‘Unforgivable.’
‘Yes.’ He looks her in the eye, naked, humbled. ‘Unforgivable.’
And then, in that moment, in that creased, lived-in face, scarred by life and time, she sees the handsome boy she’d once, well, she has to admit, she’d once, however briefly, been in love with. And somehow, like a weight lifting, the anger melts away. What does her outrage achieve? What does it matter now? What does any of it matter except finding the answers Stephen craves? She has done better than she ever hoped: found both his parents.
‘Oh, Mark . . .’ She shakes her head sorrowfully. Silence cloaks the room; shadows deepen in the corners. Distantly, she hears a clock strike the hour.
He clears his throat. ‘Harriet, I know there’s nothing I can say to undo the wrong—’
‘There’s nothing you can say, that’s true. But there’s something you can do: you can help me find Leona, so I can—’ She stops as Mark shakes his head. ‘Mark, you owe me that much!’
‘No, you don’t understand. It’s too late.’
She looks at him, aghast. ‘Oh no, please don’t . . .’
He nods. ‘Car accident. About ten years ago. I saw it in the paper.’
She sighs, head falling back against the cushions. Just when a resolution was within reach . . . ‘You didn’t keep in touch, then?’
He shakes his head. ‘What for? As far as I’m aware, she went back to uni, finished her degree. Like me, she wanted to put it all behind her.’ He sees her face harden. ‘But I never forgot, Harriet, I swear. That I had a son somewhere.’ He glances over to a family portrait on the piano: a strong-featured woman with glossy hair expertly coiffed, flanked by two pretty daughters, Mark standing with a hand proprietarily on his wife’s shoulder. He seems lost in thought.
‘He’s not after anything, Mark. I’ve only met him once but I’d bet my life on it. All he wants is reassurance. About his family history. That there’s nothing untoward lurking anywhere in the genes.’
He’s still staring at the photo. ‘Not on this side. Not as far as I know, anyway. Both my parents made their nineties. And I can tell you that Leona went on to have twins, two girls. One of them presents a children’s programme on TV and the other—we can check online, I’m sure—went into medicine. Both hale and hearty, as far as I’m aware. Will you be contacting them?’
‘God, no!’ Harriet is appalled. ‘I shall just tell Stephen what I’ve discovered and then it’s up to him. Can you imagine? If those girls were suddenly to discover they had a half-brother and no mother around to explain?’
‘Same applies to my girls,’ says Mark soberly. He goes to say something, reconsiders.
‘What?’
‘I was just thinking: everything comes home to roost in the end, doesn’t it? All the little threads in our lives, the tangles they create.’
She nods grimly, thinking of her own threads and tangles. ‘Will you tell your girls? Your wife?’
‘Ex. I think she’d just regard it as confirming her prejudices about me.’ He gives a wry smile that fades quickly. ‘The girls, though . . . I don’t know.’
‘If Stephen wants to meet you . . .?’
His face brightens. ‘If he wants to, yes. God yes. But I realise it has to be his call.’
She looks into the depths of her whisky. ‘I have to ask, Mark . . .’
He sits forward. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Your daughters, Stephen . . . there aren’t any other offspring I should know about?’
He erupts with a full-throated laugh that blends surprise with relief. ‘Christ, woman, I’m no Boris Johnson! I admit I wasn’t always the most faithful of husbands but, no, I’m quite sure there are no more little McFees populating the realm.’ He shakes his head ruefully. ‘I see I haven’t gone up in your estimation at all. Not that I blame you.’ He reaches for the decanter as she empties her glass.
She shakes her head. ‘Good heavens, no more for me. I’ve had far too much already.’ She gets somewhat unsteadily to her feet. ‘Could you call me a cab? And recommend somewhere to stay? I’m certainly not fit to drive tonight.’
‘Cab?’ Mark sounds incredulous. ‘Don’t be daft, woman. You’ll stay the night.’ He’s back in control now, the businessman brooking no arguments. ‘I’ve got more bedrooms than I know what to do with. And a fridge full of food. Besides, we’ve forty or more years to catch up on. Now, let me show you the rest of the house.’
CHAPTER 58
Hester looks once more at the clock. Seven fourteen pm. Still no word from Harriet. When she set off first thing this morning, there had been no discussion about what time she might return but now Hester, fretting, is itching to start preparing supper, if only for something to do. She has been wandering between sitting room and kitchen ever since Peggy fled, picking up and then discarding her knitting, flicking desultorily through the newspaper, even guiltily scanning Harriet’s pile of house brochures, her gloom compounded by the sight of so many patently unsuitable dwellings her sister had felt driven to consider. Once she had even reached for the phone, thinking: I’ll call Lionel, tell him I’ve made a terrible mistake. That madness had swiftly passed. It’s not Lionel she wants; it’s Harriet.
She thinks suddenly of Finbar. That’s an idea. There’s someone who’s always pleased to see her. She hurries through into the kitchen and starts rummaging through the larder, noticing how denuded the shelves are. Once Harriet’s back with the car, she’ll make a list and they can go for a big shop tomorrow. Time she made a fresh batch of biscuits, perhaps a fruit cake. Harriet loves a Dundee.
‘Finbar!’
The old man is scuttling up the narrow pavement towards the brow of the hill, en route for the Cask and Glass, no doubt. He turns back and waves, then starts to retrace his steps, eyes lighting up as he spies the basket.
‘Hester! What an unqualified joy! I was just on my way to . . .’ He trails off as he eagerly explores the basket’s contents. ‘Such riches. You are, dear lady, as I have had occasion to remark more times than I care to recall, a peerless creature of fathomless generosity. Dare I hope there might be some of your incomparable ginger biscuits secreted within?’
Hester apologises, explaining about her lack of provisions.
‘No matter! I might say that that nephew of yours, whom as we both know is no nephew at all in the strictest sense of the word, does a fine line in biscuits himself.’
Hester bridles. ‘Only because I taught him how!’
‘Indeed. Unselfishly imparting your knowledge to a tyro, as a beneficent aunt should.’
Hester, remembering her churlishness over the crème caramel the night before, squirms.
‘And what, pray,’ continues Finbar, unaware, ‘did you make of the exquisite Natalie, enchanting imp that she is? Did you not marvel at her quick wit?’
‘Er . . . yes, delightful,’ manages Hester, shamed afresh at her less than fulsome welcome of their guest. ‘She seems very . . . nice,’ she finishes lamely.
‘Hester,’ says Finbar sternly, pausing in the throes of stowing his improvised hamper in the depths of his trolley, ‘do I detect in that faint praise a hint of . . . well, I hesitate to name it . . . prejudice?’
‘Prejudice? No!’ cries Hester, shaken to the core. That he should think . . . ! ‘Finbar! I am cut to the quick that you should—’
‘I apologise unreservedly,’ he says hastily. ‘I was simply disconcerted at what I read as your—forgive me, but “nice” is such a lukewarm, namby-pamby word and not one I expect to figure in your lexicon—lack of enthusiasm for our young Andromache.’
‘Andromache?’ echoes a bewildered Hester.
‘Indeed,’ says Finbar, warming to his theme, ‘for does that name not mean “fighter of men”? And did not she fearlessly . . . ah!’ The awful realisation of what he had almost let slip hits him.
‘Fearlessly what?’ Hester sniffs a secret.
‘Nothing!’ says Finbar airily. ‘I was merely prattling on about her general sangfroid. I suspect t
hat very little would disconcert her.’ He swiftly changes tack. ‘Are you intending to attend her theatrical performance? I am very much hoping for an invitation myself. It’s many a long year since I saw any Ibsen.’
‘Ibsen? Theatre? What are you talking about, Finbar?’ Hester has a sudden horrifying vision of the smelly vagrant seated in a crowded, overheated auditorium, members of the audience collapsing like ninepins as the stench overwhelms them.
‘Ask Ben,’ he says, starting to edge away up the hill, trolley in tow, towards the pub. ‘Forgive me, Hester, and thank you for the victuals, but my presence is required yonder for a game of backgammon. Vale.’
Hester marches smartly back to The Laurels, deep in thought. Attending this school production might be an excellent way of making amends to Ben’s young friend and restoring herself to his good books. And perhaps at the same time effecting some sort of rapprochement with Harriet, although she very much hopes that can start tonight . . . Her mobile rings just as she reaches the gate. She ferrets frantically in her anorak pocket, through a mess of tissues and crumpled shopping lists.
‘Harry? At last! Where are you?’ She hopes Harriet has had the sense to stop the car before using her phone. Mercifully, there’s no background sound of any traffic.
She listens intently as Harriet briefly imparts her news. ‘Oh, Harry, that is wonderful! What a relief! So how did—no, save it until you get back. What time should I expect—? . . . Oh, I see, you’re still at Marion’s . . . What? You’re not at Marion’s? Then . . .?’
Her sister hurriedly explains.
‘No, well, in that case of course you mustn’t . . .’ Why did you have a drink in the first place? she thinks, irritated. There’s so much I want to tell you! ‘Who is this chap again?’
Harriet sounds distinctly odd—a bit giggly, in fact, as though she’s sharing a joke with someone.
‘Someone from uni . . . I see . . . What? Lionel? No, of course he isn’t! He left hours ago. What? No, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. You’d better get off, then. Don’t want to keep you. Bye.’
Well! So much for them clearing the air tonight. What on earth is Harriet doing, staying the night with some chap Hester has never heard of? That sounds most . . . she had almost been going to say improper, then the memory of herself and Lionel in her room in Italy comes into her mind. Irregular, then, she corrects herself. She wishes she’d thought to ask if Harriet has spoken to Stephen.
Harriet has. He had been so excited, so grateful, as she told him what she had discovered, only to floor him with his mother’s demise. But then, hot on the heels of that revelation, the news that he had a father—a father who would love to meet him, should he so wish.
‘God, I never expected . . . I mean, I hoped, but . . .’
‘He’d like the chance to explain everything to you in person. Apologise.’
‘Yes . . .’
‘You don’t have to decide now, Stephen, it’s a lot to take in. It’s been a shock, obviously. Take your time.’
‘Is he . . . is he there now? With you?’
Harriet had looked across the room to where Mark waited anxiously, following her every word and reading the kaleidoscope of emotions flitting across her face. She gave him a reassuring smile.
‘Stephen, my dear, why don’t you sleep on it? Talk to Emily, see what she thinks . . .’
‘Yes . . . I will. Thank you. Harriet, thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.’
Oh, but I think I do, she had thought, eyes still on Mark. Your lives—yours, Emily’s, Mark’s—will never be the same again.
‘Ben?’
He leaps up from his bed as though bitten, scattering textbooks all over the floor. Why hadn’t he checked the number before answering? He’d been certain it would be Nats. Hoped it would be.
‘Aunt Hester?’ he says cautiously, heart thumping, hands suddenly clammy. She’s rumbled him, spotted the repairs, finally noticed the new wallpaper, clocked those sodding curtains . . .
‘Sorry to interrupt your revision, my dear.’
She sounds okay, cool. Not cranky at all. His pulse slows.
‘No worries.’
‘Everything going well? Is it English and maths on Thursday?’
‘Yeah.’ It might be a trap, he realises . . . ‘Yeah, just going over the Shakespeare again.’ The Shakespeare that makes so much sense now he’s been through it with Nats.
‘Excellent. Well, the best of luck. I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
Is that why she rang, just to wish him luck?
‘Just two quick things.’
Oh, here we go.
‘Finbar mentioned something about your little friend—Natalie, is it?—and a play?’
‘What? Oh, yeah.’ Phew. ‘It’s called A Doll’s House and she’s got the lead,’ he says proudly.
‘The lead?’ There’s no mistaking the admiration in her voice. And the surprise. ‘Really? The lead? Nora?’
‘Yeah. Like she’s got this well weird teacher and she don’t—doesn’t—care about colour and stuff.’
‘Well . . .’ A moment while Hester digests this intelligence. ‘I was just wondering if you might be able to procure us some tickets. You know how your aunt and I love the theatre.’
‘Serious? ’Course I can. Yeah, easy. It’s on in three weeks. Friday or Saturday?’
‘Oh, the last night, I think.’ A tiny pause and then, with a hint of devilry, ‘I understand Finbar is hoping to see it as well.’
‘Finbar?! In our school hall?’
It’s clear he’s thinking what she had thought a little earlier.
‘My sentiments precisely.’
‘Jeez, be even worse than on the train. Least on a train you can open a wind—’ Oh fuck.
‘Train? What on earth would Finbar be doing on a train?’
Ben grimaces into the phone, desperate. ‘I was just, like, thinking of enclosed spaces,’ he manages lamely. ‘You know, what with the niff and that . . .’
‘Indeed,’ she says, then to his relief switches to another track. ‘The other thing was to ask you a favour.’
‘Me?’ He’s instantly on high alert, heart once more beating its painful tattoo.
Inevitably, Hester misconstrues. ‘Not if it’s too much trouble,’ she says with a sniff.
‘No, God, no, anything. Sorry, I didn’t mean—’ There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for either aunt, ever, if only they could remain in ignorance of the bottomless doo-doo he’d landed himself in at The Laurels on Friday night. Anything. Anything.
‘When is it you finish your exams?’
Harriet can’t remember when she’s laughed so much. It’s such a relief after the last week or so—no, longer, much longer than that; ever since the rift between herself and Hester began—to just let go. To spar with someone so diametrically opposed to most of her views as Mark, who holds his corner with sly good humour. On occasion he espouses opinions so contrary that she is convinced he is simply winding her up; then she revels in exposing the contradictions and inconsistencies in his assertions, to earn his mocking admiration. And as they banter back and forth across the huge kitchen table, littered with the remains of the scratch supper he’d thrown together, she reflects how improbably likeable she finds this mature Mark, only too aware of his own frailties and absurdities, as she likes to think she is of hers. The image of him she has carried since their brief, ill-fated liaison all those years ago fades as the evening wears on, replaced with a wry acceptance that while they will never agree on fundamentals such as politics, she can still enjoy his company. The realisation brings with it at least a partial understanding of Hester’s surrender to Lionel’s advances.
She has eschewed any further alcohol since the whisky, mindful of tomorrow’s drive, but accepts a coffee. Getting up to make it, he offers another outrageous observation, hoping Harriet will rise to the bait. Instead, she bats it away, laughing.
‘You are incorrigible.’
‘One tries.’ A beat
. His back to her, he says with sudden sobriety, ‘You really are a very forgiving woman, Har.’
She doesn’t correct him this time.
‘You have every right to despise me. That was a terrible thing I did.’
Harriet shakes her head, only too aware of the mutability and fragility of life. ‘Oh, Mark, don’t! Bitterness is such a pointless, destructive emotion.’ She thinks again of Hester. Longs to expunge their mutual unkindnesses. ‘We all make mistakes . . . we have to learn to forgive.’
Facing her, his customary chutzpah restored by her absolution, mirth dances in his eyes. ‘You, Miss Ribbleswell, are indeed divine. I’ve always thought of you as the one who got away. You’d no doubt say you had a lucky escape.’
A delicious wave of pleasure at the corny compliment washes over her. ‘Are you flirting with me, Mr McFee?’
He puts the coffee cup down in front of her, leans towards her and gently cradles her chin in his hand.
‘Flirting, woman? I’m propositioning you.’
WEDNESDAY
CHAPTER 59
Hester hums as she potters around the kitchen waiting for the Today programme to start. She’s been up for over an hour, having lain in bed watching the dawn light strengthening and listening to the birds squabbling noisily in the treetops. Time enough to review her actions with brutal honesty and reassure herself that she has made the right decision about Lionel. Bless him, she wishes him well, will always be grateful to him for the gift of his affection. Looking out over the garden, dew carpeting the lawn, she is filled with a sense of purpose, the future brighter than it has seemed for months.
Harriet hums as she bowls along deserted country lanes towards the motorway, lips crimping in a little smile from time to time. She had crept away just as dawn was breaking, leaving a scrawled note of thanks on the kitchen table for her host. Not for her an awkward breakfast exchange in the unforgiving morning light; she is confident Mark will feel the same and appreciate her delicacy. When they meet again, if they meet again, last night’s events can be conveniently glossed over as befuddled memories, and they can greet one another as friends, nothing more.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 37
