Little Bits of Baby (32 page)

While the children were frantically absorbed in finishing the church Peter watched his son in the garden. After the escapade with Jasper the other afternoon, he had borrowed a ladder and brought the treehouse down from the tree. It had slid down from its moorings with horrible ease and stood now in a corner, a pile of rotten planks with three-and-a-bit walls rising out of them, capped by half a roof. Peter turned up the Duke Ellington and encouraged children to sing along. Robin balanced himself against the wall on his hands and demolished the rest of the wooden house with kick after brutal kick.

Thirty-Nine

‘Stop here. No. Here. Right here!' Candida shouted at the driver. ‘That's right. I'll be about ten minutes, maybe a little more.'

‘It's a double yellow line,' the driver told her.

‘Well, drive around a bit. Drive round the Common a few times. Get yourself a cup of tea or something.' She was excited and had no time to think about parking tickets. This was studio work. The studio would pay. She left the driver to amuse himself, snatched up her bag and crossed the road to the curious place where Faber had chosen to make his home.

She wore her crucifix outside today, enjoying the ill-disguised sensation it caused amongst the make-up team who were used to her decoration being less discreet. They were notorious sellers of gossip; it was more than likely that one of the Sunday tabloids would carry a close-up of the unusual piece of jewellery with a dramatic story of Candida's spiritual rebirth.

She had rung Faber several times since the embarrassing episode with Robin and had given up speaking to his answering machine after the third attempt. He had returned none of her calls so she had opted for the surprise tactic. He opened the door wide and seemed satisfactorily surprised to see her.

‘Candida! Come in.'

‘Faber, you haven't returned any of my calls. Are you OK?'

‘Erm.'

‘The thing is,' she pushed on, not wanting to hear, ‘I've got some thrilling news about Iras's novel.'

‘Oh?'

‘Is she here?'

‘No. She's at school. But she's finished it, if that's what you were going to ask.'

‘Fabulous! Faber, it's so exciting.'

‘What is?'

‘How'd you like Iras to go on television?'

‘What? Well …' he chuckled. ‘I'm not sure.'

‘You'd come too, of course.'

‘In that case …' he smiled.

‘The thing is … Faber, you might be cross with me.'

She did her winsome best, sitting down so she could look up at him from her best angle.

‘What have you done?' he asked. He was playing the game and she didn't trust him.

‘Well, I know a couple of editors fairly well, Brian Delaney at Pharos and Rhoda Fairing at Termagant – I know Rhoda from that maternity book I did a few years ago.'

‘I remember.' Faber sat on a chair arm and watched her.

‘And I mentioned to them, just in passing, that I knew of an extraordinary girl who was blind but was writing a novel. Faber, it's wonderful, they both got so excited. They both love the idea!'

‘But they haven't even read it. I haven't read it. It may not be any good – think how embarrassing that would be. I think Robin read some, mind you; he was fairly stunned.'

‘You see? And he's a good judge. Of course it's good. No one's expecting her to be Charlotte Bronte at her age, but they'll still be amazed at what she's achieved and from what Andrea was saying the other day …'

‘When did you talk to Andrea?'

‘Oh. At the christening party. She told me about the spaceman sex.'

‘God! That. What will people think?'

‘Oh Faber. Don't be so suburban. Let me see a copy.'

‘But there isn't one. Not yet.'

‘There must be.'

‘It's all inside that machine of hers she guards so jealously.'

‘Let's see.'

‘Well, I'm not sure we should.'

‘Oh, come on. I know how to work them.'

‘All right.'

He led the way up to her room. She relaxed. She had steamrollered him.

‘Stunning,' she said, looking at the weirdly blank space about her. ‘Now, look. She's left it on. All we have to do is find out which disc the novel's stored on.' The keyboard had been braille-converted but she bore with its tickling and typed from memory. ‘Third time lucky,' she exclaimed after two tries. Iras had typed in a title page. ‘“
Touch
: a novel by Iras Washington”. Great name. I can just see it.'

‘The book's or hers?'

‘Both. Now, to make a copy.'

‘We haven't got time. It prints out very slowly,' he told her. ‘Someone's dropping her back from school soon.'

‘I thought of that,' she said, digging in her bag. ‘
Et voilà
.' She presented the disc she'd stolen from work, pushed it into the second disc drive and set the machine to copy the old disc onto the new. ‘Lovely, lovely technology,' she said.

‘How did you know what kind of machine she had?'

‘I got her to tell me at the christening.'

‘You sly bitch.'

‘Faber, really!'

‘What next?'

‘I get off copies to Rhoda and Brian, set a little auction going, and by the time Iras is on the air she'll have a publisher. At twelve she'll have what some people are still praying for at forty-eight.'

‘Would they pay much?'

‘Lots.'

‘But you must get a cut; an agent's percentage.'

‘We can find her an agent later. Let's say I'm doing this for love.'

‘But Candida …'

She held up a hand to silence him and smiled.

‘Either Brian or Rhoda will be greatly beholden to me – that can be my percentage.'

‘I can hardly believe this. But it might not be any good.'

‘I told you. That doesn't matter.' The ship's bell rang outside. ‘I must go,' Candida said, snatching back her disc from the machine, picking up her bag and re-arranging things as she found them.

‘No. Hang on. I still want you to explain. It's probably just Cancer Research or someone.'

He hurried downstairs. Candida followed slowly behind. Faber opened the door to an older woman, elegant though plain, who introduced herself as Dorothy Birch.

‘I'm acting as a sort of go-between for the solicitors as well as Marcus's factotum,' she told him as they shook hands. ‘He was forever complaining about the “coldness of the Law”. As you probably gathered, he had to use solicitors a great deal in his life. The least we could do was conform with his wishes that we keep them out of sight after his death.'

‘Do sit down,' said Faber.

‘No, thanks,' she said, eyeing the skeleton briefly. ‘This letter explains it all. Very straightforward. The gist of it is that you and Iras are his principal legatees.'

‘Iras?'

‘That is your daughter's name?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well then.' Faber was looking at her in disbelief. ‘There was some mix-up with the payments recently,' she confided, ‘in fact I think it's only fair to tell you that he was withholding them on purpose in the hope that it might bring you back to him before the end. As I say, it's all explained in the letter. I'm afraid that the business matters have been off-loaded onto my feeble shoulders for the meanwhile so we'll be seeing each other at regular intervals for me to make my reports and to talk about your shareholdings and so on.' She looked around at the room, wrinkling her nose slightly. ‘This is your usual address?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Good. Then I can contact you here. Do get in touch if there's anything you don't understand.'

‘Fine.'

‘Goodbye.'

‘Goodbye.'

They shook hands and just as she was leaving, Miss Birch caught sight of Candida waiting in the shadow on the staircase.

‘Oh!' She made a little hoot of delighted bewilderment. ‘It is you, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' said Candida, coming forward. ‘It's me.'

‘I watch you every morning,' said Miss Birch, letting tumble her businesslike poise. ‘I wouldn't miss it for the world.' She realised she might be intruding on something. ‘Oh, so sorry. So very sorry,' she muttered and hurried out. They heard her call for a taxi outside. Candida caught Faber's eye and laughed. He laughed back. They laughed almost fiercely.

‘God,' said Candida, ‘Faber, I'm so sorry. I had no idea anyone had died.'

‘Evidently not,' he said and laughed again, making her join in. She had to lean on the back of the sofa to steady herself. Faber began to open the letter, got as far as pulling it from the envelope then, quite suddenly, his chuckles subsided into coughs and sobs.

Candida continued to lean against the sofa and waited quietly for him to finish. When he showed no signs of doing so she stood and went to stand by him. He had dropped the letter and was having a kind of fit of grief.

‘Stop it, Faber,' she said quietly. ‘Do stop.'

‘He'd have loved her,' he gasped. ‘He'd have been so proud. I'm such a bloody fool.'

Not understanding a word and wondering if she could extricate herself from this profoundly uncomfortable situation before Iras came home from school, she lifted a hand to his shoulder and gave a little squeeze.

‘Do stop,' she said. ‘I'm sure it's all right really.'

But her touch seemed to act as a trigger and, seized by a fresh spasm, he flung himself on her shoulder and wept all over her new blouse. She stood stoically on, rubbing his back as though to bring up wind, and staring at the sketch of herself over his fireplace. His grasp was strong and his back was broad and firm. His skin was warm, hot even, and the heat of his body drew woody-sweet scents from his skin as though he had just taken a bath.

Then there was a jangle of keys outside and all at once the door was open and Robin was standing there. They stared at each other a moment. She had not seen him since their moonlit jaunt to Blackheath. Tongue-tied, she tried to free herself from what, to all intents and purposes had become an embrace but Faber held her the harder. Robin said nothing. He left his keys in the lock and disappeared towards the pavement. She found her voice at once.

‘Faber! Faber you must let me go. Faber!' She shoved him aside. He was still weeping. ‘Didn't you hear
anything
?' she asked, but he had sunk onto the sofa and was scrabbling on the floor for that woman's letter. Candida spoke loudly and clearly. ‘That was Robin. He saw us. I think he misunderstood.' Having wrecked her blouse the wretched man finally found a piece of paint-stained rag and blew his nose on it. She couldn't wait. ‘Stay here,' she said. ‘I'm going after him.'

Robin was running towards the tube station. It was only when she had sprinted several yards in pursuit across the wet grass that she found she had kept the presence of mind to bring her bag with her, and the precious disc.

‘Stop,' she shouted. A few people out walking stared at her, amused recognition in their eyes. ‘Please stop him someone!' she panted. She was getting a stitch. Someone took a photograph.

Forty

Robin ran. The sight of them in each other's arms so soon after he'd turned on her shockingly spoilt son was more than he could cope with. Her face was full of explanations and he wanted none. So he ran. Drizzle was making the common slippery and he was in sailing-shoes with no socks so he felt the cold wet sharply.

He had suffered several attacks since the one in Faber's studio, most of them out-of-doors, one of them, nightmarishly, during a concert he went to with Iras. He told Faber none of this; Faber was still in no state to listen. As Robin ran now, with no goal in mind, he felt another coming on. He heard it first in the challenging roar of the lorries, then in the cruel squeak of a playground swing and finally in Candida's cries as she chased him. He stopped and shouted back through what was now quite thick rain.

‘Go away!' he cried. ‘Stop! Go back!' But the sound of his voice blew back at him and she kept on running. She had taken off her shoes and was running barefoot. Someone seemed to be running after her. Robin turned and ran on. The tube station's booming acoustic made it the worst shelter he could have chosen, but there were no taxis in sight, and a train seemed the only way of losing her and going somewhere else fast. He ran down the corridor to the Southbound platform. It was crowded and the noises down there were so bad that he had to cover his ears. No one seemed to mind greatly – but they stood away from him, depriving him of anywhere to hide.

‘Come on!' he told the train. ‘Bloody come on.' He leaned over the platform's edge and saw lights in the tunnel and the driver in his cab. He couldn't hear much, because his hands were over his ears, so he failed to hear her shouting his name, if indeed she did, and he had no warning of her wild approach.

Suddenly she was tugging at his elbow. His hands left his ears and the din sprang to attack him. They swung there, stupidly a moment.

‘Don't,' she screamed, her shoes still flapping in her other hand. ‘Don't!'

Then she slipped or Robin pushed her and down she went under the oncoming train. The strangest thing was that, just before she dropped away from his grip she hissed, ‘I love you.'

It didn't mean much because she was pulling a frightened, urgent sort of face.

The screech of the train's brakes did something to his brain and the attack stopped as though a plug had been pulled. Everyone surged forward around him. Evidently he was less their concern than what they might see on the tracks. The train's doors remained shut as it was only halfway into the station and Robin met a few accusing glances through its windows. He started to pull back, then turned, then took a few quick steps. He came face to face with a very fat, bald man who did a sort of dance in his path and shouted, pointing,