‘I’ll do it on one condition.’
‘OK,’ he said.
‘You have to go and read to Mrs Deal.’
‘Who’s Mrs Deal?’
‘She’s a woman in a coma. There’s nothing to it.’
‘What do I have to do?’ he said warily.
‘Only read to her.’
He frowned. ‘Out loud?’
She smiled. ‘If you want her to hear you, yes, you have to read out loud.’
‘Read what?’
‘A book.’
‘Does it have to be a long book?’
It flitted through Meg’s mind to say, ‘It doesn’t matter,’ but then thought of poor Mrs Deal at the mercy of Patrick’s choice of reading matter.
‘It has to be over two hundred pages. It must be fiction and it must be popular. Off the bestseller lists or a classic. But it can’t be about war or some boy-rubbish like that. Or sci-fi.’
‘No war, no sci-fi.’ Patrick nodded sombrely, and Meg realized she could give him specific instructions and he would carry them out with the precision of a computer. For a cruel second she almost demanded Pride and Prejudice from him, but pushed it aside with an inner giggle.
‘If I do that, you’ll take the photographs?’
‘I will take the photographs.’
‘OK then,’ he said reluctantly.
‘Do your best,’ said Meg.
‘I always do my best,’ he said seriously.
She laughed and stuck her tongue out at him and he blinked.
38
‘I’M PREGNANT,’ SAID Tracy, and Mr Deal finished chewing a mouthful of steak, leaned back in his chair and looked at her. Tracy felt her smile falter and worked at it harder, despite the shaking inside her.
Mr Deal – Raymond – was a meticulous man, who felt no need to gush or to pander. She found him hard to read, but she also knew that if she pushed, he would take even longer to give. It was annoying, but strangely exciting, too.
He cleared his throat and sipped his red wine. ‘How far along are you?’
‘Far enough.’
‘Are you going to keep it?’
Of course I’m going to keep it! This is the plan!
‘If that’s OK with you?’ she said carefully.
He cut another piece of steak. He ate his meat blackened and bloodless. ‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
Why are you checking? she asked herself. Why are you giving him another chance to say no?
Mr Deal finished that mouthful, then dabbed his mouth with his napkin and leaned across the table to kiss her cheek. ‘Of course I’m sure,’ he said. ‘It’ll give us something to put on the kiddy toilet.’
Tracy felt a giddy rush. Suddenly she couldn’t have stopped smiling if she’d tried.
They went to his bed after Newsnight and she did things to him she’d never done before. Not only because she thought she should, but because she wanted to.
Later – back at the house she still shared with less fortunate girls, she lay awake half the night with excitement. And when she went to work the next day, she was astonished to find that it did not seem quite so repulsive to wipe old Mr Cutler’s pooey bottom, or so arduous to tip cold soup between Mrs Aldridge’s drawstring lips.
Of course, she couldn’t wait to give it all up and never work another day in her life, but in the meantime, it felt almost rewarding.
When a buzzer sounded just as a few of them had sat down with a cup of tea, Tracy surprised herself by bouncing up and saying, ‘I’ll get it.’
Sally, who was the voice of the ward, said, ‘What’s with you today? You in love or something?’
Yes, thought Tracy with a thrill at the realization. Somehow, somewhere, she had fallen in love with Mr Deal, and in the blink of an eye, everything had changed.
She had changed – and it felt wonderful.
39
IT HAD TAKEN Sarah an hour to find the matches. She didn’t smoke and she didn’t have a gas cooker and she didn’t even know why she had matches, but she knew they were here somewhere, and got through most of the second bottle of Vladivar looking for them.
Now here she was, under the gibbous moon as frost formed on the roof of the Fiesta, trying to burn down the shed.
It was a lot harder than she’d expected it to be.
When she’d stumbled out into the frigid night air, she’d thought that a single match held close to the rotting timber would be enough to see the whole thing burst into flames.
Not so.
She’d gone through half the box, squatting beside the corner of the shed in her nightdress and wellingtons, turning slivers of pale wood into scorched twiglets. Once she’d dozed off, mid-arson, and burned her fingers.
She wove back to the house and got the letter, then came out and tried again, but striking the matches and holding the letter was close to impossible. Three things and only two hands. She swayed and cursed softly and dropped the box, then the letter, then the box again – before finally finding herself with the letter in one hand and a lighted match in the other, and bringing the two together.
The corner of the paper caught and for a moment Sarah could re-read it by an orange glow.
Dear Mrs Fort, I very much regret to inform you that I have had to ask Patrick to leave the School of Biosciences…
She squatted again and fed the paper under a splintered edge. The flame curled languidly around the wood, warming it slowly, as Professor Madoc’s words turned into black flakes that floated upwards as if by magic.
‘Come on. Come on,’ she muttered and rested the side of her face against the rough planking. ‘Come on, shed, you can do it.’ She giggled and opened her eyes. ‘Yes!’
The orange tendrils were feeling their tentative way up first one panel, then the next.
She stood up and backed away. She shivered. She wasn’t even wearing a coat. Or socks. Inside the rubber boots, her feet were numb.
The fire had a grip now. It found the vulnerable corner and clawed its way upwards.
Sarah released a long, emptying sigh. Why hadn’t she done this years ago? All she’d needed was Dutch courage and half a box of matches.
The corner of the shed was properly alight. Crackling. It would not go out now. It started to throw out heat, and she enjoyed that until sparks spat at her and she took a wavering step backwards.
I very much regret…
Patrick would be coming home soon and they would have to start again. Almost from the beginning. All the progress halted. Maybe reversed. She was exhausted by it. Exhausted by him. She didn’t want it. She wasn’t sure what she did want, but she knew that forwards was better than backwards, even if the destination was unknown.
‘Out of the way!’
Something pushed her aside and she stumbled to one knee, her palms in the gravel; the gravel in her palms.
An animal hiss made her look up to see that the dancing flames had been transformed into ugly grey smoke and cinders, which billowed across the gravel and made her cough.
Weird Nick turned towards her, water still spurting from the garden hose in his hand. ‘I got here just in time,’ he said, and stood, flushed and panting, waiting for his plaudits.
‘Yes,’ she said dully, and wobbled to her feet.
‘What happened?’ he asked.