Something Good (16 page)

B
efore he was fully awake, Max was aware of every muscle and bone in his body. He ached all over. Even his
eyelids
ached. He opened his eyes slowly, trying to ascertain whether he was in the chalet or his bedroom at home. It didn't smell like home. It smelled as if vegetables were being overboiled in some distant kitchen. He was aware of hushed female voices, someone's hacking cough, and a soft rattle that sounded like an approaching trolley. For a moment, he'd decided he was on an airplane and a stewardess was bringing coffees and teas.

No, not on a plane. In a hospital ward. Of course; he'd been brought here at some point—it could have been an hour or a day or a week ago—aware of little more than a searing pain in his right leg. All he'd thought, while he was being examined, was that he wanted the fleshy-faced doctor to take his prodding fingers off him and let him sleep.

A nurse with her hair pulled back into a severe ponytail approached his bed. “So,” she said, “awake at last. How are you feeling?”

“I don't know,” he muttered.

She smiled pertly and checked the clipboard, which was attached to the foot of his bed. “Hungry?” she asked.

“Not really.” Max had never been less hungry in his life.

“You're lucky your girlfriend was with you,” the nurse added. “You'd lost consciousness after you hit the rock. You have a concussion. She's the one who called the rescue team.”

Max had no recollection of any rescue team, and couldn't figure out who the nurse was referring to when she said “girlfriend.” He was pretty sure Veronica hadn't been involved. For all he knew, he could have been brought here by dog-sleigh. “Where is my, um, girlfriend?” Max asked.

“She's been sitting with you, waiting for you to wake up. I think she's gone for a coffee.”

Max nodded, then, feeling foolish, asked, “Where am I exactly?”

The nurse laughed. “Chamonix hospital. Don't you know what happened?”

A hazy image formed in his mind; of Hettie, with that spotty thing bunched around her neck, standing beside him at the start of the green run. He remembered the swill of nerves before he took off. After that, just pain and blackness.

The nurse poured him a cup of water from a plastic jug on the table beside his bed. “You've ruptured your anterior cruciate ligament,” she added.

At the word
rupture
, Max winced. “Is it serious?”

“It's very common. People like you, who go skiing without preparation or lessons—you take unnecessary risks. It might need to be operated on, but only if you'll need it—”

An anterior cruciate ligament sounded like something everyone needed. Max didn't relish the idea of being without one. “What do you mean?” he asked, panic rising in his throat.

“Some people find that they can recover and manage even if the ligament is damaged. But if you exercise a lot, especially running or cycling, then you'll probably need surgery…”

“I cycle,” Max said faintly. “I have a cycling shop. It's what I do…it's my
life
.” Put that way, it sounded pathetic. Thirty-eight years on this earth and what did he have to show for it? A bloody bike shop.

A cluster of children in bobble hats had burst into the ward and gathered around the bed of the coughing man. The man was hugging them and laughing. Max wondered if he'd ever laugh again. “Cycling might be difficult,” the nurse continued. She checked her watch, adding, “I'll let you rest and come back with your painkillers in half an hour. Look, here's your girlfriend now.”

The figure approached, smiled at the nurse and at Max, and perched on the edge of his bed. “So,” Hettie said, “how are you feeling?”

“I've felt better,” Max said.

“Poor you.”

“Where's Veronica?” he asked.

“Um…. I'm not sure.” Hettie shuffled awkwardly. “I couldn't reach her on her cell.”

Her eyes held his for a moment. She was probably lying, but was also very pretty, he realized, with those soft blue eyes and dainty chin. Despite the nagging pain in his leg, her presence was making him feel marginally better. “Don't be too hard on her,” she said gently.

Max shook his head despairingly. He must have been out of his mind to come on this holiday. What had happened to the old Max—the Max who'd made his own decisions and known his own mind? It had all started with the arrival of Veronica's hot meals. Jesus. He'd always thought of himself as a modern man—a sensitive father who cared about his daughter and ex-wife, who'd cared so much, in fact, that he'd taken the ludicrous step of buying a clapped-out house that was way beyond his means in a wretched attempt to lure them back. And what had happened? He'd been seduced by Veronica's tarragon chicken and pneumatic breasts. He was barely one step up the food chain from a slavering Neanderthal.

Max shifted his position in bed, groaning as the pain seared up his leg. “I don't understand,” he groaned, “why it was so important for me to come.”

Hettie studied her clipped, bare nails. “These past few years she's come with us. It's been fine—Veronica's an old schoolfriend and great company. To be honest, I get a bit sick of Jasper….”

“But he's your husband—” Max interjected.

She smiled tightly. “We've always welcomed her but I know Veronica's always felt like a spare part—you know, a tagger-alonger….”

“So she wanted me to even out the numbers,” Max said dryly.

Hettie shook her head. “She's crazy about you, don't you realize? You've been so good for her. You're the first decent man she's met since Anthony left and totally screwed her up….”

Despite the burning sensation at the back of his knee, Max was intrigued. “What did he do?”

“He was a shit, Max. He'd been seeing some other woman—some fancy banker woman—for years. Since Zoë was little, she thinks. You know what he said when he finally left her? That she'd never amount to anything without him. That's why she's so determined with this aphrodisiac stuff. She wants to show him she's…somebody.”

Max reached for his cup and took a sip of water. “She doesn't give that impression. She's the most driven woman I've ever met.”

“An act she's perfected over the years,” Hettie said. “She's read all the articles in the women's magazines—followed them to the letter. She's reinvented herself, Max. It might sound weird to you, but I kind of can't help admiring her.”

Admire her? Max supposed he could try. Yet admiring a person, and truly knowing them, were very different. He thought of Jane, who was probably striding along some windswept beach with her hair blowing all over her face. She'd be wearing her chunky black sweater and ancient jeans. Her hands would be grubby from working with lead and solder. He was aware of a different twinge of pain, this time from his heart. “Where is she anyway?” Max asked.

Hettie flushed. “She's a bit annoyed, Max. Said this wouldn't have happened if you'd listened….”

“Hettie, I had no idea how to ski! She zoomed off without me….”

“She thinks,” Hettie added, “that you did it on purpose. To make a point.”

Max covered his face with his hands. “Yes, that's right. I have a habit of storming off and deliberately rupturing my cruciate ligament.”

Hettie frowned. “Is that serious?”

Before Max could respond, a hefty figure with sturdy thighs straining the seams of his trousers burst through the swing doors and strode jauntily toward them. “So,” Jasper boomed, “some pickle you've got yourself into, eh, Maxy?”

“W
hat does the inside of a stomach look like?” Lewis asked the following evening. He was breathing heavily over his kitchen table, squirting yellow paint from a fat plastic tube on to a sheet of black paper.

Jane laughed. It was her second visit to Connor's, and already she was comfortable there. “I imagine it'll be full of the shepherd's pie we've just had.”

“No, I mean the stomach. The actual
stomach
.”

“It's probably quite dark,” Jane replied, “but maybe some light gets in there. Babies are supposed to be able to see a glow of daylight through their mums' tummies.” She stopped. Was any mention of mothers out of bounds?

Conor had explained earlier that day, as they'd walked back to the studio after lunch, that cancer had stolen his wife. “It's at times like that,” he had added, “when you're staring at a laundry basket with a can of gold spray in your hand that it hits you. You've no idea when it's going to happen. You can't prepare yourself.” Jane had tried to find words to show that she understood, but the way he looked at her had suggested that she didn't need to say anything at all.

Lewis swirled gray paint over the yellow. “What are clouds?” he asked.

“They're tiny droplets of water,” Jane said, “which look fluffy but are really—”

“Are you a mum?” he interrupted.

“Yes, I am.”

“D'you have a baby?”

Conor glanced round from the sink where he was washing up. “Lewis, stop plaguing Jane with your questions.”

“It's okay,” she laughed, enjoying Lewis's perpetual chatter; he reminded her of Hannah, when being by Jane's side was all it had taken to make her happy. Since the lost shoe incident, the girls had filled their time by hanging around the village. “Hannah was my baby,” she added, “but she's fifteen now—nearly a grown-up. You met her yesterday when you rescued the shoe, remember?”

Lewis nodded, splodging on a trail of shooting-star white. “When are you going home?” he demanded.

“Lewis! Don't be so—” Conor interjected.

“I mean your
real
home, in London.”

“In four days' time,” Jane said, trying to sound as if this were a positive thing; returning to her proper, grown-up life.

“Can we come and see you? I've never been to London….”

“Of course, I'd love to see you—”

“Great, 'cause we like you, don't we, Dad?” He turned to his father, who had busied himself by refreshing Lewis's water jar at the sink, even though the water hadn't needed changing.

Jane grinned. “I like you, too,” she said, looking at the man, not the boy.

 

Over the next two days, Jane began to turn her favorite sketch into Max's panel. She worked with a new confidence, aware that Conor was rarely far away. In London she would deliberate for days over a single shade of glass, whereas here she went with her instincts.

When Conor had collected Lewis from school, he would find her drawing in Hope House grounds and invite her for supper. “Are you sure you don't mind me going down to Conor's later?” Jane asked Hannah on the fourth day.

Although Hanna shook her head, her eyes told Jane that she
did
mind. “It's okay,” she said dully. “Mrs. McFarlane's rented us some DVDs from the village.”

“Great. I'll definitely have dinner with everyone tomorrow night, okay?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“Our last night,” Jane added, though just uttering the words flooded her with sadness.

 

“So you're gracing us with your company at last,” Nancy exclaimed the following evening.”

“What do you mean?” Jane asked.

“All week you've eaten at Conor's instead of here with us.” Nancy swirled meaty chunks around a frying pan with a wooden spoon.

“Not a problem, is it, Mom?”

Nancy glanced up from the pan. The meat appeared to be poaching in a mysterious fluid. “Of course it's not. You're an adult, Jane, you can do whatever you like…”

“Conor's just…been friendly,” she said quickly.

Amusement glinted in Nancy's eyes. “Not had any of the others down for supper, has he? Not Dorina or Paula as far as I can make out….”

“Mum, he has a seven-year-old son. I've been helping him make a Dalek costume, you know, from Doctor Who?”

“Ah,” she said, “I see.”

“There's nothing
to
see,” Jane retorted, remembering how right she'd felt in the tiny house, almost as if she belonged there. She shooed her ridiculous thoughts away.

“You know it's his father who's been tutoring the dry-stone walling course?” Nancy asked.

“Yes, Conor told me. How have you got on, anyway? Made friends with any stones?”

Nancy's mouth softened. “I've made friends,” she said airily, dumping several tablespoons of gravy browning into the jug and sloshing it into the pan. “Set the table, would you? We'll need an extra place setting tonight.”

“So,” Jane said, “who's coming to dinner?”

“Archie. I've finally managed to persuade him. Ridiculous man thinks he can survive on whisky and cigarettes.”

 

Archie piled in great forkfuls of Nancy's stew. “You could make so much more of this place,” Nancy was reprimanding him, “if you'd get yourself organized. That studio, for a start—it needs a proper clear-out. How you produce anything at all is a complete mystery.”

Hannah caught Jane's eye across the table and smirked. “Han,” Jane said, “I saw you sketching this afternoon. It's great that you've started drawing again.”

Hannah gave her a shrug, as if to say:
what else is there to do around here?

“You could accommodate double the students you're taking now, Archie,” Nancy cut in. “Running courses in the middle of winter is ridiculous. Get yourself organized and you could be packed out all summer long, then spend winters to concentrate on your work.”

Jane glanced between Archie and her mother. Archie's mouth lolled open in faint surprise. “Well, Nancy,” he managed to say, “I'd never thought of that.”

“And what about your work?” she demanded. “I don't see any of it on display. Surely it's your greatest asset? It should be everywhere, inspiring your students. You're sitting on a gold mine here, if only you could see it.”

“I'm not producing much these days,” he muttered, laying down his fork.

“That's obvious…”

Archie's gaze skimmed the group. “Most of my work—including the pieces you saw at the Barbican, Jane—were destroyed in a fire.”

“He'd been smoking in bed,” Paula hissed into Jane's ear.

Archie picked up his glass, took a great gulp of wine. As he set the glass down, Jane noticed her mother nudging it away and filling his tumbler with water.

“I run an articles library,” Nancy said, now addressing the entire group. “It took me years to build up, then something happened. It was…destroyed.”

“Why?” Dorina asked.

“That was burnt, too,” Nancy said levelly. “He—
someone
—carried every file, every scrap of paper into the back garden and set fire to the lot. There was so much smoke, the neighbors came round and complained. It was blowing all over their washing, they said.” Her eyes gleamed in the dim glow from the center light.

“Mum,” Jane exclaimed, “that's awful. Who did that?”

“Who complained, you mean?”

“No, who burnt it.”

Nancy threw her a look that said:
your father, who else?
“Just someone,” she said.

A chunk of meat caught in Jane's throat. She hadn't known about the fire; she'd had no idea. Now she vaguely remembered overhearing a fight, late at night:
That library wastes a whole room!
Doors had been slammed, and someone had stormed into the archive room. Jane had heard things being thrown. She'd bunched the pillow around her ears and willed herself to sleep.

Dorina touched Nancy's hand. “That's terrible,” she said.

“I never knew that, Gran,” Hannah murmured.

Nancy emitted a short laugh. “Why would you? I didn't even tell your mother. She was only a child, and children shouldn't be dragged into their parents' difficulties. So, Archie,” she continued, deftly switching subjects, “the reason I mention this is to show you what can be achieved if you put your mind to it. You can hit rock bottom and build yourself up. We're leaving tomorrow, but we'll keep in touch. A year from now I'll come to your studio and expect to see a wonderful display of your art.”

Jane watched her mother's eyes burning in the shadowy room. As for Archie, who had now abandoned red wine for water—he was surveying Nancy as if she, too, were some breathtaking work of art.