In The Company Of Strangers Part 10

'I'm sure I'd be doing the same thing,' Ruby says.

'I haven't told it before, not like this. Just dribs and drabs to people when I was in prison. But it's always in my head, of course, always back and forth, trying to explain it to myself, trying to reduce my own guilt, trying to make it different, but of course none of that works. In the end I always come back to what I did. Nothing changes that.' She's silent for a while.

Ruby gets to her feet. 'I'm going to get more water for the tea,' she says.

Alice nods. She sits alone on the balcony, listening to the strangely comforting sounds of Ruby in the kitchen.

'I was thinking,' she says, when Ruby comes back, 'that all the time I was in prison, all the time I was telling this story to myself over and over again, I never imagined that when I eventually told the whole thing to someone else it would be in a place like this, that I would actually feel safe to tell it.'

Ruby puts the teapot back on the table and sits down. 'Well that's good, isn't it? Perhaps this place has something to do with it. I didn't want to come here, Alice, for all sorts of reasons that I'll explain to you some other time, but now I'm here I know it was the right thing to do. There's something so peaceful and nurturing about the landscape, I'd forgotten that. I only remembered how much everything hurt. Once I got here I felt it again. Old man Benson knew what he was doing when he put his stake in this stretch of land. You know, people told him he was overreaching himself at the time. That's how the place got its name, Benson's Reach.'

They sit in silence for a moment and there is a sudden change in the light as the door of cottage six opens and Lesley Craddock walks out onto her balcony. She leans on the rail, apparently straining to see down to the stretch of ground where Declan usually parks his car. Then she turns and goes back inside and closes the door. The two women look at each other and smile.

'She's out of luck again,' Ruby says. 'I fear he won't be back before she has to leave. Did you tell him she wanted to speak to him?'

'I did,' Alice nods. 'He didn't seem too keen on the idea.'

'Poor Lesley, but I think she's probably her own worst enemy. Anyway, are you going to tell me the rest of your story or have you had enough for one night?'

'No, no, I need to tell you now,' Alice says. 'I need to get through to the end.' She takes a deep breath and begins again. 'Well, to cut it as short as I can, Mike moved in with me. He wasn't drinking, he was too sick for that, and he was more like the man I'd married. I'd never wanted him back but once he was there I was glad of it. I nursed him for more than three years. He was very weak, and towards the end he was on oxygen most of the time, fading day by day. Jacinta and Alan helped when they could and the girls were beautiful with him. But eventually he died, at home, which was what we'd all wanted, especially him.

'At first I just had a sense of relief that the awfulness of watching him die was over and, frankly, that I was free from the burden of caring for him. I'd had to keep working part time as well and I was worn out. Anyway, after the funeral everyone came back to the house you know, food, wine, reminiscences, tears, laughter, and then suddenly everyone had gone and I was alone with the mess of the wake, and still with the mess of his dying: the hospital bed, the oxygen cylinders, all that stuff. That night I walked around the house and all I could feel was despair. I was totally exhausted, as though everything had been sucked out of me. I felt incapable of getting out from under all the mess not just the physical mess around me and the work of winding up his affairs, but the emotional mess inside. And all I could smell was the wine. I started to clear up the gla.s.ses, carry them out to the kitchen, pour away the dregs, load the dishwasher. But the smell was driving me insane. It was like a live presence demanding that I pay attention to it and eventually I did. I picked up a gla.s.s with a little wine left in it and sipped it. It was my first taste of alcohol in more than twenty years and it made me heave, but then I tried a bit more, and then a whole gla.s.s. I felt really nauseous and giddy, but that soon faded and I worked my way through the leftovers. The next morning I went to the bottle shop and bought more wine.

'I was drinking again. I wasn't thinking about it: no regrets, no self-flagellation and no worries about what it meant. No thought of going to AA, where I had been going once a month for years. I was anaesthetising myself, keeping my feelings at bay. I kept going to work and no one seemed to notice, or if they did they didn't say so. I kept it up for four weeks and then Jacinta and Alan wanted to go away for a weekend. Jodie was going to stay with a school friend, and they asked me if I would have Ella, who was six by then. I thought Ella was just what I needed. And I do remember thinking, "I mustn't drink this weekend because I'm responsible for a child." But of course I did.

'It was a terrible weekend, wet and windy, las.h.i.+ng storms. Ella was a bit snuffly when Jacinta dropped her off on Friday, and by late on Sat.u.r.day she'd got a temperature and I had nothing to give her. So I wrapped her up well and put her in the car. I thought I would go to the pharmacy and come back via the drive-through bottle shop. I'd been drinking slowly all day and I was sure I was fine, but of course I wasn't. We never made it to the bottle shop. I overshot an intersection on a red light and a car coming from my left hit the tail of my car and I swung and skidded across the intersection and rolled the car on the opposite island.'

Ruby smothers a gasp.

Alice looks down at the table, at the wet patch on the newspaper and writing pad, and the letter that will never be written.

'And the other driver . . . ?'

'A young man,' Alice says, 'in his thirties.'

'I can't begin to imagine how you must have felt, how you still feel . . .'

'Ruby,' Alice says, lifting her eyes to face her now. 'Ruby, the man, he survived. A cut on his head, severe bruising and some damage to his shoulder that had to be rebuilt . . .'

'Then who . . .' Ruby begins, before realisation crosses her face. 'Oh my G.o.d . . . no, surely not, not . . . ?'

Alice nods. 'Yes, it was Ella. I killed her, Ruby. I killed my granddaughter that night. It would have been terrible enough if it had been that young man and it so easily could have been. How crazy was I? How arrogant! But it wasn't him, it was Ella, six years old, wearing red woollen tights and a check dress that I'd bought for her in Target and wrapped up in a blanket with a little red beanie pulled down over her ears. Is it any wonder that I was twice refused parole? Is it any wonder that no one in my family wants anything to do with me? I killed a child, Ruby, an innocent little girl with her whole life in front of her. And I killed a part of my daughter, my other granddaughter and my son-in-law at the same time. There is no forgiveness for this, not from anyone, most of all not from myself. In AA we say 'one day at a time', just get through one day at a time, and it works. To look further ahead is too hard; the future is too huge, too scary.'

She stops suddenly, relieved that she has told it at last, but exhausted by the emotion of reliving it all. 'And so that's what I've been doing for the past five . . . nearly six years. Getting through one day at a time. But then I came here and I began to glimpse bits of the future: a home, a job, what it's like to have friends, to be trusted again. And then I close my eyes and that vision disappears because I can really only have one day at a time and even that is more than I deserve.'

esley, driving home on Sunday, has trouble keeping her eyes open. She's been up since dawn, outside on the balcony searching for a sign that Declan might have returned during the night, but there was none, and she knew she had to leave this morning. For one thing there was a long-standing booking for her cottage as from today, but more importantly she had said she'd be at Simon and Lucy's for lunch with the family and she could tell they were all getting edgy with her. She'd intended to go home on Friday but had waited as long as she could in the hope of seeing Declan.

'Can't you give me his mobile number?' she'd asked Paula on Friday. 'You must know it.'

'I don't,' Paula had said. 'I told him when he first came I'd need to have it for emergencies, and he simply said, "What sort of emergencies do you have in mind?" and I couldn't think of anything so that was that.'

'Well you must be able to get it, find it in the office or something?'

Paula had shaken her head. 'No way, not with that nosy Alice hanging around all the time and Madam Ruby, the Grand Inquisitor, asking questions about what I'm doing. The other day I'd just slipped round the back for a cigarette and suddenly she's there, right in my face. "Benson's Reach is smoke free, Paula," she says. "That applies to the staff as well as the guests."'

Lesley had hesitated. She had already noticed Paula's furtive lighting up when she thought no one was looking. But now, more than ever, she needs an ally here. 'So did you smoke when Mrs Benson was here?' she'd asked.

''Course not,' Paula had said, 'but the Grand Inquisitor isn't Catherine, is she? And it's not really her place she'll be gone soon. Strutting about as though she owns it who does she think she is?'

'Well she does own it, or most of it, doesn't she?'

'Not for long. She'll be out of here with the money as soon as she can and back to London. She's that type, you can tell.'

Clearly the chances of getting the number were nil and all that Lesley could do was wait. And wait she did, to no avail. But Declan will certainly be back there next week before they open the cafe. She'll call the main number, many times if she has to, until she gets to speak to him. Now she just has to get home and face the first dreaded conversation with Gordon. Maybe she'll go straight to Simon and Lucy's place. It'll be easier to see him the first time with the rest of the family around. She has to try to keep it in her head that although she's done something very wrong Gordon doesn't know that, and what he doesn't know can't hurt him. The main thing is to behave exactly as normal. And, she reminds herself, it's partly his fault anyway after all, if he hadn't tried to take over her life she'd never have gone away.

The road is wide and straight, lined on either side with dense bush, and there is not much traffic about. Lesley yawns and rubs her eyes. She's been going for an hour and a half, just under halfway there, and ahead a sign points to petrol and a cafe in 500 metres. Coffee is just what she needs and she slows down and pulls off the road into the car park. The cafe is decidedly seedy and smells of meat pies and sweat. Lesley buys a coffee and a rather sad looking chocolate m.u.f.fin, takes them outside and heads towards a seat in the sun. The m.u.f.fin is considerably better than the coffee but as she eats it she realises that the horrible emptiness in her gut has nothing to do with food or the lack of it; it's a deeper sense of emptiness about herself and the fact that these weeks away from home haven't provided any answers, just simply added to her confusion. There were moments at Benson's Reach when she'd tried to concentrate on how Gordon could organise his life so that he didn't intrude on hers, or on what she really wanted as a plan for the future. But the future now, she believes, includes Declan and that thought occupies her mind most of the time. Fleetingly it occurs to her that some people might think her recent behaviour obsessive. Maybe she should have talked to someone, a therapist, perhaps, but it's too late for that, all she can do is get through today, and tomorrow she'll call Declan, get things sorted out with him. After that who knows? Just try to concentrate on today, she tells herself. Best to get back on the road as soon as possible.

The coffee is hot but lacking in everything except bitterness and she gets up to walk to the car thinking she'll finish it as she drives. The bleak open s.p.a.ce of the car park is drenched with blinding morning sunlight and she blinks against it. She is fumbling in her pocket for the car keys when she stumbles and suddenly the ground rears up and hits her in the face, and she is flat on the tarmac, splattered with scalding coffee and with the distinct feeling that her face has been smashed to pieces.

Lesley lies there for a moment, eyes closed, groaning softly, fighting back tears, then rolls onto her side in an attempt to get up, but everything hurts too much.

'Don't,' says a voice just behind her, 'don't try to get up yet. Just take your time.'

Lesley rocks back slightly and lies down again, on her back this time, squinting up at several anxious faces looking down at her against the background of the brilliant blue sky.

A woman stoops down beside her and takes her hand. 'Wait until you're ready, dear,' she says. 'It's such a shock, falling, when you get to our age.'

Lesley's first reaction is dismay that this woman with the lined face, untidy beige hair and a dull beige dress thinks that they are the same age. She is about to protest that she is only fifty-eight when the woman gestures to a man standing behind her.

'The pillow, Ted, give me the pillow,' she says. And the man silently hands it over and she gently lifts Lesley's shoulder and slips the pillow under her head and neck. Lesley thanks her, rubs a hand across her face and finds it streaked with blood. The woman tugs a wad of tissues from a box and pa.s.ses them to her. It's clear that her nose is bleeding, and when she lifts her head she sees that her top is soaked in coffee, and she has ripped the knees of her cotton trousers. Everything is spinning and she closes her eyes and drops her head back onto the pillow, waiting for it to stop. Eventually the world seems to right itself again and after various suggestions from the onlookers she is able to sit up. Most fade away now, just the beige woman, Ted, and a young girl from the cafe remain.

'You can come inside and get cleaned up if you like,' the girl says.

But the smell of meat pies is not something Lesley thinks she can revisit right now.

'Thanks,' she says, 'I'll just get cleaned up in the toilet, but a drink of water would be nice.' The girl hurries away and returns with a bottle of water.

'It's this tarmac,' the man says to the girl, kicking at a rough ridge in the surface. 'b.l.o.o.d.y dangerous, the lady probably tripped on it. You should get it fixed.'

'I'll tell the boss,' the girl says, and heads off back to the cafe.

'You could sue them, you know,' he says, leaning down towards Lesley and peering at her. 'Made a shocking mess of your face.'

'Shut up, Ted,' says the beige woman, 'that's the last thing she wants to hear right now.'

Lesley struggles to sit up.

'Let me help you,' the woman says. 'My name's Marion, by the way. I'll come with you to the toilets. You'll probably be a bit unsteady.' And she takes Lesley's arm, helps her to her feet and steers her towards the toilets, talking comfortingly about there being a lot of blood but probably no real damage.

Lesley cups her hands under the cold tap and plunges her face into the water several times before burying it in the towel that Marion has ordered Ted to bring from the car. Does this woman travel with a complete set of linen? she wonders.

'Just a bit of luck I have things with me,' Marion says, watching Lesley as she examines her face in the flyblown mirror. 'We're on holiday, on our way to Margaret River, but I like to have my own pillows and towels. You never know what the place will be like, do you? I don't take chances with pillows. See, it's not too bad, is it, a bit of gravel rash, and I think you're going to have a nasty bruise across that cheekbone, but the nosebleed has stopped now.'

Lesley wants to point out that her face looks like a war zone. Her nose is crimson rapidly turning blue and in addition to the cheekbone her chin is red raw and there is already a purplish mark on her forehead. Her knees are bleeding and she has ripped a s.h.i.+rt she bought only last week. But she manages to restrain herself.

'You've been very kind,' she says, 'but I don't want to hold you up. I think I can manage now. I'll get back on the road be home before too long.'

Marion is aghast. 'But you can't drive! What about concussion? You might just pa.s.s out and veer across the road, who knows . . . ?'

'I'll be fine,' Lesley says firmly. 'I'm not dizzy or anything now.' She hands Marion back the towel. 'Sorry about the blood on the towel. Thank you so much for your help.' She turns towards the door.

'You really shouldn't, you know,' Marion, says, pale blue eyes fierce with anxiety. 'It's not very responsible of you-'

'I said I'll be fine thank you,' Lesley says firmly, and walks away as quickly as she dares in the direction of her car.

'Well really . . .' Marion says.

And as Lesley slips into the driving seat she can hear Marion reciting the details of her ingrat.i.tude to Ted. She grasps the steering wheel with both hands and rests her forehead on them. The fall has totally disarmed her, wrecked the veneer of confidence she had tried to establish in order to face Gordon and the children. Now all she feels is guilt and loneliness something she has never felt before. She is alone with her secret, lacking even a conversation with Declan to help her make sense of it all, unable to confide in anyone. It seems to her now that in going away she cracked open the coc.o.o.n of security in which she had for so long reigned supreme. That could have been a good thing had she used the experience wisely; instead she wasted it in diversions, and then capped it off by sleeping with Declan.

Lesley is not used to being in the wrong. She has thrived for years on being right, on being a good wife to Gordon, a good mother to her children, a good daughter, and as far as possible a good sister, albeit at a distance. Her sense of right-ness has defined her. She is the one to whom people come for advice, for help and solutions. And through it all she has greeted any hint that she might be wrong about something or someone with a dismissive smile. But even as she reminds herself that this all began with Gordon being so selfish, she knows that to be in the right over this would look very different indeed.

Lifting her head she stares at her face in the driving mirror. She looks appalling. She can't go straight to Simon and Lucy's place now, she'll have to go home first and get cleaned up, make an effort to look more like her old self. But she fears that her guilt will cut through her attempts to appear normal. In the mirror she can see Marion standing with Ted near their car, staring at the back of hers, and as she watches she sees a look of concern cross Marion's face and she begins to walk in her direction. Lesley switches on the engine, releases the handbrake, slips into gear and moves out of the forecourt towards the road just in time. Back on the road again, she turns on the radio and fills the car with the sounds of an orchestra playing The Blue Danube. Strauss she thinks, good tunes, this will help. Anything, anything to drown out how she feels. But not even Strauss can do that because as the music swells and fades and swells again, it all comes surging back and the tears begin to flow, burning her sore face as she drives.

'Crikey! You look terrible,' Simon says, opening the door to her. 'What's happened to your face?'

'I fell over. In a petrol station on the way home,' Lesley says, stepping inside with the big canvas bag into which she has packed some gifts she bought for the children, along with honey, wine, cheese and pte.

There is a clatter of feet along the pa.s.sage and the twins hurl themselves at her.

'Nana, Nana, Nana's back,' Tim croons, b.u.t.ting her hip with his head. 'Did you bring us something?'

Ben, the quiet one, gives her a huge grin and grabs her hand to lead her through to the kitchen where Lucy and Karen are making salads.

'Oh your poor face, Lesley,' Lucy gasps, wiping her hands on a tea towel and coming across the room to kiss her.

Karen, her lips pursed into a familiar disapproving p.u.s.s.y's b.u.m, stares at her from a distance, hand on her hip, 'What did you do, Mum?'

Lesley, hoping that sympathy might banish disapproval, sighs, shrugs, explains once more, unloads the twins' gifts from her bag and starts to unpack the rest of the contents onto the kitchen table. 'No Nick?' she asks.

'Gone to the bottle shop,' Karen says, 'he'll be back shortly.'

Lesley looks around again. When she had got back to the house the place was locked up and Gordon's four-wheel-drive was in the garage. She'd a.s.sumed that he was already at Simon and Lucy's place but there is no sign of him here.

'Gla.s.s of wine?' Simon asks, holding up a bottle of chilled semillon.

'Please, yes,' Lesley nods. 'Where's your father?'

'Oh he's gone,' Simon says, pouring wine into her gla.s.s. 'Left on Thursday.'

'Left?'

'Early Thursday morning. He should be there by now.'

Lesley takes the gla.s.s from him. 'Where?' she asks. 'Where's he gone?'

'Up north,' Simon says, looking at her in surprise. 'He emailed you. That work he's been wanting to do with the Land Council. He's gone to the Kimberley.'

'He emailed?' Lesley asks, confused by what this new development might mean.

'Early in the week,' Karen says, irritably.

'But he should've called.'

'Ha! Well a lot of good that would have done seeing you haven't been answering your phone or returning messages. I expect he got fed up with having to speculate about what exactly you were doing and when you were coming home,' Karen says, ripping the leaves from a lettuce she has just pulled from the fridge.

Lesley's initial shock turns to relief a couple of weeks, maybe, before he'll be back, time to get herself together, talk to Declan, work out what to do. 'I said I'd be here for lunch today, I said so to Simon . . .'

'You didn't answer your phone or call back when I rang on Friday evening or yesterday,' Karen snaps. 'But perhaps I should be used to that by now.'

'Look, Karen-' Lesley begins, knowing she is on shaky ground.

'Stop!' Simon says, holding up his hand as if he's controlling traffic. 'We don't need an argument, Kaz, Mum's back now.'

'Well how gracious of her,' Karen says, continuing to torture the lettuce. 'Pardon me if I don't join in the applause.'

For a terrible moment Lesley can hear herself in Karen's voice: her sarcasm when things don't go her way, the sharp tongue that often gets away from her when she's hurt or angry.

'Loosen up,' Simon says, 'that's not going to help.'

'No,' Lesley says, feeling her face flush. 'No, she's right. I'm sorry, Karen, I'm sorry, everyone. I've been going through a bit of a bad time and I haven't been very thoughtful. I owe you all an apology.'

'Accepted,' Nick says, swinging in through the back door with a dozen beers, and doing a double-take at the sight of her face. 'Hmm. What's the other bloke look like?'

Lesley smiles at him, thankful for the interruption. The tension seems to be broken. Lucy starts to examine the cheeses and pate, and the boys, having opened their presents, sprawl across the floor throwing wrapping paper at each other. Karen gives her a long look, nods and turns her attention back to what's left of the lettuce.

'So when's Dad coming back?' Lesley asks, trying to keep her tone as light as possible. 'This week, next?'

Simon, who has just opened one of Nick's beers, takes a swig from the bottle and looks awkwardly across at his sister. 'Ah well, quite a while, I think. Look, you need to check the email, Mum, but it could be three months or more?'

'Or more,' Karen says without looking up. 'He'll be checking email at least once a week but a lot of the time he'll be out of mobile range.'

'Three months . . . but that's . . .'

'Ages, yes,' Karen says, 'but then you've been gone more than a month yourself.'

Lesley ignores the jibe. 'Is he on his own?'

'He's working with people up there.'