again, not after the last time… He hasn't got any money, you know that, Claire. Can we change the subject, please? I'm working here in Saltburn… No, not that – not any more. I'm doing Property Management …Well, I'm house-sitting… No, it's more than that – actually I'm looking after a bridge builder and his home.’
She was relieved to have made the call, which wasn't to say that she'd enjoyed it in the slightest. It would take her an hour or so to recover and feel better about herself. But she was used to that. She simply couldn't afford not to touch base with her sister every now and then.
The only phone in the entire house is the one in the main entrance hall. And Joe found himself helpless not to hover at his study door and eavesdrop. And afterwards, he found it impossible to work but he stayed in his study and thought about things until Tess called him for supper.
He looked at his plate heaped high with locally caught fish, home-made chips, peas and carrots. On the table a new bottle of ketchup, flakes of sea salt in one of the little dishes from Hong Kong he'd forgotten he had. White wine in one glass and water in another. He glanced across at Tess. She'd been quite right to tell her sister how she was looking after him and his home. Quietly, he considered it a shame he had to go tomorrow, to be away quite so often. But then he remembered this morning, when she was hanging out washing. He didn't want to think about it but he knew he didn't want to forget it either. It was confusing. Perhaps it was good that he was leaving tomorrow.
‘So, Tess,’ he said between mouthfuls, ‘what'll you get up to when I'm gone again?’
She thought about it. ‘With your say-so, I'd like to start on the sitting room – the TV room. And we really could make better use of the boot store. It is a room, you know.’
‘We?’
Tess reddened a little. ‘There's good paint you can buy now – it's scrubbable,’ she hurried. ‘It would be perfect. Will the Everything Shop sell it, do you think? Could I put it on your tab?’
Joe nodded. ‘No doubt they have a pot or two at the back somewhere, under the jigsaw puzzles, next to the ericaceous plant food, behind the home-brewery kit.’
Tess laughed. ‘Opposite the cotton reels and just across from the mousetraps?’
‘Or I can bring you some back,’ Joe said. ‘I may not stay in London that long – I may come back before heading off to France.’
He'd only just thought of this.
They caught each other's glance and looked away.
‘Or I may go and visit friends in Kent,’ he said with a nonchalant tap at the base of the ketchup bottle. ‘Chislehurst.’
‘Cool,’ Tess said breezily, as if it was no concern of hers where he went, when.
‘More wine?’
‘Please.’
Joe held the wine bottle aloft, appearing to scrutinize the label as if he harboured some concern over the vintage or the vineyard. He wasn't. But he needed a moment.
‘Pass your glass, Tess, and call me a nosy old sod and you don't have to answer, but Emmeline's dad? I mean, I was wondering – you know – about him. Whether he'll be coming – here – to visit, perhaps?’
He said it all so quickly, so conversationally whilst he poured wine, that however intrusive the question might have been, it didn't come across as such and Tess found herself answering. She hadn't noticed the two small lines that remained between Joe's brows; punctuation marks of discomfort that belied the light tone of his voice.
‘He won't be coming up to Saltburn. You see – well, you'll have guessed we're not together. Actually, he doesn't really visit much.’
‘Were you together for long?’
Tess traced her finger around the rim of the glass as if to elicit sound. Her voice, when it came, had the volume on low. ‘For about six weeks,’ she said. Then she cleared her throat, smiled a little meekly and spoke up. ‘We were together for about six weeks. And then he went travelling. Which was when I found out I was pregnant. It's all a bit of a cliché.’
The food was finished but Joe dabbed at the smear of ketchup on his plate and then sucked his finger thoughtfully.
‘He's a musician,’ Tess continued though Joe hadn't asked. In fact, all he was going to ask was whether she wanted a cup of tea. He thought she might want a change of subject; he was surprised that she didn't.
‘Or at least he likes to say he's a musician, though he never seems to play much more than themes and variations on “House of the Rising Sun”. The problem is, he's very handsome. Well, it's a problem for everyone else, you see. He's stunningly good-looking, really – luckily Em's inherited his looks. But he's one of those free spirits. Born in the wrong generation, you could say. The Woodstock era would have been so much more his thing.’
‘Where is he based?’ Joe asked though he'd eavesdropped about the States earlier from Tess's phone call. He'd prefer facts over these superlatives of the bloke's beauty.
‘He's a “wherever he lays his hat is his home” type.’
Joe was surprised that she smiled so wistfully and spoke with generosity when he felt that this fake rock-star sounded like a vain, irresponsible loser.
‘He's Canadian. I met him in London. He was en route to Europe. Now he's in the States. He wants to do Australia. And then he'll probably start all over again.’
‘Is he a good father?’
Tess wished she could reply quicker and in the affirmative so she employed vagueness instead. ‘He means well. He's not what you'd call “hands-on”. But he's simply one of those people it's just really difficult to get cross with. He has another child. Another daughter – she's five, apparently. So Em has a half-sister, somewhere in Toronto. Which'll be great when she's older. He's full of love and wonder at the world – he's just a bit crap with the practicalities.’
Her response baffled Joe – such equanimity from the woman who could be belligerent with him in an instant.
‘And his name is?’
‘Dick.’ Pre-emptively, she flicked a stray pea on the table at Joe. ‘Don't laugh.’
‘I'm not,’ said Joe. ‘The name fits. Does he support you?’
‘Dick?’ She was incredulous. ‘He's the archetypal penniless musician – he's like a latter-day strolling troubadour! He's only a step away from having worldly possessions small enough to fit in a hanky on the end of a stick, à la Dick Whittington.’
‘Dick Whittington went on to become incredibly famous and wealthy.’
Tess shrugged. ‘Dick's no Dick Whittington, Joe. He's gorgeous and charismatic and I fell for him, but I knew. I knew from when I first saw him, strumming away in Finsbury Park. I knew after the first kiss. After our first night together. During those madcap six weeks. I knew he wouldn't stay. And when I found out I was pregnant. I knew he wouldn't come back.’
Joe rolled the pea gently under his fingertip as he considered this. ‘Brave of you, Tess. To – you know – proceed.’
Tess shook her head. ‘Not brave, Joe, not really. My sister said I was stupid. Tamsin, my best friend, warned me how difficult it would be. But it was easy to make the decision. Being pregnant was the first thing in my life that seemed to slot into place seamlessly with my future. So many other uncertainties. But carrying Em was not one of them. My child would be my constant.’
‘You and her together, hey?’
‘She and me.’
He topped up their glasses. She gave him a half-smile combined with a small shrug.
‘Do you find it hard, Tess?’ The wine had made the question flow and there was an audible trickle of tenderness with it.
She