Someone to Watch Over Me (12 page)

‘He's been no trouble, as always,' said Kate, who was wearing a Father Christmas hat and a large net skirt trimmed with stars. ‘We've been dressing up,' she explained unnecessarily.

‘Have you time for a cup of tea?' Kate often had the sense that Molly was unhappy, but didn't feel she knew her well enough to find out why. There had been times when it seemed to the other woman that Molly had been close to confiding in her, but then at the last minute, almost as if she was catching herself on the edge of doing something wrong, she would change the subject. Kate didn't know exactly what had happened between Molly and Rupert but she had her suspicions, which she kept firmly to herself and her kind, bony, husband Dave, who ran a hardware shop in Ely.

‘She turns really strange when you mention her husband, she said, easing her soft curves around his hard edges on their divan bed. ‘I have a feeling he has done something really badly wrong.' and her husband, who wasn't one for talking in bed, said she was probably right, because she almost always was.

‘Thanks, but I've got a million things to do at home,' Molly said, gathering up toys and clothes and trying to locate Max's shoes in the chaotic front room. Kate took Molly aside and said in a quiet voice, ‘I'm absolutely sure that it's nothing to worry about and it's practically standard in only children of Max's age to have imaginary friends, but he has been talking about that other little boy again. He hadn't for ages, so I thought the phase had passed, but this morning we were making flapjacks and out of nowhere he asked if he could make an extra one for his friend.'

‘Yes, he's been doing quite a lot of that at home too,' said Molly. ‘I'm quite worried about it actually. And it's not just the talking … It sounds really odd but the other day I had the strangest feeling that he was looking at something. Something that wasn't there I mean.'

‘He's a child with a very powerful imagination,' said Kate. ‘I think it's quite common for children to enter into elaborate fantasy worlds, but sometimes they react to a loss by creating companions. Could it be that Max is missing his father?' asked Kate tentatively, not wishing to pry. Before Molly had the opportunity to answer, the subject of their discussion emerged from the kitchen with a Tupperware box. With a smile of thanks directed at Kate, Molly ushered him out to the car and as always, Max waved enthusiastically at Kate who stood on her doorstep until their car was out of sight, despite the chill in the air.

As Molly and Max came through the front door, the phone was ringing. Max ran to answer it. He had become very fond of saying, ‘Max Reardon here. How may I help you?' in his most officious voice. Max held the receiver to his ear, looking increasingly puzzled.

‘Who is it, darling?' Molly asked, hanging up their coats.

‘I'm not sure,' said Max. ‘I think it might have been Daddy.'

‘What was he saying?' asked Molly.

‘He wasn't saying anything,' said Max, ‘but I know it was Daddy, because of that little noise he makes when he breathes through his nose.' When Molly took the phone from her son all she could hear was the ringing tone.

Four days before Christmas Molly took Max into Ely to do some shopping and show him the Christmas tree in the cathedral. Famously huge, it scraped the ceiling of the building and was decorated with white stars and candles woven out of straw. Underneath, a nativity with life-sized sheep and a life-sized baby with a frozen smile were in their allotted places. The temperature had taken another dip. The massive heaters in the corners of the cathedral were producing heat that felt substantial when you were standing right next to them, but which quickly became redundant as you moved across chilly stone. Molly looked upwards at the jewel-coloured octagon and felt the same vertiginous, slightly sick sensation that the height always produced. The building was almost empty, except for some children who were practising carols for the evening. An all-girl choir, they were lined up in white shirts and tiny, irreverent skirts and they were singing ‘Once in Royal David's City' as if their lives depended on it.

Max was very interested in the statue of Mary that stood in the Lady Chapel. Dressed in a bright blue dress, she stood with her arms stretched up and her head bowed. She seemed out of place next to the worn stone of the floor and walls, and the unadorned windows.

‘Has she lost Baby Jesus?' asked Max. ‘Is that why she's begging?'

‘I don't think so, darling,' said Molly. ‘She hasn't had baby Jesus yet. She's showing how happy she is that she is going to be a mum.' In the emptiness of the chapel she again had that sensation of being un-anchored, set loose in a risky way and she touched a wall in an attempt to root herself. She remembered the feeling she had often had as a child, of things moving fast, freewheeling downhill. She had felt this most often at bedtime and the only thing that would make it go away was to come downstairs and sit for a while squashed safely between her mother and father on the sofa.

Molly and Max wandered back into the main part of the cathedral. She helped him to light a candle by the statue of St Etheldreda, otherwise known as Audrey, Fenland Queen, Abbess of the Cathedral and part of a long line of formidable female saints that had been venerated since the tenth century. She placed the candle on the spike next to the others and watched the flame flicker, almost go out, and then recover. Molly didn't go to church and therefore felt she didn't have the right to a proper prayer but nevertheless she closed her eyes, and hoped the peace of the cathedral and some of Audrey's strength would transmit itself to her.

As they wandered back along the nave towards the entrance, Max noticed a group of people kneeling on the floor rubbing at pieces of paper taped to brass plates and pulled at Molly's hand, eager to join in. Molly was glad of something that would occupy them until teatime and got tape and paper and two fat gold wax crayons from the shop. Max chose a brass of St George and the Dragon, liking the curve of the dragon's tail and the stretch of its nostrils. Molly chose one of a lady with a wide forehead and patterned cloak and elegant pointed feet. At first it seemed as if nothing would come of their seemingly aimless scratchings across the black paper, but the shape of armour and lance soon began to emerge and then as they persisted, details like the patterns in the fabric lay burnished under their fingers.

‘It's like magic,' Max said, his face shining. He sat back on his heels and held the finished product up for Molly to inspect.

‘It's almost as magic as you are,' she said, and carefully rolled it up and secured it with a rubber band.

When Carrie got out of the shower and reached for the towel that she had left on the rail, she discovered it had gone. For about the third time that week she cursed her mother, who used towels as if they were tissues. The other day Carrie had found her turbaned and draped in no less than four towels, lying on Carrie's bed, boldly availing herself of Carrie's virgin copy of
Heat
. The only thing left in the airing cupboard was a small towel, which Carrie fastened around herself as best she could and went into her bedroom to dry her hair. Bending her head upside down, she turned her dryer onto full blast hoping that the hot air would drive away her bad temper. She heard a noise from down
stairs so she switched the dryer off and went out on
to the landing. There was a frantic screeching and the sound of running feet. Carrie ran down the stairs and was confronted by the sight of her mother standing on the sofa in the living room whirling a tea towel around her head, her face flushed and terrified, her eyes fixed with horror on a blackbird which was flying from one end of the room to the other, resting briefly on a curtain pole or on the edge of the table, and then taking off again, its wings loud in the small space.

‘Catch it! Catch it!' Pam begged hysterically.

‘Get down from the sofa and go into the next room,' Carrie said, ‘I'll try and get it. How the hell did it get in?'

‘I don't know. Maybe the door was open … aahhhhhh …' Pam screamed again as the bird launched itself towards her.

‘Just get down and walk slowly,' said Carrie. ‘It can't hurt you. It's just afraid and all the noise you are making isn't helping.'

‘It'll get in my hair,' moaned Pam as she got down reluctantly from the sofa and edged her way across the room, her eyes on the bird who had settled on the corner of the bookcase. When she reached the door, she practically threw herself through it. Once she had reached the safety of the kitchen she started shouting instructions, her mouth plastered to the crack in the door.

‘Approach it from behind!' she suggested. ‘Shall I pass you a colander?'

Carrie clapped her hands gently to startle the bird off its perch, in the hope it would settle somewhere more accessible, but it stayed where it was, its wings vibrating with a gentle tremor, its eyes bright with their distinctive yellow rim. Carrie made a waving movement with her hand, and at last it left the bookcase and set off wildly around the room again making a thin, high, anxious call. At one point it settled on the arm of the sofa and Carrie approached it slowly, but just as she thought she was going to be able to get hold of it, it rose again and flew away from her, towards the closed window at the other end of the room. It seemed to pick up speed at the last minute, as if it thought it had found the way out, and she heard it hit the glass with a dull thud. It seemed to hover for a second before it fell to the ground. She approached it tentatively. Injured, the bird was far more alarming to her than it had been before. She felt a sudden repugnance but forced herself to pick it up, its form so much smaller than it had seemed in flight, its chest rising in tiny movements. What should she do with it? Was it in pain? Should she kill it? Carrie ran into the garden, holding the bird out in front of her. She went quickly down the alleyway. She could feel the bird's heart beating in her hands and although all she wanted to do was to throw it as far away from herself as possible, she knew she mustn't hurt it any more than it was already hurt. She looked around for someone who might be able to help and just at that moment, Oliver opened his front door. Carrie launched herself at him and held the bird out.

‘What do I do?' she said piteously. ‘I think it's damaged.'

Oliver took the bird from her and bent his head over it. She saw him purse his lips and for a moment she thought he was going to whistle, but instead he blew on it gently, his breath displacing its feathers.

‘I think it's just stunned,' he said. ‘I'll put it in a box for a bit and keep an eye on it, but I'm sure it will be alright.'

He looked at her and for the first time she remembered that she was dressed in the world's smallest towel.

‘I'm sorry, I left the house rather suddenly,' she said, feeling herself flush under his interested gaze.

‘Don't apologise,' said Oliver. ‘I think you look great.' She was aware of him looking at the slope of her shoulders, his eyes lingering on the swell of her breasts, which were barely hidden by the towel. She looked at his hands and the way that he was holding the bird so firmly and yet so gently as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She surprised herself by the wave of desire that ran through her at the thought of his hands holding her like that and, shocked into action, she moved away from him, her arms clutched around her chest.

‘Thank you,' she said, ‘about the bird. I hope it's OK,' and then she turned and fled. Oliver stood looking at her departing figure, his fingers absently stroking the feathers of the still unconscious bird.

After drying her hair smooth and sweeping up the feathers from the living room carpet, Carrie suggested to Pam that they get out of the house and make the most of what was left of the day. Both of them had done all the Christmas shopping they needed and Carrie suggested that rather than going into town they should drive to Ely.

‘The cathedral is beautiful and I don't think I have ever taken you there,' Carrie said.

‘Why not?' said Pam. ‘I like a cathedral at this time of year, makes me feel all holy.'

She went upstairs and came down again wearing an outsized Russian hat, as if preparing herself for a trip to the outer reaches of Mongolia.

‘It's chilly in the Fens,' she said in reply to Carrie's derisory look.

They found a place in the car park and walked the short distance to the cathedral. Carrie thought that her mother had made the right decision to dress warmly; the air seemed much colder here than it did in Cambridge, and the evening was gathering in, bringing with it a deep lavender sky and the prickle of imminent frost. On the grass in front of the cathedral two boys were sitting astride a cannon killing time. The beauty of the place always struck Carrie anew, even though she had visited many times. It didn't matter how many people were around, the cathedral absorbed them and the noise they made and stood magnificent and unperturbed. While Pam walked round, Carrie sat and looked towards the high altar with its intricate carving, the window behind it holding in its colours, the very last of the light.

She couldn't have said what made her turn at that particular moment. It was almost as if she heard something and felt compelled to move towards the direction of the sound although she wasn't aware of having heard anything specific. The woman and child that she had seen on the previous day by the clock in Cambridge were a few feet from her. They were kneeling on the ground and at first it looked to Carrie as if they were praying, but then she saw that they were bent over crayons and paper. Something about the way the woman was kneeling with her face in profile seemed familiar to Carrie, but then the moment passed. It was a phenomenon she thought she had experienced before: seeing the same strangers in different contexts within a few days or weeks. It always left her feeling a little unsettled, as if she had noticed them for a reason or as if she had been shown a glimpse of the people she might have known if she had lived another life.