by Anne Mather
Mellor Terrace looked much the same as usual, and after paying the driver, Emma mounted the steps to Number 17 with lowering spirits. It was all very well telling herself that this was where she belonged, that David needed her; and quite another to contemplate his reactions to her after a week’s absence. They had hardly parted on the best of terms, and the memory of the blow he had struck her was still there like an open sore that refused to heal. There was no evidence of it now, of course, and no doubt his mother would never believe her son could have done such a thing. But he had, and she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t felt some trepidation as she inserted her key in the lock.
There was no one about as she walked the length of the hall, and turning into the drawing room, she dumped her case on the threshold and looked thoughtfully about her. Mrs Ingram had done little in the way of housework in her absence. There was a film of dust covering polished surfaces, and the ashes of the previous night’s fire still lay in the grate.
It would have been easy then to give in to the tears that irresistibly burned at the backs of her eyes, but she knew emotionalism was not what was needed. This was her home. She had left it. It was up to her to restore it to order.
But where was David—and his mother? She went out into the hall again and called: ‘David, I’m home!’ Her voice echoed hollowly up the stairs and, shedding her coat, she picked up her case again and carried it up to her bedroom.
Mrs Ingram had apparently been sleeping in her bed. The older woman’s belongings were strewn haphazardly over chair and dressing table, and a film of the powder she invariably used was spilt on the rug beside the bed.
Refusing to allow herself to feel any indignation that David’s mother should have chosen to use her room instead of one of the others, Emma carried her case out of that room again and entered the larger of the spare rooms, putting her case down on the divan, and opening it with controlled movements. She extracted the soiled garments and carried them into the bathroom, dopping them into an already overflowing linen basket, and then went downstairs again.
She was making herself a cup of tea in the kitchen when the front door opened and David and his mother came in. They were talking and laughing together, but their conversation was quickly stilled when Emma went to stand at the open kitchen door.
‘Hello,’ she said, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. ‘You’re back.’
‘That’s my cue, surely,’ remarked David shortly, levering himself back into the wheelchair. Coming up and down the steps into the house, he was forced to use his sticks, the weight of the chair with him in it being too great for a woman to cope with. He lifted his legs on to the rest one by one, and then straightened to look at her. ‘What happened?’
Emma shrugged, running her palms along the sides of her arms. ‘Not a lot. How—how have you been?’
Mrs Ingram had closed the door and was presently standing with one hand possessively on the back of David’s chair, and it was she who answered that question with another of her own: ‘Do you really care?’
‘Mother!’ To Emma’s surprise David came to her defence. ‘Leave it, will you? She’s back now. We should be—grateful for small mercies.’
Mrs Ingram sniffed, brushing past him to go up the stairs. ‘I’ll go and pack my things, then, shall I?’ she said tersely. ‘You won’t need me now that your wife’s come back.’
David looked as though he might protest the truth of that, and then seemed to change his mind. Instead, he rolled his chair down the hall towards Emma, saying peevishly: ‘I’m cold. Are you making tea, because I could certainly do with a cup.’
Emma hesitated only a moment, not knowing whether he expected her to kiss him or not, and then walked jerkily across to where she had left the teapot when she heard them coming in. ‘I’ve made the tea,’ she declared, taking down another cup from the rack and setting it in its saucer. ‘I needed a cup, too.’
David waited while she poured the steaming liquid, then he said levelly: ‘When did you get back? Mother and I have been out since this morning. We went into Stratford to do some shopping, and had lunch out.’
Emma hid her surprise. Lunches out were an infrequent luxury, and knowing the precarious state of their finances, she guessed David must have had another commission from Harry Langley. It was a relief to know that this month’s bills would not be the excuse for one of those awful rows David created because of their shortage of money, and she managed to smile as she handed him his tea.
‘I got back about half an hour ago,’ she offered then, perching on the corner of the table. ‘Has—er—has everything been all right?’
David looked down into his cup for a moment, before lifting his head and saying: ‘We’ve managed.’ Then, after a pregnant pause, he added: ‘Emma, about what happened before—before you left.’
‘Yes?’
Emma was wary, but David’s expression was not aggressive. ‘I feel I ought to—apologise,’ he declared, with uncharacteristic humility. ‘I—well, I guess I lost my head. I want you to know it won’t happen again.’
Feeling the need to sit down, Emma dragged out a chair from under the table and sank into it weakly. ‘You mean that?’
A trace of irritation crossed his face at her words, but he nodded, continuing gruffly: ‘I’ve said so, haven’t I? If you can forget it, then so will I.’
‘Forget what, David?’ Emma smoothed the pad of her index finger along the table. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you mean.’
He glanced behind him irritably, obviously concerned that his mother might reappear at any moment. ‘You know,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve disposed of—of the evidence, and so far as I’m concerned, it never happened.’
Emma expelled her breath on a faint sigh. ‘And the other?’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Can’t we—make a fresh start? Begin again? We were happy once.’
Were they? Emma doubted they had ever known that enviable state. Reasonably content, perhaps. Resigned, certainly. But happy? Happiness was something she never considered her right and privilege. And until she had discovered David’s secret, she had not questioned the loyalty she had always given him.
‘I—I’ve been thinking things over, too,’ she said carefully, and saw the way his hands tightened on the arm of his chair. ‘I—I’m prepared to overlook your—your relationship with—with that girl, providing you’re prepared to make an effort to—to stop feeling sorry for yourself.’
‘To stop feeling sorry for myself!’ His echo of her words was harsh, but as if he was making a concerted effort to placate her, he eventually schooled his features and nodded his head. ‘I admit I have sometimes been a little—impatient in the past,’ he agreed. ‘But life isn’t easy in a wheelchair, Emma.’
‘Life isn’t easy for anyone,’ she replied quietly. Then she made an offhand gesture. ‘What have you been doing while I’ve been away? Have you finished the drawings you were working on?’
‘No.’ David faced her defiantly, as she bent her head in exasperation, and she said flatly:
‘Then how could you and your mother afford to have lunch in Stratford? We live on a pretty tight budget, David.’
He snorted then, his earlier promise quickly forgotten. ‘You’re a fine one to talk, aren’t you?’ he snapped. ‘Flying off to the West Indies at a word from the Kyles! Living it up, while I have to scrape and save here!’
‘We don’t have to scrape and save, David. Just watch our spending, that’s all. And perhaps there’s some justification in what you say. But I didn’t pay for the trip to Valentia, and you know it.’
The sound of Mrs Ingram coming down the stairs again silenced any reply David might have intended to make, and instead they both looked expectantly towards the door as the older woman came to make her farewells.
‘I’m leaving now,’ she announced peevishly, pulling on her gloves over her plump fingers. ‘I’ll have to call at the shops on my way home and get something to take in with m
e. Living here, I haven’t had time to look after my own flat.’
Emma could have said she hadn’t made much of an effort to look after the house either, but she didn’t. Instead, she offered her thanks for what she had done, and David joined in to suggest that his mother should take a taxi home and they’d pay the fare. As it was only about a quarter of a mile to Mrs Ingram’s flat, Emma thought that was unnecessary extravagance, but she kept her mouth shut, and saw the older woman’s features relax somewhat.
‘That would be nice,’ she agreed, smiling smugly at her daughter-in-law. ‘Would you call one for me, Emma. I’ll have a cup of tea while I’m waiting.’
It was as if she had never been away, Emma thought wearily, as she went to make the call, but to regain David’s good humour she would have done a lot more than that.
Within three days she had restored the house to its former cleanliness, and outwardly at least she had put the past behind her. David showed unexpected interest in everything she had done while she was away, and although talking about the Kyles was painful to her, she endeavoured to satisfy his curiosity. She supposed she ought to be grateful he was treating the affair as casually, but it was so unlike him that she couldn’t help a few twinges of suspicion when he showed sympathy for Jordan’s father.
‘You have to admit,’ he said one evening, after he had drunk the better part of a bottle of claret, ‘credit where it’s due. Without Andrew Kyle, the Traces would have come down in the world a damn sight quicker than they did, don’t you agree?’
‘I didn’t know you were an admirer of the Kyles,’ Emma retorted tightly, covering her glass with her palm when he would have refilled it. ‘You’ve never shown any interest in their affairs before.’
‘Ah…’ David tapped his nose significantly with one finger. ‘That was before I knew how—how—highly they esteemed my wife.’
‘David! Honestly!’ Emma rose abruptly to her feet. ‘Just because Andrew Kyle wanted to make his peace with me before he died it doesn’t mean they hold me in any high esteem.’ She pursed her lips. ‘As—as a matter of fact, I doubt if I’ll ever see any of them ever again.’
David lay back in his chair and regarded her through half-closed lids. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that, if I were you,’ he essayed annoyingly. ‘I mean, you haven’t said in so many words, but it’s obvious, isn’t it? The old man’s dying. There might be a—a little nest-egg for you in his will—’
‘David!’ Emma was disgusted by the mercenary streak in him, and just for a moment she wondered whether he seriously believed what he was saying. Was it possible his new-found tolerance stemmed from a totally unfounded idea that Andrew’s summons had had some material benefit attached? That it had, and that she had turned it down, was not relevant. She wanted no part of Tryle Transmissions, now or in the future. Her father had died owing more money than she could earn in a lifetime, and there was no way she could ever repay that debt. To contemplate taking a share of the company, that since her father’s death had expanded enormously, was too much like feeding from the bones of dead men.
Gilda rang her a few days after her return and suggested she wait the week before coming in to the shop. ‘Mr Peabody told me you were back,’ she explained. ‘He said you looked pale and tired, so if you feel you need more than the week…’
‘Oh, no. No.’ Emma’s tone was urgent. ‘I—I’m looking forward to coming back. I’ll see you Monday as usual.’
Gilda was only too willing to agree, and with her usual tact maintained a tacit silence about Emma’s trip during the first couple of days she came in to work. But inevitably Emma wanted to talk about it, and over a cup of coffee one morning she narrated the events as they happened, omitting only the details of Andrew’s last encounter with her father as he had told them to her.
Gilda listened to what she had to say, and then tipped her head against the ladder back of her chair. ‘You’re a fool, do you know that?’ she demanded impatiently. ‘If Andrew Kyle wants to make you half owner of the company, you should let him. You and David are not so well off that you can afford to turn down a chance like this. And besides, it could be that Jordan’s father feels he owes it to you.’
‘Owes it to me?’ Emma’s head jerked round. ‘What do you mean?’
Gilda sighed. ‘Just that—well, if it hadn’t been for your father, there wouldn’t have been a business for old man Kyle to put his money in, would there? And don’t forget, all the connections were your father’s. He had the right accent; Andrew Kyle didn’t.’
Emma relaxed. For a minute she had wondered what Gilda knew, but it was no more and no less than anyone else. On the face of it, Jeremy Trace had died because he was in debt, but no one knew for how much. That was all. A common enough tragedy, in all conscience. Nothing for anyone to suspect there.
‘I just don’t want their money,’ she insisted now, emptying her cup. ‘I’m not interested in becoming an heiress, and—and working with Jordan would be—reckless, to say the least.’
Gilda shook her head. ‘You say that now, because you’re young—and foolish. In twenty years, you’ll wonder why you ever turned it down.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘I do. Emotions cool. You may think you couldn’t work with Jordan now, but don’t you think, in the day-to-day rat-race of the boardroom, you’d stand the best chance of getting things into perspective? It’s absence that makes the heart grow fonder, not familiarity.’
Emma rose to her feet. ‘You may be right. But I’d rather not prove the point. Besides, if anyone should inherit half of Tryle’s, it’s Mummy. She suffered more than I did.’
Gilda shrugged. ‘We’ll agree to differ. But don’t be surprised if David sees things rather differently. He’s not a fool, and he must guess there was more to Andrew Kyle inviting you out there than you’re telling.’
‘Oh, Gilda!’ Emma’s eyes were wide and anxious. ‘You don’t think—will he be terribly disappointed when he finds out we’re not getting anything?’
‘Well…’ Gilda grimaced. ‘Knowing your husband as I do, I’d advise you to say as little as possible. For God’s sake, don’t tell him what you’ve turned down, or your life won’t be worth living!’
* * *
It was Gilda who showed her the paragraph on the front page of the Abingford Chronicle a week later.
It was a bright morning, with the touch of spring in the air, and Emma, leaving the house as she usually did before David was even up, had had no time to glance at the morning paper. In consequence, Gilda’s words as she removed her coat brought her head round with a snap.
‘What?’
‘Oh, dear, I can see you haven’t read it,’ remarked Gilda resignedly, folding the newspaper so that only the column she wanted Emma to read was uppermost. ‘There you are.’ She pointed to the item. ‘I’m sorry, honey, but I did think you’d have seen it.’
Mutely, Emma took the paper from her and read the short obituary.
Andrew Kyle, retired managing director of Tryle Transmissions (Abingford) Limited, died yesterday at his home in the West Indies. Mr Kyle was a well-known figure in Abingford until he retired, an active member of the Rotary Club and town councillor for many years. His son, Mr Jordan Kyle, said his father had been suffering from cancer for some months. Mr Kyle’s body is to be flown back to England for burial.
For some minutes after she had finished reading, Emma could say nothing. Then she thrust the paper aside, squared her shoulders against the ridiculous impulse to collapse in floods of tears, and faced the fact that her visit to Valentia had not happened a moment too soon.
‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Gilda again, her face mirroring her discomfort, and pulling out her pack of long French cigarettes, she offered it to her assistant. ‘Here!’ she said. ‘Take one. It will help.’
Emma shook her head, but Gilda lit two and handed her one. ‘Try it,’ she insisted. ‘At least it might put some colour in your cheeks. You look ghastly. I didn’t realise he meant so
much to you.’
‘He—he doesn’t, he didn’t,’ Emma exclaimed, raising the cigarette to her lips and inhaling almost automatically. Her head swam as the smoke invaded her lungs, but she managed not to choke on it, and as the fumes cleared she felt quite proud of her composure. ‘He—I—it’s just so sudden, that’s all.’
‘But you must have known how ill he was,’ protested Gilda. ‘I mean, Jordan told you as much.’
‘I know. I know.’ Emma took another pull on the cigarette, only to find her throat had not recovered from the previous onslaught and choked on a cough. ‘Ugh, they’re awful! How can you smoke them?’ Her eyes were watering, and she was glad of the excuse to use her handkerchief. Surreptitiously, she blew her nose and dabbed away the tears that persisted in overspilling her lids, and then sniffed. ‘It’s just that—I never expected it to happen so quickly.’
Gilda nodded understandingly, taking the cigarette from her and pressing it out in the tray on her desk. ‘Well, at least you’re prepared now. Should David make a point of telling you.’
Emma felt a shiver of apprehension slide along her spine. ‘They’re bringing him back to England, I see. Do you think I ought to attend the funeral?’
‘I should have thought it was the least you could do,’ Gilda conceded. ‘After all, he never did you any harm, did he?’
Emma thought about that all through the long morning that followed. Despite her affection for Andrew, he was dead now, and she was tempted to let that be an end of it. After all, Jordan wouldn’t want her there, and David was hardly likely to encourage her to get involved with the family again. Andrew had had a brother, she knew, who still lived in London, and he was bound to come for the funeral and bring his family. Then there were all the employees of Tryle Transmissions. At least a dozen of them were personal friends of the Kyles, and she could imagine how awkward they would feel, faced with Jeremy Trace’s daughter. No, she decided at length, it would be easier all round if she stayed away, and made her private prayers for his soul in the anonymity of her own church.
