Freeing Grace (35 page)
Across the marquee she could see David, with Freya and Charlie to each side. He seemed to be telling them a long, complicated story, with much waving of hands and wild laughter from all three. Charlie was actually falling off his chair in his hysteria. David caught Leila’s eye, waved, and patted his pocket to show he had the speech in hand.
And there was Hilda, making gracious little sorties around the tables, greeting old friends with feline tidiness: a lone figure in her brave blue. Christopher would not join her, although his wife glanced at him often with a tight, meaningful smile. She even jerked her head at him—a tiny movement, almost imperceptible—but he just beetled his heavy white brows, lounging in his striped blazer.
Twice Leila caught him watching her. The second time, she met his eye.
I’m not scared of you, you old bastard
. Fortified by wine she felt momentarily invincible, but the challenge backfired because Christopher appeared to be delighted. She yawned to show that she was bored, and looked away, but the sensation of his gaze on the back of her neck made her want to squirm.
Unfortunately, it was at this moment that Hilda paused to bestow a few minutes on her daughter-in-law.
‘Leila.’ She slid into an empty seat. ‘I gather consolations are in order.’ And perhaps she really meant to console.
Leila became dangerously still.
Don’t you dare
. ‘Consolations?’
‘No baby.’
‘Ah.’ Leila sat back in her chair, pulse racing. ‘No. No baby, Hilda.’
‘Well.’ The mother-in-law pursed her magenta mouth, sorrowfully kind. ‘I’m sure it’s all for the best.’
Fury was churning at the floodgates, boiling and bubbling. ‘Excuse me? Why is it all for the best?’
Hilda shook her head, and the wispy fringe fluttered. ‘You knew I had grave reservations about bringing a strange child into the family like that. Anything might have happened.
Anything
.’
Leila took a long breath. Then, quite deliberately, she opened the gates. The rage burst free in a glorious, foaming wave. ‘David is miserable, Hilda,’ she snapped, very loudly, and several people at the next table glanced around, eyebrows raised in amusement or surprise. ‘Is your son’s misery
all for the best
? He just wants to be a father.’
Hilda recoiled slightly. ‘But my dear Leila, can’t you see? This child would not have made him a father.’
‘I don’t think you
want
your son to be happy. Not unless he plays by your rules.’
A flush blossomed on Hilda’s cheeks. ‘Well, you know my views.’
‘Oh, I do.’ The wave was splendidly reckless now. It flattened anything in its path, annihilating their carefully built façade of cordiality. ‘I do! Actually, Hilda, I’ve had just about enough of hearing your views. For fifteen long years, I’ve put up with your narrow-minded, self-serving drivel.’
Even as the words left her, Leila knew she would regret them. There was muffled laughter from the teenagers around the table, and it seemed as though a hush had spread across much of the marquee.
Hilda leaped to her feet. ‘I will
assume
that’s the alcohol talking.’ She gripped the back of a chair, white-knuckled. ‘Perhaps you’d better have another cup of coffee. Make it a strong one, Leila, will you?’
Someone was tapping their glass with a spoon, calling for quiet. It was Monica, standing on a chair, looking like a rather buxom statue of Queen Victoria. Hilda stalked back to her own table.
‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ bellowed Monica when the hubbub had died to a murmur. She beamed around at the crowd. ‘It’s
so
nice to see you all here to celebrate with my parents and remember that very special day, forty years ago, when they tied the knot.’
Leila felt increasingly nauseous; perhaps it was the clichés. Or the guilt.
‘Anyway.’ Monica simpered affectionately in David’s direction. He’d made a paper napkin into a hat, and was pressing it onto Charlie’s head.
‘My brother David—who likes the sound of his own voice, being a clergyman!—has agreed to say a few words. After all, this is an extraordinary occasion, as we celebrate the long and successful union of two extraordinary people.’
There was a rumble of assent, and sporadic clapping. It seemed to come from far, far away. Leila felt a cold sweat gather ominously on her forehead. Pushing back her chair in a panic, she ducked under the open side of the tent and trotted across the lawn and into the house. She headed for the upstairs bathroom, away from inquisitive eyes. Tearing along the landing she made it with no time to spare, retching violently over the toilet.
Sounds of merriment trickled in through the open window. The crowd seemed to be laughing immoderately at David’s speech. There were bursts of hilarity, and a cascade of applause. Hunched miserably on Hilda’s bathroom floor, nausea had Leila by the throat. She’d forgotten how grim it felt. She vowed, fervently, never to drink alcohol again.
At long last, she heard a toast to Hilda and Christopher. She imagined them cutting the cake in a parody of their wedding day, smiling for the photographer.
She was still crouching by the basin when David came to look for her. She heard the familiar footsteps thumping up the stairs, two at a time, and his worried voice at the door. ‘Leila? You in there?’
‘Um . . .’ Shaking, she pulled herself upright and turned on the cold tap. ‘Just a minute.’ Water gushed into the basin. She bent, splashing her face and neck, and sloshed some of Hilda’s Listerine around her mouth.
‘You all right, Leila?’
Pressing her nose into a towel, she crossed to the door and opened it. David stood on the landing, his eyes bright with concern.
‘What’s happened? You look awful.’ He laid a hand on her forehead.
‘I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not in
the club
.’
He smiled gently. ‘Never crossed my mind.’
‘I’ve publicly insulted your mother and thrown up in her bathroom. I don’t think it’s possible to disgrace myself more comprehensively. I’m going to have to join the Foreign Legion.’
‘Please don’t do that.’ Stooping, he rested his forehead against hers. ‘It’s hard sometimes, isn’t it?’
‘It’s hard.’ She shut her eyes, and they stood quietly together, taking comfort in one another until they heard footsteps in the hall below.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go home.’
To Leila’s embarrassment, Monica was waiting for them downstairs.
‘You might like to hang on to this,’ she said, handing Leila a bottle of mineral water. ‘Don’t worry, nobody noticed. I think it was probably those wretched beef wellingtons. I should sue Pertwell’s, if I were you. Let’s hope the whole mob doesn’t come down with food poisoning.’
Grateful for this generous fiction, Leila accepted the bottle.
Her sister-in-law nodded efficiently. Her hair had abandoned its clip. ‘I’ll see you off. David, why don’t you nip ahead and fetch the car from wherever it’s parked?’
As they made their way down the salmon-pink drive, Monica rubbed her palms together, as though wrestling with some dilemma.
‘Look . . . I’m sorry. I gather my mother was extremely rude and tactless.’
Leila dipped her head, screwing up her face in pained recollection. ‘
I
was pretty rude to
her
. And today, of all days. Unforgivable.’ She sighed. ‘I seem to be churning out a lot of apologies at the moment.’
‘No. What she said to you was quite ridiculous.’
‘Even Christopher managed to behave better than me,’ moaned Leila.
‘Ah!’ Monica looked smug. ‘I put him on the teetotallers’ table at the last minute. We were plying him with sparkling grape juice all the way through lunch.’
‘That’s a cunning plan.’
‘Nicky’s idea.’ Monica’s smile faded. ‘I know I’m a bit pompous at times, Leila. It isn’t easy, you know, being Hilda’s daughter. I love her dearly, and she has many qualities I admire, but she was never the most sympathetic of mothers.’
Leila was taken aback. ‘I suppose not.’
‘None of us could ever match up to her expectations. The boys went off to boarding school. They had some other influences. I didn’t.’
Fascinated, Leila watched her sister-in-law’s robust profile. All the no-nonsense arrogance, the overblown confidence, was gone.
Monica raised her shoulders. ‘Dad wasn’t home much, but when he was around their incompatibility was exhausting. They’re celebrating forty years of civilised dislike. They’ve actually made an art form of it.’ The two continued to stroll. ‘We’ve each dealt with it in our own fashion. I’ve tried to do the Right Thing. Married money, set up Pertwell Party Solutions, produced grandchildren.’ She put a hand to her mouth.
‘Oh, gosh. Sorry. That was crass.’
‘Don’t worry. Go on, Monica.’
‘Well, Michael’s become completely materialistic. Designer clothes, car and wife. It’s the only form of self-expression he allows himself, and it earns him parental approval.’
‘Ah. I get it!’ Leila laughed suddenly. ‘David’s gone the other way, hasn’t he? Black sheep, black cassock, black wife. He’s thumbing his nose in style.’
They had reached the end of the drive. Monica stood stolidly on the pavement, gazing at Leila with a faint, admiring smile. ‘Listen. Don’t say another word about that row,’ she advised. ‘And for heaven’s sake, don’t go apologising. Promise me? I’ll be cross if you apologise. She was well out of order.’
‘So . . . we pretend it never happened?’
Monica nodded firmly. ‘Absolutely. Don’t give it another thought. I predict the old girl will treat you with more respect in future.’
The car drew up beside them and David jumped out, leaving the engine running.
‘Thanks for a great day,’ he said, hurriedly kissing his sister. ‘Here’s a birthday present for Freya—if you could pass it on? Say our goodbyes for us.’
Before they pulled away, Monica leaned down to Leila’s open window.
‘Well done, Leila,’ she said, clutching Freya’s parcel. ‘Well done. And I truly hope the two of you will become parents soon. You’ll be
so
much better at it than I am.’
I spent the best part of three weeks in London, trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t a fly in the Harrison web, all wrapped up and waiting to have my blood sucked.
Matt sent a stream of text messages, but nothing much seemed to have changed in Coptree. A couple of social workers had set up camp down there, and the Harrisons were all busy behaving like one of those grinning families in the toothpaste adverts. I decided I was well out of it.
I stayed with some old friends, Bill and Lottie, in Hammersmith. I kept out of their way as much as I could. They had a new baby, and all night long I heard it crying, and then doors creaking open and poor old Bill or Lottie padding patiently along the corridor.
They had a toddler too, called Florence. She was pretty cute, actually. I owned a greenstone key ring in the shape of two humpback whales. It was just a gimmick, made for the tourists who go whale-watching off Kaikoura. Mum sent it for my birthday. The whales were a mother and calf, and when you pressed the button their eyes would flash and you could hear this whale song. It was a love song, mother to child. It was an eerie sound, really, but when I showed it to the little girl, Florence, she was totally fascinated. She’d sidle up and pull the keys out of my pocket, and then plump herself down in a corner with her legs stuck out, and press the button. She used to sit there for ages, imitating the electronic cries and running her fat little finger around the outlines of the whales. Drove us all nuts. In the end I let her keep the thing.
I wasn’t in the house much. I completely rejigged my finances and the tenancy in Clapham. I collected gear and visas and inoculations. One of the jabs was in my butt, and the man-hating nurse used a bloody monstrous needle.
I caught up with a lot of people. Didn’t see Anna, though. I tried phoning her, even dropped in at the flat one evening, but she wasn’t there so I left a note. Just standing at the door—every scratch on its surface was like an old friend—made me feel screwy, as though I was living two lives at once.
Early one morning, about a week after I’d left Coptree, Florence came banging on my bedroom door. She waddled up to the bed, wearing pyjamas that made her look like Tigger, and smacked a letter down on my face.
‘Postman Pat!’ she squawked, and walloped me on the nose five more times with the envelope until I hid under the duvet. I heard her laughing uproariously, and surfaced just in time to see an orange-striped bottom disappearing around the door. Then I heard whales singing, out on the landing.
I knew the handwriting on the envelope. I’d seen it before, scrawled across a postcard with a picture of two Arab sailing boats in the sunset.
Hadn’t expected her to give me another thought.
Dear Jake,
I told you I’d write. Only rogue English bluestockings use real
paper nowadays!
It’s crazy here. Nothing new in that, I hear you say. The place has
been crawling with busybodies of various shapes and sizes. Clipboards
and serious expressions. They want Grace to visit us here so they can
assess us looking after her. Our own granddaughter! How patronising
is that? Nobody assesses other grandmothers who take care of their
children, and I bet most of them aren’t as capable as I am. Hamisi was
looking after eight grandchildren—who assessed him? This is officious,
bureaucratic and intrusive.
You have to hand it to Perry and me. We’re giving the performance
of our lives. If we were in a Gilbert and Sullivan (
United Fronts
,
they’d call it) we’d keep bursting into song. Perry’s the dashing military
man, gallantly pulling out chairs for his interrogators. You’d never recognise him. He’s all twinkly and self-deprecating. And I keep
twittering away.
God, Jake, what is this about? Grace, of course. We must rescue
our precious child. Did you see, there was a horrible story in the paper
this week about foster carers who abused the children in their care—
systematic cruelty over twenty years of fostering. Twenty! I’ll spare you
the details. It makes me shudder to think of Grace, all alone with
nobody to protect her.