The Best of Times (32 page)

Patrick was in the grip of a horror and fear that had a physical presence, that were invading him as surely as the pain had done on the day of the accident. Somehow talking to the police had made it worse, had
made him more certain that he had gone to sleep; just hearing his own voice, describing it, made it seem impossible that there had been another explanation. He had killed all those people, ruined all those lives; it was his fault; he had blood on his hands as surely as if he had taken a gun and shot them all.

And not being able to remember anything made it worse, rendered him completely out of control. They’d told him it would come back, his memory, but the more he tried to remember, the more difficult it got; it was like trying to see through a fog that was thickening by the day. Even the other person in the van seemed to be disappearing into that fog. And even if someone had been there, he had still been at the wheel …

The horror never left him; he lay for hours just wrestling with it, woke to it, slept his drugged sleep with it, dreamed of it. There was no room for anything else: for hope, for calm—just the horror rendering it ugly and even obscene. It was all going to go on until he died; there was no escape anywhere. He reflected on all the skill and care that were going into his recovery, or his possible recovery, and there seemed no point, absolutely no point at all in any of it. He wished it would stop altogether; he wished he could stop.

And then in a moment of revelation, it came to him that actually, if he really wanted that, he could.

• • •

“You look tired, Mum; why don’t you go through and watch TV. Gerry’ll help me clear away, won’t you, Gerry?”

“Oh … no,” said Mary. Her heart thumped uncomfortably. “Look … I’d like to talk to you both about something. The thing is … well, look, dears, this may come as … well, as a bit of a surprise to you, but you know I was on my way to London last week? The day of the crash? I wasn’t entirely honest about the reason. I was going to meet someone.”

“Yes, you said … A friend.”

“Indeed. But he was a little more than a friend.”

“He? Mum, what have you been up to?”

Christine’s eyes were dancing.

“Well, the person I went to meet was an American gentleman. Called Russell Mackenzie.”

“Good heavens! And—”

“Well, and we met a very long time ago. During the war. He was a GI and we … well, we became very fond of each other.”

“What, you had an affair, you mean?”

“Certainly not,” said Mary. “Not in the way you mean. We didn’t do that sort of thing in those days. Well, I didn’t, anyway.”

“But … you were in love with him?”

“Yes,” said Mary. “Very much.”

“Gosh, how romantic. Weren’t you tempted to marry him, go out there after the war, be a GI bride or whatever?”

“No. I wasn’t. I had promised to marry your father; we were unofficially engaged. He was in a prisoner-of-war camp. As you know.”

“But … you still had an affair—all right, a relationship—with this chap?”

“Yes, I did. But he knew there was no future in it, that I was going to marry your father.”

“But he carried on … chasing you? And you let him?”

“Well … yes. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but it was wartime; things were very different.”

“Of course. Anyway, he went back to the States?”

“Yes, and married someone else in due course, and I married your father. But … we kept in touch. We wrote … regularly. All through the years. We remained very … close. In an odd way.”

“How regularly? A few times a year?”

It was best to be truthful. This was too important not to be. “No, we wrote at least once a month.”

“Once a month! Did Dad know?”

“No, he had no idea. I knew it would … upset him. That he wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either.” Christine’s face was suddenly flushed.

“You’re telling me you were so involved with this man you wrote to him every month, for years and years and years, right through your marriage, but it didn’t affect your feelings for Dad?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“But, Mum, it must have done. I couldn’t deceive Gerry like that.”

“It wasn’t exactly deceit, dear.”

“Mum, it was. Did he tell his wife? This Russell person?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Well, it sounds pretty unbelievable. I mean that all you did was write. Did he ever come over; did you meet him without Dad knowing?”

“No, Christine, I didn’t. I wouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, go on.” She was looking almost hostile now. “What happened next in this romantic story?”

“Chris!” Gerry was looking very uncomfortable. “Don’t get upset.”

“Well, I am upset. I suddenly discover there’s been another man in my mother’s life that my father didn’t know about—if Dad had found out, Mum, don’t you think he’d have been upset?”

“Yes, I do. Which was why I never told him.”

“Well, then. It was wrong. Anyway, go on.”

Mary felt like crying; this was exactly what she had feared.

“Well, now, you see, Russell’s wife has died, and … he’s come over to see me, and we … well, we still feel very fond of each other.”

“Has he been to the hospital?”

“Yes, he has.”

“But you didn’t tell me?”

“No, dear.”

“You were obviously feeling guilty about it. That proves it, as far as I’m concerned. He was there, in your marriage to Dad, even if Dad didn’t know. I think it’s really, really bad.”

“Chris. Easy! Your mum’s done nothing wrong.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s a matter of opinion. Anyway, what happens next? I hope he’s not coming here.”

“Not if you don’t want him to.”

“I don’t.”

“But I would like you to meet him.”

“I don’t want to meet him.”

“But, Christine, we are planning to spend a lot of time together. A lot. I know you’d like him if you only met him.”

“I don’t want to like him. And what does ‘a lot’ mean? I hope you’re not planning to set up house with him or something?”

“Chris!” said Gerry.

Mary met her daughter’s eyes steadily. She had hoped to take it gently, to let Chris meet Russell, get to know him, but—

“Actually” she said, “we are hoping to … well, to get married. We feel very strongly that we’ve spent enough time apart.”

“Oh, please spare me. You’ve been reading too many Mills and Boon books, Mum. You’ve not been apart from this man; you’ve been married to Dad. Whom you were supposed to love. Poor old Dad! He must be turning in his grave.”

“Chris,” said Gerry, “I think we’ve had enough of this conversation. You’re really upsetting your mother.”

“Good. She’s upset me. And I don’t know what Timothy’s going to say. Oh, I’m going to go and do the clearing up. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

Mary felt dreadful. Russell had been wrong: he’d said Christine would understand, would be happy for her. Now what could she do? Everything was spoilt suddenly; she felt guilty and ashamed, instead of happy and excited.

She went to bed and lay thinking about Donald, and that he would actually have minded very much if he had known, and feeling, for the very first time, that she had betrayed him.

• • •

“I know it’s awful of me,” said Tamara, slipping her arm through Barney’s as they walked towards the lift, “but I’m beginning to feel just
the tiniest bit selfish about all this. I mean, I haven’t said one word to Tobes, obviously, and he can’t help what’s happened, but …”

Her voice trailed away; Barney felt a wave of rage so violent he actually wanted to hit her, instead of taking her for a drink, as she had persuaded him to do. She had come back to work at the beginning of the week—“Well, I was so bored, and fed up, working suddenly looked like quite fun by comparison”—and had appeared by his desk after lunch, suggesting that they should go for a drink after work.

And so here he was, up on the forty-second floor of Vertigo with her, and faced by at least an hour of her phony distress—well, he supposed the distress was genuine; it was just over the wrong cause …

“Yes,” she said, sipping thoughtfully at her champagne, “like I was saying, Barney, I just can’t help it; I feel really, really bad.”

“About Toby, you mean?”

“Well, yes, obviously, poor angel.”

“How do you think he’s doing?” said Barney, desperate to postpone the moment when she would clearly expect sympathy. “With his leg, I mean?”

“Oh, darling, I don’t know. The doctors don’t seem to know what to think about it—between you and me I wonder if they know what they’re doing half the time—but Toby seems to think they’re marvellous, and his parents do too. I mean, I’d have insisted he went private, but it’s not up to me, of course. Apparently they’ve made inquiries and been told he couldn’t be anywhere better …”

“Yes, that’s what he told me on Sunday, how good it was—Amanda and I went down—”

“Barney, you’re so sweet and good to go and see him so often. I can’t tell you how much he appreciates it.”

“Well, he is my best friend, after all.”

“I know, but it’s such a long way—”

“It is, yes. I’m surprised you came back up here, actually, Tamara, when you could visit him so easily from your parents’ house—”

“Well, as I say, I was getting very depressed. Being there kept me thinking about the wedding, you know? It wouldn’t be so bad if we’d been able to settle on another date, but we can’t even do that.”

He was silent.

“Anyway, he so understands, bless him, that I need to get back to work. And of course I’ll be there every weekend.”

“Right.”

“But like I was saying, it’s all beginning to hit me now. And I wouldn’t point the tiniest finger of blame in your direction. Not the tiniest.” There was a silence; then she said suddenly, “Except … why were you so late, Barney? I’d quite like to know. Seeing it cost me my wedding.”

Barney felt his stomach lurch.

“Tamara, it was the crash that cost you your wedding.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was because you left so late. If you’d left in time, you’d have been there hours before the crash. I mean, you were going to have lunch with the ushers, weren’t you?”

“Yes. Well … the thing is, Tamara … I … He … that is … Toby wasn’t very well. He kept throwing up. All morning. We really couldn’t set out before. It was impossible.”

“Oh. Oh, I see … Poor old Tobes. Something he ate, I s’pose. Or a bug. I mean, you wouldn’t have let him get drunk, obviously, it wouldn’t have been a hangover.”

“No, of course not,” said Barney.

“He didn’t actually mention any of that … Well, thank you for telling me. I feel better now.”

“Good,” said Barney. He found he was sweating. The champagne was wonderfully cold; he drank down half the glass gratefully.

“Anyway, obviously I’m not going to raise it with Toby, or anything like that. He’s feeling guilty enough, poor darling.”

“Guilty?” said Barney. He was genuinely shocked.

“Yes, course. Barney, of course he’s feeling guilty. I mean, of course he shouldn’t, and I did tell him that, but … well, he does; he can’t
help it. I mean, wouldn’t you? If it had been yours and Amanda’s wedding?”

“I don’t think so,” said Barney, “no.” He couldn’t take any more of this. “Anyway, Tamara, I must go. I—” His phone rang. “Excuse me. It’s Amanda. Hi, darling. You all right?”

“I’m fine, Barney. But … Carol Weston’s been on the phone, wants to talk to you. Some bad-ish news about Toby’s leg, I’m afraid. I think she’d like you to ring her. And are you going to be late? Because if you are—”

“No,” said Barney. “No, I’m leaving right now.”

CHAPTER 25

Georgia was sitting in the kitchen in Cardiff, grazing through the newspaper, and wondering if she should get a job in a bar for the next two or three weeks until
Moving Away
went into production. (It was one of the good days.)

“Oh, my God!” She thought she might be about to throw up.

She stood up, staring at the paper, open at a page of minor news items, the largest of which read, “Mystery on the Motorway” and continued with a story of a “so far unconfirmed report” that the lorry driver who had crashed through a barrier on the M
4
the previous week, causing a seven-mile tailback in both directions and killing several people, had spoken of a second and unidentified person in his cab who had subsequently vanished.