“Hello, Jamie, I’m Cat.”
“Hullo.” Jamie had a deep voice. “Does he like Moshi Monsters?”
“I love them! I really do love them!” Luke bounced up and down as though he was on an invisible pogo stick, and Joe put his hand on his arm, laughing.
“All right, Luke. Eh, you silly lad, it’s good to see you.”
At the warmth in his voice, Cat involuntarily smiled at him, and their eyes met. He was exactly how she remembered him. Bit thinner. Stubble on his firm chin, his thick hair curly. Disappointment shot through her, taking her by surprise.
Joe’s eyes were fixed on her, his gaze steady. “I didn’t know you were back.”
“Just for the weekend,” Cat said.
“I wondered . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been wondering how you were getting on.”
“I hate Madame Poulain. I used to like her. Joe, can we watch Ratatouille again?”
“He’s talking to me, Luke.”
“I live in France, Jamie, do you? Can you speak French?”
Stoic, silent Jamie looked up at his dad with something like alarm.
“What’s with him, Dad?” he said quietly, and Cat covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
Joe bent down, resting his hand lightly on the back of his son’s head. “Listen, Jamie, why don’t you show Luke the swing? He won’t have seen it. It’s new, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Jamie said, his serious eyes meeting his father’s. “Are we still having lunch soon, Dad?”
“Course,” Joe said. “Can you pick some bay leaves off the tree over there, too? That’d be great. You know what they look like, don’t you?” He lifted Jamie up, then pretended to drop him, and Jamie gave a shriek of laughter and ran toward the playground, Luke following him, one red jacket, one blue, maybe green.
They stood together watching them go. Joe cleared his throat.
“I won’t ask how you all are. It must still be very hard.”
Cat shoved her hands in her pockets. “We’re okay.” The waves that hit her during the day at the market stall or staring out of the window of Madame Poulain’s sitting room, tears pouring down her cheeks, Luke saying, “Come here, Mummy! Maman! Why are you crying?” Flashes of her grandfather’s sweater he used to wear to keep warm in his study, navy wool, eaten by moths to a cobweb. His smiling, shining eyes, his darling hands, so swollen and painful. And her mother—she hadn’t even been able to think about her mother properly yet. Not at all. As for Gran, and the family and all of it—there wasn’t a place to start, a place to begin, a thread that would lead them out of the maze. Cat turned her head so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. “That’s not true. We’re not okay, really.”
He nodded, and he didn’t try to hug her, as Susan Talbot had done, or grip her hands with tears in his eyes, like Clover, or shake his head pityingly. He just said, “I’m so sorry, Cat.”
“Me too.”
“How’s Mrs. Winter?”
“She’s not great. I don’t know. Sometimes I’m not sure she really understands what’s happened.”
“What do you mean?”
Cat found she couldn’t explain it. “I think she is . . . I think she thinks he’s coming back.” She spoke softly. “Gran’s always right. She’s always had a plan. I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t think you can do anything,” he said. “Just be there for her.”
“I’m not, though, am I?” She thought it was a peculiarly insensitive thing to say. “I’m in Paris.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “I can’t do anything for her.”
“I’m sorry. It’s—it’s none of my business.”
“Too right,” Cat said, and he stiffened, and she instantly regretted it; she hadn’t meant to get into it, not now, it was so childish. One of the things that felled her constantly since Southpaw’s death, since Daisy’s body had been found: the struggle to think of anything else, anything that was normal. She had this idea that she should only be concentrating on them, grieving for them, and not on small, silly things, like how much she hated the way Madame Poulain’s lipstick bled out of her lips, thin red veins reaching up to her wet nose. How endless the winter seemed that year in the stall, and how useless her thermal socks were. How her rage at Olivier gathered new strength every day, so that she wished she could find him, grip his neck like he used to grip hers, watch the veins bulge in his face and see the fear in his eyes. You nearly finished me off. But I have our son, I will find a way out, and you can’t do that to me anymore. How angry she was with Joe, the memory of them that night, talking together on the porch, the dripping rain surrounding them like a curtain. She shuffled. “Look, forget it. Sorry.”
“What—what happened with us, Cat—” Joe turned to her. “I don’t do that kind of thing normally.”
“Normally! What does that mean?”
He closed his eyes and shrugged. “I shouldn’t have. It was wrong.”
“You knew she was pregnant when we kissed.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.” He opened his mouth but she cut him off. “How’s Karen doing?”
“She’s doing well. She’s tired, quite heavy. Still a way to go, but already she’s slowing down. She finds it hard.”
“Right.”
“She’s living with me.”
“Yes, I know.”
Cat thought of Lucy’s voice, when she’d rung her to break the news.
“She just moved in with him, upped sticks and walked out, right after New Year! The brass neck! Apparently they’re thinking of renovating Barb Fletcher’s old cottage together.”
More than ever, Cat had been glad no one else knew she’d kissed him. “No. The one with the old hearth and the massive garden? It’s got an outside loo, right?”
“Well, Joe can afford it. He’ll be rolling in it soon. I can’t believe I got him that restaurant review. I cannot believe it.”
“He deserves it, though,” she’d said, trying to be fair. “He’s really good.”
“Well, yes.” Lucy had said. “But I still can’t believe the way he’s behaved. To think I fancied him! Oh, my God. All that time he was shagging Karen. All that time . . .”
All that time.
Standing there in the wide open air with him, everything out in front of them, Cat knew it was time to leave. “I’d better get back to Gran,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Cat. Really sorry. I wish it hadn’t happened like that.”
Cat leaned forward; he’d spoken so quietly she wasn’t sure she’d heard right at first. Luke was running around Jamie in a circle with a couple of bay leaves stuffed in his hands, shouting out pieces of information he thought Jamie would want to know: “I’m a fish in the play at school. . . . I had a beef burger with Gabriel. . . . We are reading a book about cars.”
“Right, thank you.” She sounded like a prim schoolmarm.
He looked down at the bag of supplies he’d been carrying, then up at her. “Screw it. Can I just say one thing?”
“What?”
“Cat, listen. I keep thinking . . .”
Often, afterward, she wondered how he’d meant to finish that sentence, but he just stopped. No yelling children, no interruptions, no random acts of God, as in a rom-com. He just stopped and said, “You know, I think it’s time we went.”
“What’s in your bag?” she asked him suddenly.
“Oh.” He peered into the blue plastic. “We’ve been foraging. On our walk. Dock leaves, wild arugula, some rosemary . . . and some roots. We’re going to try a few things back at the pub.”
“You know where the wild garlic grows? Up over the hill, past Iford? Miles of the stuff. Not long now. And there’s Bath asparagus everywhere in the hedgerows in May too.”
“I didn’t know that. Any of it. Thank you.”
“Yes. I u
sed to pick it, with—never mind. Luke! Come on! We need to get home.”
“Home?” Luke stood still, looking stricken. “You said we were here for the weekend.”
“I mean to Gran’s,” she corrected herself. “We need to walk back and see Gran and make lunch.”
“Okay!” Luke shouted.
“See you, then,” she said to Joe, wanting to part on a friendly note. “Good luck with everything.”
Joe nodded. “You too. Thanks.” Jamie ran over to him and buried his head in his dad’s stomach. Joe pulled him toward him, and covered him with his coat.
Jamie stayed perfectly still for a few seconds, then opened the coat, looked up at his father, and shouted, “Boo, Dad!”
As Joe threw his head back and laughed, Cat realized she’d never really seen him grin before. Properly, like his face was made for it. He picked his son up and gave him a big kiss, then turned, to see Cat and Luke still standing there, watching like children waiting to be picked up at school.
Cat set off down the field toward the north exit. She walked briskly, a harsh spring wind on her cheeks. Luke scrambled to keep up with her. “We see Joe later?” he kept asking.
“No,” Cat told him. “We’re going back home. Tomorrow.”
Back home.
• • •
The train the following day was crowded. Luke had to sit on her knee for most of the way, squashed up against a Moroccan lady who gave him pita bread and pieces of apricot. Cat thought about her grandmother. How being with her was almost worse than leaving her, because it was clear they couldn’t help her, no one could, and she didn’t know what would happen.
They’d all, all of them, mocked Lucy gently over the years for being so sentimental about Winterfold: the awards ceremonies at Christmas, her lists of favorite things about the holidays that she had pinned up on her walls. But they were no better, any of them, were they? Lucy was the most straightforward member of the family. She told the truth, at least, always had.
They went into the Tunnel, the sudden dark rushing past them, and Luke settled his head against the window, watching the single lamps that lit up their route. Cat made her plans. She would keep ringing up Lucy and Gran, and writing and e-mailing, even if Gran didn’t want to hear from anyone. She’d go back to Winterfold twice a year at least, even if Gran didn’t want to see anyone. And she would remember Southpaw, and try to remember her mother’s life, and the mistakes she, Cat, had made before and mustn’t make again. She told herself summer would come soon, and then things would be different.
But in the following weeks Cat was almost glad when it became cold again and the rain started. She had the excuse she wanted to feel as miserable as she liked.
Martha
NATALIE, THE LAWYER, was a dark-eyed, brisk sort of person, Karen’s friend. She reminded Martha of Karen, in fact.
“We have good news,” Natalie said, spreading out the paperwork on the dining table. “So, to explain briefly—”
“Could I open the curtains before you start?” Bill stood up. “It’s rather close in here.”
“It’s fine,” Martha said. “Leave it.”
“It’s very dark, Ma.”
“Bill, she said leave it. If she wants it like that, she can have it like that.” Florence drummed her fingers on the table.
Natalie looked at Martha, unsure how to react, and Bill came back to his seat, jaw set. The sun was shining brilliantly outside, the first splash of spring. It flooded through the curtains into the lamplit room. Birds sang in the eaves of the house.
Martha knew what the daisy bank should look like by now, on a day like this. But after nearly six months she had still done nothing about resowing the grass and daisies. She thought she would leave it for when he came back. They could do it together, perhaps, remember Daisy together. She liked to think up little things like that for them to do. When he was here.
“Ma!”
Martha realized someone was talking to her. “Yes?” she said. “Sorry, Natalie. Go on.”
“We’ve been lucky,” Natalie said. She took a sip of water. “We’ve got the court date through. I think in other counties or under different circumstances we’d be looking at a trial or at least some kind of arrest, but here I’m pretty sure you’ll merely be summoned to the magistrates’ court and given a conditional discharge.”
“That doesn’t sound very mere to me,” said Bill, looking carefully at his mother.
Florence sounded incredulous. “Nothing else? After what . . . happened?”
“No.” Natalie looked from mother to daughter. “You sound surprised, Florence. Is there a reason for that?”
“No. None at all.” Florence crossed her arms.
Martha didn’t know what to say to Florence. Her eyelids were still red, as though she had eczema. She’d had it when she was little; so had Bill. Not Daisy. David had eczema when he was worried or overworked. She had bought him special cream from the old pharmacist in Bath, the one that Jane Austen had used. It had always worked. She wondered if there was any left, and made a note to check upstairs. He’d need some more soon.
“There’ll be a small fine and, Mrs. Winter, you’ll probably have to pay the court costs too, but that’s all.” Martha nodded, staring into space, thoughts swirling in confusion around in her mind. She heard Bill muttering something to Natalie, who turned to him and said, “Foul play can’t be proven either way, and there’s no case to answer. Plus we have enough evidence that suicide was the likely cause of death to satisfy the police. More importantly, we have testimony from several witnesses—which I’m sure you’d back up—that Mrs. Winter was under a great deal of psychological stress in the weeks leading up to her elder daughter’s death, and much of that was due to the behavior of her daughter. The balance of her mind was disturbed.”
“Daisy’s mind was disturbed,” Florence said, kicking her legs out under the table. “She was crazy.”
“No, Florence.” Martha rapped her fist smartly on the polished wood. “She wasn’t.”
Natalie cleared her throat. “With respect, it’s Mrs. Winter’s state of mind that is relevant here. And we are able to suggest that it played an important part with regard to her uncharacteristic behavior.”
Bill’s arms were crossed. He leaned forward, trying to move things along. “So—that’s it?” Karen was a friend of Natalie’s; it occurred to Martha that perhaps she should have asked someone else. This business with Karen, and all of that. But Bill was being so strange lately, bossing everyone around, butting in where he wasn’t wanted, acting as though he owned the place. The trouble with Bill was that he’d always been convinced he was a disappointment. That he wasn’t enough like David. And it made his mother want to laugh. No one could be like David, absolutely no one in the heavens above or on the earth beneath, or whatever it was the bit from the church service always said.
“That’s what?” Florence said sharply.
Bill glanced at his sister. “I suppose—this whole business. It’s over?”
“You really think that’s it?” Florence laughed. She leaned forward and tapped on the table close to Natalie. “Natalie, is that really all there is to discuss? Nothing else you want to bring up?”
“Florence, whatever axe you have to grind—” Bill said sharply, and Florence whipped round, glaring at him.
“Shut up,” she said fiercely. “Just—just shut the hell up, Bill. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I do actually, I’m the one who—”
Florence hissed, as though it were just the two of them, “I said shut up. For God’s sake, Bill, you pathetic little man. You don’t even know, do you?” She turned to her mother. “He doesn’t know, does he?”
Martha didn’t know how to reply to this. This poem she kept thinking of, they had been made to learn it at school and that was a long time ago, a very long time. I
t was in her mind all the time now. The first line made her think of the way up to the house.
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
But she couldn’t remember the rest of it. She stared at Bill and Florence, who looked back at her, and it was as if they were all three of them strangers, meeting in this room for the first time. They hate each other, don’t they? she found herself thinking. This pulled-in, tight-lipped man; this unhinged, wild woman—they’re supposed to be my children. Supposed to be: isn’t that funny?
She stood up. Her hips ached; her knees clicked. She felt old lately. Old and fragile, made of bones, not flesh. She nodded at Natalie.
“Thank you so much, my dear. Will you stay for lunch?”
Natalie was tucking the papers into her plastic folder, and she didn’t meet her eyes. “That’s very kind of you, but no. I have to get back. I’ll be in touch when I’ve spoken to the CPS again.”
“The CPS?”
“Crown Prosecution Service.” Natalie picked up her coat.
“Oh, of course.” Martha twisted her fingers together. She said flatly, “A biscuit? Some more tea?”
Natalie shook her head. “You’re always so hospitable, Mrs. Winter. I wish I could, but I won’t, thank you again. As I say, I’ll be in touch.” She looked at her watch. “I am hopeful we’ll have a satisfactory conclusion soon.”
“What about the body?” Florence said. Martha jumped; her voice was loud. “What happens with that?”
Natalie looked quizzical. “Daisy’s, you mean?”
“Of course. Unless there’s someone else in the garden we don’t know about.”
Bill thumped his palm on the table. “For goodness’ sake, Flo, why on earth are you being such a b-b-bitch today?”
The stuttering word fell into the heavy atmosphere of the room, and Florence, for the first time that day, looked taken aback, vulnerable. “I—suppose I wish we’d all been honest with each other.” She turned to Martha. “I’ll ask you again. Is there anything else you want to say to me? Anything?”
“Like what?” Martha said, shaking her head in bemusement. She knew that, whatever idea Florence had got into her head, she had to act the part. This, this was the real secret she couldn’t ever give away, because she knew by now if she did, then something would alter forever. David was adamant about it, and he would be very cross. Florence must never find out. The door of the study would remain locked. She just had to stick to their story. “What is it, my darling?”
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