A Terrible Kindness(64)

Staring intently at successive small patches of carpet, he doesn’t notice the failing of the light until he’s reached the top. He flicks the bulbous switch and doesn’t see any red or rose blush on the stair carpet. He gathers the damp toilet paper he’s used to soak up the water and turns towards the bathroom to flush them away, glad he’s saved them from this, at least. But there’s more blood on the landing and he chides himself for not anticipating that. Finally, after more scraping, dousing, scrubbing and blotting, it’s done. With tight shoulders and aching head, he wishes that someone could at least have called him from the hospital to say what’s happening. Hands full of soggy, stained loo roll, William pushes open the door to the small toilet.

A sharp cry punches out of his mouth. In spite of his ignorance, he’s pretty sure the gaudy mess in the toilet bowl means Gloria and Ray are no longer expecting a baby. He stares at the scarlet muddle for a few moments, then, with goose bumps on his bare arms, William grips the Bakelite handle and pulls the chain.





43




‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ William says.

Gloria still has her arm hooked through his, even though the walk is over.

‘Mmm,’ Gloria says, tilting her head at Ophelia, at the upturned hands and the half-open mouth.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so lovely,’ William says, smiling from the painting to Gloria and back to the painting again. ‘Look at that tree trunk! I could reach out and stroke it – and those flowers on the water – and how real her hands look!’

‘Mmm.’

‘You don’t sound impressed.’

‘I am, it’s just a pity she’s dead!’

‘I’m used to that, aren’t I?’

She takes her arm from his and slaps his shoulder. ‘You nutter,’ she says, and starts to giggle. An older couple come to stand next to them. They turn from the painting to Gloria as she continues to laugh, and a small tut-tut can be heard as they focus on the canvas. Gloria looks at William and opens her eyes wide. Now she really can’t stop.

William doesn’t care about the couple. He doesn’t care about the security staff noticing them. He wants to run to the nearest phone box so he can tell Mr and Mrs Finch, I’ve made her laugh – she’s laughing!

‘What are you up to this morning, William?’ Mrs Finch politely asked when William joined them for breakfast that day.

‘I’m off to the Tate.’ He glanced at the piece of paper in Gloria’s hand, and the sight of the familiar slanted handwriting flung a pulse against his throat. ‘Everything all right?’

She exhaled then nodded. ‘At least now I’ve heard from him I can get on with forgetting him.’

‘Sooner the better,’ Mrs Finch said quietly.

Gloria flicked her wrist to open the folded letter and scanned it. ‘… “best that I cleared off. I don’t think you or anyone else would want me sticking around …”’ Her voice was harsh. Mr Finch dipped his head and studied his toast. ‘He’s right, isn’t he?’ Gloria swept them all with her bold gaze.

William caught Mrs Finch glancing at him. Mr Finch didn’t look up. She ripped the letter in two, laid the pieces next to her plate, and took a gulp of tea.

‘So, William, the Tate. You love it there, don’t you?’ Her skin was still pale, and she hadn’t curled her hair, so it looked longer and thinner than normal, and her head smaller. All William has wanted to do since her return from hospital is hold her. Sometimes the feeling is so strong he has to fold his arms. He imagines nothing in return. He just wants to wrap her up and make her feel safe.

‘I do,’ he replied, ‘I love the building as much as the paintings. And you can get a pot of tea and a cake for two shillings round the corner – a bit pricey, but worth it.’ He was talking too much, but didn’t want to lose her interest. Encouraged by the faint amusement on her face, he asked, ‘Want to come with me? It’s only a short walk from the bus stop.’

‘Why not?’ she said, glancing at her mum and then out at the garden, at the warm July morning. ‘It’s a nice day, isn’t it? About time I got out.’

Mr Finch put his hand on his daughter’s back and gently rubbed it. ‘Good idea.’ He rummaged in his pocket and put a pound note on the table. ‘Tea and cakes are on me.’

Mrs Finch smiled and winked at William.

‘Tea?’ says William now, taking Gloria’s elbow and leading her away from Ophelia.

‘I’ve never been to an art gallery before,’ Gloria says, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.

‘Neither had I,’ he says. ‘There was a lot of art at Cambridge, but it was literally part of the furniture, so I didn’t take much notice.’ They turn left into the next room, past portraits of serious-looking men, and the light-catching gold of an enormous frame surrounding a dark, foreboding landscape.

‘Why did you start coming?’ Gloria cranes her neck before and behind William to take in what’s on his side of the room.

‘To begin with, it was a free-time filler that made me feel I was making the most of London, getting to see its treasures.’

‘And now?’ She turns her head to him.

‘It’s hard to explain.’ He points left as they leave the gallery. ‘I don’t know much about art, but when I come out, I feel better, bigger on the inside. Look, here we are. You find a seat, I’ll get the tea and stop talking rubbish.’