‘Oh?’ she says quickly. ‘I thought you were lunching with the new tenants?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That’s it. At the pub. And then Terry phoned. What time did you arrive?’
‘About three o’clock. Earlier than I’d allowed. There was a woman here.’
‘What?’
His reaction is too extreme and she looks at him, eyes wary, chin raised. ‘A pretty blonde woman. She was looking for you.’
His heartbeat almost stifles him. Dossie, here, looking for him when they’d only just separated and she knew he was on his way to St Mawes? He shrugs, manages a little chuckle.
‘Really? Well, lucky old me. Pity I missed her. Who was she?’ He takes another sip from his glass, trying to look indifferent. His brain clicks busily from one possible scenario to another.
‘Her name is Dossie Pardoe. She said she’d been trying get in touch with you.’
‘What about?’
‘The Fill the Freezer thing.’ A pause. ‘Or so she said.’
He knows at once that Kitty’s instinct has gone straight to the truth of the matter and it is with great control that he frowns slightly and says, ‘Dossie Pardoe? But why on earth would she come out here? She phones or emails usually.’
He sees that his calmness has thrown her just a little, cast a tiny doubtful shadow on the searching beam of that infallible instinct of hers, and he makes haste to build on it. ‘She came out here once, way back in the spring,’ he says. ‘We had coffee on the lawn and she showed me her menus. She’s been quite useful, actually. The punters love it.’ He drinks some more wine, makes a face, half puzzled, half indifferent. ‘Wonder what she wanted.’
‘She said that she was stopping it – the Fill the Freezer thing. She said she’d tried to get in touch and couldn’t, and that she didn’t want to let you down over Christmas.’
‘My email was down for a bit,’ he says idly, hiding his relief. ‘It might have been that. But it was good of her to come over in that case. We have got some people in for the New Year who were asking about it, and it could have been embarrassing.’
His brain seethes: what on earth has Dossie been doing? And what if she comes back?
‘It just seems odd,’ Kitty is saying, arms crossed over her breast, glass held up in one hand, ‘for her to come here.’
‘It’s a pity she’s giving up,’ he muses, trying to deflect her. ‘I expect those batty old parents of hers have persuaded her back to the B and B-ing.’ He laughs. ‘I’ve never met them but Dossie’s parents are one of those old Cornish families who have lived for ever on the peninsula and they’ve been running a bed and breakfast, which they had to stop when they got a bit creaky. And they’re always trying to persuade Dossie to give up her own catering thing and run it again. She lives with them, apparently, in this big old house over Padstow way. She’s a widow.’ He pauses. ‘Her son’s a local priest,’ he adds casually, ‘widowed very young too, and there’s a grandson. Goodness, it’s like some soap opera. They all sound mad as hatters.’
‘You seem to know a lot about her from just one meeting.’
‘Oh, I’ve met her a few times, obviously, when she’s taken things down to St Mawes. She’s a great favourite with Terry, actually, but I’ve seen her there a few times and she’s talked about her family.’
‘But you’ve never told her about yours?’
‘What?’ He is taken aback. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘She said she thought I was dead.’
For a moment he cannot speak. He feels the blood beating in his cheeks, his chest is constricted, and he knows – absolutely knows – that he has given himself away. Kitty’s eyes are bright and cold, but her mouth shows that she is in pain.
‘So you did tell her that?’ Her voice is corrosive with contempt, her look tells him that he disgusts her, but still she cannot disguise the pain.
‘No,’ he cries. He sets down his glass and holds out his arms, but she steps back from him with a gesture of rejection.
‘You’ve been having an affair with her.’
‘Look,’ he says, dropping his arms. ‘Wait.’ Desperately he tries to muster some measure of control. ‘It’s exactly like I said, honestly, only Dossie’s one of those women who enjoys a bit of a flirtation with their work and well, you know what it’s like, love.’ He spreads his hands, puts on his naughty-boy expression; a ‘how can I help it if women fancy me?’ look that expects understanding, forgiveness.
She stares at him. ‘So you told her I was dead.’
‘No,’ he shouts. ‘No. I told you …’
‘OK. You allowed her to believe it.’
‘No. How do I know what she believed? We never talked about it.’
‘Have you been to bed with her?’
‘What? Oh, for God’s sake …’ His blustering isn’t working. She turns away, picks up her bag. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going back to Bristol. I can’t bear the sight of you another moment.’
He bars her way. ‘Don’t be so silly, darling. This is crazy. Please, just listen for a moment.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more. You disgust me. And I don’t want you at the flat.’
He stares at her, shocked. ‘What are you saying? For God’s sake, Kitty. I’m telling you that nothing happened. There was nothing except one of those silly flirtations that often spring up when you work with a member of the opposite sex. Ask anyone. I flirt with Sally and you don’t mind that.’
She hesitates just for a moment, and he knows that he’s touched a nerve. What will she say to Sally? How will she explain this to her best friend?
‘Look,’ he says rapidly, ‘just don’t get this out of proportion. I can see it’s a shock, Dossie turning up here. But I promise you that she means less than nothing to me. You can’t destroy our marriage on the strength of a silly flirtation.’
‘I’m not destroying anything,’ she says. ‘You are the destroyer. I’m going now and I don’t want you following me.’
She slams out and he hears the engine start up and the car draw away. He stands still, knowing that it would be foolish to follow her and to force another confrontation. He must give her time to cool down, to get over it. He has admitted nothing and, clearly, neither has Dossie. His gratitude is tinged with shame and he wonders what she is thinking and what she will do.
He goes back into the kitchen and refills his glass: ‘Happy bloody birthday,’ he mutters. ‘What the hell happens now?’
Dossie can’t stop crying. It is shock, she tells herself, rubbing her cheeks with tissues, doubling up again with the pain. Shock and humiliation and disappointment squeeze her heart, forcing the tears into her eyes.
Pa and Mo are out with the dogs when she arrives home and she simply shuts herself in her room, still shivering with shock and reaction and, sitting down on her bed, she begins to cry. It is so demoralizing to know that he’s simply been treating her as a kind of stop-gap, a comfort break, while he is away from his wife. From Kitty. She speaks the name silently, bitterly in her head. Kitty.
So he was married all the time and he’d allowed her to believe that his wife was dead. Liar, she thinks fiercely. Cheating, lying bastard. She is suffused with shame and humiliation, burning with this overwhelming sense of being betrayed. He knows – of course he knows – that she loves him, and he’s just played her along and then gone back to Kitty at weekends. How he must have laughed up his sleeve at her readiness to accept the position of waiting and hoping; how he must have congratulated himself on her willingness to take what she was given and not ask for more.
She weeps again with loss and fury. And now there is nowhere to go – and nothing to look forward to any more. No more dates and meetings; no more plans and picnics and unexpected texts. The future stretches emptily ahead.
Exhausted, Dossie pushes her hair back from her wet cheeks. Still slumped on the edge of the bed, she hears the car returning and Pa and Mo getting out, releasing the dogs and coming into the house. H
astily she gets up and goes to the little basin in the corner of the room. She turns on the cold tap and, bending over, she splashes water onto her hot cheeks. She is filled with resentment that she is not to be allowed even an hour’s grace to recover; that she must pull herself together so as to face them. Fresh anger seizes her, but the moment passes.
Raising her head, she stares at herself in the glass above the basin. She’s been here before and she knows the score. Deep in her heart she is glad that there was someone to go downstairs to; people to talk to, for whom she must make an effort to cast off the pain and the self-pity. Mo and Pa will ask no questions; they are too wise for that. They will simply be there.
She picks up a towel, blots away the signs of weeping and begins to repair the damage. There is a little scratching at the door. She stands quite still for a moment, and then goes to open it. John the Baptist is waiting for her, tail wagging very slightly and ears flattened, as if guessing her mood and doubtful of his welcome. She strokes his head gratefully, swallowing back more tears, and allows him to escort her downstairs.
On a bright cold morning a few days later, Mother Magda is checking through the articles for the Advent Newsletter before they are sent down to the village, where a kind friend who organizes the parish magazine will assemble the contributions into a coherent whole and print it off. The most important news, of course, is the plan for the retreat house. She and Father Pascal have collaborated over this and she is very pleased with the final result. Clem has contributed a piece about his new training, and Sister Emily has been very conscientious over creating a diary of the events that have taken place at Chi-Meur over the past year. There is a charming photograph of Janna’s caravan garden at its prettiest to be included, and another of a group of oblates taken in the orchard during the special oblates’ weekend in October, and a copy of Father Pascal’s uplifting and thought-provoking homily for the Feast of Christ the King.
Mother Magda shuffles the pieces of paper into the right order and then writes a last important note for inclusion on the back page:
Although we are very appreciative of your kindness at this season we would like to remind any of you who are thinking of sending chocolates, biscuits or sweets to the community that we now number only four, one of whom is diabetic!
‘Don’t,’ warns Sister Emily, ‘discourage the delightful fellow who sends the case of claret each year. That Château Labat was very, very good. Father Pascal really appreciated it. And so did Bishop Freddie.’
Mother Magda chuckles to herself, remembering: Sister Emily had appreciated it too. She pushes all the pieces of paper into a large envelope and goes out to find Janna, who will probably enjoy a walk down to the village on this sunny winter morning. She finds her in the kitchen with Sister Nichola who, wrapped about with Janna’s shawl, is sitting at the table carefully cutting up old Christmas cards – nothing is wasted at Chi-Meur – and pasting the pictures on to plain white cards on which the sisters will write their own greetings. She works painstakingly, and very slowly, and Mother Magda suffers a little pang as she remembers the beautiful little pots and bowls and candle-holders the older nun used to make, and how deft and clever she was.
Janna, who is making a fish pie, smiles a welcome, points questioningly at the coffee jar. Mother Magda hesitates – it is rather luxurious to be stopping to drink coffee when there is so much to be done – but she gives a little sigh of acceptance and relaxes into a chair at the table. She watches Janna moving about and wonders if she has any idea how much they all value her youth and strength and cheerfulness. Today she is wearing an apron on which is printed: ‘Hard work never killed anyone but why take the chance?’
Mother Magda sits peacefully, drinking her coffee, watching Sister Nichola cutting and pasting, making Christmas cards that will be sent out to the community’s vast number of friends and supporters. Presently she holds up the big brown envelope.
‘Do you think you could take this down to the village, Janna dear? It’s the Advent Newsletter. We’re a little bit late this year, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll be finished in a minute,’ Janna says, ‘and Sister Ruth will be back soon. I’ll enjoy a walk.’
They smile at each other in complete understanding and then Mother Magda stands up, takes her mug and washes it up, and goes back to her work.
‘So it really is all over. Whatever it was,’ says Pa. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m sorry, though I’m just so sorry for poor old Dossie.’
Mo is silent. ‘It’s all over,’ Dossie told her. ‘He was married but I didn’t know, and I’m gutted and I don’t want to talk about it.’
It is very cold. The ghost of a new moon hangs low in the sky and the sunset light is dying rapidly. The dogs potter ahead, noses to the hard, frozen ground; their paws crunch in the thick frost beneath bare thorny hedgerows where small birds roost, shifting uneasily and twittering anxiously.
‘Anyway,’ Pa is saying, ‘at least she’ll be able to concentrate now. She’s been away with the fairies these last few weeks. Poor old Doss.’
Mo’s heart aches for Dossie and she slips her hand under Pa’s arm as if seeking comfort in its warmth. He presses his elbow against her hand, responding to her gesture.
‘She’ll get over it,’ he prophesies. ‘She always does. Thank God I took that decision about The Court. She’s got a home, Mo, and she’s told us how much she’s looking forward to making a change and not having to dash about all over the county. And Christmas will be fun. We’ll see to that. It’s good that there are some extra people coming. Always a sound move to have friends as well as family at Christmas. Keeps everyone civilized. Pity about Adam, though.’
They walk for a while in silence. Both are reluctant to talk about Adam. Adam has told them that he won’t be down for Christmas. He and Natasha have split up, he tells them, it just hasn’t worked out, and his company is transferring him to London. He’s got a lot to sort out in his new office, and then there’s the move into the flat he’ll be renting. Perhaps in the New Year he’ll get down to see them …
Mo agrees to everything, sad that he won’t be with them but not sorry that they’ll never have to see Natasha and her children again. He refuses to disclose the reasons for the break-up, although he says he doesn’t think he’s cut out for fatherhood, and that he’ll be in touch. The now familiar guilt surfaces and she struggles to remain cheerful. She concentrates her mind on Christmas Day. It will be fun to have guests, and Jakey and Clem will be coming to lunch, and afterwards they’ll listen to the Queen and have presents from the tree. Clem will be his usual comforting source of strength, and Jakey will certainly keep everyone in good spirits. Yet still she thinks about Adam, longing for him to be happy.
‘After all,’ says Pa, ‘he can always come back to us if ever he needs to.’
They turn for home, calling to the dogs, trying to feel more hopeful.
‘All right, Mo?’ Pa asks as they near the gates to The Court, and she is able to answer truthfully.
‘I’m fine,’ she says firmly. ‘It’s going to be a good Christmas. Come on, let’s get in and light the fire. I’m frozen.’
Kitty wanders from room to room in the flat, moving small ornaments, staring out of windows. Her feelings of anger and pain occasionally give place to a sense of loss and loneliness. Mummy’s spirit still inhabits the flat and Kitty misses her terribly; now, when she remembers her, all she can think of is how much Mummy loved Rupert and how he joshed with her and teased her. What would Mummy have said to all this? Once, she remembers, way back when Rupert was being a bit silly with a rather attractive acquaintance, and Kitty had complained about it, Mummy had said: ‘Well, you wouldn’t want a man nobody else wanted, would you?’ It had been a bit of a shock, frankly, and Kitty had felt almost as if she’d been silly to mind.
But this is different; quite different. How can she possibly ever forgive him for allowing that woman to believe that she, Kitty, was dead? It’s almost as if he were wishing that she were – and sh
e can’t forget it or forgive it.
‘Can you get it into your head that we never discussed you at all?’ he shouts during one of the telephone conversations that have taken place during the last few days. ‘We talked about work … Just listen, will you? That rumour came from Chris at Penharrow. He completely misunderstood that you’d simply gone back to Bristol when your father died so suddenly and he’d got it into his head that it was you … Yes, I know it’s horrible, but you can’t blame me if Chris heard some kind of rumour and elaborated on it. He must have mentioned it to Dossie Pardoe when she checked up on me after I asked him about the Fill the Freezer thing when I saw it on his website. He was the link. For God’s sake, Kitty …’
Rupert is lodged in one of their cottages at St Mawes. He has nowhere else to go. Perhaps he is seeing Dossie Pardoe – but no, Kitty shakes her head. Remembering the shock on Dossie’s face, Kitty instinctively knows that whatever was going on between them is over. Such deception is unforgivable.
Kitty raises her chin and hardens her heart. She is prepared now for Sally, who has been away visiting her daughter and is now home, and who is arriving any moment for a cup of tea and to catch up on the news.
Sitting over the tea cups – Mummy’s lovely delicate old Worcester – Kitty summons all her courage and tells Sally that she thinks that Rupert and she might be going their separate ways. Sally is utterly shocked.
‘He simply can’t face the idea of living in the city,’ Kitty says bravely, ‘and I can’t face going back to scrubbing down walls and camping. It’s a complete impasse and neither of us will back down.’
‘But I thought you were going to buy a house out near us in Leigh Woods and Rupert was going to renovate old properties for student lets.’
Kitty is ready for this one. ‘He says that doing up houses for scruffy students simply isn’t his idea of restoration. He needs to be creative.’
‘Well, yes, I can understand that when you look at his work. But, Kitty! You can’t seriously be considering giving up on your marriage over this. There must be other compromises.’ She looks at Kitty, a ‘come on, you can trust me’ look. She leans forward a little. ‘It’s not just that, is it? What’s happened?’
The Christmas Angel Page 27
