My Husband's Wife(82)

‘I don’t want to talk.’

Ed tried again. ‘Do you know that your teacher has had to have stitches?’

‘She didn’t have to,’ he retorted quickly. ‘She shouldn’t have fallen.’

Her fault for falling. My fault for upsetting Daniel at the end. Ed’s fault for not telling me about the trust. Joe’s fault for killing Sarah.

Who knows where blame really lies? It’s never as simple as it seems.

Desperately, Ed and I attempted to keep our lives together while sorting out Tom’s educational future at the same time. It wasn’t easy to find a school that could deal with Tom’s needs. But, once more, an online help group, along with the consultant, pointed us in the right direction. Some parents, we later found out, take ages to find ‘the right education package for children with autism spectrum disorders’. We were lucky.

There was a ‘good school’ (according to reviews) about an hour from my parents. It offered flexible boarding, which would take the strain off us all, yet also made us feel guilty. But something had to be done. So we both went down to visit it. There were children like Tom. But many were more challenging. One teacher was wiping faeces off the wall of a corridor as we passed. The smell clung to us, suffocating us in the knowledge that this was the world we were condemning him to.

‘How can we send him to a boarding school?’ wept Ed on the way back. The traffic on the snarled-up motorway appeared to reflect our own personal impasse.

‘You went to one.’

‘That was different.’

‘Yours was posh, you mean.’

‘If you like.’

‘We’re sending him to a boarding school because we can’t cope and because they have specialized help,’ I said, tapping my fingers on the wheel.

‘You sound so cold. Emotionless.’

It was the only way I could manage. Better than Ed’s method, which was to start drinking vodka as well as wine.

A few weeks later, I finally picked up the phone to Carla and apologized for not having returned her calls. ‘We’ve had a few problems,’ I said, and explained that Tom had got into trouble at school but that it was all sorted now.

We invited her round for dinner. I still felt tense. But it went better than I’d expected, apart from some awkward bits about Ed’s paintings and when my husband said too much about Tom. At least my husband didn’t let slip that we’ve sent our son to another school – one that’s used to dealing with ‘that kind of behaviour’ – and that Tom now refuses to speak to us on the phone.

Before that, the three of us had talked about the old days when Carla was a child and we were a newly married couple. It reminded me of our difficult start and, at one point, I reached under the table for Ed’s hand to squeeze it. I’m sorry, said my squeeze, that I’m on edge. It’s not just the case. It’s Joe Thomas too. But of course, Ed didn’t hear any of that because I didn’t have the guts to say it out loud.

Meanwhile, Carla chatted away about her studies. And we talked about poor Tony Gordon and where Carla could find him, because she wanted to visit to give a message from her mother. Really? What had happened to that unlikely pair after our awful row in the corridor? Had Francesca and Tony kept in touch? But I didn’t like to ask Carla. Besides, part of me still feels bad for having interfered at the time.

So slightly against my better judgement, I gave Tony’s contact details to our guest.

Why not? I reassured myself. Carla is a nice girl. How could she possibly harm a dying man?





34


Carla


November 2013


Carla had only been to a hospice once before. A friend of Nonna’s had been in one, just days before she died. Mamma had taken her to visit. It was disrespectful, she said, that her friend’s family couldn’t look after her at home themselves. But the daughter-in-law was English. What could you expect?

‘I am here to visit Tony Gordon,’ she said firmly to the woman on reception.

The woman glanced at a sheet of paper in front of her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t find you on the list.’

Carla summoned up one of her most charming smiles. ‘I am an old friend, visiting from Italy, and I do not have long. Please. I would be very grateful.’

The woman returned her smile. Smiles were catching, Carla knew. Mamma had taught her that many years ago. ‘Tony is resting at the moment, but you can go in for a few minutes. You might not get much sense out of him, mind you. One of our volunteers will show you the way.’

Gingerly, Carla walked down the corridor. As she passed open doors, she glanced in. A young woman was lying on her back, her mouth open, dozing noisily. And then the volunteer stopped. ‘Just in there,’ he said.

Was that really him? Larry with the shiny car? Larry who had been so tall and imposing?

Carla stared at the grey man lying on his back in the bed. There was no hat. No hair either. But there was a strange box-like thing attached to his throat. His eyes were closed, but as she approached they snapped open, then froze.

‘Larry,’ she said grimly.

‘This is Tony,’ whispered the young man behind her.

Carla whipped round. ‘Please leave us,’ she said firmly. ‘I need a private conversation.’

The young man nodded and closed the door.