Heaven's On Hold Read online

  ‘That’s hospitals for you,’ said Jean Samms. There was no one else in the queue, so she added, raising her voice slightly above Freya’s. ‘Are you visiting, or …?’

  ‘I was involved in a minor road accident, but we’ve been given the all clear.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  He jiggled Freya. ‘ Do you work here every day?’

  ‘No, no. I work at the library but Monday’s my day off and I do the morning here.’

  ‘That’s very noble of you.’

  ‘Not really.’ She pulled a rueful face as if to say it was little enough. ‘What else have I got to do?’

  Without enough information even to hazard a guess, David didn’t reply, and now the little nurse came into the café carrying a bottle of milk, and he raised a hand to attract her attention. ‘ That’s for us, I’d better do something with it for everyone’s sake.’

  He found a table and sat down. Freya seemed to leap on to the teat like a salmon. She was still small enough for him to balance the bottle in his left hand and lift his coffee cup with his right. Peace, along with nourishment, spread through both of them. When he got up to go he waved to Jean Samms.

  ‘Goodbye. It was nice to see you again.’

  ‘Bye-bye,’ she said, and made a small waving gesture towards Freya – the gesture, he suspected proudly, of a person who didn’t have children.

  In the minicab he strapped Freya’s seat into the back and sat next to her the driver was uncommunicative, which suited him fine. All he wanted now was to get back to the car, and then home. But as they left King’s Newton behind and headed out towards the ridgeway, images of the accident burst in his head like fireworks

  Getting back behind the wheel he experienced a lurch of queasy anxiety, and not just at the prospect of driving again. He remembered now – the car that hit his had been small and red, a young person’s car. A Fiesta perhaps. Or a Micra.

  Of course he was going to tell Annet – how could he not? He mentally rehearsed various approaches. These ranged from the casual; ‘Some idiot clipped my wing mirror on the ridgeway this morning, we were lucky that was all’; via the righteously indignant: ‘It was sheer, blatant hit and run, and not a thing I could do’; to the pre-emptively breast-beating ‘I feel so responsible … it makes me feel quite sick to think how much worse it could have been’.

  But none of these felt quite comfortable, possibly because none took account of the small, cold fact that it had been partly his fault. He came down in favour of spontaneity – he would mention the day’s events when a suitable opening presented itself, in whatever way seemed appropriate at the time.

  What he hadn’t anticipated was no opening at all. Freya had fallen sweetly and obligingly asleep over her post-bath bottle, but he kept her downstairs for Annet, and was still carrying her about when his wife finally got back at half past seven, wired.

  ‘Talk about a shock to the system, you wouldn’t believe the crap that’s been going down in that place for the past couple of months, or maybe you would, but at least when they say they missed me I believe them.…’

  She was marching to a different drum, and its fast, excitable beat drowned his own more hesitant rhythm.

  ‘… oh look, sleeping like an angel, you are clever, darl, I’m sorry I’m late but you know what it’s like.’

  He wasn’t sure that he did. He had never been charged up by his work in the way that Annet was. She took Freya up to bed and then came down and stood in the kitchen, drinking four glasses of wine, displaying the miniature denim jacket purchased by Piers at Baby Gap, and talking non-stop while he dished up a smoked-fish pie disinterred from the freezer. He noted that she seemed to have grown back into the sharp suit and high heels, so that whereas this morning they had appeared almost poignant, now they were a symbol of her invincibility, hot from the battle. Next to her in his weekend clothes he felt soft, rumpled, vulnerable as a mollusc without its shell.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she assured him, ‘ I’m not going to be this late every day, this was exceptional.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘ bound to be.’

  Unexpectedly, she came and stood behind him, putting her arms round him and exerting a strong pressure over his heart. He knew this embrace, knew it was a demand for unqualified understanding as well as an expression of affection. He covered her hands with his.

  Against his back, she said: ‘So come on darl – tell me about your day.’

  His hesitation was so small she wouldn’t have noticed it. ‘ Oh,’ he said, turning to take her in his arms. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  Chapter Nine

  Lying to Annet, or being even slightly duplicitous with her, had been until recently a new experience for David, and he was profoundly uncomfortable with it. He couldn’t pinpoint precisely when it had begun, but the cause had something to do with Gina King. The unhappy girl’s short time in his employ, her dismissal and her subsequent refusal to, as it were, go away, all preyed on his mind. Once he’d entertained the notion of her being involved in the day’s events the idea took root, and made it still more difficult to talk about.

  A dozen times during the course of that evening he readied himself to say something like: ‘Actually, when I said there was nothing to tell about our day I wasn’t being entirely accurate …’ But on each occasion the words failed to find a voice. It never seemed to be quite the right moment to rock the boat and spoil Annet’s mood, particularly since Freya (for the second time in her short life) appeared to have suffered no ill effects from her accident. The baby clinic on Friday would soon enough tell him if something were wrong. In the interim, he reasoned, it was a case of the most good for the most people.

  During supper he was only too happy to let Annet do the talking. When pressed again for detail he told her about the rest of the day – the visit from Bailey, Mags’s invitation, the work he’d done in the garden that afternoon while Freya slept in her pram. Suddenly drowsy at around ten, Annet had propped her head on her hand and said, round a yawn:

  ‘You know, I think you could take to this.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Except that it exists in a different time zone.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘More time,’ he explained, ‘but less possibility of doing anything with it.’

  ‘You found out.’

  ‘I was going to go into town to knock a few things off your list,’ he said, ‘but it didn’t happen.’ That close. He was that close.

  ‘Oh, the list …’ she chuckled. ‘ I’m sorry about the bloody list, darl, don’t let it tyrannise you.’

  ‘I won’t. I could do with a bit of structuring.’

  ‘I think I was having trouble letting go. Handing over.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he acknowledged carefully.

  ‘But not now.’ She hiked up to him and kissed his cheek, then his mouth, amorously. ‘I’m so lucky.…’

  A few minutes later, going upstairs to join her, he told himself that he was too.

  She was lying naked in bed with her hands linked behind her head, watching him as he entered the room. Her bedside lamp was off. The duvet had slipped down to reveal one breast, and as if to emphasise the point the sleeve of her nightshirt trailed wantonly from beneath the pillow: not wanted on voyage.

  She flicked the other side of the duvet back and stretched her arm out on the sheet.

  ‘Hurry up, I thought you’d never get here.’

  He was acutely aware of her watching him as he undressed. Because she had been out in her other world, he felt more naked than usual, exposed to comparison. As he got into bed he switched off his lamp, but she at once reached behind her and switched hers on.

  ‘No you don’t.…’

  He knew that a large part of her excitement was due to adrenalin, that she felt (ghastly modern word, but so true of her) empowered. But that didn’t stop it being wonderful when she was upon him, hands sliding and grasping, legs twining, mouth finding him out … He gasped.


  ‘Hey …’ She paused, leaned back slightly to focus. ‘ What’s this?’

  ‘What?’ He put his hand beneath her hair and tried to pull her back.

  ‘Here.’ She pressed the side of his arm, just below his shoulder.

  He winced. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing, schmuthing, have you been consorting with rough women?’

  ‘Chance’d be a fine thing, they were all out at work.…’

  ‘This is a nasty lump, and a bruise … Poor darl, I leave you alone for two minutes and what happens.…’

  She wasn’t that bothered, her fingers ran back and forth over the place, rubbing it in, reminding him. As her breathing quickened he felt the sad, shaming retreat of his own body. Concern over his small injury had fuelled her desire, but quenched his. He fought to revive it, he clasped her and found her mouth with his, tried to draw the feeling back into him, but it was impossible and she sensed the desperation in his kiss.

  ‘Darl …?’

  ‘God. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, no, don’t, it’s OK …’ She dropped light, comforting kisses on to his face, her unexpected tenderness was heartbreaking. ‘ I don’t care … I understand.…’

  ‘Do you?’ he mumbled, knowing she couldn’t, possibly.

  ‘M-hm.’ She nodded as she slipped on to her side, her shoulder tucked beneath his, her head on his shoulder. ‘I think so. Being stuck at home’s not very sexy.’

  He couldn’t bring himself to answer, but laid his arm over his eyes.

  She added: ‘Doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed, though.…’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I love you. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I know.’ She caught his other hand, the one furthest from her, and pulled it gently so that he rolled to face her. ‘So it’s not the end of the world.’

  She guided his hand down between her legs and he heard her catch her breath, but her molten heat couldn’t warm him.

  ‘There you go,’ she murmured, moving his hand, drifting. ‘ See what you’re missing …?’

  Moments later she gave a little cry, and fell asleep almost at once, as though shot by a dart.

  After a while he moved his arm from under her and she lurched away, still deeply asleep, snuggling beneath the quilt like a child. David did the same, so they lay back to back. The scent of her was on his fingers, but in his mind, for an hour or more, was the image of the speeding red car, and the fierce whine of its engine as it passed within inches of his life, and that of his daughter.

  The next morning was qualitatively different in several respects. Annet was terse and preoccupied not, he knew, because of his failure, but because of her own perceived moment of weakness. To underline this regrouping she was up first and brought him Freya, already clean and dressed, while he was still struggling out of sleep.

  ‘Present for you.’

  ‘Lord, is that the time …?’

  ‘I heard her snuffling, so thought I might as well save you the bother.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She wasn’t so much helping, as stealing a march: he understood that, and didn’t resent it. She knew from her own experience and his comments last night that the last thing he needed saving for him was time. Freya stared fixedly up at him. The clock read six-twenty-five.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘ I’m going to make an early start, try not to be so late back.’

  ‘You get going.’

  She dropped a kiss on each of them, and was off, rattling down the stairs at speed. It was a trick she had perfected. He remembered the first time he’d gone out with her they’d run down an empty escalator for the tube and she’d seemed to fly ahead of him, her feet barely touching the steps, reaching the bottom when he was barely halfway down.

  He’d asked her then: ‘How do you do that? It’s not natural.’

  ‘Clever, huh?’ The cowboy look, sidelong, teasing. ‘My secret.’

  Ten years later he knew how she did it, though he still couldn’t do it himself. It was a question of taking most of the weight off your feet and virtually sliding down the rail, resting on your hand. But it was an act of faith as well as of balance and these days he didn’t have quite sufficient faith in his co-ordination.

  ‘Bye!’ she called now from the hall. ‘See you later!’

  ‘See you …’ He wasn’t sure that she heard, he hadn’t liked to raise his voice too much and startle Freya. The door shut briskly behind her and he and Freya, eyes locked, listened as the Toyota started up, revved, then gave a little whoop before pulling away.

  ‘There goes Mummy,’ said David. ‘Now how are we going to spend our day?’

  In spite of the earliness of the hour, the start of the day seemed easier than before. He concluded, as he sat in his pyjamas giving Freya her bottle, that this was partly because he was that bit more prepared for what lay ahead, and partly because Annet’s departure had been less of a trial, more of a release. Her restless energy allied to the strain of deception had been the cause of last night’s disaster, he was sure of it. He salved his conscience, and soothed his injured amour-propre by deciding that he’d definitely tell her about the accident this evening.

  Annet had dressed Freya in dark red velour dungarees, but the legs had to be rolled up several times and he soon found that they came unrolled all the time because of Freya’s habit of rubbing her feet together like a grasshopper when she was in her seat. This mightn’t have mattered except that she then managed to get both legs over the baggy crotch and down one trouser. Forseeing an ongoing problem he took her upstairs and put her into a babygro with yesterday’s perfectly clean pinafore over the top. This he considered a masterstroke – the babygro was snug and neat, while the pinafore provided the requisite fashion note.

  Karen, when she arrived, wasn’t so sure.

  ‘What’s your daddy put you in?’ she chirruped over the seat while David made coffee. ‘What’s he doing to you?’

  He tried to conceal his irritation. ‘Don’t you think it’s nifty? I’m rather pleased with myself. Prevents midriff separation.’

  ‘It does that all right,’ she agreed. ‘Don’t know what Mummy would say though, do we?’

  He realised it was only babble, but the assumed sisterly solidarity between Karen, his daughter and the absent Annet, got on his nerves.

  ‘Mummy,’ he said, ‘is far too busy to give the proverbial, I imagine. Can’t remember if you take sugar?’

  Afterwards he rather regretted having been sarcastic with Karen who was to all intents and purposes a treasure, but she seemed either unaffected or not to have noticed. Mindful of Annet’s injunction to let the professionals have their heads, he deemed it best to stay out of her light and work out a plan for the day. This involved performing the errands in town (on the get-back-in-the-saddle principle), and in the afternoon if it remained sunny, driving out to Stoneyhaye. At the very least he could take Freya for a walk in the grounds. And if he was honest there would be a certain satisfaction in being first to respond to the open invitation.

  Before setting off he laid Freya on a blanket on the living-room floor and rang Mags.

  ‘How about Thursday?’ he asked.

  ‘Thursday it is!’ She sounded ridiculously pleased. ‘Can you remember how to find us or shall I fax a map?’

  ‘I’m sure I shall remember when I get within striking distance, but fax a map anyway.’

  ‘So you’ll come sort of mid-morningish?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘Yippee,’ said Mags, ‘ what fun!’

  David put the phone down with the gratifying feeling that he’d done his sister-in-law a favour rather than invited himself to lunch. With today and Thursday as it were taken care of, he decided to devote Wednesday to some yet-to-be-decided-upon project around the house or garden, a surprise for Annet. It occurred to him that he might even do some drawing while Freya had her naps: perhaps try and draw her, though babies were notoriously difficult. The thought of retreating to the little room under the eaves set
aside for the purpose, with Freya snoozing peacefully, and his pencils and cartridge paper to hand was immensely attractive. Time, thus planned for, seemed shorter. Yesterday was over. He was on holiday after all. The Hoover was going, so rather than call he took Freya upstairs and waved to Karen from the bedroom door.

  She switched off, smiling. ‘ What can I do for you?’

  ‘Karen, we’re going into town.’

  ‘ ‘‘We”!’ It seemed to amuse her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You make it sound like you discussed it. I can just hear Freya going “Dad, I need to pick up a few bits and pieces in the Formby Centre”!’

  ‘Yes …’ he chuckled, conscious of his earlier grumpiness. ‘ Well, anyway we’re going and we shan’t be back till you’ve finished, so I wanted to say thanks and remind you the necessary’s on the table in the kitchen.’

  ‘Cheers then. Have a good morning – drive safely!’

  As she uttered this entirely casual advice she switched on again, so didn’t notice David’s fleeting double take.

  Freya was tranquil this morning. She didn’t even fuss when he put her outdoor suit on, and as a consequence he managed both that and the seat harness with the greatest ease.

  The morning was perfect – the sky like a blackbird’s egg, the air sweetly disarming, the sheltered grass brushed with secret frost, but an almost glittering green where the sun fell on it. Yesterday, with its muffling cloud cover and disobliging events, seemed aeons ago. And yet as David loaded the buggy into the boot he scraped his arm on the door brace, and winced: the bruise was still there.

  Just the same his mood was cautiously optimistic. As a precaution, he selected a tape of Celtic music before starting the engine. Freya fell asleep to the tune of whistles, drums and fiddles. Up on the ridgeway the scars of yesterday’s events were still plain to see – the careering skid marks, the furrows on the grass verge – and he superstitiously anticipated some sort of after-shock. But he drove steadily on, and nothing happened.

  In town he collected the film, picked up the cleaning and put it in the car and then took his two overdue art books back to the library. When he’d paid his fine at the returns desk he asked the girl: ‘Is there someone working here called Jean Samms?’