Nocturne (49 page)

I rang but there was no answer. When Brendan
’
s voice came up on
the pre-recorded tape, inviting callers to say something witty, I hung
up. By now I was convinced that the initiative really did - for once - lie
with me. Hopefully, he
’
d be jet-lagged. After a month
’
s non-stop
negotiations, he
’
d probably look a wreck. What better chance would I
ever have for establishing that surprise gestures like the Mothercare
delivery were strictly off-limits? Our relationship was well and truly
over. Nothing would revive it.

It had started raining again and I took a cab to De Beauvoir Square.

The sight of Brendan
’
s Mercedes outsid
e the flat made me wobble for a
moment or two but I was well and truly
psyched up and I didn
’
t falter
on the steps down to the basement door. After the third ring, I
’
d
concluded that no one was in. Then I heard footsteps and a hacking
cough. Brendan, when he finally opened the door, was naked except
for a pair of boxer shorts. The shorts were patterned with little black
scorpions.
Wholly appropriate.

The moment he saw me, Brendan scowled. It wasn
’
t, somehow, the
reaction I
’
d anticipated.

‘
What do you want?
’

‘
I
’
ve come to say thank you.
’

‘
What for?
’

‘
The presents. That
’
s all. Just thank you.
’

He stepped back, inviting me in with a jerk of his head. The flat
smelled of joss sticks. Brendan never used joss sticks.

‘
I
’
m intruding,
’
I said at once.
‘
I
’
ll give you a ring.
’

Brendan was halfway down the hall, fetching his dressing gown
from the bedroom. He returned, belting it at the waist.

‘
There
’
s no one here.
’
He gestured at the sofa:
‘
Make yourself at
home.
’

I was trying very hard to put my finger on this mo
od of his. It was
something new,
something I
’
d never seen in him before. He seemed
preoccupied, serious, businesslike. Whatever his priorities just now,
they certainly didn
’
t include me.

‘
What are these presents?
’
he said.

I told him about the morning
’
s delive
ry. When he said it had nothing
to do with him, I suspected he was probably telling the truth.

‘
Why would I go to all that trouble,
’
he asked,
‘
when I
’
d only just
got off the bloody plane?
’

‘
I didn
’
t know that,
’
I lied.
‘
I
thought
…
I
’
m sorry.
’

He shrugged, turning away. When I caught up with him in the
kitchen, he was laying out two cups beside the kettle.

‘
It
’
s instant, I
’
m afraid.
’
He reached for a jar of Nes
cafe.
‘
I haven
’
t
been around too
much.
’

We sat next door, waiting for the kettle to boil. He told me a little
about the bail-out he was organising from Doubleact. As Gary had
described, he was making off with a programme or two, storing nuts,
he said grimly, for the winter.

‘
It
’
s hard out there,
’
he scowled again.
‘
Hard like you wouldn
’
t
believe. You can
’
t afford to give an inch. He who bleeds last, wins.
’

Brendan had always gathered a little m
oss in his journeyings, a trace
of an accent here, a mannerism there, li
ttle personality tics he picked
up en route from meeting to meeting. Yo
u could generally tell from the
way he behaved exactly what kind of
company he
’
d been keeping, and
on this particular occasion, my mone
y was on some pretty hard-nosed
business types. He seemed impatien
t, dismissive, wound-up. It was
nothing to do with me but I hoped, for h
is sake, that the change wasn
’
t
permanent. Maybe Sandra was getting t
he better of the legal battles.
Maybe Solo Productions wasn
’
t quite the gig he
’
d expected.

The kettle was boiling. I could hear it.

‘
This baby,
’
he said.
‘
I still can
’
t believe you
’
re just getting on with
it.
’

‘
What else do you suggest I do?
’

‘
Be reasonable, fo
r a start. It
’
s our baby, Jules,
yours and mine. We
were both there. We both made it. You can
’
t just take it away and
pretend I never happened.
’

I didn
’
t want to go through all this again. Talking about Brendan
’
s
so-called rights simply wasn
’
t on the agenda. I found myself making
coffee in the kitchen. For one.

‘
Sugar?
’
I called.

‘
No thanks.
’

I took the coffee into him. I was still
wearing my anorak. Unzipped, I
looked like some cartoon character. Big Julie. For th
e first time, a smile
ghosted across Brendan
’
s face.

‘
Come here.
’

‘
No.
’

‘
I
said come here.
’

I stared at him. This, too, was new. No please. No thank you. No
gentle change of gear. Just the curtest of commands. My flat. My
space. My bloody rights.

‘
Come here,
’
he said for the third time.

I was nearly at the front door when
he caught me by the hand. I was
far too heavy for him to spin round but that had clearly been his
intention and it was my wrist that suffere
d. I began to rub it. Brendan
’
s
face had reddened, pure emotion.

‘
Don
’
t do that again,
’
I hissed.
‘
Ever.
’

‘
You
’
re carrying my baby.
’

‘
Fuck off.
’

Our faces were very close. I had an enormous urge to make some
kind of gesture, underlining my resolve, but there was another part of
me that sensed we were very close to physical-violence. Th
is is how it
happens, I thought.
This is how women get hurt.

The blood had left Brendan
’
s face as abruptly as it had come. He
was chalk-white, shock or anger, I didn
’
t know which.

‘
I
’
m back for a while,
’
he said softly.
‘
And believe me, we have a lot
of talking to do.
’

‘
About what?
’

‘
Napier Road. That flat of yours.
’
He touched me lightly on the
cheek.
‘
I
’
m going to have you out of there. No matter what.
’

I think I was still trembling when Gilb
ert knocked on my door, several
hours later. I was sitting in the fro
nt
room
. Most of the stuff from
Mothercare was still boxed. I
’
d
stopped even thinking about who
might have sent it.

I invited Gilbert in. He gave me a folded sheet of plain white paper.

‘
Someone from United Parcels knocke
d and gave me this,
’
he said.

‘
I
think it must be for you.
’

I took the paper and unfolded it. I
’
d never seen the handwriting
before. The message had to do with the
person who
’
d paid for the baby
things. He
’
d phoned in with the order
. His name was Tom Phillips.
He
hoped I
’
d find houseroom for the stuff.

I looked up. Gilbert had obviously read the note. Tom Phillips was
his brother. I didn
’
t know what to say.
Sheer exhaustion made me stick
to the facts.
Veritas
vincit
omnia
.

‘
I
came across your brother recently,
’
I said lightly.
‘
We
’
ve become
friends, sort of.
’

Gilbert, typically, seemed unsurprised.

‘
Oh?
’

‘
Yes, we talk on the phone sometimes. He
’
s a lovely man, isn
’
t he?
’

Gilbert was still looking at the pile of
packages on the carpet. It had
been obvious for a while that I was pregnant but I still wondered
whether he
’
d put two and two together.

‘
Your brother,
’
I prompted.
‘
A very nice man.
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
And generous, too. Extremely generous.
’

‘
Yes.
’

Gilbert stood there, his long, bony hands hanging limply down. I
wondered briefly how the star-gazing was going then I remembered
the rain. He was bored. This, God help us, was the opportunity for a
little chat.

‘
As a matter of fact,
’
I said,
‘
where exactly does he live?
’

‘
What?
’

‘
Live. Tom. Your brother.
’

Gilbert had at last finished with the Mothercare boxes.

‘
Dorset. That
’
s where they both live.
’

‘
Who?
’

‘
Tom and Mama.
’

I looked up at him. Sherborne was in Dorset. And Sherborne was
where I
’
d found Peter Clewson, our landlord.