Tread Softly (45 page)

Far from a dedicated business team, she got just a ringing tone, which shrilled on and on, then unaccountably stopped. Should she go through the whole rigmarole again? No. She'd try the third and last number.

‘
Welcome to Powercare, Seeboard's emergency service.'

This sounded more promising at least.

‘
Please listen carefully to the following two options. If you are calling to report a power failure or dangerous situation, please press One.'

She did so.

‘
You are through to Powercare, Seeboard's emergency service. We are busy dealing with emergency calls at the moment. Your call is held in a queue and will be answered as soon as an operator becomes available.'

‘Shit!' she grunted, expecting to be regaled with a spell of schmaltzy music. Instead there was another ringing tone, which eventually gave way to yet another recorded message: ‘
You are through to Powercare Technical Help Desk. If you are calling about advice on earthing connections, voltage enquiries or electrical protection, please wait and you will be answered shortly.'

Somehow her call must have been misrouted. She rang off and redialled, only to be taken through an identical process. To hell with Seeboard! At this rate, it would be New Year before she managed to speak to a real person.

She went back to the Help file and worked through every appropriate number, starting with electricians and general emergency lines, then moving on to local homes and hotels.

After an hour she was practically weeping with frustration. Most firms were closed for Christmas and New Year and wouldn't be reopening for ten days. None of the hotels could help, and, although two homes had said she was welcome to ring their maintenance men, again she got only answering-machines. She had even tried Oakfield House, terrified that Oshoba might pick up the phone (as care assistants occasionally did at Oakfield, in the absence of a proper receptionist). As far as she knew, Olu hadn't carried out his threat to reveal everything to Ralph, but just thinking about it added to her fear.

And to make things worse the torch-beam was growing weaker. Once solid objects in the room – chairs, shelves, cabinets – seemed to be losing substance, unravelling. As
she
was. She felt faint, dizzy, frighteningly unreal. Her instinct was to run, but where? The whole area would be in darkness. Besides, she should be helping Kathy, who would have her hands full trying to rally staff and calm nervous residents. She despised herself for sitting paralysed, but panic had reduced her to pulp again.

With shaking fingers she dialled Seeboard's emergency number one last time. After the now familiar recorded instructions, she finally got through to a real person. ‘Have you any idea how long this power cut might last?' she asked.

‘It could be up to fourteen hours.'

‘
Fourteen?'

‘I'm sorry, dozens of lines are down and it'll take that long to repair them.'

The tight band round her chest was squeezing tighter, tighter, and she was sweating despite the cold. In a hoarse, unnatural voice she explained the situation again. ‘Isn't there anyone there who could help?'

‘No, if it's a privately supplied generator there's nothing we can do.'

‘What about other private firms? I've tried a lot already, but perhaps you know someone that really
does
work round the clock …'

‘I'm sorry, we're not allowed to give out numbers.'

Lorna banged the phone down and sat hunched over her desk. There was one last possibility … It would probably be useless, self-defeating. But she had to do something other than tremble and dissolve.

‘Please, God,' she whispered as she dialled. ‘Let it work.'

This is how it must have been in the war, she thought: rows of frightened people huddled in blankets waiting for the blackout to end. There were in fact two guttering paraffin-lamps and a couple of evil-smelling oil-heaters; nevertheless the room was dim and shadowy, and had grown increasingly chilly during the last hour. She moved from person to person, trying to rally their spirits, offering them drinks and snacks. It was her job to hold the fort downstairs while Kathy stayed upstairs with the most serious of the flu cases.

‘No, I'm sorry, Julie, you can't go home. I know you've done your shift. So have we all. But this is an emergency.' Apart from Julie, the staff were showing remarkable dedication. And the doughty Winifred was helping out, passing round her own tin of Christmas biscuits.

‘Eric tells me you've found a man to mend the generator. Is that correct, my dear?'

Lorna lowered her voice. ‘Well, he's
trying
, Winifred. He's down there now, but I don't want to publicize it in case he doesn't succeed.'

‘I won't say a word.' Winifred proffered the biscuit-tin. ‘Do have one of these – they're Belgian and rather nice.'

‘Thanks, but no – I had a big lunch.' How could she eat? Her stomach was churning, her heart racing out of control. It was extraordinary that no one had noticed. Inwardly she was a wreck, yet they all seemed to regard her as a calm, efficient wonder-woman – Ms Courageous, in short.

‘Yes, of course you can use the toilet, Mrs Alexander. Rowan will take you. Just be careful how you –'

The blaze of light took everyone by surprise. Lorna blinked, gazing up at the suddenly brilliant chandeliers. The Christmas-tree lights were glittering once more and the table-lamps casting their soft glow.

There was a spontaneous cheer from staff and residents alike and a burst of triumphant applause.

‘Well, whoever's responsible for
that
', said Julie, ‘deserves a bleeding medal! Bring the lucky bloke in here and I'll kiss him from head to toe.'

Lorna swerved to avoid a huge puddle. The overnight thaw had brought new driving hazards, and although the roads were no longer impassable her headlamps lit up swathes of snow still clinging to verges and hedges. She stopped to consult the map. Kendrick Grove was proving hard to find, and it was past seven when she finally drew up outside the house – a decrepit-looking property in a run-down part of Woking.

Suddenly apprehensive, she sat in the car wondering if it would be wiser to turn back. What was she going to say? How could she appear casual and not betray any emotion? He might well be annoyed that she'd turned to him only in a crisis, after avoiding him for months. She checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror and tried to rub off some of the lipstick. She didn't want to look as if she'd spent ages on her appearance – which she had.

A complete waste of time, no doubt. In fact she might as well leave the stuff in the car. No point lugging glass dishes through the slush if nobody was in.

She squinted at the list of names beside the bells. His was the only one neatly typed.

She rang, then negotiated the narrow steps to the basement, catching her breath as the door opened a crack.

‘Lorna!'

She too was shocked – by his pallor and by the amount of weight he'd lost. Last night, in all the confusion and the darkness, she hadn't really noticed. And afterwards he'd fled, evidently unable to face her. Thinness apart, though, he still looked distinguished, dressed in dark cords and a navy sweater. ‘I just wanted to thank you,' she said, ‘for yesterday.'

‘Come in.'

She followed him into the hall. It was dark and smelt of damp.

‘May I take your coat?'

‘Thank you.' They might be strangers: stilted language, stiff formalities. Should she reach out and take his hand?

But he was already standing aside, ushering her into a poky room with sludge-green walls and bars at the window. ‘Do sit down. I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess.'

In fact it was meticulously tidy, just impoverished and bare. She sat on the edge of a chair, recognizing a couple of pieces from Queen's Hill Drive: a small mahogany writing-desk and an antique carriage-clock that had stopped working years ago. Throughout their marriage it had said ten past ten. Both items looked incongruous here, and seemed to recoil from the hideous sofa and scrappy rug. When the house-sale was going through he had offered her the pick of the furniture, but she had refused to take anything, determined to break all ties. Impossible. The ties were extraordinarily strong.

He picked up his pipe – another familiar object: the Peterson with the straight-grained briar and the silver band at the base of the stem. A number of other pipes sat on the writing-desk – a source of comfort, perhaps, in this prison. The room was disconcertingly quiet: no sound from the other flats or even from the street. She felt a sudden sense of shame that all this time she'd had no idea where or how he was living – her husband of eleven years. Kathy had advised her not to meet him, to cut contact to a minimum, just brief phone-calls about the finances. Kathy wasn't always right, she realized now.

She cleared her throat. ‘I, er, hope you know how grateful everyone is. You were the hero of the hour!'

He shrugged. ‘It wasn't difficult. I told you – there was an airlock in the system and I just had to bleed it through.'

‘All the same, it saved our bacon. Or turkey, I should say!' She flushed at the trite joke. Nervousness was making her gabble. ‘And the whole thing was such a drama I think the residents rather enjoyed it – once it was over, anyway. They were reminiscing about the Blitz and the General Strike and what have you, and it created quite a festive mood.'

He refilled his pipe and tamped it down with his thumb. ‘It's a lovely house.'

‘Mm.' Was he bitter about their very different circumstances? The coach-house was a palace compared to this slum. But he didn't
have
to live in such surroundings – what had happened to the money she had given him? ‘What are you doing at the moment, Ralph?' she asked. ‘Did you manage to find a job?'

‘Of sorts. I'm using the van to do light haulage work. It's a bit sporadic, but it pays the bills. And before that I worked as a minicab-driver.' He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘But the pipe didn't go down very well with customers. I've sold the car now, in fact.'

‘Oh,
Ralph
…' He had loved his car almost as much as the house.

Forestalling protestations of pity, he stood up and moved to the door. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?'

‘Well, if it's no bother.'

She too got up, and en route to the kitchen had a quick look round the flat. There was only a tiny bathroom and one other room, his bedroom. Warily she put her head round the door. Would there be evidence of another woman: a photograph? belongings?

She froze. The woman in the photographs was
her
. There were four in all. The one beside his bed showed her sitting on the lawn in a halter top and shorts. The second, on the chest of drawers, had been taken at the company dinner-dance soon after they'd met. The third was just a snapshot, propped against the clock, and on the window-sill stood their wedding-photo, resplendent in its silver frame. She turned away from her smiling faces. The room was practically a shrine to her, whereas she had assumed he would throw her photos out, if not destroy them. This was surely proof that Olu hadn't approached him.

‘Lorna?'

‘Coming.'

‘D'you mind tea instead? I don't seem to have any coffee.'

‘Tea'll be fine.'

The kitchen was little bigger than a cupboard and again depressingly bare. When he opened the fridge to get out the milk, she saw there was nothing else in it except a carton of orange-juice. While she'd been tucking in to a splendid Christmas dinner at The Cedars, he had probably made do with a liquid lunch.

His hands weren't quite steady as he made the tea. She had no idea what he was feeling – pleasure at seeing her again, resentment, even anger? ‘I … I've got a few things for you, Ralph. They're in the car. I'll fetch them.'

He didn't offer to help. Perhaps he just wished she'd leave. Certainly she hadn't been prepared for the effect the visit would have on her: desire and distress in equal proportions. She wanted to hold him, kiss him, yell at him, comfort him – all dangerous reactions. She
would
leave – it was safer. But at least he must have the trifle. She had taken great pains with it: begging the ingredients from Marco, borrowing a cut-glass bowl from the kitchen, decorating the top with holly made from glacé cherries and angelica strips, and spelling out ‘Happy Christmas' in silver balls.

She carried it carefully in from the car and placed it on the worktop. ‘I put in lots of almonds and ratafias. And masses of sherry of course!'

‘This is for
me
?' He was gazing at it with an expression of disbelief.

‘I always make you a trifle at Christmas.' Used to make, she should have said. ‘And Kathy sent you a token of thanks.' She drew the bottle of single malt from her shoulder-bag and held it out to him.

‘I don't drink.'

‘
What?'

‘I don't drink any more. Not since you left.'

‘You mean … you've kept off it all that time?'

‘You seem surprised.' Now he did sound bitter. ‘A lot of things have changed, Lorna.'

‘So I see.' She was more than surprised, she was stunned – that he had found the strength to give up drinking during such a stressful period. When he had quit before it had lasted two days; this had been nine months. What will-power it must have taken. She couldn't walk out – not now.

She took the tea-tray into the sitting-room. A surreptitious glance confirmed the absence of glasses and bottles – there wasn't so much as a coaster.

He gave an awkward laugh. ‘Actually, I did it for you.'

For her? She was dumbstruck. They weren't even in contact; he might never have seen her again. She sank down on the sofa, suddenly angry with its broken springs, angry with the sagging curtains and grimy ceiling-tiles. ‘Ralph, this place is a
dump
. The whole point of Agnes's money was to help you get a decent flat.'