Something Good (17 page)

“W
hat d'you make of all that?” Zoë had pulled up the blankets to partially cover her face, muffling her voice.

Hannah shifted on to her side, waiting for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark. “I can't believe he did that to her. I was scared of Granddad—he always seemed cross—but never imagined he'd do anything so awful.”

“My dad was like that,” Zoë murmured.

“Like what?”

“A bully, a complete shit. Loads cleverer than Mum but, God, did he let her know it. The woman he went off with…I did tell you, didn't I, that he'd been having an affair for years—”

“Uh-huh,” Hannah said, although Zoë had only hinted at her parents' troubles. It had taken this long—five months of friendship—for Zoë to tell her anything real.

“She was a lawyer or a barrister or a judge or something. Something to do with court anyway. That's why Mum ended up with nothing.”

“It's hardly nothing,” Hannah said, unable to stop herself. “Your house is lovely. Look at the horrible old wreck we live in.”

“Yeah, but you should see Dad's place in what's-it-called valley. Swimming pool, games room, the lot.”

“Don't go often, do you?”

“As little as I can.” Zoë shrugged.

“Why?”

“I told you. My dad's a prat. When Mum got upset about him leaving, he said he'd found someone who had
direction
.”

The rain that had been rattling against the cracked window was easing off now. “What about you, Zoë?” Hannah asked. “What d'you think you'll end up doing?”

“You mean, do I have
direction?
” She giggled. “Don't know. There's only one thing I'm good at, and I can't see myself making a career out of it. Hey, that reminds me, I've got something for you.”

“What is it?” she asked eagerly.

“You'll see….”

“
Zoë,
you didn't nick anything from those shops in the village, did you?”

“No!” she protested. “I—I just
got
them. Turn on your lamp and I'll show you.”

Hannah reached for the bedside lamp, shivering as her blanket fell away. Their last night on the island, and she still hadn't mastered the art of being warm. Zoë swung out of bed and delved into the shoulder bag that lay on the floor. She pulled something out, pouched it in her palm and padded over to Hannah's bed. “This is for you,” she murmured, uncoiling her fingers.

On her palm rested a tiny oval-shaped box. It was yellow and decorated with delicate brushstrokes of pink and green. Hannah's heart lurched; she knew what was inside. “Worry dolls,” she whispered, “just like the ones I had.”

“Hannah,” her mother had said, “I've got a present for you. Be careful with them, okay? They're not really for girls of your age because they're so small and a bit sharp and could be swallowed. I know you won't do that, because you're a sensible clever girl.”

Hannah had assured her that she wouldn't try to eat them. She'd placed the five tiny objects on the palm of her hand, honored to be given something that wasn't for kids of her age. But then, her mother had never made her feel like a little girl. She'd made her feel big and powerful, as if anything was possible.

“They're called worry dolls,” Jane had explained. “I bought them at a craft fair. The lady on the stall said, ‘If you're worried about something, put one of the dolls under your pillow before you go to sleep. When you wake up, the doll will be gone.'”

“Where?” Hannah had asked. “Where does it go?”

Jane had laughed. “No one knows. Same place as teeth, maybe, when the tooth fairy comes. The important thing is it's gone, along with your worry.”

Hannah had been five years old; it had been just before her parents had broken up—so long ago that she couldn't possibly remember the conversation. Yet her mother's words rang clear in her head. Hannah hadn't liked dolls apart from Biffa, but these weren't really dolls at all. They were splinters of wood bound with fragments of fabric and brightly-colored thread. When they'd moved to Albemarle Street, Hannah had left them under the floor at her dad's house. That way, she'd decided, part of her would still live there, too.

“Well,” Zoë said. “D'you like them?”

Hannah lifted the dolls from the box and laid them on the palm of her hand. “I can't believe you bought these for me.”

“I told you, I didn't buy them. They're not
like
the ones you had, Han. They're the
actual ones
.”

Hannah stared at her. “They can't be.”

“They are,” Zoë said with a triumphant grin. “I went to your old house. Remember I asked you where you lived?”

Hannah nodded. It had seemed weird when Zoë had wanted to know not just the street name but house number, too. “So…how did you get them? You didn't break in, did you?”

“Don't be stupid. It was simple really. I knocked on the door and this woman came out. I said a friend used to live there and had left something really important….”

“What was my room like?” Hannah blurted out. “Was it just how I left it?” How dumb of her. She hadn't known Zoë when she'd lived there.

Zoë tossed back her hair. “Can't remember. It was pale pink, I think. Kind of messy. Anyway, I tried all the floor-boards and the woman helped me and eventually we found them.”

Hannah's vision had blurred. Everything looked misty and unreal; it reminded her of being drunk when she'd come out of the Opal. Her mind was racing now. She didn't want to sleep, but to be outside in the moonlight. “I can't believe you did this for me,” she said.

“Hey,” Zoë chided her, “don't start crying. I thought they'd make you happy.”

“I
am
happy,” she murmured, sliding out of bed. Suddenly she pulled on jeans and a sweater over her pajamas.

“What are you doing?” Zoë asked.

“I'm going out. I just feel like a walk, that's all.”

“What, in the dark? It's pitch-black out there!”

“No, it's not,” Hannah insisted. “The moon's really bright. I'm going to the bay to sit for a bit.”

“You can't,” Zoë protested. “Something might happen….”

“Like what? I'll be savaged by sheep?”

“I'm just worried….”

“Why?” Hannah asked, laughing now.

“Because,” Zoë said, her eyes shining in the glow from the bedside lamp, “you're the best friend I ever had.”

I
t was midnight and Jane was still packing. She'd worked late in the studio, polishing away fragments of solder, determined that the panel should be perfectly finished before they left the following morning. As if further delaying the moment of leaving, she'd tidied up the studio, neatly stacking glass sheets, placing books back on the shelf and sweeping the floor. She coveted Archie's studio with all of its light and space and view over Seal Bay and beyond. What
was
beyond? Jane had stared out into the dark, trying to decide what the next land mass would be—and figuring Canada—but being unable to focus beyond the pale smudge of Conor's house.

Her mother, who was muttering softly in her sleep, appeared to have made no preparations for tomorrow's departure. Of course, she hadn't even bothered to unpack when they'd arrived, and had merely plucked each day's outfit from the suitcase that lay open in the corner of the room. All week, she'd worn the same bottle-green sweater with an unraveling cuff.

Quietly, so as not to disturb her, Jane packed away her toiletries in the bathroom. Nancy, who didn't possess a toilet kit, stored her own belongings in a plastic freezer bag. Jane was overcome by a wave of sadness as she picked it up. Was her mother's life really so basic that her hairbrush, comb and nail scissors—her personal things—should be stored in a freezer bag with an opaque panel on which to write ‘date' and ‘contents,' as if they were leftover spaghetti bolognaise?

“Jane, is that you? What are you doing?”

“Just packing, Mum. I didn't mean to wake you….”

“Have you set the alarm?”

“Yes, don't worry.” She heard her mother shuffling in bed then, eventually, the soft hum of her snores.

A postcard had been left on the side of the bath. It depicted one of Archie's works; slices of blue becoming gradually paler like sea merging into sky. Picking it up, Jane focused on the handwriting. It slanted violently forward, like trees bent in a gale, and at first she couldn't make out the words. Squinting, she finally deciphered the scrawl:

Archie? What kind of proposal was he talking about? Jane gripped the postcard, feeling chilled and repulsed. Had something happened between them? Surely not. Jane pictured his weaselly eyes and the beard in which a collection of food particles were perpetually nestling. Archie, and her mother? A drunk, washed-up artist…and her
mother?

Nancy hadn't shown one jot of interest in another man since Jane's father had died. Yet perhaps—Jane shuddered at the very thought—he'd tried to kiss or manhandle her. It was too vile to contemplate. She knew, with absolute certainty, that her mother wouldn't have had any of it. Archie was a sad, delusional old man.

Jane stepped quietly back into the bedroom. She wondered if Conor might come up to the house early in the morning before they set off for the ferry. He'd made no mention of seeing her one final time before she left. She felt hurt, and stupid for expecting anything; if he did show up, it would be to say goodbye to the group, with whom he'd worked closely all week, and not Jane with her stupid crush and longing. Was she any smarter than Archie with his ridiculous infatuation with her mother? Conor would have some young nubile girlfriend to warm him during these hostile winter's nights. Even if there was no one on the island, in a few weeks' time a fresh bunch of students would tumble off the ferry, and he'd pick himself a new friend.

Jane zipped her suitcase shut. They would leave as early as possible, to avoid any potentially embarrassing goodbyes. She made a mental note to get up extra early to chivvy the girls along so there'd be no hanging about. They would set off before breakfast. It wouldn't matter if they had time to kill at the pier. All Jane had left to pack was the panel that lay on the studio workbench, ready to be packaged in bubble-wrap and sturdy cardboard. She could collect it in the morning, or be extra-organized and fetch it now. Checking that her mother was in a deep sleep, Jane pulled on her coat, stepped into the corridor and closed the door quietly behind her.

 

The striplight flickered to life, filling Archie's studio with bleak white light. Jane held up her panel. It wasn't remotely what she'd planned to do, not what Max had asked for at all. There were none of the reds or oranges he'd wanted. Instead she'd picked delicate blues, lilacs and turquoises—island colors. She examined it, aware of time ticking by, and that she should be getting some sleep in preparation for the long drive tomorrow.

“It's beautiful,” came the voice.

Jane spun round to face the door. “I didn't hear you come in,” she said, startled.

“Sorry,” Conor said, “didn't mean to shock you. I saw the light on and came up to check. You know what Archie's like. Has a tendency to leave the soldering iron on, or he'll come in late at night and then leave a cigarette burning in the ashtray….”

Jane laughed and placed the panel flat on the bench. “Well,” she said as Conor pulled himself up to sit on the bench, “I'd better get this packaged up.”

“Where are you going to put it?” he asked, watching intently as she pulled a length of bubblewrap from the roll.

“It's not for me,” she explained. “It's for my…it's for a friend.”

Conor raised an eyebrow. “That's quite a present.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” She knew then that she wouldn't charge Max for the window. She wasn't sure if he'd like it and, she realized now, she didn't really care either way.

“Well,” Conor said, “he's a lucky man.”

She looked up at him, at the eyes that gleamed like sea-washed pebbles on the shore. An awkward silence filled the studio. She wished Lewis was here, firing questions about comets and clouds. “I didn't say it was a he,” she said quietly.

“So, is it?” Conor's eyes teased hers.

Jane sighed. “Max is…Hannah's dad. My ex-husband. Not even ex, really—we've never got around to getting divorced.”

“So, he's…?”

She smiled. “I suppose you'd call him my best friend.”

Conor's eyes met hers. “Like I said, he's a lucky man.”

Jane's heart skipped as he raised a hand and pushed back a wayward strand of her hair. She could hear the buzz of the light. It felt too warm for February; the air was heady and thick. No sounds came from outside, as if the sky and the sea were waiting for something to happen.

“Where's Lewis?” she whispered.

Conor's fingers remained on her cheek, where he'd brushed the hair away. He was sitting on the bench, with Jane standing before him. “He's having a sleepover with a friend in the village,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, and a smile tweaked her lips. She could do it. The scene she'd played over and over since the first time he'd invited her into his home—she could make it real. In a few hours she'd be leaving; this moment would be gone, washed away like a footprint on the sand.

Conor had taken hold of her hand. She looked down at the fingers—his weather-beaten yet elegant, hers slender and pale. She was sick of worrying about how others viewed her: her mother, with her “you should make something of yourself” lectures, and Hannah, whom she'd placed at the very center of her universe for the past fifteen years. She was sick, she realized as recklessness surged through her, of doing the right thing.

It was Jane who slid her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. Jane who ran her hands through his hair, and Jane who kept kissing and kissing him, oblivious to the studio's harsh light. She could hardly believe they were her words—“Shall we go back to your house?”

He pulled away and smiled. “Let's go.”

She felt so warm, so ridiculously happy, that she barely registered the blue-white flash of lightning, which was followed, seconds later, by a thunderous crack.

And the storm came.