‘Because you never have it now.’
‘I guess I had too much of it then,’ thinking for the first time in over a year of the last apartment he had lived in with his mother, of the high shelf which he had stood on a kitchen chair to reach. And the boxes of cereal he had brought down so many times for himself, annoyed his mother wasn’t there to do it for him, worried about where she might be.
They worked outside, and he cut the grass around the Gatehouse with a new tractor mower they had bought in spring, letting Emily do the flat square between the flower beds and the start of the meadow. At tea she and Kate went over to see Beatrice, but then they all spent a quiet night in, eating mussels cooked in white wine and garlic with a long baguette and a bottle of Chablis for Renoir and Kate, watching the terrible Saturday night programmes on the TV that they had put into his office, along with a sofa and two armchairs, to let the room double as a snug. Kate went upstairs before him, and when the late-night movie had finished, Renoir found her sound asleep.
He was wakened early by Emily. ‘What’s up?’ he asked drowsily.
‘Rise and shine,’ she half shouted, while Kate groaned and disappeared under the duvet. ‘Let’s go to the White Horse.’ He let himself be cajoled, and got up and got dressed. He drank some coffee, depositing a cup of tea, milky with lots of sugar, on the bedside table for Kate, then drove out with Emily into the traffic-less morning along the Downs. They got out at the higher of the two car parks, and climbed to the very back of the earth fortifications which Emily loved; she ran up and down the sides of the grass moat. The wind picked up and he wished he had brought a kite. As they walked towards the downward slope of the vast hill, and the Bronze Age horse carved out of the chalk, the Thames Valley opened ahead of them, an asymmetrical checkerboard of cultivated fields, interspersed only with the odd clump of copse and the man-made intrusions of Swindon sprawling to the west, and Didcot with its towers to the east. Yet even the landscape was largely man-made, the land deforested and moulded according to the changing agricultural practices of millennia. Ironically, it was California, the newer land of swimming pools and plastic, that held more untouched wilderness, from the desert of the southeast corner to the redwoods stretching up the state’s north Pacific coast to Oregon.
A solitary visitor walked by with a black Labrador, and in the distance another early riser, with two small children, was playing out an immense red kite high up into the wind-swirled sky.
‘So how’s school, Ems?’ he asked dutifully as they stood on the ridge and caught their breath.
She sighed, and he regretted asking, though she didn’t actually answer. ‘We are going to California this summer, aren’t we, Renoir?’
He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. You’d better ask your mother.’
‘Oh, Renoir, please. You promised.’
‘I know I did, but the problem is, Emily, there’s so much to do here. I’ve got to ready the field for the apple plantings, and the Gatehouse still needs work.’ He was taken aback by the extent of the disappointment on her face. ‘We will go, Emily, I promise. But it may have to be later in the year. Christmas,’ he offered, trying to placate her. ‘Or Easter,’ he said. ‘California will still be there. It’s not going any place.’
‘But don’t you think it’s time to head home?’ she asked, in an odd singsong voice.
He stared at her, picturing the copperplate swirl of the writing, the garish colour of the Golden Gate Bridge on its picture side. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, looking away.
‘Was it you who sent me that postcard?’
He must have sounded angry. ‘It was only meant to be a joke, Renoir. I got one of the teachers to do the writing. I explained you were taking me there this summer. Don’t get cross,’ she pleaded.
‘I’m not cross,’ he said. And he wasn’t, simply relieved to discover that his paranoid imaginings of an anonymous enemy were so utterly misguided. He laughed, but saw that Emily was frowning. So he stopped and faced her, putting a hand lightly on her shoulder. ‘Why do you want to go to California so much?’ She lowered her eyes, not demurely but to avoid his gaze. ‘Come on, Emily, spit it out. What’s this really about?’
When she shrugged he took his hand away. ‘I don’t know,’ she said with a nervous, teenaged giggle. ‘I just thought it would be nice. For all of us. And maybe you and Mummy . . .’
‘Yes?’ he said, unable to keep a slightly insistent note out of his tone.
‘Well, you know, that maybe you and Mummy,’ she repeated and faltered again.
He said nothing, to avoid pre-empting her. At last she blurted out, ‘That maybe you and Mummy would get married.’
‘What?’ he said, and he laughed nervously, which made her laugh back at him in relief that she had at last come clean. ‘Why do you want us to get married?’ he asked. ‘People can love each other just as much without it.’
‘I know that,’ she said confidently, ‘but I bet it helps.’
Sunday he drove Emily back to school since Kate had work to do. The two of them had been snappish with each other much of the weekend, and he wondered if he was witnessing the prelude to the wars of adolescence he heard so much about from parents. Kate could be firm with Emily, which was no bad thing in Renoir’s view since although she was sweet tempered and very loving, Emily was also accustomed to getting what she wanted, including her own way. This weekend, however, Kate seemed oddly picky about trivial things, and as if to reciprocate Emily did her considerable best to wind up her mother.
The girl was quiet in the car, and when they arrived she said goodbye almost perfunctorily. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’ since usually he got a big hug goodbye, while he gave a promise of something to look forward to – the expedition to California, a theatre date in London, even just a trip to the White Horse. That way, if she were even half as miserable at school as he feared, she would have something to hold onto and get her through the worst patches. Tonight, however, she resisted his efforts at cheering her up.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she said with a blank face that said he was no longer inside the loop.
Christ, he thought, she’s edging me out. And then to his shame, he wondered, Has she got a secret too?
When he heard the shot he was in the kitchen, stuffing two small poussins with bread and fruit, enjoying the ample counter space of the butcher’s block Kate had insisted on. It came from close by – a shotgun. There were two more shots, even closer, too close for comfort, especially at night. Poachers? Perhaps. Poachers who probably didn’t know the Gatehouse now was occupied.
Kate was upstairs napping, and he didn’t want to disturb her. He grabbed his Barbour from the laundry room and a long metal flashlight, and stepped outside. He waited for a moment outside the back door, as his eyes tried to adjust to the dark of a moonless night. The wind was up and the air was nippy – there had to be a chance of a frost. He felt unprotected, having the American desire for a weapon. But Kate didn’t want a gun in the house, and he didn’t have a shotgun licence anyway.
There was another shot, which came from the direction of the Old Orchard. He took the path through the small copse which divided the ageing apple trees from the Gatehouse, turning on his torch to see his way. Shouting was pointless: the wind was too loud, alternately whistling and moaning.
On the edge of the orchard he stood quietly, with his flashlight pointed down. He could make out the rows of trees in the large clearing against the backdrop of woods leading to Treefall Down. At the end of one row he thought he saw the light of another torch, but when he stepped forward to get a clear view it was no longer there.
He felt exposed again. If these were poachers how would they take his sudden presence? Put another way, was he more likely to get shot intentionally, with his flashlight on, or accidentally, with it off? He didn’t fancy getting shot in either way, but felt that, having come out, he could not just slink back to the house. Sensing his own growing apprehension made
him determined to ignore it.
With his flashlight off, he walked the perimeter of the orchard but saw no one and no lights. Finishing his circuit, he started back towards the Gatehouse, and just before entering the copse he saw two figures ahead, turned sideways to him, one holding a torch and the other a raised gun. Boom. There was a loud guffaw. He turned on his own flashlight and walked quickly towards them. As he drew near, he saw it was Hal the keeper and young Stacey.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
Stacey’s face was hard to see in the dark, but Hal moved up and stood close to Renoir. ‘We’re after rabbits here. Shooting’s done now.’ Hal had been a sergeant in the Guards for twelve years, seen duty in several continents of the globe, and spoke perfectly clear English – except with Renoir, when he insisted on affecting a West Country twang, with the ‘ers’ and ‘ars’ of a Somerset cider drinker.
‘I know that, Hal. But you’re close to the house. Too close. I’d rather you didn’t shoot small game up here.’
‘Small game? Is that what you call it?’ He laughed, not pleasantly. ‘Vermin’s the word here, though I will stick one in the pot once in a while.’
Stick it up your ass if you want to, Renoir thought, but he kept his temper. ‘I don’t care what you do with them; I just don’t want you shooting them right outside our door.’
‘Mr Roddy wanted us to do this.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ He saw this wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and perhaps that was Hal’s point. ‘Neither does Kate.’
Hal smiled broadly. ‘Perhaps you’d ask her to have a word with her brother then. You see, it’s her brother what gives us our instructions.’
How Renoir wished he’d said ‘and pays our wages’, so he could have had the satisfaction of pointing out that, actually, Roddy usually didn’t. But he left it alone and walked down the path, suppressing his annoyance when he heard Hal give out a large derisive laugh behind him.
As he neared the Gatehouse he saw that someone was coming out the back door, a male figure framed by the light of the laundry room through the open door. It was Roddy, and as the door closed his silhouetted figure disappeared into the dark.
‘Roddy,’ he called out, rushing forward, and he saw him at the corner of the house.
‘Yes, Renoir?’ It was more imperious than questioning.
‘Are you looking for Kate? She’s in the bedroom upstairs.’
‘I found her,’ he said cheerfully, and started to move off.
Renoir called out, ‘Hal’s been shooting rabbits with Stacey in the Old Orchard.’
‘Splendid!’
Renoir ignored this. ‘I’d rather he did it in daylight. Or not at all. It was awful close.’
Roddy turned. ‘Oh no,’ he said, with a friendly air that was entirely unconvincing. ‘You’re much better off having a go in the dark. You can shine the little brutes that way. And, besides, it’s one of the perks of the keeper’s job.’ His voice softened unctuously. ‘Old as the hills. Mustn’t interfere with that. I’m afraid it’s another of our little traditions you’ll have to put up with.’ And this time he moved off into the dark before Renoir could reply.
Renoir took his time, hanging up his Barbour, turning off the lights in the tack room and kitchen. When he came into the hall the door to the sitting room was open and he saw a light on in his study at the far end of the house. When he walked through he found Kate, sitting in the room’s one armchair. A song was playing on the CD player they’d originally bought for Emily, and he recognised Aretha at once.
He started to smile, until he looked at Kate’s face and saw tears on both cheeks.
‘You okay?’ he said quietly, and she nodded.
‘Did Roddy upset you?’
She shrugged.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asked gently.
She roused herself enough to give a little snort. ‘With my brother there’s always a problem. And the problem’s always the same.’
‘Money.’
She nodded. ‘What else? I wouldn’t mind so much if he’d just come clean about it. But it’s always “next week the deal’s going through”. I honestly think he believes his own . . . crap. Until it’s too late and then he expects me to bail him out. At whatever cost . . . to me.’
She wiped her cheeks dry with her hand. ‘But you see, the alternative doesn’t leave me any choice, and he knows it. I mean, he is my brother, and then I think about Belfield, and how my father worked so hard to keep it, and my mother, who seems to think nothing will ever change simply because she doesn’t want it to change.’
He came over and kneeled down by the chair. With one hand he stroked Kate’s hair. ‘I wish you’d let me help. I don’t have to plant the trees this autumn, or buy the machinery.’
She shook her head, in a kind but weary way he didn’t like. ‘Renoir, you are so many things I admire, but one of them is not rich.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘Besides, I want you to plant the trees; I want you to start farming. It’s sweet of you, but there really isn’t any point.’
‘It’s that much money?’ he asked.
‘And then some,’ she said, with only half a laugh. She seemed to pull herself together. ‘You’ve caught me at a weak moment. Don’t worry, nothing’s changed. We’ll be fine, I promise. The deal will still go through, probably the week after next. It’s all in hand.’
‘That’s what worries me.’ She shrugged again, and he said, ‘I wish you’d tell me the whole story.’
To his surprise, he could feel the muscles in Kate’s neck tauten. ‘I haven’t lied to you,’ she said tartly.
‘Just not told me some things,’ he said gently.
‘Look who’s talking,’ she said bitterly. ‘What am I supposed to have lied about?’
‘Tuesdays,’ he said, and she looked at him in puzzlement. ‘You’re not seeing Indonesian oil men. Not at lunch-time anyway,’ he added, against his better judgement. If Kate could be so forthcoming at last, perhaps in a limited way he could let her know what he knew.
But it was a mistake, he saw at once, for colour was rising in Kate’s cheeks like the gauge of a warmed thermometer. ‘Who am I supposed to be seeing instead?’
He sighed and stood up. He turned to face Kate and found her staring at him defiantly. ‘Conrad Benedict,’ he said, deciding not to say where.
Her eyes widened into disbelieving moons, and for a split second he wondered whether he had been wrong, somehow got the whole thing horribly askew. But that was ridiculous, he just as quickly realised; he wasn’t living in a counterfactual world.
‘You think I’m sleeping with Conrad Benedict?’ She said this coolly, which Renoir found more disconcerting than outrage.
‘I did for a while,’ he admitted. ‘But I know you’re not.’
‘You know I’m not. How do you know that? What does that mean? Has someone said something to you?’ He shook his head. ‘Well then, how do you know? Have you been following me?’
‘No,’ he said which, he told himself, was strictly speaking true. Ricky had been following her. ‘Anyway, it’s your turn to explain. How can I help you if you won’t let me know what you’re up to?’
‘I don’t want you to help me. You can’t help me. Trying to help me is going to make things worse, so don’t touch it. Unless you already have.’ She was looking at him with a mix of suspicion and growing anger. ‘What have you done?’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said, unwilling to return her gaze. ‘Oh yes you have.’ She sat up in the chair, thinking hard. ‘Have you been spying on me?’ she demanded. ‘You have, haven’t you? Oh, Christ, just what have you found out?’
At a loss, he told the truth: ‘I think there is a scam being planned. It has to do with an oil company; I even think I know which one. It’s probably some kind of insider trading, though I don’t know how it’s going to be done. But Benedict’s used information about company results before, so I assume he’ll think of something.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ she sai
d in a rising wail. ‘You have been spying on me. With all your little gadgets and gizmos, no doubt. There’s probably a hidden camera in my handbag, and a microphone in Seymour’s office, and God knows what else from your pathetic little bag of tricks.’
He knew it was only vanity making him cross, and he thought, If I say anything it will only make things worse. We are near to saying the unforgivable.
She got up from the chair and he could see she was enraged. ‘Kate,’ he started to say, and put a hand out to touch her.
‘Don’t,’ she said sharply, and walked out of the room. She didn’t bother to slam the door. He heard her stalk across the sprung oak floor of the sitting room but stayed where he was. He thought he could hear Kate moving upstairs. Through the window outside he could see the tall protective alders on the far edge of the field moving in the wind, swaying like shaggy maypoles. He was confident Kate would come back downstairs once her anger had subsided.
He heard more bass-like rumbles from above and wondered whether he should go to her. Explain that he hadn’t been spying – well, he had been, but make her understand he had only done it for her sake. And he’d been right; she was heading for serious trouble. So why wouldn’t she let him help?
He listened to Aretha until the CD finished, then decided not to wait any more, and walked through the ground floor and climbed the stairs. There was only one light on, in their bedroom down the hall, and when he got to the doorway he saw to his surprise that Kate wasn’t there.
She had gone, after all, he realised, and through the window he saw a car’s rear lights moving down the track along the south side of Burdick’s Field. Had she taken the car, too? He would have to take the train back to London, he thought, until he saw a light on the roof of the car and realised it was one of the local taxis.
And he felt panicked by her departure, since she had never walked out on him before – not even out of a room when they were having a rare argument. And on the bed there was a note, scribbled on a piece of her London stationery, thick blue sheets from Smythson. I’ve gone back to London. Please don’t follow me there tonight. Or tomorrow night either. In fact, please don’t follow me any more at all.
Keeping Secrets Page 29
