The Faerie Tree (16 page)

“What were you doing with this?”

No answer.

“Claire?”

Without looking up she opens her dressing gown and lifts her pyjama top. The bottoms are pushed down and I can see why; the skin around her tummy button is red and puffy, its anger centred on a tiny diamond stud.

“Where did you have this done?” I fire at her.

“You said you wouldn't go off…”

“I'm not.”

“You are and you promised…”

“Don't make this all my fault. I'm not the one who went to some filthy backstreet place to get themselves mutilated.”

“See! I was right. You don't want to help me – you just want to… I don't know what you want…” Her head falls into her hands and she starts to sob.

“Claire – come on – I'm more angry with whoever did this than I am with you. But that's not the point. I do want to help you, of course I do. I'm your mum. Come on, let me have a proper look.”

“It hurts so much,” she sobs, “and it's making me feel sick and…”

“Come on, sit up.”

She does as she's told. Her skin is hot to my touch and she
flinches. The wound around the stud is oozing, but at least the sticky liquid is clear.

“Why the salt water?”

“I texted Sasha last night and her mum said.”

Just in time, I bite back more vitriol. I steady my voice. “I think TCP might be better – there's some in the bathroom. And perhaps take some Neurofen too. You sit quiet while I get them.”

But she doesn't listen even to that. Instead, by the time I have come back downstairs there are two mugs of tea on the table. It's a peace offering, so once again I bite my tongue. Claire is brave as I dab on the TCP. I want to take the stud out but she won't let me. If I push it, she'll only argue. Instead I hold her hand as we drink our tea in silence.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The corridor from the staff room to my class flips into an upside down tunnel. Strip lights on the ceiling form white lines down the road. I recognise the feeling and stop in front of a notice board. Breathe, damn you, breathe. Then read the list of names signed up for football. Follow the rungs of the squash ladder; four weeks into term – seven weeks to go.

The roar of footsteps quietens behind me and I look at my watch. Three minutes past. I have to move. One, two…

“Hello, Mrs O'Briain. I thought I was going to be late. I forgot my homework.”

Went out for a sneaky fag, by the smell of his jumper. “You will be late, Alex. Just no later than me.”

“Don't you want to give me a head start?” I'm used to his cheek. It's harmless.

“No – but I'm not going to race you, either.”

He laughs and we set off together, my strides matching his as though my life depends upon them.

The strangeness lurks in my head until I get home. It's not an ache, nor the stuffiness of a cold, nor the lightness of fever. I don't know what it is – but it's there. And it shouldn't be. I need an anchor; I need Claire. I need to know she's OK; I need a hug.

It is Robin who reminds me Claire's gone to a party and will be staying at Sasha's house.

“Oh… I wondered if she would. She's… not been too well this week.”

“Hmmm. She told me yesterday what she'd done. She said the college nurse reckons it's OK though.”

“Yes. I was glad she went to see her. I think she was very good with her after Connor died.” Better than I was, probably.

The kitchen smells of mince and onions; there are three five pound notes on the table. I sit down on the opposite side to them.

“How was the Major?” I ask him.

He seems pleased I remembered. “Suffering with his arthritis, poor old soul. But he's got me another morning with one of his mates from the bridge club.”

“That's good.”

More fivers to add to the pitiful stash in my bedroom drawer. But on the other hand, perhaps they will fund a few days away at half term. A break would do me and Claire good. A cottage in Devon or Dorset, perhaps. Maybe Robin would come too. I glance across at him now, one hand clasped around a bottle of wine, the other gripping the corkscrew. I want him to put the bottle down and wrap those arms around me. I want it so much I daren't let it show.

I continue to watch him as he bends to put a homemade lasagne in the oven.

“Do you mind?” I ask him.

“Mind what?”

“All this… domestic stuff?” I pick up my glass.

“Not at all – I feel I'm pulling my weight. Especially ‘til the business takes off again.”

“But don't you want more from life, Robin? More than gardening and odd jobs and housework?”

He leans against the sink and folds his arms. “Once upon a time – you know I did. But it's too late for all that, Izzie – my degree's twenty years out of date for a start. Why do you ask – would you respect me more if I did?”

The question is a bolt from the blue. “Oh, Robin – I didn't mean anything by it. It was just idle curiosity, that's all. And if you must know, what you did for Jennifer is one of the most remarkable things I've ever heard.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It's nothing when you care for someone.” And then he finds all sorts of little jobs to do around the kitchen while I drink my first glass of wine.

Tonight he shares my bottle – he doesn't always, but it is nice not to drink alone. I wish I could tell him what happened in the corridor today, but how do you share those things? I wouldn't know where to start. I wish I could tell him how bad I am at being a lone parent, but that would sound too needy. If I drink any more those awful words might just spill out and then where would I be? I decide to go and do some marking instead. Numbers. Nice and safe.

I ask Robin if he minds and he doesn't. He says it would be good for me to have a clear weekend and that the weather forecast is dry at least.

“Let's have a day out on Sunday,” I suggest. “Let's take Claire to Kimmeridge – she's never been.”

“Well in which case it can wait until summer – it'll be pretty grim there now. If you fancy some sea air perhaps we could go to Lymington – it's much closer.”

He doesn't want to go back. “Wherever,” I shrug as I pick up my wine and trudge upstairs to the study.

I straighten the pile of scripts and take the lid off my pen. I gaze at the curtains in front of me. They are plain grey but the weave of the fabric is suddenly fascinating. I consider trying to count the threads. Sip by sip, my wine glass empties. Eventually I hear Robin come up the stairs.

“Goodnight, Izzie,” he calls.

“Night, Robin,” I reply.

It brings me out of my daze. I need another drink so I go downstairs and open a second bottle. There's only trash on TV – Friday night chat shows peopled with minor celebrities – but it's company of a sort. It stops me looking at the pictures of Connor
when all I want is for Robin to hold me. Connor would hate the way I feel – he was very possessive, but I never minded before because I didn't want anyone else. There could never be another Robin.

I didn't want Connor at first, either – but he was persistent. I had moved out of the flat I'd shared with Robin very soon after he left. Much as I'd want to rush home every night with my heart in my mouth in case he'd come back, or maybe sent a letter, once I was there on my own I hated it with a vengeance. I couldn't afford it anyway and we'd got behind with the rent. My mother agreed to bail me out on condition I applied for teacher training college so I did what I was told. I guess I was too numb not to.

So when I met Connor I was sharing a house with two other girls. They thought he was lovely and that sort of chivvied me along. And he did have a lot going for him; he was boyish and fun, always laughing, always in the middle of the party – and for some curious reason it was me he wanted.

I gave in after a few weeks and we started to go out together. I didn't mind the way his fingers gripped my shoulder when another man spoke to me; he kept them at bay and gave me a safe harbour. He would never need to know he was second best – he deserved more than that. I hope I gave it to him.

I tried very hard to be who Connor wanted and on St Valentine's Day 1988 he asked me to marry him. I had no reason to refuse and he booked the registry office for the day after I finished my exams. Within sixteen months of Robin walking out of my life I was Mrs Connor O'Briain. If it sat uncomfortably at first then out of respect for Connor I hid it and over the years we built a life based on something more reliable than romance.

Claire came so quickly that we hardly had any time together anyway. Being a good wife became an extension of being a good mother, and that was easier. Nothing had prepared me for the intensity of love you feel when you hold your own child – it blew me away. So much so, that when Connor wanted more children I prevaricated, made excuses and generally kept putting
it off; I didn't think I could cope with feeling that way twice over and I was secretly scared that perhaps I wouldn't, and a second child would never be loved quite as much.

I pushed Robin to the back of my mind; I couldn't bear to think he was out there, somewhere, living a life without me. Or not living one. Kind of suspended in a place of booze and darkness where I hadn't wanted to follow and even if I had, I hadn't been able to reach. It was far better to pretend that nothing had ever happened.

I managed – kind of. But Connor and I took Claire to see the Faerie Tree when she was just three years old and it all came flooding back. I had nightmares on and off for weeks; dreams where Robin was dragged down into the sludge of the river and all I could see was his hand stretching out towards mine. Luckily Connor was away for most of the time so he never saw me wake, crying and shaking, at two in the morning. Something had to be done before he came back.

One of my colleagues had used hypnotherapy to give up smoking. One session and he never touched a cigarette again. I went to see the same woman – I can remember very little about it – but it was years before I dreamt about Robin again. Years. Although I avoided any possible triggers; like the Faerie Tree, like Kimmeridge, like walking down the crescent in Southampton where his office used to be.

I refill my wine glass and sit back on the sofa, my finger smoothing the fabric in figures of eight. It's been a shitty, shitty week; what with Claire… do all mothers say and do the wrong thing? Of course they don't… it was Sasha's mother she turned to, after all. If I knew Angie better I'd ask her: ‘how do I do this right?' But I can't. I'm meant to know. Why don't I?

I think of Robin as he is now, hair and beard flecked with grey, deep lines around those sun-specked hazel eyes. My female colleagues laugh about how unfair it is men get sexier with age, and in Robin's case it is true. His hands have been toughened by his work and a scar runs the length of his thumb. How would it be to be touched by him now? I can almost feel the pads of his
fingers circle my nipples. Red wine splashes on a discarded newspaper as I reach for a top up.

This has gone on long enough. I have to know if he feels the same about me; if he doesn't I will not go on torturing myself and he will have to leave. That's the end of it. And if I make a fool of myself tonight then at least Claire isn't here to see it.

I drain my glass and stand up. I curb my desire to run straight to his bedroom. I need to clean my teeth and check my face – put on some lipstick, at very least. So up the stairs I go, bit slower than I'd planned because my legs aren't behaving quite as they should. Each step gets bigger and bigger and near the top I miss my footing because they've got so huge and I slide back down a few. I cry out in shock and frustration.

Nothing hurts but I don't think I can get up. My arm gropes for the banister but can't find it. Then I hear Robin say, “Izzie, are you alright?”

“Think so.”

He comes down a few steps to my level and I reach out for him instead. He crouches next to me, his dressing gown smelling of washing powder. I bury my nose in it.

“Come on, I'll give you a hand.” I look at him and there is concern in his eyes, but he is smiling just a little bit. That's good – he must still like me.

I put an arm around his shoulder and he hauls me up. I lean on him and he kind of drags me up the last few steps. We reach the landing and he takes me in his arms and carries me to my bedroom – it's rather romantic really. He's very strong.

He puts me down on the bed and takes off my slippers. “Can you manage to undress?” he asks.

I pout in what I hope is a sexy manner. “I'd rather you did it for me.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “Oh, Izzie… come on then, sit up, then I can take off your jumper.”

I do as I'm told then flop back on top of the duvet.

He stands back. “Are you sure you can't manage your jeans?”

I giggle. “Nope.”

So he undoes the button and unzips the fly. His fingers brush my stomach and thighs and they are softer than I imagined. I don't want him to stop. But once my jeans are folded on my bedroom chair he pulls the duvet over me.

I grab his hand. “Robin – please stay.” What's in his eyes? “I need you – I want you to make love to me.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed and squeezes my fingers. “No, Izzie – not tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're drunk as a skunk and you might regret it in the morning.”

“I won't – I know I won't.”

“You might, and I couldn't bear that. Ask me when you're sober – ask me when I can be sure you mean it – then I won't turn you down.”

He stands up to leave, but he is still holding my hand. I try to make sense of his words but they won't stop spinning around my head. He stoops and kisses the tips of my fingers before tucking them under the duvet. He turns off the light and the click of the door handle tells me he's gone.