‘There’s whisky.’ She held up the bottle. ‘Oh, not much left. Sorry, darling.’
Florence sighed. ‘Thanks, but I really only drink wine.’
‘Ahhhhh.’ She pointed her finger at Florence. ‘That’s because you’re French. Tell me exactly what you are doing here in England?’
Florence remembered Claudette telling her you had to look your enemies in the eye. Was Belinda her enemy? She drew back her shoulders. She’d had enough of being meek.
‘Look Belinda, I need to tell you I’m not leaving, but that I think that you should go back to London.’
‘Oh, is that so?’ The woman’s voice was thick and she suddenly hiccupped. ‘Scuse me.’
‘What good is staying here doing you, or Jack?’
‘Christ! You ask me that? This is about you. It’s you you’re thinking of.’
‘I’m Jack’s friend.’
‘And I’m his goddam wife.’ And then to Florence’s horror, Belinda began to cry.
Florence froze. Should she attempt to comfort her?
Before long Belinda was sobbing and moaning as if her heart was truly breaking, her hands in tight fists thumping herself in the chest. Florence stepped forward and tentatively put a hand on Belinda’s thin shoulder. Eventually the woman noticed she was there, and Florence handed her a handkerchief.
‘It’s clean,’ she said.
Belinda took it but her face was blotchy and creased, her eyes puffy and rimmed with red, her make-up smudged. She wiped them and then her cheeks too and she tried to run a hand over her hair, but she was still gasping for breath. She doubled over with a fresh wave of sobs, tears running down between her fingers and dripping onto her lap. The depth of her grief brought tears to Florence’s eyes too.
When Belinda managed to stop again, she wrapped her arms around her body and began to rock, keening in a high-pitched tone.
‘It’s my fault,’ she eventually whispered. ‘He blames me, and he’s right.’
‘How can I help?’ Florence asked, but knew there was nothing she could really do.
Belinda didn’t seem to hear. ‘There’s a hole inside me. Never stops hurting, so I drink. It numbs me. Jack doesn’t understand.’
There was a slight pause.
‘I want oblivion. Do you see? I let my little boy die. My own little boy. I let him die. And, you know … I hate myself. I hate myself far more than Jack hates me.’ She’d spoken the last few words softly, haltingly, as if she could hardly bear to say them.
‘I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.’
She laughed bitterly. ‘Are you? Well, he certainly doesn’t love me. Our marriage is over and all I want to do is end it all. There … I’ve said it.’
For a moment Florence wasn’t sure of the other woman’s meaning. Was she talking about her marriage or her life?’
‘Look, if you want to stay here, I can be with you. Maybe I can help.’
‘How? How can you help? How can anyone help? Don’t you understand? I can’t bear to go on living with my little boy dead and knowing he died because of me …’
That night they sat together for hours, Florence keeping hold of Belinda as she lost herself to grief.
The next day Belinda stood on the doorstep, doing her utmost to blink the tears away, her mask of make-up once more firmly in place. She gave Florence a weak smile and a restrained pat on the back. Then she got into the taxi. As Florence watched it make its way up the drive and away from the house, her heart was hammering in herthroat. Belinda was beside herself with the most terrible grief imaginable, the enormity of which surpassed anything Florence had ever known. She took a breath and let it out slowly, hoping Belinda would find her way through whatever lay ahead.
She thought about Jack, too. His own grief must be why he held his emotions so tightly inside him. If Jack allowed himself to love, he would also have to allow himself to feel his pain. You couldn’t choose. She’d learnt that from her own experience after the rape. She hoped to have children one day, but along with such all-encompassing love came the risk of an equally all-encompassing loss. She imagined that when a child died, the guilt must be dreadful, an impossible weight to bear. A parent’s job was to protect their child, and if you failed at that, what did it make you?
CHAPTER 16
A week later Florence took a short stroll up the track, gravel crunching underfoot, before heading for the village to look for work. Now that Belinda had gone back to London, she had decided to stay put and she absolutely had to find a job as soon as possible. She loved the peaceful mornings here, but as she walked a burst of movement ahead drew her attention. She froze, narrowing her eyes to see more clearly. A long, rust-coloured tail appeared, and then an entire fox heading towards her through the long wet grass. The animal stopped moving and stared as if weighing her up, its eyes a stunning bright amber, but then with the swiftest of movement it spun around and was gone. She knew how quickly foxes could navigate the woodland, how easily they squeezed through narrow gates, jumped over ditches, or ran along the estate walls. She’d seen them in the daytime before, but it was rare for one to stopand stare. It was a wonderful start to the day. Maybe her luck would be in.
