Perfect (33 page)

So this was the first shock of the afternoon; that she was so publicly not herself. The second – and this was less of a shock and more of a surprise – was that Beverley could play. She could really play. What she maybe lacked in natural talent, she had more than made up for in application. Once Diana had crept to a seat in order to watch, Beverley waited for the applause to build, and then fade into silence. She walked efficiently to her place at the centre of the stage, holding her sheet music under one arm and lifting the hem of her maxi dress with the other. She took her seat in front of the organ. She closed her eyes, she lifted her hands over the white keyboard and she began.

Beverley’s fingers ran over the notes and the coloured dials danced in front of her, like a series of small fireworks. The women sat up sharp. They nodded approvingly and exchanged glances. She followed her classical piece with a more popular film track, then she played a short piece by Bach, followed by a Carpenters medley. Byron pulled close the curtains between each piece to allow her time to compose herself and arrange her sheet music, while outside James handed out plates of refreshments to the women. The chatter was loud and there was laughter. At first Byron stood
to one side while he waited for Beverley to prepare for her next piece, simply pretending he wasn’t there. She was clearly nervous. As soon as the curtains were drawn she took deep breaths, she smoothed her hair, she whispered to herself little words of encouragement. But as she grew in confidence, as the applause grew more animated and excited, she too seemed to become less isolated, more aware of herself within the context of her audience. Once he had closed the curtains at the end of her sixth piece, she glanced at him and smiled. She asked if he would make her a jug of Sunquick. And when he poured her a glass, she said, ‘What a lovely group of women.’

Glancing through a crack in the curtains, he saw James offering Jeanie a Party Ring biscuit. She sat right in the middle of the front row, with her leg buckled tight in its leather caliper. James was staring hard.

‘I’m ready for my last piece, Byron,’ called Beverley.

He gave a ‘Her herm’ for silence and pulled the curtains open.

Beverley waited. And then, instead of playing her organ, she twisted on her stool to face the audience. She opened her mouth to speak.

She began by expressing how much she wanted to thank the women. Their support meant so much. Her voice was thin and high-pitched, and Byron had to dig his nails into his palms in order not to scream. It had been a hard summer and, without Di’s kindness, she didn’t know how she would have survived. ‘Di has been here for me all the way through. She has stopped at nothing to help me. Because I must admit there were times when I’ – and here she trailed off and merely gave a brave smile. ‘This is not the time to be sad. This is a happy occasion. So my last piece is a favourite of me and Di’s. It’s by Donny Osmond. I don’t know if any of you know him?’

The new mother called out, ‘Aren’t you a bit old for Donny? What about Wayne?’ but Beverley countered with ‘Oh, Di likes them young. Don’t you, Di?’

The mothers appeared to be drinking from flasks. Everyone laughed, even Beverley.

‘Well this is for you,’ she said, ‘whatever your preference.’ Lifting her hands over the organ she encouraged the audience to sing along if they felt the inclination. ‘And why don’t you come up to the front and dance for us, Di?’

His mother blanched as if she had been hit with a stone. ‘I couldn’t. I can’t.’

Beverley stopped. She shared a confiding look with her audience. ‘True to form, she is being modest. But I have seen her dance and you’ve got to believe me. She’s the most beautiful mover. She was born to it. Weren’t you, Di? She could make a man go weak.’

‘Please no,’ murmured Diana.

But Beverley was having none of it. She walked to Diana’s chair and offered to help her. As Diana rose to her feet, Beverley removed her hands to lead another round of applause, only somehow Diana must have already been leaning on her, and she gave a small lurch forward.

‘Whoa there!’ laughed Beverley. ‘Maybe we should put down that glass, Di?’

The women laughed but Diana insisted on keeping it.

It was like watching a chained animal being brought out and poked with a stick. It should never have happened. Even as Beverley led his mother forward, Diana still tried to object, she tried to suggest she couldn’t dance, but by now the women had the bit between their teeth and they insisted. She tripped as she moved past the chairs and made her way to the front. Byron tried to get James’s attention. He tried to make frantic movements with his hands and shake his head. He tried to mouth, ‘Stop, stop,’ but James had eyes for no one except Diana. He watched her with a face so crimson he looked burnt. He barely moved. It was as if he had never seen anything so beautiful. He waited for her to dance.

Diana took up her place on the terrace, pale and small in her blue dress. She seemed to take up too little space. She still had her glass in her hand but she had clearly forgotten shoes. Behind her sat Beverley, her black hair puffed out, her hands poised over the keys of her organ. Byron could not look. The music began.

It was Beverley’s best piece. She brought in flourishes, she played a chord that was so sad she almost stopped, then she played the chorus with such enthusiasm that several of the mothers began to sing. Meanwhile, centre stage, his mother drifted up and down the terrace like a rag caught on water. She lifted her hands, she fluttered her fingers, but she kept tripping, and it was hard to tell what was dancing and what was a mistake. It was like watching something so private, so internal, it should not be watched. It was like looking right inside his mother and seeing only her terrible fragility. It was too much. As soon as the music stopped, she had the composure to stand and give a small bow, before turning to Beverley and lifting her hands in brief applause. Beverley gave a swift curtsey and ran to clutch Diana.

There was no mention of the accident. There was no mention of Digby Road. Beverley simply held tight to Diana and moved her up and down in a shared bow and it was like watching a new act, one that involved a ventriloquist and a doll.

His mother made her excuses to get away. She needed a glass of water, she said, but overhearing her, Andrea offered to go to the kitchen and fetch it. Minutes later, Andrea emerged laughing good-humouredly.

‘I’ve seen some funny things, Diana, but it’s the first time I’ve opened a kitchen drawer and found socks in there.’

Byron could barely breathe. Beverley talked animatedly with the mothers while Diana removed herself to the sidelines and sat with her hands in her lap. A few of the mothers asked if she needed anything, if she felt all right, but she gazed back at them as if she didn’t understand. When
Byron and James carried the chairs back to the dining room he took the opportunity to ask James what he thought, now he had seen Jeanie’s injury for himself, but James wasn’t listening. He could only talk about the success of his concert. He had no idea Diana could dance like that, he said.

Outside Beverley was sitting beside Jeanie in the middle of the mothers. She aired her views on politics, the state of the country, the prospect of strikes. She asked what they thought about Margaret Thatcher and when several women lifted their hands to their mouths and hollered, ‘Milk snatcher,’ she shook her head. ‘You mark my words, that woman’s the future,’ she said. He had never seen her so sure of herself, so animated. She told them about her father, the vicar, and how she had been brought up in a beautiful country vicarage that was really like Cranham House, when she thought about it. They exchanged telephone numbers, they suggested visits. And when one of the mothers, the new one perhaps, offered Beverley a lift and help with Jeanie’s pushchair, she said that would be so lovely, if they could spare the time.

‘It’s my hands. It’s a wonder I can play, my hands get so bad. Look at poor Di. She’s worn out.’

Everyone agreed the concert had been a tremendous success. ‘Goodbye, goodbye, Di!’ they called as they took up their empty Tupperware and headed back to their cars. As soon as they were gone, his mother poured herself a glass of water and drifted upstairs. When he checked half an hour later, she was already asleep.

It was another fitful night for Byron. He put Lucy to bed and locked the doors. There were so many things to hide: the hubcap, the payment for Beverley’s organ, Jeanie’s injury, and now the party at Cranham House. He couldn’t see how everything could keep going forward.

That night the telephone began to ring at nine o’clock but his mother
failed to waken. It rang again first thing the following morning. Byron answered, expecting his father.

‘It’s me,’ said James. He sounded as if he had run a long way.

Byron said hello and asked him how he was, but James answered none of these questions. ‘Go and find the notebook,’ he said.

‘Why? What is it?’

‘This is an emergency.’

Byron’s hands began to shake as he flicked through the pages. There was something in James’s voice that already frightened him. Several times his fingers slipped and he had to go back to the beginning. ‘Hurry, hurry,’ said James.

‘I don’t understand. What am I looking for?’

‘The diagram. The one you drew of Jeanie with her plaster. Have you got it?’

‘Nearly.’ He opened the page.

‘Describe it.’

‘It isn’t very good—’

‘Just describe what you see.’

Byron spoke slowly. He described her blue summer dress with short sleeves. Her sloppy socks because she had no elastic garters. Her hair in two black plaits. ‘Though they’re not very good in the drawing. They look more like squiggles—’

James interrupted sharply. ‘Get to the plaster.’

‘It’s on her right knee. It’s a big square. I drew it carefully.’ There was a silence as if the air had swallowed James. Byron felt his skin creep with cold and panic. ‘What is it, James? What’s happened?’

‘That’s not her damaged leg, Byron. Her caliper is on the left.’

‘P
LEASE LIFT YOUR
foot,’ says the nurse. She reassures Jim none of this will hurt. Eileen stands beside him. The nurse uses scissors to cut the plaster cast open. Inside, his foot looks surprisingly neat and soft. Above his ankle the skin has turned dry and pale; the toes are shadowed with moss-green bruising. The nails have slightly lost their pink.

A doctor examines his foot carefully. There is no damage to the ligaments. Eileen asks the doctor practical questions about whether or not Jim will need painkillers, and exercises he should do to help his recovery. It is so new to him, that someone should be concerned like this, that he has to keep looking at her. Then she makes a joke about her own state of health and everyone laughs, including the doctor. It has never occurred to Jim that doctors like jokes. Her blue eyes sparkle, her teeth shine, even her hair seems to bounce. He realizes he might be falling in love and it is so happy, this feeling, that Jim laughs too. He doesn’t even have to think about it.

Afterwards the nurse replaces Jim’s plaster cast with bandage and a soft plastic boot to protect it. Good as new, she says.

Jim takes Eileen to the pub to celebrate. Without the plaster cast his foot feels made of nothing. He has to keep stopping to check it is still there. When he is paying for the drinks, he realizes he would like to tell the barman that he is here with Eileen, that she has agreed to come with him for a beer, that she does so every evening. He wants to ask the barman if he has a wife and what it is like to fall in love. A man at the bar is feeding his dog crisps. The dog sits on a stool next to the man and wears a spotted scarf round its neck. He wonders if the man is in love with his dog. There are many ways of loving, he sees.

Jim passes Eileen her drink. ‘Would you like crisps?’ he says.

‘Thank you.’

The room spins. He remembers something like a dog, only as soon as he has the picture that precedes the formation of a word, it changes form to become another shape. He is light-headed with confusion. He doesn’t know suddenly what words mean. He can’t see the sense in them; they seem to slice things in half even as he thinks of them. Is he, when he says, ‘More crisps?’ actually saying something else, something like ‘I love you, Eileen’? And is she, when she says, ‘Thank you,’ saying something else, something like ‘Yes, Jim. I love you too’?

The carpet at his feet swoops sideways. Nothing is what it seems. A person can offer crisps and mean I love you, just as a person can say I love you, and presumably only mean they want the crisps.

His mouth clams up as if it is stuffed with wool.

‘Do you want a glass of water?’ says Eileen. ‘You look funny.’

‘I’m all right.’

‘A bit green. Maybe we should go?’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Well I’m thinking of you. I’m easy.’

‘I’m easy too,’ he says.

They finish their drinks in silence. He doesn’t know how they have got to this place. A moment ago they were possibly saying they loved each other and now they seem to be claiming they would rather be alone. It strikes him how careful you have to be with words.