The Lover Page 2

  Libby crossed to the window and stared out with a sigh. ‘I think it might be going to rain after all.’

  Frances left the bed and went to stand beside her. For a moment both women studied the sombrely-clad groups arranged on the lawn below. The plea for no black ties had been largely ignored. Daisy’s white-blonde head stood out like a beacon, as did Felix’s bright red tie. They were talking to guests, but still standing next to each other in a show of mutual support.

  ‘The children are being wonderful,’ said Frances, biting her lip.

  ‘How long is Daisy staying?’

  ‘The rest of the week, I think. Her plans, as ever, are hazy. She says she wants me to go and stay with her and Claude, but I don’t think she means it.’ Frances stared at the subsiding mountain of old grass clippings, concealed from general view between the garden shed and the end fence. Cutting the lawn had been one of Paul’s favourite weekend chores. His birthday present that year had been an expensive four-wheel mower, the size of a small tractor. For the ageing gardener, Frances had teased, watching him open the small wrapped parcel that contained the ignition keys. He had used it once, just before the party, steering it with all the glee of a small boy, leaning out at the corners as if the garden were a Formula I circuit instead of a one acre rectangle with a few trees.

  ‘If Daisy’s asked you, you should go.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And when’s Felix off?’

  ‘He starts in two weeks.’

  ‘At least it’s Sussex and not Edinburgh. It’s only an hour away…’

  ‘An hour and three quarters.’

  ‘Well that’s nothing,’ concluded Libby brightly, as if a forty-three-year-old mother could expect to commute to her son’s student digs every other day of the week in search of distraction and entertainment. ‘And that children’s charity you’re always helping,’ she continued, a little desperately now, ‘no doubt they’ll be making their usual heavy demands, they’re always frantic after the summer, aren’t they?’

  ‘Oh yes, always.’ Frances drained the last of her tea. ‘Help me get rid of them all will you? I’ve had enough.’

  Chapter Two

  The moment the guests had gone, Frances wished she could summon them all back. Surrounding herself with Paul’s friends felt suddenly like the surest testimony to his worth, to the fact that he had existed at all. The last to leave were Libby and Alistair, who had stayed on with all four children to help clear up.

  ‘Call whenever you want,’ said Libby, winding down the car window. ‘Day or night. Promise me you will.’

  ‘I promise,’ Frances lied, knowing from the glimpses of despair she had suffered already that communication of any kind felt impossible and pointless, let alone dawn phone calls to sleep-deprived friends.

  Soon after the Taverners’ mud-spattered Volvo had disappeared from sight, Felix announced his intention to go on a walk, warning that he might be quite a while and no one was to worry. Daisy, looking spectral, the smudges of her mascara having merged into the dark circles under her eyes, complained of a headache and the need to lie down.

  For something to do, feeling abandoned and blank with sadness, Frances dragged herself round the garden, touring Paul’s treasured flower beds. They were still bulging with colour, but she walked with unseeing eyes, absently bending down to retrieve the occasional escaped paper napkin and forgotten wine glass. The tedium and exhaustion of grief were unexpected and like nothing she had ever known. When her father died ten years before, there had been as much relief as sadness. Watching the only member of her family to whom she had ever felt close succumb to the pain and indignities of prostate cancer had made her long for the end. While her mother, never one for indulging in emotions at the best of time, had responded to bereavement by joining another book club, redecorating the house and embarking on the first of many subsequent package holidays with widowed friends.

  At the thought of her mother, Frances sighed. They had spoken a little after the funeral, but the truth was she had been thankful that Carol had been there to deflect most of the attention. They were much more alike, the pair of them, both filled with a frenetic energy which Frances neither shared nor trusted, suspecting its origins to lie with an urge to dodge life rather than look it squarely in the eye.

  At the garden gate she stopped and stared down towards the River Ley, shrunk now to its original proportions, glinting silver through the trees in a last burst of afternoon sun. The land separating the end of their garden from the river bank was part of a public bridlepath. Next to it lay several acres of farmland which were usually given over to daffodils or rape seed, providing a vivid yellow backdrop to the sandstone of the house and the kaleidoscopic beauty of the garden. To have such an uncluttered view of the Kent countryside was a privilege, Frances knew, and one that had been a prime factor in their decision to purchase the house ten years before. With the children then eight and eleven it had also been an ideal time to move to the country, away from the prison of small gardens and schools that required negotiation with the South Circular. Paul had also been eager to move from the enormous, prestigious London practice in which he had mastered his trade into a more personal set-up where he would enjoy an easier ride up a shorter, less greasy pole. In fact, the only reservations about abandoning their three-bedroomed Edwardian house had come from Frances herself. Her parents lived in Chiswick and it was during the period that her father was very ill. While this provided an excuse for her reluctance, Frances had been aware that it in fact went much deeper. Weekend sorties to friends already ensconced in various rural cul-de-sacs within the commuter belt of the Home Counties had never convinced her that it was a lifestyle with which she would feel any natural affinity.

  Contentment had come with time and a little determination. Early resolutions to keep a foothold in London, to pop up by train for social and cultural excursions, were soon put to one side; missing Clapham Common and the Barbican proving unhelpful emotions for a woman whose children loved screaming round muddy fields and whose husband fished and liked to cycle to the local tennis club.

  Frances was wrested from her reverie by an icy sensation in her toes. She looked down to see her smart black shoes almost submerged in mud. She stood quite still, studying the soggy ground, aware that she was slowly, imperceptibly sinking into it. For a mad moment she found herself embracing the sensation, drawn to the notion that the world would obligingly swallow someone who had had enough of it; that she might sink without trace and avoid the black tunnel of readjustment stretching ahead.

  A glimpse of Joseph Brackman’s green anorak through the trees stirred her to her senses. Terrified at the prospect of having to make conversation, she quickly stepped out of sight, the earth squelching its reluctance to release her feet. Back inside the house, she found Daisy sitting at the kitchen table in front of a glass of wine, both hands busy with her tobacco pouch.

  ‘Headache better?’ Frances filled the kettle, more for something to do than because she felt like a drink.

  ‘A bit.’ Daisy pulled out a square of thin white paper and began deftly filling it with shreds of tobacco. There were faint yellow nicotine stains towards the ends of the index and third fingers of her right hand which Frances did not remember seeing before. She watched as Daisy sucked deeply on her creation, flattening one end of the paper between her lips. ‘By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’ve got a job.’

  ‘A job? But that’s marvellous – you should have said something earlier.’

  Daisy picked a fleck of tobacco off her lower lip. ‘It’s hardly been the right time. And it’s only helping out in a gallery three days a week. It’s a nice gallery though – a good one – lots of modern stuff. Claude says it’s the perfect place for meeting people, for making contacts for my own work, setting up exhibitions and so on.’

  Although Frances did her best both to sound and appear enthusiastic, she was hampered by her own state of mind and the fact that her daughter’s future as an artist
was something about which Daisy herself always sounded half convinced. Her decision the year before to leave college early had left both parents exasperated, particularly Paul. It had taken all Daisy’s daddy’s girl charm to win him round, to persuade him that Claude would be a far more effective nurturer and marketer of her talent than a second-rate art college. The move to Paris would prove the launch pad of her career, she had assured them excitedly, the place where everything would come together. Regarding the gaunt, pallid face of her daughter now across the table, her cheeks hollow with the effort of sucking the last thread of smoke from her cigarette, Frances was suddenly glad that Paul would be spared the disappointment of seeing Daisy’s grand plans come to nothing. With both children she had always been the better compromiser, the one who could settle for less and not mind. ‘Working in a gallery will be good language practice too,’ she murmured, stirring her tea but feeling little inclination to drink it.

  ‘And it’ll mean I can help out with the rent and so on,’ Daisy pressed on, ‘get me away from being completely dependent on poor Claude. Not that he ever complains. He’s incredibly generous.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I did tell you, didn’t I, how very much he wanted to be here today? A last minute work thing blew up – an important deal that’s going pear-shaped. He’s desperately sorry about Dad and has been very sweet to me, very understanding…’

  ‘I’m so glad.’ Frances tipped her untouched mug of tea down the sink and began returning dry wine glasses to the cardboard box of thirty-six that they had hired from the off licence. She moved slowly, burdened by the sense that everything she said, every move she made, was being performed for the sake of it, that nothing derived from a genuine impulse towards action. Even breathing felt like a conscious act. It struck her then that grief, rather than being an emotion, was in fact an absence of the ability to feel, an absence of interest in the world or the self. Hard for anyone, let alone a woman who had never been particularly interested in herself anyway.

  Felix walked fast, his shoulders hunched, his head bent so that he had nothing to contemplate except the trail of puddles at his feet. After only ten minutes or so he began to feel a blister forming on his little toe. The boots were his father’s, not only two sizes too big but also damp from having been left forgotten next to the boot-scraper outside the back door. Wearing them felt like necessary pain. The same necessary pain that had driven him to stand up in front of scores of people in church and to speak, through gritted teeth, about things he felt too confused to feel. Respect, admiration, gratitude. Things any normal eighteen-year-old son should want to say about a parent.

  Felix stopped at the humpback bridge over the river and checked his watch. After glancing round to make sure he was alone, he hopped over the lowest part of the bridge wall and scrambled down the steep incline towards the river. The water was moving so fast and furiously that for a moment he was almost afraid. Then, as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light under the bridge, he saw that the dry bank remained, less of it than usual, but still a good couple of yards in width. The blanket was where he had left it, folded into a neat square and tucked into a gap between two loose bricks. He shook it out, picking off bits of moss and leaf still attached from the last time. The ceilinged arch of stone was so low that when upright he had to keep his shoulders stooped so as not to bang his head. It was a relief to get the thing spread on the ground so that he could sit down and stretch his back and legs. He pulled a flattened pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his trousers, noticing as he did so that a slight drizzle had started up outside. It was falling like a curtain of grey mist, screening nearly all the light from outside in a way that made him feel both alone and yet wonderfully protected.

  Ten minutes later, when Felix had started playing guessing games with the hands of his watch, there was a faint rustle overhead followed by the sound of someone slithering down the bank.

  ‘Sal, I was getting worried.’

  ‘So was I.’ She stooped under the arch and dropped to her knees on the rug beside him. ‘Dad said Sheba didn’t need to be taken out and what about giving poor Mum a hand with clearing up and making supper and what did I want a walk for when it was about to rain anyway. Mum keeps bursting into tears and shoving Dad off when he tries to get near. Pete plugged himself back into the computer like it was any other weekend and Charlie shut himself and his oboe in his bedroom. The only good thing was Beth, who’s been playing the angel ever since your dad died and who said of course I might want to go on a walk at a time like this and she’d help Mum with supper. Then she hugs Dad to shut him up, Sheba’s allowed to stay in her basket and suddenly I’m free.’

  Felix stalled this run-down on events in the Taverner family by putting both arms round Sally’s waist and pressing his tongue between her lips. They embraced for several minutes, displaying a fervour which two months of expression had done nothing to diminish.

  ‘You were brilliant this afternoon, brilliant.’ Sally pulled back to study his face, running her nail-bitten fingers round the edge of his hairline. ‘So brave and strong. When inside you must have felt like shit.’

  Felix swallowed. ‘It helped having you there, knowing you were on my side, that you understood.’ They kissed again, but less frantically, subsiding sideways until they were stretched full length on the rug.

  ‘Can we do it?’ she murmured, pushing one of her skinny legs between his and moving her lips down to his neck. ‘I mean, I’ll understand if you don’t want to…’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ he growled, pulling up her shirt and running his hands over the smooth flat of her belly. ‘Like I could ever not want to do it with you.’ Half tending to these new attentions, Sally reached out into a lower part of the wall and extracted a packet of prophylactics. ‘Only two left,’ she whispered in a giggle, ‘we’ll have to stock up on supplies.’ She turned onto her back, closing her eyes. Felix slid her shirt off over her head and began running his tongue from her tummy button up between the still girlish, wide flat space between her breasts. Sally opened her eyes and kissed the sandy waves of hair tickling her chin. Taking hold of his ears, she then pulled hard, forcing his face to come level with hers. Felix gave a playful yelp of pain.

  ‘Shh,’ she scolded, laughing confidently, feeling more like twenty-five than fifteen, knowing that no one could hear them, with the drum of rain on the ground and the rush of water at their side.

  Chapter Three

  ‘I just thought you might want to come too. There’s loads of space. If you change your mind at the last minute, it’s no problem. We’ll be going anyway. Apart from Pete who’s off back to Bristol for the term and Beth who’s going to stay the weekend with a friend. So it will just be Alistair, me and the two younger ones…’ Seeing her husband trying to catch her eye, Libby waved him away furiously and turned her back. ‘I just thought it might be nice for you to have a break, get away for a couple of days. The forecast isn’t brilliant, but still it’s in a lovely spot, right near some cliffs and a bit of rocky beach. Good for walking…’ Alistair crossed the kitchen and bent his face round and under his wife’s so that she could no longer ignore him. ‘Leave her alone,’ he mouthed.

  Libby made a face and continued talking. She had only seen Frances once all week, on calling round with a mushroom quiche and some fruit a couple of days after the funeral. She had looked thin and grey-faced, literally drained of energy. Even her lovely long fair hair had somehow lost its brilliance, hanging in flat untidy clumps over her back and shoulders. Daisy had already returned to Paris and Felix was in Leybourne buying a few last minute things for the start of his first term. She was driving him to Sussex the following morning, Frances had explained, humbly accepting the quiche and offering Libby a cup of coffee. She made one herself, but barely touched it, picking at the cuticles on her nails instead. The next day Libby had telephoned to ask how Felix had settled in, only to find herself listening to Paul’s voice on the answering machine. It gave her such a start that she b
urst into tears. If it were bad for her, stumbling across such poignant reminders, what must it be like for Frances, she had wondered, living with them surrounding her all the time?

  Almost more depressing was that since Paul’s death nothing had felt right in her own household either. While the children seemed bent upon discovering new ways of being hateful and awkward, Alistair was ploughing on with life as if no calamity had occurred at all. No one meeting him in the daily round would have had any inkling that one of their closest friends had dropped dead on a tennis court. In contrast, Libby found herself telling everybody: postmen, sales assistants, shop customers and anyone else prepared to listen. Talking about the tragedy was the only way she had discovered of making herself feel any better. As well as allowing her to elicit sympathy on Frances’s behalf, scrutinising the facts from every angle somehow made them seem more acceptable. The more she tried to involve her husband in this process however, the more determined he appeared to withdraw, to act as if nothing had happened, as if there were nothing to talk about. To such an extent that Libby had even caught herself wondering whether in her own case the premature death of a spouse would be such a bad thing after all. To be capable of such meanness bothered her; Alistair had been the one and only love of her life, and beneath the daily tussle of surviving four children and a large mortgage, she was sure she still adored him very deeply. Losing touch with the adoration happened from time to time, but not usually when she felt so emotionally battered and in need of all the spousal support she could get.