The Forgotten Seamstress (19 page)

‘What’s up? You sound dreadful.’

My throat seized tight with the effort of controlling my whimpers.

‘Caroline?’ he said again. ‘Are you all right?’

How could I tell this virtual stranger that I was having a miscarriage? ‘I’m fine,’ I gabbled, before the next wave clamped itself around my stomach, squeezing the breath out of me. I bit my lip to stop myself crying out.

‘You don’t sound at all fine. Tell me what’s going on.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, trying to sound brave and in control. ‘I’ve called the ambulance.’

‘Have you had an accident? Where are you? Is there anyone with you?’

‘It’s okay, honestly. I’m at my mum’s house.’

‘Is she with you?’ he persisted.

‘It’s not a problem, Ben,’ I tried desperately to convince myself, as much as him. ‘I’ll be okay when the ambulance gets here.’

‘How long ago did you call them?’

‘Twenty minutes or so,’ I guessed.

‘If past performance is anything to go by it could take them hours,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way.’

‘No, Ben. Please don’t …’ I managed, before he rang off.

I texted him again.
Please don’t worry about coming, I’m fine. Really
.

Weirdly though, from the moment he arrived, ten minutes later, I felt so much safer. He banged his head on the living room door frame and, although I’m sure it hurt, the slapstick of it – the way he clamped his hand to his forehead and swore loudly as he staggered through the doorway – made me laugh.

When he recovered, he pressed me to tell him what was going on and of course I tried to avoid having to tell him – why would I share that with someone I barely knew? In the end I had no option and he responded quite calmly, just saying ‘poor you’, and asking how long it was since I’d called the ambulance.

I checked my watch. ‘About forty-five minutes.’

His brow furrowed with concern. ‘Let me drive you to the hospital?’

‘That’s kind, but I’d rather wait, to be honest.’ There was no way I was going to bleed all over his car. ‘Let’s give them another fifteen minutes.’

He didn’t press me, then, and just got on with finding a blanket to wrap me in, feeding me painkillers, bringing in logs and stoking up the fire. Then he boiled the kettle and brought me a cup of strong sugary tea.

‘You look a little better now,’ he said, setting it down beside the sofa. ‘You were white as a sheet when I got here. How are you feeling?’

‘Still horrendous,’ I groaned through gritted teeth. ‘I’d no idea how painful it could be.’

‘You poor thing. Louise had a miscarriage before Tom was born. I know what she went through.’

There was something about his awkward attempts to sympathise which set me off; fat tears brimming out of my eyes and dripping onto the blanket he’d wrapped around my shoulders. He went out of the room, returned with the kitchen roll, and sat quietly beside me.

‘It’s the irony of it,’ I sobbed. ‘I was booked in for an abortion tomorrow.’

‘You don’t want the baby?’

‘It’s my ex’s. We had a messy break-up and I can’t face being a single parent.’ Hearing myself admitting it just made the tears run more freely.

He put an arm along the back of the sofa, and then around my shoulders, and I was so grateful for the comforting gesture that I rested my head on his chest. He smelled clean and fresh, like washing drying in the sunshine. The spasms were still agony, but easier to cope with now that I was able to relax, and soon afterwards the ambulance arrived.

The rest of the night was a blur of pethidine, which doesn’t so much remove the pain but somehow removes you – as if you are observing someone else in agony. There were long, uncomfortable hours on a trolley in A&E before I got moved to a ward. At some point in the early hours, my womb went through its final throes of expulsion and, after that, I slept.

In the morning I woke feeling weak and light-headed, but mercifully free of pain. My phone battery was almost flat, but lasted long enough to make a call to the clinic. The receptionist was sympathetic and asked how I was feeling. Right now just numb and confused, I said, it hasn’t really sunk in. She reminded me of their counselling services, in case I needed any psychological support in the coming weeks.

I was waiting impatiently for the doctor to visit, hoping they would discharge me and allow me home as soon as possible, when Ben came striding down the ward.

‘I’ve just texted to thank you,’ I said, feeling conscious now, in the cold light of day, of my raddled state. ‘You were great.’

He flushed awkwardly, in the way of a man unused to compliments. ‘I wanted to see for myself that you were all right,’ he muttered.

‘I’m okay now, thanks to you. All sorted. They say I can go home this morning. Can’t wait to get out of here.’

‘Hmm. Have you looked outside?’ He pulled aside the cubicle curtains so that I could see out of the window. Fat flakes of snow were falling purposefully to the ground and the car park was already white.

‘Not to worry, I’m sure taxis are still running,’ I said uncertainly.

‘Let me drive you. The main roads will be salted and my old Volvo’s built for snow.’

Why was he being so kind to a virtual stranger? ‘Aren’t you meant to be at work?’

‘Humour me. Just so I know you’re safely back there. Just to put my mind at rest?’ he said, smiling so sweetly that I relented.

The snow was still falling in heavy globs and the fields were white, but the main roads were still reasonably clear and Ben’s big car seemed to handle the slippery lane with ease.

‘Thanks so much for the lift, and for everything you did yesterday, Ben. You should get back before it gets any worse,’ I said, as we arrived.

‘Don’t be silly.’ He switched off the engine. ‘At least let me make sure you’re okay, perhaps make up the fire. And I deserve a cuppa, don’t I?’

The house was perishing and he started laying the fire while I went to make coffee, feeling surprisingly normal. But as I filled the kettle the room started to swim and, the next thing I knew, I was on the floor with Ben crouched over me.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘You fainted, gave me a hell of a fright. Sit up gently, and we’ll get you back by the fire.’

I was soon feeling a lot better, installed on the sofa with a cup of coffee in my hands and the logs roaring away like a furnace. Outside the sky had darkened and, although the snow seemed to be falling even more thickly, Ben was showing no urgency to leave.

‘This is a lovely cottage,’ he said, poking the fire.

‘It was a great place to grow up, although I hated being stuck out in the countryside as a teenager,’ I said. ‘But today reminds me of childhood Christmases, with the fire and the snow outside.’

‘Where
is
your mum, by the way?’ he asked. ‘Looks like she’s been having a clear-out.’

‘Oh God! I was supposed to see her yesterday. I completely forgot. Just a second, Ben,’ I said, and then remembered my battery was flat. ‘Could I use your phone, possibly?’

‘Not to worry, dear,’ the matron said, when I got through. ‘Your mother is absolutely fine. We hardly expected you anyway, what with all this snow.’

I explained to Ben about moving Mum into Holmfield and how I hoped she was going to settle in there but that, to pay the fees, I would probably have to sell the cottage.

‘How could you bear to get rid of it? I’d give my eye teeth for a place with a bit of character like this,’ he said, looking around the living room, with its low beams and wonky shelves.

‘Sadly I don’t have any choice. Mum’s pension will never cover the costs and I got made redundant recently. It’s been so crazy the past couple of weeks that I haven’t even started looking for another job yet.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘I was working in a bank. Great money, but it really wasn’t my thing.’

‘Hmm, I can see why – not the most popular people at a party these days, bankers,’ he laughed. ‘But what really
is
your thing?’

‘I trained in interior design and I still hanker after doing something creative,’ I admitted. ‘I’d really like to set up my own company.’

‘Go on?’

I pulled out the photos I’d taken of my patchwork room design and he studied them for several long moments.

‘You think I’m crazy?’

‘Yup,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘Crazy in a good way, though. It’s extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Was it by any chance inspired by that quilt you were researching?’

‘Kind of,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that …’

“‘Kind of …”?’ he prompted.

‘You must be devastated,’ he said, when I’d finished recounting the story of its theft. ‘Have you checked with the police recently?’

‘Yup, every day, but no luck. They’ve got more important things to worry about than quilt thieves.’

He fell quiet, steepling his fingers in thought.

‘Look, I’m feeling fine now,’ I said. ‘Surely you need to get back to work, or at least tell them where you are?’

‘I’ve told them I’m working from home. I’ll give it another hour or so to see if the snow eases a bit. They’ll get in touch if they need me.’

‘What about your wife, won’t she be concerned?’

‘Louise and I are separated.’ His voice was flat and unemotional, but his neck flushed pink.

‘I didn’t mean to pry,’ I stuttered. Trust me to put my foot in it. ‘I just assumed … your son?’

‘I’ll spare you the gory details,’ he said, quietly. ‘We’ve reached an amicable agreement. I collect him after Saturday football and he goes home on Sunday afternoon. It’s been tough on the little chap, but I think he’s coping.’

‘Have you got other children?’

He shook his head, looking down at his hands. For the first time I noticed how long his eyelashes were.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. The only thing I could say.

‘We get through these things somehow, don’t we?’ The break in his voice made it clear the emotions were still very raw. ‘You’ve had plenty on your plate too, by the sound of things. We just have to get by the best we can, make the most of it.’

‘Make the most of it.’ Another of Granny Jean’s favourite phrases – usually in response to one of my teenage moans. I didn’t tell him, of course, that would have been weird, likening a forty-something man to my grandmother. But it made me smile, all the same.

With the snapping of the logs in the fire and the click of Ben’s fingers on his laptop blurring into a gentle rhythm, I allowed myself to close my eyes. The anaesthetic must have affected me more than I thought because, by the time I woke, it was almost dark outside.

‘How long have I been asleep?’ I yawned, to cover my embarrassment. I’d probably been snoring, with my mouth open.

‘Nearly three hours. How are you feeling?’

I did a mental check: nothing seemed to hurt. ‘Fine now, I think. What time is it?’

‘Just after four.’

‘That late? What are you still doing here?’

‘Look outside.’

Beams of light from the house fell across the front lawn like yellow stripes of paint on a blue-white canvas. Beyond that, both cars were concealed under piles of snow at least twenty centimetres deep. ‘My God, I haven’t seen it this thick in years. How am I going to get back to London?’

‘You’re not,’ Ben said, ‘not tonight at least. They’re reporting mayhem out there.’ He showed photos of traffic chaos on his laptop. ‘Is there anything you have to get back for?’

I shook my head. It was only the clinic appointment, but that was all over now, thank heavens. Nothing else. And I had no desire to face real life again, not just yet. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ll worry about me later,’ he said. ‘I’ll just finish this bit of work, then we’ll have something to eat, perhaps?’

‘There’s no food here, other than a couple of tins, and they’re probably well out of date.’

Ben smiled. ‘As it happens I did a bit of shopping yesterday lunchtime and got so distracted by your crisis that I totally forgot to take it out of the boot. This afternoon I remembered and brought the bags in – I was afraid the food would be frozen and inedible, but it seems okay. There’s not much, I’m afraid, just staples like bread and butter, ham, some cheese I think, stuff like that. A few bottles of beer and some wine – well chilled.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ I said. ‘We can have a picnic.’

We made sandwiches and returned to the warmth of the living room. For a while we ate without speaking – it felt curiously comfortable, sitting in silence with him.

Then he said, ‘While you were sleeping this afternoon I got thinking about your stolen quilt. I know that it means a lot to you, and from what you say it is very distinctive, and of no real value to anyone else. Have you checked with homeless charities and shelters?’

‘No, I haven’t, but it’s a really good idea. Why didn’t I think of it?’

‘They might put an article in their newsletters, offer some blankets as a reward, that sort of thing,’ he went on. ‘If it’s being used by a homeless person the quilt’s quite likely to be getting wet and damaged in this weather, so it’d be a good idea to get a move on. I’ve done some research and emailed you a couple of leads.’

They were reporting blocked roads and jack-knifed lorries all over the south east and it was obvious that neither of us was going anywhere. So we opened a bottle of wine and talked – about his work, my redundancy and my ambitions to set up my own company, his childhood in Yorkshire, and my childhood in Eastchester.

‘Apart from spending time with Tom and watching football, what else makes you happy?’ I asked.

‘You’re going to think me a bit weird, but my dad was an artist and was always dragging us around galleries as children,’ he said. ‘I hated it then, but as an adult I’ve rediscovered the pleasure of it. Since, you know, the business with Louise, I’ve started to visit galleries again. Even started to draw a bit, too.’

Oh my God. A man who liked art. Was he heaven-sent? ‘Who’s your favourite painter?’

‘I’d have to say Constable, coming from round here. There was a great exhibition of his at the Royal Academy last year.’ So far, so predictable, but then he continued, ‘But I like abstract works too. Don’t really understand them, but the colours and shapes just make me feel happy – or sometimes sad.’