Precious Time (43 page)

He took another swig of his whisky. ‘That phrase doesn’t even come close.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘At a wedding. And let me tell you, she outshone the bride by a long stretch. She was the most beautiful girl present - the most beautiful I had ever seen.’ He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. ‘I was no spring chicken, no innocent, but she dazzled me from the moment she spoke. She was so compassionate, so genuinely warmhearted.

So full of joy. She had this wonderful ability to make me feel special. Corny I know, but the truth. She had that same effect on me even when we were married. We could be at a party, separated by a roomful of tedious people whom I had no desire to talk to, and our eyes would meet, and it would be as if we were alone.’

‘You’re lucky to have experienced that depth of love. Few people do.’

‘It didn’t feel lucky to have so much one minute, then have it snatched away the next.’ His tone was bitter. ‘Sorry, back to wallowing in self-pity again.’

She waved aside his apology. ‘Did you ever allow yourself to grieve for Anastasia when she died? And I don’t just mean going through the motions of accepting well-meant platitudes and attending a funeral. I mean, did you let yourself howl? Did you give in to the pain and let it render you helpless? Did you put yourself beyond caring what anyone thought of you?’

Fiddling with his glass, he said, ‘You know the answer to that, or you wouldn’t be asking.’

‘But today you did put yourself beyond caring, didn’t you? Today you did openly grieve for her, and for everything that has happened since.’

He nodded. ‘And I know what you’re going to ask me next. You want to know what precipitated all this ghastly baring of the soul and the realisation that I’ve let Anastasia down, quite apart from what I’ve done to Jonah—’

She raised a hand to interrupt him. ‘Forgive me for splitting hairs, but you’ve known that all along. It’s why you’ve suddenly acknowledged it that needs explaining.’

Swirling the last of his drink round, then downing it in one, he said, ‘I see, as ever, that you have your gloves off and are sparing me nothing.’

‘Business as usual. So what was the catalyst?’

‘You, my dear.’

‘Mee? But how? Why?’

Until that moment Gabriel hadn’t known the answer to that

question, which he had asked himself earlier that day. But now he knew with certainty just how important a role this young woman and her son had played in opening his eyes. ‘You and Ned made me feel better about life,’ he said simply. ‘You made me realise what I’d been … what I’d been missing out on.’ He swallowed, suddenly frightened that his emotions were in danger of sliding out of control again. He was being so honest it hurt. As if understanding, she reached for the bottle of Glenmorangie on the table and refilled his glass. When she had sat down again, he said, ‘In a nutshell, you cared.’

Oh, there was so much more he could say, so many truths he now understood. How she had never judged him, never looked at him with eyes that feared or despised him. How she had never hated him because he had neglected his family. How she had amused him with her spirited put-downs. How she had charmed him by not treating him as a decrepit old man. He could have said all this, if only he trusted himself to get the words out without looking and sounding foolishly sentimental.

As ever, she said just the right thing. ‘I might know you’d try and lay the blame on me.’

He managed a small smile. ‘How do you think it makes me feel, knowing that in our politically correct society, which as you know I abhor, our roles have been reversed and I’ve been cast as Sleeping Beauty while you’ve taken on the role as the Prince who’s awakened me with a kiss.’

She laughed. ‘Perhaps Beauty and the Beast would be a more comfortable analogy for you. And, in case you’re wondering, you’re the Beast. So how did you get from seeing life as a more worthwhile proposition to viewing Jonah differently?’

‘After you and Ned had left I realised how lonely I was.’

‘And you shared this with Jonah?’

‘No. Oh, I wanted to, but have you any idea how hard it is to admit that you’re lonely?’

‘You’ve just done it with me.’

‘That’s because you’re … you’re different. You’re a girl of unique charm and sensibility.’

She raised her glass to him. ‘Still up to speed with the schmaltz, I see. But back to Jonah. What changed between the two of you?’

‘I … I stopped blaming him for his mother’s death.’ Keeping his voice as steady as he could, he explained about the night he had broken down in front of Jonah, how a connection had been made between them, but which he had found impossible to acknowledge or discuss. ‘And it was all because I suddenly saw the likeness between Jonah and his mother.’

‘And you’d never seen it before?’

‘It sounds absurd, doesn’t it? But no. Not consciously. What the hell’s been going on inside my brain all these years is anybody’s guess.’ With a deep sigh of regret, he added, ‘What does any of it matter? Jonah will never forgive me for what I’ve done.’ He stared at her miserably.

She met his gaze with a shake of her head. ‘Be warned, I’m about to split hairs again. You know jolly well, just as I do, that Jonah is one of the most compassionate people alive, and that he’ll forgive you at the drop of a hat. What you’re scared of is how that will make you feel. That all this time his love and forgiveness were there for the asking, but you were such a heel you chose to ignore it.’

‘You don’t think it’s too late for reparation, then?’

She looked at him sternly. ‘No, I don’t. And, what’s more, the sooner you do it, the better. Because then you’ll realise that Jonah was one of the many gifts Anastasia left you. Perhaps the best gift of all.’

‘But how will he react when I tell him that all these years I blamed him for her death?’

‘You don’t think he’s always known that? Come on, it’s time to be brave. Jonah’s a big boy, he can take whatever revelations you throw at him.’

He took a moment to absorb this idea. To let faint hope take root.

Finally he said, ‘And what about Damson and Caspar? What do I say to them?’

She rubbed her eyes and yawned. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather leave those two until tomorrow. For now I need to go to bed. I’m shattered.’

‘Yes, of course. You must be tired after your long drive.’

They both rose to their feet. After they had locked up and turned out the lights, Clara slipped her arm through his. They climbed the stairs together. She said, ‘Would you ever consider seeking professional help? I mean, someone qualified to discuss what you’ve …

Well, it was a close call today, and if I hadn’t—’

He squeezed her arm. ‘You’re professional enough for me, my dear. And don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson.’

‘Which is?’

‘That while one is caught in the throes of a low and unhappy mood, it’s not the ideal time to distinguish a right course of action.’

When they reached the top of the stairs, Clara said, T might not be as old as you, or have gone through as much, but my guess is there’s no magic cure or easy way to cope with grief or guilt. You have to plough headlong through it, take whatever it chucks at you, good or bad.’

‘You sound as if you’re talking from experience.’

‘This might come as a shock to you, but you don’t have a

monopoly on self-reproach. Most of us scourge ourselves from time to time with a little bit of soul-searching.’

‘Even you?’

‘Oh, yes. Even me.’

He walked her to Val’s old room, and as she pushed open the door causing a shaft of soft light to spill from the landing across the carpet to the bed where the cause of her own soul-searching slept, she suddenly felt emotional and overwrought. She was tired, she told herself firmly. Nothing that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

But she slept fitfully, tossing and turning in the large creaking bed, one minute hot, the next, freezing cold, all the while crashing from one bizarre dream sequence to another. Next to her, Ned slept on, blissfully unaware of her discomfort. By the time daylight filtered through the gap in the curtains, she had managed to chase away the nightmares and fallen into a deep, more restful sleep.

She woke to find the other side of the bed empty and her head thumping. She was drenched in sweat but icy cold. Her eyes were sore, her throat felt dry, raw and lumpy, and her chest was as tight as a drum. She had only experienced full-blown flu once, but she suspected she was in for a second taste of it. Determined to prove herself wrong, that it was only a cold, she launched herself out of bed. A hot shower was all she needed. That, a cup of tea and a couple of paracetamol. She was half-way across the room when the door opened and Ned came in. He was dressed in the clothes he’d worn yesterday, and a few paces behind him was Gabriel with a breakfast tray. He took one look at her, and said, ‘Good Lord, what’ve you been up to? You look dreadful.’

‘I feel dreadful,’ she croaked.

She was immediately chivvied back into bed. Pillows were shaken and plumped, and the duvet straightened while Ned opened the curtains to brighten the room. Gabriel fetched some paracetamol from the bathroom and she washed them down with the mug of hot strong tea. She couldn’t face the toast and marmalade he had so kindly made for her, and within minutes her head and eyelids were drooping and she was faintly aware of a door shutting quietly. Sleep sucked her into a nightmarish maze of hunting for Ned, but never finding him; of driving Winnie up and down a network of narrow lanes and hills that always brought her to where she had started. She dreamed she was back at work, that she and the boys were

conversing in German, even though they were working for French speaking gnomes who sat cross-legged on their desks with little fishing-rods and on the stroke of each hour burst into Rod Stewart’s old song, ‘Do You Think I’m Sexy?’

When she surfaced again she needed to go to the loo. Shivering, and squinting against the brightness, she focused on her watch.

Heavens! It was four o’clock!

Rallying her aching body, she made her way to the bathroom.

When she had traversed the landing - which felt as unsteady as the deck of a ship on the high seas - and had locked the door after her, she had the second shock of her day. Damn! Her period had started.

She groaned, recalling that she didn’t have any of those wonder items tucked away in Winnie that would enable her to swim, roller-skate and skydive to her heart’s desire - she had used them all up during last month’s extravaganza of sporting events. She groaned again.

There was nothing else for it: she would have to rouse herself and drive into Deaconsbridge. She would need to buy super-strength painkillers too. Something lethal enough to stun a charging rhinoceros.

Otherwise she’d be in for several days of rolling around on the floor in agony with a hot-water bottle strapped to her stomach. With chattering teeth, and her head feeling like pulsating cotton wool, she unlocked the door, pulled it open, then jumped back, startled.

Looking for all the world like a welcoming committee, Ned and Gabriel were waiting for her.

‘We heard a noise and came to check on you,’ Gabriel said, making a show of looking anywhere but at the rumpled state of her deshabille. ‘No need to ask how you’re feeling. You look ready to drop. Back to bed with you.’

She wrapped her arms around her shivering body. ‘Er … actually I need to go into Deaconsbridge.’

‘Yes, my dear, and I need to marry Lucrezia Borgia. But before I send out the wedding invitations, you must go back to bed.’

‘No, really. You don’t understand, I have to go shopping.’ But even as she was speaking, she was being taken by the arm and steered towards the bedroom. Too weak to disentangle herself from the firm hands that were guiding her, she was in bed before she knew it.

Sitting next to her, his legs stretched out alongside hers, Ned said, ‘Mummy, are you very sick?’

She forced her dry lips into a smile. ‘Just a little. But I’ll be fine.

Honestly.’

He dipped his head towards her shoulder so that she could put an arm around him. ‘I told Mr Liberty about us having to water him to make him big and strong again, and he said it was his turn to water you now.’

Right on cue, Gabriel passed her the mug of tea he had brought up. She took it gratefully, then remembered about her need to go shopping. She knew, though, that in her current state, driving would be a monumental challenge, as well as putting others on the road at risk. Yet the thought of asking Gabriel to buy her such personal items seemed far more daunting.

Down in the kitchen, while Ned organised the draughts board for another game, Gabriel cringed at what he had been asked to do.

Though he had been married twice and had raised a daughter, ‘intimate womanly matters’ had been an accepted no-go area of secrecy and mystery. Nothing had ever been divulged to him, and he had certainly never felt the urge to probe. Now, though, he was expected to walk bold as brass into the chemist in town and hunt through the shelves for … for …

He ran his hand through his hair and shuddered. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, not even inside his head. Worse still, he had no idea what the wretched things looked like.

And yet he had to do it. Miss Costello - Clara who had shown him such kindness - was upstairs in bed, relying on him. This was no time to be squeamish and embarrassed. He tried to remember the last time he had been into the chemist. It was when he’d burnt his arm and had needed antibiotics. He saw himself in the shop, waiting for the prescription to be made up. Closing his eyes, he tried to recall where everything was kept. Tissues. Toilet rolls. Shampoo. Nappies.

Combs. Brushes. Makeup. Camera films. Plastic rainhoods. Nail clippers. Pumice stones. Sponges. Sponge bags. Toothpaste. Throat lozenges. Vitamin tablets. Witch hazel. Laxatives.

Oh, it was hopeless! He could practically do a roll-call on everything in the damned shop and still not locate the crucial items Clara required.

Hearing his name called, he opened his eyes and turned round.

‘What’s that you’re saying, Ned?’