Torn (53 page)

It was only Jessica who was worried by Danny's absence.

‘Shouldn't someone be looking for him?' she interrupted.

‘Oh, for fuck's sake! Just chill!' Imogen exclaimed. ‘He's a big boy … supposed to be a grown up. He has every right to walk off on his own. I fucking sympathise. The last few hours have been an excruciating fucking nightmare! When I called it Cold Comfort Farm I was joking! But the reality's worse. Fucking Starkadders sprung to life! If it hadn't been fucking raining I'd have been fucking tempted to escape myself!'

‘Not same thing at all, my treasure. You just weren't enjoying self. He's just found out father not fucking father!'

‘You don't think he might do himself harm, Piers?'

Imogen laughed, ignoring Jessica's concern. ‘You mean father not fucking mother at time of conception! Some other fucker servicing her! But the best bit … even though he knew Danny wasn't his, Ted left the whole caboodle to the bastard! What a hoot! I always knew you peasants were weird!'

‘Imo, shut up!' Piers said without any rancour in his tone. ‘Don't think so, Jessica. Obvious shock. Probably gone to Earl's.'

‘Eddie Earl is his father, isn't he? I noticed the likeness straight off, thought he must be an uncle.'

‘More obvious now Plank's put on six-inch spurt and cut off dreads and wispy whiskers.'

‘If you all knew …?' She glanced across at the man who was sitting opposite, cupping the almost half-full wine glass in his palm. He'd contributed nothing to this conversation so far, but his eyes had barely left her face. ‘Even you, James, why has no one ever told him this before?'

‘Hardly
my
responsibility, Jess.'

‘Responsibility Dad's,' Piers said. ‘Or mine. Agree. Looks stupid from outside. But inside? Big age gap … when to sit down with baby bro and tell him something like that? ‘Specially when own mother hates sight of him.'

‘But why did she hate him? He was her child. He needed more love, not less!'

Piers shrugged and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Who comprehends female psychology?'

‘Come on! You can't put this onto a male, female, gender politics thing!'

Piers smiled. ‘Guilty conscience?'

‘But how did it happen?' Jessica sighed. ‘Sorry. You probably don't know, and why should it matter?'

‘Not gory details, needless to say. Families friendly one time. Earl had problems reading … these days probably classed dyslexic. Mum offered help.'

Jessica's attention sharpened. Dyslexia?

‘And judging by today he was a good-looking brute,' said Imogen. ‘Bet Constance wouldn't have offered lessons if he'd been ugly.'

‘Wouldn't know. Earl about ten years younger … she early forties, he early thirties … bit smitten. Admiration plus attraction. Bingo.'

‘You never caught them at it, did you, Piers?' Imogen asked eagerly.

‘No. Went on few months, no more than six. Don't know how far he got with his reading. But no doubt she suffered. Period in life she converted. Her way of fighting her feelings for the bloke, but feelings won. Lust first. Then guilt. Shame, because Earl not her equal … eventually, disgust that she fell pregnant!'

‘A pregnancy she couldn't terminate because she'd just accepted Catholicism. Ergo … the child had to be a judgement … or a punishment. Wow! What a mess. There's a lesson for us all in there somewhere!' Imogen said with relish.

Piers nodded. ‘Steer clear religion, methinks!'

How long ago was it when Jessica had delivered Rory to school then turned the car towards the Forest of Dean. As she lay in bed, listening to the rain and the hollow echoing tick of the grandfather clock, she tried to do the calculation. It felt like a fortnight but she'd only been here sixteen hours. Was Danny back yet? Had he stayed with the Earls? She was wide awake now; the fact she'd apparently managed at least an hour's sleep gave her no confidence that any more would be forthcoming. Tick. Tick. Tick. If she could only reassure herself that Danny was home safe it would be easier to cope with the wakefulness. Tick. Tick. Tick. With no contingency plan for what she would do if she found the sitting room empty she threw back the heavy wad of blankets and reached for her dressing gown.

Chapter Thirty-one

During the evening she had grown used to the fog of cigarette smoke but hours later, re-entering the closed room, the stale, acrid scent hit her afresh. There were no lights on, but the gas fire still flickered on a low setting, just as it had been left, to keep the chill off the room. At once Jessica was disappointed. There was no sign of occupation. But as she moved forward the sofa creaked and in the low, faintly rosy glow she saw a silhouetted figure sit up from his slumped position against the sofa arm.

‘Jess?' The utterance was more like a sigh than her name. Relief flooded her; only then did she fully apprehend the degree of her anxiety.

‘You're here!'

He held out his hands to her and she gripped them and sat down beside him.

‘Did you go to the Earls?'

‘No. They're early birds. They'd not have been too pleased to have me pitch up at their place so late at night.'

‘Where did you go? I was really worried!'

‘Were you?' He shook his head, as if this possibility had not occurred to him. ‘I just walked about. Up the hill, sat on the rock. Jess … I don't know who I am any more.' His pain thudded through her. She squeezed his hands again. Nothing she could say would be adequate to his need, but she had to try.

‘You are you. Nothing can change that. All that's changed is your knowledge of your genetic inheritance. At least you had a dad in every meaningful sense. I've never known who my father is and these days don't particularly care.'

‘I don't know what to do.'

‘You can do what you like!' she responded brightly. ‘According to your … your dad's will, the farm is yours now, Danny! Piers is executor, he'll sort out the legalities. You can be a farmer! Your own boss! Everything else you heard this evening … well, there's nothing
to
do, is there? It's a knowledge you'll just have to find a way of coming to terms with.'

‘Kind of explains a few things.' His hand came up abruptly to his face. He rubbed his eyes. ‘But I still love him – loved him.'

‘Of course you did. And he loved you, obviously. Why else would he have left you the farm? He might not have been a perfect parent. Few of us are. Perhaps he could have stood up for you more, protected you more, but that's the past. You've a brand new challenge to face.'

‘Yeah. That's what worries me.'

‘It is scary! It would scare anyone, but I know you're brave. You'll be fine. And everything will look better in the morning.'

‘Will it?'

‘Promise.' But despite her reassuring words his head drooped. ‘Danny, please. Talk to me. Off-load whatever you want to off-load. I don't have any answers or instant solutions but I'm sure it will help you to talk. Just think of me as a sponge. If you can say what you feel it might help.'

‘Tired,' he said, after a moment, then lay back down against the sofa arm. ‘Feel fucking tired.' She dragged the sleeping bag out of its taut, sausage shaped container. Once it was unzipped she shook it vigorously; it expanded to twice its previous thickness, and she draped it over him like a duvet. Then, in the dim room, and against the gas fire's hiss, he began to talk about his childhood; Jessica sat on the floor beside him.

Despite his claim to be feeling tired he talked sporadically for a long time. Sometimes he seemed to doze, sometimes she thought she had. At around four in the morning Jessica started awake and wondered why she was still sitting cramped on the floor, every joint aching. Stiffly she got to her feet and looked down. She didn't want to leave him but if he was sleeping soundly there was nothing to prevent her going back to bed. Danny appeared to be asleep, but as she bent to kiss his cheek, just as she would have done if he'd been Rory, he turned his face and she kissed his mouth as well. His lips were warm and dry under hers, and though scarcely detectable there was a definite, if drowsy response.

As she lay down beside him he roused sufficiently to accommodate her body next to his; they wrapped their arms about each other. At some point in the next few hours she awoke hot and constricted. It was OK to take off her dressing gown, she reasoned sleepily, she was wearing a perfectly respectable night shirt, and he was still fully clothed. She also turned off the fire; but she couldn't persuade herself not to return to the sofa.

When she woke again to the dim light of morning it took a nanosecond to recall whose neck her face was pressed against. Impossible to resist that humid patch of sweet-smelling skin, just above the double row of wooden beads. Danny, it seemed, was already awake. And just one sleepy, unpremeditated kiss was taken as permission.

Instantly she was captivated, enslaved, drawn into this other world which temporarily blanked all else, focused solely on the pure, unmediated sensation of one mouth against another. Yet the tasting, the touching of tongues, the breathing in of the other's breath felt new and exquisite. Had she been able to think objectively, she might have questioned why a sexually experienced woman of the world should be getting such a high from so simple a pleasure. Was it a reversion to those early teenage years, when snogging was all you did? And it was as much her as Danny who perpetuated it; she arched her throat for him and didn't care if he marked her again. Under the unzipped sleeping bag his hand moved up her thigh to her buttock.

A voice, ‘Oh my God!'

Heavy against the sofa cushion, Jessica's head rolled drunkenly away from Danny's. Half expecting the voice to have been some kind of hallucination, she found herself looking up at an inverted Imogen.

‘Fuck! I'm sorry! I didn't realise! I forgot anyone would be in here. I wasn't expecting … I need my bag, my Blackberry. Got to get into fucking work. I'm sorry, Jess … um, Danny.' She scuffled about beside the armchair, apparently found what she wanted, and was gone in seconds with more garbled apologies. The kissing had taken place in that dreamy half world between sleeping and waking. But now the light was improving all the time and since the shock of the interruption there was no more excuse for keeping eyes closed and almost convincing herself this was not real. For the first time that morning she looked him in the eyes.

‘Hi, Jess.'

‘Hello, Danny.' Why was she so helpless to resist her impulses? And now there was a witness to her weakness. Unlikely that Imogen would be discreet. Yet there was a small frisson of pleasure in so evidently surprising, even embarrassing a woman who liked to promote a hard-boiled, ‘seen it all' version of herself. How long would it take before both Piers and James knew Jess had shared the sofa with Danny last night? And there was no question Imogen would make it sound worse than it actually was. Did it matter?

Upstairs Jessica returned to Danny's room where she'd tried to sleep the previous night. While he was in the bathroom she opened the window a little and looked out at the countryside. It had stopped raining; directly below the window Imogen's car had been brought round and reversed close to the front door. She turned and looked at the bed, the covers tossed back the way she'd left it. Everyone had their weaknesses didn't they – be they booze, fags, or food – and everyone gave in sometimes. Guilt was a useless emotion; self-recrimination was wasteful of emotional energy. The wrong would be in allowing this to continue. That would be self-indulgent and stupid. If she didn't want to pursue it she knew what she had to do – resist the temptation and get dressed.

Less than ten minutes later he reappeared in the bedroom wrapped in a towel, rubbing his damp hair with a corner of it, and carrying the clothes he'd slept in. When he saw her on the bed his eyes widened. He closed the door firmly behind him; there was no key. He sat beside her and took hold of the hand she held out.

‘What are you doing, Jess?'

‘Just thinking.'

‘About?'

‘You.'

He began to stroke her short hair. The towel fell to his waist. His skin, still lightly dewed from the shower, looked all the paler in contrast to the dark beads around his throat. Did they never come off?

‘I've been thinking. We've already got the reputation, so …?'

There was neither surprise, nor gloating triumph in his face, but his hand became still against her head. He stared deep into her eyes, apparently looking for confirmation.

‘So, why not commit the crime?' He stooped closer. ‘I've got condoms, but … it doesn't seem right, at a time like this?'

‘At a time like this, love is the most natural thing in the world.'

‘Love?' He latched on to the word.

‘Sharing love. Making love.' She looped her arms around his neck and drew him down. But after a moment he pulled back.

‘Jess?' he whispered. ‘This isn't out of pity, is it? I couldn't bear to think you were just feeling sorry for me?'

‘I don't do anything I don't want to.' It might not be a complete answer but it was sufficient. Their bodies came together eagerly; the sweet, gentle kissing of earlier now ravenous. Her hands dragged at the towel which partially wrapped him, his at her night-shirt, only needing to push it up out of the way. And yet this was a new Danny, a more assured Danny, a Danny with condoms in his wallet. He hadn't just gained muscle over the summer; he'd gained experience. When the moment came he rolled on the sheath without her assistance and by the time he entered her she was aching for him. Yet it was only after he'd reached his climax that she realised something was wrong. Her eyes had been closed for some moments, but now, as she gradually re-focused on the world, she saw his face convulse. She knew this was not a delayed spasm of sexual ecstasy.