Shifting Sands

by Anthea Fraser

  His parents’ room, as he still thought of it, was as tidy as usual and held a faint remembrance of his mother’s scent, sharp and citrous. His father’s silver-backed brushes still stood on the tallboy, and Jonathan felt a tightening in his chest. The unexpected death should have drawn himself and Vicky closer, but, sadly, it hadn’t. He’d refused her attempts at comfort, preferring to keep his grief fiercely private, and knew she’d felt rebuffed. She’d been very fond of her father-in-law, but he’d been little help in her grieving.

  He deposited his bag in his boyhood room, which he’d been allocated during these visits. The narrow bed was made up with clean sheets, and there were a couple of Reader’s Digest magazines on the bedside table. Familiar books lined the shelves – paperbacks of Rex Stout and Raymond Chandler for the most part – and the walls bore traces of long-removed posters from his teenage years.

  On his first visit, he’d automatically turned towards the guest room, but his mother redirected him, saying matter-of-factly, ‘You’re behaving like a schoolboy, so you might as well sleep there.’ And she’d been right, damn it, though he’d only just acknowledged the fact.

  Jonathan glanced at his watch. Eight thirty. The traffic had been slow coming out of London, typical for a Friday evening, and he’d not yet eaten. He knew an assortment of dishes awaited him in the freezer, but first he must touch base with Vicky, and his mouth went dry at the prospect. Returning downstairs, he poured himself a tumbler of whisky. Then, his heart beating uncomfortably, he picked up the phone.

  ‘Vicky . . .’

  ‘Hello, Jonathan.’ Unlike his own, her voice sounded cool and calm.

  ‘Just . . . clocking in. OK if I come round about ten in the morning?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I was wondering if we might have a word before I take the boys out?’

  A pause, then: ‘I’m afraid I shan’t be here; Doris will stay with them till you arrive.’

  His preconceived plans collapsing around him, Jonathan hastily tried to regroup. ‘Perhaps when I bring them back, then?’

  ‘I don’t think so, do you? There doesn’t seem much to say.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ he said harshly, ‘there’s the hell of a lot! Vicky, I—’

  ‘I can’t talk now; Sally and Robert are here. The boys will be ready at ten o’clock. Goodbye, Jonathan.’ And she put the phone down.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he said aloud. Well, there was still Sunday. Having geared himself up to a discussion, he’d no intention of returning to London without one. But the delay had wrong-footed him, increasing the inevitable awkwardness, and there was no way he could shunt the boys out of the way without her cooperation.

  He swallowed a mouthful of whisky, standing irresolutely in the middle of the sitting room. He’d thought it would be easier without his mother’s disapproving presence, but he’d been wrong. If she were here, he might even have asked her advice. She and Vicky were close, and it was no secret whose side she was on.

  He looked round the room, suddenly filled with nostalgia. He’d known this house most of his life, but it was too big for one person, and once Ma was over the worst of her grief, it would make sense to put it on the market. But how many memories were tied up in it! Christmas dinners round the table in the dining room – Dad and Ma, himself and Sophie, and whichever relations happened to be staying over the holiday. Candlelight and Christmas trees and laughter. How long ago it all seemed.

  It was from here that he’d left for boarding school and, later, university; here that he’d brought Vicky to introduce her to his parents, and from here he’d set out for his wedding.

  His eyes fell on the Doulton figure on a side table, and another memory stirred. The day Tom had taken his first steps, he’d lurched against the table, knocking the ornament to the floor and breaking off its head. Jonathan had been mortified, but his parents took it in their stride. It had been repaired, and only a very close eye would discern the faint line on the neck.

  He sighed, swallowed the last of his whisky, and went to forage in the freezer. Food should put paid to this reminiscing.

  It was an hour later, as he’d finished eating and was watching the News at Ten, that the phone rang. He snatched it up. ‘Vicky?’

  A light laugh, then his sister’s voice. ‘Sorry, no!’

  ‘Hi, Sophie. How are things?’

  ‘Fine with us. More to the point, how are they with you?’

  ‘OK, I suppose. I’ve just been wallowing in nostalgia, thinking how we’ll miss this place if Ma decides to sell.’

  ‘Bricks and mortar, Jon, that’s all it is. She had a good flight, incidentally; no jet lag, but then there’s only an hour’s time difference.’

  ‘Talk about breaking news! How the hell do you know that?’

  ‘Tamsin just phoned and mentioned that she’d texted her.’

  Tamsin, at present away at boarding school, was his thirteen-year-old niece, and, in Jonathan’s opinion, a right little madam. ‘So how’s it going so far?’

  ‘Well, you know Ma. She’d rather die than admit she wasn’t enjoying herself, especially to us, when we talked her into going.’

  ‘So what did she say?’

  ‘That she went up Table Mountain and saw some funny creatures called rock rabbits.’

  ‘Nothing earth-shattering, then.’

  Sophie homed in on his opening query. ‘Are you expecting Vicky to ring?’

  Damn; he’d hoped she’d forgotten that. ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘You have spoken to her, since you arrived?’

  ‘Yes, and arranged to pick up the boys tomorrow.’

  ‘So why might it have been her on the phone?’

  He sighed. ‘If you must know, I’d suggested having a discussion, but she gave me short shrift. I hoped she might have changed her mind.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘You want to go back, then?’

  ‘In a word, yes.’

  ‘You’re going to change your wicked ways?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sophie! I’m in no mood for flippancy.’

  ‘Poor love, you do sound down. You must come and have a meal one evening.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Was that why you rang?’

  ‘Partly, and partly just to see how you are, rattling around in an empty house.’

  ‘Not enjoying it much, to be frank. Still, there’s a freezer-full of goodies, so at least I shan’t starve.’

  ‘Well, don’t brood. Vicky hasn’t been too happy since you left, so if you want to make up, come straight out and say so.’

  ‘That was my intention, but she foiled it.’

  ‘Then try again; you can’t give up at the first hurdle. And I’ll phone you during the week, when you’re back in town.’

  She rang off. Why hadn’t he thought of texting Ma? Jonathan wondered. Probably because he seldom texted anyone, preferring a vocal exchange. Nonetheless, phone calls to South Africa would be prohibitive, and at least it was a means of making contact. Provided, that is, she had her mobile switched on, which she probably wouldn’t have for most of the time. He’d give it a try in a day or two.

  As he shelved that problem, more immediate ones returned, threatening to overwhelm him. Trouble was, he’d too much time on his hands. He’d be able to think more positively if he could only land some work.

  For several more minutes he watched the images on the screen, muted when the phone rang, then he turned up the sound and settled down to watch the next programme.

  A couple of hours later, drifting off to sleep, the last face that filled his mind was, surprisingly, not that of his wife or sons, but of the reticent, enigmatic Elise.

  TWO

  Reaching her hotel room, Anna Farrell dropped her handbag on the bed and ran her fingers through her hair. She was still considerably shaken – an unusual experience for one who prided herself on her self-control. Even when Miles had died so unexpectedly, she’d maintained her public persona, a rock to her children’s grief,
succumbing to tears only in the privacy of her bedroom.

  Which was why, when Beatrice had dropped out of this holiday, and Jon and Sophie worried she’d be on her own, she’d shrugged off their concern. ‘Of course I’ll be all right, darlings,’ she’d told them breezily. ‘We’ll be in a group, after all. I’ll soon make friends.’

  In fact, their group consisted mainly of couples, threesomes and foursomes, and though everyone was friendly enough, she was chary of encroaching. The only other single travellers – a young man of about twenty and two women, one young and one middle-aged – were, unfortunately, the people she least wanted to spend her holiday with. And to make matters worse, the tour manager, determined no one should be left out, was already herding the singles together. On today’s coach trip, Anna had eluded her only by sitting next to the odd member of a threesome, a pleasant woman in her forties.

  But all that, she could cope with. What had disturbed her was her totally unforeseen reaction when, over lunch, the background music suddenly switched to a tune she’d danced to with Miles, and, to her utter horror, her eyes had filled with tears. (What was it Noel Coward said, about the potency of cheap music?) She was pretty sure no one noticed, but it had taken all her control not to break down completely. And God knows what would have happened then. She’d remained on edge all afternoon, terrified some other trigger might set her off again. And it was only the third day of the holiday.

  She moved to the dressing table and studied her reflection. To her relief, she looked much as usual – a tall, slim woman of fifty-five, with short, silver-blonde hair curving towards her face and grey eyes, mercifully untinged with red, staring back at her.

  So far, so good. She drew a deep breath and went to have a shower.

  Her party had again gathered in the bar, and Anna, a smile plastered to her face, ordered a gin and tonic and drifted to the nearest group, which included the tour manager. One of the men smiled at her.

  ‘We’ve been asking Edda’s help in putting names to people,’ he said. ‘I don’t think . . .?’

  ‘Anna Farrell,’ she supplied.

  ‘Hi, Anna. I’m Harry Bell, this is my wife Susan, and our friends Bill and Prue Dyson. We met in Australia four years ago and have holidayed together ever since.’

  Anna was grateful for the clarification; she hadn’t yet managed to identify everyone. ‘I should have come with a friend,’ she explained carefully, ‘but unfortunately she broke her arm two weeks ago and had to cry off.’

  ‘What bad luck – for both of you!’

  ‘She insisted I write a detailed diary, to show her when I get home.’

  ‘I saw you making notes,’ remarked the woman called Prue.

  Anna smiled. ‘I’m not sure how long I can keep it up!’

  Other people came to join them, more names were exchanged, and talk became general. But when the time came to go in for dinner, the groups automatically reformed, leaving Anna to trail somewhat disconsolately after them, unsure which table to join.

  Edda, at the dining-room door, saw her hesitation. ‘There’s a seat over there,’ she said helpfully, indicating a table where the other singles had already gathered, and, since she’d no choice, Anna obediently complied. At the adjacent table, one of the men who comprised a threesome caught her eye and half-smiled, and, detecting a hint of sympathy, she flushed, hoping her lack of enthusiasm hadn’t been obvious.

  The younger woman, Anna remembered, was Shelley, the middle-aged one Jean, and the boy Tony. It soon became clear Jean would dominate the conversation, added to which, she had a high, affected voice that Anna found grating.

  By the end of the first course, they’d learned that Jean came from Hampshire, that she usually holidayed with ‘Iris’, who’d unfortunately double-booked this year (lucky Iris!), that she had two dogs – a spaniel and a terrier, which she’d put into kennels and was already missing – and that she was glad it hadn’t been too hot so far, because she came up in blisters in the heat. By the bored look on both Shelley’s and Tony’s faces, Anna deduced all this information was for her benefit and the others had already been regaled with it.

  Glancing up as her plate was removed, she again met the eye of her neighbour, who humorously raised an eyebrow, and, suppressing a smile, she hastily looked away. Jean’s voice droned on, fortunately requiring no response, until finally, as she paused for a sip of wine, Anna broke in quickly, ‘And where do you come from, Shelley?’

  Shelley started, her attention obviously having been wandering. ‘Bournemouth,’ she said.

  ‘Lucky you! I spent a holiday there once. Do you work there too?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I’m a hotel receptionist.’

  ‘That must be interesting, meeting new people all the time.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Anna could only hope she was more forthcoming with her visitors. In desperation, she turned to Tony and, after some fairly laboured questioning, learned that he was taking a gap year after leaving college, and would then work in his father’s car-hire business.

  Throughout these exchanges, Jean had sat in silence, lips pressed together, and when Anna, running out of questions, paused, she immediately reclaimed the initiative, embarking on a story of one of her previous holidays with the redoubtable Iris.

  The band had started to play, and Anna tensed, praying their choice of music wouldn’t put her to the test. The meal seemed interminable, and when, at last, they’d finished their dessert, she immediately rose to her feet.

  ‘We’ve an early start tomorrow, so I think I’ll go straight up,’ she said, pre-empting alternative suggestions. ‘Goodnight, everyone.’ And she walked quickly out of the dining room.

  In the hall, however, someone touched her arm, and she turned quickly, fearing she’d been followed. But it was the woman from the next table who was smiling at her.

  ‘We wondered if you’d care to join us for coffee?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I—’

  ‘Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but we thought you looked in need of rescue!’

  Anna smiled back. ‘How dreadful of me, to have given that impression!’

  ‘Not at all; we shouldn’t have been eavesdropping. But you will join us?’

  ‘Thank you, I’d like to.’

  She was escorted to the bar, where the two men who made up the threesome stood at their approach.

  ‘I’m Wendy Salter,’ the woman continued. ‘This is my husband, George, and our very good friend, Lewis Masters.’

  ‘Anna Farrell.’ She shook hands, unsure, from Wendy’s vague gesture, which was her husband.

  ‘Can we get you a coffee?’

  ‘If they have decaffeinated, yes, please; anything stronger, and I shouldn’t sleep.’

  The coffee duly arrived, and there was a moment’s brief silence. Then Wendy asked, ‘Have you been to South Africa before?’

  ‘No, but I’ve wanted to come for some time. It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Thank goodness for digital cameras, or Lord knows how many films I’d get through! Have you got one?’

  ‘Yes, my . . . husband gave it to me, the Christmas before last.’ Careful!

  ‘But he wasn’t able to come with you?’

  Anna took a deep breath. ‘Sadly, he died last year.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry! How tactless of me!’

  ‘Not at all.’ She smiled tightly. ‘I should have come with a friend, but she had to cancel at the last minute.’

  The conversation veered to less personal topics as they discussed previous holidays, the hotel, and the itinerary ahead of them. After the stresses of the meal, Anna found it pleasant to relax and enjoy the company of people her own age.

  Wendy Salter was small and plump, her light-brown hair merging almost imperceptibly to grey, her eyes bright blue, and her round face breaking easily into smiles. Of the two men, her husband, George – whom Anna had now identified – was heavily buil
t and jovial, while Lewis Masters, who’d smiled at her at dinner, proved harder to analyse. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, the grooves between his eyes suggested stress of some kind, and his movements were quick and decisive, almost, at times, impatient. What, Anna wondered, had brought these quite different personalities together?

  It was almost eleven when they left the bar, and she was glad none of her dinner companions was around to note that she hadn’t, after all, had an early night. Nor, when she finally reached her bed, did sleep come easily. Memories of the tune she’d heard at lunchtime replayed in her head, and, in its wake, Miles’s face came sharply into focus, filling her mind with an image so familiar, so immediate, that she actually gasped with the pain of it.

  A wave of desolation swept over her, and hot tears trickled down her cheeks into her pillow. She shouldn’t have let Jon and Sophie talk her into this holiday. More to the point, she shouldn’t have insisted on going ahead when Beatrice had to drop out. Now, she was going to be stuck with the three incompatible people she’d sat with at dinner, an odd-one-out who belonged nowhere.

  Despairingly, she buried her face in her pillow and wept.

  They left the hotel at eight the next morning, and as Anna boarded the coach, hoping she might somehow evade the ‘singles’, Wendy again came to her rescue, patting the seat beside her.

  ‘Come and join me, Anna! The men are talking cricket, so I’m opting out!’

  Anna slid in gratefully beside her. The morning was cool and dull, with the promise of rain in the air. Table Mountain, visible from the hotel, was wearing its ‘table cloth’, its top shrouded in mist.

  ‘Let’s hope it clears,’ Wendy commented, ‘or we won’t be able to see any distance.’

  Edda, the tour manager, was counting heads, and, having checked all were present, she signalled to the driver and took up her microphone.

  ‘As you know, today we’ll be driving down the Cape Peninsula,’ she began, and as she started to describe the countryside through which they’d be travelling, Anna, mindful of her duty, took out her notebook.