dress.

So they left late, and arrived later because of the traffic, and Monica met them at the door.

‘At
last
. What kept you?’ Fussily, she brushed imaginary crumbs off David’s jacket, and then peppered the air around them both with kisses. She had a long, well-scrubbed face and the same wilful light-brown hair as David. She’d clipped it up into a bun, but it was already escaping. ‘You look fabulous as always, Leila. How d’you do it? I wish I had your flair. Can’t stop! Bloody beef wellingtons haven’t thawed, cream’s gone off, chef ’s going bananas. Go on through and have a drink.’

She waved towards the back of the house, lifted a walkie-talkie to her mouth and began to snap orders into it.

Leaving their present among a pile of others on the hall table, David and Leila trudged reluctantly across the dining room and through French doors into the back garden. Hilda and Christopher’s house was in suburban Northampton, postwar, with quiet neighbours, a pink concrete driveway and a laurel hedge. Behind the house, a garden stretched away towards school playing fields.

Today, on the back lawn a white marquee fluttered in the breeze like a mediaeval pavilion. David and Leila could hear chatter and laughter from inside, while a group of smokers had set up a private club by the greenhouse. Ignored by a flock of parents, children squabbled on the grass. Monica had laid on a bouncy castle to keep them entertained. Under an awning a string quartet was playing quietly, but nobody seemed to be listening to them.

Hilda emerged from the marquee wearing a royal blue suit and a fixed smile.

‘Aren’t we lucky with the weather? A real Indian summer’s day,’ she gushed, brassy and anxious, steering Leila and David into the white cave. It smelled of mud and grass. A buffet was being laid out at one end by women in aprons. From a table in the centre, a three-tiered chocolate cake rose up like a piece of modern architecture. Garlands of sugar flowers twisted around each layer, and a large ceremonial knife lay ready.

A waitress shimmied up, carrying a tray loaded with champagne flutes, and Hilda waved distractedly at it. ‘What’ll you have? Alicia’s being
so
good, only orange juice.’

Leila snatched up a glass and mutinously downed half of it in one go.

Hilda saluted gaily to somebody in the throng and then switched off her smile. ‘David,’ she breathed, leaning closer to her son’s ear. ‘Your father—’ A sudden flash of welcome, a cheerful wave:‘—Hel
lo
, Monty! Lovely of you to be here . . . Look, he’s drinking
already.
I can’t stop him. For my sake, keep an eye . . . today of all days . . .’

Pretending not to listen, Leila watched her mother-in-law surreptitiously. She’s had her hair done, she thought, and felt an odd twinge of sympathy. It was streaked in flaxen layers, and the wispy, winsome fringe was carefully blow-dried to hide the creases of anxiety on her forehead. And she was wearing magenta lipstick. Poor Hilda; she tried so hard. Forty years of covering up.

A gentle, stooping couple in their eighties, old friends of the family, approached. Abruptly, Hilda became all pride and confidence: embracing them both, lying smoothly about how they hadn’t changed a bit.

‘David’s going to be making a speech,’ she told them, taking her son’s arm.

David froze, gaping, and Leila giggled maliciously.

‘Yes,’ stuttered. ‘Yes, absolutely.’

Hilda left them, insisting that she had to circulate (‘but
please
, David, do what you can, you’re the only one with any influence’). David watched as the cheerful blue linen merged into a little twist of distant cousins. ‘Blast.’ Taking out his handkerchief, he blew his nose. ‘You didn’t remind me about the speech.’