Thursdays in the Park (30 page)

After Will died, she and her parents slid off into their separate pain. Jeanie tried to talk to them at first, to cry with them, but she never saw either her mother or her father cry, not once. Her mother shrank before her eyes, seemed actually to become smaller, her neurosis vanishing, frightened off in the face of real disaster, and this previously nagging, frenetic woman barely spoke, not even to worry about her daughter. So Jeanie turned to her father. But he seemed to have acquired a permanent and alarmingly beatific smile, certain, he said, that he had been martyred by the Lord, that the Lord had honoured him by handing him Will’s precious life to guard. ‘Will hasn’t been taken untimely, you mustn’t think that, Jean,’ he insisted, eyes glittering with holy fervour. ‘Fifteen years was his allotted lifespan, perfect in itself. God couldn’t do without him for any longer. We mustn’t grieve, he is with God. Better a life taken in a state of grace than lived without it. We are lucky, we should kneel down and thank the Lord every minute of every day that we were lucky enough to have had Will in the first place.’

Jeanie, days off her fourteenth birthday, stamped and cried with rage at this pious edict.

‘You’re wrong, God’s wrong. You’re both stupid, stupid,
stupid liars. He shouldn’t have died and you know it. Why don’t you cry, Dad? Don’t you care that he’s gone and we’ll never, ever, ever see him again? I loved him with all my heart, even if you didn’t. Why, why can’t you even cry? What’s wrong with you?’

She had been brought up to believe in a benign God, a God who cared for children, who blessed the righteous. And Will, even though a teenage boy, was, by her standards, righteous. He was kind and funny and clever and wise. He never hurt anyone. How could God so deliberately inflict such cruel suffering on a mere child? But more than this, the agony of his death left no room for philosophizing. She just wanted to howl with the pain of it, and with the ongoing disbelief that this was it, that he was never coming back, that she would never see him again. Just the smallest comfort of recognition from either of her parents would have been enough, she thought. But with her brother’s passing, her parents seemed to forget she existed, forget each other existed. Three satellites separately orbiting the memory of her beloved Will, never mentioning the fact that with his death, they had died also. Now, as she cried for them all, no longer able to blame them for reacting in the only way they were able, she cried too for the repetition of the silent, unspoken pain in her own marriage.

‘I worry for you,’ Rita said, as they made their way down the narrow staircase.

‘Don’t. I’m fine. At least, not fine, but dealing with it. This is better than the lie,’ she added.

‘You’ll need your warm coat.’ She took the red hooded parka from the stair newel, and held it out for her granddaughter to slip her arms in.

‘I don’t like that coat, want anna-one . . . blue one.’ Ellie backed away stubbornly.

‘It’s freezing out there, darling. The blue one’s much too thin, and we are going to be outside, by the Christmas tree, to sing the carols. Come on, put it on . . . quick, quick, or we’ll miss it.’

She saw Ellie hesitate, weighing up the degree to which her grandmother would insist, but clearly the lure of the evening’s entertainment won. She grinned and made no further objection.

‘We’re off,’ she called upstairs, where her daughter was resting. ‘Back about seven.’

‘Don’t forget the tickets – they’re on the side by the front door,’ Chanty called down. ‘Have fun.’

‘It’s dark,’ Ellie stated with relish. ‘We going to see big Christmas tree, Gin.’

‘And sing. Maybe they’ll sing “Away in a Manger”.’

Ellie thought about this for a minute.

‘Jo at ’ursery put a special scarf on Mina’s head and we stand up and sing for Mummy and Daddy.’

‘I know, darling, Mummy told me. Did you enjoy it?’

‘I did,’ Ellie replied solemnly.

The gate around Lauderdale House was already packed with parents and their children, an air of excitement and anticipation in all the pink, frozen faces. Jeanie stowed the
buggy on the stack inside the door, and held Ellie’s hand as they made their way to the back of the house.

‘Wow . . . it’s blutiful,’ she heard Ellie exclaim as they rounded the corner and saw the tree, huge and glowing with white lights, tinsel and sparkling decorations, a big shimmering star shining on the top. Trays had been laid out on the tables along the wall with mulled wine, and fruit juice for the children, and three girls edged amongst the crowd, offering trays piled high with hot, sticky sausages, mustard and tomato ketchup. The musicians – four girls, possibly students – waited cheerfully wrapped in jeans, boots, many wool scarves and coloured hats. Two of them tuned violins, one had a clarinet and another seated herself at the piano from the house, which they’d set up just inside the open French windows so that the violin strings wouldn’t snap in the cold. Ellie was silent, munching her sausage, her brown eyes wide with awe as the music began, everyone holding the carol sheet up to the light from the house. Jeanie wished Chanty could have been there to see her.

‘There’s Din,’ Ellie suddenly announced.

Jeanie spun round, her heart in her mouth. ‘Dylan . . . where, darling?’

‘Look, over there.’ Ellie pointed her finger through the crowd, and sure enough, there was the boy’s beautiful face shining in the lights from the tree as he stood staring up at the glittering branches. And behind him, a hand resting gently on his grandson’s shoulder, was Ray.

Jeanie tried unsuccessfully to calm her panic. They hadn’t
seen them yet; there was still time to move, to get away. But Ellie was pulling her hand.

‘Come on, Gin . . . see Din.’

Ray looked as shocked as she felt. For a moment their eyes met, both unable to speak.

‘Hi, Gin,’ Dylan smiled up at her. ‘It’s a brilliant tree, isn’t it?’

‘It’s wonderful,’ Jeanie managed to say through lips frozen not just with the cold.

Ellie reached her arms up to Jeanie. ‘Hug,’ she said, meaning she wanted to be carried.

Jeanie lifted her up and watched her give Ray a shy smile.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ Ray said with a broad grin, briefly stroking Ellie’s hand, ‘I haven’t seen you for such a long time.’

The sound of his voice sent Jeanie straight back to their moments of intimacy, as if the intervening months had never existed.

‘It’s freezing-meezing.’ Ray stamped his feet and clapped his gloved hands to make Ellie smile, but Jeanie didn’t yet trust herself to speak. ‘Dylan, take Ell to the front so she can see better,’ he instructed his grandson. Ellie looked as if she might refuse, eyeing the boy cautiously from the safety of her grandmother’s arms, but it was a rare person, even one as small as Ellie, who could resist Dylan’s smile. Looking very grown-up, he took the little girl’s hand tight in his own and shepherded her solicitously through the crowd to stand plumb in front of the vicar – a young, charismatic
man with dark good looks – who held the full attention of the throng.

Jeanie and Ray were a lone island of silence as the cold voices around them struggled to life, wobbly and ragged at first, but gaining confidence by the end of the first verse of ‘As Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night . . .’

Jeanie fixed her eyes on her granddaughter, but her consciousness never wavered from the man beside her.

‘How are you?’ he eventually asked, not looking at her.

‘I’m . . .’ she began. ‘I don’t know how to answer that,’ she finished lamely, after a long pause.

She heard Ray chuckle. ‘And that was the easy one.’

She couldn’t help laughing too, wishing she felt as relaxed as he seemed – his tone like that of a meeting with an old friend, with no hint of the torment she was suffering.

‘And you?’ she asked, risking a glance at his dear face.

‘Nothing to report,’ he shrugged, sending her a look which seemed to suggest she had no right to ask.

‘I saw you a while back.’ She found herself speaking against her will, saying exactly what she had promised herself she would never mention, should ever this situation arise.

Ray raised his eyebrows. ‘Where?’

‘On the hill . . . it was raining.’

He waited for a moment, perhaps expecting her to explain more.

‘Highgate Hill? I didn’t see you. I kept thinking I might, but . . .’ He looked away, and Jeanie took that as confirmation
of what she had seen. ‘You should have said hello,’ he added, too late.

Ellie was pushing her way back through the bodies. Jeanie lifted her up again.

‘Are you having fun?’

The child looked tired but determined. ‘Yes . . . that man’s singing very loud, like Ray,’ she giggled as she gazed at the vicar. ‘Kim I have more sausage, Gin? With ketchup?’

Jeanie looked around for the food, but could see only empty plates.

‘I’ll get her some,’ Ray offered, and moved off before Jeanie could stop him, returning after a while with a small paper plate with four sausages and a pool of tomato sauce.

‘Sanks,’ Ellie said without prompting, her eyes alight at the plateful.

Jeanie held the plate, watching the slow progress of her granddaughter’s dipping and munching with increasing desperation, longing suddenly to get away from the stifling presence of this man who clearly no longer cared for her as she did for him. Because she realized with dismay that she did still care, just exactly as much as she had the last time they had met. Time had not diminished her feelings one jot.

The singers had moved on through the carol sheet, voices joyful and determined, taking their lead from the handsome priest. Everything was perfect, picture-perfect, with the shining tree, the stirring music, the frosty air bringing a glow to every cheek, the Christmas spirit palpable in its warmth. All in stark contrast to the pitch of Jeanie’s despair,
soaring unfettered above the assembled happiness like a heavy black bird. Had she really still hoped, despite the beautiful girl beneath the umbrella?

‘We’d better get home,’ she told Ellie, praying there would be no tantrum. But the child was too tired to complain, and clung exhausted to Jeanie, her blonde head resting heavy on her grandmother’s shoulder.

‘Bye.’ She gave Ray a last look and saw he was eyeing her with a puzzled frown.

‘Nat said you’d moved to Devon,’ he said quickly, as she turned to go.

‘Somerset. I haven’t: at least I did, but George and I have separated. I’m living above the shop now.’

Ray stared at her. ‘That must’ve been hard . . . I’m sorry,’ he replied softly.

Flustered, she shook her head. ‘It’s better this way.’

Ellie began to whimper. ‘We must go . . . good to see you.’ She heard the almost cold formality of her words, but couldn’t help herself, hugging Ellie’s small body to her like a shield.

Ray nodded. ‘Good to see you too,’ he said, but unlike her, he sounded as if he meant it.

The carols were over, the crowd hurrying towards the gate, keen to get home to the warmth. Jeanie gathered the pushchair and tucked in the sleepy child, wrapping her scarf around her knees. Her own feet were nearly numb, the icy wind painful against her cheeks as she strode along the road towards her daughter’s house. She would cry later, she told
herself, as if she were holding out the promise of a treat. But in truth she could barely contain her grief. Then, to make it worse, she remembered that George would be there in the morning.

George stood in the middle of the sitting room, hands on hips, surveying the space for all the world like a nosey landlord. Jeanie had to remind herself that the flat did not belong to him.

‘You’ve brightened it up – it’s cosy. A bit small, but no . . . you’ve made it very pleasant since I was last here.’ He looked at Jeanie. ‘You always were good at making a place feel like home.’

She checked his face to see if this remark were loaded, but he seemed relaxed, not ready to pick a fight.

‘Tea? Sit down.’ She had thought it would be more awkward, seeing George again, but perhaps it was a testimony to their lifetime together that even the recent hostilities couldn’t erase decades of familiarity. ‘Chanty’s expecting us for a drink this evening.’

George rubbed his hands together, grinned at his wife. ‘This should be fun, don’t you think? I can’t wait to see the little one. I’ve made her a toy box, stencilled things on it. I’d show you, but I’ve wrapped it already – took some doing. It’s in the car.’

‘She’ll love that, she’s so excited. She doesn’t really understand what Christmas is about, but she knows it’s fun.’

‘And the baby? Any sign?’

She handed him his tea – no milk, no sugar, teabag wrung out to its full strength.

‘It’s due today. Poor girl, she’s vast, quite scarily big. Ell was early, of course, but not for the right reasons, so who knows how long this one will be.’

They sat with their tea and chatted, as if there had never been a problem between them. Jeanie wondered if they could keep this up, worrying that George might take it as a sign that they could make a go of it again. She was tired, having barely slept. Chanty and Alex had insisted she stay to supper when she dropped Ellie home from the carol service, and unusually for her she had drunk too much in an effort to stave off her tears. When she got home her despair was so heavy she had felt unable to cry at all. She’d just sat on the sofa in the dark, her thoughts blank and unfocused, until the small hours, when the cold had finally driven her to bed. Now she was light-headed, as if the day were not real and George was not actually there.