by Tom Bradby
A bell sounded as Julia stepped inside, but no one was immediately visible. She looked at the paintings, which were mostly landscapes in oil. In the middle of one wall, there was a photograph of the artist and Julia moved closer to read what was written beneath it.
‘Can we help you, madam?’
Julia turned to see her mother smiling. ‘I wondered,’ she said, ‘if you had any Havilland paintings left?’
Caroline frowned. ‘Havilland,’ she said. ‘Havilland … Havilland. Hmm. Don’t think I’ve heard of her. What are you doing here?’
‘Passing.’
‘Well, that’s fortuitous, because I’ve dropped the car in the garage and need a lift home.’
Gazing at her mother, Julia remembered what Professor Malcolm had said about Pascoe and wondered if Caroline and Alan knew about it. ‘Now?’ she asked.
‘There’s no need to look so down in the mouth about it.’ Caroline went back through the rear door. She was in a good mood.
A few seconds later Felicity Rubin emerged with her. Then Caroline got her coat and bag and they climbed into the Golf. As they drove up the hill out of the town Caroline explained that she had the village fête committee coming to tea for a final meeting and Julia had better make herself scarce if she wanted to avoid it. Then she was laughing at a private joke.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘A man came into the gallery today and said, “I want to buy a painting.” “Right,” I said, “what kind of painting?” “A painting,” he said. “Yes, but what kind of painting? Oil? Watercolour? Landscape?” ’ Caroline was dissolving into fits of giggles, like a schoolgirl. ‘“A painting,” he said. “An investment. Just a painting.”’
They both looked at the road ahead. Julia didn’t feel like smiling. ‘Do you remember that skiing holiday in Scotland?’ she asked.
Caroline turned to face her. ‘Yes, of course.’
Julia was stuck behind a lorry on the hill coming out of Cranbrooke. ‘What time of year was it?’
‘Easter. April.’
Julia pulled out to overtake the lorry and put her foot down on the floor until she was past it. Then she slowed again. They were coming up to the crest of the hill now, a wood on either side of them.
‘What about it?’ Caroline asked.
‘I was just thinking about it, that’s all. Remembering Dad learning to ski.’
Caroline smiled again. ‘Yes.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘God, he hated not being the expert.’
‘It was so cold and I was wearing all those thick sweaters and that thin anorak and I was freezing and then the next day I went up with all those layers on and it was absolutely boiling!’
Caroline was still smiling.
‘How come you never skied?’
‘It was more fun laughing at your father.’
‘He wasn’t very good, was he?’
‘Well, no. But it’s hard learning late in life.’
They were on the long hill down now, the afternoon sun directly in Julia’s eyes. She pulled down the visor. ‘It was good fun, wasn’t it?’
Caroline frowned. ‘It was lovely. Yes, it was.’
‘When did the Fords move in? It was after that.’
Caroline hesitated. ‘Yes. I don’t remember exactly.’
‘And then I went to Cranbrooke in the autumn?’
‘Yes, but you wanted to go,’ Caroline reminded her. ‘Why?’
‘I was just trying to remember when I left East Welham Primary and went to Cranbrooke.’
They were already coming over the hill into the village and Julia had to pull over to allow a Land Rover to pass. Caroline was looking out of the side window and they drove the last few hundred yards in silence.
When they got home, Leslie Rouse was waiting by the front door. She was dressed in unfashionable blue trousers with an elastic waist, which exaggerated her plumpness. She gave both of them a wry smile as they approached the front door. ‘Cynthia Walker phoned me this morning,’ she told Caroline, ‘to say that you had promised her she would be running the fête next year and taking over the cake stall. I told her you’d promised me the same.’
Leslie and her mother grinned at the shared joke, and Julia found herself thinking how much happier and more fun Leslie was when she was not with her husband. ‘Who is Cynthia Walker?’ she asked.
They walked into the kitchen. Aristotle lay on his back on the floor, inviting someone to scratch his belly.
‘Cynthia Walker is a former banker,’ Leslie responded. ‘She has given up work to look after her young daughter, but is suffering acute management withdrawal symptoms.’
‘She has made feeling slighted into an art form,’ Caroline added.
‘They live in Devreux cottage, between the cricket pitch and Travers the builder.’
Caroline had begun to make tea while Leslie sat opposite Julia. She had put on a pair of square, clear plastic glasses to glance over some papers she had brought with her.
There was a knock at the door. Henrietta de la Rue came in, looking harassed and apologizing for being late. She was followed a few seconds later by a tall, thin, beautiful woman with long, wavy dark hair. Julia was introduced to Cynthia Walker.
Julia thought she looked like Sarah Ford. Then, on closer inspection, she realized the resemblance was fleeting: Cynthia’s hair was almost identical, but she was taller and her face, while well formed, was narrower, with a mean set to the mouth. She had none of Sarah Ford’s vivacity or voluptuousness. Alongside her was the little girl with curly dark hair and red wellington boots – though it was hardly the weather for these – whom Julia had seen yesterday, emerging from the common with her father.
‘Say hello, Sarah,’ Cynthia Walker said.
‘Hello,’ the little girl said shyly, hiding behind her mother’s leg.
Hattie Travers, the builder’s wife, came into the kitchen wearing a dirty white T-shirt over ample breasts. She was with another large woman whom Julia did not recognize and both were greeted warmly by Cynthia, who suggested they all went out to the terrace.
Julia picked up the tin of biscuits and followed them out. As she emerged, Cynthia, who had her back to the door, was saying, ‘I don’t how he could ever have stayed …’ As she saw Julia her voice trailed off.
Julia put down the biscuits in front of Hattie Travers. ‘The tea will be a minute,’ she said, and went back inside.
Just as she had with Doberman, Julia had spent one university holiday working for Travers, doing his books, and for some reason Hattie had viewed her with suspicion from the start, perhaps suspecting her husband of having designs on his young employee. Julia did not like either of them: they were aggressive, money-conscious and bordering on dishonest.
Julia brought out the sugar, milk and plates.
Hattie’s friend had short dark hair and wore a tatty blue outdoor jacket, despite the warmth of the day. The pair were less well dressed than Cynthia Walker, but Julia could see that the three instinctively felt comfortable together. It was probably, she thought, a question of class, and she could see that, for all her smart clothes and neat face, Cynthia Walker had not been educated at a private school and this was at the heart of her resentment of the village establishment. It was something indefinable in the way she had held herself and responded to Caroline, Leslie and Julia.
Or was she reading too much into this? Julia wondered. Her job sometimes gave her a tendency to over-analysis.
‘What would you like to drink, Sarah?’ Cynthia asked, as if Julia were a waitress.
The little girl did not reply. Julia moved closer. ‘Would you like some apple juice?’ she asked softly.
The child – Julia could not use her name, Sarah – looked at her. She had big green eyes. Her face was narrow, like her mother’s, her hair neatly cut and her clothes clean and creaseless. She had a white notebook in front of her and a pencil in her hand. ‘Yes, please,’ she said.
Cynthia gave a satisfied nod, and Julia went inside to get the juice. When sh
e brought it out, the little girl looked up, smiled and said, ‘Thank you.’
Julia meant to turn away, but found herself hesitating. ‘What are you drawing?’ she asked. The three other women were watching her.
‘Shapes.’
‘They’re very neat.’
‘Thank you,’ the little girl said again. She had a shy, singsong voice.
‘Are you at school?’
‘She goes to East Welham Primary in September,’ Cynthia said.
The child did not respond. She was sitting on the edge of the chair, swinging her feet, but still managing to draw the shapes. She was doing triangles and circles alternately over and over again, overlapping them.
‘Is Mrs Simpson still in charge?’ Julia asked, deliberately directing the enquiry to the little girl and not to her mother.
‘Yes,’ Cynthia said. She turned to her friends. ‘Bit laid-back for my taste.’
‘You’ll like her,’ Julia said, thinking of how little the kind, gentle, observant Mrs Simpson and the brash, pushy, nouveau riche Cynthia Walker would have in common. She went back into the house and upstairs to her room.
Alice had only begun at East Welham Primary shortly before she died. It was hard not to think of the future that she had been denied. Alice, like Julia before her, had liked Mrs Simpson.
For a time, Julia sat at her desk, but then she was drawn to the spare room at the front, with its view of the terrace. The window was open – her mother was airing the house – and she could hear the conversation drifting up from below. Cynthia Walker was talking about the need to ‘modernize’ the village fête, bring in new attractions and leave aside all the old ‘rubbish’ that people had got too used to. She said she accepted it was not going to happen this year, but next year had to be different. Julia could see why the village old guard found the woman vexatious.
She moved closer to the window. The little girl had her chair pulled up close to the table and her head was bent. The apple juice stood untouched beside her and she was still drawing methodically. Julia saw that her own mother and Leslie Rouse were staring at the child, apparently ignoring what the village newcomer was proposing. Henrietta de la Rue was looking out towards the common.
Of course, Julia thought, Cynthia Walker, Hattie Travers and the other woman had all moved here since 1982 so … they were of the village, but could never really be part of it.
She found that she had been tugging so hard at her jeans that her fingertips were sore. She forced herself to take a step back.
Julia was drying her hair when she heard her mother shout, ‘Supper!’ She wound the lead around the hair-dryer and returned it to Caroline’s room at the far end of the corridor, placing it in the middle of the new white bedspread. She paused by the chest of drawers, stooping to look at the photograph of her parents on their wedding day. They were undeniably a handsome pair, Mitchell resplendent in his uniform and Caroline in a beautiful, understated, long white dress.
There was a folder in front of the picture with ‘Havilland Memorial Trust’ written on the front and, on top, a letter with the names of the trustees printed in red ink in the right-hand corner – Caroline Havilland, Jasper de la Rue and Lieutenant Colonel Alan Ford: ‘Dear Mr Marks, Thank you for your letter dated 12 April. We have since agreed to raise our annual target to twenty-five thousand pounds. If, as you have indicated, you agree to the same twenty per cent subsidy, we believe this should provide sufficient funds for another two scholarships at Cranbrooke.’
Julia walked into the kitchen just as her mother was taking something from the oven.
‘I hope you’re in the mood for fish pie.’
‘I’m in the mood for any home cooking.’
Caroline put the dish in the middle of the table. ‘There’s some wine in the fridge if you want to get it.’
There were two bottles on the shelf and Julia selected then opened a New Zealand sauvignon blanc. ‘You’re a great one for new-world wines, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘There are times,’ Caroline said, ‘when any wine will do.’
Julia filled the glasses already out on the table, then sat down and watched while her mother put a large helping of the pie and some peas on her plate. Suddenly she felt hungry.
‘I saw the thing about the trust.’
‘Yes. I meant to say to you. We’ve decided to try and bring in new money, rather than just relying on Jasper’s donation, so we should be able to provide two more scholarships.’
‘How are you going to get the cash?’
Caroline examined her plate. ‘Well, various ways. Jasper has generously offered another donation, which we’ve resisted so far. We’re opening our gardens to the public in July for a day, which will bring a little. I donated the money from my paintings. We have some other small projects, but otherwise we’ll look for donations from local firms.’
Julia tried to think of something she could offer to do. She picked up one of the wooden grinders and began to twist it.
‘Don’t they have salt in Beijing?’
‘It’s delicious,’ Julia said, ‘but it needs salt.’
She leant back in her chair. The kitchen window was open and there was a light breeze, the sun sinking over the common, a fading blue sky shot through with orange and a hint of red. ‘I was thinking again,’ she said, ‘of Dad skiing.’
This time, Caroline didn’t smile.
‘Do you remember we used to meet up at that round-domed restaurant at the top of the run – the White Lady? You used to walk up and Dad and I would fight on the T-bar and then we’d have hot chocolate out in the sun.’
‘Yes. I do. But what has prompted this sudden trip down Memory Lane?’
Julia looked down at her food. ‘Dad was so relaxed. It was a good time. He’d just been promoted to head the battalion, hadn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you happy then?’
Caroline frowned. ‘Of course. Weren’t you?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Then what’s made you think of it?’
‘Of what?’
Caroline was studying her. ‘Well, why are you asking if your father and I were happy then?’
Julia shrugged. ‘Just … It’s just that sometimes he was a bit moody and withdrawn.’
‘He was a man, Julia, not an angel.’
‘But you were always happy?’
‘No, not from noon until night every day. Your father wasn’t always an easy man to live with, but that didn’t stop me loving him.’
Julia pushed the remainder of the food around the plate with her fork. ‘Why was he so unrelaxed sometimes?’
‘Why is anyone? Stresses. External or self-imposed. He carried his own demons – your grandfather and his alcoholism. He wanted everything to be right so much that sometimes he didn’t find it easy to cope when it wasn’t. But he was a good man.’ Caroline smiled at her. ‘And he loved you.’ She got up, picked up the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher, then went into the larder.
‘Wasn’t it odd for Alan when he moved in next door?’ Julia asked, as Caroline came back with a pear tart. ‘I mean, I’d hate to live so close to my CO.’
Caroline was frowning again. ‘I think there was a mutual agreement to steer clear of each other to begin with, but it settled into its natural rhythm. It helped that you and Alice were friends.’
‘And Sarah and Dad.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you like her?’
Caroline looked at her. ‘This really is the third degree.’
‘It’s just coming home after all this time.’
‘It’s not been that long.’
Julia watched as her mother cut two pieces of the tart then pushed the cream towards her. ‘Feels like it,’ she said.
Caroline refilled their glasses.
‘I sometimes felt nobody liked Sarah,’ Julia said.
‘Well, she wasn’t my type,’ Caroline said, thoughtfully, ‘but only, I think, because she chose not to be. A par
t of her wanted to be involved and a part thought we were all beneath her in some way.’
‘I didn’t think you liked her.’
‘No, that’s not true. She could be very charming when she chose. Your father was one for trying to set people on the right track.’ Caroline smiled again, this time with less conviction. ‘He should have been a priest, really. And Sarah was certainly a lost sheep.’
Julia ate the last mouthful of her dessert. ‘I still miss Alice sometimes,’ she said quietly.
‘Poor Alice. I think everyone does.’
‘Dad really loved her, didn’t he?’
Caroline didn’t answer, and this time when they’d finished it was Julia’s turn to stack the plates. The last of the sun had been almost chased from the sky now and the common was shrouded in darkness.
Julia watched the headlines on News at Ten, but there was no reference to an appeal by the Welham Common murderer. She watched until the break, but most of the news was political and she wasn’t concentrating.
Caroline came in just as she was leaning forward to switch it off. ‘What’s been happening?’
‘Nothing.’ She leant forward to give her mother a kiss and a brief hug. ‘Good night, Mum.’
*
Julia was lying on the floor of her bedroom, trying to fit all the family of dolls into the wooden car her father had made.
She heard him coming down the corridor and turned her head as he came in.
‘Evening, champ.’ He smiled at her. ‘Hard day at the coal-face?’
‘I’ve been dressing the dolls.’
‘Of course you have. Do you want a walk?’
Julia got to her feet.
‘Give me a second and I’ll take the fatigues off – get Socrates’ lead.’ He stepped away, then came back, his head around the door. ‘Mum’s stuck into the garden, so it’s just us.’
Julia went down the stairs and took the lead from the hook behind the front door, calling for Socrates, who ran out of the kitchen at the sound of his name, scurrying around her feet until she opened the door and let him out.
