by Hilary Boyd
“No, I’m sure. And I didn’t mean to imply anything, I was just trying to explain the circumstances of your father’s decision.”
“What am I going to doooo?” Sophie wailed, clutching her head. “Ten grand won’t even begin to get me out of the hole I’m in. Isn’t there something you can do?”
Barry shook his head. “Not really . . . sorry.”
Sophie turned to Karen, her eyes narrowing. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m not. I hate seeing you so upset.”
“Ha. Right. But you’re not going to do anything about it, are you?”
“There isn’t anything I can do about it,” Karen replied. “Your father hasn’t left me much money either.”
There was another tense silence in the quiet kitchen.
“It’s your fault he’s dead, anyway.” Sophie had dropped her voice to a whisper.
The girl’s words felt to Karen like a stab at an already painful wound. She had tried, in the intervening weeks, not to dwell on the circumstances of her husband’s last moments. But the image she could not delete was of herself climbing into bed that night, full of righteous anger at Harry, while he, alone and terrified, called desperately for her to save him.
“I know you’re upset,” Barry Rivers was saying, his tone reproachful. “But you shouldn’t say things you’ll regret. Karen is grieving too.”
“He drank because you made him so unhappy,” Sophie continued as if he hadn’t spoken, her voice sullen. Brushing her thick hair back from her face, she got up and yanked a piece of kitchen towel from the roll hanging from a holder on the wall, blew her nose noisily, her back to the room.
Karen had had enough.
“Thanks, Barry,” she said, briskly. “I’ll give you a ring in a week or so.”
She got up and so did the solicitor. He gathered together the documents he’d brought and stuffed them into his old leather briefcase.
“Sure. And if either of you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.”
He kissed Karen lightly on both cheeks, then moved toward Sophie, who held her hand out stiffly to be shaken.
When Karen came back into the kitchen, having seen Barry out, Sophie was gone.
Chapter Four
“Poor Sophie. It does seem a bit brutal,” Maggie said, as they walked up the hill. The late January day was cloudy and cold, a light drizzle being driven toward them by the cruel east wind. But Karen needed to be away from the house. It was the morning after the reading of the will and Sophie hadn’t emerged from her room until Karen had gone to bed, when she’d heard the girl in the kitchen, banging about.
“I know. She’s a pain, but it must have been a shock. Although ten thousand is hardly nothing.”
“He’d already given her loads of money, I suppose.”
“Thousands and thousands over the years, yes.”
“So it’s not as if he cut her off without a penny.”
“Far from it. But it does seem a bit weak of Harry not to have warned her.”
They walked in silence for a while, the only sound their panting breaths as they climbed the steep path.
“Maybe he meant to . . . he just didn’t think he’d die so soon. And he was right not to leave her any more if the money wasn’t doing her any good.”
Karen sighed. “Yeah, but how do I get her to understand that and stop blaming me? I’m sure she expects me to bail her out now Daddy’s gone.”
Maggie turned to face her friend. “You’re not to, Karen. Promise? That’s your money to live on, you can’t go giving it away to Sophie. Anyway, it’s not what Harry wanted.”
“I know, but believe me, my dear stepdaughter is very persuasive when she’s broke.” She looked around. “Where’s Largo?”
They both stopped. “Largo . . . Largo.”
The dog came bounding over the crest of the hill, tail wagging, lurching his big bulk to a halt against Karen’s leg. She bent to stroke his damp fur.
“I wish she’d just go home,” she said.
Maggie was peering at her. “Apart from Sophie, how are you coping?”
“Not great.”
“You miss him.”
“No . . . well, yes, of course I do. But . . . it’s . . .” She stopped. She couldn’t say the words, couldn’t explain the misery that it had been, living with Harry, or the guilt that tormented her now. But almost worse was the feeling of discombobulation. The rug had been pulled so dramatically from under her feet that she simply couldn’t understand what was going on half the time. Nothing seemed entirely real.
“I just don’t know what’s going to happen,” she finished lamely.
Maggie grabbed her and gave her a tight hug. “Poor you, it must be so hard. I don’t know what I’d do if Raki died. But you should try not to think about the future right now. It’ll take time to work things out and you’re not in a fit state to do that yet.”
Her friend’s words slid emptily across Karen’s consciousness. She appreciated Maggie’s attempts, but without Karen telling her the truth, no comfort was available.
The view from the top of the hill was spectacular, even on such a dull day. As they stood in silence for a moment, taking in the panorama, Largo began to bark, his tail wagging furiously. Karen, turning, saw the lone figure of William Haskell, hands deep in the pockets of his donkey jacket, making his way up the steep path.
“Oh, God, it’s the bloody vicar again,” she muttered. “Seems like everywhere I go, he pitches up too. I think he’s stalking me.”
Maggie turned too. “Ah, he’s lovely, William. Why don’t you like him?”
“I do like him. But he looks at me with those zealous eyes of his, all Christian-like, and I just know all he wants is to drag me into church, despite what he says to the contrary.”
“You make it sound like he’s trying to seduce you!”
“I said ‘church,’ not bed.”
Her friend laughed. “Well, if he’s trying to turn you into a believer, he’s picked a tough nut to crack.”
They watched as the reverend sprinted up the last steep incline.
“You know he’s an archer?”
“An archer? The vicar?”
“I know, it’s bizarre. Although I’m not sure why it’s bizarre.”
“I suppose archers are sort of strong and heroic. And there’s nothing very heroic about being a vicar these days.”
“Perhaps not, but he’s only shooting at a target, not slaying mountain lions or the Normans. He’s pretty good, Jennifer was telling me. County standard in the past. He teaches disabled kids at the local club in his spare time, apparently.”
Haskell arrived beside them at the top of the path, not even short of breath, and smiling.
“Hi there, ladies.” He took a long, steadying breath. “Good workout, this hill.”
“Yes, and worth it when you get here,” Maggie replied, sweeping her arm around to show off the view as if it were her own.
“Oh, certainly.” He gazed at the distant hills, his breath smoking in the chilly air, then switched his focus to Karen. “So, how’s it all going?”
“Fine, thank you,” she said, unable to keep the wariness out of her tone. She saw his eyebrows go up, as if he knew what she was thinking, but he didn’t say anything.
“I saw Janey yesterday,” Maggie was saying. “She mentioned you were thinking of starting a women’s group.”
He nodded. “Yes, my wife’s very passionate about the idea. What do you think? Would there be any take-up in the village?”
“Depends what it’s for,” Karen said, suspecting it would be just another recruitment drive.
“Well . . . I thought it would be good to have a forum to discuss things that mainly concern women. It could be anything from baking cupcakes to the meaning of life.”
“Aren’t they one and the same thing?” Karen asked, slightly waspishly, annoyed by what she took to be a patronizing tone.
But William just lau
ghed, his eyes lighting up in genuine amusement. “Could be. A good cupcake certainly lifts the soul.”
“Blood sugar, more like,” Karen said.
“That too.” William wasn’t rising to any of her jibes.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Maggie said, shooting a small frown at Karen.
“Would you be interested?” His question was addressed to Maggie, but he included Karen in his encouraging, very charming smile.
“Probably. Might do us all good.”
Karen didn’t say anything, just bent to stroke Largo, who was fussing at her feet to get on with the walk.
“It’s never easy to open up if you’ve got a problem, especially in a small village. I just thought it might be helpful . . .”
Karen felt herself tensing with irritation, knowing that his remark was directed straight at her.
“We should get going,” she said, looking pointedly at Maggie.
As they began to descend the hill, William went striding off the other way, up the path which led further into the hills. Maggie dug her friend in the side.
“Did you have to be so rude?”
“I wasn’t rude.”
“Yes, you were. Everything the poor man said, you jumped on. It’s not like you.”
“Well, he’s so annoying. All that fake concern for everyone.”
Maggie looked shocked. “That’s really unfair. He obviously cares deeply. I don’t understand why you’re being so mean about him. Would you rather we had creepy Bob Parkin back, with all that pious droning and those leery smiles?”
“I just wish William’d leave me alone.”
“Well, tell him, then. Tell him you don’t need his help. He’s got a broad back.”
“I have. But he doesn’t seem to hear me.”
Maggie didn’t reply, but Karen could tell from her stiff back and the increased pace with which she stamped down the path in her red anorak that she was irritated with her.
“OK, OK. I’ll be nice to him. I just . . . I don’t feel myself at the moment.”
Maggie turned at her words, her face full of sympathy again.
As Karen drew level with her, she said, “People don’t know what to say when someone dies. They don’t know what to do for the best.”
Karen didn’t think this was the vicar’s problem, and knew Maggie was speaking more about herself.
“I know. And I’m sorry I’m being such a curmudgeon. I have no idea even how I want anyone to behave. All of it seems wrong.”
Maggie linked her arm with Karen’s. “I’m sure it does. It will for a while, I expect.”
*
Sophie was waiting for Karen when she got back from her walk, sitting at the kitchen table, clutching her phone tight in her right hand, obviously tense. Karen took a deep breath, waiting for the onslaught.
“Hi.”
“Hello, Sophie.”
“We’ve got to talk,” she said.
Karen nodded and sat down opposite her stepdaughter.
“This money thing . . . I’ve decided . . . I’m going to have to let out my flat for the time being. It’s the only way I can pay the mortgage.” Her tone of voice, surprisingly, was not hostile, just weary. “I’ve talked to Mum and she thinks it’s a good idea.”
“Right, well, that sounds like a plan,” she said, not really listening, feeling detached, uninvolved in Sophie’s problems.
But the girl looked puzzled by her reply and Karen wondered what she was missing.
“Obviously, if I rent it out, I’ll have to come and live here for a bit . . . until I’m straight. I can’t go to Mum’s.”
Karen assumed Sophie was referring to the fact that her mother lived in the Lake District.
“Here?” Karen could hear that the word sounded almost stupid, and she tried to lift herself from the lethargy that had overtaken her.
Sophie nodded.
Living here. Sophie, living here. Karen took a deep breath as the reality of what the girl was saying began to sink in.
“How will that work?” she asked. “We don’t get on.” She had never said it in so many words, but there was no point in beating about the bush, now that the catalyst for them being polite to each other was no longer around.
The dismissive shrug that Sophie gave implied that it was immaterial to her if they liked each other or not.
“I don’t have much choice, do I? I’m like totally broke. Anyway, it’s a big house, we won’t have to see each other if we don’t want to. It’ll only be till I get straight.”
She was eyeing Karen as if daring her to refuse, her stare both pleading and hostile at the same time. Is she testing me, seeing if I’ll pay her off like Harry did, just to keep her out of the house? Karen wondered.
“Fine,” Karen said eventually. She could hardly say no, but she was surprised to find that, in fact, she was strangely relieved the girl would be staying. The house felt echoey, spookily quiet, the winter nights very long and dark since the bluster and drunken boisterousness of her husband—accompanied by the relentless background noise of golf replays—had been removed.
“So it’s OK?”
“Yes. If that’s what you want.”
Sophie looked amazed, almost deflated, as if she had been busting for a fight. She got up, muttering a grudging thanks.
“I’ve got a friend I know will take my flat for a while.” She hovered, as if there were something else on her mind. Then her face cleared. “I’ll get off then, go home and start sorting things out. It’ll probably take a few days.”
“Just let me know when you’re coming down.”
Her stepdaughter was walking toward the door when she hesitated. “Thanks,” she repeated, her expression softening for a second from its habitual wariness.
Karen smiled. “Just one thing. We’re going to have to try and get along. It’ll be hell otherwise . . . for both of us.”
The shutters were down again as the girl replied, “It’s not my fault we don’t.”
Karen had to bite her tongue.
*
Almost as soon as her stepdaughter had driven off, Karen went up to bed—despite it being only three o’clock in the afternoon—dragging one foot in front of the other, she was suddenly so tired. For nights now, she had barely slept, waking multiple times in the darkness, thinking she heard Harry calling her. Often she would forget for a moment that he was dead, and found herself leaping up and grabbing her dressing gown in order to go and help him upstairs. And with each wakening, with each realization that he was beyond her help, would come the guilt, descending on her like a pall that was impossible to shake off.
When she woke it was gone eight in the evening. Her body felt heavy and lethargic still, as if the sleep had only intensified her tiredness rather than alleviated it.
She dragged herself out of bed and went downstairs to make some tea, which she took into the sitting room. But the room seemed full of shadows and she hurried back to the kitchen. She rang Maggie, but her friend’s phone went to voicemail, then tried her brother in Canada, but his mobile also just asked her to leave a message. She had never felt so uneasy, sitting there in her own home—which she’d always considered so cozy and safe—with nobody for company but her husband’s reproachful ghost.
Even the presence of her spiky stepdaughter would have been preferable.
*
The following morning, after another sleepless night, during which she’d read an entire Michael Connelly novel cover-to-cover and only shut her eyes around six a.m., Karen knew she had to focus. She had always been a very organized person, a list person. Someone, what’s more, who actually consulted her lists, didn’t just write them and forget them. She liked to have a plan. It came from living with a mother whose ability to organize was perpetually fuddled by sherry—Karen had been in charge of the household much of the time. But currently there was no plan. Yes, she had the house. Yes, she had enough money to live on, if she continued to live in the rectory. But what would she do with her time, now
there was no husband to focus on, to look after and worry about?
Back when they’d first married, Harry had been adamant that no wife of his would need a job, and she hadn’t argued at the time, not after twenty years of being at her various bosses’ beck and call, her support often going unappreciated. But she’d also known that if she sat at home while Harry worked, she would not only go stark staring mad, but she would barely set eyes on her workaholic husband from Monday to Friday. He had hired another PA when they got married, so Karen had gradually begun to take on the promotion of foreign trade—which had been largely neglected till then—liaising with companies and accompanying her husband on the trips abroad to visit them. It was work she loved, not least because she and Harry were together and made such an impressive team: he the charismatic front man, bombastic, who saw the bigger picture; Karen the finisher, the details person, who smoothed the path to contract signing and ensured the participants were satisfied. And so the company had happily absorbed most of their waking hours for nearly fifteen years. Even at home they talked about little else. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising, therefore, that things had imploded after Harry sold up three years ago.
Since then, she realized, the two of them had sunk into a mire. Harry had turned to alcohol and needed his wife to prop him up in his addiction; Karen took on the role of worried observer, monitoring each and every drink and witnessing her husband’s decline into drunkenness while at the same time being helpless to change things. There was no other focus for either of them, their world had shrunk almost to nothing. It seemed hard to believe, when she thought about it now, that their previously lively, enjoyable partnership had been reduced to nothing more than resentment and bickering.
What happens now? she asked herself as she rinsed Largo’s water bowl out and filled it with fresh water. What on earth do I do? She took a tin of dog food from the cupboard and spooned the meaty, gelatinous chunks out into the enamel dish, breaking them up then sprinkling a handful of kibble on top, taken from a large sack under the sink. Largo was watching intently, his mouth open, tongue out, tail whacking back and forth in his eagerness. What will become of me without Harry?
