Torn (47 page)

She had no confidence that the next number she dialled would be picked up. It was. The voice on the other end sounded exactly like a juvenile version of her grandmother.

‘Danny's phone. Sasha Warwick speaking.'

Jessica came into the sitting room to find her son lying full length on the sofa. The Lego had now been abandoned and he was watching children's TV.

‘Rory, sweetheart, I've something really sad to tell you. But I want your help. If you are brave, you'll help me to be brave?'

Together they went through the kitchen and out into the lean-to, where they kept their boots, and the other odds and ends there was no obvious place for in the house.

‘There's a good box, Mummy,' he said. It was a six-bottle wine carton.

‘I think that one's a bit small. Is there a bigger one?' The half-used packets of fertiliser, envelopes of seeds, and bottles of weed and bug killer, reproached her as they rummaged. Not only had she failed to clear away this evidence of her predecessor's green fingers – much of which was probably poisonous, and all of which, like the flea powder, was definitely well beyond the use-by dates – but she'd added nothing new. Her intention to dig the earth, to grow and to harvest, had come to nothing more than the tub outside the front door. Even the glass demijohns, the tubes, airlocks, and boxes of corks she'd actually purchased in anticipation of wine-making were unused and unopened, gathering dust and spiders' webs amongst the gritty old seed trays, mud-encrusted implements, and broken flower pots.

Eventually they'd emptied a large, if slightly damp and cobwebbed, carton. They put on their wellingtons and hand in hand went out into the garden. Rory was sent off on leaf-collecting duty. The flat area of the garden might be tiny but rising above it was a hillside of trees; there was no shortage of shed leaves.

Soon a bed had accumulated in the bottom of the box and Jessica fetched the surprisingly heavy bag. When Rory asked to see Tubs' body she hesitated before folding back the thick plastic. Rory squatted beside the dead animal and gazed at him for several seconds. He stretched out his hand. She nearly said ‘Don't touch', but stopped herself. Sometimes it was better to allow instinct priority over the layers of civilisation which enmeshed you. Hands could always be washed. He stroked the slightly matted fur.

‘Poor Tubs,' he said. ‘Mummy? Do you think he's gone to Heaven?'

The concept of an afterlife, even for humans, was one she had problems with, but now had no qualms about answering ‘yes'. It had begun to rain again. Big heavy drops ran down their necks. They zipped and buttoned their coats up tight, then continued to search for more leaves to scatter over the bag, once it had been retied and placed reverentially in the leaf-lined box. Ten minutes later a thick wet quilt of green completely obscured the mauve carrier bag. Footsteps crunched down the side path.

‘Danny!' Rory screeched in delight and rushed to him. ‘Did you know? Tubs is dead! He's in the box. We're going to have a fruneral!'

There was a spade in his hand, but Danny didn't say he already knew. ‘That's really sad. What happened to him?'

‘He was runned over!' Rory was still clinging to his legs. Danny ruffled his hair. He must have set off before the rain; although he was wearing wellingtons he had no jacket on, just a long grey hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head.

A spot was selected and Danny started digging. It took a while; though the ground was soaked it was also compacted and stony, and the hole needed to be large. With his own seaside spade, Rory dug at the earth already thrown up, with the intention of flinging it further, but managed instead to scatter most back into the hole.

‘Thanks, Rory,' Danny said. ‘You're being really helpful.'

Though it continued to rain steadily it didn't become any heavier, and no one, not even her child, complained or suggested they stop till it eased off. From recent experience there was not much hope of that. At last the hole was deemed large enough. The box was now soggy and in imminent danger of falling apart. It wouldn't have been the end of the world. Its only real purpose was to lend some dignity to the occasion, and the only loss would have been that dignity. But instinctively Danny seemed to realise this; he scrambled out of the hole to help Jessica carry the dangerously sagging carton and then lower it down into the grave with due solemnity. At her instigation some of the Michaelmas daisies she'd picked while they were digging, were now tossed onto Tubs' coffin by Rory. The three of them stood, looking down.

‘Let's say goodbye,' Jessica said. ‘Goodbye, Tubs.'

‘Bye bye, Tubs,' was echoed by her son. Then, ‘Have a nice time in Heaven.' Danny's face, as he looked across at them, was wet with rain; he smiled slightly at Rory's addition. Jessica knew there were tears mixed with the rain which wetted her cheeks. Slowly he began to shovel the wet earth back into the grave, again with the help of Rory and his sandcastle spade. Jessica found a jam jar in which to put the remaining daisies, and a craggy lump of limestone to serve as the headstone.

Chapter Twenty-eight

The quantity of mud on the two gravediggers was hard to credit, but at least Rory had been wearing a coat.

‘I've a mind to put you both in the bath,' she said, then regretted her flippancy. Her son was delighted by the idea and wouldn't let it drop.

‘Yes! Yes! I want a bath with Danny!'

‘I wasn't being serious! At the very least you must wash your hands very thoroughly, straight away.' But when Rory's wet and muddy rainproof jacket was stripped off she found yet more mud caked as high as his elbows, his jogging pants were damp and earth smeared from calves to waist. As for Danny, he looked like a drowned and very muddy rat.

‘It's OK. I can cycle home. I can't get any wetter. Then I can have a shower at the farm.'

‘Don't be daft! Anyway, you've the spade to transport.'

‘I got it here. I can get it back.'

‘Just a minute … does James know you came over?' He shook his head. ‘You bunked off? Presumably it's his spade? Fine. So either you, or I, or both of us are likely to be in trouble. Well, in for a penny … We might as well fully deserve the rollicking. Would you like a bath? Then I can get your clothes washed and dry in a couple of hours.'

‘And me, Mummy? A bath with me?'

‘Oh no, Rory! Poor Danny doesn't want to share a bath with a wriggler like you.'

‘I don't mind. And it'll take less hot water.' Danny was smiling now, a teasing glint in his eyes. ‘But if you'd rather not see me stark bollock naked, I promise to be “Mum” and make sure that Rory washes behind his ears.'

Hot water was a consideration. The small tank would be hard pressed to deliver two baths immediately. And, it was at least a year since Rory had seen a naked man in his home. Would he take garbled stories back to school? Did she care about possible tittle-tattle? More importantly, might she be exposing her son to danger? There'd been so much hysteria about paedophiles lately. Did she trust Danny?

His expression became serious. He slid his hand under her elbow and escorted her rapidly from the kitchen, pushing the door to behind them.

‘You don't think I'd do anything to him, do you?' he asked quietly.

‘How did you …?'

‘I'm not a hermit, Jess! I hear the news. And I saw it in your face. That sudden doubt. I would never do anything to hurt you, Jess, or your son. Surely you know that? Surely you believe me?'

Belief did not require evidence – that was the trouble. What
did
she know about him above and beyond the fact that he was a good-looking boy? What she'd heard implied a serious mental deficiency. What she saw was someone who was straightforward, certainly unsophisticated and to some degree illiterate, but not stupid or crazy. How did you recognise a paedophile anyway?

He was holding her hands now, staring into her eyes. She saw no offence or hurt in his expression, just an intense effort of will to convince her.

‘I don't know!'

‘Yes you do! Of course you know!' His hair was still stuck spikily against his forehead, his hands still damp and cold. ‘You do, don't you? I'm not into children … not girls, not little boys! I'm not gagging to share a bath with Rory! I didn't suggest it! But it sounded like fun … and sensible. But if it bothers you, that's cool. I'll go home now. But I just can't bear you to think that of me, when surely you must know …?' His face tilted slightly, pupils widening as if the room had suddenly darkened. His face moved fractionally closer to hers. ‘You do know. You must know –'

‘Don't, Danny.' She released her hands from his and spread them against his chest. The hoodie was gritty and saturated. ‘Please don't do this.'

‘Do what?'

‘Confuse me!'

Danny blinked, straightened and drew in a constricted breath. She cupped her hand against the short fair stubble on his cheek.

‘Still affects you even though the cat's dead and buried?'

He half smiled and nodded. The door swung open and Rory pushed by them into the room, rubbing his arms and shuddering exaggeratedly.

‘Brrrrrrr, Mummy. I feel isolated!' The adults started to laugh.

‘Go on then,' Jess said, shaking her head at her son. ‘Get in the bath. Both of you! I don't want to be responsible for either of you catching pneumonia. I'll get your clothes washed, Danny. That is if you can stand to stay here for a few more hours in an atmosphere charged with cat hairs?'

While they were in the bathroom Jessica changed her own clothes. Her jeans were soaked from the knees down, where the rain had run off her waterproof. Through the door she could hear a worrying amount of splashing, punctuated by her son's squeals and giggles and Danny's laugh. She went downstairs but soon returned with towels and Rory's pyjamas fresh from the airing cupboard. Inside, the bathroom was fuggy with moist air; the mirror and windows misted, and water puddled the floor.

‘I've brought you some warm towels.' The first thing that struck her, on seeing Danny in the bath was he still wore the beaded chokers round his neck. The water had been liberally dosed with Rory's bath foam, and apart from their two faces daubed with bubbles, two bare chests, and one set of angular bony knees there was nothing to see beyond the armada of plastic boats, ducks, and beakers floating amidst the rearing foam, like ice-breakers between floes.

‘Danny already washed my neck and ears, Mummy!' Rory said quickly as if to pre-empt another attack. ‘And he made bubbles!'

Danny started to laugh again. ‘Ssshhhh.'

‘I can see the bubbles all over your face!' Jessica said. ‘You look like Father Christmas.'

‘Not those kind of bubbles! Windy bubbles! I tried but I couldn't do it!'

‘I said the home-made Jacuzzi was our secret!' Danny said, in a stage whisper. ‘You weren't to tell your mum. Now she'll think I'm common.'

‘I see.' She looked at each grinning face in turn, pink and wet now as the smear of foam slid away, and shook her head. ‘You've been holding a farting competition! At least I now know for sure I have two children in the bath!'

‘Pardon me!' Rory squawked, finding his joke even more hysterically funny. With puffed cheeks he tried to blow raspberries, but instead giggled and spluttered explosively. His laughter grew more manic, rising rapidly in pitch and hysteria. Deprived of half his audience he might calm down. She turned to leave.

‘Mummy!' he yelled after her, stopping her at the threshold. As she'd feared, his voice now held as much distress as forced amusement. ‘It was sad about Tubs, wasn't it?'

‘Yes sweetheart, very sad.'

‘But it is all right to laugh at jokes now?' His little face had puckered suddenly, his mouth turned down.

‘Of course it is, darling! It's a very good thing to laugh. Had enough of the bath now? Do you think you're clean enough? Nice warm towel, then I'll powder you on the bed.'

Rory raised his arms and she lifted his dripping body and swaddled him in the towel. As she carried him to her bed, her own face was pressed into the warm folds of the towel around his neck.

‘Are you going to powder Danny?'

‘Think he's a big enough boy to powder himself, don't you?'

Rory couldn't stop yawning, but was deaf to talk of an early night. It had been a very strange afternoon for the four year old. Till today death had been an abstract concept. And though a bit of him was undoubtedly sad at the cat's demise, he was thrilled too by this exposure to one of life's mysteries. Added to all this was another unusual event. From his earliest babyhood he'd been used to seeing Sean wander around the London flat with nothing on, but, though having a bath with Mummy had always been commonplace, he'd never shared a bath with his surrogate father. Jessica doubted that sharing a bath with Danny was a story he could keep to himself.

Later, after Rory had been persuaded to go bed, they relaxed in front of the wood burning stove, slowly going down a bottle of Shiraz. He was dressed in some of her old joggers which had always been too long on her, a loose sweater, and some novelty Christmas socks she'd bought one year for Sean. He'd never worn them so they'd found their way into her own sock drawer. That first winter in this house she'd been glad of them and had sometimes worn them to bed. So here was Danny, less than half Sean's age, wearing Sean's old Rudolf socks. On that other occasion – on New Year's Day – when she and Danny had first sat here on this sofa they'd listened to the Eagles. The disc held too many ambivalent memories. In any case, she now suspected the Eagles were not a particular favourite of his; he'd chosen the CD simply because it was the only album he'd recognised as one his brother had. This time she'd put on Rumer.

‘I was so relieved you had the mobile on,' Jess said.