Love and Devotion (56 page)

‘You’re right, I know. I’m sorry. Oh ... there I go again. I don’t suppose there’s any chance we can get together for that chat, just the two of us, is there?’

Knowing that while Dominic was around it would be impossible to do anything without him wanting to get in on the act, Harriet said, ‘Not for a while. Let’s do it in the New Year when Dominic’s gone back to Cambridge.’

‘But I’ll see you over Christmas, won’t I?’

‘Sure. I’m counting the days until your parents’ New Year’s Day sherry fest.’

He groaned. ‘Promise me you’ll be there. I don’t think I could hack it without you. And if you change your mind and want to get together before then, you know where to find me.’

She’d ended the call feeling happier that her friendship with Miles seemed to be back on track.

 

Gemma was in town, wandering aimlessly. She had thought a look round the shops in Maywood would cheer her up, but it wasn’t working. She’d been stupid to think that anything would make her feel happy or normal again. Every morning she woke feeling the same intense loneliness. She’d open her eyes and for a split second it would feel like any ordinary day, but then she’d remember: Suzie was dead. Suzie and her baby, both dead. Dead in the ground. Their bodies side by side; one normal-sized coffin, one obscenely small coffin. But as bad as the mornings were, they were nothing compared to the nights when just as she was nodding off she would relive the terrifying journey to the hospital in the ambulance. With the siren wailing and the paramedic bent over Suzie’s inert body, she had tried to convince herself that Suzie was going to be okay, that any minute her sister would wake up and wonder what all the fuss was about. Then there were all the questions the paramedic kept firing at her — how long had Suzie been unconscious? Had she vomited? Had Gemma noticed anything peculiar about her eyes? Had Suzie complained of a headache earlier? Was there a history of migraine attacks? On and on the questions went and with each one that was asked, Gemma dreaded getting something wrong. Something vital that might save her sister. It had been a relief when they finally arrived at the hospital and Gemma had been left alone. Later, when Dad had been taken away on his own, she’d thought the same as him, that the doctor was going to break the news that Suzie was okay but the baby had died. Had it been wishful thinking on their part — let the baby die so that Suzie might live? And had it been so wrong of them to hope for such a compromise? Even if it was wrong, Gemma didn’t care. If it happened all over again, she’d wish for exactly the same, for her sister to be alive and looking forward to Christmas.

There would be no Christmas this year. And certainly no going to Paris to see Marcel. Mum had made Steve put the decorations back into the attic. She’d also thrown away all the cards they’d received; any new ones that arrived got the same treatment. Gemma had found Steve fishing them out of the bin one night and asked him what he was doing. ‘These people don’t know about Suzie,’ he’d said. ‘Someone has to write and tell them.’

She’d always despised Steve for being unimaginative and interfering but now Gemma was grateful for his rock-steady help. She didn’t know what any of them would have done if he hadn’t been around. He was endlessly patient and kind with Mum and Gemma could see that it wasn’t always easy. Sometimes Mum would shout at him as if she was taking it out on him that Suzie had died. She had gone back to work the day after the funeral, which Gemma had thought was a mistake. Steve had thought so too and Mum had told him she didn’t have any choice; she had a business to run. Steve did too, but he’d said a few days off wouldn’t hurt anyone, that she ought to take a leaf out of Will’s book and stay at home for a while. His advice had sent Mum into one of her screaming fits. ‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do!’ she’d yelled. ‘And don’t ever compare me to that man.’ She was being scarily irrational.

Dad’s behaviour was equally scary. Since school had finished, Gemma had tried many times to go and see him but whenever she phoned to invite herself over, he’d say, ‘Not today, love. I’m not very good company just now.’

The only person Gemma was able to talk to was Nana Ruby. Out of them all she was the one who seemed to be coping best. ‘Don’t worry about your father,’ she told Gemma. He has to sort this out himself. He’ll get there. Just be patient with him.’

But Gemma didn’t want to be patient; she wanted her father
now.
She’d never been deprived of him and she saw no reason to go without him when she needed him most.

It was with this thought in mind that she decided to get the bus to Kings Melford. She wouldn’t ring Dad; she’d just turn up on his doorstep.

Twenty-five minutes later, she was getting off the bus and heading for Maple Drive. It was dark and the houses along the main road had their lights switched on and some hadn’t drawn the curtains. Through the windows she could see Christmas trees decorated with lights and baubles, cards strung up between pictures. One house had an illuminated snowman in the front porch. She didn’t know why, but the sight of it made her want to cross the road and kick its cheery, smug face in. Again, not knowing why, she began to cry. Dragging her hands across her eyes, she turned at the sound of a car behind her. Dad? But it wasn’t her father’s tatty old estate; it was a smart Mini Cooper, like the one Yasmin’s parents were buying her for Christmas. As it drew level, she recognised the driver; it was her father’s girlfriend. Except Gemma had the feeling she wasn’t his girlfriend any more. He hadn’t invited her to the funeral or even mentioned her since the night Suzie died.

Harriet stopped the car when she realised who she’d just driven past. She had no idea what she was going to say, but knew it was something she had to do. With no traffic behind her, she reversed the short distance and lowered the passenger window. ‘If you’re going to see your father, would you like a lift?’

‘It’s okay, I can walk.’

‘It’s freezing out there. Go on, hop in. It’s no trouble.’

When the girl had strapped herself in, Harriet drove on in silence. She badly wanted to find the right words of sympathy and support for Will’s daughter, but could think of nothing helpful to say. Nothing that wasn’t unspeakably trite. She suddenly felt sorry for all those people who had tried to be nice to her in the aftermath of her sister’s death. In the end she said nothing until she had pulled onto her parents’ drive.

‘I know how it feels to lose a sister you’re really close to,’ she said quietly. ‘My sister died earlier this year ... She was my best friend, too.’

Her words were received with a crashing silence. Gemma released her seatbelt, and as she fumbled in the darkness for the door handle, Harriet quickly reached for her bag and dug out a business card. ‘Look, any time you think a chat might help, just give me a ring.’

The girl stared at the card and for a moment Harriet didn’t think she was going to take it. But then she put it into her jacket pocket. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But I’m okay. Really I am. It’s my parents who are going to pieces.’

Harriet watched her cross the road to her father’s house, where the lights were on and smoke was coming out of the chimney. Poor kid, she thought. She was far from okay. And Harriet should know; she’d been there herself. Every step of the way.

 

 

 

 

It was Christmas Day and Maxine felt sick. The sight and smell of the food on the table made her want to flee from the room. If only Ruby hadn’t gone to so much trouble. And if only she’d held firm and not agreed to spend the day this way. ‘We have to do something for Christmas,’ Ruby had said with her customary reasonableness, ‘so let’s do it differently. I want you all to come to me. Will too. There won’t be much room but it will do you both good.’

‘I don’t think it will work,’ Maxine had said. She could see a mile off what Ruby was up to, but her ex mother-in-law was deluding herself if she believed she and Will could be united by a bond of grief. She hadn’t bargained on Ruby’s no-nonsense determination, though.

‘I’m doing this for Suzie,’ the older woman had said firmly. ‘For one day you and my son will sit round my dinner table and put your differences aside. You’ll do it for Gemma’s sake as well. She needs her family to act with a degree of solidarity and normality if she’s going to come through this.’

So here she was reluctantly sitting in Ruby’s cramped dining room, watching Will stare vacantly into mid air while Steve carved the turkey and showered praise upon their host for providing them with such a spectacular meal. Will didn’t look well. But then nor did she. She’d lost weight and was only managing to sleep for a couple of hours each night. Steve had suggested they go away for Christmas and New Year, but Maxine hadn’t been able to bear the thought of being parted from everything that reminded her of her firstborn child - the room Suzie had slept in, the clothes she’d worn, the chair she’d sat in. Maxine hadn’t told anyone, but she’d hidden some of Suzie’s unwashed clothes; they still smelt of her and when she was alone she would take out a piece of clothing and bury her face in it. Sometimes she cried, but more often she sobbed dry-eyed, the pain of her grief wedged in her throat, her breath difficult to catch, her head aching with every scrap of memory connected with Suzie.

There was regret too. All those times she hadn’t been able to make it to a play or concert Suzie had been in. The sports days she’d missed. Even a birthday party one year. She’d been a lousy mother. She hadn’t deserved a daughter like Suzie. But it was too late now to put it right. Suzie was dead and Maxine would never be able to say how sorry she was.

‘Red or white wine, dear?’

Maxine looked up from her plate which, without her noticing, had been filled with food she wouldn’t touch. ‘None for me, Ruby,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll stick with water.’ She hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since Suzie had died. The shameful memory of Ruby rousing her from her drunken stupor was still palpable. As was the memory of her disgusting behaviour with Will that night. That was something she had no intention of every referring to again.

 

When lunch was over, Will insisted on doing the washing up. He didn’t want to watch the Queen crow about the nation’s achievements for that year. Nor did he want to join in with the board game Steve and Gemma were suggesting they all play. He poured his mother a glass of Baileys, settled her in front of the telly and disappeared to the kitchen. Closing the door behind him, and glad to be alone at last, he unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and took stock of the mess. He had just cleared a space around the sink, stacking the plates, pots and pans to one side, when the door opened and Maxine came in. ‘Your mother suggested you might like some help.’

‘It’s okay. I’ve got it covered. You go and relax with the others.’

‘She said you’d say that. Don’t ask me why, but I’m under orders to stay.’

Annoyed that he was to be deprived of some much-needed time alone, he turned on the hot tap. ‘It’s not like you to do something against your will,’ he said irritably. At once he realised how petty he sounded. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, meaning it. ‘It’s just that I wanted to be on my own. I find it’s easier that way.’

‘Me too.’

He looked at her over his shoulder and saw that her face - so often resolutely proud and hostile — was clouded with tiredness and misery. ‘I’ll wash, you dry,’ he said.

They worked in silence until Maxine handed a plate back to him. ‘You’ve missed a bit,’ she murmured. He took it from her and gave it another scrub. When he’d rinsed it under the tap and passed it to her again, she said, ‘How’s Marty coping with the radiotherapy?’

‘You know Marty; it would take more than a bit of cancer to get to him. How about you? How are you coping with everything?’

‘People at work say I’m doing brilliantly.’

‘And what does Steve think?’

‘He thinks I’m burying myself in my work.’

‘And are you?’

‘Probably.’

Tipping the dirty water out of the washing-up bowl and refilling it with clean hot water, Will said, ‘I never thought I’d say this, Maxine, but Steve’s not a bad bloke. I’m not sure how either of us would have got through this if he hadn’t been around.’

‘That’s very magnanimous of you.’

‘I have my moments.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her putting the cutlery in the drawer. He’d forgotten that Maxine didn’t put cutlery away like most normal people did; she lined everything up neatly, the spoons and forks all layered with precision, the knives blade-side down. ‘By the way, how’s your foot?’ he asked.

She looked at him sharply. ‘Please let’s not go scraping the bottom of the barrel for something to talk about.’

‘Are you saying you’d rather talk about something more important?’

‘No,’ she said hurriedly. Her hand jolted, sending the forks askew that she’d just lined up. ‘Damn!’

He looked away, disconcerted at seeing her so flustered. This wasn’t the Maxine he knew of old. But what else could he expect? They were both changed. Everything they ever experienced from now on would be affected by Suzie’s dying. Her death would find its way into every thought they ever had. Suzie would be there in every piece of music they heard, every conversation they had, every meal they ate, every journey they undertook, every sleepless night they suffered. It would always be Suzie. For the rest of their lives there would be a bottomless pit of memories to refer to: that was the way Suzie liked her toast ... Oh, Suzie used to love that film ... Do you remember the doll Suzie used to take everywhere she went?

He knew that had Suzie lived, she might well have been severely brain damaged as a result of the aneurysm; she would have been completely reliant upon others for her every need. Sometimes Will thought even that would be preferable to her being dead. At least then he would have been able to devote the rest of his life to taking care of her.