Freeing Grace Page 7

  ‘Do try the peas, I grew them myself,’ urged Perry. ‘And what do you intend to do now? Lucy tells me you find yourself a free man, unexpectedly.’

  ‘Well.’ I took a spoonful of his peas, glad to change the subject. ‘I never intended to stay in London. I was twenty-three and planned on working my way around the world. But my temporary job at Stanton’s turned into a permanent one, and the bonuses started rolling in. I just didn’t have the balls to turn down all that cash. I sold my soul.’

  ‘The good old days,’ Lucy remarked sourly. ‘Before the bonus became an endangered species.’

  ‘So I stayed,’ I said. ‘And stayed, and stayed. Until it was nearly too late.’

  ‘Too late?’

  ‘Nearly. I’ve had a narrow escape, really, because I almost got stuck in Basingstoke with a wife and kids and a sofa to think about.’ I shivered. ‘Might as well be dead.’

  The kettle was hissing merrily away on the stove. Lucy and Perry exchanged a glance, and I had a nasty feeling I’d said the wrong thing again. Perhaps Perry was born and bred in Basingstoke.

  ‘This chicken thing is great,’ I burbled.

  ‘Thank you. It’s very easy.’

  I smiled. ‘You sound like my mother. She always swears things are easy, then spurts out a recipe you’d need a degree in catering to understand. It’s a funny thing though, because she hates cooking. She told me once: she hates cooking and gardening and sewing, and she always has. But she’s done nothing else her whole life.’

  Perry seemed to be deep in thought. Matt filled up his plate and started refuelling all over again: probably had the munchies, after that whacky baccy.

  All of a sudden, Perry stirred. ‘You know, Jake, I believe you could do me a service.’

  ‘Er . . . ?’

  He trickled another couple of inches into my glass. ‘Yes, you could. I have a small difficulty, and I think you can help. It’ll be . . . entertaining for you.’

  ‘Sure. What’s the problem?’ I imagined that, perhaps, the light bulb in the bathroom had blown, and Perry didn’t like to climb the stepladder.

  ‘Lucy will have mentioned my wife, Deborah?’

  Mrs Harrison, the harridan? ‘Um, a bit. All good.’

  Matt guffawed before making a grab for thirds. His father ignored him.

  ‘Deborah was last heard of in Mombasa, but she hasn’t made contact for some time. That in itself isn’t so very surprising. She’ll be busy, and communication can be tricky in these remote areas. But we need to find her. Urgently.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you mind if I don’t tell you that? It’s a private, family thing.’

  ‘Is someone ill?’ It seemed the most likely explanation.

  Perry held up his hands and shook his head. ‘You could be in Mombasa within days. It’s not a large community; I’m sure you’ll pick up her trail.’

  ‘Why don’t you go, then?’

  Matt laughed again, until he choked. Lucy glared at him as though wishing she had a remote control button with which to turn him off. No one answered me, so I tried again.

  ‘Seriously, why don’t you go, Perry? I mean, isn’t it a bit unusual, sending a total stranger to look for your wife?’

  He got to his feet and started collecting the plates, and I stood up to help. I really thought he might be joking. Matt was still chortling away to himself.

  Eventually, Perry shut the dishwasher and leaned against the stove. His cheeks were quite sunken, I thought, and he stared with a little too much intensity. It was a bit creepy, to be honest. But then he smiled, and his eyes looked wearier than ever, and somehow he had me on his side. For the first time, I could imagine him loping across the desert: the exhausted, charismatic officer whose men would follow him anywhere.

  ‘I’d like to go myself, Jake, but I simply can’t afford the time. I’ve several deadlines coming up. I also have Matt at home.’

  I was shaking my head, trying to make it work properly. It was spinning a bit. I felt as though I’d been dropped into a play but didn’t know the lines.

  The telephone rang, and Perry exited stage left to answer it. Once he’d gone, Lucy leaned towards me over the back of her chair.

  ‘Please, Jake. I know it’s a lot to ask, but you’ve absolutely nothing better to do.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t.’

  I pondered for a moment. ‘I thought you said this was typical of your stepmother, and you hoped a lion had got her in the Serengeti?’

  ‘You know damned well I wasn’t serious about the lion.’

  ‘No, I don’t know. Have you tried the Kenyan police?’

  She gestured impatiently. ‘Do try to be realistic.’

  ‘It’s not me that’s unrealistic. It’s you lot. You’re off your bloody trolleys. This is why you got me down here, isn’t it?’ The penny had finally dropped. ‘To send me off to look for some globetrotting housewife so I can get her to come back and restock the freezer.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Matt slapped the table. ‘We’re running out of those meat pies she does.’

  Lucy pushed herself to her feet, stood behind her brother, and rested her hands on his strapping shoulders. ‘Please?’ Brother and sister stared at me expectantly.

  ‘Look, guys,’ I whispered. ‘What’s the big secret? Is Perry ill? Is he dying? I can see he looks bloody rough.’

  ‘You see,’ Matt burped, gently. ‘She makes this unbelievable strawberry ice cream. One bite and you’re in heaven. I can’t live without it.’

  Lucy ruffled his hair.

  ‘Gerroff.’ He squirmed, dodging her fingers.

  ‘You’re all mad,’ I said.

  Perry reappeared a couple of minutes later. ‘Don’t decide immediately, Jake,’ he rumbled generously, slapping me on the back. ‘Take your time. You’ve got the whole weekend to think about it, and then we can book your ticket first thing on Monday morning. Okay? Now. Try a dram of this.’

  I’d imagined he might be the sort to turn in early with a good book and a mug of cocoa, but he slammed a bottle of Scotch onto the table with an air of celebration. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Six

  The party broke up early. Elizabeth saw to that, hustling Hilda and Christopher down the wet path and into their car.

  ‘Phone me,’ mimed the rector’s wife to Leila, and David could have sworn she held up crossed fingers.

  Once they’d all gone, he slammed the front door and attached the chain. Then he pulled Leila down to sit beside him on the stairs.

  ‘Right. What happened?’ With one finger, he drew a line along the strong sweep of her brows. His own powerful hands seemed coarse beside the flowing planes of her face. ‘Come on, spit it out.’

  Leila’s solemnity melted into a slow smile. ‘Well, your father’s a lecherous old sod, and your mother has all the tact of a charging bull elephant.’

  ‘I know all that. But what . . . ? If I’d lit a match, the entire street would have exploded.’

  ‘Well, first we were treated to Hilda’s views on adoption. You know.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Yep. All too well.’

  ‘Then there was the news about prissy Alicia’s twins.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And as a little extra delight, Christopher suggested we’d better get on with it, too. He also spent the evening leering down my front, whispering sweet nothings.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ David’s eyebrows drew together. He drew a long breath, holding it, letting the anger catch alight. ‘Right, that’s it,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Where are they staying?’

  Leila didn’t move. ‘Settle down, Edmunds. You’re too old for impetuous rages.’

  ‘No.’ David jerked the car keys off their hook. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  ‘It was half a bottle of gin talking.’

  He strode to the door and then swung back to face her, his hair falling across his eyes. ‘That’s
no excuse, Leila! He will not get away with insulting you.’

  ‘He didn’t get away with it.’ Leila stood up, stretching. It was a feline, languorous movement, oddly serene. ‘And I don’t think he intended to insult me. I wish I’d never told you. I don’t need you to gallop around on your white charger. I’m not a damsel in distress.’

  David swore under his breath, then abruptly threw both arms around her, shutting his eyes, shutting out the world. She felt unbearably valuable tonight.

  ‘What was the problem with the youth club?’ she asked, and he felt the warmth of her hands on his back, under his shirt.

  ‘No problem.’ His resolve was weakening. ‘Don’t change the subject.’

  ‘Come on,’ she coaxed, removing one hand to tug at the keys in his fist. ‘It’s late, and we’re going to bed.’

  Upstairs, he hovered, eyeing her as she folded clothes and strolled in and out of the bathroom. She moved lightly, competently, butter-coloured lamplight caressing the smooth, high curve of her cheekbones. He rummaged for words.

  ‘I keep telling you, Leila. It’s you that’s important, not the family we might have together. If no kids come along, I’ll never have to share you with anyone. Lucky me!’

  She threw him one bright glance and then began to sing to herself. David knew the song, a lullaby from Nigeria. She had a mellow, resonant voice, like espresso coffee. It made his throat constrict.

  As Leila sang, a smile lifted the warm curve of her mouth. She seemed luminous with some secret pleasure, as though it was his birthday tomorrow and hidden in the cupboard she had the best present ever.

  ‘You seem very pleased with yourself, Leila Edmunds,’ he said. ‘What’re you up to?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’ She twitched out her earrings and dropped them onto the dressing table with a small clatter. ‘I had a chat with Elizabeth. Cheered me up.’

  David watched as she took out cotton wool and tipped lotion onto it. ‘C’mon, I know you. You’ve thought of something, and it’s made you happy. Quite a feat, after an evening like that one.’

  Leila crossed the room and poured herself under the duvet. ‘Can we please get some sleep? Your parents have finished me off.’

  David scowled. ‘I still think I should’ve—’

  ‘And no doubt you’ll be up at the crack of dawn, crashing about like a rhinoceros.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, I will, I’m afraid. There’s an early team meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘Lights out, then.’ She stretched up to flick the switch.

  David brushed his teeth, changed and slid in beside her. He reached out to touch her face, but she was already asleep.

  For a while he lay in the dark, drifting, letting time flow over him. She was still the same, really, after all these years and all this trouble; still the bossy, vital girl he’d first met beside the river.

  His crew had rowed together for more than a season before they lost their coxswain: a Japanese postgraduate, light and competent; his father had gone bankrupt, and he’d rushed back to Tokyo.

  The four put up notices and bribed every girl they knew—and the skinnier men—but no one would take on the job. The crew spent their evenings in pubs and student bars, drowning their sorrows and eyeing up Japanese postgraduates.

  Then, one evening, Joshua had news of a breakthrough. ‘Third year, pharmacy. Weighs less than eight stone, apparently,’ he crowed, ordering another round. ‘She’s keen, and she’s done it before.’

  ‘But is she a hottie?’ Rhys wiped the froth from his new, rather inadequate moustache. ‘Yukio wasn’t much to look at.’

  ‘I hear she’s gorgeous. Nigerian. Vocalist for the Bath Beat Chicks.’

  ‘Wow. That girl?’ Tom paused in the act of murdering a handful of peanuts. ‘I’ve seen her in action. That is exotic.’

  They waited at the river the following morning. Rhys had even put on a clean tee-shirt for the occasion, and Tom was fingering his designer stubble. She arrived on a man’s bicycle, speeding up to the boathouse in a whirr of spokes and nimbly undoing her helmet as she leaned her bike against the wall.

  ‘Now,’ she announced, turning hypnotic, almost-black eyes upon them. The early light glinted on her bare shoulders. ‘I’ve heard all about you four—your reputation goes before you. I’m here to cox, and under no circumstances whatsoever will I become a notch on that kitchen wall of yours. Got it? Good. Where’s the boat?’

  They fell in love with her. They couldn’t help it. She was utterly in control, crouched in the stern. Her hair was twisted into dozens of braids that fell over her shoulders. They were held off her face by brilliantly coloured bands of cloth, revealing delicate ears. She wore inspired, off-the-wall clothes. For training, she sported flimsy white vests that glowed against the dark lustre of her skin. These tended to become transparent when she was wet, which may have explained the crew’s cheerful insistence that training continue even when summer storms drenched them all. In those days she had an hourglass figure in miniature; David was sure he could have joined his hands around her waist. She was noisy, with a proud, confident energy, and she treated them with friendly disrespect, like brothers.

  They were careful with her, though. Nobody so much as touched her, unless you counted that time on her birthday when they’d all picked her up and hurled her into the river. There was an unspoken rule: leave her alone. Don’t rock the boat.

  They met at the boathouse on glittering summer mornings, when ragged mist rose off the water and other students were just crawling into bed. Sometimes the coach would ride along the path on a bicycle, yelling. Leila folded herself into the stern, her chin up. Whenever someone lost the rhythm she’d know instantly and would hurl insults down the boat. David was mesmerised by the sweep of her eyes, gazing past the rowers, guiding them. At weekends they’d all go on to the pub afterwards and swap outrageous stories, sitting at picnic tables by the river. They’d nag her to sing for them, and—if they bought her enough Bacardi—she would.

  Obsession crept up on David. It ambushed him. He became a loyal follower of her student band, the Bath Beat Chicks. He looked for her everywhere. Each time they met he had more to ask, more to tell, and afterwards agonised about whether he’d talked too much.

  It was a summer that hummed with perfection. One morning, as they pushed away from the bank, he rested for a time and looked around him. The oars dripped calmly, their ripples shimmering under a milky sky. From the dank shade of the willows a family of ducks paddled importantly into the sunlight, and the air bubbled with the smell of weeds and warm mud. Leila sat facing him, laughing at something the coach had said. She alone looked sharply in focus, vivid in the smooth green eddies of the water.

  With sudden clarity, David became aware of a new sensation. He felt settled, as though he’d reached some destination. He floated with hope. Presumably, he thought, this is happiness. Happiness. And it’s because of her.

  Leila caught his eye and smiled briefly, widely. He was in freefall. Then she looked away, but he didn’t.

  Later, when the others had hurried off to their lectures, he loitered beside his last-legs Beetle, pretending to adjust the wiper blades as she dragged her bicycle out from behind the boathouse. She wheeled it towards him, adjusting her helmet with one hand. The strap made her cheeks bulge. David took a breath and clenched his fists.

  ‘Got time for, um, coffee, Leila?’ It came out all right, he thought. Only a little squeaky.

  She smiled again, and the sun glittered through the trees, dappling her face. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world,’ she replied calmly. Carefully, she set her bike on its stand. Then she stepped forward, took his face in her hands, and kissed him.

  And that was that, forever.

  They kept it quiet until the end of the season. They met in the evenings and strolled in the water meadows while clouds of gnats floated in the shadows; or drove out of town and hid in the gardens of little country pubs. But David had begun to worry. He’d deceived his best friends. In the last week
of term he bought the other three a pint, and they leaned in a row on the bar, gazing at themselves in the engraved mirror behind the cash register.

  ‘Look, guys,’ stammered David. ‘Um . . . got to tell you.’

  ‘You and Leila?’ yelped Joshua.

  David nodded, his eyes wide.

  The others guffawed heartily while Rhys slapped him on the back. ‘Tell us something we don’t know, mate. You’ve got the bug, you poor bastard. It’s terminal, no hope for you at all.’

  ‘Look. I’m sorry I didn’t—we thought it would be best if—’

  ‘Bloody look after her, or we’ll break both your legs.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The others nodded. ‘And your arms.’

  ‘And don’t you go getting her pregnant,’ snarled Tom. ‘We’ll never find another cox as good as her.’

  David smiled, self-conscious and delighted. ‘When we do have a baby, you three can be its fairy godmothers.’

  The trio fell about. ‘Poor little bugger!’

  They married two summers later, at Leila’s home church in Peckham. Joshua was best man. Tom and Rhys offered to be bridesmaids, but Leila said their legs were too hairy so they were witnesses instead. David’s family turned up in force, oozing strained politeness; they knew their duty. His mother cried with ludicrous abandon during the ceremony, but then so did Leila’s. It was the first and last time that the two women appeared to have anything in common.

  At the reception, Joshua, Tom and Rhys persuaded Leila to climb up on the little stage with the band and sing ‘Blue Moon’. At the sound of her voice, the rumble and chatter faltered. Heads turned.

  ‘Classy,’ whistled the band’s vocalist, who’d hopped down and was standing next to David. ‘Great delivery. Stylish interpretation. She’ll have my job.’

  The applause could have taken the roof off. Joshua got down on one knee and begged Leila to divorce David and marry him instead.

  David kept a photograph of that day, on his desk. He’d balanced it between the in-tray and the telephone. Without turning his head, he could rest his gaze on Leila’s slender form, dark shoulders vivid and smooth above the immaculate white lace of her dress, gold hoops lustrous in her ears. She was laughing, twisting towards him, the sunlight dancing on the graceful cheekbones and the curve of her eyes: a living, glowing sculpture. And he towered beside her, smiling dazedly, a giant to her elf. The scene seemed to shimmer, as if lit by her magical fire.