Freeing Grace Page 13

  ‘It’s all right, keep your hair on.’ Kevin folded his arms. ‘Wish I’d never mentioned it now.’

  ‘So where’s your mum gone?’ This was skinny, straw-coloured Kimberley, whose sister worked in the church office.

  Kevin favoured her with a half-hearted grin. ‘Dudley. Silly slag might have got a bit further than Dudley, if she was making a break for it.’

  Both girls giggled, clearly relieved at the lightening in mood. David glanced down at the scribbled notes that lay in his Bible. He was wondering how to bring the discussion back to the theme he’d planned for the class: Listening to God.

  Vanessa, it seemed, was in no mood for theological discussion. Scraping the sugar out of the bottom of her mug with a biro, she murmured casually, ‘You planning on having kids, Mr Edmunds?’

  Startled, he glanced up from his notes. ‘Um . . . yes. We’d like to.’

  Vanessa stuck the sugary biro into her mouth, and her Mary Quant eyes wavered towards Kimberley, as if for encouragement, and back to David.

  ‘We heard you might be going to adopt a baby.’

  He blinked. ‘Yes. Well, it’s no secret. We would very much like to adopt a child.’

  Vanessa sat back in her chair. ‘Have you prayed for one?’

  David hesitated for a moment and then closed his Bible. ‘That’s a good question, Vanessa. You see, I don’t think prayer is supposed to be treated as a sort of telephone ordering service.’

  ‘Like dialling up a pizza?’

  ‘Exactly. For me, anyway, prayer isn’t about that. The Lord knows better than us what it is we need, so we don’t need to go nagging him about it. We gather comfort and strength just by standing quietly in his presence. Sometimes, if we persist, we might catch a glimpse of that brilliance and power. But more often he speaks to us very quietly. So we must be sure to listen very, very carefully. As did Samuel, in the temple.’

  His pupil ignored this blatant attempt to bring the lesson back on track. ‘So can’t we ask for stuff?’

  ‘Er . . . yes, of course, sometimes. We can bring our troubles to him. And we should certainly pray for others. Ask, and you shall receive. But the answer doesn’t always come in the way we expect.’

  Vanessa nodded uncertainly.

  ‘What about fostering?’ Kimberley had lowered her mug to the floor and was leaning forward, regarding him with new interest. ‘My aunty fosters kids. She’s got three at the moment. You get paid and everything.’

  ‘Fostering . . . well, we’re far more selfish than your aunt, Kimberley. We want a child we can keep. I think it would be terribly hard to give them back, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The girl looked wise, nail-bitten hands stretched above the heater’s crazed enamel. ‘Sometimes it is. Aunty Trish says one little boy just about broke her heart.’

  ‘Your Aunty Trish must be quite a woman.’

  He decided to send them home early. After a day at school, he could hardly ask for a full hour’s concentration. He watched the three as they banged out through the west doors. Vanessa had taken Kimberley’s arm and was holding her other hand out to Kevin, teasing and laughing, desperate to catch his attention. David smiled and shook his head, and then turned into the tiny Lady chapel on the south side of the nave.

  This corner of the church felt deathly cold after the relative cheer of the vestry. Stray shafts of light penetrated the dusty recesses of the little chapel, creeping through the stained-glass window, and David’s breath billowed in clouds. A jar of gold chrysanthemums stood on the altar, tingeing the air with the last whisper of autumn.

  He perched on the edge of the front pew. As each minute passed, the stillness gathered around him like a mist. It was rush hour outside, but the chaos could not infiltrate his silence. He ceased to be aware of the smell of damp stone, the peeling whitewash on the walls, or the plaques recording the names of long-dead families. He had entered the quiet room of his mind, and shut the door.

  He was still there when Angus arrived. The rector gave no sign whatsoever of having noticed the tall figure of his curate sitting alone in the Lady chapel. He did not pause on his way up the nave. Instead, he headed into the vestry where he could be heard pottering about. David was on his feet and stretching the kinks out of his spine when Angus emerged again, turning off lights.

  ‘I like the Lady chapel too,’ remarked the rector, strolling up. ‘Comfier kneelers.’

  ‘Sorry.’ David blew on his bloodless fingers, suddenly aware that they were numb. ‘I forgot the time. Did you think I was a burglar?’

  Angus held up a large bunch of keys. ‘Not at all. I know you’ve had the confirmation class. I just nipped over to lock up, that’s all.’

  David forced his hands into his trouser pockets. He was in no hurry to move on. ‘I was seeking a little guidance, maybe a little courage—for Leila and me. I think we’ve come to a crossroads, and I’m afraid it’s a dangerous one.’

  Angus stood very still, as though he had all the time in the world. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I’m quite worried about Leila . . . she’s not herself.’

  ‘Elizabeth’s a little concerned too, actually,’ admitted Angus.

  David’s gaze sharpened. ‘Is she? Has Leila spoken to her?’

  ‘Not in any detail. Elizabeth bumped into her last night in the churchyard. She feels she is at a low ebb. Still grieving, maybe, for the lost baby.’

  David half turned, gazing up at the high, vaulted ceiling. ‘We can’t go on hoping for a family. It’s all we ever do.’

  Angus nodded and waited, watching his curate shrewdly.

  David ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m afraid the problem is becoming destructive. It will come between us unless we make some tough decisions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  A long pause. ‘I think it’s time we gave up. I really do. I hope we can find other ways to use our time and our love, but we can’t carry on as we are. We’re living in limbo, and it’s a waste of our lives. Frankly though, I’m afraid to broach the subject with Leila . . . I honestly don’t know how she’s going to react.’

  ‘Not an easy task,’ smiled Angus, and the two men began to stroll down the nave. ‘Strikes me as a very determined woman, your wife. Beautiful, clever—and determined.’

  ‘That’s one word for it. I can think of less flattering ones.’

  The rector led the way across the porch, clinking his keys, and they stepped out into a damp world of mist, eddying in the half-light.

  ‘What have you got on this evening?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t miss,’ grunted David, tugging at the heavy doors until they thudded together.

  ‘Then miss it, whatever it is.’ Angus locked up and dropped the keys into his pocket. He seemed to be deep in thought. ‘Take heart, David. Remember Julian of Norwich? All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.’

  David managed an anxious smile. ‘I’m not sure that applies to Leila and me. We’re rather lower down the saintliness league table.’

  Angus touched his curate’s shoulder. ‘You’d better get on home. Before you mislay your courage.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  I woke early the next morning. Habit of a lifetime. My mother was always up before dawn. I’d hear the crunch of her footsteps on the gravel outside my bedroom window as she went to water her veggie patch, and I’d roll out of bed and join her in the pale light, just as the first birds were stirring. That was our time, Mum’s and mine, before the monster got up.

  There was a bellbird that used to fly in from the bush to visit our garden, a little olive-green fellow with red eyes. He’d sit up in the rata and call, and his voice sounded like panpipes echoing in the hills. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sound so magical as our bellbird. I wanted him to build his nest in the garden, but he came only for the nectar, when the rata was in bloom. He’d bewitch us for a time and then he’d be off, back to the bush, with a rustle of wings. Mum said he didn’t belong to us and
he never could.

  I pulled on last night’s shorts and wandered out into the half-dark, peering across the gently moving sea. The darkness was thinning, like black paint in a pot of water. And it looked as though someone had lit an enormous fire just on the other side of the horizon.

  I intended to hop down the little cliff and charge straight into the water. That would see off my hangover. I could already taste the salt in my mouth. But I didn’t have the beach to myself. Someone was already there, standing in the shallows, facing east. Around her, little waves tumbled calmly onto the sand like a litter of kittens playing. She hadn’t seen me. I sat down quietly, my legs hanging over the cliff, and we watched and waited together.

  The distant fire pulsed and billowed as though fanned by a giant’s breath. Then suddenly it broke free, and the sea glittered, and a path of dazzling light shot like an arrow across the surface of the water, straight at me.

  Hundreds of times I’ve watched the sun come up, in all sorts of places. It’s always like witnessing a great event, an epic moment in history. You can almost hear the roll of drums. But this time was extraordinary. This time, I felt as though the sun was God. (Incidentally, if my brother Jesse knew I’d said that, he’d immediately have me committed to an asylum so he could get the farm all to himself.)

  Within a few minutes the sky was denim blue, and about a thousand birds were making a hell of a racket. The heat was already getting into its stride, and the horizon had begun to waver. Deborah stood silhouetted against the flashing water, a light wind rippling her shirt. Tangled between her shoulder blades, her hair was set alight in the low rays. The legs of her shorts were soaked. I noticed she hadn’t changed her clothes; I’m willing to bet she’d never been to bed.

  Eventually, she glanced back towards the campsite. A tall old guy was emerging from the trees, wearing ragged shorts and holding up two magnificent silvery fish in each hand. She waded ashore and greeted him in Swahili. There was a fair amount of nodding and smiling, and they both headed off to the kitchen to complete the deal. I watched as they wandered up the path, talking quietly. I kept them in sight until the white cloth of her shirt had disappeared behind the glowing ivory and green of a bush. As she passed, a chattering swarm of little yellow birds burst from the leaves.

  It was as though she had been here all her life. These were her colours and her sounds; this was her air. It was difficult to imagine her making meat pies in a red and black farmhouse near Ipswich, with beeswax on the floor and mothballs in the cupboards.

  After a swim I strolled up to the bar, where Hamisi gave me some coffee. You could almost smell the heat: dust, seaweed, and an exotic sweetness I’d noticed as soon as I stepped off the plane. Over at the campsite, people were wandering to the showers and back, or boiling kettles on paraffin rings. The pace was gentle, the light clear; it was like floating in a beautiful, drug-induced dream. Even the sea seemed to move in slow motion.

  It couldn’t last, of course. Progress and politics and human greed had to catch up eventually, even here, and tear it all apart. Kulala Beach couldn’t hold out forever. Perhaps drought would destroy it. Perhaps disease, or riot, or war. Or maybe a concrete crop of foreign-owned resorts. They’d put up a barbed-wire fence, and armed guards would beat up the dignified old fisherman if he came near.

  I took a bottle of water back to my private cliff among the trees, grabbed my map and guidebook from the cabin, and sat with my back against the door. Briskly, humming boldly to myself, I looked up Mount Kenya. I’d found Mrs H, now. My life was my own.

  Yep. I was out of there.

  I stared at the same page for half an hour, and I didn’t learn anything about Mount Kenya. I was still thinking about Matt. And Deborah, thigh-deep in the waves at sunrise.

  A small sound on the sandy path. A pair of bare, dusty feet. She’d showered and wrapped one of those pieces of tie-dyed cloth around herself—bright primary colours—with another one as a belt. She sat down on a rock, facing the sea. A wisp of honey-coloured hair was blowing across her mouth. I wanted to brush it away for her.

  ‘Read it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yep. Every word.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’m very glad it isn’t my problem.’

  She jerked her head down towards the beach. ‘Come for a walk with me?’ Her voice was clear. Uncluttered. Like the chime of our bellbird, up in the rata.

  I bet we set the campers gossiping. We wandered through the luminous shallows, right along to the end. The foam stretched in creamy arches around our ankles.

  ‘Are you still writing articles?’ I asked, when the silence became embarrassing.

  For a second she looked startled. I think she’d forgotten I was there. ‘They’re hard to sell, nowadays,’ she replied absently, swishing her toes.

  I found myself smiling. ‘Humanising these people for all the liberal lefty types.’

  ‘Ah, yes. That’s Lucy talking, isn’t it?’

  A shoal of pin-sized fish scurried away from our shadows.

  ‘I’m not a brilliant journalist,’ she said suddenly. ‘But what I was trying to do was show how atrocity works, in practice; how the unimaginable becomes reality. I wanted people to, you know, recognise the monster within themselves. So they’d be on their guard against it.’

  ‘Not me,’ I argued, picking up a shell and skimming it out to sea. ‘I’m a lazy prick. Couldn’t be bothered to summon up enough hatred.’

  She didn’t reply, just looked cynical. Her eyes matched the turquoise water.

  ‘You must have had to hear some harrowing stories,’ I said, forcing myself to look away and vowing to get a grip on myself.

  ‘And so should we all. We’re all responsible.’ She glanced sideways at me, a small smile at one corner of her mouth. ‘Even lazy pricks.’

  I laughed. She scratched her nose, thinking. ‘I know what people’s images are of Africa. Child soldiers, starving babies, atrocity, corruption, AIDS.’

  ‘Or pretty sunsets and the odd elephant.’

  She nodded. ‘Both are distortions. Reductions. Both deny the fun.’ She held her arms out wide, a tightrope walker. ‘The life. The courage. Anyway, this is my home. For a while at least, I want to be a part of it, not an observer. Which is convenient, because there’s not as much work for freelancers as there was.’

  We’d reached the end of the beach, and she began to clamber purposefully over the rocks.

  ‘Hamisi tells me you’ve met Rod.’

  ‘Er . . . mm.’ I hauled myself up, scraped my shin on a razor-sharp rock, and swore under my breath as bright red blood cheerfully spurted out. ‘Nice guy.’

  ‘And I imagine you’re wondering how Mrs Perry Harrison comes to be living on Kulala Beach?’

  ‘Not really.’

  She made her fingers into a pistol and aimed it at my head. ‘If you say it’s none of your business, I’ll have to kill you.’

  I jammed my hands into my pockets like a schoolboy, squinting up at the sky. The sun looked menacing now, like a vast white firework at the moment it explodes. And the colour was draining out of the day. Even the sea had faded to a rippling opal.

  ‘No good asking me for advice. I’m pathologically shallow,’ I said. ‘Really. A night out, couple of beers, swap a yarn or two—that’s all I’m good for.’

  ‘I don’t think so. If all that was true, you wouldn’t be here.’

  I watched Mrs Harrison—a flash of brilliant colour—leaping easily from rock to rock, unruly hair swinging across her graceful shoulders. I tried to imagine her with Perry, hosting Christmas drinks by the fireplace at Coptree. And I couldn’t.

  ‘Okay,’ I called after her. ‘What’s the story?’

  She stopped, poised on a massive boulder. Her mouth twitched, as though she’d just beaten me at a game of tennis and was trying not to crow. Then, abruptly, she disappeared.

  Following her, I found myself dropping down into a perfect miniature bay, just a few feet across. The sand was flat, washed cl
ean by the tide and shaded by bush that tumbled down to the edge. After the glare, it was a relief. She’d settled herself on a low stretch of rock, half covered by heavy vines. She tucked that strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘Your shin’s bleeding.’

  ‘Won’t kill me.’ I splashed seawater over my leg. ‘Look, Lucy did fill me in a bit. Her mother dies, and before she’s cold in her grave, you swan in like a sort of gold-digging Mary Poppins.’

  She laughed, without amusement. ‘I’d just turned twenty when I married Perry,’ she said. ‘And—yes—I was pregnant with Matt.’

  ‘Not a crime.’ I began to mess about in the sand with my big toe, digging up little shards of coral. Here I was on a tiny, isolated beach, with a fascinating woman dressed in nothing but a couple of bits of cloth. And all I did was dig in the sand with my toe. Pathetic. I was losing my grip.

  ‘It was a crime, though.’ She chewed her lower lip. A habit of hers. ‘I threw up on my wedding day.’

  ‘I know lots of blokes who’ve done that.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘This was morning sickness, Jake, not morning after the stag night. It wasn’t a fairytale for me, all lace and orange blossom and bashful blushes. They had to stop the car on the way to the registry office so I could chuck up. Not a great start to married life.’

  ‘No, I s’pose not . . . And it’s true about you being the nanny?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She sat up a little straighter. ‘I became Perry’s nanny within days of leaving boarding school. I was booked into a course in journalism, but Perry was an acquaintance of my dad’s, and he was desperate for help because his wife had just died. So I flew out to Germany, where he was based. It seemed a good opportunity to improve my German and save a bit of cash.’ She paused. ‘I was only seventeen. Lucy was four.’

  I tried to picture a small Lucy. ‘I bet she was cute.’

  Deborah lit up. ‘Unbelievably cute! Very clingy, because she’d just lost her mother. She used to creep into my bed in the night and snuggle up to me.’

  ‘Wasn’t compulsory to marry her dad, though, was it?’