People expected the Taverners to live somewhere grand because Sheena had been a writer. But although her novels had been well reviewed they were hardly best-sellers. Certainly they weren’t Emma’s idea of a good read. She had ploughed through one or two but preferred something with a story. A thriller, even a historical romance. Secretly she thought Sheena should have gone out more, even found herself a job, mixed with people other than the arty friends who seemed very similar to her. Then she would have had something to write about. Towards the end, of course, that would have been impossible.
After the funeral there was quite a crowd in the little house. Teachers from the High School where Mark worked. Friends of Sheena, many of whom Emma thought were unsuitably dressed for the occasion. Mark introduced her perfunctorily to some of them: ‘This is Margaret from the Flambard Press, this is Chaz, this is Prue.’ He must have hired caterers because trays of rather unappetizing food stood on a table. If Emma had not been pregnant she would have taken charge of the proceedings – handed out plates, offered drinks. As it was she kept out of the way, not because she didn’t feel up to it but because of the same embarrassment which made her uneasy in Mark’s company. Eventually her legs began to ache so she settled herself in a chair by the window with a glass of orange juice and a cardboard vol-au-vent.
From her corner she watched Mark move restlessly from one chatting group to another. He was attractive in an intense, rather humourless way and the women turned towards him as he approached. His face was strained and it was obviously an effort to be polite. Brian must have realized that too because he went up to Mark and put an arm round his shoulder. There was nothing to say.
Emma thought that perhaps there had never been much to say, not even when Sheena was first diagnosed. Nothing that did any good, though Brian had railed at length about the mastectomy and the chemotherapy and the radiotherapy. He had been angry and uncomprehending on Mark’s behalf. Mark himself had said little.
Brian peeled away from the group and stood beside her. He was big and dark, given to sentimentality and outbursts of temper, but only when he’d been drinking. At work he was cool and quite determined, willing to take risks if the odds had been properly weighed.
‘A drink?’ he asked.
‘I could murder a cup of tea.’ The house had been empty for nearly a week and it was not very warm. ‘But I don’t know if that’s on offer.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘ I’ll fix it.’ And he went away into the kitchen glad to have something to do. She thought that was Brian all over. He was the fixer, the dealer, the person who made things happen. But not even Brian could fix it for Sheena to get better though he’d tried hard enough, yelling at consultants when appointments were cancelled, hunting out information about the best doctors, the best centres, pretending to be Mark over the phone so he’d be taken seriously. Now he had to admit defeat and it didn’t come easy.
He brought her tea on a little tray painted with blue and white flowers. When she’d drunk it she asked if he minded her going home. Suddenly she felt very tired.
‘I’ll get a taxi if you like,’ she said. ‘You can bring the car back later.’
He said he would come too. She knew the decision to leave early had little to do with concern for her. He’d never liked sharing Mark with other people. Except Sheena, of course. He’d never seemed to object to her.
It was half past three. The children were coming out of the Infants School on the corner of Mark’s street. Emma thought sadly that soon Owen would be starting school and that he had grown up too quickly.
It had been Brian’s idea to buy the Coastguard Station on the Headland and knock it through into one magnificent house. She hadn’t been very keen. Even then, five years ago, she’d been dreaming of babies and thought a modern house on a quiet estate would be nice. Somewhere with other middle-class mothers to invite in to coffee during the day, pavements for trikes and dolls’ prams. She had kept her misgivings about the Coastguard House to herself. Brian was so generous to her in other things and he was so enthusiastic about the venture that she encouraged him. She had even pretended to share his excitement.
The house was wonderful now. She had to admit that. There was so much space that they wouldn’t be cramped even if the latest baby turned out to be triplets. There were magnificent views out to sea on three sides. All the same if she were offered the chance to move she’d jump at it. She felt isolated on the Headland. She wouldn’t call herself snobbish but felt she had little in common with the residents of Cotter’s Row. She wouldn’t be happy for her children to play down there. Physically, too, the place made her uneasy. Although there was a high whitewashed wall right round the garden and the cliffs weren’t steep, more like rocky shelves down to the water and quite easy to scramble on, she worried that the children would fall. It was a secret nightmare and some nights she would wake up sweating to a picture of one of them limp and lifeless, battered by the waves at the foot of the cliff.
The car bumped across the level crossing, jolting her back to the present. She saw with relief that they were nearly home. Her friend had offered to give the boys their tea so she’d have time to put up her feet, perhaps watch the television news, before they arrived back.
‘Shit!’ They were driving between the rows of houses when Brian slammed on the brakes, hit the horn and shouted. A woman had run out into the street in front of them. He missed her by swerving on to the pavement. The woman stood for a moment like a rabbit caught in a headlamp’s glare, then she ran off. Her pink anorak, unzipped, flapped behind her.
‘Idiot!’ Brian said. ‘She could have been killed.’ But his fury had passed. The BMW, his pride and joy, was unharmed. ‘Do you know her?’
Emma shook her head and said nothing. She thought she recognized the woman but she had her own reasons for keeping quiet.
Brian got out to open the double gates into the yard, drove in, then went to shut them again. She struggled out of the car with difficulty. She enjoyed being pregnant but she would be glad when it was all over.
She was standing on the doorstep, rummaging in her bag for her keys, when her waters broke.
‘Oh God!’ Brian said with a trace of disgust, when she explained what had happened. Both thought with relief that at least it hadn’t happened when she was getting out of the car. Think of the leather upholstery.
The daughter was born at midnight. Brian was there during labour though he disappeared regularly during the early stages. There was a television in the Visitors’ Room and Newcastle United was playing in a Cup match. His howl of dismay when Arsenal scored rivalled the cries of the women giving birth. He was with Emma when she needed him, and afterwards he sat beside her on the bed and stroked the baby’s cheek with his little finger. For an awful moment she was afraid he’d suggest they called the baby Sheena but he said: ‘Helen, then? Like we decided?’
The hospital was on a hill and from the high bed where she sat, propped up with pillows, she had a view all over the town. Helen seemed dull and unadventurous all of a sudden, but it was his mother’s name and better than Sheena. Perhaps she could come up with something glamorous too.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Helen.’
She had planned coming out of hospital after twenty-four hours but Helen had a nasty bout of jaundice and she ended up having to stay in for a week. She quite enjoyed the rest. On the third day, unexpectedly, Mark came to visit. He was on his own and was carrying a huge bunch of flowers – flame-coloured chrysanths and those huge, round, tightly filled blooms which she’d only seen before at village produce shows.