The Accident (10 page)

‘Charlotte sends her love,’ I say, desperate to change the subject. ‘She’ll be along to visit as soon as she can.’

‘Oh, that would be lovely.’ Mum’s face lights up and I say a prayer, begging whoever is in charge of the universe to make my daughter well so they can spend some time together, so it’s not a lie.

‘I’d like that,’ Mum says. She rummages in a little drawer in the table beside her and presses a brooch into my hand. It’s glass and paste, a bouquet of flowers with a ribbon tied around the stem. It’s terribly old-fashioned but very pretty and sparkly. ‘Give this to Charlotte with my love. Tell her it’s to bring her luck in her exams.’ She fixes me with a meaningful look. ‘I was wearing it the day I met your dad you know.’

I open my mouth to thank her, to tell her how touched Charlotte will be but find I can’t speak.

‘I have something for you too,’ Mum says, twisting back to her drawer. I try to object, to tell her she mustn’t when Mozart’s Symphony Number 40 in G Minor fills the air and I rummage in my handbag for my phone.

‘Brian?’ I say, standing up and walking across the room, my back to Mum, my voice hushed. ‘Now’s not a good time. I’m with Mum.’

There’s a pause then,

‘It’s Charlotte,’ he says. ‘You need to come to the hospital. Now.’

Tuesday 18th October 1990

Tonight I finally got to see James’s house. And now I know why he kept me waiting for so long …

We were supposed to get to his house for one o’clock, the times Mrs Evans had said we should come for lunch (yes, he lives with his mum!) but we’d hit the pub early and James, who was ridiculously nervous but wouldn’t admit it, insisted we have one more for luck. His mum wouldn’t mind if we were late, he said. She was probably too busy watching ‘
Murder She Wrote
’ to notice the time.

Two hours later we finally rolled up at his house in Wood Green. James could barely get the key in the lock and I couldn’t stop giggling.

‘Shoes,’ James said, nudging me in the ribs as we fell into the hallway.

‘Socks!’ I nudged him back and burst out laughing.

‘No,’ he glanced down at my beautiful red, patent heels. ‘Take off your shoes. Mother doesn’t allow shoes on the carpets.’

I reached a hand down and yanked one shoe off. I had to brace myself against the wall to stop myself from tumbling over. ‘I thought you were playing a word association game. You know – shoes, socks, toes, feet …’

‘Why would I do that?’ He gave me a look. ‘I’m not a child, Susan.’

I shrugged and reached for my other shoe, unsure of what to say.

‘Kidding!’ He poked me in the side and I instantly lost balance and tumbled to the floor. ‘Feet! Cheese! Beans!’

I laughed as he helped me back onto my feet but it felt forced. The joke wasn’t as funny anymore.

‘Slippers,’ James said.

I assumed he was still playing the word association game so ignored him and glanced around the hallway instead. It was a wide space but the deep red textured wallpaper and mahogany furniture that lined one wall made it seem small and dark. A single light bulb, smothered by a dark brown velveteen lampshade, hung from the ceiling and framed photographs decorated one wall, some in black and white, some technicolour but faded with age. There were a lot of a small blond boy with a wide smile and sparkling blue eyes so I stepped towards them to see if they were of my boyfriend.

‘Slippers.’ James grabbed my wrist and jerked me back towards him.

I yanked my hand away and rubbed my skin. ‘James, that hurt.’

He kicked something across the carpet towards me. ‘Stop making a fuss and put those on.’

I looked down at the beige suedette slippers at my feet and shook my head. They looked like something my grandma would wear.

‘You need to put them on, Susan.’ He yanked open the cupboard door beside him and pulled out an identical, but larger, pair of slippers and slipped his feet into them. I looked at his face, waiting for him to burst out laughing but it didn’t happen.

I looked back at the slippers. I didn’t like the way he was telling me what to do but the last thing I wanted was for us to get into an argument before I met his mum for the first time.

I put the slippers on, trying not to think about who’d worn them before.

James looked at my feet then laughed and said they suited me. He slipped a hand around my waist, pulling me into him and his mouth found mine. I relaxed in his arms as he kissed me.

‘Come on,’ he said, taking my hand, ‘let’s find Mum. I just know she’s going to love you.’

He led me down the corridor and through a white door.

‘Mum,’ he said, holding tightly onto my hand, ‘this is Suzy. Suzy, this is Mum.’

I smiled and held out my other hand as the small, dark-haired woman on the sofa stood up and crossed the room towards me. It remained outstretched as she swerved around me and disappeared out through the living-room door.

‘James,’ she said from the hallway. ‘A word, if you please.’

I was surprised by her strong Welsh accent. I’d assumed she’d be posh like her son.

James followed her wordlessly, without so much as a backward glance at me, pulling the living-room door closed behind him. I stood stock-still, staring at the closed door. When I finally moved it was to perch on the edge of the pristine maroon leather sofa that shared a wall with an enormous mahogany display case. On the wall opposite me, hanging behind a sideboard housing a small grey television and an ancient-looking record player, was the most terrifying batik wall hanging I’d ever seen. It was black with a huge tribal mask in the centre, picked out in blues, whites and purples. The mouth was open, gaping, a black void beneath empty white eyes that stared across the room at me. I looked away, to the bookshelf, crammed with green-spined hardbacks I’d never heard of and then at the table covered with a white lace tablecloth, laden with food. My stomach rumbled at the sight of plates piled high with cucumber, egg and salmon sandwiches, a beautiful fluffy Victoria sponge on a silver cake stand and bowls of olives, nuts and crisps, but I didn’t touch a thing.

Instead I wandered up to the bookcase, plucked a green book off the shelf, and opened the cover. Ten minutes later the sound of raised voices filtered into the room. I placed the book back on the shelf and opened the door a crack.

‘James?’ I shuffled noiselessly towards a door at the other end of the house. It was ajar, light flooding out, turning a triangle of maroon carpet pink. The murmur of voices filled my ears as I drew closer. ‘James?’

‘How could you?’ His mother’s voice was strained, verging on hysterical. ‘After everything I do for you. How could you be so disrespectful?’

‘Mam … please … calm down.’ My outstretched hand fell away from the doorknob. James was talking with a strong Welsh accent too. ‘We’re a couple of hours late, that’s all.’

‘For family lunch! Have you no manners? Or did you lose them all the day Da killed his self?’

Killed himself? I rest a hand on the wall. James had told me his father died of lung cancer.

‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

‘Late. With her. Some tart you’ve known for ten minutes.’

‘She’s not a tart, Mam. She’s special.’

‘And what does that make me? Something the cat dragged in.’

‘Of course not. You’re
—
’

‘I got up at 6 a.m. this morning to clean the house, James. 6 a.m! I’ve been scrubbing and cooking and cleaning all day. For you Jamie, for you and that woman. The least you could do is show me some respect and turn up on time. I thought we brought you up better than this.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake
—
’

A sound like a cracked whip cut him short and he gasped. I took a step back from the door. The maroon walls seemed darker and the furniture bigger. Even the photographs were leering at me. I tried to take a deep breath but the air was thick and heavy and I felt it catch in my throat. I glanced towards the front door.

‘James! James, I’m sorry.’ Mrs Evans’ voice was thin and desperate. ‘James, please don’t go. I didn’t mean to
—
’

I was sent flying as the kitchen door slammed open and James flew out towards me. He gripped my wrist and yanked me after him as he strode towards the front door.

‘We’re leaving.’ He pulled me, slippers and all, out into the front garden. I stretched my fingertips towards my beautiful red patent heels but we were already through the gate and onto the street. ‘Fuck family lunches. Fuck her. Fuck it all.’

‘Now do you see?’ he said, shaking me as he twisted me to face him. ‘Now do you see why I didn’t want you to come back to my place?’

He didn’t say another word to me for the next hour and a half.

Chapter 9

‘I don’t know why you’re looking so stressed.’ Brian indicates left and exits the roundabout. ‘It’s good news.’

I glance at him. ‘Is it?’

‘Of course. You heard what the consultant Mr Arnold said. Charlotte’s tube is out and she’s able to breathe unassisted. The damage to her cerebral cortex has healed.’

‘How unassisted is her breathing if they’re insisting she wears an oxygen mark? And the exact words he used were “the scans show the damage has substantially reduced.”’

‘Yes. It’s healed.’

‘Reduced, not healed.’

Brian exhales slowly and deliberately. ‘Sue, we both heard him say there’s no medical reason why she shouldn’t wake up.’

‘But she hasn’t, has she? I’m delighted that she can breathe on her own now but it doesn’t mean anything if she still hasn’t actually opened her eyes and—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

‘Brian! Can I just finish my sentence? Please.’

He shoots me a sideways look and raises his eyebrows.

‘I’m worried because of the other thing Mr Arnold said – the part about the longer Charlotte stays in a coma the more likely it is that she could develop a secondary complication. She could still die, Brian.’

‘
Could
being the operative word, Sue. You need to stay positive.’

I rest my head against the headrest and stare up at the dull, grey interior of the car. I’m snapping at Brian and it’s not fair but I can’t shake the feeling that this is all my fault. I’ve failed as a mother. If I’d been closer to Charlotte, if I’d encouraged her to talk to me, if I’d run up the stairs after her instead of returning to my book maybe she never would have walked in front of a bus and maybe she wouldn’t be at risk of pneumonia or a pulmonary embolism now.

‘I should have protected her, Brian,’ I say quietly.

‘Don’t, Sue. It’s not your fault.’

I look at him. ‘I didn’t protect her but I can now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If I find out why she did what she did and tell her that I understand, that I’m here for her, maybe she’ll wake up.’

‘Not this again.’ Brian sighs heavily. ‘For the hundredth time, Sue, it was an accident.’

‘It wasn’t. Charlotte tried to kill herself, Brian. She talked about it in her diary.’

There’s a squeal of tires on tarmac and my seatbelt cuts into my throat as the car swerves sharply towards the oncoming traffic. I want to scream at Brian to stop but I can’t speak. I can’t scream. All I can do is grip the seatbelt with both hands as we hurtle towards a 4X4. A cacophony of beeping horns fill my ears and then Brian yanks the steering wheel and we lurch left, speeding towards the grass verge then lurch back to the right so we’re back in the centre of the road.

My husband’s top lip is beaded with sweat, his face pale, his eyes staring ahead, fixed and glassy.

‘You nearly killed us,’ I breathe.

Brian says nothing.

He says nothing all the way home then he turns off the engine, opens the car door and crosses the driveway without looking back. I stay in the car, too stunned to move as he lets himself into the house, crosses the kitchen and disappears into the hallway. I don’t know what scared me more – the fact we nearly drove head first into another car or the look in Brian’s eyes as it happened.

My hands shake as I reach for the handle and open the car door and I pause to collect myself. I’m being ridiculous. Brian would never have risked both our lives like that when Charlotte still needs us. He was angry, I reason as I cross the gravel driveway and approach the house. He asked the other day if there was anything in Charlotte’s diary he needed to know about and I said no. I lied to his face and he knows it.

‘Brian?’ I open the front door gingerly, expecting Milly to come bowling over but she’s not in the porch. She must have followed Brian into the living room. I’m about to step into the kitchen when something red and chewed in Milly’s bed catches my eye. It’s a ‘Could not Deliver’ slip from the Royal Mail. How did that end up in her bed? I turn and see the mail ‘cage’ we erected around the letterbox on the floor. It’s the third one that Milly has managed to wrench off the door. The older she gets the wilier she becomes. I crouch down and pick up the remains of the card, smiling when I see what the postman has written – ‘in the recycling bin’. Brian thinks the postie is probably breaking Royal Mail rules by putting our undelivered parcels in the recycling bin but I think it’s a fabulous idea. It saves him from hauling them back to the depot and it saves me a trip to town. I duck back outside and lift the lid on the recycling bin.

I reach down and pick up a green plastic parcel with Marks and Spencer splashed down the side. It’s hard, like a shoebox, not floppy like clothes. It can’t be shoes. They’re the one thing I still insist on buying from the shops. When you’ve got feet as wide as mine ordering shoes off the internet can be a bit of a gamble.