A Hallowed Place (29 page)

He carried on talking all the way to the house, unaware that he was doing so, his mind flitting from thought to thought, unable to fix on anything. He did not care to think much at the moment. At least he would have Oliver for company today, something to focus on, a reason for living. Each day seemed painfully empty of such reasons.

Rachel drove the fifteen miles to Bath, forcing herself to think about her mother, something which she usually avoided doing. The weight of guilt was heavy. She thought about the woman her mother had been when Rachel was a little girl - slim, pretty, fairly quiet but cheerful and affectionate in an absent-minded kind of way. She remembered murmurings among her aunts about her mother having had ‘a difficult time’ when Rachel was born, so Rachel had always supposed this to be the reason why her mother had had no more children. Rachel, even then, had felt herself in some vague way responsible for making her mother suffer - though how, she did not know. But the mother of her childhood had been transformed by the events of Rachel’s adolescence. Even as she drove, Rachel found herself physically flinching at the recollection of her mother’s tearful anger, the shouting, the blame, when Rachel had finally summoned up the courage to tell a teacher at school about what her father had been doing to her. Then the awful blackness of that time, being disbelieved, then believed, her father going to prison and out of her life for ever. She had never wanted that.

Rachel found her face wet with tears as she took herself back to the pain and difficulty of those days, about which she so rarely thought and never spoke. She had told no one except Leo. Oh, God, Leo … How much he had helped, how much he had done to restore her faith and her belief in people - and then how utterly he had undone all that with his lies and deceit. She wiped the tears quickly away, but still they came, blurring her vision. She could look back now, she realised, and understand why her mother had been so angry, why she had blamed Rachel for everything that had happened, rather than her husband. She could trace now, in her memory of all the things her mother had called her, the tracks of her mother’s own shame and guilt. Had she known what was happening and ignored it? Rachel had always wondered about that. It had not been a question she could ask. After her father had gone to jail, the lines of communication went dead between Rachel and her mother. Oh, they had an outward relationship, they spoke of mundane matters, life went drearily on, her mother still made her packed lunch every day, ironed her school blouses, saw to it that Rachel was fed and clothed. But from that time, Rachel had been alone.

Why, she wondered now as she drove, had she clung to the pathetic remnants of their relationship? When she had left home to go to university, she could have cut her ties, left her mother behind her. After all, she didn’t feel her mother wanted her any more, or regarded her as anything more than a reminder of shameful events, but somehow Rachel had never managed to do it. She still sent birthday and Christmas cards, she still made the occasional - very
occasional - visit with Oliver. Not that her mother seemed to welcome these visits, or ever acknowledged the cards. So why did she do it? Why did she send out these forlorn little signals? Was she waiting for forgiveness? Possibly. Like every child who is the victim, but still feels itself to be the perpetrator, the culprit, she was constantly apologising. That was why she was driving to the hospital now.

When she arrived, Rachel was shown to the coronary care unit, where her mother lay in bed, oddly small and insignificant among the paraphernalia of monitors and drips and bedside equipment. She was unconscious, but Rachel could see the slight rise and fall of her thin chest as she breathed, and a little blip ran with bright regularity across the monitor screen.

‘The doctor knows you’re here. He’ll be along in a minute,’ said a nurse.

Rachel sat down at the bedside and stared at her mother, not sure what to feel or do. Her mother’s hand, with a patch of white tape holding the drip in place, lay on the bedspread, and Rachel felt she should touch it, hold it. But she had no wish to. She couldn’t remember how long it was since she had touched her mother. So she sat gazing at her mother’s face, trying to think about nothing.

The doctor came after twenty minutes.

‘Your mother has had a massive heart attack,’ he told her. ‘She’s very unstable, I’m afraid.’

‘So - so what is likely to happen?’

‘Well, we’re doing everything we can, but the chances of stabilising her aren’t very good, I have to tell you. There is a risk that she may have another heart attack
within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.’

Rachel nodded. ‘I see. Can I stay with her?’

‘Of course. There’s a relatives’ rest room just down the corridor, where you can make tea and coffee.’

They spoke for a few more minutes, then he left. Rachel looked at her watch. It was half past eleven. She gazed helplessly at her mother, wishing she felt more, guilty that she did not. She must stay, that much she knew. However little life her mother had left, it was all eternity to her. She might wake up and, if she did, she would be frightened. Rachel couldn’t leave her alone.

She sat there for several long hours. Occasionally her mother stirred, and once she seemed to mutter something, but it was indistinct. The little pulse of light blipped over and over on the screen. Twice Rachel went to make tea in the rest area, and in the middle of the afternoon she purchased a sandwich from a vending machine. At five o’clock she realised that she would have to ring Leo. She took her mobile phone from her handbag, then hesitated. Wasn’t there something about not using mobile phones in hospitals, in case they interfered with the equipment? She went in search of a pay phone and rang the house at Stanton, and was relieved when Leo replied. She explained what had happened and where she was.

‘The thing is, I can’t leave her. The doctor seems to think she might not last the night out. Oliver will have to stay with you. He’s got no pyjamas, but I did put a change of clothes in with his things - Oh, has he? Well, he’ll just have to make do with those tomorrow. How many nappies have you got? I suppose he can do without cleaning his teeth
for one night … Can I speak to him for a minute?’ Leo put Oliver on the phone and Rachel talked to him, finding comfort in his incoherent bubbles of noise. Then she spoke to Leo again. ‘I feel so guilty, Leo. Something in me just wants all this to hurry up. How can I feel like that? It’s her
life
, after all. But I just can’t help this awful feeling of impatience. And pity, I suppose. Anyway, look after Oliver for me. I’ll call you again when - well, if anything changes.’

Rachel hung up and wandered back to her mother’s room. On the way she passed the hospital shop and paused, wondering if it would be some awful betrayal to buy something to read, just to relieve the tedium of the hours. She bought a paperback, went back to the coronary care unit, and sat and read, and waited.

‘You shouldn’t go out. It’s getting too dark,’ said Felicity, glancing out of the window at the gathering dusk. ‘Well, cabbies have to drive in the bleeding dark, don’t they?’ Vince pulled on his jacket and took the bike keys from a shelf. ‘How am I ever going to get this knowledge done unless I put in the hours?’

‘You could have gone out earlier, when it was daylight, ‘stead of sitting around watching television.’

‘Yeah, well, that was an important match, that was.’

‘And you’ve been drinking.’

‘Couple of cans doesn’t count as drinkin’, Fliss. Anyway, I’ll be back later. Then we can have a takeaway.’

‘All right,’ sighed Felicity. ‘Take care.’

Vince went out of the flat and down the two flights of stairs to the street. He fetched his bike from the lock-up where he kept it two streets away and sped off, his list of routes clipped to the board in front of him.

It was only when he reached Shaftesbury Avenue that it occurred to Vince that perhaps half past five on a Saturday evening wasn’t the best time to be navigating and memorising a route from the National Gallery to Wembley Stadium. The traffic was infuriatingly slow as he wove his way round buses and between lines of cars. He slewed left into a side street, almost running into a little knot of pedestrians blocking his way. Vince revved and swore at them, and they fell back. He was about to head off up the street when suddenly he felt someone kick the back of his bike, not once, but twice, and shout a few obscenities at him. Vince stopped and looked round at two youths who were eyeing him aggressively. Stepping off the bike, he walked back to them.

‘You kick my bike? You—’ He jabbed one of the youths in the chest with the fingers of one hand. ‘You fucking kicked my bike, didn’t you?’

‘What if I did? You’re asking for it, you are. You own the road, or what? Me and my mate was walking there.’

The youth’s mate was looking uncertainly at Vince, sizing him up, hoping there wasn’t going to be trouble. Vince and the youth began pushing and shoving, swearing at one another. A few pedestrians slowed down to witness the altercation. After that, everything moved very suddenly. Vince hit the youth, who tried to punch him back but only managed to connect with Vince’s helmet, and the next thing the boy was on the ground. Still enraged, Vince swung a foot at his head and kicked the youth viciously so that he fell back, his head hitting the side of the pavement with a sickening crunch. The blood that flowed astonished even
Vince. The boy’s mate launched himself at Vince, but some people had already grabbed Vince, pinning his arms behind him to restrain him and a man was kneeling beside the youth on the pavement, shouting for someone to get an ambulance. The next ten minutes, for Vince, were a blur of people and voices and flashing police lights. He watched the boy he had kicked being stretchered into an ambulance and was aware of two policemen talking to excited witnesses from the crowd.

One of the policemen turned to where Vince was still being held by onlookers. ‘Come on, son,’ he said, taking Vince by the elbow and leading him towards the police car.

‘Hold on - what about my bike? That’s my bike there. I can’t just leave it!’

‘We’ll take care of it, don’t you worry,’ replied the policeman, glancing at Vince’s bike and noticing the board marked out with the city routes. ‘Doing the knowledge, are you? I’m afraid you’ve damaged your chances there a bit.’ He shook his head in mock sympathy.

‘What you on about?’ Vince tried to shake off the policeman’s grip as he got into the back of the car.

‘You go down on a charge of GBH, son, and I’m afraid the Public Carriage Office have to be informed. Then that’s that. They don’t like their cabbies to have records for violent crime, do they? And you can see their point.’

Vince said nothing, feeling his insides shrivelling into a small, nerveless ball. He threw one last glance at his bike lying by the side of the road as the police car drove off.

Rachel sat with her mother throughout the night. She tried to read, but found herself constantly glancing at the
monitors, then at every slight rise and fall of her mother’s chest. Towards morning she dozed in the chair, and woke up with a stiff back and a headache. She went to the rest area to make herself some coffee and stood at the window watching the grey light filtering across the rooftops, listening to the sounds of the hospital preparing for the day. She wondered whether Oliver was awake and whether Leo had taken him into bed with him, the way he used to when he was a tiny baby, when it had been the three of them.

She went back slowly to the coronary care unit, then stopped in the doorway. A group of people were standing round her mother’s bed. She could tell from their voices and movements that an urgent moment had just passed. She glanced at the dead monitor screen, then walked in.

The doctor who had spoken to her earlier turned to her. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Davies. Your mother had another attack. It was very sudden. We couldn’t resuscitate her.’

Rachel nodded at the doctor, her face expressionless. She felt totally blank. Then she sat down next to the bed where her mother lay and suddenly, in the tiredness which overwhelmed her, she found she could do what was expected of her, and wept.

Half an hour later she drove to the street where her mother lived, a row of modest terraced houses with tiny front gardens, and rang the bell of Mrs Munby’s house. Mrs Munby came to the door in dressing gown and hairnet. Rachel apologised for disturbing her so early and told her the news of her mother’s death. After much tut-tutting and sympathy, Mrs Munby handed over Mrs Dean’s keys, and
Rachel went next door and let herself into the house. In the little living room a copy of the
Radio Times
still lay open on the arm of a chair and a cigarette, presumably her mother’s last, had burnt itself out in a brass ashtray in a long and. perfect cylinder of grey ash. The dishes from her mother’s evening meal still sat in the sink in the kitchen. Rachel washed them, dried them and put them away. She could bear to do no more for the moment, she decided. Were there things to do, like cancelling milk and papers, and so on? Perhaps, but her tired mind couldn’t face the thought of them right now. She went into the hallway, sat down on the stairs, and took out her phone to call Leo and tell him she would be with him and Oliver in a couple of hours.

By the time she reached Stanton, the early November sun had burnt away the mist, leaving a perfect autumn day, soundless, bright and beautiful. Rachel parked her car on the gravel driveway and sat for a moment, looking at the house, remembering the first time she had come here, the haven it had been. She had been so much in love with Leo that anything of his possessed a special enchantment, but even without him she would have loved this place. She got out of the car and went to the front door, hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked round to the back door. She came into the kitchen and found a scene of domestic tranquillity: Oliver sitting in his high chair eating toast and butter, Leo cooking breakfast.

He glanced up as she came in, mildly startled. ‘I didn’t hear your car.’

Rachel went over to Oliver, who put up small, buttery
hands as she bent to kiss him. He grabbed a hank of her hair. ‘Ow! Oliver!’ She laughed and gently disengaged his hands from her hair. She turned to Leo. ‘How has it been?’

‘Terrific. Having him for the night was a real bonus. We’ve had a great time - haven’t we, Oliver?’

By way of reply Oliver carefully dropped his toast on to the floor, leaning over the table of his high chair to watch it fall.

‘You look worn out,’ said Leo, glancing at Rachel. ‘There’s some coffee on. Would you like a cup?’

She nodded and took off her coat, then sat down at the kitchen table. She saw that Leo was frying bacon and eggs, and suddenly felt ravenously hungry. ‘I’d love some breakfast, too, if it isn’t too much trouble.’

‘Okay.’ Leo poured her some coffee and put some toast on.

He brought two plates over and sat down, and they ate. Rachel talked for a little while about her night at the hospital, then fell silent. She sipped her coffee and looked thoughtfully at Leo.

‘I still can’t get used to that beard.’

‘It’s a little itchy. I may shave it off. I think Oliver likes it, though.’ Leo stretched out a hand to Oliver, who grabbed it and kicked manfully in his high chair. Leo lifted the boy out and sat him on his lap.

Rachel gazed at the two of them, then asked quietly, ‘What’s been going on?’

‘Mmm?’

‘The beard, the way you look, the way you - Oh, I don’t know. Something’s happened. I could tell when you came
to pick him up, all that stuff about having a few days off.’ Leo said nothing, clapping Oliver’s pudgy hands together between his own, his blue eyes distant and thoughtful. ‘Has it anything to do with that boy who answered the phone at your flat? I’ve forgotten his name.’

Joshua. The word formed itself in Leo’s mind, but he couldn’t say it. He replied with an effort, ‘A little. He left. I didn’t want him to. But he left.’ Rachel was conscious of the pain it still gave her to know he could love other men, but not her. ‘And I’ve just become rather - rather disenchanted with life in general.’ He gave a bleak smile. ‘I came down here to get away from myself.’

Rachel cupped her chin in her hands. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘To get away from me. Leo Davies, the barrister who lives in Belgravia, who has such a wonderfully successful legal practice and a whole host of distinguished clients and friends, and who seduces young men on the quiet, and who completely managed to screw up his application for access to his own son as a result.’ He shook his head. ‘It was like some bizarre comedy sketch. There I was, doing my best to impress these two nerds from social services, or wherever they breed these people, trying to convince them that I lead a blameless life and that Oliver couldn’t wish for a better place to stay on his weekends off, when my ex-lover came to the door. To collect his belongings.’ Oliver wriggled down from Leo’s knee and began to busy himself with his toys on the kitchen floor. Rachel noticed the whiteness of Leo’s knuckles as he clasped his hands together. ‘It was my last chance, you see. Or I thought it was. I begged him to stay.
I utterly abased myself. And these welfare people watched it all.’ He smiled a thin smile. ‘Which I should think just about completely buggers up my chances, wouldn’t you say?’ Leo stood up. ‘More coffee?’

Rachel had no idea what to say. She watched as Leo poured coffee into her cup, then was suddenly aware of her mind taking a sharp dip, of blackness coating her vision for a few seconds. She wondered if she was about to faint. ‘Leo,’ she said, ‘I think I need to lie down.’ She closed her eyes.

‘Are you all right?’

She opened her eyes and shook her head to clear it. ‘Just utterly exhausted. I haven’t slept all night.’

‘Go up and have a nap. Oliver and I have things to do. We’ll go and get the papers, then after lunch I’ll take him for a walk. There are some horses down the road that he likes to feed.’

‘All right. Thanks.’ Rachel rose and went upstairs. She paused on the landing. Through the open door she could see Leo’s enormous bed, the one that she had always refused to sleep in, rumpled and unmade, Oliver’s toy elephant lying on the covers. She went in, kicked off her shoes, got into bed and pulled up the covers. Breathing in the smell of Leo, she fell asleep in minutes.

The sound of Oliver crying woke Rachel some hours later. She blinked, uncertain where she was at first. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost four o’clock. The light outside was fading. She’d been asleep for nearly six hours. She got out of bed and went downstairs.

Oliver was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, screaming, while Leo knelt in front of him and tugged at his Wellingtons.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Rachel. She leant past Oliver to her bag on the end of the banisters and fished in it for a hairbrush.

‘I can’t persuade him that he should take off his muddy Wellingtons when he comes into the house,’ said Leo in exasperation. ‘There.’ He got the second boot off, and stood up with them in his hand. Oliver lay back on the stairs and roared. ‘Cry away, my man. These are going to the back door.’

‘What’s the problem with a little mud?’ asked Rachel, shrugging.

‘A little mud? They’re covered in cow shit.’ He glanced up at Rachel as he crossed the hall and thought, fleetingly, how beautiful she always managed to look, even when she’d just woken up.

Rachel put down the hairbrush and picked up Oliver, then padded barefoot into the drawing room with him. She sat down on a sofa, cuddling him. The room was cosy, a large fire burning in the grate, the Sunday papers scattered in a heap on the floor near Oliver’s toys.

Leo came into the room and switched on a couple of lamps, drawing the curtains against the gathering dusk. He began to tidy up the papers. ‘What about a drink?’ he asked Rachel.

‘Thanks. I think I’ll have a small brandy. It’s that kind of day. And I feel like something revivifying.’ She yawned and kissed the top of Oliver’s head. He snuffled away the last of his tears and began to suck his thumb.

‘Aren’t you having one?’ she asked, as Leo handed her a glass.

He shook his head and sat down in an armchair opposite.
‘I’ve rather been punishing the stuff in the last few weeks. Thought it was about time I gave it a rest.’

Silence fell. A log in the grate slipped, loosing a little shower of crackling sparks.

Rachel felt the warmth of the brandy lifting her spirits. A memory of the hospital came to her and she pushed it aside. She didn’t want to think of her mother now. That would come later. ‘This is good,’ she remarked after a while.

‘The brandy? Yes, it’s rather rare stuff. Some client—’

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I meant being here. Just the three of us. You and me and Oliver.’ A sudden sense of the importance of this moment touched Rachel, a realisation that this was the last chance she would ever have to try and salvage what was left of their relationship. Mad and hopeless though she knew it to be, she had to speak. ‘If we could be together like this all the time, you wouldn’t have to worry about access to Oliver, and all that business. The person you are, the one you described earlier - you don’t have to be like that, you know.’