Out of Sight (25 page)

Patrick had been taken aback. ‘Is that what she wants?'

‘Can't you see how much she must hate you?'

He had swallowed hard and nodded. ‘If it's really what she wants, then of course I'll go.'

‘None of us can understand why you're still here. How can you face her? How can you face any of us?'

‘Has she told you she wants me to go?'

Patrick had watched the struggle in Grace to be fair. ‘No,' she had conceded.

‘I can only do what she wants.'

‘No! You have to decide what's best for her! Give her some peace. Leave her free to rebuild her life. If you had any true feeling, you'd know what was right!'

Seeing Belinda making her way back to the table, Grace had retreated. Belinda had glanced curiously at the two of them, but when Grace made an effort to smile and appear relaxed, had let it go.

For the rest of that week Belinda was withdrawn, clearly undergoing some tense inner struggle of judgement and conscience. Patrick watched her closely, turning over Grace's furious admonition and wondering despondently what to do. Towards the end of an unhappy weekend, Belinda came
out to him in the garden where he was trimming the hedge. While she waited for him to switch off the whirring blades, he was certain that this would be his dismissal.

‘I want to apologise,' she said.

‘What?'

‘I couldn't be sure, couldn't make up my mind to be sure, that I believed you. I had to doubt you, for Daniel's sake, do you understand?'

‘Of course. Sweetheart, you don't have to do this.'

‘I do. I want to say I'm sorry for the terrible thoughts I've had. And that they're over now.' She stroked his cheek. If he had not been holding the hedge trimmer with its dangerous teeth, he would have struck her hand away.

‘Don't!' he implored her. ‘Please. You've nothing to be sorry for.'

‘I still love you,' she told him. ‘But there is one thing you have to do for me.'

‘Anything. Whatever it is, I'll understand. And I'll do it. No matter what. Don't be afraid to say it.'

‘I want you to forgive yourself.'

Patrick never imagined the effect that words alone could have upon the body: he was so overwhelmed that for an instant he believed Belinda's words must send him mad. When the red mist cleared, he found himself standing in the garden, the electric tool in his hand, and Belinda retreating into the house. A little later, she called him indoors for supper, and he made himself obey her summons.

It was not long after dawn when Belinda and Patrick made their way up the steep footpath to the place on the Downs where they had picnicked less than three months earlier. As the slope evened out, they stopped to get back their breath, turning to look at the view. Though the early morning mist obscured the horizon, they could see how the landscape was bleached and yellowing, already autumnal.

It would be a long time before either of them could bear to bring to mind any detail of Daniel's cremation the previous afternoon. Overnight, they had placed his ashes in his room which, except for Belinda cleaning and tidying it as she would have done were it still occupied, had been left unchanged. Both of them liked to sit alone there occasionally, finding comfort in the touch of the bright cotton duvet cover or soft toy animals, and the sight of his plastic play figures, folded clothes and cast-off shoes. Belinda had wished to carry the metal canister, and she hugged it to her now. They had easily agreed that this was where they
wanted him to be – up high near the sky, blown by the wind across the grassy masses of the chalk downs. This was where they would be able to come and find him, part of nature, not under some memorial stone in a municipal cemetery. But now that the time had come, its inconceivable finality gripped them both. They sat on the grass, not touching but not apart, and stared out at the rising mist, trying not to shiver in the damp early morning chill. Belinda's fingers were white where she gripped the canister.

‘I don't think I can do it,' she said, handing it across to him.

Patrick accepted it from her. ‘Now? Are you ready?'

Belinda nodded. He pulled off the close-fitting lid. The contents made him feel faint and distant from himself. He sat still, fearing collapse if he attempted to stand.

‘Do you remember how he rolled that day?' he asked.

‘Yes. He loved it.'

‘If we think of him tumbling down, like he did that day, do you think we can do it?'

‘Yes. Go on. Please.'

Patrick rose and took a step or two down the slope. Belinda came to stand behind him, her hand resting lightly on the small of his back. He bent forward and gingerly shook some of the pale ashes from the container. There was very little wind, and only the finer dust was picked up and carried further off. Belinda reached out and took her turn and together they emptied all that remained of their child's once small and vivid presence across a short
stretch of cropped grass. They went back a little way up the slope and sat down. Patrick grasped Belinda's hand, the clutch of each other's fingers communicating their struggle to subdue an animal howl of repudiation. They remained there, watching each tiny gust of wind until at last the breeze had left nothing that would be remarked on by any walker straying from the main pathways.

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the day, but that night they slept in one another's arms.

For Belinda's twenty-ninth birthday a week or two later Patrick bought tickets to hear a soloist she admired at the Royal Festival Hall. It was his only gift – the kind of presents he might usually have chosen for her seemed trite and pointless – and he hoped it would re-ignite her enthusiasm for teaching now that the school term was underway. They sat together on the train to London, watching as fields and woods gave way to Thirties ribbon developments and then to yards full of used car tyres and white vans.

They arrived into Waterloo as the first rush-hour crowds were beginning to fight their way across the concourse, and Patrick put his arm around Belinda's shoulders to guide her through the onslaught of elbows, laptop cases and backpacks heading ruthlessly for the platforms or Tube entrance. He liked having something real to protect her from, while simultaneously feeling guilty that it was he who had brought her here. This was how he often felt these days. When he had presented her with the concert
tickets, she had been pleased – she wanted them to ‘get back to normal' – but he was aware that the prospect of a pleasure jaunt to London was daunting, and that she had not suggested setting off any earlier in the day so that they might go shopping beforehand or meet up with one of her family for lunch. Escaping the commuters at last as they emerged from the underpass to the South Bank, she already looked anxious and exhausted.

They had a drink in the bar overlooking the river, though neither could bring themselves to suggest or want champagne to toast her birthday. It was a pretty view, the twinkling décor accentuating the lights of the city that were already beginning to be reflected in the choppy water, and the place was animated and noisy. In the past, their shared silence as they took in their novel surroundings would have been understood and enjoyed, but now it was brittle and unhappy. They did not belong here. But this, they had promised each other, was what they must force themselves to do – to join in where they no longer belonged.

Belinda had returned to work and Patrick, to his grateful surprise, had patients to see, but with the resumption of their regular activities it had begun to sink in at last that their pain was no aberration; that it was not going to come to a convenient end, and that it wasn't possible to experience grief once and for all and be done with it. This is what their lives now had to encompass, and always would.

During the recital, Patrick found himself unaffected by the sweeping romanticism of the music, and was unable
to detect whether Belinda was similarly unmoved. He took her hand and continued to hold it until the time came to applaud. During the interval they mingled with the rest of the audience. When Belinda commented appreciatively on the pianist's technique, admiring his interpretation of one of her own favourite pieces, Patrick began to hope that maybe he had not after all made a mistake in bringing her here. On the hour's train journey home, she rested with her head on his shoulder while he stared at their flattened reflections in the darkened glass, trying to penetrate the blackness beyond.

In bed later that night, Patrick submitted to the ordeal of Belinda trying to make love to him, and had again to endure his own chronic failure to respond to his beautiful young wife. Eventually she turned away and wept into her pillow, refusing all his frail offers of comfort. He lay awake long into the night, wondering if the Judas goat were similarly impotent.

Two removal men in liver-coloured uniforms beckoned to the driver of the Swiss pantechnicon to back it up into the narrow driveway of Agnès and Geoffrey's new home in Esher. Standing by their front door, caged canaries at their feet, and intent on the encroaching vehicle, neither of them noticed Patrick's approach on foot from the distant station. He had stopped to buy flowers, and carried an insulated picnic bag full of home-made soups and vegetable stews that Belinda had prepared.

Geoffrey shook Patrick's hand. ‘Hello, there,' he said, looking up at the pale sky. ‘At least we've got a clear day for it.'

With a pang, Patrick realised that his father was glad to see him. He presented his flowers and kissed Agnès, who looked distractedly over his shoulder at the men opening the van's vast rear doors. As a boy, Patrick had seldom been permitted to take part in the family's transcontinental moves, but he had seen enough to know that, legitimately occupied with checking and re-checking, Agnès was in her element.

Sure enough, once the open doors had been secured, the foreman handed Agnès a clipboard, and, laughing and joking, followed her into the house carrying the cardboard box nearest to hand: it was clearly labelled, in French and in his mother's rounded letters, ‘Kettle, mugs, tea, coffee and biscuits'. Patrick smiled at his father and stood back to take a proper look at the house. Although he suspected that his parents' bland Euro-furniture would sit oddly against the Edwardian flourishes of this compact red-brick cottage, he could imagine them settling here.

‘What do you think?' asked Geoffrey. Amazed, Patrick wondered if retirement had dismantled his father's supportive hierarchies to such an extent that he was now prepared to tolerate his son's opinions, and hoped that the loss of an executive infrastructure was not about to catapult Geoffrey into helpless old age. He kept at bay the
knowledge that it was more likely his own culpability that had dealt the blow.

‘You'd better give me the tour,' Patrick responded cheerfully. ‘Stay out of the way until Maman's made the tea.'

The neatly proportioned rooms would need little in the way of refurbishment, and the small gardens, both pretty and relatively private, were manageable, which, Patrick guessed, was what had appealed to his father about the property. ‘I hope you'll be happy here, Dad,' he said, daring to place a hand on his shoulder.

Geoffrey nodded. Though he crimped his lips, he did not shrug off the physical contact. ‘I'm worried about your mother,' he said abruptly.

‘Why, what's up?' When Geoffrey did not immediately reply, Patrick went on. ‘I haven't spoken to you properly since Josette's funeral. How did it go?'

‘Fine, fine. I mean, she was upset, naturally, but it all went off okay. No, you'll see. Once the boxes are unloaded. The men do all the packing, but she likes to label them herself.'

‘I don't understand.'

Geoffrey led the way from the garden in through the open French windows to where the uniformed men were already efficiently stacking up cardboard boxes. ‘See?' he asked, showing Patrick where, on at least three of them, Agnès had written simply
ces choses
 – those things.

Patrick stared at the words, but the meaning Geoffrey intended him to take from them eluded him.

‘You know how organised she is,' Geoffrey said, an almost badgering tone creeping into his voice. ‘She has it down to a fine art. Won't let me interfere. It was the foreman who pointed it out. When I ask, she insists she knows exactly what's in each box.'

‘Maybe she does,' said Patrick, realising as he spoke how ludicrous a wish that was, given how many identical boxes there were. ‘It's just stress,' he corrected himself. ‘She's had a lot to deal with. She must be worn out.' He half-expected his father to round on him, accuse him of causing his mother's latest aberration.

‘You don't think I ought to take her to a doctor?' It dawned on Patrick that Geoffrey's hectoring was an appeal, that what his father wanted from him was reassurance, command, to be relieved of responsibility.

‘Sure, why not, once you're settled?'

His father nodded, uncertain.

‘I had some tests recently,' Patrick hazarded, not wanting to detonate the tripwire of Daniel's death. ‘Amazing what these scans and things can show.'

Geoffrey sighed heavily, shaking his head. ‘If only you'd stuck with medicine. Such a waste.'

Patrick almost laughed. The familiarity of blame was a relief, and evidence that his father was recovering his poise. ‘But why not wait a week or so?' he suggested, making sure he sounded bright and optimistic. ‘She may be fine once everything's sorted. After all, she's been pretty positive about the move, hasn't she?'

‘Yes. Yes, maybe you're right,' said Geoffrey dismissively, ready now to turn his back on the inconclusively labelled boxes.

Patrick took his cue. ‘I really wouldn't worry about it, Dad.' He watched in regretful amusement as, lacking the mechanism to show gratitude, Geoffrey expressed his renewed confidence by going out to the driveway to instruct the men that the dining table should be taken into the dining room. Feeling in his pocket for the remedies he had remembered to bring for his mother, Patrick wished it were possible to offer his father some kind of help.