The Godmother (42 page)

“That's normal, you've still got a lot of getting better to do.”

“Will you stay with me, Godmummy T?”

“Sure I will.”

She pointed to her eye, then her heart, then at me.

“More sign language?”

Cora nodded. I did the same. Eye. Heart. You. I held up two fingers. Cora smiled. I pulled the thin hospital sheets up around her. “You warm enough?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm sorry I didn't visit you earlier.”

“That's OK,” said Cora sleepily. “Helen was here.”

I felt myself shudder. “What?”

Cora didn't answer me.

“Cora?”

Her eyes were closed. She'd fallen asleep. I kissed her softly on her forehead and left the children's ward.

I stood on the cold pavement and listened to an approaching ambulance siren. “Marguerite, it's Tessa again, please call me back.”

“Boo!”

I jumped.

“Ben! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Called in sick. Couldn't stand the idea of not seeing you for three days. Let's spend this afternoon together.”

“Where have you been?”

“Watching the exit from Starbucks. I nearly missed you, I thought you'd be longer.”

I panicked. “Cora's sleeping.”

“So, come and have lunch with me.”

“Billy's around here somewhere.”

“So?”

“So she might see us.”

“I've come to see Cora, you happened to be here. Big deal.”

I'd been playing mummies and daddies with Ben and Cora for seven years, but the game had gone sour.

“We've got to do this right, Ben.”

“I know, but, God”—he squeezed my face—“I can't bear not being with you.”

I pressed my hand against his, then pressed my lips against his palm. He pulled me closer and wrapped his other arm around my neck. We stood squashed against one another, me with my head in his neck, him wrapped around me. It was broad daylight, on the Fulham Road, outside a busy London hospital, yet it didn't cross my mind that anyone would see us. He kissed me on the forehead, I kissed him on the cheek. What was there to see really? We'd done this a million times before. He kissed me again, I kissed him back. He kissed me all over my face; when he took my face in his hands again and kissed me on the lips I thought I would burst. We pressed harder and harder against each other; our mouths remained closed, but the kiss intensified, nearly beyond my control. I was breathing far too hard when he pulled away.

“This is why I can't see you,” I said, panting.

“It's going to kill me,” said Ben.

“Three days,” I told him.

“I don't think I can.”

“Three days, then we tell Sasha.”

“Then you're all mine.”

“All yours,” I said.

Ben turned away from me, then turned back. “Hell,” he said, “these are going to be the longest three days of my life.”

They may have been for Ben, but I swear, to me they passed in a blink of an eye. I returned to the twins and before I knew it, it was bath-time again. I stayed at Helen's house and spent three hours on the phone arguing with Marguerite about the service which she had completely hijacked. True, it was only my word that Helen wanted to be cremated, so I could almost forgive Marguerite for riding roughshod over me, but to plan a service that in no way reflected her daughter was just plain mean. And what about Neil's family? Had Marguerite contacted them? Were they in the loop? They certainly hadn't made any effort to see the twins. Did they know Neil's marriage was tempestuous, that their daughter-in-law was addicted to pain medication and vodka? No, like most people, they probably thought Helen and Neil had it all.

The following day was busy with the boys. As was the third. Perhaps it was because I was in such denial about what was happening that the three days passed so quickly. Despite talking at length about burying my friend, I was still in denial about Helen's death. I was also in denial about the circumstances of her death. Then there was the question of having to be parted from the twins, and whether Claudia and Al really were the obvious choice to adopt them. I was in denial about that.

Sasha had called three times, leaving messages because I hadn't been able to pick up the calls. She said she was thinking about me, she asked if there was anything she could do, she told me if I wanted to rant, scream, cry or get pissed with someone, she was there for me. Each message made me feel worse. So I busied myself further still. I was blessed with great girlfriends whom I loved unequivocally, but they all fulfilled different roles in my life. Billy was whom I played mother with. Francesca was whom I moaned to. Helen had been whom I took risks with. But Sasha, Sasha was the person I sought advice from, it was she whom I gathered strength from, who made me most comfortable with the choices I'd made in my life. I admired her and was horrified that I was going to lose that. If I was half the person I hoped to be, wouldn't I choose the sisterhood over the love of my life? Yet here I was, on the cusp of losing a great friend. I was bewildered that being with Ben was going to cost me Sasha. And who knew what else? I was dreading the funeral, I was dreading the day after, I was dreading everything, so I ran around like a headless chicken for three days so I wouldn't have to think. But finally, be
cause time stops for no man, the 28th arrived and I found myself in the utterly bizarre situation of dressing for Helen's funeral.

Rose knocked on my temporary bedroom door.

“Come in.”

I was standing in front of a full-length mirror watching a woman of a certain age, dressed in black, stare back at me. It didn't matter how often I looked away, whenever I looked back, there she was, checking me out. I didn't recognize her, but she seemed to know me. I wanted to find an ally standing opposite me, someone who would support me over the next forty-eight hours, someone who'd confirm that I was doing the right thing—but what I saw in her eyes was disapproval. When I started to cry, it made her feel bad. I knew this because she started trying to cheer me up. She pulled funny faces, she poked out her tongue and pushed up her nose like a piggy-wig would, but it didn't work, she could not get me to smile. I'd seen the look she'd given me, it was no trick of the light. She was not impressed and I had a horrible feeling I knew why. “The twins are ready,” said Rose.

Rose and I had debated what we would do about the twins and the funeral, and come to the conclusion we would take them. I was not going to miss it and I would not have asked Rose to. Neither of us wanted to go, but someone had to represent Helen in this circus.

“I can't go looking like this,” I said to Rose, marching out of the guest room and into Helen's. I flung open the wardrobe door and scrawled through the clothes. I found a fur-trimmed vintage pink Vivienne Westwood coat and a magnificent Philip Treacy hat. I took off my sensible black heels and donned a pair of black patent stilettos that rose me up to an easy six foot. No one could miss me now. Then I went to the pile of photograph albums that I had taken to bed every night and pulled out all the ones I could find of Helen smiling. Lastly, I grabbed a beautifully framed photo of the twins with their mother looking relaxed and easy in one another's company. I didn't care what happened at St. John's, or what Marguerite had planned; the girl I knew would remain in front of me. I would think of her and only her, so help me God. Rose and I took one baby each and left the house.

Leaning against the railings opposite the church was a boy in an ill-fitting suit, tugging at his exposed shirtsleeve. He saw me pushing my weighty charges up the hill towards him and immediately straightened up. He looked very serious as he crossed the road towards me. My godson. Trying, I now recognized, to be as grown up as he'd ever feel.

“Hi, Tessa,” said Caspar, lolloping down to greet us. “Mum and Dad are inside already. Need a hand?”

“Thanks,” I said, slightly panting. Caspar got behind the huge contraption. I introduced him to Rose; he politely shook her hand before taking over pushing the twins. Today Caspar was appearing as Model Teenager. I looked at him closely; it wasn't an act I wholly believed in any more. “I wasn't expecting you here,” I said.

“I've only come to nick a few fivers out of the collection plate.”

My mouth dropped open.

“I'm joking. God, lighten up.”

“Not a good day for jokes,” I replied.

He shrugged. I took it as an apology. “I thought you might need cheering up, you always tell me it was one of the few things I do best.”

“One of the many things you do, Caspar. Not few.”

He squinted at me.

I nodded, encouragingly. “One of the many,” I repeated. We crossed the road and stopped at the gate of the church. People were still arriving. Blacks, greys and navy blues. People stared distrustfully at my pink coat. Rose fiddled with Bobby's harness and silently passed him to me. I put him on my hip.

“I just wanted to make sure you were OK,” said Caspar, tickling the baby under his chin and immediately getting a smile. “I know Helen was one of your best friends. And I know you don't like doing these things alone.” He was talking like an adult, but he couldn't quite look me in the eye. It was easier to tickle Bobby under the chin. I'd been doing much the same for three days. I watched him take a deep breath and force himself to face me. “So, I'm here if you need an arm to lean on, but it looks like you've got your arms full.”

I took his arm before he managed to move away. “There's always room for you, my friend.”

“We are friends again, right, Tessa?”

“Right, Caspar. But there are conditions with friendships,” I said. “You don't steal off a friend, you don't lie—”

“You don't look through their things.”

“No, you don't and I'm very sorry about that. Let's say we're even. From now on I'll leave all the shitty stuff to your parents. They will love you no matter what; I, on the other hand, have limits.”

Caspar nodded.

“But it would be nice if you could give your mum a break, eh, Caspar?”

He exhaled loudly. “All right, all right, but even you've got to admit they're a pair of do-gooders, and sometimes it just gets up my nose.”

I forced my smile into a frown. “Come on, this baby is getting heavy.”

Rose came and stood next to me with Tommy.

“They look like the Sopranos,” said Caspar, eyeing the twins with blatant pity.

“They do not,” I exclaimed, covering Bobby's ears. “They're beautiful.”

Caspar just rolled his eyes at me and led me to the church.

It was packed. I walked in with Caspar on one side and Rose on my other. We carried our charges like armor. Every pew we walked past was full. People in somber suits craned their necks to have a look at us. At first I looked back, hoping to see a friendly face, but I didn't recognize anyone. No one I knew, anyway. There were newsreaders, journalists, comedians, television presenters—all of Marguerite's crowd. The crowd she loved, the crowd Neil aspired to, the crowd Helen never felt comfortable in. They were all there, in their funereal best. Proud in Helen's pink coat, I pushed up my chin and walked on. Caspar went and sat with his parents. When I took my place in the “family” pew, I looked down at Bobby. He was staring wide-eyed at me, his little lower lip jutting out and his brow furrowed.

“Hush, little one,” I whispered. “Everything is going to be all right, I promise you.” I kissed the soft folds of skin under his chin. Immediately he smiled. Children are amazing like that. Their emotions are fluid, they come and go. There is no harboring, no stagnation. That all comes later.

I opened the service sheet. After the second hymn was my bit. “Desiderata,” by Max Erhmann. It was the only thing Marguerite had conceded on. She wanted me to read something from Shakespeare. I adored Helen for many
reasons; her love of English literature was not one of them. An extract from a Jilly Cooper novel would have been more appropriate. But Marguerite was busy rewriting history and my input was not welcome. I only got “Desiderata” past the old witch because Helen had it framed by her dressing table. Marguerite had complained that it was too long. I told her it was either that or I said a few words myself. Funnily enough she accepted—the last thing she wanted was someone working off the script.

The music changed tempo and I knew the terrible moment had arrived. I turned in my seat. Four rows back, on the other side of the church, sat Ben and Sasha. Sasha blew me a kiss, Ben stared. I tried to smile, but I couldn't. I had no time to think because suddenly the doors were open, and there was Marguerite. Beside her was an elderly couple holding hands. They were small and wide and together. Marguerite was tall and thin and alone. Behind them were two coffins. Bobby could not see what I was seeing, but I shielded his eyes anyway, and rocked him gently side to side. His eyes started to close as if some sixth sense was telling him to vacate the premises, Tommy's too. I heard Marguerite take her place in front of us. Her heels clicked as they always had. Neil's parents didn't make a sound, but I saw Neil's mother looking towards the twins. I tried to smile, but I couldn't. Neil's mother. I hadn't thought about a mother. She looked devastated.

As the cortège passed our pew, I looked again. There may as well have been no coffin, so clearly did I see my friend lying inside. I'd been doing fairly well up until that point, but then I lost it. I didn't listen to a word the vicar said, though I'm sure it was all very sensitive; he'd christened their children so at least he had known them.

We stood and sang. I cried. Not noisily. Painfully. Rose tried to comfort me, but I was beyond comforting. I didn't want to be comforted. Bobby lay asleep in my arms, he didn't flinch when a tear landed on his cheek. I heard the door to the church open again, but didn't think to look around. I wasn't interested in latecomers. I just wanted the coffin lid to pop open and Helen to come bursting out and tell us that it had been a horrible joke. Maybe Neil was in on it too. That sort of dark humor was too avant-garde for him, but he might have been willing to try it out. Then again, maybe the joke was on him and Helen had in fact killed her husband.