Missing You (21 page)

‘It’s only eleven-thirty. When did you start going to bed before midnight?’

Sean smiles to himself. He squints his eyes against the light and touches the warm dent in the pillow where Fen’s head so recently lay. He picks up a long fair hair and draws it the length of his lower lip.

‘It’s been a long day.’

‘Was it a good one?’

‘Yeah, it was great. The whole family came. And thanks for the guitar strap.’

‘That’s OK.’

There’s a pause.

‘Are you on your own?’ Sean asks.

‘Yes. Lewis is away.’

‘Teaching?’

‘Mmm.’

There is another silence. Sean hears Belle take a drink. He hears her swallow.

‘Sorry, ’ she says. ‘I’m a bit tired and emotional.’

He knows she is waiting for him to prompt her to tell him what’s wrong. At the end of the hallway, the lavatory flushes. Fen puts her head around the door, sees he’s still holding the phone, and disappears again.

‘Belle, I appreciate you calling but . . .’

‘I know. It’s late,’ she says. ‘You’ve obviously got more important things to do than talk to me.’

‘Belle . . .’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,’ she says, and Sean thinks he hears a sob in her voice. ‘Membury, six o’clock.’

‘Belle . . .’

It’s too late. She’s disconnected the call.

thirty

Fen checks her watch as she queues at the till. She looks at the dress folded over her arm – it’s a pretty, dark blue, ankle-length sundress – and she smiles and touches the material. She can’t wait to wear it. She pictures herself out walking with Sean and the children, she’s wearing the dress, and the four of them, together, make a lovely picture in her mind.

It’s the first time in a while that Fen has spent money on herself. Usually she relies on Lina’s hand-me-downs and charity shops for clothes. The garments that end up in Bath’s second-hand shops are generally of a very high standard, but still it’s good to buy something new, something nobody else has ever worn. When she tried the dress on, Fen saw herself in the mirror as Sean sees her. She knows she’s not as beautiful as Belle, she’s nowhere near as striking, but she’s all right. She has a nice body, her hair is better now she’s had it cut, and her face is fine. Sean likes it. He smiles when he sees it. That’s all that matters.

The girl behind the till smiles at Fen when it is her turn to pay.

‘This is lovely,’ she says, folding the dress on the counter, slipping it into a bag. ‘I was looking at these the other day. I think I might treat myself.’

‘You should,’ says Fen. She thinks everyone should treat themselves. Everyone should be happy. Everyone should see the world for the beautiful place that it is.

With the bag in her hand, Fen threads her way back through the city.

She knows something is wrong as soon as she turns the corner into Quiet Street. Vincent is standing by the door of the shop, looking out for her. She’s not late, she certainly hasn’t been gone an hour. She quickens her pace.

His face, gaunter than ever, is hung in an expression of pure concern.

‘What is it?’ she asks as she trots along the uneven pavement.

‘You forgot your phone,’ he says. ‘Now don’t panic, but your sister called the shop when she couldn’t get you on your mobile.’

‘Lucy? What’s happened? Is the baby OK?’

Vincent frowns. He opens his mouth but he says nothing.

‘Oh my God! He’s not . . .’

‘He’s in hospital. That’s all I know.’

‘Oh no! He’s only a few weeks old! Oh, Vincent . . .’

‘Hush! We don’t know what it is; it’s probably nothing to worry about. We mustn’t think the worst.’

Fen allows him to guide her into the shop, and he passes her the telephone. She goes into the tiny kitchen, where there is a modicum of privacy, and calls Lucy’s mobile. Her hands are trembling so badly that it takes her three goes to dial the right number.

‘Lucy? It’s me. Are you OK? How is William?’

Lucy’s voice is tired and fragile and hoarse with worry.

‘We’re at the hospital. They’re doing tests. They think it might be meningitis.’

‘Oh God! What happened?’

‘He was a bit hot last night but he slept OK. He slept all night and then this morning I went in and he was burning up and he had a rash and . . .’ Her voice trails off into a sob.

‘I’m coming up, Lucy,’ says Fen. ‘I’ll be there this evening.’

‘They aren’t sure,’ says Lucy. ‘It might be nothing. They say it’s hard to tell with little babies and he . . .’

‘Lucy, darling Lucy, just try to keep positive. I’ll see you later.’

Fen cuts off the call. She takes a deep breath. She dials Sean’s number.

He takes a while to answer, and when he does his voice is low and guarded.

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Fen, are you OK?’

Fen has never called Sean during working hours before.

‘Sorry, ’ she says, ‘sorry to bother you. Are you in a meeting or something?’

‘Sort of. What’s up?’ He sounds furtive, as if he’s trying to prevent somebody else hearing what he’s saying.

‘Sean, you know you said you’d take me to Merron? Well, could we go now? Right now? Lucy’s baby’s ill. It might be meningitis. I need to get there quickly. I don’t know what to do about Connor. I need you, Sean, I . . .’

She hears him exhale.

‘Fen,’ he says, ‘I’m not in Bath . . . I’m, hold on, let me go somewhere I can talk.’

He sounds stressed.

‘If you’re busy,’ she says, ‘don’t worry. I’ll get the train.’

‘No,’ he says, ‘no, wait, I’ll come and get you. I just need half an hour to sort things out here . . .’

‘I haven’t got half an hour,’ Fen says, trying to keep the frustration from her voice. ‘I need to go now. How far away are you?’

‘Swindon.’

‘Are you with Belle?’ Fen asks. He hesitates. ‘OK,’ says Fen, and he starts to speak but she disconnects the call and turns off her phone.

She does not have time to think about Sean. She takes three deep breaths and then she goes back into the shop and tells Vincent she has to go back to Merron.

He passes her a sheet of paper. ‘Train times,’ he says.

‘Thank you.’

‘All you have to do,’ says Vincent, ‘is call Connor’s school and tell them Sheila and I will be looking after him for the next day or two.’

‘Oh, Vincent, I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

‘You didn’t. Go on, call them quickly. Leave me a key so we can pick up Connor’s things. If you go now, you might make the three-thirty.’

‘Vincent . . .’ says Fen, but she can’t finish the sentence because she is overwhelmed with gratitude and sadness. ‘It’s all right,’ he says, ‘I understand. Just go.’

There is no time to think, so the panic attacks that in the past have always forced her to turn back do not stop Fen this time. She goes to the station and catches the train and now the train is going under the Severn estuary.

She sits in the carriage, her forehead resting against the window. She feels the great weight of the water above her, the miles and depth of it, the immense, unstoppable expanse of it. The river has the second-highest tidal range of any river in the world. The estuary water is funnelled into the narrower channel of the river, invisible forces tug and suck it, and long after people have gone from the world, and when there are no trains and the tunnels have flooded and the bridges have collapsed, the water will still rise and fall and, on certain tides, the bore will still race up the river and elvers will turn the shallows black, as they used to.

The water weighs heavily on Fen. Only when the tunnel ends does she realize she has been digging her fingernails so hard into her palms that there are four perfect crescents of red gouged into the middle of each hand. She leans her head back, and exhales. If she narrows her eyes a little, she can stare into the reflection of her own face in the glass of the train window with the geography of Wales playing out behind it like a film.

Sean was in Swindon. He was with Belle. He didn’t say he was going to see her. He didn’t mention any plans or problems.

But he was in Swindon, with Belle.

And then Fen squeezes her eyes shut and hates herself for her self-centredness.

Baby William is in hospital, Lucy is worried out of her mind, the child might be very seriously ill, he might even be in a coma or something by now, and she’s thinking about her own selfish heart.

The sky is still light when the train pulls into Merron station over the raised section of line that gives the best views over the city that Fen used to love. Still she almost does not get off the train. She almost stays put and travels on. She is afraid she will meet somebody who remembers her. She is afraid she will have to look into the eyes of Emma Rees. Merron is a small city, made wealthy from silver and now in gentle decline. Its location and its lack of amenities mean it has never been a popular spot with holidaymakers or second-homers or incomers seeking work, so the population is largely indigenous, a people set in their ways, and their ways set in solidly hard-working, religious foundations. They are intensely proud of their heritage, the kind of men and women who boast of never having taken a penny from the state, who would rather go without than humiliate themselves by asking for outside help. Their children are imbued with good manners, taught the difference between right and wrong at an early age. The young people don’t go to church any more, but no matter how much they try to convince themselves, there’s always the niggling doubt that God might exist, and might be watching. Generally, this keeps them in check.

A river that is smaller, politer and far more conservative than the Severn winds through the city beneath stone bridges topped with fancy ironwork. It has only flooded once in living memory, an uncharacteristic aberration that is still often discussed. The particular circumstances of the flood are the benchmark by which measures of contemporary rainfall are judged, memories of its inconveniences bring relief that nothing has ever been so bad since. The river is flanked by brick-built terraced cottages and factories that are derelict now because no investors have come along to convert them into fashionable apartments or unique office spaces. There’s nobody to buy the flats or work in the offices anyway so birds nest in the old chimneys and plants self-seed in the cracks and crevices, and all the windows are broken and the factories have a kind of resigned elegance about them, as if they don’t mind weathering away. They are as much a part of the natural landscape as the trees.

The cathedral still stands proudly in a city centre, and around it are the narrow shopping streets, although the shops are the usual mixture of discount stores, cut-price supermarkets and charity outlets. Merron College, where Fen’s father used to be headmaster and where Alan now teaches music, is situated in its own grounds beside the cathedral, and these two venues, together with a Victorian town hall, form the triumvirate of sights described in the mid-Wales sections of guide books as ‘worth seeing’ in Merron. The school, in particular, founded in the seventeenth century with money generated from the sale of silver mined in the surrounding area, and extended regularly ever since, is a glorious hotchpotch of buildings of various architectural styles, the only common thread being ostentatious ornamentation.

Beyond the centre are the main residential areas, but with a population of fewer than twenty thousand people the city does not take up much space.

Fen musters all her courage, every ounce of it, as she steps off the train and walks out of the station. Everything is the same as it was. She remembers the smell of the pink flowers on the bushes growing along the footpath that winds down the hill from the station. She remembers the colours of the taxicabs and the concrete litter bin outside the newsagent’s kiosk, overflowing with lollipop wrappers and discarded copies of the
Merron Gazette
. Fen is shocked at how familiar the city still feels. She had forgotten what kind of place it was but now everything comes back to her and engulfs her in a tidal wave of memories. Her legs feel weak and her fingers are cold. In her panic, her heart beats furiously, like the wings of a trapped bird, and she says a little prayer each time she turns a corner or sees a tired-looking, middle-aged woman walking towards her. Please, she prays, please don’t let me bump into Emma Rees.

At the bottom of the hill, Fen crosses the main road. She sits on the bench and keeps her head down so that her hair shields her face from the eyes of passing motorists. She holds her bag tightly on her lap and waits for the bus that will take her to the hospital.

She prays again, to no particular god.

‘Please,’ she whispers, ‘please let the baby be all right. Please don’t let anything bad happen to him.’

When she was young, Fen dreamed of leaving Merron, just as Joe and Tomas did, but her dreams were always vague. She was never one for making plans. She imagined, indistinctly, saying goodbye to her family as she boarded a train to Somewhere Else. She hoped she’d end up doing something worthwhile, preferably something rather glamorously dangerous. She imagined people talking about her in voices tinged with admiration and jealousy. They’d say: ‘That Weller girl, do you know what she’s up to now? She’s rescuing South American street children!’ or ‘She’s protesting against Amazonian deforestation!’ or ‘She’s with Greenpeace, stopping the harpooning of whales!’

It didn’t happen at all like this. After her father died there was no reason for Fen to stay in Merron, and plenty of reasons for her to go. She slunk away, saying goodbye only to Lucy and Alan. She didn’t know where she was going, or what she was going to do. She never wanted to return. She thought it would be better for everyone, especially Mrs Rees, if she was not around: out of sight, out of mind. The reasons why she left are still valid. Fen is not sure if there will ever be a time when they don’t matter any more.

Through the grimy windows of the bus she watches Merron city centre travel in a leisurely, stop-start fashion that is in keeping with its personality. Her memories are everywhere, lurking in the shadows on the pavements, tangled up in the railings, at the bus stops and in shop doorways. She sees small groups of teenagers, and they remind her of her younger self and Joe and Tomas. The young people are sharing chips from the paper, standing slouch-shouldered in the cinema queue and sitting on the steps outside the Spar, nudging one another, pulling at their sleeves and socks and hoods, their heads so close they share the air they breathe. She watches them. She feels a great tenderness for them with their brave insouciance and their shy bravado. She sees a group of boys in Merron College uniform, the grey trousers and blue blazers. They are carrying cricket bags and waiting for a coach. These boys stand taller. They are more privileged but no less vulnerable. She touches the glass of the bus window, but she can’t touch the past.