Torn (11 page)

‘Anyway, when I gave him a lift home he got me to drop him off by Skirmish Bridge. He lives somewhere near there. He was telling me there are plans to pull the bridge down, if that's the route chosen for the new by-pass. But by then I was already very late. Alison was really put out …' This tactic about being late for Rory, or the bridge and its possible demise couldn't divert Sheila.

‘When do you plan to see him again?'

‘I don't. I mean I haven't any plans.'

‘But he's got your phone number?'

‘Only my landline.'

‘Is there some coded difference between giving your landline number or your mobile, Jess?'

‘Look … it's not like I'm desperate to hear from him. There's a wealth of difference between keeping in touch and “a relationship”. It's up to him if he wants to. I would have taken his mobile number but he didn't have it on him … I didn't even have mine. We left the house in a rush and I forgot it wasn't in my usual bag. It's new and I've not memorised the number yet. So I gave him the landline, but didn't write it down …'

‘If he can't remember
your
telephone number he's brain dead. So, when he does call, which I'm damned sure he will, do you think a platonic friendship is all he'll be after? At his age he'll not be on the lookout for a woman to settle down with. So how will you handle his inevitable expectations?'

‘We'll have to negotiate that one when we come to it. Honestly Sheila, I don't know why you're so worked up about it. It's up to me, isn't it? My life. My body. If I decide I want to sleep with him I will, however young he is, however unsuitable. Now let's change the subject, OK?' Sheila's mouth compressed. ‘Don't you care about the new road?'

‘Wherever a new road is routed the nimbys will rise up bleating! And as far as I'm concerned Warford needs a bypass,' Sheila said tersely. ‘It's a case of squaring that circle. Presumably Danny and his mates don't want a new road at all?'

‘Don't think so, but anywhere would be better than the destruction of an ancient bridge, surely?'

‘I don't know where they're getting their information about the route. So far there's been nothing official in the public domain. Even so, the bridge isn't quite as ancient as the name implies.'

‘What does the name imply? I asked Danny but not being local he didn't know.'

‘This area was a Royalist stronghold at the time of the Civil War. The river used to be wider and there was a ford across it. In the early days the Cavaliers saw off a regiment of Parliamentarians in a battle around the site of the ford. The bridge was built later, like most of the town, after the Restoration. So that's why the town is called Warford, the pub is called the Prince Rupert. The cul-de-sac off the high street is Fairfax End, the square is named after Charles the First, and Gore farm, which the river dissects, rather questions the fact it was only a skirmish.'

‘Yuck! I hadn't realised. I never pay much attention to local names other than to find my way around. History wasn't my strongest suit at school. And we only did the late nineteenth and early twentieth century in any depth.'

‘If you're that bothered about the road there's a public meeting planned. You'll have to go,' Sheila said.

‘Well … if I can organise babysitting.' An uncomfortable echo from her conscience reproached her. ‘After the disaster of the sleepover I feel a bit wary. Changing the subject again, did I tell you I've had an offer on my flat?'

‘Wow! You've been lucky!'

‘Fingers crossed! It was a snip when I bought it, a re-possession. If it goes through I'll be getting over double what I paid. But it's a big if.'

‘Are you giving any of the proceeds to Sean?'

‘He'll be lucky! I'd already had the place five years before I met Sean. And within a few years of moving in I discovered that instead of depositing money into the bank account set up to pay the mortgage, he'd been raiding it to finance his internet gambling habit.'

‘Gambling with your money?'

‘When he ran out of his own,' Jess smiled, although the reality of that dreadful time had been the polar opposite of amusing. ‘At first he was apparently winning more than losing and repaying what he'd so-called borrowed. Then he was breaking even. Then he was losing steadily. I blame myself to an extent. I'd taken my eye off the ball. It was the only joint account and it was still postal, not online. I became so absorbed with being a mum it was easier to trust him, when in fact he'd been hiding all the relevant letters, statements, and demands. I should have realised something was wrong when he started drinking heavily, getting abusive, and badgering me to go back to work. When everything came to light I had a large bill to pay off and the mortgage lender to placate. I tried to throw Sean out. He wouldn't go. So that's how Rory and I ended up here. Since the incident before Christmas he's had a warning letter from my solicitor about harassment. I made the formal offer that he could stay in the flat rent-free until it's sold. That's as far as I'm willing to go. If he wants a share of the sale he'll have to take me to court.'

‘Good for you!' This was more the kind of story Sheila would approve of – a woman getting one over on a man. ‘Will you be looking for a place to buy round here?'

‘That's one of the things I have to decide. I'm a London girl. I miss it. But it is lovely round here and there's Rory to think of. Where would he be better off?'

Sheila's face had fallen. ‘It's a no brainer. Here! Where there's clean air and open countryside, trees to climb, streams to fish. Anyway, property in London's so expensive …'

‘No problem, unless my credit rating is permanently buggered! I might not have the money instantly accessible but I could release enough for a substantial deposit. And Rory and I could rub along comfortably for a year or two before I need worry about finding a job. But … I don't know whether I want to do that. The stock market's still depressed and I'd rather not raid my ISAs. I'd prefer to wait, consider the options, before finally deciding my next move.'

‘Wow! A woman with money! From your own efforts or inherited?'

‘Never inherited a bean and don't expect to. I earned a fair whack when I was working, topped up with bonuses. So I invested quite a bit. The value has dropped from the heights it reached before the crash but I'm still in profit. It's nice to have that cushion. Fingers crossed that things continue on an upward trajectory.'

‘No wonder Sean was so pissed off when you walked out on him!'

‘I began to realise that he saw me as a cash cow.'

‘Do you manage your own portfolio of investments?'

‘It was part of the culture when I was working. I've been out of the loop too long now. In the current climate it's not so clear cut what's the best thing to do.'

‘Mummy, I'm bored.'

‘Bored! What, with this whole nursery to play in?'

Rory had been in and out of the Wendy house, scrambled on the apparatus, then tumbled and rolled on the mats underneath. Now the novelty was wearing off.

‘But I've got nobody to play
with
!' He dragged at her skirt as he scuffed and elbowed his way onto her lap. She wrapped her arms about him and kissed her favourite spot on his neck. The fact was unarguable. Even the delights of the whole room, with all of its equipment, had failed to hold his interest for more than fifteen minutes.

‘So, while we continue to live here,' she remarked quietly to Sheila over the top of her son's head as he delved into her shoulder bag that was hanging on the chair, ‘I can't leave this little chap in limbo. I've got to start networking, though probably not with Alison, to help him to cement new friendships.'

‘Hello. Hello, mistra shop man. Bocker glory. Now!'

‘Rory! It's not a toy!' She removed her mobile phone from his hands and zipped it back into her bag. Quietly she asked, ‘Who do you think he gets on with?'

‘I would have said his best friend here is Sasha.'

Jessica was surprised. ‘A girl!'

‘It has been known.'

In the cottage Jessica gathered together the handful of cards for recycling. She unhooked the ornaments from the tree, showering dry pine needles everywhere. She wound the fairy lights around a cardboard tube and folded up the paper chains. All the while she pondered the power they possessed – these concertinas of coloured paper, the images of a bearded man in a red suit, the dying tree – to brighten your mood. It seemed chill and dreary without them.

As the anti-climactic lull of January stretched ahead, she had to remind herself constantly that there was no reason not to be happy. Hadn't she exchanged a kind of nightmare for a life of unexpected blessings? There weren't even streetlights along Northwell Lane, let alone a pavement, and the sky at night was so profoundly dark, it was like dense, black pinpricked velvet. Over London, even at midnight, the sky was a rusty prune colour. An unremitting drone of traffic, punctuated by raised voices, other people's music, and roadworks, had been the backdrop to her life. At first she'd missed the familiar hum of the city's twenty-four hour soundscape. Her sleep had been disrupted and shallow. Now, though still a novelty to go to bed to silence, a silence hardly ever interrupted by anything more disquieting than the wind in the trees above her roof, the profound quiet had become a sedative. She woke, refreshed, to nothing but the winter twittering of birds. There were cars of course, most who lived in the lane had a car, but it was not a route to anywhere significant. Traffic was so infrequent even a passing bike was notable. To be able to park her car directly outside her house was a daily miracle.

All her life, since those golden childhood visits to her godmother, she'd cherished the idea of one day living in the country. Looking out onto fields and distant hills, to see cattle and horses and swooping birds, she still had to pinch herself. Yet there was a continuing unease. Weren't her reasons for coming here based on the storybook fantasy of a thatched cottage with roses round the door? A good life had to be based on something more than lovely views, quiet nights, and clean air. If her old life had become a nightmare, then this was a dream, a dream she would eventually have to let go. And when that day came what would facing up to real, wide-awake life mean?

Many mornings, while Rory was occupied, she went out walking. She wondered what her old friends would think of Jessica, the ultimate urban animal, tramping through the countryside decked out in a waxed jacket, jeans tucked into wellingtons. Some days she'd be crunching through several inches of snow; on others the ground was frozen hard or had thawed to soft, sucking mud. Always she clutched the Ordnance Survey Rangefinder map, to keep her on the accredited footpaths. The river – crossed by Skirmish Bridge on the Warford side – looped around Spine Hill and meandered along the back of the fields in front of her house. Here a row of willow, of elder, alder, blackthorn, and birch trees bordered its banks. A path followed the shingly, overgrown bank upriver and this became one of her favoured routes, far from roads, cars, and habitation.

She could walk for miles, breath pluming steam, cold air stinging her cheeks, the pull of exercise warming her muscles. And while she was out, whether climbing over stiles, or pushing her way through rusting metal gates, boots sucked down into the claggy, trampled swamp left by the cows who'd gathered there, she wondered if she'd been phoned on the landline. But when she got home there'd never been any missed calls or messages.

It was the finale of the interlude with Danny that sprang most readily and uncomfortably to mind. The frustration of the moment had faded swiftly, leaving only shame. He must have me down as some rapacious, sex-starved lush. Perhaps he was a virgin and I terrified him, she thought, although he hadn't seemed terrified. Equally shaming was her crass stupidity. It would have been understandable, although still dangerous and very foolish, if they'd had unprotected sex when she was drunk and ignorant of his age. But to have come so close in the cold light of day, when she not only knew how young he was but also knew he mixed with people liable to be drug users – the blood flushing through her veins turned icy. His subsequent failure in the sex department suggested he was unlikely to be a health risk but this tardily acquired knowledge hardly absolved her from responsibility. She had put herself in danger once before and been terrified; she thought she had learned that lesson.

The other aspect of the occasion that ignited her guilt was her failure to listen to him. When he'd suggested they go out she should have realised why. It was quite reasonable that he wasn't keen to stay in a place contaminated with cat hairs. But staying in was the only option she'd given him. He had every reason to think her highhanded, overbearing, and insensitive.

Yet, when she'd driven him to Skirmish Bridge, there'd been no trace of constraint or embarrassment on his part. They'd chatted away like old friends, mostly about the by-pass, but also about the surrounding countryside and his work. He'd even asked her birth date and seemed pleased to discover she was a Scorpio. But perhaps this was just his new-agey way of being polite. Though she'd privately decided it would be best to draw a line under the whole encounter, when Danny asked for her phone number she'd been pleased – even though he qualified the request by suggesting she bring Rory over to see the chickens and ducks and, once they'd started to arrive, the baby lambs. But she'd failed to transfer her phone from the bag she'd used at the party. So she gave him her landline number, an easy sequence to remember. His silence since indicated that the whole incident had held little significance for him. It was likely he'd already hooked up with a more suitable girl. If so it was a good thing. It was for the best. His life had moved on. But there remained a rankling disappointment. Without intending to do anything of the sort she began to speculate how she might track him down.