Freeing Grace (7 page)

David swiftly surveyed the table. ‘Corkscrew,’ he muttered, and headed off to the kitchen.

Christopher darted into the seat next to Leila’s, while Hilda sank down opposite and began to make conversation with Angus. ‘Do you have a family?’ she asked, arranging herself precisely in her chair.

Angus glanced at his wife. ‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘I have four. A gaggle of grandkids, too, who come and destroy the rectory every school holidays.’

There was something odd about the exchange. Curious, Leila was replaying it in her mind when Christopher began to whisper, his breath hovering by the glinting hoop of her earring. She edged towards Angus’s comfortable bulk at the far end, but her father-in-law was not to be put off.

‘You know what your lovely name means, don’t you, Leila?’

Leila looked bored. ‘Yes, I do actually, Christopher. You’ve told me several times.’

‘Dark as night. Dark . . . as . . .
night
.’

Leila leaped to her feet and lifted the lid on the casserole.
The man is
obscene
, she thought incredulously, as she snatched up the ladle.
Getting
worse, too. I bet he was a southern plantation owner in another incarnation,
harassing his slaves and fathering their children.
For several seconds she battled with her desire to spill a ladleful of scalding gravy onto his bald patch—she could see it gleaming, even though he’d brushed his hair across it. Ooh, sorry, Christopher!
So
clumsy. Still, they can work wonders with plastic surgery these days.

Looking up, Leila caught Elizabeth’s eye. The rector’s wife taught in the local secondary school. In fact, she was their longest surviving member of staff, surpassed in longevity only by the janitor, who was deaf and therefore had an advantage. Her hair was pewter-coloured and cut like a helmet, but somehow she managed to look young and alert. Her glance whisked from Leila to Christopher and back again, and then she winked. It was the merest flicker, but it made Leila smile.

‘A stew!’ tinkled Hilda, as David reappeared and began to open another bottle. ‘Leila, I don’t know how you do it, in that tiny kitchen. Is it a Caribbean recipe?’

Leila raised one eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Mum!’ David rounded on his mother, exasperation twisting the strong, spare lines of his face. ‘You know perfectly well Leila isn’t from the West Indies.’

‘Nigeria, isn’t it?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘Yes, Nigeria. Although I was born and bred in Peckham.’ Leila regarded her mother-in-law mischievously. ‘But perhaps we all look alike to you, Hilda?’

Hilda’s Persian-cat eyes snapped wide open.

‘Leila’s father was a lecturer at the School of Oriental and African Studies,’ David explained hurriedly, filling glasses. ‘Magnificent man, Ayotunde. Terrifyingly clever. He’s retired, but they keep asking him to come back and give guest lectures.’

Elizabeth played the game, carrying the conversation in her sandpaper voice. ‘When did your parents come to this country, Leila?’

‘In the sixties.’ Leila handed her a plate. ‘But they’re still very much West African at heart. Civil war was brewing in Nigeria at the time . . . Angus, is this enough for you? . . . My mother lost a brother in the crossfire.’

‘Have they been back?’

‘Oh, yes. Often. Their families are still there, mostly. Mum and Dad follow the politics avidly, read newspapers online, keep in touch with everyone. And they’re ardent supporters of the Nigerian football team.’

‘They’re going over soon, actually,’ said David. ‘For a cousin’s wedding. When are they off, Leila?’

‘Mid November, lucky things. They’ll be gone about a month.’ Leila replaced the lid on the casserole dish. ‘Angus. Will you say grace?’

‘Certainly.’ Angus folded authoritative hands. ‘Bless, Lord, this food to our use, and us to thy service.’

‘Amen,’ breathed Leila, sitting down. ‘That’s the starting gun.’

As if on cue, the trill of the telephone wafted gaily in from the hall. David winced, met Leila’s eyes, then pushed back his chair and went to answer it. A short time later he stuck his head around the door.

‘Gatecrashers at the youth club,’ he announced, shrugging into an overcoat. ‘Getting a bit out of hand. I’d better nip down.’

Angus stood up, but David waved him away. ‘Please. Carry on.’

Leila followed him into the hall, sliding her arms around his waist, imprisoning him. ‘What if I refuse to let you go?’

He chuckled. ‘I’d look pretty funny, walking down the street like a mutant ninja turtle with you attached to my back.’

‘Come home in one piece, then,’ she grumbled, releasing him. She reached up to grip his nose. ‘That’s an order.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Angus, when she rejoined them. ‘They won’t mess with David.’ He glanced at Christopher. ‘Your son’s already brought so much to this parish, you know. Started a football team, and they’re queuing up to join.’

‘I’m sure they won’t mess with him physically,’ Leila struggled not to sound petulant, ‘but do they have to interrupt
all
of his meals? You’ll help yourselves to the rice, won’t you? That
is
a Nigerian dish, actually.’

‘Oh, yes. I’ll help myself, Miss Dark-as-Night,’ crooned Christopher under his breath. ‘If you’ll step into the kitchen with me.’ He reached across her to grasp the wine bottle, and his forearm brushed hers.

Leila swung round to face him, eyes glinting dangerously. ‘Sorry, Christopher?’

He smirked uncertainly, and his glance darted to Hilda and back.

‘I didn’t quite catch that,’ Leila insisted, her voice slightly too loud. ‘Could you just repeat it for me?’

Christopher shrugged and looked sullen.

Angus intervened, diplomatically. ‘You can both be justifiably proud of your son,’ he remarked genially, slicing through the awkward silence. ‘This is a pretty tough parish. The last curate didn’t last the distance.’

‘What makes it such a difficult job?’ asked Hilda, covertly glaring at her husband.

‘It’s vast,’ replied Angus. ‘And like all inner city parishes there’s poverty and racial tension and all that comes with it. The churchyard gets used by bored teenagers as a meeting place. They smoke, drink, sniff glue, get one another pregnant—all the usual things. We’re fighting a losing battle against vandalism.’ He paused, taking a mouthful of casserole. ‘Delicious, Leila!’

After another moment’s silence, Elizabeth took up the baton. ‘Breaks people’s hearts. They spend more than they can afford on a carved marble angel for their baby son or whatever, and it’s smashed. Only last night, an old fellow arrived at the rectory in tears. He’d laid a bunch of red roses on his wife’s grave—her favourite flowers—cost half his week’s pension, and within hours they’d been ground into the dirt.’

‘Ever catch ’em at it?’ asked Hilda.

‘Ah.’ Angus held up a triumphant finger. ‘Yes, the odd win. Last summer I caught some boys in the act of lighting a fire in a litter bin. Two ran away, but one stayed to face the music. That bit of courage changed his life. He’s since joined the choir and become a legendary goalkeeper in David’s new team. Quite literally, David is his hero.’

‘Then I’d keep a very close watch on the church silver if I were you,’ advised Hilda, with a knowing curl to her lips.

Leila met Elizabeth’s startled eye. ‘Hilda’s a magistrate,’ she explained.

Elizabeth’s gaze ran over Hilda before she nodded, coolly. ‘I see. Well, I don’t think there’s any need to lock away the silver. We trust Kevin. He’s a good lad, getting confirmed after Christmas. Lovely voice, too.’

Hilda smiled. ‘I admire your forgiving nature. But actually, he’s an arsonist. And he always will be.’

By the time Leila brought in the fruit salad, Christopher had drunk himself into a wheezing, dangerous silence. He seemed to be sulking. Hilda, by contrast, had stepped smartly into her stride.

‘People talk about education,’ she mused, passing the cream jug across David’s empty place to Elizabeth. ‘You can’t just take a child and educate it and hope it will behave differently. No. In my experience, it will always go back to its genetic roots.’

Elizabeth chuckled, but Angus looked appalled. His mouth actually fell open.

‘Surely you don’t mean that, Hilda? You’re not suggesting that some folk have no choice but to be criminals? That they’re trapped in their subculture, prisoners of their genes, whatever they do?’

Hilda blinked sunburst eyelashes. ‘Well, of course they have a
choice
. They have a choice when they think about burgling a house, but they’ll always choose to go ahead and do it anyway.’

‘Whoa there,’ cried Angus. He loved a debate. ‘If they’ll inevitably make that decision they don’t really have a choice, do they? Actually,’ he paused, cheerfully conducting an imaginary orchestra with his spoon, ‘in my view, people are largely a product of their experiences. There’s a genetic component in personality, I’ll accept that, but experience is the make or break. If kids grow up in, say, Priory Park Farm—what a bizarre name for a sixties housing estate—their experiences may be pretty shattering. Some of them—not all—go off the rails. But they can change, with the right input. Is locking them up the right input?’

Hilda fluttered a pink-nailed hand. ‘My point is that it doesn’t matter what you—or poor David—do for them. You’re wasting your energy. It’s nature, not nurture.’

‘Research doesn’t really support you though, does it, Hilda?’ Elizabeth was smiling bemusedly. ‘Children who’ve been adopted—’

‘Ah,
adoption
!’ Hilda rested her chin on clasped hands. This was clearly her pet subject. ‘I’ve seen it time and again. A young person from a good family, a
good
family, comes before us. He’s got into drugs, stolen from his parents and mugged people. The family sit at the back weeping, the lawyers wave their arms around, and then it’ll turn out he was adopted.’

At this, Leila slammed down her spoon.

Elizabeth glanced sharply at her. ‘Children are adopted for all sorts of reasons, I believe,’ she said hastily. ‘No need to assume their birth family’s bad in any way. Perhaps this isn’t the time, though. Tell me, what brings you people to Birmingham? Have you just come up to visit David and Leila, or . . . ?’

Hilda seemed delighted to be asked this question. ‘No, no. We’re on our way down from the Lake District, actually. Staying in a motel tonight. Michael—that’s our younger son—has a holiday cottage on Windermere.’

‘You have other children?’

‘For my sins! Michael and Monica. They spoil us rotten, can’t do enough for us. We’ve just spent a week with Michael and his bride, Alicia.’

‘How lovely!’

‘Mm. They were married this summer. Stunning girl. And . . .’ She glanced coyly at her husband. ‘I think I could make the announcement now, Christopher? I’ve kept it secret all evening.’

Christopher shrugged with bad grace. His cheeks were a lace of red veins, his eyes heavy and bloodshot. He didn’t look at all dapper any more.

‘
Well
. We’re so thrilled.’ Hilda took a deep, blissful breath. ‘Alicia is pregnant. Already! And it’s twins!’

Angus and Elizabeth made enthusiastic noises. Leila knew she ought to rejoice for Michael, but she felt her insides twist into jealous little knots. She couldn’t help it.

‘Fantastic!’ she said, placing a hopeful hand on her own stomach.

Angus cleared his throat. ‘Will they be your first grandchildren?’

‘Oh, no. Monica has two beautiful little ones. Freya and Charles. My goodness, I’m a proud grandmother.’

‘She dotes on them,’ wheezed Christopher, and showed his teeth with malicious satisfaction. He drained his glass, lowering it unsteadily onto the table. ‘Spoils them like nobody’s business. And
you
people—’ he nodded with exaggerated courtesy in Leila’s direction—‘had better get on with it.’

Before he had finished the sentence Leila was on her feet, her chair smashing to the floor behind her. ‘You know perfectly well,’ she hissed, ‘that we have been trying to
get on with it
for ten years!’

Mercifully, the front door slammed. The next moment David was in the room, rubbing his hands.

‘Freezing out there.’ He grinned at Leila, then focused upon her more intently, his good humour faltering a little. He stepped closer, eyes darting suspiciously between his wife and his parents. ‘What’s going on?’

Elizabeth spoke first. ‘I wholeheartedly recommend the fruit salad, David. And charge your glass, because your parents have some happy news for you.’

In the kitchen, as she savagely jammed the plug into its hole, Leila’s teeth fairly chattered with rage. ‘The old
bastard
.’

‘Shhh,’ giggled Elizabeth, making an anguished face. ‘Thin walls.’

Leila scowled, but she dropped her voice to a furious whisper.

‘That wasn’t tactless, it was completely deliberate. And as for her! She knows damned well we’ve been trying to adopt for years. Bitchy, even by her standards.’

‘Mm.’ Elizabeth shot a furtive glance at the door. ‘He was all over you, and she was fuming. It was revenge.’

‘It’s not as if I encourage him,’ protested Leila, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves with a snap.

Elizabeth picked up a tea towel. ‘Is he—’ She broke off, holding up a warning finger. They waited, listening, as the rest of the party crossed the hall. The sitting-room door shut, dulling the voices.

‘Is he always so . . .’

‘Sleazy?’ Leila turned on both taps and then jumped back as a jet of water ricocheted off a spoon, soaking her shirt. ‘Only after he’s been drinking. They tell me he was quite an impressive character in his prime. You know, a romantic, half-mythical figure who turned up every few months, bringing swashbuckling stories, and the smell of the sea on his clothes.’

‘Ah. And then he retired, and lost all his magic.’

Leila squeezed out far too much washing-up liquid. ‘One minute he’s somebody. The next he’s a nuisance, getting under Hilda’s stilettos. No cronies down the local, no hobbies, no one.’ She slid a pile of cutlery into the water. ‘So he drinks. And the more his body crumbles into old age—sunspots, aches, fading hair—the more he tries to prove his virility. Ageing must be awful for the vain, don’t you think?’