My Husband's Wife (4 page)

There's a scraping of the chair on the floor as Joe Thomas stands up unexpectedly. For a moment, the room spins and my mouth goes dry. What is happening? All I know is that those very dark, almost black, eyes appear to be looking right through me. They know what's inside me. They see things that Ed doesn't.

And most important of all, they don't condemn.

He leans towards me. I catch the smell of him. I can't put my finger on it. Not a pine or lemon cologne smell like my husband's. More like a raw, wet, earthy animal smell. I feel a strange shortness of breath.

BANG!

I jump. So does he. Stunned, we both look at the window where the noise has come from. A large grey pigeon appears to be frozen in the air, just outside. A white feather blows gently in the breeze: the bird must
have flown into the glass. Miraculously, it is now flying away.

‘It's alive,' says Joe Thomas flatly. ‘The last one died. You'd think they'd be put off by the bars, wouldn't you? But it's as if they know better. Maybe they do. After all, birds reach heights that we know nothing about.'

Criminals, my boss warned me, can be remarkably soft in certain areas. Don't let it fool you.

‘I want you to go away and come back next week.' The instructions clip out of Joe Thomas's mouth as if this scene hasn't taken place. ‘By then, you need to have worked out the connection between the war poets and me. And that will give you the basis of my appeal.'

Enough is enough. ‘This isn't a game,' I say shortly to hide the inexplicable mixture of fear and excitement beating against my ribcage. ‘You know as well as I do that legal visits take time to organize. I might not be able to come back so soon. You have to make the most of this one.'

He shrugs. ‘If you say so.' Then he glances at my still-tanned wrists with my silver bracelet and then down to the shiny gold wedding ring, heavy with newness. ‘By the way, I got it wrong just now, didn't I? It's Mrs Macdonald, isn't it? I trust you had a good honeymoon.'

I'm still shaking when the taxi driver drops me off at the station. How did Joe Thomas know that I'd been on honeymoon? Was it possible that my boss had told someone when organizing the visit paperwork while I was away? If so, it was in direct contradiction to another piece of advice he'd given me: ‘Make sure you don't give any personal
details away. It's vital to keep boundaries between you and the client.'

The advice, rather like the warning about ‘conditioning' from the officer, had seemed so obvious as to be unnecessary. Like most people (I would imagine), I'd been shocked by the odd news story about prison visitors or officers having affairs with prisoners. Never once had I read about a solicitor doing the same. As for those strange thoughts in my head just now, it was nerves. That was all. Along with my disappointment over Italy.

As for Joe's ‘mistake' over my name, I can't help wondering if it was on purpose. To wrongfoot
me
perhaps? But why?

‘Five pounds thirty, miss.'

The taxi driver's voice cuts into my head. Grateful for the diversion, I fumble in my purse for change.

‘That's a euro.' His voice is suspicious, as though I'd intentionally tried to put one over on him.

‘So sorry.' Flushing, I find the correct coin. ‘I've been abroad and must have got my money muddled up.'

He takes my tip with bad grace, clearly unconvinced. A mistake. A simple mistake. Yet one that could so easily be taken for a lie. Is that how Joe Thomas feels? Is it possible that he made a mistake and is so fed up with being misunderstood that he decided to play games with me? But that doesn't really make sense.

I glance at my watch. It's later than I thought. Surely my time would be better spent going back to the flat, rather than the office, and typing up my notes. Besides, it would give me the opportunity to look into Rupert Brooke. My client might have unnerved me with his knowledge about
my private life. But he also intrigues me in that uncomfortable way when you feel you ought to know the answer to a question.

‘Get as much from him as possible,' my boss had said. ‘He was the one who approached us to make an appeal. That means there has to be fresh evidence – unless he just wants some attention. That happens quite a lot. Either way, we might seek counsel advice.'

In other words, a barrister would be consulted.

But I'm painfully aware that I haven't got very far. On what grounds can we appeal? Insanity perhaps? Or is his behaviour merely eccentric? How many other clients would set a puzzle like this for their lawyers? Still, there's something in Joe's story that rings true. Drunks do lie. Neighbours can tell lies. Juries can get it wrong.

The different arguments in my head make the train journey back much faster than it seemed this morning. In no time at all, or so it feels, I am on the bus back home. The word sends a thrill through me. Home! Not home in Devon, but our first home as a married couple in Clapham. I'll be able to get a meal on. Spaghetti bolognese perhaps? Not too complicated. Change into that mid-blue kaftan my mother bought me for the honeymoon. Tidy up a bit. Make the place look welcoming for when Ed gets home. And yet something still doesn't feel right.

On the few occasions I've left work early, I've felt like a naughty schoolgirl. And that wasn't me. My reports were always covered with the word ‘conscientious', as if a salve for the absence of more convincing accolades such as ‘intelligent' or ‘perceptive'. It was no secret that everyone – most of all, myself – was astounded when I
got into one of the most prestigious universities in the country through sheer hard slog. And again when I got taken on at a legal firm despite the competition. When you're constantly prepared for things to go wrong, it's a shock when they go right.

‘Why do you want to be a lawyer?' my father had asked.

The question had hung, unnecessarily, in the air.

‘Because of Daniel, of course,' my mother had answered. ‘Lily wants to put the world to rights. Don't you, darling?'

Now, as I get off the bus, I realize I've thought more about my brother today than I have for a very long time. It must be Joe Thomas. The same defensive stance. The arrogance which, at the same time, comes across as distinctly vulnerable. The same love of games. The same refusal to toe the line in the face of clear opposition.

But Joe is a criminal, I remind myself. A murderer. A murderer who has got the better of you, I tell myself crossly as I walk towards our flat, having paused to pick up the post from the mailboxes by the front door. A bill? Already?

I feel a flutter of apprehension – I
told
Ed we shouldn't have taken out such a big mortgage, but he just twirled me in the air and declared that we would get by somehow – and then stop. There's a disagreement going on between a woman and a child by number 7. I'm pretty sure it's the same girl in the navy-blue school uniform I saw this morning. But the adult is definitely not the mother with those black cascading curls. She's a plain woman in her thirties – at a guess – with open red sandals even though it's not the right kind of weather.

As I draw nearer, I spot a massive blue bruise on the child's eye. ‘What's going on?' I say sharply.

‘Are you Carla's mother?' asks the woman.

‘I'm a neighbour.' I glance at that terrible bruise. ‘And who are
you
?'

‘One of the teaching assistants at Carla's school.'

She says this with some pride.

‘I was told to take her home after a bit of an accident in the playground. But Mrs Cavoletti doesn't appear to be in, and her boss says she isn't at work today, so we'll have to go back to school.'

‘No. No!'

The child – Carla, did she say? – is tugging at my arm. ‘Please can I stay with you? Please. Please.'

The woman is looking uncertain. She seems out of her depth to me. I recognize the feeling. Of course she's right to be uncertain. I don't know this child, even though she is acting as though she knows me. But she has clearly been hurt at school. I know what that's like.

‘I think she needs to go to casualty,' I say.

‘I haven't time for that!' The eyes widen as if in panic. ‘I've got to pick up my own kids.'

Of course this is none of my business. But there's something about the distress in the child's face that makes me want to help. ‘Then I'll do it.'

I take out my business card. ‘You might want my details.'

Lily Macdonald. LLB. Solicitor.

It seems to reassure the teaching assistant. Even though perhaps it shouldn't.

‘Let's go,' I say. ‘We'll get a cab to the hospital. Want me to drop you off somewhere?'

She declines, although the offer seems to appease her further.

It occurs to me that it would be very easy to take a child if the circumstances were favourable.

‘My name's Lily,' I say after the woman has gone and I've slipped a note under the door of number 7 to tell Carla's mother what has happened. ‘You know you shouldn't really talk to strangers.'

‘Charlie said it was all right.'

‘Who's Charlie?'

She brings out a green pencil case from under her jumper.

How sweet! I had a wooden one when I was at school, with a secret drawer for the rubber.

‘What happened to your eye exactly?'

The child looks away. ‘It was a mistake. He didn't mean it to happen.'

‘Who made a mistake, poppet?'

But even as I ask the question, I hear voices.

The jury made a mistake
, Joe Thomas had said.

There's got to be a mistake
, my mother had sobbed when we found Daniel.

Is this a mistake?
I'd asked myself as I'd walked down the aisle.

No more mistakes, I say to myself, as I take Carla into our flat to call the local taxi firm.

From now on, I've got to be good.

‘Who made a mistake, poppet?' said Lily with the golden hair as they went into number 3. Her voice was very clear. Like one of those actresses on television. Posh, Mamma would have called it.

‘Kevin. A boy in my class. He threw a ball at me.'

Carla nuzzled Charlie's fur. It felt warm and cosy against her skin. She glanced around the flat. It was the same shape as theirs but there were more pictures on the walls. Untidier, too, with pieces of paper on the kitchen table and a pair of brown shoes underneath, suggesting that someone had forgotten them. They looked like they belonged to a man, with those thick soles and laces. Shoes, Mamma always said, were one of the most important weapons in a woman's wardrobe. When Carla said she didn't understand, Mamma just laughed.

‘If your mother isn't at work, where do you think she might be?'

Carla shrugged. ‘Maybe with Larry, her friend. Sometimes he takes her out for lunch near the shop. She sells nice things to make women beautiful.'

‘And where is this shop?'

‘A place called Night Bridge.'

There was a smile as if she'd said something funny. ‘Do you mean Knightsbridge?'

‘
Non lo so
.' When she was tired, she always lapsed into Italian, even though she tried to make Mamma speak English at home.

‘Well, we've left her a note to say where we are. The taxi will be here in a minute.'

Carla was still stroking the soft green fur. ‘Can Charlie come too?'

‘Of course it can.'

‘
He
can. Charlie's a he.'

The woman smiled. ‘That's nice.'

See
, whispered Charlie.
Told you we'd find a way
.

They were nice to her at the hospital. One of the smiley nurses gave her a barley sugar that stuck to the roof of her mouth. Carla had to put her finger in to poke it out. Mamma didn't allow her to have sweets at home unless Larry gave them to her. They made you fat like cakes and then you wouldn't get a boyfriend to pay the rent.

She hoped the golden-haired woman wouldn't tell.

‘Think of something nice and it won't hurt as much,' her new friend said, holding her hand as the nurse put something stingy on her eyebrow.

So Carla thought of her new friend's name. Lily! So pretty! When Larry came to visit, he sometimes brought lilies. Once, her mother and Larry had danced so hard when she was in bed that the lilies fell on to the ground and stained the carpet bright yellow. When she'd come out to see what had happened, Larry said it was ‘nothing'. He'd arrange for it to be cleaned. Maybe he'd arrange for
Mamma's blouse to be mended too. The top three buttons had lain scattered by her feet like little red sweets.

She told Lily this story as they got into the taxi to go home. They went a long way back because the driver said there was something called a diversion.

Lily was quiet for a while. ‘Do you ever see your daddy?' she asked.

Carla shrugged. ‘He died when I was a baby. Mamma cries if we talk about him.' Then she looked out of the window at the flashing lights. Wow!

‘That's called Piccadilly Circus,' said Lily.

‘Really?' Carla pressed her nose against the window. It was beginning to drizzle. She could pretend that her nose was running with rain. ‘Where are the lions?'

‘Lions?'

‘You said it was a circus. I can't see any lions or ladies in skirts walking on wires.'

There was a muffled sound of laughter. It was like the noise that Mamma made when Larry visited. Carla always heard it through the wall that divided her bedroom from Mamma's.

‘Don't laugh like that! It's true. I know what circuses look like. I've seen pictures in books.'

Maybe she shouldn't have shouted. Lily's smile had become a straight line now. But instead of being cross, like Mamma when Carla did something she shouldn't, she looked kind and gentle and nice.

‘I'm sorry, but you reminded me of someone.'

Instantly Carla's curiosity was aroused. ‘Who?'

Then Lily turned away. ‘Someone I used to know.'

They were going under a bridge now. The taxi grew
dark inside. Carla could hear Lily blowing her nose. When they came out the other side, her eyes were very bright. ‘I like your pencil case.'

‘It's not a pencil case. He's a caterpillar.' Carla stroked the green fur lovingly; first one way and then the other. ‘Charlie can understand every word you are saying.'

‘I used to feel that way about a doll I had once. She was called Amelia.'

‘Do you still have her?'

The face turned away again. ‘No. I don't.'

Lily used exactly the same tone of voice that Mamma used when she said that there was only enough dinner for one and that it didn't matter because she wasn't hungry. And just as she did with Mamma, Carla stayed silent because sometimes adults didn't want you to ask any more questions.

Meanwhile, the taxi was jolting along through big wide streets with pretty shops and then smaller ones with wooden boxes of fruit outside. Eventually, they passed a park she recognized and then they turned into their road. Charlie's fur stood up on end. Carla felt her chest beating at the same time. Mamma might be home now. What would she say?

Never talk to strangers
. How often had she told her that? Yet Carla had not only gone off with a stranger, she had also stolen Charlie.

‘I'll explain everything to your mother,' said golden-haired Lily, as if she could see what Carla was thinking. Then she handed over two real paper notes for the taxi ride to the driver. How rich she must be! ‘Do you think she'll be home yet? If not, you can …'

‘
Piccola mia!
'

She smelled Mamma's rich perfume swooping out of
the block before she saw her. ‘Where have you been? I am out of my mind with worry.' Then she glared at Lily, black eyes flashing. ‘How dare you take my daughter away? And what have you done to her eye? I will report you to the police. I will …'

It suddenly occurred to Carla that Lily wouldn't understand what Mamma was saying because she was speaking in their own language. Italian! What Mamma called ‘the tongue of the poets and the artists and the great thinkers'. Whatever that meant. Certainly Lily had looked very confused until the word
polizia
. Then her face grew red and cross.

‘Your daughter got hit by a ball at school.' She was speaking very slowly, as if making a big effort to stay calm. But Carla could see that her throat had gone all blotchy. ‘One of the staff took her home but you weren't in. She was going to have to go back to school but it just happened that I came back from work early and offered to take Carla to hospital for that eye.'

‘The teacher, why did she not do this?'

Mamma was speaking in English now. It worried Carla when she did this because she sometimes got the words in the wrong order. Then people would laugh or try to correct her. She didn't want Mamma feeling hurt.

‘She had to get back to her own children, apparently.'

‘They rang your work from school,' Carla butted in. ‘But they said you weren't there today.'

Mamma's eyes widened. ‘Of course I was. My manager had sent me on a training course. Someone should have known where to get me.
Mi dispiace
.' Mamma was almost suffocating her with a big hug. ‘I am so sorry. Thank you for looking after my little one.'

Together, she and Mamma rocked back and forth on the dirty steps. Even though the grip was uncomfortable, Carla's heart soared. This is what it had been like before the man with the shiny car had come into their lives. Just her and Mamma. No laughter through the walls that shut her out and danced up and down in her nightmares.

‘You are Italian?' Lily's soft voice released Mamma's grip and the old emptiness dived back in. ‘My husband and I spent our honeymoon in Italy. Sicily. We loved it.'

Mamma's eyes were wet with tears. Real tears, Carla observed. Not the kind of tears she practised in front of the mirror. ‘My daughter's father, he came from there …'

Carla's skin began to prickle. She had not known that.

‘But now … now …'

Poor Mamma. Her voice was coming out in big gulps. She needed help.

Carla heard her own voice piping up. ‘Now it is just Mamma and me.'

Do not talk about Larry, she wanted to say out loud. Do not mention that man.

‘It is very hard,' Mamma continued. ‘I do not like to leave my little one alone, but there are times when I have to work. Saturdays are the worst, when there is no school.'

Golden-haired Lily was nodding. ‘If it would help, my husband and I can look after her sometimes.'

Carla felt her breath stop. Really? Then she wouldn't have to stay inside the flat all on her own, with the door locked. She would have someone to talk to until Mamma got home!

‘You would look after my little girl? That is very kind.'

Both women were flushed now. Was Lily regretting her offer? Carla hoped not. Adults often suggested something and then took it away.

‘I must go now.' Lily glanced at her case. ‘I have work to do and you'll want time with your daughter. Don't worry about the cut. The hospital said it would heal fast.'

Mamma clucked. ‘That school, she is no good. Wait until I see the teachers tomorrow.'

‘But you won't, Mamma! You will be at work.'

‘Tsk.' Already she was being whisked inside.

‘We're in number 3 if you need us,' Lily called out. Had Mamma heard? Carla made a mental note just in case.

As soon as they were alone, Mamma rounded on her. Her glossy red smile had become a creased crimson scowl. How could adults move from one face to another so fast?

‘Never, never speak to strangers again.' Her pointed red finger wagged in front of her nose. There was a small chip in the polish, Carla noticed. On the right of the nail. ‘You were lucky this time to find an angel, but next time it might be the devil. Do you understand?'

Not exactly, but Carla knew better than to ask any more questions.

Apart from one.

‘Did my father really come from Sicily?'

Mamma's face went red. ‘I cannot talk of this. You know it upsets me.' Then she frowned at Carla's blouse. ‘What are you hiding in there?'

Reluctantly, Carla brought Charlie out for inspection. ‘He's a caterpillar.' She had to squeeze the words out of her mouth with fear.

‘One of those pencil cases you've been nagging me for?'

Carla could only nod.

Her mother's eyes narrowed. ‘Did you take him? From one of the other children? Is that why you have a bruise?'

‘No! No!' They were speaking in Italian now. Fast. Fluid. Desperate.

‘Lily told you. Someone threw a ball at me. But on the way back from the hospital, she bought Charlie to make me feel better.'

Mamma's face softened. ‘That is very kind of her. I must thank her.'

‘No.' Carla felt a trickle of wee run down her legs. That happened sometimes when she was nervous. It was another reason why the others teased her at school. It had happened once in PE.
Smelly Carla Spagoletti! Why don't you wear nappies, like a real baby?

‘She would be embarrassed,' Carla added. ‘Like Larry. You know what English people are like.'

Holding her breath, she waited. It was true that when the man with the shiny car gave them things, Mamma said they mustn't talk about it too much in case it embarrassed him.

Eventually, Mamma nodded. ‘You are right.'

Carla breathed out a slow sigh of relief.

‘Now go and wash your hands. Hospitals are dirty places.' Mamma was glancing at herself in the mirror, running her hands through her thick black curls. ‘Larry is coming for dinner.' Her eyes sparkled. ‘You must go to bed early.'