Lifesaver (47 page)

I really wanted to get a smaller place nearby for George and I to move to with our half of the proceeds - Lil had been fantastic, but I was ready for a bit more independence, now that I’d recovered from the birth and seemed to be getting the hang of being a mother for real (ie. I hadn’t actually poisoned George with my cooking, or driven off with him still sitting in his carseat on the roof of the car). Ken was being very reasonable about the divorce settlement, and had on several occasions conceded that I’d need a decent-sized place for me ‘and the baby,’ although he could not bring himself to call George by his name, let alone see him.

‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ Vicky called down. ‘A bit of dust won’t make any difference. Crystal, why don’t you play with George in the front room for a bit, now that it’s all hoovered?’

‘I don’t want his bogies on me,’ said Crystal, eyeing poor George with disdain. ‘I want to carry on with my colouring.’

She flapped a booklet at me, and I took it from her. ‘What are you colouring, Crystal? It looks really nice.’

‘It’s not
nice
, Auntie Anna, it’s King Rat from
Dick Whittington
. Look, there’s a picture of my Mummy in here.’

‘Let’s see?’

Crystal flipped importantly through the pages of the pantomime programme until she found the black and white head shot of her mother, looking considerably younger, all corkscrew curls and dimples, under the caption:
VICKY DYER,
Fairy Bow Bells
.

I laughed. ‘Oh, the dreaded panto. What year was that?’

Vicky craned her neck at it from the top of the stepladder. ‘’Ninety-four. I’d almost forgotten about it, until I found that the other day under the sofa—it must have been there for years. I thought it would be a good thing to keep Crystal busy while we cleaned—it’s got all these activities in the back for kids; mazes and word searches and so on.’

I scrutinised the blurb under Vicky’s picture.

Training
:
it said.
Vicky studied Drama at Reading University, and in 1989 won the Laurence Olivier Award for Most Promising Newcomer of the Year in Theatre, for her performance in
A View From The Bridge.
Theatre:
Other credits include Susan in
No Sex Please—We’re British
! (Bournemouth Pier);
Comedy of Errors
(Theatre Royal, Nottingham);
Mother Goose
(Derby Playhouse);
Stripped
(Riverside Studios, London)

Etc.,
etc.
I scanned on down the list.

Television
: Holby City, The Bill, A Touch of Frost…/span>The usual fare.

‘Doesn’t look much for a career, does it?’ said Vicky glumly.

I imagined my own blurb:
Anna studied Drama at Reading University. Her acting career was very unremarkable and she never won any awards, although she did successfully manage to dupe both her husband and her lover by pretending to have a job on a West Country cable soap opera.
I remembered then the blind, hot, panic of deception, all those months of knowing that the crunch had to come, that at some point I was going to have to make a choice; knowledge which shark-circled continually under the surface of my consciousness, tormenting me and petrifying me when everything else felt so good. To lose Adam and Max had been unthinkable, but so, it seemed, had been the idea of telling Ken that I’d lied and cheated, and was abandoning him and the life we’d so painstakingly constructed together…Having to choose between two good men, both of whom I loved in different ways for different reasons, neither of whom deserved to be treated so appallingly. It had been horrible.

I shuddered at the memory. Then I looked over at George in the carseat, his adorable fat cheeks wobbling gently as Crystal rocked him, and my heart melted. I’d got through it, after all that dread. The sky hadn’t fallen in when I’d confessed to Ken, and he hadn’t fallen to pieces. And, as much as it still hurt, I was coping without Adam and Max. Plus it was such a relief not to have to tell any more lies. I mentally concluded my imaginary blurb, feeling better:
Anna’s roles included Davina in the BBC’s
Butterfinger; Les Miserables; The Bill, Casualty…
but the only role she’s ever really wanted was her present one: as Mother, to George aged four months..

‘I think that’s a lot to show for a career,’ I said to Vicky. ‘Not to mention three gorgeous children, and the imminent launch of Wigwam Drama. You should be proud of yourself—we both should be proud of ourselves. Want a cup of tea?’

Vicky glanced at her watch. ‘Thanks Anna, but we’re going to have to go now. I said I’d take over from Peter at three so he could go into work for a bit. He’ll be climbing the walls after having Pat and Chloe all morning.’

‘Well, thank you for all the help,’ I said, hugging her and Crystal. ‘I’m just going to clean the door knocker and the letterbox, then I’ll call it a day as well. I want to get back to Lil’s for when George has his nap so I can finish off my emails. I’ve got to write to my accountant—some query about pensions for the divorce settlement—and I wanted to email Max, too.’

Vicky looked at me, gently wiping a smudge of dirt off my cheek with her knuckle. ‘Have you heard from him lately?’

I shook my head, the pain welling up again like tears. ‘Not for ages. I keep telling myself that he’s busy at school—but I think it’s more likely that Adam told Marilyn about George, and she’s decided to try and make Max to forget about me. I don’t blame her - I mean, wouldn’t you? She was always so threatened by me, and even if Adam never gets in touch, her just knowing that George exists is bound to freak her out. He hasn’t replied to my last four emails.’

‘Nothing from Adam either, then?’

I picked up George in his carseat and plonked him on the rug in the front room, so I could dust the banisters without worrying about him inhaling the grime of years of neglect. Also so that Vicky couldn’t see my face. It had been nearly three months since I’d written the letter to Adam, and he hadn’t responded.

‘No. I keep telling you, Vic, there won’t be. I didn’t really expect there would. Even if he wanted to, he’d know how much it would upset Marilyn. It’s fine. I’ve got George, and that’s enough for me. More than enough.’

And it was true. George was the best blessing—more than I deserved. I’d have liked Adam too, but I knew that was too much to hope for.

My mobile rang from where I’d left it in George’s carseat. I extracted it from underneath his fat little legs. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, dear, it’s me, I’m just ringing to...’ Lil’s voice was suddenly swallowed up and then belched out again in undecipherable fits and starts. I heard ‘up’ and ‘coming’ and ‘house’, but that was about it. The line went dead.

I tutted. The mobile coverage in our road always had been rubbish, much to Ken’s irritation. He’d hated having to conduct important negotiations with tour managers whilst either standing in the middle of the street, or at the bottom of the garden next to the compost heap.

I tried to ring her back, but it was engaged. ‘Oh well,’ I said to Vicky, who was stuffing Crystal’s arms into her coat sleeves and gathering up colouring pens. ‘I’m sure she’ll call back if it’s urgent. Thanks again for coming over today. And Crystal, thanks for looking after George so beautifully for me.’

Crystal beamed. ‘I won’t kiss him,’ she said, ‘in case I get his germs.’ I thought it prudent not to point out that he’d caught the cold from her in the first place.

After I’d waved them off, I lifted George back into the hall, out of the draught, gave him a crust of bread to chew on, and set to polishing the brass on the front door. It had been ages—years, probably, since anybody had done this, and in just a couple of minutes my hands were black and sweat beaded my forehead. I could hear little snuffling and lip-smacking noises which reassured me that all was well with my son inside the house.

My son. Being able to own those two words
almost
made up for everything that had gone before. It was sublime just knowing he was there, existing; being able to chat to him from the other side of the door, picturing his fists wrapped around the soggy crust as he gummed it mercilessly. I thought of the numerous times I’d come through this front door, alone, wishing I had a baby to carry instead of the dead white weight of full supermarket bags straining my arms or worse, my hands hanging empty at my sides. I wouldn’t miss the house when it was sold, I thought - too many sad memories. I couldn’t wait for me and George to have a place of our own.

A small haystack of used and blackened Brasso lay on the doorstep at my feet as I attacked the house number, polishing with gusto, feeling satisfaction as the digits became shiny once more. I was fine. My son was fine. My house was clean (ish), my ex-husband seemed happier, and I was ready to move on to whatever came next. I didn’t know what it would be, except that it would
not
involve deception or lies.

Since George was born, the enormity of what I’d done to Ken and Adam—and Max—had sunk in, in a way it never really had when I’d been caught up in the impossible heady tangle of the lies. I didn’t blame either man for their reactions when they found out. It seemed so preposterous that, were it not for the permanent reminder of George, I could almost allow myself to imagine that the whole thing had happened to someone else. Or that I’d simply acted it out in some play—giving my all to the role of a screwed-up and selfish, but bereaved and confused, version of myself.

I stopped polishing to go round and give George a kiss, kneeling down next to his carseat and bending forwards, my dirty hands held away from my sides, as if I were apple bobbing. ‘All right, sweetheart? Mummy won’t be long. I’ll just finish the door then we’ll go back to Auntie Lil’s.’

I heard the crunch of footsteps coming up the gravel driveway towards the door. Blast, I thought, straightening up and making a face at George, who grinned snottily at me while still gumming away at his bread. It’s the estate agent, and I haven’t cleared away the stepladder or any of the cleaning things. I really didn’t want to be there when he showed the potential buyer round either - I didn’t want to see him turn up his nose slightly at the rotting window frames, or hear him mutter about ‘cosmetic updating’ and imagine him whisper superciliously, ‘the vendors have split up…yes, I’m sure they’d take an offer.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, as I leaned forward to pick up the pile of bits of dirty Brasso off the front doorstep. ‘I wasn’t expecting you till—’

I stopped, gaping, my hands full of oily black fur. It was Adam.

If it hadn’t been for the familiar blue eyes, I’d have had difficulty recognizing him. He’d lost weight, cut his hair really short and shaved off his beard, and it took years off him.

‘Hello,’ I stammered, feeling as if the Brasso had been stuffed into my throat. I was knocked sideways by how gorgeous he looked. He was wearing his old, faded Levis, and the mere sight of his hard thighs in them made my muscles think they were dissolving. I had an inappropriate flash of memory: us making love in the heat of summer, stuck together with sweat, our torsos making gentle sucking, lapping sounds like waves washing over a rock pool.

He smiled hesitantly at me, and I felt for him. Whatever the reason for his visit, it must have been excruciatingly hard for him to be here. ‘Hello Anna. Sorry to turn up unannounced. Did your great-aunt tell you? She sent me round here after I called at her house.’

‘She did ring, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. There’s no landline in this house anymore, and bad mobile reception.’ I was still paralysed with a potent cocktail of emotions; shyness, shame, shock, lust - one glimpse, and I wanted him.

George snuffled and cooed behind the door like the star prize waiting to be revealed by a screen pulling back, and I wondered how best to introduce them. I was worried that I might have to sit down on the spot, my knees were shaking so much. What if he said he didn’t want to meet George at all; that he couldn’t face it? Maybe he’d only come because he was still furious with me. Or—far worse—maybe it was Max; what if he’d come to tell me that Max…/p>

I did sit down then, hard, on the doorstep, not caring that my jeans would be covered in greasy black stains.

‘Please tell me that Max is OK,’ I blurted, all of a sudden smothered by a dark heavy conviction that this was why he was here.

But Adam’s face relaxed, and he half-stretched out a hand towards me, before letting it fall again awkwardly. ‘No, he’s fine, don’t worry. He’s great.’

There was a long, difficult silence, tense with expectation.

‘Nice job,’ said Adam eventually, gesturing towards the gleaming door brass. ‘So this is your house?’

‘Not for much longer,’ I said, dumping the Brasso into a black bin-liner next to me on the doorstep. ‘Someone’s coming round in a minute to look at it. I’m buying a place for me and George…’

I had a terrible thought. ‘You did
get
my letter, didn’t you?’

He leaned against the wall by the front door, looking down on me, a little shamefaced. A dry twig of winter-bare wisteria got tangled in his hair, and I itched to pick it out.

‘Yes. I’m really sorry I didn’t get in touch. I wanted to get a few things straight in my mind first, without doing anything impulsively.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, that’s fine, honestly,’ I said falsely and airily, as if he were saying sorry for spilling tea on the carpet. It embarrassed me to hear him apologize at all—it was I who could never apologize enough. And now that we’d established that Max was OK, I was instead convinced Adam was still angry, that he’d come to tell me that I’d ruined his life. I felt as sick as if he’d already spoken the accusatory words, and every instinct in me wanted to gather George up and run away, as fast as I could.

George coughed delicately, as if to bring our attention to him.

‘So…’ said Adam, smiling suddenly, bringing my negative train of thought crashing to a hopeful halt. ‘Could I…I mean, is that him? Is that George?’