Trio - [64]

‘I’ll get on then,’ he said. ‘Call me if you need anything.’

He returned to their bedroom, his chest tight and a pulse hammering in his head. Glass on the floor. He went downstairs to get the dustpan and brush.

His mother’s arrival seemed to make Caroline worse. From being moody and prone to tears she had started raving. A stream of accusations directed at him and his mother, dark mutterings about them plotting behind her back. His mother had cleared up the kitchen, prepared the baby’s bottle and made a simple meal. Caroline refused to come down. She refused to eat. When he went up to see her she spoke more gibberish and acted as though she was scared of him, as though he intended some harm.

‘Call the doctor,’ his mother said.

He hesitated. ‘Do you think so?’

‘She needs help, Paul. He can give her something to calm her down.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s probably depression, getting a bit out of control. Call the doctor.’

By the time the doctor arrived Caroline had barricaded herself and Davey in her room. Davey was hungry – Caroline had not given him the bottle her mother-in-law had made up – and crying incessantly. Paul had begged her to open the door, reminded her that Davey needed his bottle, but she refused.

‘Caroline, let us in now, the doctor’s here, he wants to have a look at you,’ he said. There was no response. He felt his temper rising at the stupidity of it all. ‘Caroline,’ he threatened, ‘if you don’t open the door I’ll break the bloody thing down.’ And how would he do that? With his poor balance it would be hard to put much force against it. ‘I’ll get the fire brigade,’ he added.

He wasn’t sure if she could hear him over the screaming baby but after a minute there was the bumping of furniture being moved. When he tried the door it opened.

Once inside, Paul took Davey from the bed and passed him to his mother. Caroline, perched on the bed, panting from her exertions but outwardly calm, watched them like a hawk.

‘You remember me, Mrs Wainwright?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she nodded. ‘You’re the Devil. You eat the babies.’

An hour later Caroline was admitted to the psychiatric hospital. The doctors assured Paul that a short stay, the use of tranquilizers and possibly a session or two of electro-convulsive therapy would relieve her of her distress.

‘Some women react like this after childbirth,’ the psychiatrist told him. ‘This is your first child?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘Most women get a bit weepy a few days after they’ve had the baby but this is something more serious, a form of depression. We still don’t understand exactly why it happens and/or why some women are more susceptible than others, but it is treatable and I’m sure your wife will be back home, enjoying family life very soon.’

Kay

The lemon was rotten. It looked fine on the outside but when she halved it the centre was brown and slimy. She couldn’t make a lemon cake without a lemon. Joanna might have one. Knowing Joanna, she probably had a plastic squeezy one to squirt into her gin. She certainly made a virtue of being a lazy cook and a fan of all the latest gimmicks.

Kay Farrell took her apron off and washed her hands. She checked on the twins, who had gone down for their nap half an hour ago. They were sound asleep, head to tail in the cot. They liked to share it for their daytime sleep. She went round the back at Joanna’s, the kitchen door was always open. The climbing rose around the back door was in full bloom. She inhaled the scent. They must do more with their garden, get some nice shrubs. All they had was the lawn and the apple tree. Bit dull.

She let herself in and called out. ‘Hello, it’s only me!’ She went through the hall into the dining-cum-living room. A blur of bodies on the sofa. Naked. Skin, limbs, hair. She froze. Joanna and Adam. Her Adam. The pair parting, scrabbling away from each other as she gawped. Her heart shattering, mind numb.

‘Hell!’ Adam stood, scooping up clothing to cover himself. Joanna remained seated, curling up, face averted, her pendulous breasts still moving slightly. Kay turned and ran. Her world crashing about her. Panic clutching at her throat. Betrayal flooding her stomach with acid, adrenalin furiously pumping her blood faster than she could breathe. The bastard, the bitch.

At home she steadied herself on the sink, tried to slow her breathing, drank water from the tap to wash down the bile in her gullet. Then she got out the brandy from the drinks cabinet, poured a tumblerful. She took a large mouthful, relishing the way it burnt her mouth and made her lips tingle. She stuck a cigarette in her mouth, flicked the lighter. Her hand shook. Everything shook.

‘Kay.’ He stood in the doorway.

She wouldn’t look at him.

‘Kay, I’m sorry.’ His voice was dry, like grass rustling.

‘That’s all right then, is it? That supposed to make me feel better?’ she said coldly.

‘Kay, I love you. This… it…’ He moved into the room, sat down. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘It means something to me,’ she shot back. ‘My husband committing adultery with my best friend. Means quite a lot, actually.’