Rosie Thomas 4-Book Collection: Other People’s Marriages, Every Woman Knows a Secret, If My Father Loved Me, A Simple Life. Rosie Thomas
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more than I’m a silly old woman,’ Nina answered. She was smiling, but Patrick was not deceived.
‘Are you thinking about pork-piefoot?’
‘Yes.’ And about Richard, too, only she would not burden him with that.
‘Then don’t,’ Patrick ordered her.
Vicky’s parents went home on the day after Boxing Day. Gordon carried their tartan suitcases out to the front of the house and stowed them side by side in the boot of Alec’s Vauxhall. The old people moved slowly in his wake, arranging their car rug and Marjorie’s handbag on the back seat, arguing protractedly with each other about the need for petrol and the best route to take home. Mary and Alice ran out after their grandmother and hung on to her arms, while Vicky stood in the doorway holding Helen wrapped in a white shawl.
Patiently Gordon helped his parents-in-law to settle themselves ready for the short journey, answering Alec’s queries about the nearest filling station likely to be open and reassuring Marjorie that of course he would make sure Vicky got enough rest.
At the same time, he was trying to imagine how he and Vicky would be together when they had reached the same age as her father and mother. He thought that the small irritations with one another and the tetchiness generated by minor interruptions to routine would be solidified in just the same way, set in the rock of another twenty-five years. They would go visiting at Christmas time and Mary’s husband would humour him, exactly as he was humouring Alec now. The idea was profoundly depressing.
At last the old people were ready to go.
Vicky came out and stood beside him in the driveway, and Alice and Mary waved, and Alec revved the engine too fiercely before letting in the clutch, as he always did. The Vauxhall bucked forward, narrowly missing the rose bushes bordering the front lawn, and then achieved the correct momentum to pass between the gateposts and swing left into the roadway.
The children shouted gamely, ‘Goodbye, Granny, goodbye, Grandad,’ and Gordon and Vicky raised their arms in salute, frozen for an instant in a happy-family tableau.
When the Vauxhall had finally passed out of sight they turned back into the house. Vicky lifted the baby to her shoulder and massaged her back through the thickness of the shawl.
Gordon looked carefully around him, as if he was seeing the interior of his home for the first time. There was a hard, yellowish light that revealed the chipped paint of the skirting boards and the sticky handprints on the walls, and now that he and Vicky were alone together again the rooms seemed to contain a sullen, implacable silence.
They went into the untidy kitchen, and while Vicky put the baby into her basket Gordon covertly watched her face. The skin seemed puffy and unhealthily smooth, as if water had seeped underneath it. It came to him that she was suffering too.
He had decided that he would talk to her this evening, when the children were asleep. It was the anticipation of what he must do that gave the house and surroundings their queasily unfamiliar aspect, and for the hundredth time he played with the idea of saying nothing, of trusting to luck and the hope that Vicky would never hear what had happened. But ever since Christmas Eve he had been imagining the invisible snake of gossip twisting between the Grafton couples, and he knew he would have to make his confession because he couldn’t hope that the secret would be kept.
Vicky was listlessly piling toys into the wicker hamper where they were supposed to live. Someone had spilled sugar on the kitchen floor, and her slippers made a gritty protest as she moved.
Gordon said, ‘I thought I might take them all out for a walk, down as far as the river. I could put Helen in the buggy. You could go to sleep for an hour, if you like.’
She straightened up, and he saw her brief flicker of surprise replaced by disbelief.
‘You look tired,’ he offered. ‘Go on, have an hour’s rest.’
Vicky dropped another toy into the basket, looking away from him again. ‘Thanks. I might, if you don’t mind.’
After he had searched for and found the necessary pairs of mittens and wellingtons, and helped Mary and Alice into their coats and wound scarves around their necks, and once Helen was zipped into her padded bag and strapped into the nest of her buggy, Gordon’s patience was almost exhausted. Vicky had gone upstairs without a backward glance.
‘Off we go,’ he encouraged his daughters.
They set off down the road. Gordon felt conspicuous wheeling the high-framed white buggy, but the world seemed deserted. The neighbours’ front doors were tightly closed and their windows were screened by the scrawny arms of winter trees. Alice wanted to stop at every corner, but he made her hurry on with the objective of the park beside the river in his mind.
‘Mummy always lets me say hello to the spotted dog,’ she complained.
‘Don’t you want to get to the swings?’ he coerced.
When they reached the park after their slow journey they stood in a line and peered through the railings at the river. It was swollen and brown, carrying crests of dirty foam on its back. The wind was very cold. Helen’s tiny nose had turned red, although the rest of her was almost invisible in her swaddling covers.
‘Sometimes we throw sticks,’ Mary told him.
‘Shall we swing, today?’ Gordon asked, recognizing that this numbing outing must be a regular part of Vicky’s routine. He left the baby parked against the railings.
Mary ran to a swing and hoisted herself on to the seat.
‘Push me,’ she called.
Alice ran to one side, to a yellow plastic cockerel mounted on a heavy spring.
‘How high can you go?’ Gordon asked Mary, giving the small duffel-coated back a tentative push.
‘Much higher. Push harder,’ Mary shouted, sticking her legs straight out in front of her. ‘That’s better. Like that.’
To Gordon she seemed terribly fragile, a small cargo of precious humanity rushing backwards and forwards through the hostile air. Her hair streamed out under her knitted hat and she shouted with excitement, defying his adult anxiety.
A second later he saw the red blur of Alice’s coat out of the corner of his eye. She had abandoned her cockerel and was rushing towards them.
He shouted, ‘Look out!’, but he was frozen in mid-push with his hands stretched vertically in front of him. Alice zigzagged in front of the swing and the sole of Mary’s wellington boot caught her on the temple before the seat soared on upwards over her head.
Alice collapsed on the tarmac and the arc of her sister’s swing returned above her. Gordon caught at the chains and held them, arresting Mary at the high point and almost wrenching his arms out of their sockets. He stilled the swing and scooped Mary out of it before sprinting to where Alice lay in a heap.
‘She ran in front,’ he heard Mary babbling.
He bent over Alice and saw her face contract and her lips draw back from her teeth. There were three full seconds of silence before the first howl found its way out of her. He was almost crying with relief himself as he snatched her up and held her. Her screams grew louder, and she went rigid.
There was a blue and white graze on her temple, and as he looked at it tiny scarlet beads sprang out between the shreds of skin. The caterpillar print of Mary’s sole was clearly visible.
‘Mummy puts cold water,’ Mary said, pointing to the drinking fountain. Gordon carried the screaming child over to the metal cup and soaked his handkerchief in icy water. The side of Alice’s head was already turning red and beginning to swell. Gordon pressed the cold compress to it and soothed her, feeling the panicky jumps of his heart.
‘It isn’t too bad, darling. It will hurt for a bit and then it will go away. It’s just a bump. Just an old bump. Something that happens at the swings.’
After a while the child’s screaming