Secrets (35 page)

‘I don't really do hair, Mrs Saunders, I'm terribly sorry.’ ‘Could you just brush it, do you think? The girls here – they're so rough. Mind you, from the looks of them, they've never had a comb near their hair.’ Tess glanced at Laura who rolled her eyes.

‘I don't have a hairbrush with me, Mrs Saunders, but if someone could fetch yours, I'd be pleased to brush your hair.’

‘Never mind about my hair,’ Mary snapped. ‘I'll have polish, then.’

‘Would you like to use the foot spa too, while we do your hands?’

‘No.’

‘Would you like to choose a shade of varnish?’

‘What's that one called?’

‘Purple Prose.’

‘What's that one called?’

‘Tangerine Dream.’

‘What's that one called?’

‘Um. It's called Red-in-Bed.’

‘And that one – what's that one called?’

‘This one is, well, it's called Kissy-Kissy.’

‘I'll have the one about bed, then.’

There was a bitterness scorching Mary's voice that Tess found upsetting. Polite conversation was met with curt one-word answers so Tess depended on her creams and fingers to provide the soothing. Eventually, it worked. Not immediately, not while she was massaging Mary's forearms or pulling on her fingers gently, twisting her own fingers around them. The lift in Mary's spirits came when the massage was finished, when her hands were on Tess's lap, her nails base-coated and twice painted with Red-in-Bed, the non-chip, shine-protecting top coat drying.

‘My husband hated polish,’ Mary said. ‘He'd tell me it made me look like a tramp.’

Tess didn't know how to reply because her immediate response was, your husband was my Joe's dad.

‘You don't polish your nails, do you – do you not practise what you preach?’

‘Well, Mrs Saunders, I don't really lead the lifestyle that warrants fancy nails – what with looking after a house and a dog and my little girl.’

‘How is Wolf?’

Tess worked at not registering surprise. ‘He's well.’

‘Is he on the mend, then?’

How did she know? ‘He is recovering very well.’

‘My son told me about the accident.’

Tess nodded while she blew gently on Mary's nails. ‘It was dreadful. Wolf's a lucky boy.’

‘He's a dog.’

‘He's a lucky dog.’

‘My boy is lucky,’ said Mary, ‘my boy has you.’

Joe saw that the caller was Tess. How he'd love to speak to her. Have a little chat. Listen to her voice blather on about the minutiae of life in Saltburn, which Tess was the first person, in Joe's experience, to make sound fascinating. He'd love to wile away a good half-hour talking bollocks and making her laugh and allowing her voice to cross the Channel, travel down the land mass of France and set itself within his smile. But not just now. And not on the phone. Not here, whilst he was sitting on Nathalie's couch, using her laptop to explore flights home.

Tess felt deflated. She didn't want to leave a message. She'd so love to have spoken direct with Joe. He was the person off whom she most wanted to bounce her ideas. And she wanted to open up to him, she liked to think that she might have said, Joe, I just want you to know I did something today of which I'm really proud. And perhaps she'd say, but I'm not sure, what do you think, Joe – how do you feel? Would she have said so? She liked to think she might.

‘What am I thinking, Wolf – he'd be very cross with me. Let down, too. He was cross enough the first time. Now he might well see it as betrayal.’

She was tired even though she'd had an unbroken ten hours’ sleep. Yesterday had been such an involved afternoon at Swallows; followed by a milkshake on the pier with Lisa yaketting twenty to the dozen about what her sister had done with her sister's best friend's husband, the slink. Tess had gone to bed early, longing for Joe to be home. She felt so lonely on waking this morning. And she hadn't hoovered upstairs since last week. And there were still the garden sheds to sort out. But the to-do list was nothing compared with the what's-done list. Yesterday, at Swallows, Tess had experienced a surge of awareness that she was doing something that made a difference and, for the first time, she sensed that her own skills actually had some value.

But she was also aware that what's-done could cause conflict with Joe – and she didn't know how to reconcile that with the enormous sense of purpose, the boost it had given her. She had to put that on the to-do list. Lisa had ticked her off for using her own products when it was now clear that they could make her money, but Tess was adamant that this was what she wanted to do with her remaining stock.

The doorbell went.

Wolf shuffled over ahead of Tess.

It was Mary. And Laura. Laura linking arms with Mary in the way she had with Mrs Tiley too. Affectionate and supportive. Lean on me, easy how you go, don't stray too far, Mrs S.

‘Hullo, dear,’ said Mary.

‘Hullo, Tess,’ said Laura.

‘Tess,’ Mary said to herself, as if reminding herself of some etiquette.

‘Tea and biscuits?’ Tess offered.

‘We've come to see Wolf,’ Mary said.

They all inspected him with great interest.

‘I think we will have that cup of tea,’ Mary said to Laura before leading the way into the kitchen.

They didn't stay long, just long enough to let another layer of top coat dry over Mary's Red-in-Bed once she'd finished her cup of tea.

On their way out, Laura turned to Tess. ‘Same time next week, then?’

‘Same time next week,’ said Tess.

‘Or – I know it might not be convenient – but how about Friday? This Friday – day after tomorrow? You were the toast of Swallows after you'd gone. The other residents are clamouring for you.’

Tess beamed. ‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘Of course I'll be there.’

The phone call came late into the evening. It was Joe.

‘Hullo, Miss.’

‘Hullo, Mr.’

‘I'm coming back.’

‘Joe! Really? When!’

‘Day after tomorrow – only for the weekend. But better than nothing.’

It was only after the call had ended that Tess twigged that the day after tomorrow was Friday. And that she had no idea what time Joe was due back. But she was expected at Swallows just after lunch. She couldn't cancel her commitment, not even for Joe.

Chapter Thirty-two

It felt to Tess as though she had three eyes – not that she needed the extra one in the way she often muttered about needing an extra pair of hands; more that she had acquired one from necessity that Friday afternoon. She kept one eye on the time (each hour, that day, carried potential significance), one eye on the job in hand (there were to be five pairs of old frail hands in hers today) and one eye she darted to and from the doorway at Swallows. She kept her ears peeled too, as if expecting the bell to ring and Joe to come through the doorway and discover her there. Swallows might very well be the place in which she felt she might find herself – but that wasn't to say she wanted Joe to find her here. She was stuck between wanting to provide and not wanting to betray. For Tess, the loaded anticipation was akin to imploring the TV programme to finish so she could scoot back to bed before her dad came up, none the wiser, to check on her. It was similar to the urgency when filching from Rebecca Varley's maths book in Year 9 as Mrs Butcher approached to collect their work. Tess filed nails, bathed feet, organized eyebrows and blitzed whiskers. As she worked, she thought quietly to herself. If I told Joe, and told him why, he might well be OK about it. He might even reciprocate with the history behind his personal why-nots.

‘It's probably better to reveal than conceal when it comes to love,’ Tess said quietly to herself while using the pumice gently on Mrs O'Sullivan's corns. Mrs O'Sullivan was dainty: white-haired, a white cardigan, an old gold necklace carefully laid around the collar of her blouse. Tess liked her spectacles: they were old-fashioned, styled with a little swoosh at either edge, like tiny wings or ticks of approval. The frames seemed to be embedded in the bridge of her nose, her skin appearing to overlap the fake tortoiseshell. Tess wondered whether she'd ever had a different pair, she wondered how long it had been since Mrs O'Sullivan had had an eye test, she wondered whether it was something Swallows offered. Or whether, at this age, it was a given that sight deteriorates and if the glasses fit, why fiddle. Mrs O'Sullivan, according to Laura, was also deaf as a post. So it came as some surprise that she should respond to Tess's quiet personal aside.

‘Don't do that, dear.’

Tess looked up sharply but there was nothing about Mrs O'Sullivan's expression to suggest anything untoward. ‘I'm sorry – is it sore?’ She inspected Mrs O'Sullivan's corn.

‘Not
that
, dear. I wasn't referring to my trotters. I'm referring to you – I'd advise you to keep a little back.’ She was smiling intently at Tess, a glint to the diluted blue irises of her eyes.

‘Conceal and not reveal?’ Tess said, her voice intentionally low to check the legitimacy of Mrs O'Sullivan's hearing.

‘You give a man everything – you have nothing for yourself. And anyway, they tend to die before you and you end up burying everything with them. Then you're stuck in old age wondering, where has it all gone and what do I do now with so little? You end up like me.’

‘I'd be quite happy to end up like you, Mrs O'Sullivan.’

‘Only on the outside,’ Mrs O'Sullivan said. ‘Not bad at all for my age and the life I've had. But you wouldn't want to be me on the inside, dear. I'm just waiting, now, waiting to go.’

Tess tutted. She thought about it.

‘Isn't love about sharing everything? Isn't secrecy anathema?’

She held Mrs O'Sullivan's foot between her two flat hands, as if clasping a prayer.

‘No,’ Mrs O'Sullivan said, ‘it isn't.’ Her bluntness was oddly compelling but Tess didn't want to continue the conversation; she'd never done more than pass the time of day or the state of the weather with clients. For Tess, for some time now, other people's wisdom and their informed advice had served not to benefit her but to magnify her own shortcomings. She needed to return any conversation to a more anodyne level.

‘Laura is quite convinced you are deaf, Mrs O'Sullivan – or at least, hard of hearing.’ Mrs O'Sullivan looked at her blankly. Tess was about to lean closer, and repeat herself, when she saw that Laura had come into the room again, with a jug of iced water and a round of glasses. Everyone was ‘pet’ to Laura, whatever their age or mood. When she came to Mrs O'Sullivan, she asked very loudly, water, pet? but Mrs O'Sullivan kept her eyes trained on Tess as if she hadn't heard a word.

As Tess introduced herself to the next resident, she wondered about Mrs O'Sullivan. She felt flattered but unnerved too to be party to Mrs O'Sullivan's deceit. Why had she feigned to be hard of hearing? Was it to have a secret last laugh of some kind, or was it to cling to privacy now her life was condensed into a small cupboard, a chest of drawers and communal sitting rooms in a residential care home? Perhaps, though, she was just an awkward old mare – a term Tess had baulked at on hearing it used, albeit affectionately, by a member of staff.

‘I am Miss Edmondson,’ the next lady said, ‘and I don't think you'll have much luck with my nails.’ She held out her hands, so gnarled by arthritis that her fingers were contorted at a severe angle to her hand, like wind-blasted trees on a hillside.

‘How about the foot spa and a nice soothing hand massage?’

‘If you like, dear.’

Her response forced Tess to consider how, for many of the residents, visits such as hers simply passed the time. What else were they going to do on a Friday afternoon? Sit in their chairs. Like the rest of the week. Waiting. She brought something new to the sitting room, whether the service was truly required or not.

‘I think you'll like it,’ Tess said. ‘I think you'll like it so much, you'll be putting in a request before my next visit.’

‘Will you be bringing your little girl?’

‘Em? Yes. She likes it here.’

‘Is your husband—’

But Tess was used to cutting short such a sentence. ‘Oh, I'm not married.’

‘Oh. Are you on your own, love?’

Tess paused to ponder this and, when she had the answer, she savoured it before assuring Miss Edmondson that no, she wasn't on her own, not any more.

‘Nice to be looked after,’ said Miss Edmondson, ‘by someone you love.’

If it wasn't for the buggy, Tess felt she could have skipped all the way home; not metaphorically, but in proper, school-girl, ground-covering leaps. She'd agreed with Laura to continue with twice-weekly visits, on Tuesday mornings and Friday afternoons, and Laura had shown her a secure cupboard where she could leave her foot spa and other items. Again, Laura had told her, you're good at this, Tess – you shouldn't do it for free, you know. But again Tess had replied, I know I know – but I want to.

After this second visit, she realized why the work was so satisfying – it was because the clients were way past vanity. Certainly, through the power of nail polish or the precision of tweezers, the ladies looked better for Tess's expertise. But more to the point – for them and for her – they
felt
better; a response clearly legible in the increased levels of chatter when she left, than when she had arrived. For Tess, there was more job satisfaction to be had here than from the hasty thanks and desultory tips that came her way in the London salon. And because there was no charge, and they were free to avail themselves of her skills, she felt no servitude to them. She liked making them feel nice, and she liked listening to them. She had to admit, though, that it wasn't the good Samaritan in her which had unleashed this urge to bound all the way home with a big grin on her face, it was that Joe was coming back. Maybe he's there already.

She waited.

Actually, she didn't wait; she busied herself tidying and cleaning and preparing food for all the inhabitants of the Resolution. Her ear strained for the crunch of tyre on gravel and her body fought the magnetic pull to any window which looked out onto it.

But he didn't come.

By eight thirty she was really hungry and though she dithered for a while, she phoned his mobile. The sound of the overseas ring tone made her sit down heavily. He was nowhere near here. She was just about to ring off when Joe answered.

‘Sodding flight cancelled, trying to buy alternative.’ He was speaking like a text message. ‘Phone you when I know.’

She had to have a moment, did Tess, to realign her disappointment. She couldn't be pissed off with Joe but that wasn't to say she couldn't be utterly cross with the situation. Remaining in a lumpen sulk by the phone, she swore at the French, at air travel, at Joe's job, at her own romantic fantasy. Then Wolf came to see her, towering over where she sat, and the attention was welcome at first until the threat of his viscous drool, currently swinging from his mouth like the chain on a crane, motivated Tess to pull herself up and pull herself together.

The chicken would keep until tomorrow. The potatoes, peeled and ready to be roasted, could stay in a bowl of water in the fridge. She bit into a raw carrot and decided to cook the rest for Em. It would give her something to do while she waited to hear from Joe.

He phoned soon after, he had a new flight, he'd be in very late, he'd eat on the plane, don't wait up, Tess.

She wanted to – she'd planned how she was going to greet him. But ultimately she didn't because she simply couldn't stay awake though she went to bed as late as she could manage. She woke at one in the morning and darted to the window to see if Joe's car was in the drive.

It wasn't.

She rested her forehead sadly against the windowpane and she thought to herself, it's just not fair. He was meant to arrive yesterday but he's not even here yet.

She went back to bed but couldn't settle. It was heading for a quarter to two when she next looked at the clock. She was starting to feel sleepy again, but not so sleepy that she couldn't leave her room, check on Em, go down a floor and settle herself into Joe's bed. She rued the taunt of the notion that they could have had hours together between these sheets by now, if he'd arrived yesterday as planned. But his bed felt the best place to be, it made him seem real and far closer than a daydream away.

He was on his way, and at some point today, he'd come into this bed and fold himself around her.

Bloody four-hour delay. Bloody Manchester – what sodding destination was that for a sodding detour? Why couldn't they have been rerouted to Newcastle at the very bloody least? Fucking air-traffic controllers. The total bloody bastard wankers.

Joe didn't swear often which meant that, on the occasions he did, it was enormously resonant and gratifying. Nothing quite like fulminating at the top of your voice in a hire car while belting away from bloody Manchester to travel east and north. He could have made a short detour to Teesside to collect his own car but as he'd be back at that airport tomorrow evening, there seemed little point. And the hire car was quite nippy. And he was enormously tired.

He couldn't contain a groan of relief when he finally stilled the engine on the driveway of his home. It was gone three in the morning. He sat and peered at the looming mass of the house; there was little moonlight but its shadowy bulk was benign and downstairs the hall light was on, emanating a sense of warmth. It seemed such a long time ago that Tess had asked him if he minded her keeping that particular light on – because he usually switched every one off. No, he didn't mind. But he asked her, do you not feel safe here? To which she replied, oh, I feel safe, all right – I would just hate to trip over Wolf.

She's in there.

They all are.

Sound asleep.

He could imagine Tess saying to Em earlier, Joe'll be home soon – stay awake, baby girl, so you can say hullo.

And then a little later on she'd have said, where the hell is he, Wolf?

And later still, bastard air-traffic controllers, Wolf, he's still in bastard France.

And much much later, night night, Joe, wherever you are.

Well, he thought, I'm here now and it's too bloody late to call out, honey! I'm home!