Dance While You Can (29 page)

A month or so later I was busy with the organisation of the charity bazaar in the village hall. Edward had been in London for days, but on the morning of the bazaar he returned, proudly announcing that he was sending Jeffrey back up to London to collect a lorry-load of saleable bits and pieces he’d managed to wheedle out of friends in the art world.

Christine went into action to help with the last minute arrangements. By now we were all convinced she was conducting a secret love affair, for she flew off to Cairo as regularly as the rest of us went up to London. At the same time I had noticed that David was becoming very friendly with a neighbour, Jenifer Illingworth, whose husband had run off a year ago with another woman.

‘Why don’t we invite Jenifer up to the house for dinner tonight?’ Christine whispered in my ear. I was so startled that she had actually spoken to me by choice that, for a moment, I could only stare at her.

It was settled. Jenifer said she would love to come, and I laughed as I saw the pained expression on David’s face. He knew two matchmaking women when he saw them.

The bazaar was an unprecedented success, for which Edward accepted the credit with outrageous immodesty. ‘And things seem to be better between you and Christine,’ he said, as we were dressing for dinner later.

‘I think you could be right,’ I admitted. I was still cautious, though.

‘Good. I hoped it would work out once . . .’ He didn’t finish, and when I looked up he seemed intent on trying to cover the bald spot at the back of his head. I took the brush from him, and he leaned back in the chair and watched his reflection as I pampered him. ‘Aaah, Elizabeth,’ he sighed, after a while, ‘what kind of life is it for you, cooped up here with two crusty old men, trying to hide their bald spots and matching them up with abandoned women?’

Despite the lightness of his tone I could tell he was troubled about something. Putting my arms round his neck I met his eyes in the mirror. ‘It’s a wonderful life,’ I said. ‘And you’re two wonderful, crusty old men. Now what is it, Edward? What’s on your mind?’

He turned round in his chair, and taking the hairbrush from me he put it on the dressing table. I knelt down in front of him and slipped my hands in his.

‘You always could read me so well,’ he said.

I felt a flash of irritation at the pride in his voice that we knew each other so well.

‘I wasn’t going to tell you now,’ he began, ‘but I suppose it’s as good a time as any. It’ll give you a chance to think it over, anyway.’ He seemed reluctant to go on.

‘Is it something to do with Christine?’ I prompted.

‘Not really. Well, in a way I suppose it is. It’s got something to do with all of us, but mainly the children.’

My heart gave a sickening lurch.

‘No, don’t worry,’ he patted my hand, ‘it’s nothing awful. I’ve talked it over with Christine and David, and they agree it would be for the best, too. Well, Christine was against it at first, but once I’d assured her it wouldn’t change anything as far as she was concerned – in my will, that is – she saw the sense of it. And now, just as I’d hoped, things are getting better between the two of you because of it. So you see, it could be a good thing.’

‘What could be a good thing, Edward?’

He looked at me blankly, then laughed as he realised he’d told me nothing. ‘I’m sorry. And I hope you won’t mind that I talked to David and Christine first, but I suppose I needed to know if I was doing the right thing. Well, I always thought it was the right thing, but I didn’t know how you would take it.’

I smiled. ‘And you still won’t, if you don’t tell me what it is.’

‘It’s Charlotte and Jonathan. I want to adopt them, Elizabeth.’

I stared at him, feeling myself go suddenly cold.

He rushed on. ‘I think it would be best all round. You know, if legally they were mine. I have no heirs, and when the time comes I’d like to provide for them properly. I want to be their father, Elizabeth. Their real father.’

I still couldn’t speak. I looked down at my hands and saw that they were still entwined in his. I pulled them away and suddenly I wanted to scream at him. How could he be so stupid! How could he even think I would let him have Alexander’s children?

‘I waited ’til now to see if you would change your mind and decide to go back to their father. God, Elizabeth, if you only knew what I’ve . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re still here, and that you seem happier. I think you want to stay. And if you do, then I want us to be a real family. Can we be that, darling? Can I be their father?’

I stood up slowly, not trusting myself to speak – and Edward talked on and on, his words hitting me like stones.

I didn’t go down to dinner that night. I sat in my room, holding myself, sure that if I let go I would fall apart. I needed Alexander then as I had never needed him before. I wanted him to tell me that I didn’t have to do it, that they were his children, and that nothing and no one should ever divide us. But he wasn’t there, and Edward was asking, and how could I deny him when he had done so much for me? How would I find the words to say no, he couldn’t have Alexander’s children? And then, with a tremendous sense of relief, it occurred to me that I wouldn’t have to. As they were Alexander’s children, surely Alexander would have to give his permission for the adoption to go ahead, and I knew that was something he would never do.

It was then that I started upon a mindless exercise of self-torture. I told Edward I needed some time to think, and went to stay at our London house, alone.

It was a bitterly cold March night. The taxi dropped me at the corner of Belgrave Square, and through the drizzling rain I searched the imposing houses for the right number. When I found it my courage failed. Crossing the road quickly, I tucked myself in tightly against the railings and pulled my fur hat down over my eyes. The lights were on in Alexander’s house, but there was no sign of life. It looked warm and comfortable, and I wondered what he would do if he knew I was standing outside. The hours slipped by until, chilled to the bone, I hailed a taxi and returned home.

The following night I did the same. And again, night after night. I never saw him, though I guessed the Mercedes parked outside the house was his. At first I got a grim comfort from the pain of being so near him, but as the nights wore on I began to despise myself for my weakness.

Then one night, when I was sickened by the knowledge that again I was going to walk away, and when my feet were so numb with cold I could hardly move, the door opened and an elegant woman, wrapped, as I was, against the wind, ran down the steps, got into the car and drove off. My heart was thumping unnaturally. Though I’d never met her, I knew it was Jessica.

Now I had only to cross the street and knock on the door. And then . . . Dear God, what would happen then? Would I really beg him to help me? Would I really tell him about Jonathan? I must. I knew that no matter what happened afterwards, no matter who got hurt, Alexander must know what Edward was planning.

But as I started to cross the road the Mercedes came back round the square and Jessica, leaving the engine running and the door open, ran up the steps to the front door. As she reached the top Alexander came out. He was laughing, and reached out to grab her. She shrieked and cried out that she had only been teasing. He wrapped his arms round her and squeezed her until she cried out again. Then he ran to the car, closed the door and drove off. Jessica stood on the pavement watching the car disappear around the corner. I could hear her laughing as she turned towards the other end of the square, waiting for him to drive round. Instead, he reversed the car back and drew up beside her. As they drove away together I could see he was still laughing, and I shrank back into the shadows as they passed.

David came to sit beside me on the sofa. ‘Jeffrey told me you were back,’ he said. I was in the Blue Sitting-Room, a room we rarely used, that adjoined the dining-room.

I smiled. ‘I got bored, entertaining myself,’ I said. ‘Where’s Edward?’

‘He’s taken the children to see Violet May. The fair’s only a couple of miles away, did you know?’

Mary came in with a tray of tea which David poured and we sat quietly watching the flames shoot up into the chimney.

‘Have you decided what your answer’s going to be?’ he asked, gently.

I shook my head. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’ He slipped an arm round me, pulling me on to his shoulder. ‘I’ve seen him, David, it’s why I went to London.’

‘I guessed as much. What did he say?’

‘Nothing. I didn’t speak to him.’

‘Why?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘If he knew about the children, would he want them?’

I sobbed. ‘Yes, he would want them. He would want them very much.’

‘Then maybe you should let Edward adopt them. That way, if their father ever found out about them he would never be able to take them away.’

‘No. I don’t know. If Al . . . if he knew that I was even thinking about it, then . . .’

‘He won’t know.’

‘But I’d have to get his permission.’

‘You wouldn’t. He’s what’s called the putative father. As such he doesn’t have to know about the adoption.’

A dreadful buzzing began in my ears. That couldn’t be true. It was the only hope I had left. ‘Doesn’t he?’ I whispered.

David shook his head. ‘Edward’s already consulted a lawyer. He wants this very much, Elizabeth.’

I sat up and turned to look at his poor, scarred face. He loved his brother and knew how terribly I had hurt Edward when I had tried to tell him he was Jonathan’s father. I owed Edward the adoption – that was what David was really saying.

So the adoption went ahead, and Charlotte and Jonathan were no longer Alexander’s.

– 22 –

None of us would ever forget Charlotte’s first day at St Paul’s Girls’ School. The honour of driving her fell to Edward, and as she was ten now, he allowed her to sit in the front seat; Jonathan, who didn’t start kindergarten until the following week, insisted on accompanying them. Christine and I stood at the door, with Canary, Jeffrey and Mary, and all four of us had to wipe away a tear or two as we waved her off, her big grey eyes peering up over the top of the door frame of the Rolls Royce, bright with anticipation. That afternoon, as a very special treat to mark the occasion, David was going to come up to London with Jenifer Illingworth. The first Charlotte would know of it was when she came out of school to find David waiting.

The telephone call came at just after half-past three. No one was to blame. Who could have foreseen that an over-excited ten-year-old would go dashing out into the road to greet her uncle just as a motor-cyclist came round the corner?

When we got to the hospital David was waiting on a bench outside the operating theatre. Sitting beside him was a young boy wearing leathers and holding a crash-helmet. I stared at him. Christine led me away, while Edward and David stayed to talk to him.

Much later the doctor came to find us and showed us into a side ward. I think I must have cried out as I saw her little body lying on the bed, because the doctor turned abruptly and Christine put her arms round me. I pushed her away and ran over to the bed. There were tubes fixed into Charlotte’s wrists, mouth and nose. Her eyes were closed and her face was as white as the pillow beneath it.

I turned back to the doctor. ‘Will she . . .? Is she . . .’

He stared at me for a moment, then with a grim face turned back to Charlotte. He didn’t know.

Edward went outside with him where he learned the full extent of her injuries. I wasn’t ready to hear yet. All I knew was that she might die and that, whatever happened, I mustn’t leave her. I prayed then, as I had never prayed before. David prayed too. He was in a state of shock, and the doctor had tried to make him lie down in a room along the corridor. He blamed himself. If he’d been a few minutes earlier, he would have been on the right side of the road, and there would have been no need for her to run out. . . . If that taxi-driver hadn’t blocked the one-way street, he wouldn’t have been late . . . . Christine tried to soothe him. Edward held my hand, but didn’t speak. The only sound was the bleep of the machine beside us, monitoring the unsteady rhythm of Charlotte’s life . . . .

It was dark in the room. Edward was still sitting beside me. His eyes were closed, but I knew instinctively that he wasn’t sleeping. Christine was there too. Her head had fallen to one side and her mouth was open. David was nowhere to be seen, and then I dimly recollected him giving in to the doctor and going to lie down.

I felt utterly exhausted. Someone had once told me that if you concentrated hard enough, you could penetrate another person’s mind; lives had been saved that way, they told me. And for the past seven hours that was what I had been trying to do with Charlotte. Every ounce of energy I possessed I had poured into trying to reach her. Somewhere, deep down in the dark recesses between life and death, I had tried to grasp her and bring her back to me. Her breathing was so shallow now that her tiny ribcage barely moved. I lifted my eyes to her face. She seemed so lonely. If only it could have been me lying there. I picked up a stray curl that was stretched across the pillow and wound it gently round my finger.

‘Charlotte, please,’ I whispered, ‘please, my darling, don’t go away.

She didn’t move. I looked at the black curl, and for the first time since I’d learned of the accident I thought of Alexander.

Edward opened his eyes. ‘What is it?’ And when he saw I was on my feet, he got up too. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ I croaked, ‘please try and understand. He’s her father.’

Christine caught me at the door. ‘No, Elizabeth!’ she hissed. ‘No! Edward’s her father now. You ‘can’t do this to him.’

‘My daughter is dying and you tell me what I can and can’t do? I’m telling you, he’s got to see her. Christine, get out of the way.’ We struggled in the doorway. Christine was stronger than me and managed to grip me by the shoulders and turn me round.

‘Look! Just look!’

Edward was slumped forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. ‘Don’t do it to him, Elizabeth. Please, don’t do it to him.’