Little Bits of Baby (33 page)

‘That's him. I saw him. I'm her driver. He's killed Candida Thackeray and I'm her driver. I saw them running here over the common. She told me to go for a cup of tea but I didn't want to so I saw them and I ran here too.'

Robin punched him. Just the once, but it did the trick and he sank onto the platform looking faintly surprised. It was the rush hour so all the while Robin had been waiting more and more people had been flooding down from the street. His flight was slow therefore, but the force of the crowds that slowed him slowed anyone on his tail too.

He caught a taxi at the traffic lights outside the station entrance. As always, the passing of the attack had left his mind unnaturally clear.

Forty-One

Jasper had been cleaned with Andrea's best shampoo and dusted with her special talcum powder. His hair shone and bounced and he smelt delicious but he was avoiding everyone's eye and she doubted he would be allowed to come again. She waited beneath her umbrella up on the pavement to accost his nanny with an explanation and had written a note to be passed on to Candida.

‘Are you Andrea Maitland?'

It was another Australian, a marked contrast to her predecessor in both the spectacular auburn of her hair and a kind of light that shone in her eyes. It was either glee or a terrific sense of mission.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm Tanya. Jasper's new nanny.'

‘Hello,' said Andrea and shook her hand, waiting for more.

‘Oh yes. Here's my ID.' She held up one of the Browne's headed postcards with a scribbled note from Jake on it.

‘Fine,' Andrea laughed. ‘Let's go and find him. I'm afraid he had a bit of a shock today. My son came to help with the art class and he and Jasper had a bit of a row and Jasper got paint all over him.'

‘Oh dear,' laughed the girl.

‘We've got him quite clean but he's bound to be a bit frightened. It was unforgiveable of Robin – that's my son – and I feel desperately responsible because I was out of the room at the time. I've written a note for Candida. Could you be sweet and pass it on?'

‘Of course.' Jasper was already waiting for them at the bottom of the area steps. ‘Hello, little J,' said Tanya.

Jasper said nothing, but merely held up his hand to be clasped by her. Peter came out behind two mothers and children. He was holding a bright yellow model of a church.

‘You forgot Willum, Jasper,' he said. Jasper wouldn't take it, so Tanya did and relieved Peter of the awkwardness with cunning exclamations at Jasper's achievement that seemed to be having their effect by the time they were clambering into their jeep.

‘Any more?' Andrea asked under her breath.

‘Just Rupert,' he muttered back ‘Ah, Grahame.' He held out an arm in welcome to Rupert's father. ‘There you are. Rupert's just coming. Filthy day, isn't it?'

Rupert was duly handed over and bid a happy weekend, as were the Señoritas Fernandez, who had done such sterling work with Jasper that a bottle of gin was stuffed into their pannier before they roared off to aerobics on their bike.

Alone with him at last, Andrea told Peter about the unexpected cheque from Marcus and her disappointment at the travel agents.

‘Well, let's go away anyway,' he said, ‘Just for the weekend.'

‘What? Now?'

‘Why not? Not the Caribbean, obviously, but somewhere.'

‘But we've so much shopping to do tomorrow. I was going to get you to drive me over to the cash-and-carry. I was onto the nut people in Kent and they said they can't get us anything before Thursday …'

‘Bugger the nut people,' he said, ‘and sod the cash-and-carry. Let's go away now. Let's go to Paris.'

‘We haven't booked.'

‘It's off-season. Let's just go to the airport and write a cheque to the first company that has anything. We could go to Dublin. You've always wanted to see Dublin.'

‘It's pouring with rain.'

‘So?'

She stood a moment, undecided between responsibility and gross self-indulgence.

‘Mmm?' he went.

She caught his eye, smiled and they began a noisy race upstairs to do their packing.

In the hall they came face to face with Robin who had just come in.

‘Hi, Dob,' said Peter, out of breath and sheepish. ‘I mean, Robin.'

‘Robin, darling, we just had this wild idea to run away somewhere for the weekend. Will you come?' Peter pinched her hand behind her back. She pinched back. Robin was looking anxiously over their heads. She wished he would meet her eye. ‘We thought Paris perhaps,' she went on, ‘or Dublin. Anywhere we can get a ticket to. We've just had a little windfall. We'll treat you.'

‘Oh, piss off will you, children,' he said after a moment and pushed past them onto the stairs. Brevity stayed in the hall and retreated beneath a chair.

‘Hey!' Peter shouted after him.

‘No,' she said quietly, pulling him back.

They heard him run into his room and tug his chest of drawers open. There was a terrible sound of breaking glass.

‘That's his mirror,' she said.

‘Thirteen years bad luck,' Peter muttered.

‘Don't be pathetic,' she heard herself cluck. ‘And don't just stand there waiting,' she said. ‘Go and see what's happening. He could have cut himself.' She snorted impatiently, ‘Oh, I'll go.'

‘No. Wait,' he hissed, tugging her back off the stairs. Robin came rushing down again with a bag.

‘Robin!' she called, breaking away to chase him to the front door.

‘Just piss off to Paris,' he called back. There was a taxi waiting for him. He jumped in and was carried off into the rain.

‘Peter?' She turned to him for help. ‘Peter, he's gone again! He had a bag. Can't we go after him?'

‘It's too late. We won't know which way he went. Maybe he's just gone for the weekend. He must have friends we don't know about. Maybe some friends of Faber's … Oh, look, don't cry.'

‘I can't help it,' she wailed.

‘Well, shut the door at least.'

‘Why should I shut the bloody door?' She wailed on, pulling it wider. She ran onto the top step and yelled into the rain, ‘I'm crying! I'm crying for my poor mad boy!'

She felt his arm warm round her shoulders and allowed herself to be led through the hall to the kitchen. He went to shut the door then came back in and poured them each a whisky.

‘Drink this,' he said.

She did as she was told, knocking it back. She remembered to cough so he wouldn't know how often she helped herself to the bottle. She noticed the glass in his hand.

‘Peter, you're drinking!'

‘Of course I'm bloody drinking,' he said then poured them each another. She drank her second glass in fast sips.

‘What shall we do now?' she asked. ‘We can't go to Paris now.'

‘We could go upstairs and change.'

‘Mmm.'

‘Let's go up and change, then.'

‘Yes. Do let's.'

They were just leaving the room when there was a knock at the back door. Andrea ran to open it. It was a very wet Faber and a slightly less soaked Iras. Iras had a mac on.

‘Look who it is,' said Andrea.

‘I rode on his bicycle basket,' said Iras. ‘We went incredibly fast. The rain felt great. Is that you, Peter?'

‘Yes.'

‘Hello.'

‘Hi. Long time no meet.' He ruffled her hair.

‘Where's Brevity?' she asked.

‘Upstairs, hiding,' he told her.

‘Faber come in,' Andrea called, ‘You're getting wetter by the second.' Faber stayed put.

‘Is Robin here?' he asked.

‘He's just gone. Faber, it was awful.'

‘I know. How do I get to Whelm?'

‘Train from Waterloo to Cloud Regis then a boat. You have to ask at the marina about those. They're pretty irregular.'

‘What makes you think he's gone there?' Peter asked.

‘Faber knows,' said Iras.

Faber laughed grimly at her.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Faber knows.' Andrea had run to find him a coat. She tossed him one Peter used to use in the garden. ‘Thanks,' he said, and started down to his bicycle again. ‘Oh yes,' he said, coming back. ‘If the police or anyone comes, you don't know anything and you haven't seen me. Robin's gone. That's all you know.'

‘The police?' gasped Andrea.

‘If you hurry you might catch him before he gets on the train,' said Peter. Faber sped away, and Peter shut the back door to keep out the rain.

‘You've both been drinking whisky,' said Iras. ‘I can smell it on your breaths.'

‘We felt we needed it,' said Andrea.

‘Could I have some? It's meant to be good for chills.'

‘Certainly not. I'll make you some cocoa. Give me your mac and dry yourself on this towel.'

She threw herself into heating milk for Iras's cocoa and finding something for their supper. Peter went upstairs to watch the news.

‘Hey!' he shouted down to them almost at once. ‘It's Candida.'

‘What's new?' Andrea shouted back.

‘Robin and Faber call her Candida Albicans,' said Iras. ‘What's thrush?'

‘No, she's not reading it,' Peter continued. ‘I mean it's about her. Come and see.'

Forty-Two

As though her mind were wading through deep, dark water, Candida became slowly aware of the smell of dirt and oil close by, then of an immense noise and then, in waves, of intense pain on the back of her head. She opened her mouth a little then shut it because of the dust. She tasted blood.

‘So, I'm not dead,' she thought.

Suddenly the noise increased, she had the terrible sensation of something large and black starting to move over her head and all at once she remembered she was lying under a train. She screamed blue murder. The nearby shouts redoubled and the movement overhead stopped.

‘I'm not dead,' she added for good measure and was pleased to discover that at least she could talk. Apart from the pain on her head she felt no particular discomfort, but she had often heard how one lost all feeling on the chewing-off of legs or arms during shark attacks. Presumably the principle was not so different concerning tube trains. She tried to picture a future as an intensely popular but utterly reclusive radio personality and, as if in panic, felt her toes wriggling.

‘Ms Thackeray, can you hear me?' some idiot shouted.

‘Yes,' she said, politely as she could.

‘Can you move at all?'

‘Not much. I don't think I've broken anything.'

Where's my bag? Christ, where's my bag? she thought, and felt wildly about her. Her fingers made contact with familiar battered suede and tugged it nearer. ‘And my hands work too,' she thought. ‘Praise be.'

‘Right-ho,' the idiot went on. ‘The thing is, the train's emergency brake has jammed at the back so we couldn't reverse it and get to you straight away.'

‘How long have I been here?'

‘Fifteen minutes or so. But someone's climbed into the tunnel and uncoupled the rest of the carriages from the front one so we can drive it forward and set you free.'

‘Can't I just crawl out?'

‘That's the trouble. You fell just on the wrong side of a concrete support. If you feel in front of you you should find a sort of wall.'

Candida felt and found.

‘Ah,' she said, thinking of rats and catching a preliminary whiff of hysteria. ‘So what do I do?'

‘Just get as low as you can and don't move an inch. You were very lucky to miss the conductor rail.'

‘Where is it?' she asked, panicking slightly.

‘To your left. The opposite side from the platform you fell off. Just stay put and we'll help you climb out in a second. OK?'

‘Fine.' Her voice shook involuntarily.

‘Just tell us when you're ready.'

‘Now seems as good a time as any.'

‘Pardon?'

‘Ready.'

‘Here goes then. Let's get this show on the road.'

Idiot, she thought. Star for a Day.

The darkness overhead began to shift again. Terrified, Candida shut her eyes tight. Then, over the noise of the train, she just made out the whirring of automatic cameras winding on their film.

Viewing figures, she thought, to distract her thoughts from pain. A Sunday supplement profile. She clutched the bag tighter to her. The train rolled clear and several fools jumped down to help her. She opened her eyes and saw a big crowd pressing up against a yellow Police cordon and no less than three television cameras trained on her. She pictured the studio boss's face, then herself treading on it. Leaning gracefully on someone's arm then heavily when she found that both her legs had gone to sleep, she allowed herself to be helped upright and borne to safety on an assortment of strong male hands. Her skirt rode up. She let it rise. A doctor jumped forward and started examining the back of her head.

‘Who was he?' shouted someone.

‘Did he push you or did you push him?'

‘What was the story you were after in Clapham, Ms Thackeray?'

‘It was a suicide attempt,' someone else shouted. ‘We have witnesses. Who was he, Ms Thackeray? Why did he want to die?'

‘Poor Dob,' she sighed. Then she saw her blood on a cloth that someone had dabbed to the back of her head and felt her long legs give way. As they lifted her onto a stretcher and bore her to a waiting ambulance she felt somone take her hand and heard Jake say,

‘Candida. Thank God you're all right!'

A chorus followed.

‘Quick. It's the husband.'

‘What does he do?'

‘Did you know the man, Mr Thackeray?'

‘He's called Browne, idiot.'

She squeezed the hand back and flattened her tongue on the roof of her mouth to make her chin look firmer.