Shifting Sands

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Anna?’ It was Harry’s voice, and she released her breath. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Oh, Harry, yes! My torch gave out, and I must have taken a wrong turning.’

  He loomed up beside her, the planes of his face grotesquely lit by the upward light from his torch. ‘I thought that might have happened. I was watching out for you and, when you didn’t reappear, thought I’d better come and investigate.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said shakily.

  ‘So what’s your hut number?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘We’re twenty. You’re not far off – it’s just along here.’

  Minutes later, they reached her hut, and Harry waited while she opened the door and put on the light.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t thank you enough for coming to look for me. I might have ended up as something’s supper!’

  He laughed. ‘Any time! Sleep well.’

  And, locking the door, Anna leant against it and drew a deep breath. She was safely back in her own space, but she couldn’t help wishing she’d not overheard Lewis’s oddly disturbing phone call.

  THREE

  While, across the world, Anna was standing on ostrich eggs and stroking cheetahs, her daughter’s life back in London was considerably more prosaic.

  Sophie Craig ran down the steps of the tube escalator and through the train doors just as they were closing, collapsing on to a seat with a sigh of relief. She was already late for her lunch date; there’d been a series of hold-ups at the studio, which were still unresolved.

  Sophie ran a designer knitwear business, and while most garments were made to order and sold direct to the public, they also supplied a couple of boutiques who, at the beginning of each season, liked to order a small stock. This morning, there’d been some doubt as to whether the quantity requested could be delivered in the time required.

  To be honest, she could have done without this lunch. Fond though she was of Imogen – they’d been friends since schooldays – at recent meetings there’d been hints of marital discord, which, since Roger was also a friend, Sophie found uncomfortable hearing.

  Reaching her station, she threaded her way through the crowded underground and along the pavement to the restaurant. Imogen, of course, was already there and raised a hand to attract her attention.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. A hiccup with an order.’

  Imogen nodded. ‘They’re bringing wine. I know you don’t normally drink at lunchtime, but I’m in dire need of it, so I hope you’ll make an exception.’

  ‘One glass, then; I must keep a clear head.’ Sophie sat back, steeling herself for the latest diatribe. ‘So why the need for alcohol?’

  Imogen’s eyes filled with tears, and Sophie leant quickly forward, taking her hand. ‘Imo, what is it?’

  ‘Aunt Em died suddenly at the weekend.’

  ‘Oh, no! I am sorry – what happened?’

  ‘We don’t know – that’s the awful part. We went to dinner last week, and she was fine. In fact, she was looking better than she had for years. Then –’ she gave a hiccuping little gasp – ‘Uncle found her dead in bed yesterday morning. There . . . has to be a post-mortem.’

  ‘Oh, Imo!’ Sophie had known Imogen’s Aunt Em and her husband for most of her life, and also called them Aunt and Uncle. The couple were childless and had frequently taken the two girls on weekends away or, when they were younger, to the annual pantomime. ‘How’s Uncle Ted?’

  ‘Distraught, as you can imagine. Unbelieving might be a better word – he can’t seem to take it in. Mum and Dad are staying there for the moment.’

  ‘I must write to him.’

  The wine waiter was approaching, and Imogen hastily dried her eyes.

  ‘Sorry to spring that on you,’ she apologized as, having filled their glasses, he moved away. ‘Particularly as it’ll bring back your own loss.’

  After a moment, Sophie said quietly, ‘You’ll let us know when the funeral is?’

  ‘Of course; though what with the inquest and post-mortem, it won’t be for a while.’

  ‘It was probably something she’s had for some time and not known about,’ Sophie suggested, wondering, as she spoke, whether that would make it better or worse. ‘She was younger than your mother, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’ Imogen’s voice rocked. ‘Fifty-two last week. That’s why we went to dinner.’

  ‘Oh God, Imo, I’m so, so sorry.’

  Imogen fished in her bag for a handkerchief. ‘Let’s change the subject, before we both end up in tears.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘So – how’s my god-daughter?’

  ‘Fine. We spoke about a week ago, and she told me she’d texted Ma. Which reminded me that I hadn’t, so I hastily did so.’

  ‘Of course – she’s in South Africa, isn’t she? How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine, as far as we know. You heard Beatrice Hardy had to drop out, after breaking her arm?’

  ‘No! Your mother’s never gone by herself?’

  ‘No option. Jon and I were really worried, but she insisted she’d be all right, so she’s not likely to admit it if she’s not.’ Sophie paused, then, crossing mental fingers, added, ‘Apart from Aunt Em, how are things with you?’

  ‘Much the same. Daisy’s nagging to go on a school trip, and Roger’s digging his heels in, pointing out she’s already had one this year, and it’s Jack’s turn.’ She flicked a glance at Sophie. ‘Believe me, there are advantages in having only one: it halves your problems.’

  Sophie smiled without commenting. Having become engaged, and then married, in the same year, she and Imogen had gone on to have their first (and, in Sophie’s case, only) child within a month of each other. They’d confidently expected their daughters to become friends and follow the family tradition, but unfortunately the girls had disliked each other from babyhood, and after being sent to the same prep school with disastrous results, were now at separate boarding schools.

  ‘So, of course,’ Imogen continued tiredly, ‘Daisy’s in a strop and refusing to answer texts, and Jack’s going round looking smug.’

  ‘Were we so bolshie at thirteen?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘Very probably. What about Jonathan? Any developments there?’

  Sophie shrugged. ‘I think for two pins he’d go home, if Vicky’d have him.’

  Imogen looked surprised. ‘And won’t she?’

  ‘The last I heard, he was screwing up his courage to ask her.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Which reminds me, I said I’d invite him for a meal. I must do that. Like to come along?’

  Imogen brightened. ‘Thanks; it would be good to see him again.’

  ‘I’ll phone this evening and fix a date.’

  The dinner was arranged for Thursday, and Angus Craig made the requested detour to the off-licence on his way home. Though normally he enjoyed hosting dinner parties, basking in the reflected glory of his wife’s culinary skills, he had reservations about this one. The death of Imogen’s aunt, not to mention the apparently difficult patch she and Roger were going through, did not augur for a light-hearted evening, even without Jonathan’s agonizing over his wife and family.

  Pity about Roger and Imo, though; he hoped they’d sort things out. Strange, now, to think that fifteen years ago, he’d met Sophie and Imogen the same evening and debated which to ask to dance. Perhaps because of that, he’d always had a soft spot for Imogen. With her large eyes and silky, caramel-coloured hair, she brought out his protective instincts; whereas Sophie, then as now, had little need of anyone’s protection.

  Roger had come on the scene soon after, and the four had remained close friends, though to the casual observer it might seem the Fates had their wires crossed; Roger, tall, blue-eyed and supremely confident, at first glance seemed more suited to Sophie, and Angus himself, sandy-haired, shorter and stockier, to Imogen.

  But appearances could be deceptive, and there were no crossed wires. Both marriages – up to now, at least – had been happy, and he was inordinatel
y proud of his wife, relishing the knowledge that men’s eyes followed her wherever she went. It wasn’t only that she was lovely, with her silver-gold hair and perfect bone structure; she had a – he searched for the right word – a bearing, a presence, that commanded attention, aided by her unerring dress sense, so necessary in her line of work.

  His musings had brought him to his gate, and as he went up the path he abandoned them with a feeling of relief, readying himself for the evening ahead.

  Despite his reservations, the evening was going well, Angus reflected thankfully. There’d been no sign of strain among their guests, and in fact Roger invited everyone to a supper party in a month’s time.

  ‘Isn’t that around your birthday?’ Sophie asked, wrinkling her brow.

  He laughed. ‘Well spotted, but strictly no presents. Honestly. If you really feel you can’t come empty-handed, make it a bottle of plonk we can all enjoy.’

  Jonathan, too, seemed in good form, and as they sat over coffee and brandy, intrigued them with a story about a French girl who’d arranged to meet him, then got cold feet and clammed up.

  ‘Anyway, she’s history,’ he finished. ‘Steve and I are now working on something else.’

  ‘Pity you’ll never know her story, though,’ Imogen commented.

  Jonathan shrugged. ‘Win some, lose some – that’s how it goes.’

  ‘I hear you’ve packed your mother off on safari,’ Roger remarked, passing him the cream jug. ‘Have you heard how she’s getting on?’

  ‘Only spasmodically. Ma finds texting somewhat laborious, bless her, partly because she insists on spelling everything out in full. Consequently her messages are brief and to the point. We gather she’s with a good crowd and has met some pleasant people, but any descriptions of the veldt, charging rhinos or rogue elephants will have to wait till we see her.’

  Later, as they prepared for bed, Angus asked if Jonathan had approached Vicky about his return to the fold.

  ‘He’s not had the chance,’ Sophie told him. ‘She’s been out on his last couple of visits.’

  ‘Delaying tactics?’

  ‘Almost certainly. It’s a pity Ma’s not here, to put in a good word for him. Vicky listens to Ma.’

  ‘Imo and Roger seemed OK, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, thankfully. Perhaps Aunt Em’s death put everything into perspective.’

  ‘Do you know what the trouble was?’ A rhetorical question; he knew that Sophie, though she bossed her friend mercilessly, wouldn’t betray her confidence.

  ‘Nothing drastic,’ she said dismissively. ‘Imo’s a romantic and believes in happy-ever-after. If there’s a hiccup, she’s inclined to panic.’

  She lifted the corner of the duvet and slid into bed. ‘So you can stop speculating, and come and make love to me.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am!’ he said.

  Roger and Imogen did not make love that night. He fell asleep straight away, but she lay for some time, staring into the darkness.

  Why couldn’t she take everything in her stride, as Sophie did? She and Angus had rows, Imogen knew, but Sophie remained unruffled. There’d be a brief spat, and then it was over, whereas when things were out of kilter between herself and Roger, the world rocked on its axis. And those times had become increasingly frequent.

  Listening to his even breathing, she tried to analyse them. Mostly, they concerned the children; Roger maintained she was too lenient with them, which he blamed for both Daisy’s spikiness and Jack’s cheek. But then Roger’s father was a headmaster, and he’d been brought up with stricter discipline than was usual nowadays. Consequently, she had on occasion been guilty of shielding the children from his anger, concealing Jack’s regular detention after school and Daisy’s equally regular requests for money, which she secretly supplied; and when, almost inevitably, such instances came to light, Roger, also inevitably, lost his temper.

  ‘How are we ever going to teach them right from wrong, when you repeatedly undermine me?’ he’d demand. ‘We must present a united front, or they’ll continue to play us off against each other.’

  She knew, of course, that he was right. It was just that she couldn’t resist the children’s pleading, well practised though she knew it to be. But though Tamsin was as difficult as Daisy – which was some consolation – Sophie and Angus seemed as unfazed by it as by everything else.

  It had been through Sophie’s coming to her rescue in the playground that their friendship began. Though they’d started school together, Sophie had been spared the harassment routinely handed out to ‘new girls’, principally, Imogen suspected, because the possibility of it had never even occurred to her. Supremely self-confident, she treated everyone as her friend, thus disarming those who might have tried to belittle her, and that same assurance led her to face the bullies on Imogen’s behalf, rather than herd with the favoured few. And to some extent, Imogen thought humbly, Sophie had been fighting her battles for her ever since.

  ‘You should have more backbone, Imo,’ she’d say. ‘It’s no use wilting at the first sign of opposition, then whining about it afterwards.’

  Wilting and whining. Sophie had never been one to mince her words, but as usual she was right.

  ‘Why do you let her boss you about like that?’ Roger would ask in exasperation, but Imogen knew the bossing was without malice and in her own best interest. She and Sophie were opposites in many respects, but their friendship was a strong bond, important to both of them. If only, she thought again, she could be more like her.

  And, having come full circle, Imogen turned on her side and at last went to sleep.

  That weekend, instead of phoning to arrange when to collect the boys, Jonathan called at the house on Friday evening, taking Vicky by surprise.

  Seeing him on the step, her eyes widened, but before she could speak, he said quickly, ‘Could we have a word?’

  Her instinctive glance towards the stairs confirmed that the boys were playing in their rooms, which, knowing their routine, he’d counted on.

  ‘You’re not wanting to take them out now?’ she asked in confusion, moving aside as he came into the hall.

  ‘No, but lately you’ve not been around when I’ve called, and we need to talk.’

  Her eyes fell. ‘As I said on the phone, Jonathan, there’s nothing to talk about.’

  He put a hand under her elbow and, not wanting to alert his sons to his presence, steered her gently into the sitting room and closed the door.

  ‘And as I said on the phone, there’s the hell of a lot, principally,’ he continued, raising his voice above her protest, ‘that I’ve been a selfish bastard, and I’m truly sorry.’

  She stared at him, and he went on more quietly, ‘Really, Vic, I’ve had time to think things over, and I’m only surprised you stuck it as long as you did. I’ve been as miserable as sin these last months, and believe me, things will be very different if you’ll just let me come home.’

  Her eyes filled with tears, but as he instinctively moved towards her, she held up a hand. ‘No – wait. How do I know you’re not just missing home comforts, and when you’ve been back a while, you’ll revert to your old ways? They were pretty . . . ingrained.’

  ‘I know I got away with it far too long, but that’s over, I promise.’ He paused. ‘Look, we could have a trial period, if you like. I could even sleep in the spare room, if it would make things easier.’

  ‘It’d be an interesting news item for show-and-tell, that’s for sure.’

  He answered her half-smile. ‘Well, I’m certainly not pressing it; I’m just trying to say I won’t rush things. We can take it as slowly as you like, but perhaps –’ his eyes strayed to the bar unit – ‘we could at least have a drink on it?’

  Vicky wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I think we might manage that,’ she said.

  Jonathan joined them for supper on Saturday, much to the boys’ delight.

  ‘Is your work in London finished, Daddy?’ Tom enquired, eyes shining.

  Work
had been the cover story which, for the first month or two, both boys had accepted. Lately, though, they’d started asking why he stayed with Granny on his visits, and though his mother’s recent bereavement provided an excuse, it was one he was increasingly uncomfortable with.

  ‘Almost,’ he replied guardedly.

  Vicky came to his rescue. ‘Perhaps, when Daddy takes you out next weekend, I could come too – make it a family outing.’

  ‘Like it used to be,’ Tim said, nodding with satisfaction.

  ‘But much better!’ Jonathan added, and, catching Vicky’s eye, they exchanged a smile.

  The world was suddenly a brighter place, and there was a spring in his step when he returned to London.

  ‘I must say you’re much better company,’ Steve remarked a couple of days later as they ate their evening meal. ‘The only thing that puzzles me is why you didn’t make this move weeks ago.’

  ‘Because I’ve only just realized how objectionable I’ve been,’ Jonathan said frankly. ‘Up till then, I was convinced Vicky was at least partly to blame.’

  ‘So you’re now a reformed character?’ Steve’s raised eyebrow expressed doubt.

  ‘You’d better believe it. If things go wrong again, it will definitely be curtains. I can’t risk that.’

  His mobile cut off Steve’s reply. The number showing was not one he recognized, and he frowned, resenting the interruption of his evening. ‘Hello?’ he said brusquely, then stiffened, signalling Steve to come and listen.

  ‘This is Elise, Mr Farrell.’ She paused, and when he made no comment, went on falteringly, ‘I am sorry to trouble you again, but I need to speak with you after all, if you could please meet me?’

  Jonathan and Steve raised their eyebrows at each other.

  ‘I’m not sure that I can,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m engaged on other work now.’

  ‘But please, I implore you!’ A note of urgency crept into her voice. ‘I do not know where else to turn.’

  ‘What guarantee have I you won’t change your mind again and refuse to say anything?’