He pulled himself up. After a lifetime of assessing people, it was difficult to switch off on social occasions. Hannah was right—he was off-duty, and Mrs Walker’s inner tensions were no concern of his.
He let his attention wander, turning to watch a group of teenagers who were trying, amid much laughter, to dislodge a row of coconuts. Behind them, also watching their endeavours, was a woman in her late thirties. She was wearing narrow white linen trousers and an emerald green shirt. Her pale brown hair hung straight and smooth, curving in towards the line of her jaw, and as he watched, she hooked a stray strand of it behind one ear. Something about her stance, casual yet assured, almost arrogant, arrested his attention, and, perhaps sensing his scrutiny, she turned and met his eyes. Hers were a cool sea-green, their expression faintly questioning. For a long moment they looked at each other, neither of their expressions changing. Then, to Webb’s consternation, she began to walk towards him.
Had she read something into that held gaze? He fought down the urge to walk quickly in the opposite direction. But Lydia had also seen her approach, and Webb realised with a mixture of feelings that it was she who was the newcomer’s objective.
‘Ashley, come and meet Miss James, Fay’s Deputy Headmistress. And Mr—Webb, was it? My sister-in-law, Ashley Walker.’
Her hand was long, slim and cool, its grip firm. She said to Lydia, ‘What was all that commotion just now?’
‘Oh—nothing, really. Just someone who’d had too much to drink.’
‘I saw Howard and Neville being masterful.’
There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. Then Lydia said, ‘Miss James is looking after Paula’s cats while she’s away.’
‘Oh yes?’ Clearly the strangers were of no interest, and Webb, aware that she knew he’d been watching her, sensed a deliberate rebuff. But even as he registered it, the cool eyes turned to him. ‘Are you staying at Wychwood too, Mr Webb?’
‘No,’ he answered levelly, ignoring the implication. ‘I’ve just been helping Miss James move in.’
Half way through his reply, he’d lost her attention. Damn her! he thought, and was surprised at his vehemence. She said to her sister-in-law, ‘If anyone wants me, I’ve gone home. See you later,’ and started to move away. Then paused, looking back over her shoulder. ‘Nice to have met you.’ The cliché was presumably for them both, but she was looking at Webb. Then she was swallowed up in the crowd.
Lydia said, ‘Ashley’s son is eighteen today. We’re giving a party for him this evening.’
‘They live nearby, then?’ Webb thought he spoke casually, but he felt Hannah’s glance.
‘Yes, just outside the village.’
A voice over the tannoy announced that the raffle draw was about to take place, and people began to converge on the table set up for the purpose. Lydia excused herself and moved away. Webb said, ‘Do you want to stay for this?’
Hannah shook her head. ‘I never win rallies.’
‘Then how about a cuppa in the peace of Wychwood garden?’
‘You’re on.’
Moving against the tide, they walked down the gravel driveway to the gate.
‘You realise something?’ Webb said, threading Hannah’s arm through his. ‘Something we should have realised before?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I can’t spend the night at the cottage.’
‘Oh, David! It—’
‘Really. You heard that thinly veiled question. These people know you professionally, and if they discover you entertain men friends overnight, it will do neither you nor the school any good. I’ll book in at a pub. There must be one that’s residential.’
‘But you were going to come every weekend I’m here.’
‘I still can. By some quirk in the moral code, no one’ll blink an eyelid if we spend the days and evenings together.’ Hannah sighed. ‘You’re right, of course. I have to be above suspicion.’
‘Exactly. Imagine if the girls got to hear of goings-on.’ ‘Perish the thought. Right, we’ll abide by the rules, and what we do before nightfall is strictly our own affair.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Webb said.
CHAPTER 2
Lydia stood on the terrace, wondering whether she should again ask the group to turn down their amplifiers. The music seemed very loud, and she didn’t want to offend the neighbours; though, as Neville had pointed out, all their close neighbours were here.
The party seemed to be going well. The afternoon’s stalls had been dismantled and the marquee, which had served earlier as the tea tent, was now the setting for a more sumptuous feast. Damask, silver and crystal were already in evidence and the caterers, neat in their uniform, were beginning to set out the food.
Neville came up behind her and slipped an arm round her waist. ‘All right, darling?’
‘So far, so good. Did you speak to Melanie?’
‘I did. She was quite unrepentant.’
‘She wouldn’t have expected anyone but the family to see it.’
‘That’s no excuse. It could have resurrected the whole thing again. Thank heaven Mother didn’t stumble on it.’
‘It was probably done on the spur of the moment, to give vent to her feelings.’
‘She’d vented them quite enough already. Anyway, I’ll get Jack to dig the bed over on Monday. Lord knows what Miss James and her friend made of it.’ He ran a finger round the inside of his collar. ‘I said it would be too hot for dinner jackets.’
Lydia patted his arm. ‘Never mind, darling, you look very smart.’
Neville shaded his eyes to look across the sunlit grass. ‘I see Clive’s dancing with Fay again,’ he said.
Melanie was also watching her sister with some anxiety. Though Fay had said little, Melanie suspected she was still keen on Clive, and the feeling seemed mutual. He was holding her closely, his face pressed against her hair, and was whispering into her ear. Across the garden, Melanie heard Fay’s light laugh.
She really wasn’t enjoying this evening a bit, what with Daddy blowing his top about the flowers, and now this. The Tenbys shouldn’t have been invited; there’d been an understandable coolness since the Clive and Fay business, but Mother, bless her heart, was bending over backwards to smooth things over. Darkly, Melanie wondered if that was a mistake.
The scene from the terrace, Dorothy thought, was almost Edwardian, the women and girls in long dresses and the older men in dinner jackets. She approved of the formal wear; it made the evening more of an occasion.
Soon, now, it would be supper-time, and afterwards, the present-opening ceremony. She felt a touch of apprehension, patting the reticule in which her cheque lay waiting. She hoped Gavin would understand, but she really couldn’t bear it if he were to disappear for a whole year, drifting aimlessly about the continent. And, she thought with a rush of cold fear, she mightn’t be here when he returned.
She pulled the cobwebby lace more closely round her shoulders and smiled determinedly up at the vicar, who was bending to speak to her.
Eleanor Darby sipped her Pimms, her eyes on her son. He was sitting on the grass, clasping his knees and watching the dancers gyrating to the music. Poor Jake, this social gathering really wasn’t his scene. He was a quiet child, who’d rather spend his time painting than in physical activity. With luck, his interest in art would form a link with his future stepfather; they were Robin’s designs which decorated the famous Broadshire Porcelain, his sketches which evolved into the figurines sought after as collectors’ pieces.
Jake had made little comment on the proposed marriage. Eleanor gathered he wasn’t in favour, but was prepared to make the best of it. And Robin was very good with him; it wasn’t every man who’d take on a ten-year-old stepson.
She recalled the surprise of her friends on learning her plans. True, her first marriage hadn’t been a success, and in the six years since the divorce she’d been aware of becoming more independent and less tolerant, with only herself to please. Was she doing the
right thing, marrying Robin? Was he, in marrying her? The family weren’t overjoyed, that much was obvious.
The family! Everything came back to that. A happy family, goodness knows, is one of life’s blessings, but this one seemed too close, immersed in its own affairs and resentful of intruders. And surely that was stultifying; for what hope had the younger ones, growing up in an enclosed, self-sufficient world of successful men and beautiful women, of finding partners as interesting or attractive as their own family?
This evening was a case in point. She said to Robin, ‘It’s a bit hard on Gavin, being saddled with us at his party.’
He looked surprised. ‘An eighteenth birthday’s a mile-stone—of course he wants us here. And there are at least two dozen of his friends as well.’
‘Most of whom are also lumbered with their parents.’
‘Well, they’re friends of Neville and Lydia.’ He smiled at her. ‘Come on—admit it! You’re miffed because we don’t fit in with all your media jargon about generation gaps.’
‘I just know I wouldn’t have had the vicar at my eighteenth.’
‘Relax—George is OK.’
Eleanor made a grimace. ‘Except he regards me as a scarlet woman.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’
She shook her head. ‘Not only am I from the Big Bad City, but I’m divorced as well, so the youngest scion of the family can’t be married in church. Bad news!’
‘He probably doesn’t approve of me, either, but I don’t lose any sleep over it.’
‘Well, we’ll be away from his black looks in London, thank God. Village life and its mores would drive me demented.’
Robin was silent. This was a point he’d avoided discussing, and he wasn’t going to embark on it now. He was quite prepared to spend the first months of their marriage in London, working from Eleanor’s flat and delivering his artwork as necessary. In fact, the breathing space would be welcome, since in his absence he would evolve in everyone’s mind into a married man. But it could only be a temporary arrangement. Before long, they’d move back to Broadshire, if not to Honeyford itself. Eleanor might protest, but he was confident of being able to win her round.
Gavin Walker, though unaware of his prospective aunt’s sympathy, would not have welcomed it. He was enjoying being the guest of honour, and in any case, life was good. A-levels were behind him, and ahead stretched the enticing prospect of a year abroad, to which he’d been looking forward for the past two years.
‘Just think of it,’ he said dreamily into his partner’s ear, ‘strolling down the Champs-Elysées and eating in Left Bank cafes. Then taking a train to Italy on the spur of the moment —Florence, Venice, Rome. It’ll be magic, Debby, sheer magic!’
‘You’re determined to go, then?’ Debby sounded less enthusiastic.
‘Of course I am. I’ve been dreaming of it for years, and Grandma’s cheque will put the seal on it.’
‘I thought she wasn’t keen on you going?’
‘She’d rather I went straight to Oxford, but that’s only so I’d join the firm a bit sooner. Good grief, I’ll be there the rest of my life! One year at this stage won’t make any difference.’
‘It will to me,’ Debby said in a small voice, and he gave her a squeeze.
‘But if I didn’t go abroad, I’d be at Oxford. And I’ll send you postcards. Boy!’ he exulted, ‘I can hardly believe it! A whole year, all to myself, to do exactly what I want, when I want. It’s the best birthday present anyone could have!’
The supper was as elegant and delicious as the guests confidently expected. Cones of smoked salmon stuffed with cream cheese nestled pinkly between glistening black caviar and the pale green of asparagus, while white-coated servers stood behind joints of beef, chicken and ham, carvers poised. Heaped bowls of salad concealed melon and strawberries among their more conventional leaves, and cups of cold soup were accompanied by garlic-flavoured croutons and chive-speckled sour cream.
It was dusk now, and small tables had been set up, each with its flickering candle in a protective glass container. Coloured fairy-lights glowed in the trees, and floodlights illuminated the facade of the house. The trio who had provided music for dancing now played a selection of musical-comedy numbers, awaking nostalgia in the older guests.
‘You have to hand it to the Walkers,’ Pamela Tenby remarked sotto voce to her husband, ‘they know how to put on a show.’
‘Then you’re glad pride didn’t prevent you coming?’ She smiled. ‘I suppose so. Anyway, Clive was so set on it.’
‘He seems to have picked up the threads again.’ Derek Tenby nodded towards his son, now sitting on the grass with Fay and tucking into his supper. ‘Perhaps there’s been a change of heart.’
‘I’d still like to know what it was all about. When I tackled Lydia at the time, she became all flustered and I couldn’t get any sense out of her. Granted, diplomatic relations have been resumed, but I’ll never forgive them for hurting Clive like that.’
‘Oh, forget it, love. It’s not worth worrying about, especially if it’s blown over now.’
But Derek Tenby’s assumption was misplaced. Fay’s father was at that moment arranging for the two to be separated.
‘I’m rather concerned about Fay, Richard,’ he was saying to the vicar’s son. ‘She’s been a bit off-colour recently. Could I ask you to keep an eye on her, see she doesn’t catch cold and so on?’
Richard Mallow wasn’t deceived; he’d been wondering how far Clive’s licence would extend. He was unsure of the background, but Fay was a friend of his sister’s and he wouldn’t like to see her hurt.
‘Of course, sir. Don’t worry, I’ll look after her.’ And as Neville watched, he walked over to where she still sat with Clive and, bending down, raised her to her feet. Neville couldn’t catch what he said, but, with an apologetic little murmur to Clive, she obediently moved away with him.
Danger averted, thought Neville with relief, then brought himself up with a smile. Danger? Hardly an appropriate word in the circumstances. But for some reason he felt ill at ease this evening. The unpleasantness of the afternoon, those lurid flowers followed by the scene with Ridley, had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. In particular, Ridley’s drunken threats had lodged in his mind. These bloody Walkers killed my dad, and I’ll make them pay for it every last one of them.
Neville realised he was standing exactly where Ridley had stood when he made those threats. Irrepressibly he shuddered, and moved away to find his wife.
Supper over, everyone made their way to the drawing-room for the present-opening. It began with a brief speech from Howard, in which he thanked Neville and Lydia for the party and proposed his son’s health. Then, sipping their champagne, everyone sat round benignly while Gavin opened one parcel after another from friends and friends’ parents. Wallets, compact discs, cufflinks, after-shave piled up on the table beside him till the room resembled a gift department. And all the while, Dorothy sat tightly upright on her chair, fingers grasping her velvet reticule. Only when, after profuse if embarrassed thanks all round, Gavin turned to the family offerings, did she open it, withdraw the envelope, and, leaning forward, place it on top of the pile of parcels.
Gavin smiled across at her. ‘I think I know what that is, Gran, so I’ll save it till last.’
Oh God, she thought in panic, let it be all right. Let him understand. As the ritual continued, that white oblong with its scrawled black writing remained unnervingly on the edge of her vision. Whatever had they bought each other before all these electronic marvels she wondered, eyeing the personal computer, the Sony Walkman, the miniature portable television. And now only the gifts from his parents and herself remained, both of which were concealed in envelopes. Howard and Ashley’s contained a set of car keys, and Gavin jumped up in delight to hug them.
‘The car’s waiting at home,’ Howard said. ‘I didn’t want you driving back after all this champagne.’
Gavin plied his parents with excited question
s about the make and model. ‘I’ll be able to take it abroad with me,’ he ended with satisfaction. ‘Getting about will be much easier with my own transport. Which,’ he flashed a smile at Dorothy, ‘brings me to Grandma’s present. And if this is what I hope it is—’
His impatient fingers tore at the paper and the envelope fell to the floor as he unfolded the cheque inside it. Smiling in anticipation, the rest of them waited for the last, exuberant expression of thanks. But Gavin’s own smile had faded. He stood staring as though in shock at the piece of paper in his hands. Then he raised his eyes and met his grandmother’s.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said numbly.
‘It’s clear enough.’ Belated misgivings made Dorothy’s voice crisper than she intended. ‘It comes, of course, with my best love. And it will be trebled if you give up that hare-brained idea of travelling, and go to Oxford in October.’
Everyone seemed frozen into an embarrassed tableau. Gavin said hoarsely, ‘You mean you’re holding a gun to my head?’
‘My dearest boy, nothing so dramatic. But as I think you know—’
‘Let me get this quite straight,’ he interrupted. ‘You’re saying that unless I do what you want, this is all you’re prepared to give me. Is that right?’
Howard moved forward, protesting. ‘Gavin—’
Dorothy moistened her lips. ‘Quite right. But is it so much to ask? After all, once you’re established in the firm, you’ll travel as a matter of course, and in a great deal more comfort. It’s not—’
‘But I want to go now! It’ll never be the same again!’
‘Gavin, I’m sorry. I hoped—’
‘You’re not sorry at all!’ he broke in harshly. ‘You’re very pleased with yourself, because you think you’ve won. But you’re wrong, Grandmother. I’m not going to give in to blackmail. And this—’ he began to tear up the cheque into minute pieces while everyone watched him, mesmerised— ‘is what I think of your birthday present! And of you!’ And as the tatters of paper drifted to the floor, he strode across the room and out through the French windows.
Six Proud Walkers Page 2
