Torn (18 page)

‘You mean Gaia theory?'

‘You know about it? Cool.' Danny smiled, as if really pleased she already understood what he was talking about. ‘The earth is living and evolving. We have to treat her with respect.'

‘But if it's endlessly adapting, couldn't that mean it doesn't matter what we do? The earth will always heal itself.'

There was a pause before he answered. ‘No one believes we can just please ourselves and the earth will absorb any shit thrown at her! Look at the destruction of the rainforests. Look at the carbon we pump into the atm'sphere.'

‘So what can be done, other than humankind becoming communitarian and altruistic? Do you think we can learn to live for the greater good, not just of ourselves and our loved ones, but for all of life and the living earth?'

Yet another extended silence, but then he nodded.

‘Yeah.'

‘But “yeah” to what?'

He took a long sustained breath. ‘You asked what I believe in. That last bit you said. That's what I believe in.'

Jess shook her head. ‘But if you look at natural selection, then it follows that Richard Dawkins is right. We are all a product of the selfish gene. The majority will always only be interested in their own survival and the survival of their own. It's why people are driven to make their lives secure. Financial security is what everyone strives for, isn't it? Look, I know you don't approve, but even I –'

‘I don't approve or not approve. But the drive to make more and more money? Like, what for? It just all seems irrel'vant. If animals are going extinct and the ice cap's melting, if there's drought in Africa and flooding in Asia, and people fighting each other for food and drinking water, what does it matter if your shares are worth ten pounds, a hundred, or a thousand?'

‘It may not be fair, but money can sometimes insulate you against the worst.'

‘Yeah.' Danny half laughed. ‘And it's the poorest people, people who grow the things we eat and make the things we use … farmers, potters, bakers, weavers … who go to the wall first. The money men, who just deal in ideas and words and theories, they're the ones who survive whatever happens.'

‘But international banking needn't be in opposition to concerns about climate change. Alternative energy technology needs investment. It won't happen on the scale it needs to unless people are willing to put money into it.'

‘If there's a profit to be made, global warming could be the next big thing, you mean? It all comes down to money. Money making more money.'

‘Even I'm driven by the need to make Rory's and my life secure. If I can do that through my investments I will.' Jessica was by turns enchanted then exasperated by his naivety. Everything he said seemed to criticise the world she'd worked in and yet, from her own experience, it was a world she herself no longer trusted.

‘But you've got security,' he said. ‘You were just telling me about all that money you've got squirreled away.' There was no wheeze that she could hear but by now she was more attuned to his body language, to the timbre of his voice. She suspected his chest was tightening. ‘You've still made a profit.'

‘It's only notional. And the markets have a way to go to fully recover. Danny?'

‘But you admit you worry about it all the time. What's it matter if your shares are worth less now than they were a few years ago? What's the point? Why give yourself that grief?'

She didn't answer his question. ‘You sound a bit throaty. Are you all right? Have you got your inhaler?'

He coughed and shook his head. ‘I'll be OK.'

‘Didn't it occur to you when James Warwick said he was bringing you over here, that you might pop in to see me?'

‘‘Course it did. It was my first thought, but it was difficult. I could hardly say, “Before we go I need to fetch my inhaler ‘cos while I'm there I might just as well bunk off and visit my girlfriend … but she's got a cat”. Don't think he'd've taken too kindly to that, do you?'

Jess shook her head and smiled, enjoying his use of the possessive – “my girlfriend”. It was a long time since she'd been so claimed and it sounded somehow quaint and endearing. Sheila, or even her own mother for that matter, would be outraged to have such a label ascribed to them by a male.

‘I've another spare I can give you, though if this keeps happening the doctor may query the rising number of Rory's repeat prescriptions.'

‘No, it doesn't matter. I can't stay anyway.' The black and white scarf still draped his shoulders like a shawl; his hands cupped the infusion of nettles and black currant. She reached over and laid her hand over his wrist.

‘Are you sure you can't stay?' They both knew what she was asking. Danny frowned.

‘What about Rory?'

‘I'm sure he's still asleep, he'd have been in here by now if he wasn't.' Jessica blushed. ‘No, of course you're right.' It was shaming to realise how quickly her resolution to put Rory first had been undermined. ‘But soon … we've got to find a way to see each other soon.'

He stared down into the mug, almost as if answers might be found in the vapour rising from the surface of the liquid. Then he looked up, straight into her eyes.

‘Why me, Jess?'

She batted the question back. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You know what I mean. You're beautiful … and … bright … and special … and I don't understand. You could have anybody. I mean, even someone like the boss.' His lip curled ever so slightly.

‘James Warwick? I don't think so!'

‘Why not? He's a good-looking bloke. And he's educated, healthy, rich … I'm none of those things, Jess.'

It would have been too easy to say, ‘Actually, I haven't got you in the frame as a potential life partner, sweetie.' Or, ‘Why on earth wouldn't I want to take you to bed? You're young and beautiful; I love your skin, your eyes, and your fair, tufty hair.' Either would be hurtful, and yet both, on one level, were the truth.

‘It's you I like!'

‘But you don't want anyone to know about us.'

Stunned by his perception she temporarily floundered. ‘It's difficult,' she answered, after a moment's thought. ‘I never intended to become involved with anyone so soon, least of all someone like you and before you take offence, I am trying to be honest. I mean someone so much younger than me and someone in a job that is undoubtedly valuable, but, forgive me, has such low status in the eyes of the world.'

‘I don't care about that world! It's shallow. It has no values, no ethics. All it cares about is money and celebrity and making a big, glossy impression.'

‘Perhaps I'm not as brave as you, Danny. I suppose I do still care too much about what the world thinks. Give me time. It's too early to know where this is leading and I'm not up to explaining myself to the rest of the world, let alone you. Not yet. I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be sorry if that's the truth. Um … I'd better go … fetch these horses. He'll wonder what's kept me so long.' They stood up and walked towards the front door. Jessica's heart was pounding. I've blown it, I know I've bloody blown it, she thought, and the prospect was unbearable.

‘Danny … um … I've still got your T-shirt. You left it on New Year's Day.' He waited as she ran to fetch the garment from her bedroom. ‘I haven't washed it I'm afraid, and …'

He gathered the black T-shirt to his face and breathed in. ‘You've worn it? I can smell you. Oh, Jess!'

Once started it was hard to stop. They managed, somehow, to pull back from the kiss, but continued to stand in a loose embrace.

‘Look … I've been thinking, we're due to start lambing in a few days. It mainly happens at night so I'm having the days off. You could come to my place.'

‘The caravan?'

‘It's pretty basic, but if you don't mind slumming it?'

‘Course not.'

‘Mummy?'

They broke apart guiltily. Rory had stood up on the seat and was holding on to the sofa back. Cheeks flushed with a high colour he regarded them solemnly. Jessica wondered how long he'd been there, how much he'd witnessed.

‘Hello, darling, you've been asleep!' she said as normally as she could.

‘I know,' he agreed, nodding. ‘I was dreaming. Have the chickens made any more eggs?'

Danny realised the question was addressed to him. ‘Yeah, quite a lot, Rory. They usually make eggs every day, look.'

‘Every day?' This information was astounding to the little boy. ‘Phew, that seems like hard work.'

Jessica stood at the door with her child in her arms. Danny carried the tack through to the field where three horses grazed. He called them over individually with bribes from his pocket. At first it seemed a struggle to attach the head collar to one unwilling and uncooperative beast but quickly the horse was pacified with a pat and a stroke on its neck and something offered in the palm of Danny's hand. When this part of the task was accomplished he looped a leading rein around the fence post then began the same process with the second horse. Eventually all three were ensnared. The last horse – a big dappled grey – he tacked up fully, tightening the girths and finally, lengthening the stirrups. Jess had moved down to the end of the path by this time. As Rory was only wearing his fluffy rabbit slippers, she still carried him. They watched as the three horses, rather shaggy still in their winter coats, were led through, then tied to the fence rail before Danny went back to shut the gate. He easily mounted the dappled grey mare then rode her down the track at a walking pace, the others following, with just a toss of the head from time to time. They clopped across the lane, then Danny stopped the mare by the gate. It was too close for Rory; he clung tightly to her neck and hid his face.

‘Monday morning,' Jessica mouthed. Rory lifted his head a fraction.

‘Bye bye, horses,' he mumbled. Danny smiled down at them both and raised his hand in a salute. At a click of the tongue and a slight nudge from his knees the mare moved forward, leading the other two sedately behind her. As they progressed down the lane Danny turned in the saddle from time to time to check the led horses were orderly and to smile at Jess. He looked natural, as if riding was something he'd always done. Yet his seat on the horse looked somehow un-English. Not for him the traditional straight-backed, high-kneed style of the riding school – let alone the leather boots and hard hat.

At length they reached the bridle path, which diverged from the lane on the right, a route that was not only safer but would cut off the corner. As they turned down it he raised his hand one last time. Seeing him briefly in profile, the toe of his canvas trainer barely resting in the stirrup, she realised what this relaxed, long-legged riding style reminded her of. If only he'd been wearing a fedora instead of the woolly hat, he would have looked more like a cowboy in an old-style Western. She saw him flick the reins and the grey quickened from a leisurely walk to a trot, the others following, until out of sight.

Out of the blue, and in a plaintive tone, Rory said, ‘I want to see Rawn. Why doesn't Rawn come to visit, Mummy?'

Before she had to formulate an answer to this difficult question, he added, ‘Mummy, I feel sick.'

Chapter Twelve

Rory was ill. Nothing desperate, nothing serious enough to require a doctor's visit, but he was unquestionably ill. No wonder he'd slept so long on the sofa, then woken flushed and hot-cheeked. For the next few days he was floppy and complained of tummy-ache or of feeling sick. His nose began to run and he developed a cough. Instead of taking him to the nursery Jess kept him at home and every few minutes checked him for signs of improvement. She continually fretted over what to do. Should she take him to the doctor's? If the doctor in Warford was anything like her doctor in London, he would simply advise Calpol for his temperature and plenty of fluid. NHS Direct gave the same advice. Why take a sick child out into the cold, to sit for ages on a hard chair, in a draughty room, exposed to others' germs, only to be told at the end of the wait to do what you were already doing?

Her natural, but generalised anxiety for her child was overlaid by worry that her own plans might be thwarted. Rory had to be well by Monday. Well enough, that is, to go to nursery. Jess was going to see Danny on Monday; she had no way to contact him to tell him of a change of plan. Yet this was the perfect opportunity to get out of something she was not at all sure she wanted to go through with. The idea filled her with alarm. Her only defence for making love with the boy would be ‘heat of the moment'. Yet what they planned seemed cold, premeditated. The fact she was putting Rory second to her own desires was utterly shameless and undermined her confidence in her fitness as a mother. An overriding sense of guilt and recrimination that she should even entertain this internal debate remained with her like a bad taste.

On Sunday they sat for hours, playing a super heroes Top Trumps card game – Rory on the sofa wrapped up in a duvet and Jess on the floor beside him. They played by Rory's own rules, something she was happy to go along with. Every few minutes she felt his forehead, but he would irritably brush her away, sniff loudly, and declare himself the winner in that hand. His cough sounded as hoarse and liquid as if he'd smoked sixty a day for the whole of a long life. Still, she agonised, still she didn't know what to do, and in the end, after Rory had gone to bed, Jess phoned Sheila.

‘He's not desperately ill, but he still has a cough. And he's a bit irritable. I don't know whether to bring him along tomorrow?'

‘I don't see a problem,' Sheila said. ‘If he's keen to come, bring him. You can stay with him. I'd love to see you. It's been ages since you stayed. Then, if he flags, you can take him home.'