Relative Love (61 page)

Lying on her bed with her daughter in her arms, Serena had stressed that she was not angry, merely relieved to know the full ugly extent of the truth. She had been grateful that Maisie could not see her own terrible guilt, or know the other relief she felt at finding she was still needed. Somewhere in the aftermath of her grief over Tina, it was that sense of her children’s need – her own self-belief as a mother – with which Serena had lost touch. Deprived of Tina, and her small round-the-clock demands, she had disconnected herself from the nurturing still required of her by the others. And by Charlie, too.

Oh, Charlie. Serena, surrounded by the family, felt her own need of her husband like the ache of a wound that, after the numbness of shock, wakes to pain. She would try to call him again after dinner, she decided, tell him what had happened, seek his comfort and wisdom before she decided what to do. Clem, their child, was sick, and they would sort it out together.

Maisie sat as far away from Clem as she could. Unable even to look at her, fearing that her puffy eyes would betray her, she focused instead on her grandfather’s sweet, maddeningly slow exploration of his gifts. A pair of slippers, a pen, a bottle of port, some handkerchiefs, a floppy, badly stitched animal from Chloë – all were reverently unsheathed from their wrappings, all greeted with equal exclamations of pleasure and surprise. Given her own state of mind, it seemed right to Maisie that a storm should be prowling round this cosy scene, making the curtains tremble and sending explosions of dust down the chimney into the empty fireplace. Her mother had been kind, promising not to confront Clem until the time was right, murmuring again and again that Maisie had done the right thing. Maisie knew this. Just as she knew she would have to endure the consequences. Clem would go to some horrible hospital. Her parents, upon disclosure of her own reckless behaviour during her uncle’s party, would be beside themselves with anger and disappointment, particularly when they grasped that it was protection of her own shame that had caused her to keep silent about Clem for so long. Thinking of it was like waiting to be executed; except, reflected Maisie bleakly, a prisoner on Death Row at least had the prospect of oblivion to look forward to instead of weeks of punishment and emotional exile.

‘Do you girls want a drink?’ Peter glanced at Serena, who said why not, if they wanted one. ‘Theo’s got a bottle of beer. Would you two like one?’ Both twins shook their heads, Clem because a safe calorie-less glass of water was all she would allow herself and Maisie because she felt too miserable to indulge in anything. ‘No?’ Peter raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Lizzy, are you on wine or sherry?’

‘Gin, thanks,’ replied his sister, waving her empty glass. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it.’ She began to get up but Peter seized the tumbler and pressed her back into her seat.

‘One gin coming up.’

‘Thanks. Quite strong, if you don’t mind.’ Peter gave his sister a look but said nothing. Everybody knew the strain she was under, but had no doubt that she had made the right decision. If the revelation of their mother’s temporary fall from grace was what had prompted the change of heart about her marriage then, as far as Peter could see, that was one solid positive to have come out of an otherwise thoroughly negative set of circumstances. Making a go of a relationship was hard work – Christ, if he hadn’t known that before, he knew it now. Then he remembered Helen rising, Venuslike, from the bath suds, and felt a rush of love for her, coupled with gratitude that they were grappling with an unscheduled pregnancy rather than the potentially fatal damage of infidelity. He trusted Helen absolutely on that front, just as she trusted him. Even the crossed wires with Hannah earlier in the year had made him feel bad, when
nothing had happened and he had scotched the friendship the moment it felt like it might. ‘What about everyone else?’

‘I’d like wine, please,’ said Cassie, giving Peter’s shirt a little tug as he passed her chair. She hadn’t slept well all week and was so tired that if it weren’t for the hubbub of her nephews and nieces she might have fallen asleep. Samson was curled up in her lap with his head on his paws, his gingery ears twitching occasionally at exuberant exclamations from the children and the rip of wrapping-paper.

‘And I’ll have another sherry I think, Peter, my love,’ said Pamela, feeling pleasantly reckless as she handed her eldest son her glass. Elizabeth was leaving the next morning and she couldn’t help being glad, for her daughter’s sake, of course, but also for her own. She and John would have the house to themselves again, all their quiet routines, all that lovely peace, nothing to grate on their nerves. Also, the calfskin slippers were a perfect fit, and a perfect colour too; John had been so effusive about them that she believed for once he was being honest instead of kind. His birthday dinner was keeping hot in the bottom of the Aga and ready to go. The evening, under preparation for many days, was sailing smoothly, a ship in a calm wide sea that needed little further guidance from her at its helm. She would eat and drink a little too much and sleep soundly – more soundly than she had in weeks, with the smothering humidity gone at last and the comforting drumming of the rain. The summer, although good in many ways, had been arduous. The thought of autumn, with its warm colours and crisp breezes, was, as always, infinitely soothing; such a joyous, vital breathing space before Christmas and New Year when the whole merry-go-round of the family year would start again.

Peter disappeared in the direction of the dining room, returning a few minutes later with a tray of drinks, which he handed round the room. ‘Here’s to you, Dad. Happy birthday.’ He raised his glass and they all followed suit, while John, sitting with his presents piled around him, Chloë’s giraffe taking pride of place on his knee, beamed with pleasure and pride.

They were finishing dessert – the pavlova a ruin – when the nursing-home rang. Peter, who was sitting nearest the door, took the call and came back grave-faced to report that Eric had had another stroke and the doctors needed to talk to John. The conversation – which had been zigzagging vigorously on all sides, encompassing Jessica-jokes at the children’s end of the table (Ed performing a seated version of his admirer’s attempts at front crawl) and a rather less hilarious discussion of the country’s traffic-congestion problems among the adults – came to an abrupt halt. John, tight-faced, hurried out of the room. ‘It doesn’t sound good, I’m afraid,’ murmured Peter, resuming his position next to Pamela and patting her hand. ‘Not good at all.’

‘Oh dear.’ Pamela pressed her napkin to her lips, inwardly trembling as she studied the thin lipstick print of her mouth on the white linen. ‘Oh dear, tonight of all nights.’

‘Is Uncle Eric dying?’ asked Chloë, prompting a beady stare from her mother.

‘Well, we’re all dying, aren’t we?’ interjected Theo, trying to be helpful. ‘From the moment we’re born —’

‘Thank you, Theo …’ began Peter, admiring the observation but fearful of the pale faces of the women ranged round the table. Without Colin or Charlie the occasion had felt oddly lopsided and much harder work than usual. He had missed his brother especially. Charlie’s natural high spirits were so infectious and it would have lifted things to have him around. Helen had been understandably quiet, while Cassie had spent most of the evening yawning. Elizabeth had drunk
so much that Peter seriously doubted her capacity to remain upright without the support of her chair. The news about Eric was the last thing they had all needed. The last bloody thing.

‘I think Theo is right,’ announced Elizabeth, her voice unnaturally high and careful. ‘We are all, as he says, dying. From cradle to grave. The human condition … and so on …’ She waved her hand, knocking her wine glass and catching it by the stem just in time.

‘More pudding, anyone?’ Pamela stood up so abruptly that she had one of her dizzy spells and had to hold on to the edge of the table. She wished now that she hadn’t had the extra sherry. She wished, too, that John hadn’t opened the fourth bottle of wine. From what she had seen, Elizabeth had drunk most of it. She recalled her elder daughter’s behaviour at Peter’s fiftieth, and glanced uneasily across the table noting the distinctly glazed look in Elizabeth’s normally alert blue eyes. There was an unnatural crimson flush to her cheeks too, which made her look younger but also rather wild. As she registered these details, Pamela experienced a fresh surge of anger that Elizabeth should still present herself as a cause for concern when Pamela had so much on her plate already, with her perfect evening in tatters and her heart pounding because of the news about Eric.

John walked briskly into the dining room, jangling car keys, no trace of his birthday mood remaining. ‘I’m going over there. No, Pammy,’ he continued quickly, knowing what she was about to say, ‘I’ll go alone, I think. If you don’t mind.’

‘But, Dad, you shouldn’t drive, should you?’ interjected Peter, as tactfully as he could. ‘Maybe we could call a taxi.’

‘That would take too long. I’ll be fine.’

‘I could drive you,’ volunteered Helen. ‘I’ve hardly drunk anything. Really, John, I’d like to. I’ll just drop you there – it will be no bother. Then, when you’re ready to leave, you could call a taxi home.’

Peter shot his wife a look of gratitude. ‘Dad, it makes sense.’

‘Thank you, Helen, that might be better.’ John crossed the room and kissed Pamela. ‘No need for you to come, my love. They say he’s almost certainly got a few more days. I just want to see him tonight. I’ll take my phone. I’ll call Alicia on the way there – she should know the situation.’ He turned to the rest of the room, surveying the silent faces of the children, in awe at this new turn of events, and the sombre expressions of the adults. ‘Sorry, everybody. Not what any of us expected.’

Peter followed them out to the door, helping to dig out umbrellas and mackintoshes
en route
. As the security light flicked on, illuminating their huddled figures in the drive, he shouted, ‘Drive carefully,’ but his words were tossed away on the wind. ‘Hang on, I’ll come too,’ he called, much more loudly this time. Helen, hearing, waved at him to hurry. A few moments later, having charged back into the dining room and informed Cassie, on her way up to bed, and the others of the change of plan, he ran, coatless, to the car and clambered into the back, dripping like a dog after a swim. ‘We’ll take you straight there, Dad.’ He touched his father’s shoulder, his heart constricting at the proud poise of the familiar wide grey head with its wrinkled neck, resolutely facing the frenzied sweep of the windscreen wipers. One day he would be rushing to Charlie’s bedside, or Charlie to his. One day, in some unimaginable way, it would be their turn. Peter shifted along the seat until he was behind Helen, who was stiff with concentration as she negotiated the dark, wet lane. Leaning forward, he reached round the side of her seat and placed his hand in her lap. She squeezed his cold fingers in her warm ones, then returned her hand to the wheel. Peter sat back and reached for his seat-belt, but not until he had slid his hand gently
across the small swell of her belly, thinking properly, for the first time, of the minuscule foetus resident inside, clinging like a barnacle to a stone.

Serena had taken command in the dining room, marshalling the children to clear the table and go up to bed, insisting that Pamela and Elizabeth remain where they were while she washed up and made some coffee. They both acquiesced meekly, Elizabeth refilling her wine glass and Pamela absently steering a stray piece of meringue round her mat with a finger. Serena closed the door on them and wondered that Eric’s turn for the worse should have induced such desolation. Of course it was shocking, and the timing terrible, but as she watched the jet of the hot-water tap in the kitchen she had the feeling that there was something else going on, something beyond Elizabeth’s anxiety about returning to Guildford and the inevitable sadness that the most ancient member of the family should be losing his fight for life. She puzzled over it, but with some impatience. Her heart was brimming with concern for Clem; everything else paled into insignificance. She wanted, more than anything, to talk to Charlie. Before pulling on the rubber gloves she tried his mobile again, but there was still no reply. Seeking distraction, she switched on the radio and began to scrub her way through saucepans and the countless silver and ceramic treasures too precious to be subjected to the dishwasher. It was nearly ten o’clock. She would clear the kitchen, make coffee, then check on the children. She would hug Clem tightly, but not say anything, not yet. Not until she had spoken to Charlie.

‘More wine, Mum?’

‘No, thank you, dear … and I think maybe you … That is, you’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

Elizabeth sucked in her cheeks in a show of sarcastic surprise. ‘I have, haven’t I? Big, big day. Back to the unfaithful husband, eh? Back to my unfaithful spouse to make a go of my marriage. That’s what they say, isn’t it? To make a
go
of things, patch it up, get the picture nice and pretty on the outside, like one of your clever tapestries. Tell me, Mum, has it ever occurred to you that Colin is not good enough for me? No one has really thought that, have they? It’s all been the other way round, that
I
am the one who is somehow not up to the mark.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Pamela murmured, eyeing her daughter’s flushed face with mounting unease as she prepared to leave the table.

‘Hey, where are you going?’ Elizabeth seized her arm. ‘Where are you going? I want – I
need
– to talk to you.’

Pamela stared at her arm, shocked at the tight grip of Elizabeth’s fingers. ‘I was going to give Serena a hand. Could you let go, dear?’ She spoke shakily, folding her napkin until she had created a neat crisp square. With the crimson imprint of her mouth hidden in its folds, it looked almost as good as new. ‘Serena could do with a hand.’

‘Serena can manage. I can’t. I need to talk to you, Mum.’

‘You’re worried, dear, of course you are, about tomorrow … and Colin. As to whether he’s good enough for you, it’s really not a question —’