Two Loves (24 page)

That's not a bad face. Not a bad likeness either. Not bad.

My breasts are OK, too. Though of course it's taken me years to accept that. For years I thought they were too big, too floppy, too pink. I longed for small breasts with small brown nipples. Life-drawing at art school should have made me tolerant of all shapes and sizes but it didn't. The really sad thing is that I would have been much more ready to have had an affair with Daniel if I hadn't been ashamed of my body.

I was still a virgin when I left art school. Ingrid wouldn't believe me. She had sex at fifteen. She probably had all the confidence in the world, as well as small, pert breasts with brown nipples. I'd like to do a drawing of Ingrid. And of Erica, come to think of it. Perhaps for the jacket of her book.

My arms are nice; soft and shapely. I love arms. I love elbows. Thomas used to comment on the way I was always caressing his elbows, hardly conscious of it, just circling one and then the other with the curve of my hand, enjoying the intimacy of bone and skin. Thomas had – has – a lovely body, not spectacularly male – wide shoulders, narrow hips – but strong-looking and flat-bellied. Very hairy, too, a great surprise to me the first time I saw him naked, because I'd thought of hairy men as the Italian-type extroverts who wear fancy suits and medallions. Whereas Thomas wears tweed jackets and corduroy trousers and lace-up shoes. I'd like to do a drawing of him in the nude, but I don't think he'd want me to. He's rather shy.

We shouldn't have had an affair, I realise that now. I think he always felt guilty about it; he's a nicer person than I am. I didn't worry about it too much. I was convinced that Eliza had cut him out of her life, and I was right about that. She didn't want him until she'd lost everything else.

And I did want him. He was warm and loving, and even if I only saw him alone for an hour in the week it was enough to comfort my loneliness.

I've never tried to do a drawing of Thomas, though I did one of his mother a couple of years back. He'd brought her up to visit me here, she saw the drawings I'd done of Joss and asked me whether I'd do a quick sketch of her. She's a large domineering woman in her seventies and I suddenly realised that I'd like to do a pastel of her, treating her like a piece of landscape. She had that enduring look about her; her suit was a heathery tweed, her skin downy, almost fleecy, her hair slate-coloured and her eyes a watery blue like the early-morning sky. So I did a line drawing and coloured it in with tiny feathery strokes of pastel, one shade over the other as I do for hills. I thought she'd hate it, I'd made her look really ancient, all veins and wrinkles, but she liked it and insisted on buying it. ‘You've really got her character,' Thomas said. Perhaps I'm better than I think.

I shouldn't be thinking of you, Thomas. Whatever we had is over. Perhaps you're having sex with Mary-Louise now. What's this about her painting your toenails? Sounds very intimate to me.

Why should I care anyway? I'm in love with my first love. And in the brief moment when we met again after fifteen years, he was in love with me. And now? Well, now he's in some sort of hell-state when he can't talk to anyone, can't think of anyone, doesn't want anyone, doesn't want to touch anyone. He may get through it. He may not. He told me in a lucid moment that he'd started on heroin because he just couldn't take the world without it. ‘All that shit,' he said. Well, the world won't get better; will he get better at accepting it as it is? Will I be able to help him accept it? Will he ever live here with me?

The phone.

‘Thomas! I was thinking about you. What do you want?'

‘I've had a phone-call from Mary-Louise. She's in a right state. Wants me to come home, but I can't – I've got classes all afternoon. Can you possibly go down to sort her out?'

‘Sort her out? What the hell's wrong with her?'

‘She couldn't tell me. She seemed quite hysterical. Jim's OK, though. I got that much out of her.'

‘I saw her a couple of hours ago and she was fine. Having a bit of a battle with your youngest son over some apple purée, but otherwise fine.'

‘Something must have happened since.'

‘All right. I suppose I'll have to leave my work and go … Of course I'll go, Thomas. Of course I will.'

‘Thanks, love. I'm available for a few minutes at three-forty. Give me a ring then if you need me. I've got chess club after school, so I won't be back till gone five.'

*   *   *

‘What's the matter, Mary-Louise?'

‘My boyfriend phoned.'

‘Oh God, what?'

‘He says he's got another girlfriend. I must go to see him.'

‘Will it be worth it? Mightn't it make things worse? Where does he live?'

‘Oxford. I've got to see him. He won't be able to dump me when he sees me again. Can you have Jim? And can you run me to the station? I've got to go now. I must catch him before he leaves work. There's a train at three-ten. Please, Rosamund. I'll do anything for you. I said I'd model for you. I'll do it for nothing. As often as you want.'

‘I'll run you to the station, but we'll have to hurry. Where's Jim?'

‘Ready in his car seat. My bag's packed.'

‘When will you be back?'

‘I'll ring Thomas and let him know.'

*   *   *

They made the station with seconds to spare. And then Rosamund was left with Jim, wide-awake and looking hungry.

‘Right, Jim. Babies love being in cars, don't they, so I'm going to take you on a nice slow tour of the Cotswolds till your Daddy comes home from school. I'll just fill up with petrol while you're in a good mood and then we'll be off.'

Petrol and then a quick phone-call. ‘Miss Adams, will you please tell Joss to go home with Harry today bacause I shan't be there until about five. Thank you so much.'

Another blissfully warm summer's day. After her successful self-portrait, Rosamund felt elated as though all, or almost all, was right with the world. The sun, shining through the open window of the car, seemed to enfold her in a sensual glow. When Jim was fast asleep, not even stirring, she stopped the car and listened to the birds and the silence.

If only her present optimism could last, the belief in beauty, the hope of success. She wished she could pray, wished she believed in prayer.

*   *   *

Thomas came to fetch Jim soon after five and took him home to feed him without even stopping for a cup of tea.

‘You can send the boys up here if you'd like to,' Rosamund told him. ‘Joss can make them a meal in his microwave and you can concentrate on Jim. His last feed was at one, so no wonder he's irritable. I've been singing to him but it's not what he wants. Do you know how much formula he's supposed to have?'

‘Of course I do. Thanks for having him, love. I'll ring when I hear something from Mary-Louise. I hope she won't be away long.'

‘Why didn't you tell me she had a boyfriend?'

‘You didn't ask. Why shouldn't she have a boyfriend?'

Rosamund went back to her drawing but somehow wasn't as pleased with it as she'd been before. She decided to start again. ‘This time I must try not to flatter myself,' she told herself. ‘Truth. Truth is what I'm after.'

She'd hardly started on the new drawing when the phone rang again.

‘Joss is not here, Rosamund. I thought I ought to let you know. Apparently he and Harry fell out about something during the afternoon and they left school separately. I suppose Joss must have gone to your mother's. I'd offer to fetch him but Jim's crying hard now.'

‘It's all right. Mum will bring him back. She'll probably give him his tea first.'

She rang Marian but there was no reply so she concluded they were on their way back. She returned to her drawing and was immediately absorbed in it.

At half-past five she rang Marian again. This time she was in. But no, she hadn't seen Joss. It wasn't their day for having him. She and Brian had been out shopping since three. Wherever was he? They'd go to the school to see if he was hanging about there. There could be a cricket match on, but surely he would have mentioned it.

Rosamund said she'd go to the Woodisons' to get what information she could from Harry. Perhaps Joss had gone to Whitemore School to look out for Stephen and Martin who didn't finish till four-thirty. Possibly he was still with Stephen and Martin. She told herself she wasn't worried but her mouth felt dry.

Harry was cagey. ‘I don't know where he went and I don't care.'

‘What did you quarrel about?'

‘I can't remember.'

‘I bet it was something about Jim.'

‘No, it wasn't. It was about Thomas. He said Thomas was his father. He said you said so. And I said he jolly well wasn't.'

‘He and I did have a talk about his father, but he obviously got it wrong. Thomas isn't his father.'

‘That's what I said.'

‘You were right. So now will you help me find him?'

‘I suppose so.'

Stephen and Martin were watching television. No, they hadn't seen him.

‘Will you go out on your bikes, please, to look for him?'

‘Isn't he at his Granny's?' Stephen asked.

‘No, I phoned there.'

‘Oh, he's all right. He's hanging about somewhere to give you a fright.'

‘Stephen, you're old enough to know that there are men about who could harm him. I'm getting really worried and his Granny will be frantic. Please help me look for him. Harry can come with me in the car. If we all go in different directions we'll find him sooner … Thomas, should I ring the police? It's six o'clock and he came out of school at a quarter to four.'

‘Yes. Phone this minute. As soon as I've changed Jim's nappy I'll put him in the car seat and join the search. He may have gone up Barrow Hill. He could just be fed-up with Harry and striking out somewhere on his own. Stephen, will you go up Barrow Hill?'

‘It's not my fault,' Harry said.

‘Of course not.'

‘We'll get someone to drive round looking for him,' the policeman said.

Oh God, they're taking it seriously, Rosamund thought.

*   *   *

Seven o'clock. Rosamund and Marian hugged each other wordlessly as though already comforting each other. Brian insisted that they should have tea and biscuits if nothing else. He poured out yet more cups of tea.

They phoned Miss Adams who said it had been a perfectly normal day and that Joss had been completely unperturbed by the message that he was to go home with Harry. She'd known nothing of their quarrel. No, he hadn't been in trouble with anyone.

At eight o'clock Brian collected some volunteers from the George to make door-to-door enquiries; someone must surely have seen him. Some boys from Stephen and Martin's school started racing about to search the children's playground, the churchyard, the caravan park, the field by the river.

Stephen came back from Barrow Hill saying he'd been all the way to the top, calling and calling.

No one had anything to report. Martin, in a bad mood and uncooperative as usual, was sent to the schoolhouse to await a possible phone-call.

By nine o'clock two policemen had come out from Admington. Had Joss ever gone missing before? Was he in trouble with anyone? Had they spoken to all his friends? Had any strangers been seen in the village? Anyone hanging around the school gates? They left to contact the Headmistress. At ten Thomas took Harry and Jim home, but promised to get a colleague to babysit so that he could come back. To do what? There didn't seem anything more that anyone could do but wait. The whole village had been searched.

‘Do you think Molly could have had anything to do with this?' Rosamund asked her mother, the words tearing at her throat.

‘Oh darling, it's been on my mind from the beginning, but I didn't want to add to your worries. I can't forget that venomous look on her face when she left the schoolhouse on Joss's birthday. And I know we've all preached and preached about not taking a lift from strangers, but what if she'd sent Alex to pick him up outside the school and he'd said, “Hello, Joss. I'm your Dad.” How could a dear friendly little boy resist that?'

‘Mum, I don't think Alex would be prepared to do anything as ruthless as that.'

‘But you told me he was in his mother's power. And she'd stop at nothing, I'm sure. I don't think she'd harm Joss, dear, but she seems really determined to harm you.'

‘How would Alex recognise Joss? He's never seen him, neither has Molly. Oh, I'm sure this is a red herring, but perhaps I should phone her to see how she reacts.'

‘I think you should, dear. Be very upset and contrite. Offer her whatever she wants. Those poems, dear, oh let her have them. What do you think, Brian?'

‘I'd certainly like to think it was his grandmother behind this, Marian, and not some evil-minded pervert.'

‘Brian, stop it. Phone Molly, Rosamund, for God's sake. Or would you like me to tackle her?'

‘No, I'll do it.'

*   *   *

‘Miss Drew, may I speak to Mrs Gilchrist? It's Rosamund Gilchrist.'

‘I'm afraid Mrs Gilchrist is in bed and most probably asleep. She's had rather a bad day so I dare not disturb her. Can I help?'

‘Is Alex Gilchrist available, please?'

‘I'll see if he's in. Hold on, please … I'm afraid he's still out, Mrs Gilchrist.'

‘No, he's not. I heard you talking to him. Please tell him that I shall go on ringing till he comes to the phone. It's a matter of great urgency.'

‘What is it, Rosamund? I'm not very well, I'm afraid, and not entirely sober either.'

‘Alex, my son is missing and I'm going through hell. Please tell me if your mother had anything to do with it.'