Shifting Sands (2 page)

‘I can't depend on you at all these days!' she'd complain. ‘This meal has been planned for ages, and you know how hard it is, finding a date to suit everyone.'

And he'd apologize, insisting it was out of his hands, and, as a fellow journalist, she'd grudgingly accept it. But then the kids came along, she gave up work, and her understanding wore thin. He wasn't there for birthday parties, or, later, carol concerts, nativity plays and sports days, and his apologies no longer carried weight. That was when the rows began.

‘If you wanted a nine-to-five husband,' he'd flung at her, ‘you shouldn't have married me! You knew I'd never be that!'

‘All I ask is that you show some interest in your children! They might as well not
have
a father, for all the time you spend with them!'

‘If I was in the Forces, I'd be away for months on end!' he'd retorted. ‘In fact, I'm home
more
than most dads!'

‘But shut away in your study! They're not allowed to interrupt you, and you don't emerge till they're in bed!'

And so it had gone on, their words growing increasingly bitter and incriminatory, until the final row, when deliberately hurtful remarks were exchanged, and Vicky had finally flung his briefcase at him and told him to get out. And he had. And that was three months ago.

He pushed his plate away and ran his hands through his hair, still convinced she'd been totally unreasonable – but then, so had he! The realization sluiced over him like a cold shower, forcing him to admit for the first time that he'd often used his work to avoid helping out – at bath times, when the kids were invariably hyper and the bathroom was awash; on visits to the zoo, which bored him; and particularly at birthday parties – raucous occasions filled with boisterous, yelling little boys, which, frankly, he dreaded. Telling himself he couldn't afford time with his family, he'd retreated with his ready-made excuses, leaving Vicky to handle them alone.

The crux had come during the Easter holiday, when, rather than face a fruitless discussion as to when or if he'd be free, she'd taken the boys to her parents' for two weeks, leaving him to his lonely deadlines. Within weeks of their return, the split had come.

God, how could he have been so self-centred? No wonder she'd had enough of him! Well, these last months had brought home to him how much he missed them. He wanted his family back.

Like probing an aching tooth, he conjured up Vicky in his mind: her small, trim figure, the mass of unruly brown hair, her peals of laughter and ready smile – the last two considerably less frequent of late. Perhaps, this weekend, they could talk things through – if they hadn't already gone too far.

Closing his mind to the possibility, Jonathan reached for his phone and called Steve.

‘Are you seeing Maddy this evening?' he asked without preamble.

‘No, it's girls' night out. Why?'

‘Fancy a curry, on me? Not a takeaway, a sit-down affair?'

‘You know me, I always fancy a curry!'

‘Great. I'll book at the Raj and Rani for eight o'clock.'

‘Wow! You
are
pushing the boat out! Landed some work?'

‘No such luck. It's by way of a cheering-up exercise.'

‘I'm all for that, too. You've been a right miserable bugger lately!'

‘Go back to work, before I change my mind! See you later.'

‘See you,' Steve echoed, and broke the connection.

‘And that was as far as I got,' Jonathan concluded as, seven hours later, he finished relating his morning's encounter. ‘Intriguing, isn't it? I don't often come across mysterious French girls who warn me of danger.'

‘She's probably a glorified office girl,' Steve commented, reaching for a poppadom, ‘with a grudge against her boss. Or even an au pair. Does that count as the leisure business?'

‘Not from what I've heard.' Jonathan leant back, looking across at him. ‘So you're telling me that, although I'm badly in need of a story, I should forget it?'

‘You've not much choice, unless she comes back to you.'

Which, though he'd reached the same conclusion himself, Jonathan found depressing.

‘Look, something'll come up soon,' Steve added. ‘I've almost finished my piece; perhaps we could do a joint one next? It's some time since we did, and we work well together.'

‘We still need an angle.' Jonathan smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry to be such a Jonah; I underwent a painful self-analysis over lunch, but the outcome is that I'm determined to make a go of it with Vicky. If she'll have me back.'

‘Well, that's great news!'

‘I thought I'd broach it this weekend. Apart from anything else, it's time you had the flat to yourself again.'

Steve smiled. ‘As it happens, that would be of limited duration. Maddy and I are thinking of getting hitched.'

‘That's wonderful, Steve!' Jonathan slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations, old son!'

At thirty-six, Steve Forrester had seemed a confirmed bachelor, with two long-term relationships behind him. Jonathan liked his present girlfriend, who was a partner in a dental practice, though it had never occurred to him they might marry.

‘Positively no pressure, though,' Steve added. ‘She'll stay where she is until her flatmate emigrates in the new year. Then they'll sell it and divide the spoils.'

‘A spring wedding, then?'

‘Watch this space!' Steve raised his glass. ‘So here's to you and Vicky getting back together, and Maddy and me staying that way!'

‘I'll drink to that!' said Jonathan.

It was odd, Ma not being there when, on Friday evening, he let himself into her house, and again he felt anxious on her behalf. God knows when he could expect a postcard.

He looked about him. The house felt strangely silent; he couldn't remember when he'd last been alone in it. There was a faintly stuffy smell, due, no doubt, to closed windows in the September sunshine, and he went round opening a few.

His parents' room, as he still thought of it, was as tidy as usual and held a faint remembrance of his mother's scent, sharp and citrous. His father's silver-backed brushes still stood on the tallboy, and Jonathan felt a tightening in his chest. The unexpected death should have drawn himself and Vicky closer, but, sadly, it hadn't. He'd refused her attempts at comfort, preferring to keep his grief fiercely private, and knew she'd felt rebuffed. She'd been very fond of her father-in-law, but he'd been little help in her grieving.

He deposited his bag in his boyhood room, which he'd been allocated during these visits. The narrow bed was made up with clean sheets, and there were a couple of
Reader's Digest
magazines on the bedside table. Familiar books lined the shelves – paperbacks of Rex Stout and Raymond Chandler for the most part – and the walls bore traces of long-removed posters from his teenage years.

On his first visit, he'd automatically turned towards the guest room, but his mother redirected him, saying matter-of-factly, ‘You're behaving like a schoolboy, so you might as well sleep there.' And she'd been right, damn it, though he'd only just acknowledged the fact.

Jonathan glanced at his watch. Eight thirty. The traffic had been slow coming out of London, typical for a Friday evening, and he'd not yet eaten. He knew an assortment of dishes awaited him in the freezer, but first he must touch base with Vicky, and his mouth went dry at the prospect. Returning downstairs, he poured himself a tumbler of whisky. Then, his heart beating uncomfortably, he picked up the phone.

‘Vicky . . .'

‘Hello, Jonathan.' Unlike his own, her voice sounded cool and calm.

‘Just . . . clocking in. OK if I come round about ten in the morning?'

‘Of course.'

‘I was wondering if we might have a word before I take the boys out?'

A pause, then: ‘I'm afraid I shan't be here; Doris will stay with them till you arrive.'

His preconceived plans collapsing around him, Jonathan hastily tried to regroup. ‘Perhaps when I bring them back, then?'

‘I don't think so, do you? There doesn't seem much to say.'

‘On the contrary,' he said harshly, ‘there's the hell of a lot! Vicky, I—'

‘I can't talk now; Sally and Robert are here. The boys will be ready at ten o'clock. Goodbye, Jonathan.' And she put the phone down.

‘Bloody hell!' he said aloud. Well, there was still Sunday. Having geared himself up to a discussion, he'd no intention of returning to London without one. But the delay had wrong-footed him, increasing the inevitable awkwardness, and there was no way he could shunt the boys out of the way without her cooperation.

He swallowed a mouthful of whisky, standing irresolutely in the middle of the sitting room. He'd thought it would be easier without his mother's disapproving presence, but he'd been wrong. If she were here, he might even have asked her advice. She and Vicky were close, and it was no secret whose side she was on.

He looked round the room, suddenly filled with nostalgia. He'd known this house most of his life, but it was too big for one person, and once Ma was over the worst of her grief, it would make sense to put it on the market. But how many memories were tied up in it! Christmas dinners round the table in the dining room – Dad and Ma, himself and Sophie, and whichever relations happened to be staying over the holiday. Candlelight and Christmas trees and laughter. How long ago it all seemed.

It was from here that he'd left for boarding school and, later, university; here that he'd brought Vicky to introduce her to his parents, and from here he'd set out for his wedding.

His eyes fell on the Doulton figure on a side table, and another memory stirred. The day Tom had taken his first steps, he'd lurched against the table, knocking the ornament to the floor and breaking off its head. Jonathan had been mortified, but his parents took it in their stride. It had been repaired, and only a very close eye would discern the faint line on the neck.

He sighed, swallowed the last of his whisky, and went to forage in the freezer. Food should put paid to this reminiscing.

It was an hour later, as he'd finished eating and was watching the
News at Ten
, that the phone rang. He snatched it up. ‘Vicky?'

A light laugh, then his sister's voice. ‘Sorry, no!'

‘Hi, Sophie. How are things?'

‘Fine with us. More to the point, how are they with you?'

‘OK, I suppose. I've just been wallowing in nostalgia, thinking how we'll miss this place if Ma decides to sell.'

‘Bricks and mortar, Jon, that's all it is. She had a good flight, incidentally; no jet lag, but then there's only an hour's time difference.'

‘Talk about breaking news! How the hell do you know that?'

‘Tamsin just phoned and mentioned that she'd texted her.'

Tamsin, at present away at boarding school, was his thirteen-year-old niece, and, in Jonathan's opinion, a right little madam. ‘So how's it going so far?'

‘Well, you know Ma. She'd rather die than admit she wasn't enjoying herself, especially to us, when we talked her into going.'

‘So what
did
she say?'

‘That she went up Table Mountain and saw some funny creatures called rock rabbits.'

‘Nothing earth-shattering, then.'

Sophie homed in on his opening query. ‘Are you expecting Vicky to ring?'

Damn; he'd hoped she'd forgotten that. ‘Not really, no.'

‘You
have
spoken to her, since you arrived?'

‘Yes, and arranged to pick up the boys tomorrow.'

‘So why might it have been her on the phone?'

He sighed. ‘If you must know, I'd suggested having a discussion, but she gave me short shrift. I hoped she might have changed her mind.'

There was a moment's silence. ‘You want to go back, then?'

‘In a word, yes.'

‘You're going to change your wicked ways?'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Sophie! I'm in no mood for flippancy.'

‘Poor love, you do sound down. You must come and have a meal one evening.'

‘Thanks,' he said. ‘Was that why you rang?'

‘Partly, and partly just to see how you are, rattling around in an empty house.'

‘Not enjoying it much, to be frank. Still, there's a freezer-f of goodies, so at least I shan't starve.'

‘Well, don't brood. Vicky hasn't been too happy since you left, so if you want to make up, come straight out and say so.'

‘That was my intention, but she foiled it.'

‘Then try again; you can't give up at the first hurdle. And I'll phone you during the week, when you're back in town.'

She rang off. Why hadn't
he
thought of texting Ma? Jonathan wondered. Probably because he seldom texted anyone, preferring a vocal exchange. Nonetheless, phone calls to South Africa would be prohibitive, and at least it was a means of making contact. Provided, that is, she had her mobile switched on, which she probably wouldn't have for most of the time. He'd give it a try in a day or two.

As he shelved that problem, more immediate ones returned, threatening to overwhelm him. Trouble was, he'd too much time on his hands. He'd be able to think more positively if he could only land some work.

For several more minutes he watched the images on the screen, muted when the phone rang, then he turned up the sound and settled down to watch the next programme.

A couple of hours later, drifting off to sleep, the last face that filled his mind was, surprisingly, not that of his wife or sons, but of the reticent, enigmatic Elise.