The Son-in-Law (35 page)

Joseph stopped dead. He felt forlorn. ‘So this is why you were so nice about my past. You were busy being all Christian.’

‘Idiot! I was
nice
—as you put it—because I liked you very much from the day I met you; also because it isn’t for me to judge what mistakes you’ve made. Goodness knows I’m not Persil-white. I told you that—and my father’s a jumped-up version of a pimp! My posh education was paid for by a club that sold booze and tits. And more.’

They turned into the farmyard. Joseph reached instinctively for her hand, and her fingers curled around his. The contact felt utterly right. It struck him that he hadn’t thought about Zoe for over an hour. Not once. It had to be a record.

‘So finally we know one another’s secrets,’ he said. ‘We know what we’re both doing here in the middle of nowhere.’

‘We do. The mysteries are solved. You’re a killer, and I’m a religious fanatic.’

‘So can we sleep together now?’

‘Oh Lordy, another one with a nun fetish.’ Rosie chuckled, gently removing her hand. ‘What is it with you people? The wimple? The habit?’

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘For being here in the middle of nowhere. For being a fantastic swimmer. In the right place, at the right time.’

Thirty

Hannah

It became a hellish sort of routine. Every other weekend, the blue car pulled up in Faith Lane. The children said goodbye, gathered their things and walked away across no-man’s-land. I dreaded it each and every time.

One Saturday we awoke to the dreary applause of summer rain. I thought Scott might have the sense to cancel, but of course he didn’t. Ben—who was always more forthcoming than the other two—later told me they’d had to huddle indoors and play board games all that weekend (‘I was bored of board games,’ he said dejectedly). The caravan leaked, so Scott put out buckets. I’d like to pretend I was sorry, but that would be dishonest. I did wonder whether the damp had done Theo’s asthma any good.

Eventually, Ben rebelled. It was June, soon after his fifth birthday, and it was raining yet again. Scarlet and Theo stood at the sitting-room window like vigilant meerkats, watching for the dreaded car. Theo was cradling his football. I realised I’d forgotten to give Freddie his morning pills, and rushed into the kitchen to get them lined up for him. There was a plethora of the wretched things; made him feel like an invalid. I was popping them out of their blister pack—two red, three yellow, and the big horse tablet—when Ben came trotting in, moaning. He had his hand pressed onto his stomach and exquisite suffering etched into his features.

‘Got a tummy ache,’ he declared tragically.

I squatted down to his level and put my hand on his forehead. He didn’t feel warm. ‘Where does it hurt?’

He lifted up his shirt, regarded his potbellied torso for a moment, then poked himself just above the navel. ‘There.’

‘There?’

‘And there, and there,’ he added, jabbing himself at random. ‘It’s really, really sore.’

‘Do you want to snuggle down in bed?’

He nodded dumbly and began to suck his thumb. Who can resist a just-turned five-year-old with round eyes and a sucked thumb? So I made him a hot-water bottle and he crawled under the duvet in all his clothes. There he lay, smugly, with a very healthy smile on his face.

‘Dad’s two minutes away,’ announced Scarlet, hurrying into the room. Her eyes glinted like shards of green glass. ‘He sent me a text.’

‘A text!’

‘He doesn’t usually,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s just in case we don’t see him out of the window.’

I didn’t like the sound of that. It was a breach of the contact order, surely? If he could text her, she’d never be free of his influence. He could pester her in the middle of the night, or at school. I decided to ask Jane about whether we could stop him.

She’d spotted Ben. ‘Hey, mister! What are you doing in bed? C’mon, chop-chop. Where’s your bag?’

‘Ben isn’t coming this weekend,’ I said firmly.

‘Really?’ She looked at her brother, who wisely wiped the smile off his face and replaced it with a mask of anguish. ‘Why not?’

‘He has a stomach upset. Could you please tell your father?’

Her phone whistled, and she glanced at it. ‘He’s outside.’

Freddie and I stood at the sitting-room window and watched Scarlet and Theo running through pelting rain. We saw them get into the blue car, to be driven away by my son-in-law. I feared for them.

‘Well,’ I said briskly to Freddie, once the car had disappeared. ‘Cup of tea?’

‘Where . . .?’ Freddie asked, pointing out of the window.

‘Up on the moors, remember?’

He looked shaken. ‘Long way.’

Ben miraculously rallied, leaping from his sick bed the minute his siblings were safely out of sight. We all had a lovely time. He and I baked a sponge together, decorating it with icing and Smarties. Then he got out his plasticine, and he and Freddie made snakes on the kitchen table. Ben chattered away, unperturbed by Freddie’s oddness.

That afternoon, the heavens seemed to run out of rain at last. Clouds parted like curtains to reveal a spring-cleaned sky. The sun had a special brilliance, as though it had just come back from holiday. Ben helped me to hang out the washing. Freddie also made a sortie into the garden, inhaling the scents of flowers and lush growth. He looked much perkier. I even dared to hope that he might be coming back to us, little by little.

Or perhaps it was I who was growing used to the new half-Freddie.

Scarlet and Theo were dropped home on Sunday afternoon, as usual. They looked poker-faced, as usual. And as usual, I longed to hear them say they’d had a vile weekend.

‘Nice time?’ I asked.

Shrugs. ‘Mm-hm.’

‘Do anything fun?’

‘Just stuff.’

‘Did you explain to your father that Ben was ill?’ I asked Scarlet.

‘’Course.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Another shrug. I didn’t press her.

The next time they were due to go, Ben announced that he’d been invited to a schoolmate’s house.

‘Alexander is allowed a friend today, because his sister is having one. You have to phone his mum,’ he said, pulling a scruffy bit of paper from the depths of his school bag. On it was a telephone number penned in very childish handwriting.

I felt torn. ‘But you’re supposed to be spending this weekend with your father. He’ll be here soon.’

‘Alexander has a flying fox in his garden,’ Ben persisted doggedly. ‘And Alexander’s my best friend.’

We both knew Alexander wasn’t anything of the kind.

‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’ I asked.

‘I forgot. Then I remembered. I said I’d go, so I have to go. Alexander is waiting for me to go.
Please?
’ Ben ran to the phone, picked up the receiver and held it out for me. So there it was: a cast-iron invitation from a new best friend. It seemed abundantly clear that Ben was trying to avoid going to Brandsmoor. I called the number, and Alexander’s mother sounded charming. Yes, she said, Ben was very welcome. Yes, Alexander had mentioned it—though she’d assumed it was one of those hit-and-miss arrangements children make.

When Scott arrived, I gave Scarlet a note to pass on to him:

Ben has been invited to a friend’s house today. He is very
keen. It’s vitally important that he maintains his social interactions.
I am sure you will understand and respect this.

H.W.

The following Monday, Jane had an email from Scott’s solicitor. She forwarded it on to me.

Dear Mrs Whistler,

I understand that Scarlet and Theo have been attending
fortnightly contact with their father as ordered by His Honour Judge Cornwell. However, Mr Scott instructs me that
Ben has missed the last two such visits. This is an unhappy
state of affairs.

May I have your clients’ assurance that all three children
will attend contact visits from now on? If not, I am instructed
to have the matter relisted without further notice.

I phoned Jane.

‘Ben simply doesn’t want to go,’ I told her. ‘He’ll come up with a new excuse next time, for sure. I wonder what’s going on? Why is he trying to avoid his father?’

‘Maybe he just likes having you and Frederick all to yourselves.’

‘No, no. It’s more than that.’

‘He’s bound to be picking up on your unhappiness, Hannah. You’re very close. Perhaps he worries about how you’ll cope without him.’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ I snorted. ‘I hide my emotions. I don’t burden the children.’

‘Send him next time,’ said Jane firmly.

‘What—force him?’

‘Persuade him. Use bribery if necessary. I’m sure he doesn’t always want to go to school, but you put your foot down, don’t you?’

‘That’s
completely
different.’ I was indignant. ‘Come on, Jane. We’re talking about staying in a strange bed, in a strange place. He met this man for the first time just a few months ago. It’s simply not comparable to a familiar school, ten minutes’ walk from home.’

‘Try,’ she said. ‘Please, Hannah. I don’t want this to end up back in court.’

So I did try, and it was awful. Ben and I packed his coloured satchel with his favourite clothes. He seemed chirpy, even ran to fetch his toothbrush; but as the time to leave drew nearer, he clambered onto a chair at the kitchen table and announced that he wanted to bake a cake with me. He said
please
could he bake a cake with me, and
please
could Gramps tell him a story after that? When Scott arrived, I had to prise that poor child away from the kitchen table and force him—wailing—out of the front door. He was getting rather heavy for me, but I carried him all the way to the hated blue car.

Scott must have seen me in his wing mirror, because he leaped out.

‘Hannah,’ he muttered coldly. ‘Hello.’

‘An unhappy boy,’ I snapped, setting Ben down on the ground.

Scott forced an unconvincing smile. ‘How’re you doing, Superman?’

Superman clung miserably to my waist, and I leaned down to cuddle him. ‘See?’ I said, glaring at Scott. ‘See what you’re doing? Does this make you happy?’

I don’t know what would have happened if Scarlet hadn’t intervened. I really don’t.

‘C’mon, Ben,’ she called brightly, clapping her hands. ‘Fatcat Digby’s waiting for you! If you hop in quick, you can sit by the window.’ Ben let go of me and clambered into the car. She organised his seatbelt, chatting all the time. I didn’t speak to Scott again, nor he to me. Seconds later, he’d started the engine and driven off.

That was the pattern for the rest of the summer. Every other weekend, my grandchildren would be taken away in a pale blue car whether they liked it or not. It was terribly invasive. It dominated their lives. They missed sleepovers and birthday parties; they missed school plays and gymnastics competitions.

They missed us.

We missed them.

In August, Scott took them for ten days. Jane was adamant that we had to allow this. The judge had made his views clear, and we’d be in contempt of court if we didn’t cooperate. I hated getting them ready for such a long stretch away. We packed a lot of clothes, and I hid little treats in their bags. I tried to reassure them, especially Ben, but I felt tortured by anxiety—would Theo wet his bed, and if so would Scott be angry? Would they be able to eat the food he cooked? If Ben was homesick, would Scott let him phone us?

Once we’d seen them go, Freddie and I trudged back into a house that seemed eerily silent. The children’s absence hung in heavy layers. For us, they seemed to stave off the ageing process. We had to gallop around at their pace, talking their talk and telling their stories. Life was vibrant and real. Without them, I felt like a husk.

I found Frederick in the garden on that first barren afternoon. He wasn’t gardening. The truth—never spoken—was that he couldn’t any longer, he hadn’t the balance or the stamina, so I’d quietly employed a man to do it for us. Freddie was wandering along the edge of the flowerbed, sometimes stooping—very, very carefully—to pull out a weed. He’d collected a trowel from the shed as though he meant business, but it hung unused in one hand.

‘Your roses are a triumph this year,’ I prattled brightly as I joined him. ‘They’ll be glorious well into autumn, I should think.’

He was tired; it took him a long time to form his reply. I’d become used to that, and I waited. When the words finally arrived, it was as though he’d compressed them into a tight, not-quite-sense bundle. ‘Unlesh the aphidsgetem.’

‘Unless . . .? Oh, unless the aphids get them. No, they’re very healthy. It’s your marvellous compost we’ve to thank.’

He managed a wink. ‘My sheeklet recipe.’

The charade of jollity was suddenly too much to bear. ‘I miss them,’ I gasped, sinking into a chair at the cast-iron table. I felt my voice give way.

My darling. He understood. He understood perfectly, because he knew me so very well. Somewhere inside that shambling wreck was the man I’d loved for forty years; the man with whom I’d chosen to share this one life I’d been given. Shuffling closer, he laid his hand on my arm. I could feel the gentle weight of his fingers. They calmed me as they always had, always did.

‘Me too,’ he said, absolutely clearly. ‘Me too.’

Thirty-one

Scarlet

School sucks. Then again, when you’re at school you know what to expect. There’s a bell that rings bang on time—rush rush rush—and a timetable set in stone. I could tell you exactly where I’d be on, say, a Wednesday at eleven am. I could tell you exactly who’d be teaching us, and what subject.

Boring. But at least you know where you are.

Home life wasn’t like that anymore. Nobody said it, but Gramps wasn’t going to get any better. He was still somewhere inside that handsome old head, still loving and interested, but he just couldn’t keep up with the goings-on. His thoughts and his words didn’t seem to work together as they should. As for poor Hannah . . . well. There were shadows on her face that never used to be there.

The day we left for our long stay at the caravan, she was as tense as a tightrope.