29
They were in deepest Devon, travelling along the sort of country lanes that John Steed and Emma Peel might have careered along in an episode of The Avengers ; what with their tall green hedgerows, narrow tracks with pull-over places to let tractors pass and tiny crossroads with white signs pointing the way to West Hoe, Weir Quay, Milton Combe, Hoe’s Hole. Finally they were at the small dirt track leading down to the river’s edge and Ruby Red Farm. Suze’s country hideaway on the banks of the Tamar Estuary.
Even though she’d promised she wouldn’t – but this was an emergency – last night Polly had rung Mel in Paris to let her know what was happening. ‘Christ, Poll, I’m so sorry. I wish I could be there. When are you going down to Devon? Tonight?’
‘No. In the morning. Spike’s going to drive. He’s insisted. I don’t think I’m in a fit state.’
‘Of course you’re not. Good for him. See? I told you he’s a good bloke, and I’m always right.’
Now Polly looked across at Spike, trying his best not to crunch the gears of her 2CV as they headed down the track. Donna and her friend were to look after the shop between them, so all Polly had to concentrate on was visiting her mother and finding out what on earth had happened. Because a near drowning wasn’t the only news Brian had imparted to Polly. And why, she wanted to know, if it was true, hadn’t her mother told her?
‘She didn’t want to worry you,’ Brian said during their phone call. ‘I tried to get her to call you. But you know what she’s like. Stubborn. She’s been avoiding this whole breast lump thing for weeks, Poll. Like a bleedin’ ostrich.’
Cancer. The word that filled hearts with dread. Polly’s mother might have breast cancer, Brian said. But why wouldn’t she want to get it properly checked out? Polly thought, gazing out of the car window. After her first consultation in Bristol (yes, that was what she’d been up to), she hadn’t been back for a scan or a biopsy.
The travellers passed a field where a neighbouring farmer was grazing his large square beasts: the cattle a dark ginger, giving their name to the breed Ruby Red Devonshires. As they rounded a bend, the estuary swung into view, its waters calm and as flat as a board, with boats of varying sizes appearing pinned by their masts to its surface, much like butterflies in a Victorian display cabinet. As the car crunched across the gravelled approach, Brian emerged from the house to greet them.
Brian. As solid and square as if he were a Devonshire farmer himself, and he might have passed for one, what with his country get-up of a Barbour jacket, were it not for his blue Paul Smith shirt, black jeans and black winklepickers nailing him as a townie at heart.
‘Aw right, twinkle,’ he called out to Polly, as he reached their car.
‘Hey, Brian,’ she said, clambering out of her seat to plant a kiss on his cheek and allow herself to be enveloped in his big bear hug.
‘You okay?’ he said, shaking Spike by the hand. ‘Journey down all right in that excuse for a car? Honest to God, Poll, it looks like a frickin’ skip on wheels!’ He patted Spike on the back. ‘Really good to see you, mate. You staying long? In the UK, that is?’
‘Only time will tell,’ said Spike, as he stretched his legs, taking in his surroundings. ‘Bit cramped in that old jalopy of Polly’s there.’
Brian was giving him the once-over. ‘I’m not surprised. Still, you’re looking well,’ he said. ‘More grown up, like. What?’ he said, catching Polly giving him a look. ‘You know what I mean. Australia clearly suits you, Spike.’
‘Yeah,’ he replied, in a non-committal way.
‘Here, let me help you with this little darlin’.’ Brian shifted the front seat forwards and reached in for Rowan.
Polly said nothing. There was nothing to say. Everything felt so trivial, so forced. She couldn’t get her head around the fact that the sun still shone, the earth still turned, birds chirped away, as if there was not a care in the world, while inside, Polly was screaming that her mother may have cancer and that she’d nearly drowned.
‘’Ello, Princess,’ Brian said, placing the child on her feet. ‘Cor, look at you. Right Bobby Dazzler. You’ve grown an’ all. What they been feeding you on? Popeye’s spinach?’ He gave a smile to Polly and Spike, but neither really had the heart to smile back.
‘’Lo, Byan,’ Rowan said in a sleepy way, looking rather overwhelmed at being woken from her car nap to find herself transported to a different place with different sounds and smells.
‘Shall we find Blue?’ Brian took her by the hand and gave a soft whistle. Soon, Brian’s brown Labrador came waddling out to say hello. Blue was ancient; at fourteen years old, he had grey around his muzzle and a touch of arthritis in his hips. He gave Rowan a lolloping doggy lick and wagged his fat otter-like tail at her. A delighted Rowan threw her arms about his neck.
‘That’s the babysitting sorted,’ said Spike.
Brian beamed at Rowan. ‘Ain’t she beautiful,’ he said, and turning to Spike added, ‘She’s the spit of you, mate. But with Suze’s blonde hair.’
Polly took in the chocolate-box cottage, the blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds, and inhaled a deep breath of country air. ‘I keep forgetting how glorious it is here.’
‘You should come an’ visit us more often, Poll. We don’t see enough of you and this little treasure, as it is. I don’t think we’ve seen you since last Christmas, have we? ‘’Ere, let me take those.’ He clutched their two cases in his ham-sized fists. ‘I know your mum wishes you’d come visit more often.’
Well, perhaps if she’d come to see me more often when I was growing up , flashed through Polly’s mind. Which she knew was unfair. Especially now. Water under the bridge an’ all that.
‘There’s things you don’t know about, Poll,’ Brian said, in a most intriguing manner. But not for Polly, as she was used to Suze’s dramas and supposed he must be referring to one of those. Probably some new venture of her mother’s. A new television programme. A lot going on, would if she could, blah di blah di blah. She’d heard it all before.
She smiled wanly at Brian. ‘So how is Mum?’
She was disconcerted to see that Brian’s eyes filled with tears. He reminded her of a large sad lion waiting for Androcles to take the thorn out of his paw.
‘Let’s get you all inside, first, shall we?’ he said.
The house was a beautiful Georgian one, of large and square proportions. It overlooked the Tamar, like some Jane Austen rectory. The garden tiered down to a small beach and jetty, where Poly could see Suze’s small boat tied up. Suze liked to take it out now and then. ‘All very Swallows and Amazons , darling’ she liked to say. A bird – whose name Polly didn’t know – flew low across the water, appearing to skim its surface.
She followed the others as the whole five of them – Brian, Polly, Spike, Rowan and Blue – all trooped indoors. Although we’re nothing like the Famous Five , thought Polly, and now wasn’t the time for jolly japes and lashings of ginger beer.
*
‘So, what happened, Brian?’ Polly asked, once she and Spike were sitting at the large kitchen table and Brian had set a fat old kettle on the hob of the Aga. The sort of Aga Polly used to wish they had when she was growing up. The sort of Aga where she could have imagined a version of Suze, dressed in Cath Kidston apron, just like her ideal portrait of a mother who would stir her cake mix in a large earthenware bowl, laughing tinkly laughter as she passed the spoon to a young Polly to lick.
Polly blinked. Suze had never been like that. She’d come late to cooking – surprising Polly greatly when she displayed any talent – because all Polly could remember of her mother’s cooking back then was pots simmering with vegetables of some sort, and lentil something or other, all with the texture and taste of old socks. Sometime in the early ’90s, Suze had fallen into working at a trendy restaurant in Covent Garden, where she’d had an affair with the sous chef, discovered a flair for all things culinary and soon struck out on her own.
The kettle was coming to the boil. Brian rubbed his big paws together and said, ‘Right. Who’s for a nice cup of Rosie Lee?’
Polly looked over to where Rowan sat, cross-legged on the floor, attacking her colouring book with large chunky crayons. Blue was spread out next to her, waving his tail every now and then. Polly made herself a promise to start baking cakes with Rowan, offering up a silent prayer that she would be a better mother to her daughter than Suze had been to her. Which, let’s face it, wouldn’t be that difficult.
The kettle boiled, the tea was made in a beautiful large hand-crafted teapot, adorned with cockleshells. Suze had great taste; she’d give her that. She thought about her last telephone conversation with her mother.
‘You really ought to think about a school for Rowan,’ she’d said. ‘Plan ahead. After all, they don’t come cheap. How about Clifton High? I’ll pay.’ But Polly had never really got over her mother’s insistence on buying her house and shop for her. Even though, and she had to give her her due, she never rubbed Polly’s nose in it.
‘She’ll be going to the Steiner School,’ had been Polly’s reply, and she’d practically heard her mother biting her tongue over the phone.
‘Shall I be Mother?’ Spike was saying, causing Polly to momentarily baulk at his unintentional mother reference. Spike gave her an apologetic smile and shrugged.
‘Yes please,’ said Brian, in his gruff Ray Winstone voice. ‘You do the honours, mate. I’m all at sixes and sevens meself. I’ll be shooting off to the hospital soon.’
‘Shall we come with you?’ Polly made as if to rise from her chair, but Brian placed his hand on top of hers.
‘I’ll pop along first, if that’s okay with you, Poll. I’ve got to see the doctor.’ He gave a half-smile as a thought came to him. ‘Tell you what, though, you could help by getting together some things. For Suze – umm, your mum – like. You know. Pretty things to cheer her up. Makeup, moisturiser, nightie; things like that. I wouldn’t have the foggiest.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I thought you could come by at visiting hour. It’s between two and three, yeah?’
‘You sure we can’t come before then?’ Polly experienced an urgent need to see and touch her mother.
‘Best not. She’s exhausted. And they’re dead strict.’
‘But…’
Spike placed his hand on her arm. ‘Of course, Brian. That’ll be fine.’
As Brian moved about, preparing lunch, he filled the whole space with his bulk. He had a large handsome head, and the kind of hands which looked meaty enough to wield a sledgehammer yet were as beautiful as any pianist’s. He rubbed one hand across his closely shaved head. He liked to shave his head – even though he wasn’t at all bald – as it kept his tight Afro curls at bay. His absent father was Nigerian, his wayward mother a Polish Jew, which meant that he looked more Middle Eastern than half black. (‘Mind you, his father has given him the best half,’ her mother once told her, with a lascivious wink. ‘If you know what I mean?’ ‘Do you have to?’ she’d answered back.) Brian had more or less cornered the actors market of cockney gangsters and Middle Eastern terrorists, having had several small parts in shows like EastEnders and Spooks ; he’d been in several films, and he and Suze had attended swanky premiers, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Angelina Jolie, Spielberg, Harrison Ford, and once Tom Cruise (‘Kept us all waiting, dear, while he did his meet and greet the crowd bit. Smacks of desperation, if you ask me,’ Suze had said.)
Polly looked up from sipping her tea. Now was as good a time as any to broach the subject. ‘You’d better fill us in, Brian,’ she said. ‘Just what was Mum doing in the water? Was it an accident or something else?’
Brian turned his doleful brown eyes on Polly. ‘It’s all my fault, Poll. I’ll never forgive meself.’ He sniffed back a tear. ‘We’d had a row, see? She kept cancelling her hospital appointment. I said she was being selfish and she said she’d do it in her own good time. So I shot off to London for this audition. A television commercial. Suze didn’t want me to go.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘She said I had no need to work as she’s got more than enough money. But,’ and he lifted his head, ‘I won’t be kept like some ponce. ’Scuse my language,’ he said, glancing at Rowan, who was furiously covering a page of her book in red squiggles.
‘S’all right,’ said Polly.
‘Yeah, well.’ Brian toyed with his cup. Not taking a sip, he instead stared into its depths as if an answer could be found there. He took a deep breath, filling out his barrel chest. ‘She started drinking in the morning, I suppose. I found an empty bottle of vodka and two empty wine bottles. I don’t know what she was thinking of. She must have decided to have a swim. Took the rowing boat out onto the water, after lunch. But she was fully clothed, Poll. That’s what I don’t understand. Luckily Andy was scooting about in his new motor launch. He saw her stand up, and she must have lost her footin’ or somefin’ ’cos she fell right in.’ He wiped his eyes.
‘Oh God,’ said Polly. Spike said nothing.
‘So there we have it. Andy saved the day. Bloody saved my Suze, he did, Poll. Dived in head first and pulled her out. She’d swallowed a lot of water. Was nearly a gonner. Honest to God, I don’t know what I’d do without her.’ He began to sob, and Polly stood to place an arm about his shoulders.
*
Polly opened the door to her mother’s room, feeling rather like a sneak who had no business to be in there. Suze had a separate bedroom to Brian. She insisted it was because he snored like a polar bear in hibernation, but Polly suspected it was all to do with her mother’s pathological need for space. Suze had her own study downstairs too, where she liked to sit and read, and write her best-selling cookery books. She had the same set-up in her house in Notting Hill.
Suddenly tired, Polly sat on her mother’s bed. The room was tastefully plain, with its old stripped pine dressing table and mahogany tall chest of drawers and matching wardrobe. The bed, an antique Victorian brass bedstead, was high, with authentic French cotton-stuffed mattress. The bed linen – finest white Egyptian cotton, with pretty lace cushions and bolsters – adding a feminine touch to its plain aesthetic. The walls were a creamy white, dotted with a few original paintings of large bright and bold flowers by a local artist her mother favoured. The floor thickly carpeted in soft beige, and on the dressing table, a tortoiseshell-backed hairbrush with its accompanying mirror and comb. White curtains billowed in a soft breeze from an open casement window, and apart from the muffled voices of Brian and Spike chatting in the kitchen below, all was quiet and soothing. Polly loved this room.
A book on her mother’s bedside table caught her eye, and as she picked it up she could see it was Suze’s much-loved copy of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own . A piece of paper fluttered out from between its pages, and Polly bent to pick it up. On it, in Suze’s familiar handwriting, was written the words:
I can’t be a burden. I only ever wanted to be free .
Polly stared at it. It bore no date. Was it significant? Just when had her mother written it? ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said out loud.
*
Having collected some of Suze’s expensive satin and lace underwear, and a pair of silk pyjamas, silk kimono dressing gown and fluffy white slippers into an overnight case – plus makeup and stuff – she made her way back down to the kitchen where Brian had laid out a lunch of cold meats, cheese, salad from the garden, olives, homemade wonderfully yeasty-smelling bread, and grapes. Rowan was busily tucking in as Polly entered. Both Brian and Spike looked up.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Brian.
‘Yes,’ she said, as chirpily as she could, deciding not to tell Brian about the note.
‘Good girl.’
Spike helped himself to a plate. ‘Better get some of that there food before Rowan eats it all,’ he said, smiling his broad smile at her, as her heart filled with – what? She wasn’t sure. Gratitude? It felt more like love. Now is so not a good time for this , she told herself.
She stood by a chair, not pulling it out. ‘Thanks for the spread, Brian.’ Taking a deep breath, she turned to him and said, ‘Just what is wrong with Mum? Is it cancer, do you think?’
‘We don’t know. Not yet. I have to talk to her oncologist. I promise I’ll fill you in on all the details later, but right now I have to go. Can’t eat a bleedin’ thing in any case,’ and he gave her a lost-boy look, as if the years had been stripped away and Polly could glimpse the little Barnardo’s boy he must have been – waiting for a new mummy and daddy who never came. A lump gathered in her throat at the thought, and for the first time – because Brian was normally the strong and silent type when Suze was around – she could see what a genuinely nice bloke he was, and understand the attraction he must hold for Suze. She felt bad about all the times she’d taken the piss out of him. Reaching for his hand, she gave him a reassuring smile and felt glad – so very glad – that a clearly reliable Brian was here.
Polly wandered the garden, feeling unsettled. One minute she was angry with her mother for being such a bloody great drama queen, then worried about this lump in her breast, and the next terrified that the accident with the boat might not have been so accidental. She just couldn’t get that note out of her mind.
She’d shown it to Spike, who’d said, ‘Now don’t go jumpin’ to any conclusions, Polly. This could have been written years ago.’
‘But what if it hadn’t? What if she’d deliberately thrown herself into the river and this was her suicide note?’
He’d stared directly into her face. ‘You won’t know until you ask her.’
They were just killing time really: Spike swinging Rowan about by the arms, chasing her across the lawn. Polly sat on an old and weathered bench overlooking the estuary, shading her eyes from the sun as she watched Spike throw a chuckling, kicking Rowan high above his head, where she hung for a moment in mid-air, like an angel, before falling to be caught.
‘Hallo!’ – came a call.
She turned to see Andy, her mother’s rescuer, sauntering up the drive. He waved a greeting at Spike and made his way over to Polly.
‘How’s your mother?’ he asked, as he took a seat beside her.
‘Fine, I think. Thanks to you, Andy. They’ve kept her in hospital, and we’re popping along to see her any minute.’
‘I won’t hold you up then,’ he said. ‘Gave us a fright, she did. I can tell you.’
‘Just what happened, Andy?’ She’d met Andy – and his partner, Simon, who was a fair bit younger than him – at one of her mother’s parties. Andy had the solid look of an ex-rugby player, with his Jack Wills-type clothes of chinos, deck shoes and comfortable light mustard rugby shirt.
Andy gave a sigh. ‘She was lucky we were out in my boat. Simon wanted to get in some water skiing.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘The water’s pretty flat up here. Luckily the tide wasn’t in too far, or we’d have never found her in the water. I don’t know how it happened. One minute she was standing up in her boat – that was what alerted me at first. The fact that she’d stood up, you see. Not a very clever thing to do.’
‘No,’ Polly said, in a voice so quiet that it was barely a whisper above the insects busying themselves in and out of the small hedge frilled with pink climbing roses in differing shades of pink. A wood pigeon gave a throaty coo.
‘Next thing, she was in the water. Had gone under, and clearly wasn’t coming up, either. We could tell she was in trouble, so we scooted across and Simon jumped in. I don’t know how he found her. You can hardly see your hand in front of your face down there, it’s so murky. But on the second dive, Simon located her and somehow managed to pull her up to the surface. He had a lot of trouble getting her free of the weeds and such, Polly. For some reason, she had stones in the pockets of her cardigan.’
‘Right,’ said Polly. Stones. Of course she would have her pockets full of stones – like Virginia Woolf did when she committed suicide… More or less settles it, doesn’t it?
‘Are you all right, old girl?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, Andy. Do carry on. I want to know everything.’ She placed her hand on his arm in encouragement.
‘Like I said, luckily she wasn’t too far out so we were able to drag her to shore – once we’d got her out of that ruddy cardigan – oh sorry.’
‘No, that’s fine, Andy.’
‘She’d stopped breathing, you see…’
Spike, holding Rowan by the hand, slowly approached them, clearly listening to what Andy had to say.
‘…Simon did a good job of resuscitating her while I called an ambulance. We thought she was a goner, Polly. She’d swallowed a great deal of water. Dreadful business.’
‘Yes. I can imagine.’
She could imagine all too well her mother under the water, weeds wafting like slow-motion gymnasts’ ribbons as she turned slowly, sinking to the river’s muddy bottom. The water soft as an embrace.
‘Gave us all a ruddy fright! Hello there, Spike. You here with the little one?’
Spike joined Polly on the bench, pulling Rowan onto his lap. ‘I’m here to give Polly moral support,’ he said.
‘Ah, good, good. Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. No, you stay there,’ he said, as she made to get up. ‘Just wanted to make sure your mother was recovering well. Do give her my love. And Simon’s too.’
‘We will,’ said Spike.
Polly gave Andy a wan smile. ‘Thanks, Andy. For everything.’