Torn (38 page)

He frowned. ‘About last night … Did I do anything wrong? Are you having second thoughts?' He was pinching at his lips.

‘You did nothing wrong. I enjoyed myself.' Her cheeks warmed with the memory of just how much she'd enjoyed herself. But it was unfair to prevaricate and pretend. ‘Yes, I am having second thoughts. It shouldn't have happened. I had no intention of letting something like that happen. It was a mistake.'

‘Can you explain why?'

‘I came to live here with no intention of being anything other than a mother. I don't want complications and involvements. I may be weak, I may be tempted, but … I don't want another relationship. Not now, not for a long time.'

‘Can life be organised in so cut and dried a manner? When you think you're ready there may be nothing on offer. Like waiting for a London bus …'

‘Feast or famine. I'll just have to take that chance, won't I?'

‘If that's how you feel, I don't understand why you became involved with Daniel. He's a very odd choice for someone who is determined not to have a relationship.'

‘How do you know I was involved?'

‘Oh, come on! I'm not stupid!'

‘Danny is none of your business.'

‘I differ. In my view he is my business. I'm virtually in loco parentis. And he's been as miserable as sin for the last couple of months … for which I decline to accept the responsibility!'

‘Perhaps his unsuitability made him the perfect choice. I knew it couldn't go anywhere.'

‘I can't believe this!'

Jessica was almost glad to perceive the signs of his building frustration and anger. It would be easier to end the thing if James lost his temper.

He continued. ‘You mean you picked him up just to amuse yourself, knowing you would dump him almost immediately? You can't treat people like that!'

‘Your treatment of him is hardly respectful of his dignity!'

‘Dan's my employee, not my –'

‘Lover?'

‘Are you?'

‘What? Danny's lover? Like I said, it's none of your business.'

‘I'm beginning to suspect you're not the woman I thought you were!'

‘No. I'm not! You've acquired a highly distorted impression of me, probably from Gilda.'

‘I thought I knew enough. That you were in an abusive relationship, which you came here with Rory to escape.'

‘That much is true.'

‘I see it now. Did you choose Dan because he's young? Because you wanted to be the one in control of the relationship?' This explanation seemed to give him some comfort, a comfort Jessica whisked away almost immediately.

‘If you believe Danny can be so easily pushed around, then you underestimate him even more than I thought you did. Try … I fancied him rotten.'

James winced. ‘But not me?'

The righteous indignation with which she'd armed herself softened a little.

‘Last night wouldn't have happened if I found you unattractive.'

‘Then I don't understand?'

‘It was only this morning … I recalled what you said on the journey home, about meeting me and Rory on the hill.'

‘For fuck's sake! That again?' He briefly bowed his head, clutching at his hair; tangling it into even more mad spirals. It was a characteristic gesture, a moment to pause, think, regroup. ‘OK. I did assume you were a hippy and her bastard sprog. I'm sorry! Forgive me? I know you're not a hippy. I've nothing against hippies … new-agers … travellers! As long as they don't camp on my land! And as for bastard, that's just my hyperbole! I've told you already, my mouth sometimes runs away with me. I don't care if you and Rory's father weren't married. It's irrelevant. Your relationship may have been misguided but –'

‘I wasn't in a relationship with Rory's father. I don't know who Rory's father was … is. He could be any one of several faceless men. Which makes me, in your terms, “a slapper” I think?'

He paled and stared at her blankly, as if she were suddenly unrecognisable. It was almost funny.

‘You are so old fashioned, James Warwick.' She could have added, ‘Bet you're especially glad you used a condom last night', but then admitted to herself her own relief at his forethought. The kitchen door opened; Gilda walked in, smiling.

‘Good morning, my dears. How are you this morning? Did you enjoy your day in Stratford? The play?' Her smile began to fade. ‘Is everything all right?'

‘Hello, Gilda,' Jessica said brightly. ‘The play was wonderful. It was the funniest thing I've seen for a long time.'

Gilda's eyes turned back towards her son but he didn't acknowledge her. He walked across the kitchen, poured his tea into the sink, then stared out of the window. The self-satisfaction that Jessica knew she saw in Gilda's welcoming smile had fled, replaced by anxiety. It was understandable. Easy to imagine her own feelings of responsibility if, years into the future, Rory's life plunged into tragedy. Wouldn't she do what Gilda had done and look out for a likely woman? Might she not try to engineer a relationship, if only to pour a little balm on his wounds? And on the morning after, would she resist the temptation to see if the spare bed had been slept in? Poor Gilda. She had come downstairs triumphant, only to find the atmosphere in the kitchen like an icebox.

James turned round. ‘I'm … erm … I've some work I need to get on with, in the study.' He seemed to be talking to his mother but then he looked at Jessica. ‘Perhaps … I … we … can talk about this again, sometime? Yes?' It seemed he was determined on an answer. She raised her eyes to his face; he looked more pained than angry.

‘OK. Yes.'

He immediately quit the room. Swallowing back the thickening in her throat, Jessica asked, ‘Is it this week's newspaper article that he needs to get on with?' She was playing for time, unconvinced there was any outstanding work suddenly requiring his attention.

‘I doubt it. He usually sends that in by Thursday. I expect it's some freelance copy-writing Piers has sent through for him.'

‘Copy-writing?' Jess swallowed again. ‘I didn't know he did that as well as the articles? And managing the farm! How does he have time for the novel?'

‘And carpentry. Making special pieces to commission. The point is he doesn't have the time. It's all a juggling act. And he often as not works long into the night. Jessica, whatever is the matter? Have you two had an argument? James has a short fuse, but you mustn't take his bursts of irascibility too seriously.'

To Jessica's shame the bubbles of emotion which she'd been suppressing throughout this last diversionary exchange were becoming irresistible. She gulped and coughed, and covered her face with her hands. Only as her head drooped forward, did she realise she'd been sitting ram-rod straight, spine unsupported by the chair back. Her shoulders began to heave as the emotion surged up to the surface and spilled over uncontrollably.

‘I'm making such a pig's ear of my life!' she managed to utter, between sobs.

Gilda was a kind woman for all her reserve and county mannerisms. Best of all she did not demand an explanation for her breakdown.

‘It's too soon,' Gilda murmured, stroking her head. ‘It's still too soon.' For whom was not elucidated, though Jessica guessed the woman was thinking of her son, unaware it was he who'd been rejected. Perhaps she should be ashamed of sitting in the man's kitchen and weeping on his mother's shoulder, but it was easier to give way to the emotion now, and receive what small degree of comfort she could glean. There would be precious little on offer elsewhere. Everything was such a mess and there was no one she could talk to, no one who would understand.

Hysterical giggles were accompanied by thundering feet on the stairs. Jessica sat up straight and gathered a gulping breath. Gilda handed her a sheet of kitchen towel. The evidence of her tears, obvious to anyone else, went unnoticed by the scarlet-cheeked children. Soon she too was laughing, albeit shakily, at the sight of them. Looking the more normal of the two, Sasha was wearing Rory's red sweatshirt and denim dungarees. Although baggy on her it was the kind of outfit she often wore. But in her pink party frock and tiara, with his own dark socks and untied Doc Martens, Rory looked thoroughly outlandish. In his fist he gripped a short stick with knot of tinsel on top, as if it were a lightsaber.

‘Mummy! Mummy!' he managed to blurt, between the erupting giggles. ‘I'm the fairy princess, Christabel!'

It was Monday and for once they were early. On a bright, fresh, sunny morning like this it would be a crime not to walk to Cherubs. They dawdled along the lane, Jessica drawing Rory's attention to the bright yellow alyssum, which grew over the dry-stone garden walls in plump swags. A week or two earlier it had been aubretia which, just as implausibly, had padded the walls in dense cushions of violet and magenta. Aubretia still hugged the walls, but upstaged by its brilliant neighbour, it now looked dry, dusty, and faded as the blossoms turned to seed.

Jess wondered how much of what she said penetrated, but still pointed out the bluebells and primroses growing wild amongst the undergrowth on the slopes of the hill. Her son seemed far more interested in talking about Buzz Lightyear, a subject long since exhausted for her. As he chattered on, she simply agreed and nodded offering an ‘Oh' and ‘Mmm' from time to time.

Suddenly he said, ‘We looked for the wooden enemies?' Thinking this was something new to do with Buzz's adventures, she asked him to repeat himself.

‘Wooden enemies!' he said loudly, as if she were deaf as well as stupid. ‘Danny took us for a walk in the woods. Me and Sasha. To find the wooden enemies!'

‘Yes, sweetheart. But what are they?'

‘Wooden enemies!
And
violence!' Rory sighed deeply. ‘But they were only … like … flowers.'

Comprehension dawned and she laughed.

‘They were, Mummy! Really! Danny showed us! Sasha wanted to pick some, but he said she shouldn't. He said we should leave them where they grow for other people to see.'

‘I believe you. Wood anemones and violets,' she translated, still smiling. Was it in fact Danny who'd called the flowers wooden enemies? Sometimes the pronunciation of multi-syllable words could be a problem for him. Memories of how she'd spent Friday, and its aftermath on Saturday morning, needed little prompting. Shame and self-disgust were now qualified by resentment at the inequity of life. Recalling James' analogy with waiting for a bus, she smiled. When you wanted one, none came along, when you didn't two arrived simultaneously.

The smile died when she saw the Land Rover parked by the nursery. It was not a frequent occurrence, but not unknown for James to do the chauffeuring. Why did he have to choose today? He seemed in no hurry to leave. He sat with a newspaper spread across the steering wheel and didn't seem to glance in her direction as she walked past. Perhaps he would have finished reading whatever it was that was so absorbing and have driven off by the time she re-emerged? In the event, even though she made the effort to stop and talk to other mothers – a slightly brittle and unsatisfactory exchange – the Land Rover was still there ten minutes later. Jessica decided to ignore it, but she walked no more than a pace or two past it before she was hailed. Reluctantly she retraced her steps.

‘I was waiting to talk to you,' he said. ‘Do you want a lift home? Please?' he added. At the farm she'd agreed to talk further, but now could not imagine what they would have to say to one another. She nodded, aware of the comments and nudges between a couple of mothers as they witnessed her climb up into the Land Rover's passenger seat. They said nothing to one another in the few seconds it took to drive the length of Northwell Lane and then sat in silence outside her house.

After an awkward pause, during which he stared straight ahead, Jessica said, ‘I don't know what more I can say to you.'

He seemed to rouse. ‘It's not necessary for you to say anything. I mean … I think I understand your reservations. But I have things I need to say to you.'

Inside the house for only the second time since she'd lived there, James seemed more observant, more aware of her imprint on the place. He smoothed his hand over the throw she'd draped on the sofa. He looked at the embroidered cushions, the prints, watercolours, and etchings hung on the walls she'd painted white. He read the spines of the books on the shelf. Conscious of how few there were, Jess now regretted leaving the bulk in store. Her reading was mainly confined to her Kindle these days.

‘Are these the famous curtains?' The lustrous fabric, a melange of jewel colours in a batik style design, hung on buttoned tabs from a café rod. At her perplexed expression he amplified.

‘My mother told me you'd replaced all the curtains. Made them yourself.'

‘Oh, that!' Jess might have laughed if she'd not felt so tense. ‘I only ever made … well cobbled together one set, for Rory's room. I bought ready-mades for the rest of the house. Making them was more trouble than I bargained for.'

‘Things usually are.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘In my experience, things you think will be easy are always harder than you anticipated.'

In the kitchen he remained standing, hands thrust deep in pockets, staring first at the tadpoles swimming amongst frills of pond weed in a jar on the windowsill, then at Rory's artworks attached to the fridge door with magnets. In pride of place was the largest of these, an expressionist rendition of a stick-limbed creature, with large spider hands and a swollen, balloon head. Electrified yellow fronds radiated out in a halo from around the balloon shape; three dense scribbles and a wide crescent made the face.

‘Sit down, please,' Jessica said. ‘Would you like a coffee?'

‘No. Nothing.' He looked away then nodded towards the drawing which was titled ‘m u M Y'