Authors: Amanda Brookfield
‘Oh. No. I mean… This is my mother.’ Charlotte tripped over the words as she remembered Jean who, clearly restless to be gone, was now back at her side. ‘Mum, this is Dominic Porter, the father of Sam’s friend.’
‘Ah, Charlotte has told me all about you, the man who saved our Sam.’ Jean gripped Dominic’s arm with her good hand. ‘You bought that house she liked. And now you’re buying the bookshop.’
‘Mum…’
‘I’m not sure that’s an entirely fair summary,’ Dominic muttered, flinching.
‘But there’s Bill,’Jean cried next. ‘He’ll be double-parked and he’s been waiting so long, Charlotte, I’ve really got to go. I shall gather Jasper on the way.’
‘But what about his bed and things?’
‘They can wait till my next visit,’ she replied gaily. ‘I must
see if Jill can teach me mah-jong. Bye-bye, dear. And happy birthday, if I don’t see you before, though we’ll talk soon, of course.’
‘Wow.’
‘She’s not normally like that.’
‘When is your birthday?’
‘What?’
‘She said “happy birthday”. When’s your birthday?’
‘Oh, in a few weeks…’ In the distance Charlotte could see the brother, Benedict, scooping Rose, who had won the fancy-dress race, on to his shoulders. Along with most of the crowd now, they were walking back to the street. The blonde girl was walking alongside, gesticulating with her free hand as she talked into a pink phone.
‘My mother… Something’s happened – she’s gone all cheerful. It’s odd.’
‘Nice, I should think… and maybe connected to – to what you told me that time by the church.’
‘Oh, God, that time, yes… Something of a low spot.’ Charlotte blushed. ‘Sorry you got caught up in it. Look…’ Sam had disappeared with the Curtis clan, but she was acutely aware of Dominic’s faithful little trio waiting in the street. In fact, they were the only people in the entire playing-field now except for a disgruntled-looking young assistant picking up abandoned water-bottles and items of clothing. ‘Look,’ she repeated, fed up suddenly with the pussy-footing, her own silly fantasies and the rush of embarrassment at having him stand so close. ‘For the record, not that it matters, there’s nothing going on between me and Henry Curtis – or anyone else for that matter – only a bit of a misunderstanding because he felt sorry for me, I think, which is perhaps not surprising since I seem, until very recently, to have been in a pretty pitiable state – and – and
– Oh, yes.’ Her voice hardened. ‘If your real intention was to fire me the moment you sign that lease then you could at least have had the decency to offer a little warning.’
Dominic, colouring, folded his arms and began to drum the fingers of one hand on the wrist of the other. Well, obviously, I –’
‘You might like to know that I haven’t ruled out putting in a late bid for the bookshop myself. I’ve come into some money.’ Charlotte gripped her hands into fists, enjoying the sight of his astonishment, the feeling of having him on the back foot for once. ‘I might make Jason a better offer.’
‘But you’ve got Sam to think of – you couldn’t manage it.’
‘We’ll see, shall we?’ she replied, managing an archness quite at odds with her pounding heart as she turned and strode back towards her bicycle.
It was only as she swung her leg over the saddle that Charlotte remembered Dominic had approached with the appearance of having something specific to say. She peered over the fence but the street was empty, apart from the young assistant, traipsing away with his bundle of lost property. She set off, pedalling slowly, sheepishly. She wouldn’t do it, of course, the bookshop thing, she’d be sensible and put the money into a saver account instead, something with a high interest rate that couldn’t be touched for years. But the rush of power had been fun, she reflected, laughing when she recalled the look on Dominic’s face, as if she’d thrown a glass of cold water at him instead of a wild idea.
‘What is a requiem anyway?’
‘It’s a piece of music for when someone has died –’
‘Oh,
very
nice.’ Sam folded his arms and stared gloomily at the set of temporary traffic-lights impeding their progress over Wandsworth Bridge.
‘Mozart is
very
nice, yes. He wrote it when he was dying –’
‘Blimey.’ Sam slithered deeper into his seat, burying his face in his hands.
Charlotte laughed. ‘I think you’ll be surprised by how much you like it. I’m not, as you might know, a classical-music buff myself, but Mozart, I assure you, can be relied upon for a decent tune. And it’s for a good cause.’
‘Cancer, yeah, I know,’ Sam put in quickly, keen to avoid the horror of hearing the word ‘breast’ out loud.
‘Hey, the Beetle’s going well, isn’t it?’
‘I thought we were going to get a new car.’
‘We are. Soon. But I’m glad Mr Jarvis was able to do whatever it was he did. I like this car – it’s a friend. We’ve been through some times together.’
‘Yeah, like all the
bad times
of
not
starting,’ Sam sneered, not getting it.
‘That shirt looks nice,’ Charlotte offered next, wondering if the light was ever going to change. ‘Especially with those jeans,’ she added slyly, observing from the corner of her eye that Sam was trying hard not to look pleased.
‘Yep.’ Sam gave in and grinned, holding out his arms to admire the shirt, which was long-sleeved, collared and
striped blue and white. His mother had plucked it off a shop rail the previous weekend, and he had been astonished to find that it actually suited him. The same shopping expedition had seen the acquisition of the jeans, weathered, low-slung, baggy, which – with even more astonishment – he had found himself encouraged to wear that evening. Sam had gawped at himself in the mirror, unable to believe how good a set of clothes could look, how good it could make him feel. And because of his granny’s cheque he was going to have an allowance, his mother had announced that evening, not poxy pocket money but an
allowance – thirty pounds a month –
for anything not to do with school, except his phone, which his dad was paying for so long as he kept each bill under twenty-five pounds.
Charlotte, sensing the contentment radiating from her no longer small companion, not caring that it was (and would be for a while yet, probably) often withheld from her, returned her attention happily to the road. In the creamy evening sunlight the river water looked blue for once, instead of brown. A small flock of birds was zigzagging across it, swooping and climbing, their shape shifting yet always miraculously – mathematically – precise. She gripped the steering-wheel as a surge of faith in the ordered beauty of the world swept through her. Just a few months ago life had appeared so fiendishly random, so beyond comprehension and control. The same water had shimmered like a malevolent blackness, capable of swallowing her son – her own happiness – whole.
But it wasn’t the physical world that had changed, Charlotte realized, accelerating over the bridge as the lights changed at last, so much as human perceptions of it. Similarly, the energy – the optimism – with which she now got out of bed each morning was not because of any metamorphosis
in the unedifying facts of her existence but simply because of her improved understanding of how they had come about.
There was a parking space almost outside the church, not easy, but just big enough. Charlotte manoeuvred into it, feeling again the benign order of the world. And she had been a bad wife. Yes, there was that, too. She yanked on the handbrake with a gasp as this new, still discomforting truth surfaced for attention – no more palatable for her having attempted to apologize for it. Obsessively loving, then neglectful, self-pitying, complaining, dining out on her misery as if it was the only thing capable of defining her. There had been reasons, of course, there were always reasons, but no wonder Martin had formed close relationships with other women, sex or no sex.
In spite of such broad-minded self-analysis, the sight of Cindy stepping on to the conductor’s podium to deliver a speech of welcome – a stunning S shape in hugging black silk – caught Charlotte off guard. She looked extraordinary, not just for being undeniably beautiful – her blue eyes shining with emotion, her hair gold under the lights, her voice low and strong – but because pregnant, sincere, moved but articulate, with the orchestra and the choir, similarly attired in black, ranged behind her, she exuded a raw pulling power that had everyone shifting to the edge of their seats. Charlotte, equally spellbound, allowed herself a moment of quiet acknowledgement that Martin, in pursuit of a second soul-mate, had chosen well.
‘It means so much to me and my sister, Lu…’ necks craned and heads turned as Lu, slighter than Charlotte remembered and wearing a subdued outfit of mushroom brown, was pointed out in the front row ‘… that so many of you have come, so many friends and friends of friends…’
It was the church rather than the occasion itself that was getting to her, Charlotte decided, raising her eyes to the vaulted marble ceiling in a bid to clear the tears that had gathered by the time Cindy had retreated to her place among her fellow choristers, and the gentle, haunting opening bars of the Kyrie had begun. A vessel for the seminal events of human life – memorial fund-raisers, funerals, requiems, weddings, baptisms, confirmations – a church was bound to stir emotion. Especially one of such beauty, Charlotte reasoned, trying to focus on practical matters like stonemasons and architectural styles as her gaze moved from the clusters of angels and cherubs topping each pillar to the trumpeter’s balcony housing the organ loft. Instead the music, washing through her, over her, each note floating upwards in whispered echoes, seemed determined to summon every recourse for joy and sadness that she had ever known: marrying Martin, burying her father (who was not her father), christening Sam – he had screamed, Charlotte remembered suddenly, then quietened at the touch of the priest’s wet fingertip, out-staring the man with amazed blue-black eyes.
The same child was crossing and uncrossing his gangly legs beside her now, chewing with energy at a stick of gum that had been unwrapped as they were leaving the house. If she cried he would be appalled. Charlotte blinked, briefly clearing her vision, only to see a bird – of all things – a small brown one, perched on the crumbled stone nose of the angel at the top of the pillar nearest to her, cocking its head at the wall of music like a seasoned critic. The tears, instead of receding, gathered force. It was too much to contain – the little bird, the feelings, the memories, the threads of music thickening, soaring, merging, parting… Blinking furiously, her throat bursting, Charlotte plunged a hand into
her bag in search of a tissue only to find herself pulling out the crumpled piece of paper she had hastily stuffed out of sight on the occasion of her unsatisfactory reunion with Eve.
Your husband
…
well-wisher
…
The jolt saw off the tears. The stupid thing had been hanging around for far too long, Charlotte thought, like a vile smell, a memory of bad luck, threatening always to drag her back, drag her down. She had the answers that mattered. She had done what she could to put things right in the lives of people for whom she cared. She had as much control over her own existence as anyone could hope for, especially now with a mass of money safely stowed in a building society and an updated version of her CV delivered to an employment agency that boasted imaginative placements for part-timers. She had even written to Dominic Porter, informing him of her decision to leave at the same time as her current employers, citing a desire for change and other platitudes designed to protect the inconvenient confusion of her true feelings.
Charlotte looked about her, dry-eyed now, wanting only to dispose of the sad, rumpled piece of paper. Even holding it felt horrible. Unwittingly, her gaze caught Henry’s. He was seated in a side aisle next to Theresa. There was a second – of gratitude, regret, relief? It was hard to be sure. Henry looked away first, swivelling to face the front, slipping his arm protectively along the back of the pew behind Theresa, who sat erect, eyes closed, nodding in a manner suggestive of quiet ecstasy. Charlotte returned her attention to the top of the pillar, but the bird had gone and the angel looked like a stone carving with a broken nose.
Feeling a tug on her sleeve, she turned sideways to find Sam pointing, with a theatrically pained expression, at his mouthful of stale gum. Without a qualm Charlotte held out
the note for him to spit it into, then settled back to enjoy the music, absently kneading gum and paper into a tight ball, ready for dropping into a bin during the interval.
‘I thought there would be an interval.’
‘It would have broken the spell, I suppose. Wonderful, wasn’t it?’
‘Exquisite. Aren’t you staying for a drink? There’s champagne and nibbles. Henry’s promised to come back laden. I’m on this new diet – soup and vegetables – but one night off won’t do any harm.’ Theresa paused for breath. Part of her wanted badly to say that she – that they – were happy, but another, wiser, part knew that Charlotte could see this truth for herself and that such a delicate tendril as personal happiness was best left for private savouring rather than public declamation. She had taken it for granted once, felt impregnable, complacent, not recognized that the key to the treasuring of contentment was the knowledge that it could be snatched away. ‘Go on – one glass. I’ll signal to Henry.’
‘No, Theresa, really. I’ve loved it but I’m not going to hang around. I’ve delivered Sam to Martin – they’re taking him out for a meal and hanging on to him. I kind of feel I’ve done my bit, to be honest.’
‘You have,’ Theresa cried, kissing her, ‘you so absolutely have. And it’s bloody well done, as far as I’m concerned, the way you’ve brought it all round, made sure everyone’s getting on. To think how it used to be…’
‘I know.’ Charlotte gave a pointed jangle of her car keys. Theresa meant well and she did indeed feel quite proud of how she had managed, but it was catching up with her now… blossoming Cindy, beaming Martin. To behave well on such an occasion was the least she could do for him but, still, she wasn’t up to a moment more.