Missing You (32 page)

Lina has told him that Fen is all right. Lina is being a good friend to Fen, she’s looking after her, but Lina’s attitude to Sean has changed. She doesn’t take the time to talk to him any more; she makes a point of not passing on messages. Sean assumes this is because Lina blames him for somehow hurting Fen.

She must be struggling with the separation.

As he is.

He misses her with every molecule of his being. He feels instinctively drawn to her, like a tide to the moon. He exists in his new-old life but he does not feel he is living it. He does not know what to do. He can’t imagine a time when he won’t have this longing for Fen inside him, unless he finds a way to deaden it.

He thinks it’s so bloody ironic that it’s doing the right thing that is keeping him and Fen apart when it was lies and dishonesty that threw them together in the first place.

Sean takes off his clothes, piles them on top of the linen basket and steps into the shower of the family bathroom. It’s a proper, walk-in shower, not an over-the-bath affair like the one in Crofters Road. It smells of bleach.

Belle used to be meticulous in her domestic routines, but since the summer things have slipped. Her mother has employed a cleaner to come in for a couple of hours, three times a week, to help Belle keep on top of the housework, and Amanda herself pops in regularly to lend a hand. She’s doing everything she can to help, bringing round casseroles and cakes and offering to babysit; perversely her overwhelming desire to smooth the way forward for her daughter and son-in-law only serves to make them both feel more anxious and uncomfortable. Neither has much of an appetite. Neither feels like spending a night out.

The day he moved back, Sean realized the house had been comprehensively gone-over to ensure no atom of the Other remained and he appreciates Amanda’s thoughtfulness but at the same time is embarrassed by it. His mother-in-law clearly put herself in his shoes, and went to the greatest lengths to remove all evidence; he has not found a single strand of Louis’s grey hair, no overlooked sock or nail-clipping.

Steaming still, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he goes into the spare bedroom. It is a large, pleasant room overlooking the garden. A built-in wardrobe takes up one whole wall. Enlarged photographs of flowers hang above a Habitat chest of drawers.

Sean sits on the bed and dries his hair with the towel. Although it feels like a hotel room, he is more at home and less lonely here than he would be in the master bedroom. Belle has not objected to the sleeping arrangements, nor questioned them. She seems relieved that Sean has made no physical move towards her. She’s keeping her distance too. Sean can’t tell what she’s thinking. He keeps asking her, because he knows that is what he must do, and always she says she’s all right, that she’s glad the family is back together again. Her smile is bright but there’s something artificial about it. Her fragility terrifies Sean. She breaks down at the slightest thing, a word misconstrued, or because she can’t find a key or because Amy has not eaten her cereal, or spilled it, or made a mess in her room. Sean is acting as a buffer between Belle and the world. He can see no end to this situation. Because of this, he tries not to think ahead.

Sean dresses and searches for his comb. His bag, still only half unpacked, is on top of the chair beside the window. He puts his hand in the side pocket and his fingers close around a small object. He pulls it out and holds it in his palm. It’s an oddly shaped thing wrapped in Christmas paper. Sean unpicks the Sellotape and finds a stone statuette of Ganesh. He holds it to his lips.

Before he goes downstairs, he pushes open the door to Amy’s room. She is lying on her stomach, reading a book.

‘Oughtn’t you be in your pyjamas, Amy Scott?’

She looks up and smiles sleepily.

‘I’m so happy you’re here, Daddy.’

‘Even so, you should be getting ready for bed.’

Amy rolls onto her back, holding the book to her chest.

‘You won’t go away again, will you? We’ll all stay together now and you can look after Mummy and we can have a dog and I’ll call her Polly.’

‘Amy . . .’

‘I like to know you’re home. I don’t like Mummy and me being here on our own.’

‘Five minutes, OK? Then into the bathroom and brush your teeth.’

She nods.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she says.

‘Everything will be all right,’ Sean says. ‘I promise.’

He blows her a kiss and she blows him one back, and he pulls the door to.

forty-seven

Fen lies in Connor’s bed, her arms around the child. If she lets go, she fears she will simply float away and disappear.

She feels insubstantial. She feels like a square of tissue paper that has been set alight and vanishes as it drifts towards the sky. She feels that her existence is no more real than that of an exhaled breath or a dream or the memory of a feeling.

Connor shifts in his sleep. He sighs. His breath is warm and damp, organic, sweet. Fen rests her lips against his forehead.

The world beyond the curtain is waking. She hears the milk float, the heels of dog-walkers and the rattle of leads, the odd car engine as it starts up.

She thinks: Oh, here we go, another day.

Another night without Sean has gone by.

Another day without Sean is about to start.

She is in the bookshop when the door opens and Emma Rees comes in. Fen does not recognize the woman at first, and when she does her heart starts to pound and her legs feel weak. The blood in her veins evaporates and is replaced by a mixture of adrenaline and fear.

Fen thinks, at first, that Mrs Rees has come to her by accident. She browses the local guide books, picking them off the shelves and reading the blurbs on their back covers, until the jolly American couple have bought their souvenirs and left the shop. Then she slips the guide book she had been holding back into its slot and crosses over to the counter where Fen stands. Fen wishes she could disappear into the floor, she wishes she could vanish, go away, not exist.

Mrs Rees is wearing dangly earrings. Her hair has been cut short and coloured chestnut brown, with dashing red highlights. She is wearing an orange coat with a rainbow scarf, trousers and boots, and she carries a hessian bag embroidered with flowers. She looks about twenty years younger than she looked the last time Fen saw her.

She looks less broken.

And Fen realizes that, although she has always thought of Mrs Rees as elderly, it was grief that was distorting her. In truth, the woman is in her prime.

‘Hello, Fen,’ she says.

‘Hello, Mrs Rees,’ says Fen. She glances at Vincent.

They have worked together for so long now that there is telepathy between them.

Vincent looks at his watch, coughs and says: ‘Would you hold the fort for half an hour, Fen?’ She nods and he disappears out of the shop, turning the OPEN sign to CLOSED on the way out.

There is a pause, then: ‘I was coming to Bath on business,’ says Mrs Rees. ‘I thought, while I was here, I’d come and see you. Your sister told me where I’d find you.’

Fen doesn’t know what to say. She thinks it would be impolite to comment on Mrs Rees’s appearance; it would imply there was something wrong with it before. Instead she asks: ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

‘No, no. I didn’t come to put you to any trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble. There’s a secret kitchen behind that door.’

The older woman smiles and shakes her head.

‘No, really, Fen. I’m all right. I have a meeting in half an hour and I’m sure I’ll be plied with sandwiches, or paninis, or whatever.’

Fen bites her lip. She would like to ask about the meeting, but doesn’t know if she should.

Mrs Rees, the new, more vibrant Mrs Rees, takes a breath and says: ‘A lot of things have changed since you came to see me, Fen. I’ve been thinking about you every day. I have been praying. I asked God to show me the right thing to do and He told me to come and see you.’

Fen smiles as if she understands.

‘I’m not saying this to hurt you but, for quite a while after you came, I struggled not to hate you for what you had done. Then I realized that you were the answer to my prayers.’

‘Please . . .’

‘It can’t have been easy for you to come to my house and tell me what you did.’

‘I should have come sooner,’ says Fen. ‘I should have told the truth straight away.’

‘But I’ve been thinking about this,’ says Mrs Rees. ‘Deborah is a very strong woman; you and I both know that. When she’s made her mind up about something, she is an unstoppable force. And you, Fen, you must have been so frightened. You’d made promises to Joe and Tomas too. It would have been difficult for anyone to know what was the right thing to do at the time. Your loyalty – your responsibility – was to your family. When I put myself in your shoes, with God’s help I could understand.’

Fen holds her breath. She feels she does not deserve understanding.

‘What He made me realize,’ says Mrs Rees, ‘is that you didn’t have to come to me at all. Perhaps He spoke to you and told you what you should do, or maybe it was your own conscience. Either way, you came, and now that I know what happened that night, I feel able to say goodbye to Joe. I’m not waking up each morning imagining him out there, on his own, in the dark. So I am grateful to you, Fen. Things are better for me now.’

Fen swallows. Her mouth is dry.

‘I’m so glad.’

‘Do you feel better too?’ asks Mrs Rees gently. ‘Because I’ve been praying every night for you too, Fen. I’ve been praying for your burden to be lifted, as mine has been.’

Fen nods. She says: ‘Thank you.’

Mrs Rees checks her watch. ‘I’ve got to meet my supplier in half an hour,’ she says. ‘Did Lucy tell you I’ve left the college? I’m opening up my own cafe. It’s going to be aimed at young people. I want it to be the kind of place where everyone can be themselves and where everyone can feel at home.’

‘That sounds brilliant,’ says Fen.

‘Merron needs somewhere like that,’ says Mrs Rees. ‘It needs to stop pretending that everyone ought to be just like everyone else.’

‘Yes,’ Fen agrees. ‘It does.’

They stand for a moment, separated by the counter, and then Mrs Rees leans forward and kisses Fen very gently on the cheek.

‘It’s over, Fen,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to worry about this any more. Make your peace with your brother and then put the past behind you and start living your life again.’

forty-eight

Fen has been waiting for the right day, and this is it.

While Connor sleeps, she slips out of bed and goes downstairs in the green T-shirt that Sean left screwed up on her bedroom floor, in need of a wash. She loves the smell of him. At least she still has that. And she won’t wash the T-shirt until there’s no trace of Sean left.

Fen goes into the kitchen and opens the back door, then she goes barefoot down the steps into the dewy garden and picks flowers. She picks lavender sprigs and cuts the stems of the last of the roses with a knife.

She wraps the flowers in newspaper, and then she makes herself a cup of tea and goes upstairs to wake Connor.

She feeds him his breakfast of Weetabix soaked in warm milk with sugared mashed banana. She gives him diluted orange juice to drink. As he eats she tidies around him and points to the birds in the gardens, to the grey cat licking its paws in the sunshine, to the people walking up the alleyway on their way to school or work. The radio is playing happy, morning music and she hums along, she sings, she even dances a little, and Connor watches and smiles, a teardrop of sweetened milk crusting down his chin.

She wipes his face and brushes his teeth, then she tidies him and fastens his shoes, ready for the bus, and when they hear its friendly toot Connor rushes for the door, as he always does. Connor loves going to school on the bus. He likes the driver, who’s called Jean and always says: ‘Hello, me old mucker’; he likes the independence, and the grownup feeling shows on his face; he likes seeing his friends and waving to people through the windows along the way.

‘Hey, hang on a minute, you!’ Fen calls. She leans down and puts her hands on his cheeks and she kisses his forehead. He wriggles.

‘Don’t I get one?’ she asks.

‘Mum!’ Connor grumbles but he leans forward and kisses her hard, right on the lips.

‘Thank you,’ she murmurs.

He looks up at her.

‘Go on,’ she says, ‘off you go.’

He climbs the garden steps as fast as he can, holding on to the railing. Fen watches from the doorstep. At the gate he turns and waves to her. She blows him a kiss and he pretends to catch it, and he blows one back and she does the same. Then he takes the hand of the helper and turns his back and forgets about Fen. Still she watches until the bus has gone down the hill.

It’s eight-thirty.

She’s already wearing her new dress over her jeans. She puts on some make-up in front of the little mirror by the back door. It’s important that she looks her best. She pulls her hair back and holds it in one hand while she secures the ponytail with a clip with the other. Then she slips on her warm jacket and boots, picks up the flowers and leaves Lilyvale
.

Fen walks uphill through the streets, the pretty back roads and residential rat-runs; she walks up to the lay-by at the side of the A46 where a boy sells flowers and cherries from a wooden trestle and a woman sells tea in china cups, and bacon sandwiches. She waits until a lorry stops and then asks if she can hitch a ride. She is specific: she has to get to the Severn on the M48, not the M4. The first lorry driver can’t help but soon she meets a nice man, a family man, who is on his way back to Cardiff with a wagon full of electrical goods, and he says he doesn’t mind using that route and that she’s most welcome to travel with him.

The inside of his cab smells musty, manly, of a man not washed but wearing aftershave. It’s very tidy. Everything is lined up. She sits up high on the squashy seat, so high that it’s like riding a camel, and she watches the road roll by from her new perspective. Radio 2 is coming out of the speakers. They bump and roll past Bristol and then they go out onto the lonely stretch of countryside that separates the city from the bridge.