A Place for Us (36 page)

“Thank you, baby Jesus and the Holy Mother,” Luke said solemnly, putting his hands together in prayer and looking up at the sky. “At least you did listen to me about that, for once.” He pushed open the door of the crowded, cozy café and stood looking at his mother and great-grandmother as they gripped each other’s arms, caught somewhere again between laughter and tears.

Florence

H
ER SANDALS SLAPPED
loudly on the cold marble as Florence heaved her suitcase up the stairs, sweating silently in the late afternoon heat. She had been away from Italy for nearly two months, and summer had arrived in her absence.

As she unlocked the door, a cloud of stale warmth hit her. A pile of post lay scattered on the floor, the printed names on the envelopes leaping out at her: Oxford University, Harvard, BBC, Yale University Press. She was in demand, as they’d all predicted.

Everywhere else a light film of dust sat on the surfaces, on the little wooden table she ate at, on the tumblers by the French windows. Florence dropped her bag on the floor and opened the door to the balcony. A faint breeze blew softly into the apartment. She ran her hands through her hair, looking out over the rooftops, trying to feel glad to be home. But being back here was curiously mortifying, after the things that had come out about her life in this place over the last couple of months.

The flight had been delayed. She was dirty and sticky and tired, that kind of dazed weariness you get from traveling. She made herself a coffee and began to unpack, and as she did the phone rang. She ignored it. Her mobile rang next, as she sorted out her clothes, put in a load of washing, slotted her books back onto the shelves in her study. The landline rang again. She put the papers from the case into a box file and shut the lid firmly. She didn’t ever want to see them again. Sometimes, when she thought about what had come out in that courtroom, she thought she’d sink to the ground, pass out. With the momentum of the case carrying her along, it had been bearable; but in the intervening week the
memories—the notes, the mug, the strange behavior, the witness statements—had burrowed into her brain. They haunted her so that it was all she could think about now. Florence had gone to court to stand up for herself, and she’d made herself a laughingstock in the process. Before, she’d been merely mildly risible.

And that was what they wanted, all these people who kept calling and writing to her. They wanted a slice of her notoriety, not her mind, and it wouldn’t stop. The hammering in her head about not knowing who she was, what she should be doing: it wouldn’t stop.

“All my own work,” she said, as she sat down with her coffee to go through two months’ worth of post. Three letters from publishers who wanted to “have a chat” with her about her next project. Two TV companies aside from the BBC who wanted to meet her. Endless letters of support or abuse from strangers who didn’t know her, and she didn’t know how they’d found her address. She read them with a weary kind of acceptance: they either wanted to tell her she was great, or that she ought to be ashamed of herself. One of them even said, “It’s women like you who are responsible for the mess we’re in today.”

Florence thought about writing him a letter back. A really beautifully crafted, exquisite riposte that would put him in his place so firmly he’d never write another cruel letter to another person again.

But she told herself there was no point.

And then she found his letter. Postcard, really. The Sassetta Saint Francis, taming the wolf of Gubbio. A very small, doglike wolf with his paw in Saint Francis’s hand, and a plethora of severed limbs and savaged bodies lying behind him. It was, she knew, one of Jim’s favorite paintings.

Dear Flo,

A little card to welcome you back and to say

I HOPE YOU BREAK AS MANY OF YOUR MUGS AS YOU DID MINE

and also

COME BACK SOON

because I’m writing this and you’ve just left and well—damn it, why not just write it down? I miss you. I really miss you, Flo.

Jim x

She pressed the card to her heart, feeling her pulse racing. Darling, kind, sweet Jim. But as she did, she remembered doing exactly the same with Peter’s communications, such as they were. She’d overlaid each one with some ridiculous symbolism. In this very room, she had done it.

As if she’d conjured his spirit, as she put Jim’s card down she caught sight of Peter’s handwriting, black, spidery, and difficult, on a small white envelope.

Florence’s hands shook as she opened it. She glanced anxiously around, as though she wished someone else might appear, a friendly ghost to battle the demon, alive with her in the apartment.

Dear Florence,

I shouldn’t be writing this letter, I’m sure. Am sure it’ll get me into more trouble. I just want to make one thing clear:

I really regret everything I did.

Really regret it.

I regret ruining my career because of you and your second-rate mind. You think you’re an expert, but you don’t expose yourself to anyone else. How you swung that Courtauld job is a mystery to me, and to George. You are not an expert in your field. You are the worst an academic can be: you’re trenchant and ignorant.

Having sex with you and seeing you
déshabillé
is one of the
great regrets of my life. Again, it has cost me a lot, and it wasn’t worth it.

I’m writing for two reasons: I will ask you for the final time now that this case is over, please leave me and Talitha alone. I think you are a very strange, sad woman with many problems, the greatest of which from my point of view is that you have no concept of real life. I am very sorry I met you, sorrier still that we live in such close proximity. Secondly, in the light of this unfortunate case, and speaking as a member of the same institute
as you, even though it be beyond my jurisdiction as your manager, I strongly advise you to seek psychiatric help.

With many regrets,

Peter Connolly

Florence put the letter down as though it were very heavy. She frowned, thinking about her last night with Jim at his home in Islington. How she’d looked up from grating the Parmesan while they were making pasta one last time, found his gaze resting on her. His kind gray eyes, his sweet face, long, lean, and still handsome, even though he had a few years on him now.

She wished she’d reached over, taken his hand, kissed him. Just once.

She wished he were here. So simple—she could see it now that she was back—but it was almost certainly too late. Florence flapped Peter’s letter between her fingers, wondering if she ought to keep it.

Then she saw the bottle of pills again on the wedding chest, and it suddenly seemed as though it would be so easy to do it now. It was simply a gentle idea, but it grew, like a breath growing into a gust, then a storm, the butterfly effect.

It would be very easy to go now. No one would really miss me. Not really—
Pa’s dead.

There was a list that she kept running through in her head.
The way I feel, all the time. The court case. Getting up tomorrow and going on. Home. How awful I was to Lucy, to Bill, to Ma . . . Pa is dead. Pa is dead, he’s dead, and I don’t know who I am.

It was the truth; she didn’t. The knowledge of this had been forcing its way to the front of her mind for ages now. Before David’s death, really. When the invitation to the party had arrived, nearly a year ago now. Maybe even longer ago than that—all her life, perhaps. Florence saw that it had all been building toward this moment, this reckoning, this first night back at home. She bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.
Don’t think about Pa.
If she thought about Pa properly, she’d cry, and if she started crying, she’d never do it.

•   •   •

She didn’t know how long she stayed there. It was quiet up on the top floor of the old palace. As the evening came and the sun started to slide
over the roofs, Florence sat still, not really thinking. The phone rang again; she ignored it. Moths crashed into the glass of the French windows; ambulances raced by. She felt frozen to the spot, only her clicking tongue reminding her she was still breathing.

Eventually, when it was quite dark, Florence stood up and went over to the chest. She heard her feet clacking on the floor, thought how strange it was. Sound, sensation, taste. How hard would it be to stop them, to take them away from herself ?

She picked up the bottle and shook a handful of the pills out onto her palm, stared at them. A church bell rang out over toward the river, a loud arrhythmic clanging. She remembered, suddenly, the story of Lorenzo de Medici’s doctor, who was so upset after the prince died that he jumped into a well. She smiled, thinking perhaps that was a good way to go. Brave, if nothing else.

The phone rang again. Florence reached down and pulled the cord out of the wall. She stood staring with surprise at the flex in her hand, the hole where the plaster had crumbled.

“Now,” she said, brushing away a tear.

She looked at the bottle in her hand properly for the first time. She read the label. And then Florence looked again, and laughed and laughed.

Joe

I
T ALL STARTED
because Joe wanted to collect some nettles. To make nettle soup. It was a beautiful May day and he was going mad, cooped up here. He wanted to feel the stretch of his legs and the blue sky above him. Back home he’d be up on the moors first thing on a day like this, feeling the turf underneath him, the sound of his mother’s voice still ringing in his ears: “You be back here before lunch, Joe Thorne, or I’ll come fetch thee and then tha’ll be sorry!”

“I’m just going up to the woods. I won’t be more than an hour.” He hesitated, scrunching the plastic bags together in his hands. “Do you want to come with me? It’s a beautiful day.”

Karen looked up from the sofa where she was reading a magazine, eating some crisps. “Joe, do I look like I want to come with you?”

“I don’t know. I thought perhaps you’d like a walk.”

She gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. “I’d love a walk, but since going more than a hundred meters makes me feel I’ve run a marathon, I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Right. Sorry.”

This only seemed to irritate her more. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m saying I just don’t want to go. Don’t take it personally.”

“Of course not.” He grinned at her.

But that wasn’t true. There were still three weeks till her due date, and a kind of sullen acceptance hung over the room. Lately, whenever they were together Joe had the sense Karen was angry with him, and he didn’t know what to do about it. It wasn’t like he could tease her into acquiescence, or give her a hug, or massage her feet. They were strangers, he knew it now, living in a tiny flat, bound by four or five nights together.

Sheila had tried to ask him about it a few weeks ago. “But this—you two. Everything okay? You all right about it?”

“Of course I am. I’m responsible for that baby.” Joe wanted to tell her to mind her own business.

“No, she is,” Sheila had said sharply. “I know you finished it when you found out she was married. I know the truth, my love. So do you. You had no idea who she was when you started it. It might not even be yours, Joe.”

He shrugged. Joe couldn’t tell her that the only part of it that made sense was the fact that he knew he had to do the right thing. She was having his baby. A person to hold in his arms, to look after, to help into the world. He was going to do it right this time. This baby would have a proper dad—they’d see him every day, he’d make it the best packed lunches in the whole country, he’d live next door, so close he could hear if they woke in the night. Maybe it wasn’t the most conventional way to bring a child into the world, but they’d make it work.

She shifted on the sofa, not looking at him. Joe saw her purplish, bloated ankles, the yellowing rings under her eyes, saw her hand shift under her back to knead the aching muscles that supported her huge belly. Sympathy flooded through him. He couldn’t screw this up, not again.

He put his hand tentatively on her shoulder.

“Go on, Karen. It’ll do you good to get out of the house.”

“I’m just worried about bumping into . . . anyone.”

She didn’t want to meet Bill, or any of the others, for that matter. That lot.

“I know. But it’s going to happen at some point. I’m here, aren’t I? Come on, Karen, love. I’ll walk slowly. It’ll help. And I’ll run you a bath when we get back and make you your tea. You’ll sleep much better and you’ll wake up feeling much better. I promise.”

“Oh, Joe. Thank you.” Karen’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t deserve you, I really don’t. . . .” She gave a big, juddering sigh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t start that up again,” Joe said lightly. He came round the sofa. “Listen. I know it’s not ideal, but we’re going to make this work, aren’t we?”

“Dead right we are.” She swung her legs off the sofa. “Okay, I’d love to come for a walk with you. Let’s go.”

•   •   •

It was the first really warm weekend of the year. As they went slowly up the high street, the faint smell of blossom and barbecue hung in the air. He sniffed, and she laughed.

“Two nicest smells in the world,” she said. “I could murder a hamburger right now.”

“I’ll make you one later.”

Karen hesitated. “That’d be lovely. Thanks, Joe.”

He kept trying to make her things, to feed her up, to give her what she wanted so she’d be happy and he wouldn’t have to listen to her stifling her sobs in the bathroom at night, radio turned up, water draining. But his first macaroni and cheese had truffle oil in it, which made her sick. His passion fruit cheesecake was too “passion-fruity,” she’d said. “I just like it plain. Sorry, love.” He made her pizza, but she didn’t like peppers and thought it was too thin. They’d at least laughed about it then.

He touched her arm softly. “Hey, I know you don’t like talking about it, but what else do we have to get, do you think?”

“It’s okay. I’m on it now. I’ve even done a spreadsheet.” They both smiled. “I think we just need a few more onesies and then we’re set. Mum’s got some stuff back in Formby—she’ll bring it down after it’s born.” She looked up at him. “By the way, it is okay if she stays for a while? I mean, the pair of us have no idea what we’re doing, have we?”

“Well, with Jamie—” he began, then stopped. “But, yeah, it was probably all completely different.”

She shook her head. “Of course. I always forget you know all this already. Sorry.”

“I don’t mean that, no, it’s great if your mum wants to come down.”

Karen stopped in the middle of the street by the war memorial. She stood up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, Joe. You know, you’re a good man. A lovely, good man.”

Her bump was in the way, and they laughed as he twisted around and pecked her cheek back. “You too. A lovely, good woman. You’re going to be a great mum.”

She smiled, and sank down on the bench by the memorial. “My back’s killing me, Joe. I might just stay here for a bit.”

“Joe Thorne!” someone called, and Joe and Karen froze, as if caught in
the act of doing something wrong. A little boy was racing toward them. “Joe Thorne, hello! Hello!”

Joe squinted. “Luke?”

Luke’s hair was long, and crazy from running in the wind. He stood in front of them both, panting. “Hi! Hi, Karen,” he said, looking at Karen. “You have a baby in your tummy.”

His inflection was slightly French, and it sounded like a question. “Yes,” Karen said. “It’s going to come out in a few weeks—” She stopped as she saw Joe’s face, and followed his gaze as it traced the two figures who’d appeared around the bend down the hill.

Martha was carrying a string shopping bag containing an open carton of eggs, smeared with muck and straw, and she was telling a story, her hands animated. Beside her walked Cat. She held a bunch of wildflowers, frothing Queen Anne’s lace, yellow cowslips, bright red campion. She was covered in goosegrass, stuck to her blue sweater, in her hair, on her jeans. Martha reached the punch line, knocking her fists together, and Cat threw her head back with a loud, throaty laugh.

Joe stared, transfixed, as the two women caught sight of them and halted by the bench.

“Hello, Joe,” Martha said politely. “Karen, my dear. How are you? You look well.”

She had such a graceful way about her, a kind of calmness. He’d seen her in the village lately, face knitted all wrong, mouth pursed, eyes tight with anger, glazed as if she wasn’t there. Now she looked—looser. As if someone had released the strings that had kept her tight, like a puppet.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Karen said politely. “Not long now . . .” She trailed off awkwardly.

“Yes,” said Joe staunchly. He could hardly tear his eyes away from Cat, though he knew he had to; it must be obvious to everyone else, mustn’t it? This juddering, wild sensation of coming alive at seeing her again. When they’d met at the playground she’d been so pale, so thin, so sad. A bare tree in winter. He’d pushed her firmly from his mind since. How he wanted to fold her into his arms, feed her, take her for long, hearty walks that put the pink back into her cheeks.

He was ashamed of himself, then and now, for thinking like that. With a huge effort, he shut his eyes briefly, turning to Karen. “We’re very excited,” he said, nodding at her.

“That’s wonderful,” Martha said. Her tone was entirely neutral, though she smiled at Karen in a friendly way.

“I heard Florence won her case,” Karen said, resting her hands on her bump. “That’s great. She coming down soon?”

Martha’s calm expression clouded momentarily. “I—I don’t know. Her friend Jim says she flew back to Italy yesterday. I need to get hold of her. I keep trying her and she doesn’t answer.” She smiled. “But, yes, she won, and we need to get her back here.”

“He sounded like a right berk, that bloke.”

“Yes, indeed, I think he was,” she said, smiling. “She was awfully brave, wasn’t she? It’s just like Florence.”

“Florence! Florence!” Luke chanted, then stopped and looked at Karen. “When are you having the baby?”

“In about three weeks,” said Karen. “Supposedly.”

“Where’s Bill?”

Biting her lip, Cat stepped forward. “You look great, Karen.” She kissed her on the cheek and said frankly, “Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been over yet. I’ve felt a bit awkward and wasn’t sure what the deal was, and whether you’d want to see any of us.”

Karen swallowed. “Oh—Cat. Thanks. Of course I—it’s . . .” She looked nervously at Martha. “It’s difficult, and I can appreciate that—I’m so . . .” Her hand flew to her throat and then she said, “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Been back more than a fortnight now,” Cat said. “We’ve decided to move in with Gran, haven’t we, Luke?”

Luke smiled. “Yes. We live here now! I don’t ever have to see François again. He has smelly feet and he bites people. He bit me, and he bit Josef.”

“Well, but that’s not why we left.”

“Why did you leave?” Karen asked. “Quite sudden, wasn’t it?”

Cat grimaced. “When you know you can do something, you have to go for it.” She shrugged, and then smiled again. “Sounds mad, I know. I sound like a hippie when I start trying to explain it.”

“No, it makes sense,” Karen said slowly. Joe looked at her curiously: Karen was the least likely hippie in the whole world. “What are you going to do, then? For a job, I mean.”

“No idea.” Cat made a face. “I have to find something soon, though.
I want to open a nursery garden eventually. Herbs and greens for eating, lavender and roses for oils, that kind of thing. A café, soft play area.” She smiled. “Anyway, it’s a pipe dream, but one day. Gran and I have talked about doing it at Winterfold maybe. I just need to find some work first.”

Martha said, “I keep telling you, you don’t need to work for a while, Cat. Take a few months, relax, decide what you want to do.”

But Cat replied firmly, “I’ve always worked. I can’t leech off you forever. I couldn’t just sit around not doing anything. For Luke’s sake. I have to plan.”

He heard himself say, “There’s a job going at the pub, if you’ve waitress experience.”

“Yes, absolutely.” She looked amazed. “You serious?”

“We’re pretty busy. Yeah. Are you sure? What about the gardening, market stall thing?”

“All in good time. I want to get Luke settled in at school, work out what we do, before I plunge in. Why, do you want advice on a kitchen garden? You should do it, that’s my advice.” She put her head on one side, looking at him. “Joe, this job sounds perfect. Thank you. Should I ring—”

“Yeah, ring Sheila,” Joe said, too loudly. “But I would like your advice on a kitchen garden too. That’s our next—”

But he stopped, unable to say more. It was true, but it sounded too neat.

“Look, I’m not going to make it much farther,” said Karen. She stood up, leaning on Joe. “Why don’t you two go and find Sheila and talk about it, and I’ll go back and have a nap? How’s that sound?”

“I can take Luke back, if you like,” said Martha.

Luke jumped up, grabbing Joe’s other hand. “Joe, we slept in the woods last weekend. Mum and I built a tent.”

“It was awful,” Cat said. “I didn’t sleep a wink. I’d forgotten how sad the owls sound. And there were all these rustling things around us. And bats. Everywhere.” Her lips parted in a big, easy smile. “I love being in the garden more than anything in the world, but I’m not cut out for camping in the woods. Never was. Poor Luke.”

Joe said, “Hey, Luke—I love camping. I’d go with you.” Karen looked up at him, and he felt himself blushing.
No. You have a son. They don’t need you. Karen needs you.
“I mean—sometime. I’d love to.”

“Next weekend? How about next weekend?”

Cat bent down. “Luke, Joe’s going to be very busy because he’s having a baby soon. Maybe later this summer he’ll take you, or when Jamie’s down. Remember Jamie? You could all go together.”

Luke nodded. He smiled at Joe. Joe wanted to cry then, to hug Luke close to him, just to feel his slim frame and inhale his small-boy smell, to have one small moment when he might just believe it was Jamie he was hugging, Jamie who was here with him. He swallowed, looked up and met Cat’s eyes. She was staring at him, squinting in the sunshine, a flush on her cheeks, but she glanced away immediately, pulling another string bag from her pocket.

“We were going to pick some elderflower for cordial, but it’s too early. Stupid of us—I’ve forgotten my country ways. Well”—she glanced at Martha—“if you’re sure, Gran.”

“Very sure,” said Martha. “I’ll try Florence again. See you later. Good luck!”

•   •   •

“I think it’s going to work out very well,” Sheila said. She threw a tea towel over her shoulder. “I’m so glad you came in, Cat. Honestly. I never knew you had waitress experience.”

“I’ve done it all,” said Cat, sitting down at the table by the bar. “Thanks for this.” She took a gulp of the large glass of white wine Sheila had given her. “There’s something truly wicked about drinking for no reason in the afternoon.”

“There’s a reason,” said Joe. “No more Sheila trying to waitress, which is an extremely painful process to watch, I can tell you.”

“Leave it, Joe Thorne. Just you try it,” Sheila said. Cat laughed loudly, and Sheila smiled at her. “It’s lovely to have you back, my dear. I’ll leave you two. Let me know when you want to talk about the kitchen garden, Cat. I’d love to think some more about it.” She walked off almost abruptly, leaving Joe standing beside the table.