Learning to Dance (24 page)

She put it back in her pocket and lay down. The thought of Sybil in Judith’s nightdress, much too short for her,
perhaps setting up a scenario as the Markhams had done – it had seemed romantic and wonderful. But if Nathaniel had rejected it, the whole thing immediately became sickly sentimental. He had his reasons, of course. But reason had nothing to do with it.

She felt tears behind her eyes and let them come. They were for Sybil, who had been rejected. And they were for herself, too.

When she went downstairs the next morning, Matt was already there, window wide open, head outside, kettle just beginning to sing.

‘Did you hear the bells? They were doing a complicated ring, unusual for the early morning service.’

‘It’s a recorded peal. I told you they couldn’t get ringers – ages ago – took a vote on it, electronic bells just got in.’

‘Oh. Yes. I do remember. What a shame.’ He withdrew his head and closed the window. ‘Plenty of autumn mist. If the sun gets through it will be lovely.’ He grinned at her. ‘I bet you slept well last night, didn’t you? All that fresh air, and Dad’s new thing, and the Freeman Rescue Copters moving operations!’ He swilled the teapot with boiling water and put in teabags. She sat down and watched him, the sense of displacement surfacing for a moment.

She said, surprised, ‘Yes. I slept very well.’ She thought back and remembered the look on Jack’s face when she had said she could not sleep with him. And then the stark little note from Sybil Jessup. She had thought then that she would not be able to sleep at all. She said to Matt, ‘Since I decided to go on the Exmoor weekend, I’ve slept really well.’

‘Not before? You must have been so worried about Dad.’

‘Actually, while I was away I was almost convinced he was dead.’

Matt was shocked. ‘Why? He said you knew where he was – why on earth would you think that? If he’d been that ill, Mum, we would have sent for you. You know that, surely?’

She was angry. ‘Matthew, he … left. One suitcase and a backpack. I thought if he was going to you he would tell me. Or, perhaps
you
might drop me a line or give me a ring. Can’t you begin to imagine …’

She closed her eyes for a moment, recognizing the utter futility of it all. She had been just as bewildered herself, until Jack had opened up yesterday.

She said, ‘Sorry, love. The
Magnet
was running his old cartoons … it’s all been … confusing.’

‘Especially meeting that crazy artist – we actually picked him up from the middle of nowhere, raving mad. Dad stayed with him all that first night – he would have discharged himself otherwise. Dad was never as bad as that, I can assure you. We would have considered all promises null and void.’ He put a mug of tea in front of her, then the sugar bowl. ‘What is it about artists, Mum? You’re an artist, but you don’t go bonkers when it’s a full moon!’

‘I don’t have to earn a living by painting, love.’ She looked at him ruefully. ‘I couldn’t do it. Robert Hausmann and Jack Freeman can do it, but they are never confident about it. It’s the uncertainty that makes them … anxious.’

‘D’you know what you’re talking about, Mum?’

She spooned sugar into her tea and grinned at him. ‘No. Not really. I felt Dad was superhuman. A rock. But when I talked to Hausmann, I got to understand how fragile artists are.’

Matt was laughing. ‘Fragile? Robert Hausmann fragile?’

She remembered the first time she had encountered him. Fighting with the heavy door, muttering to himself, lumbering towards the lift. He had been huge and hairy, and she had to have been desperate to stop him. She laughed too, but nodded. ‘Yes. Especially Hausmann, who sees his work as a responsibility.’

Matt said, ‘I don’t get it. I can see that as an aero-engineer I am responsible for the safety of people. It’s simple. I go over everything. I listen, I check for odd smells. I know when an engine isn’t working as it should. I can’t see how that applies to painting a picture.’

‘Can’t you?’ She drank her tea. ‘Come on, Matt. We’re all responsible for one another. It’s when it’s a burden … that’s the prob.’ She put on what she thought was his Australian accent, and he screwed up his face as if in pain. She went on, regardless. ‘You check everything. It’s OK. You sleep well. Artists … there’s no check on how much damage an artist can do. Damage to self-esteem, lifestyles – think of some of Dad’s cartoons. And Hausmann – he’s dealing with immortal souls. What sort of burdens do they have to carry?’

‘You’re getting in too deep there, Mum. We all live our own lives—’

‘That’s it! We jolly well don’t! If we do things properly we fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. A perfect picture! If one piece is missing or rammed in the wrong way, there’s no bloody picture!’

She registered his expression of shock and laughed. ‘Sorry, love. Go and put on your wetsuit. Time and tide are just about right. And if it’s really foggy down there, for goodness’ sake don’t swim out of sight of the shore!’

He came to her, hoisted her out of her chair and wrapped his long arms around her very tightly.

‘Mum, I don’t know what’s happened, but you won’t leave us, will you?’

She managed a muffled laugh and he loosened his grip enough for her to look up at him. She was about to make a flippant remark, and then stopped herself.

‘No. I’m here for keeps. There’s more to it than pieces of a puzzle. I have to mix some different colours, lighter perhaps.’

He went on staring at her, and then suddenly tightened his hold, kissed the top of her head and put her back in her chair. He paused at the door of the utility room and looked back. ‘Meant to say, I asked Martha to lunch, is that OK?’

‘Fine. Sausage and mash? Oh, sorry, we’re out of sausages.’

‘Mash will be fine, Mum. Just be here.’

She heard him pull his wetsuit from the clothes horse and bundle it into a bag, and then he was gone. She stood up again, more slowly this time, fetched a tray from the side of the fridge and began to assemble a breakfast for Jack.

The lunch for Martha Gifford proved to be a lifeline. When she took in Jack’s breakfast tray half an hour later, Jack had already shaved and showered and was getting dressed. He had looked thin and ill in the hospital bed, but as she put down the tray she saw the enormous effort he put into getting his jeans over his legs. He stood up and his thighs were skeletal. His legs looked wasted. She stopped herself from rushing forward to help him, and set out the toast and boiled egg on the bedside table.

He said breathlessly, ‘I was just coming down.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The three of us in the kitchen.’

‘Matt’s gone for a before-breakfast swim. Have yours here.’ She sliced off the top of the egg.

He came slowly round the bed, sat at the table and stared at the egg.

‘Thank you.’ He scooped at the discarded shell-top. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Very well. What about you?’

‘Not badly. Those pills are good.’ He swallowed and scooped again. ‘We have to talk, Jude.’

‘Of course. But not today. Apparently Martha Gifford is coming to lunch. I’ll do a cassoulet. We’ll eat in the dining room. If you’re up to it, you could go on working in the study for an hour? But you must rest this afternoon, Jack. Is that a deal?’

He nodded and she felt a sudden rush of irritation. He looked hangdog. This was exactly how he looked when he had the slightest thing wrong with him, and was put on to gain sympathy. Those times had gone. She folded his pyjamas briskly, and actually straightened the side of the bed he had slept on.

‘See how you feel at coffee time. Perhaps you could make one of your citrus tarts for pudding? We’ve got lemons and plenty of eggs.’

She paused before closing the door and saw his face light up. Just for a moment she felt a touch of the old overwhelming tenderness, and then Naomi’s face came between them and she closed the door with a click.

After that, the day belonged to Martha and Matt.

Martha Gifford was the kind of girl whose complexion changed when she was happy. She built up warmth and beamed it out to other people. Judith recalled feeling worried about the way she had made a beeline for Matt when she was a child. When both boys were whisked off to Australia – obviously it seemed now, as yet another rescue operation
– there had been a fleeting moment of relief that Matt was removed from the determined fourteen-year-old. Plenty of time for her to grow up and meet other boys. But apparently she had carried on her campaign at long distance and, as she told Judith and Jack joyously, she had been the first person on their road to use Skype. ‘It was just great!’ she announced, waving a bit of potato aloft. ‘You can see but not touch!’

Matt looked embarrassed for just a moment, and then joined in the general laughter. Judith wondered wildly what exactly that might have meant, and how old Martha might have been when she was introduced to Skype. Then she met Jack’s dark eyes and remembered the hotel in Paris when she had been nineteen. His mouth twitched and the next minute he, too, was laughing. She ladled more cassoulet on to his plate and hoped her face did not look as hot as it felt.

After the citrus tart, Matt bundled his parents into the garden and he and Martha washed up and made the coffee. Laughter floated from the open kitchen window.

Jack said, ‘They sound all right. Don’t you think?’

Judith nodded, then added, ‘Yes.’

More laughter, abruptly cut off. ‘They sound like us.’ Jack waited, and when Judith said nothing he added, ‘Like we used to be.’

‘Yes.’ She pulled at her fingers. ‘That was thirty years ago.’

‘Not till next year. Don’t you remember what Mum said when we told her you were pregnant?’

Judith quoted, ‘She said we’d only just made it into the respectability stakes.’ Tears spouted unexpectedly. ‘She … she … oh God, Jack, she would be so disappointed now!’

He made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a cry of protest, then put his hand over hers so that she could no longer pull at her fingers. She tried to release her hand and
could not. Skeletal he might be, but he was still stronger than she was. She let her tears drip, and knew he too was weeping.

Suddenly the sound of an almighty crash came through the open kitchen window. Judith leapt up just ahead of Jack, so saw, just for an instant, that Martha Gifford’s sandalled foot was upside-down on top of a pile of saucepans. At Judith’s side, Jack stumbled and grabbed at the back of the deckchair, which immediately collapsed on to the lawn. They both fell down just as the foot disappeared, to be replaced by Matt’s face, much too low for him to see his fallen parents.

‘It’s OK, Mum … Dad! Bloody saucepans weren’t balanced properly on the drainer and fell into the sink – don’t panic!’

Judith picked herself up, found a tissue in her jeans, and began blowing her nose frantically. Jack stayed where he was.

Martha’s face appeared. ‘Nothing broken, Mrs Freeman … omigod … is Mr Freeman all right? Matt … can you just … no, not there … by the door … thanks … darling, your dad seems to be—’

‘Hang on!’ Matt’s voice seemed to fill the garden. ‘Just coming!’

Judith crouched by Jack. ‘Jack. Listen. That sounded terrible, I know. Mum – of all people – she would be on your side, Jack. I should be, too. And I’m not. Please stop crying. Matt mustn’t know anything is …’

She stopped speaking. Jack’s face was as contorted as before, but now he was laughing. She knelt by him and shook his shoulder none too gently.

‘Stop it … you’re hysterical … are you hurt?’

‘Jude, don’t you see? Those saucepans didn’t fall by themselves! Can’t you remember … the back room at number forty-seven, when you sent the aspidistra flying? Mum came rushing in and gave you a good dressing-down, and I tried
to take the blame, and suddenly she started to laugh and said she’d never liked it because your dad had bought it for her after one of his nights out?’

‘For God’s sake, Jack! Does that make it all right? Dad went out with his mates and got drunk occasionally. How does that make our situation more … more acceptable?’

It was as if she had slapped him. He stammered, ‘It was just … I was thinking of Matt and Martha. And the saucepans. And then … us.’

Why did she constantly feel wrong-footed? She said, still furious, ‘Wrong place, wrong time. Are you hurt?’

‘Of course not. The grass is like a sponge. Too much rain.’

Matt arrived, and between them they got Jack into the other deckchair. Martha joined them. She looked sheepish. She said, ‘The coffee seems to be ready. Shall I pour it and bring it out here?’

They looked at her blankly, then Judith said, ‘That would be really nice. I think I’ll go for a cardigan, the sun has gone in.’

She took the stairs two at a time, went into their shared room and took a cardigan from the wardrobe. She said quietly to herself, ‘There’s no middle road, I either accept it or I go. And I can’t go.’

She looked out of the window as a car drew up outside.

Robert Hausmann got out.

He was unusually polite. Matt answered the door; she heard the surprised greeting and then Matt’s pleasure at seeing him. She moved on to the landing.

‘Mum’s upstairs fetching something. We’re in the garden – yes, Dad too. Come on through. Why didn’t you phone? You could have come to lunch.’

‘I didn’t want to bother you. On my way to Cardiff—’

‘Oh, of course, that’s your home, isn’t it?’

Their voices disappeared into the utility room. She went to the end of the landing and peered through as they emerged on to the patio. Jack yelped a welcome, Martha got up from the grass and was introduced. Lots of handshaking. Hausmann was wearing an open-necked shirt under a sports jacket. His voice was different, too. Not gruff. Not aggressive. Quite unlike Robert Hausmann.

She went to the head of the stairs and held on to the newel post, frowning, remembering the absolute pathos of Sybil’s note, still in the pocket of her jeans. Was Hausmann working at some ‘cunning plan’ yet again? Had he learned nothing?

By the time she reached the kitchen Matt had fetched more chairs and Martha was on her way in.

‘Mrs Freeman … it’s the artist who went to Australia … he’s having coffee … I’ll top up the jug.’ She smiled. ‘He’s really nice, isn’t he? Matt said he was sort of wild and unkempt.’