Secrets (27 page)

‘Yes, sure. Oh – I mean no. I can't – I didn't bring the buggy.’

‘I see.’

‘Lisa – my friend over there, with the little boy with the curly hair – we meet here.’ And then Tess stopped. She didn't want to tell Joe about her previous plans for lunch in case he said, carry on, don't mind me. The truth was, much as she had grown so fond of Lisa, Joe was back. Joe was here and Wolf would be coming home and everything else would just have to wait.

‘Lisa,’ said Joe vaguely, looking back to the playground.

‘She's lovely.’

‘Well, what do we need?’

Tess thought about it. I need
this
, she thought, I've missed this.

‘Oh – just pick up what you fancy.’

‘I'll see you back at the house,’ Joe said, doffing an imaginary cap. ‘Back at home.’ He headed down the hill and Tess and Em walked back up it slowly towards the house. She passed Lisa in the playground, now chatting to another mum. Lisa motioned to Tess the universal gesture for ‘phone me’. Tess's response was an expansive, double thumbs-up. Lisa thought, poor old Seb – you don't stand a chance.

Back at the house, Tess gazed at Em who seemed unaware of her mother's state of heightened excitement. Tess dropped to her knees, though the cold flagstones met her, giving her daughter a gentle prod in her rounded little tummy.

‘Em,’ she said in a whisper, ‘Joe's back. Joe's come home. And Wolfy's coming back too and by tonight, everything will be back to how it should be.’

Em held onto her mother's probing finger. Tess touched Em's nose. ‘Wish us luck,’ she said, ‘wish us lots of luck. All of us.’ Em said the word that only her mother knew was ‘nose’ and Tess took time out from her grown-up ponderings to complete the points of the face with her daughter. Yighs. Years. Mowf.

‘Clever Em,’ said Tess, scooping her up and hugging her close. She stood, silent and still. Please let today be lovely.

‘Quick! We need to tidy!’ and Tess scooted off from room to room, flinging up windows, plumping cushions, straightening furniture, checking for dust, her every move shadowed by Em.

Joe returned, laden with shopping.

‘I thought we'd do a simple lunch,’ he told her, busying himself putting stuff away because Tess was standing peculiarly motionless in the kitchen holding Emmeline's wrists, who was standing barefoot on the table. ‘Then we can have a celebratory dinner to toast the return and the speedy convalescence of the Wolfmeister.’

He laid out cheese and crusty bread, some celery sticks and fresh tomatoes, a jar of chutney. ‘Excuse me, Emmeline,’ he said as if Tess wouldn't know that her daughter was in the way but he ended up having to lay the plates and cutlery at the other end of the table and moved the food accordingly. He looked at Tess. ‘You all right? Hungry?’ He nudged her and broke the trance.

‘I'm starving,’ she said, as if she'd just come into the kitchen.

And there they were once again, eating together and chatting away.

‘I can't believe you're here,’ said Tess. ‘Wolf is going to be thrilled.’

‘Wolf won't know what hit him, hey?’

‘God knows what hit him, Joe – but I wouldn't be surprised if it was a steamroller. No one stopped – can you believe that?’

‘Perhaps they didn't realize.’

‘How can you not realize if you hit a dog the size of Wolfy?’

Joe glanced at his watch. ‘So we can pick him up at six?’ ‘
You
ought to be the one to pick him up,’ Tess said quietly. ‘It should be you to go.’

Joe thought, that's thoughtful. He found his gaze lingering until Tess made a sudden move and said, tea?

‘Thanks,’ said Joe. ‘I'll do a couple of hours’ work, then.’

Tess made him a mug of builder's tea. A KitKat too – he hadn't seen those when he'd put the digestives away. ‘I keep them in the fridge,’ she told him, ‘in the door – where the eggs could go. But it's a trade secret – KitKats taste better chilled and eggs should be kept at room temperature.’ She opened the fridge for emphasis, then pointed to a little wire basket which he remembered seeing in the box in her room, now on the dresser with half a dozen eggs in it. When they both looked at the eggs they couldn't help but catch sight of the photo of Joe in KL right next to them. They'd forgotten about all that. If they started talking about it, they'd have to confront the other stuff too, like mother Mary. It had been easy and lovely thus far. It was a special day. Neither wanted to sabotage it. They glanced away from the photo and stared at the eggs before taking their cups of tea and proceeding with their separate afternoons.

‘Any washing?’ Tess knocked at the study door and used her hushed tone. ‘I'm doing darks.’

‘There's a heap on my bathroom floor,’ came Joe's disembodied voice. ‘Help yourself, if you really want to.’

‘Oh, I don't mind,’ Tess said to herself as much as to Joe as she climbed the stairs, ‘I don't mind at all.’

Tess had so wanted Em to stay awake for Wolf's return – a welcome party befitting him – but though Joe had left before six, over an hour later he was still not home and Em had dozed off. Tess went from window to window, craning a view in any direction. Like a magical omen, the weather was so warm today she'd been able to keep many windows open. At this time of evening, with birds busy singing the glories of the day just gone, the light golden and mellow and promising all good things for tomorrow, the breeze a little fresher but still benign and the dimensions of the house's windows – broad, tall sashes – allowing it all to sweep through the house, the division between outside and indoors became wonderfully indistinct. I ought to change, Tess thought. And then she thought, Wolf won't mind. And she didn't think Joe would mind either.

She went downstairs and opened the fridge. At the playground, she'd asked Joe to buy fresh liver for Wolf. It was there. So was a fresh trout and, by the looks of things, various accoutrements for a fine dinner. She rummaged around. Fresh dill. New potatoes. Where did he find the asparagus? She looked in the freezer: luxury vanilla ice cream. It all made her smile, and it made her hungry too. No good staying in the kitchen, she'd only pick. She went back to the hallway where, in the side return, which was simply an aesthetic space with no prior function, she'd made a parlour for Wolf. His blankets, a cushion, his favourite rubber toy and one of Joe's moccasins. On a tray, his bowls and underneath it all, newspaper to guard against accidents. She'd said to Joe that Wolf could feel part of the action here, without being in the thick of it. He won't want us tripping over him if he does his usual splay halfway across the kitchen floor, she'd said. And they'd both looked pensively back into the kitchen, the expanse of flagstones looking bare and cold without Wolf lolling about in his trademark sprawl.

She glanced at the grandfather clock though she knew the real time bore no relation. She gave the pendulum a swing, as she often did, like she'd seen Joe do. She thought, they must be back soon.

‘He's a soldier, this one,’ the vet says to Joe.

‘He certainly looks like he's been in the wars,’ Joe says, stroking what he can of Wolf. ‘Don't you, old man? You brave old boy. Poor lad.’

‘I have every faith in him,’ the vet says, ‘and in my skills.’

‘He does look a state,’ Joe says affectionately.

‘He was no oil painting before,’ the vet laughs. ‘Were you, Wolf?’

‘No, you're right.’

‘He'll be a conversation starter – you won't be able to go two steps without someone asking all about it.’

‘Well, it'll make a change from being stopped and asked, what the hell kind of breed is
that
?’

‘Exactly – he'll have a whole new notoriety and a new following too,’ the vet says. ‘Now, in addition to the appointments we've made, I'm going to have the nurse show you how to change the dressings – and what to look for in the tail stump particularly.’

She watches Joe shift. She thinks he's gone a little pale but she can't be sure because she likes a sunbed herself and everyone else round here always looks pasty to her.

‘I'm not very good at – stuff,’ Joe says. ‘Call me squeamish.’

‘Well, Wolf needs you to be good at –
stuff
,’ the vet says. ‘It's straightforward enough.’

Joe doesn't look convinced.

‘Perhaps Tess could take charge,’ the vet says. ‘She's a capable young woman, that one.’

Joe thinks about this and the vet regards him for a moment, a little quizzically. ‘Do you know how she brought him here? Have you heard? Did she tell you?’

Joe looks confused.

‘Thought not,’ the vet says. ‘Well, I'll tell you. I was actually out in Saltburn on an emergency. She phoned the surgery and asked where we were exactly. The nurse said, Marske and Tess said, where's that – she thought we were in Saltburn. She was given road directions but she said she couldn't come by car so the nurse said, grab a cab, they'll know where we are. So I'm driving out of Saltburn and I came across this sight – some poor girl pushing a galumphing great hound in a kid's buggy while she somehow carried a small child at the same time. She must have done nearly a mile like that. Needless to say, I picked them up. She was frantic.’

‘She could have killed him,’ Joe says, ‘lifting him, transporting him like that – surely?’

‘She probably saved his life, actually. She had him swaddled tightly in a towel. It stemmed the bleeding. It was good for shock. She was killing herself to bring him to us.’

Joe thinks about Tess's car, how it had sputtered into his drive on that first day. About the boxes that were to be left in the boot. He remembers her saying it was low on fuel. He remembers her saying she'd driven his mother back to Swallows. He thought back to how they'd taken his car to the Transporter Bridge. Tussling with the child seat, narking at each other, laughing.

Joe pulls into the drive, turning a slow, careful arc in contrast to his usual gravelly spin. He's seen Tess dart from the drawing-room window, reappearing at the window by Wolf's new quarters. Now she's gone again. He opens the car door and by the time he's eased Wolf carefully onto the ground, the front door has been opened and Tess is standing there, her hands to her mouth. Joe lets Wolf set the pace and he finds himself tottering a little in sympathy. He thinks Wolf is like a very doddery old gent today. Usually, as soon as the car door opens, Wolf has bolted out to careen around his estate as though he's been incarcerated. Not today. Joe looks over to Tess. She takes her hands away from her mouth, crouches a little and opens her arms, like he's seen her do to Emmeline. He can see that she's too choked to speak and that Wolf can't wag in reply because he no longer has a tail, he has a stump swathed by a bright green bandage. All he can do is keep going, wearing the vast white plastic lampshade around his neck like a ludicrous bonnet. He has a bright blue bandage around his foreleg and as he hobbles closer, Tess can see shaved areas and stitches here and there.

They are by her now. She's on her knees, trying to cup Wolf's face in her hands though she has to delve right inside the lampshade to do so.

She looks from Wolf to Joe and back again.

‘You know something,’ she says and Joe is listening though he knows she's speaking to the dog, ‘you look a whole lot better than you did last week, little guy. You look like Wolf again – just in some crazy fancy dress costume. Welcome home, daft dog. Welcome home.’

Chapter Twenty-two

Tess sat up in bed, in the dark, with the curtains open so she could sense the black nothingness of a countryside night uncorrupted by streetlamps or sirens. She pulled her knees up and linked her arms around them under the quilt, laid her cheek against them – it really felt as though she was giving herself a hug. To smile in the dark felt somehow safe; as if she wouldn't be tempting fate if she couldn't be seen. She pondered the reasons for her contentment; it wasn't as if specific things had been said or any overt gestures given – it hadn't been a special evening, if special is defined by specifics. On the contrary it was the lack of specifics – it was instead the things in general that made it so affirming. No declarations of intent, no mulling over what had passed, no discussion of the issues that had arisen – yet no active avoidance of them either. It was just an evening during which they had both been at their ease.

She went over to the window, pressing her face against the glass, looking out into the night garden. They probably could have gone over the whole Kate business and likewise, they could have talked through the issue of Mary. But these things seemed somehow trivial compared to the bigger picture of enjoying the here and now, of feeling comfortable in trading chit-chat and falling into step alongside each other again.

Do you think it needs pepper? No, not really. I think I added pepper too early in the cooking – did you know it loses its potency? No, I didn't. Oh yes – it does, that's why you should always add pepper right at the end. I heard that a squeeze of lemon juice added at the end really brings out the flavours without adding its own. That's news to me – I'll try it. I wonder if Calpol works for dogs. What's Calpol? It's children's paracetamol – it's strawberry flavour. You know, Tess – the vet's given him pretty heavy-duty meds. I know – but they look horrible whereas Calpol is pink and sweet and soothing. Poor old Wolf. Yes, poor old thing. He seems OK in himself, don't you think? All things considering, yes. And he loved the liver. He did, didn't he? He won't want to go back to Pedigree Chum! It'll cost you a fortune, Joe. So you're sure you don't mind being head nurse then Tess? Not at all – though I wouldn't have you down as squeamish. I can't even deal with splinters. Actually, I've become much more capable with all that stuff since becoming a mother, I used to be an utter wuss before that. Are you saying I'm an utter wuss? Yes, Joe, I am – can you pass the water, please?

Replaying the minutiae again a couple of times, Tess thought how the ease of their communication was as important as the topics themselves. And they weren't topics, really, not in the sense that they were deliberately chosen for interesting discussion. Joe and Tess were two people who, when together, could just talk. Banter, blether, chinwag, natter – when they were together, there was no shortage of what to say. She opened the window. It was chilly and there she was, in the draught in a vest and knickers at God knows what time. But it was invigorating and grounding and the physicality seemed to imprint this specific night on her soul. She thought, here I am. I'm still here, at the Resolution. I'm here on the night of the day that Wolf and Joe came home. She breathed in the air, it was sharp and bracing. She ran her hands lightly over her arms, liking the sensation of goosebumps against her fingertips, enjoying the feel of her touch on her own skin. Could she remember her sister stroking her arms when she was little? Or did she just make up that memory? She wasn't sure, knowing full well how it is easier to invent a past than acknowledge memories that aren't particularly happy. And, for a moment, Tess regretted that it was hardly the kind of thing she'd ever ask Claire now. But she bolstered herself with thoughts of Em, sound asleep in her very own room just yards away. And she smiled when she remembered those very first months utterly alone with the baby, feeling that the world could collapse around them and they'd be OK, in fact they probably wouldn't even notice. Week after week in a cocoon of insane exhaustion softly lined with utter awe, when the baby would be in her arms and she would stroke and stroke and stroke.

The pull to Em was intense and Tess left her room to check on her daughter. She didn't touch, she just gazed, thinking to herself, oh God, I love her so much I could roar. And then she thought, I'd better not, I'll wake the household. And then she thought, I must nip down and check on Wolf. It was gone one in the morning. She last checked on him a good two hours ago, just before she went to bed. And as she descended the stairs, she thought to herself, I've just spent two hours really happy.

The first creak on the stairs glided into whatever it was Joe was dreaming about so he didn't notice. The second creak broke his sleep wave. The third woke him up. At the fourth he thought, what's she doing? And because all was then quiet, he deduced she was now downstairs on solid flagstones, rather than upstairs on the uneven corridor. She's checking on Wolf, he thought. He looked at his clock. It seemed to him that he'd been deeply asleep for far longer than two hours. He thought about yesterday; how he'd decided in the small hours that he'd return to the UK. Everything then dovetailed so seamlessly it just served to affirm that he was doing the right thing. No one gave him a hard time, the flight was there – cheap too and fast. He'd really wanted to see Wolf, and actually, when he thought about it now, he'd had a real urge to be home. Not homesickness – he wasn't pining – more it was a drive, a draw that there was one place that he should be and he was going to go there without delay.

And he'd come back and the house had been empty. He hadn't expected Wolf, of course, but he'd imagined Tess. The empty building, though echoey and still, was full of them – Tess, Wolf, even Emmeline: the folk that made his house work. That make my
housework
– he laughed at this, recalling the little jammy handprints low down on the kitchen door, Tess's bizarre arrangement of what appeared to be verge-side grasses in a stained old bottle she'd found God knows where which unbeknownst to her had left a ring mark on the mahogany console, the scatter of buggy and boots and rusk crumbs in the entrance hall. But then he thought to himself, that's unfair of me, the house has never seemed so bright and homely and fresh.

It was colder here than in France. Not because the weather was that different this time of year, but because in France he spent his time in a modern apartment with communal, regulated heat and also a body in the bed. Here he was in a high-ceilinged stone building over 130 years old, with windows that didn't close and gaps under the doors. He left his bed and pulled on boxers and a T-shirt. What's she doing down there? he wondered. Perhaps I'll go and see.

Tess thinks she knows the stairs pretty well – which treads cause a cacophony of creaks, which ones have a milder groan that won't wake Em or make Wolf bay. However, she's not aware that those have woken Joe. Down in Wolf's sickbay, she's not aware that Joe is making his own way down, that he knows a route along the stairs that is utterly soundless, a route he perfected during his childhood in the silent watches of the night when he'd creep soundlessly downstairs and stand by the front door and wonder how to run away.

Joe, though, is far from Tess's mind just now. As he makes his silent passage down the stairs, she's already engrossed in tending to Wolf.

And the sight of her causes him to crave invisibility.

Appropriately enough, there's a full moon for Wolf. It's sufficient for Tess to nurse the dog without the need for artificial light. Joe sees how the moonlight glances off the flagstones and reverberates from the white walls to bathe everything in soft silver. She's sitting on her heels on one of the blankets, with her back to Joe, bending forward, whispering to the dog.

Tess in a vest and knickers. A plain white vest and white cotton knickers. Between the two, as she leans forward, a small but compelling ellipse of skin – like a shy, pink smile. He thinks, that really can't pass as a camisole and panties, that really is just a vest and knickers. No frills. The simplicity, combined with the light and the time of night, is peculiarly stunning and Joe is perturbed how aroused it's made him. She's sitting on her heels and she's leaning forward and her bum, demurely covered in white cotton, is really so peach-shaped that Joe has to admit the cliché is both perfect and yet does her an injustice. The soles of her feet under her bum. The pads of her toes, becoming rounder as they become smaller, like little buds. Shoulders bare and shapely, as if carved from alabaster by the lick of moonlight. Her hair she has scrunched up to keep it away from her face, inadvertently revealing the elegant curve of her neck for Joe.

What's she doing exactly? Joe wonders as he watches her soak a flannel in a bowl of water, her face in profile. It strikes Joe that, unseen, Tess's prettiness can reveal itself. It's as if it hides when she's in company, as if she draws it into herself and says, don't come out until no one's looking. Like that day when he watched her hanging out the washing. Like this morning, when he saw her in the playground. Like this evening when she thought he was engrossed at the stove but he turned and just looked at her while she was busy writing some list or other. And like now – her features in profile as delicate and defined as a Victorian cameo silhouette. But what's she doing with that flannel, dipping it in the bowl, wringing it out a little? Whatever it is, he's pleased for her to continue because he gets to see the sweep and delineation of her arms.

He must have shifted because Wolf has clocked him and has made a brave attempt to voice a greeting. Tess turns quickly – but she settles because it's Joe, it's only Joe.

‘Sorry, did I startle you?’ he whispers, walking over.

‘No,’ she says, ‘I'm used to far stranger creaks and shadows when you're not here.’

He comes to stand by her, looking down on her and his dog. She looks up and sees boxer shorts and looks away quickly. His knees are at her eye level and she's never seen his legs bare and they are athletic with a smattering of dark hairs. She drops her gaze and sees his feet; they are shapely and strong and she is pleased she's dipping the flannel in the bowl because otherwise she'd be tempted to trace the tendons of his foot with her fingertips. He squats down, one arm relaxed over his knees, his other hand down on the floor for balance.

‘What's with the flannel?’

‘Well, don't laugh – but I wondered if Wolf was thirsty but feeling a bit incapacitated to drink from his bowl. So I'm just dipping the flannel and doing a bit of a drip and sip for him.’

‘Seems he is thirsty.’

‘Actually, he probably just likes the attention. I'm a muggins.’

‘You're Florence Frigging Nightingale, my love.’

And Tess's heart lurches and she thinks, oh, call me ‘my love’ again.

‘I was awake anyway,’ she shrugs, ‘so I just thought I'd pop down and see how he was doing.’

‘A model patient, I'd say.’

‘Nothing seeping or bleeding. His nose is nice and cold and he feels good and warm. I just wish he had his tail to wag.’

‘That tail,’ Joe laughs. ‘The number of times I cursed it – one wag and oops! another glass broken, or another pile of papers scattered to the floor.’

‘He whacked me with it one time,’ Tess tells him, ‘hard across my thigh. It hurt!’

Joe pauses. ‘Thanks, Tess – seriously.’

‘Oh God, Joe – it's the least I can do.’

‘You're not blaming yourself, are you?’

‘No – but that's not to say I wish I'd loitered when he went out for his pee.’

‘The vet told me – about how you took him there.’

She looks down and doesn't comment.

‘Thank you,’ says Joe.

Wolf gives a grumble, as if he's been happy to listen to them witter on but he's tired now and could they go.

‘Sleep's the best medicine – that's what my grandma used to say,’ Tess says and she sits up off her heels and stands. And now it's Joe who's low, looking at her feet and thinking, you've painted your toenails since I last saw them. They are pale turquoise and they remind him of Tess's sense of humour.

At his eye level, her thighs. He decides it would be prudent not to look higher – he's only in his boxers after all.

‘Well, night then, Joe.’

‘Night, Tess,’ he says without turning – he doesn't want to lose his balance. He's still squatting down. He's not as young as he was, you know. It's not just his floorboards that creak. Especially when flagstone chill has just infiltrated his limbs. He waits a moment or two, listens for the sounds on the stairs before he rises. He smiles at Wolf and turns for bed.