A Family Concern

by Anthea Fraser

  Adele arrived as usual for the Wednesday class, and when Max made his round to check the students’ work, he paused by her easel.

  ‘I believe you phoned last Friday?’ he said in a low voice.

  She flushed a painful pink. ‘It was stupid of me – I’m so sorry.’

  ‘There’s something you wanted to discuss?’

  ‘Not really. I was just – panicking.’

  He frowned. ‘What about?’

  ‘It was nothing, honestly. I was being neurotic.’

  All his latent worries surfaced in a flood. ‘If there’s anything I can help with, you only—’

  To his horror, he saw her eyes fill with tears. She shook her head blindly.

  ‘Look,’ he said quickly, aware of stirring interest among the rest of the class, ‘stay behind at the end, and we’ll try to sort this out.’

  And he moved on, before she could protest again.

  He was not at all sure she would stay, but she delayed over the gathering together of her equipment, and was still there when the last of the students had clattered down the stairs. As Max heard the front door close, he said quietly, ‘Right, let’s go down and have a cup of tea. I’ve half an hour before the next class.’

  ‘I shouldn’t impose on you like this,’ she murmured, not meeting his eyes. ‘You’ve already been more than kind.’

  He motioned her ahead of him down the stairs and along the hall to the kitchen.

  ‘Now, it’s clear something’s worrying you, so please tell me. Is it to do with your work?’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s why I shouldn’t inflict it on you.’

  ‘On the contrary; if something’s on your mind, it’s bound to affect your painting,’ he said, not sure how sound that assumption was. The kettle boiled and he made tea, poured it into mugs, and set them on the kitchen table, together with milk and sugar.

  She glanced up at him beneath her lashes, then quickly down again, and Max remembered how this unwillingness to meet one’s eye had irritated both Rona and Lindsey. Aware that time was passing and that he hadn’t prepared for the next class, he was about to prompt her again when she said in a rush, ‘It’s just that I was feeling so unhappy, and I didn’t know who to turn to.’

  He studied her downcast face, the curve of her cheek and the creamy pallor of her skin, disturbingly aware of the protectiveness she aroused in him.

  ‘Unhappy about what, Adele?’

  ‘I don’t know, really.’ She took a quick sip of tea. ‘After Daisy was born, I suffered from post-natal depression. It went on for years, and every now and then it – resurfaces. It’s very hard on poor Philip.’

  ‘But considerably harder on you,’ Max returned sharply, and received another lightning glance. ‘Can’t your doctor help?’ he asked more levelly.

  ‘I get the impression he thinks I’m wasting his time.’

  ‘That’s totally unacceptable! If that’s his attitude, you should change your GP.’

  She drank her tea quickly, though it was still painfully hot. ‘I’m holding you up; I must go.’

  ‘You can’t think what triggered this latest depression?’

  ‘No, there’s nothing.’

  On a sudden impulse, Max leaned forward and, catching hold of her wrist, pushed up her sleeve. There was a minute’s intense silence as he stared, horrified, at the livid bruises that covered her arm. Then, before he could move or speak, she gave a little sob, caught up her folder and handbag, and ran from the room. Seconds later, the front door banged shut.

  ‘It’s crystal-clear what happens,’ Max said savagely, splashing whisky into his glass. ‘She feels depressed, her husband can see no reason for it, and eventually loses his temper. She admitted it was “difficult” for him.’

  Rona moved uncomfortably. ‘That doesn’t mean he actually beats her,’ she pointed out. ‘He might just seize her arms, give her a little shake—’

  ‘And you think that’s acceptable, when these “little shakes” leave such bruises?’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s acceptable, Max, just that it mightn’t be as extreme as you seem to think. She has fair skin and might bruise easily.’

  ‘At least admit I was right to be suspicious of the perpetual long sleeves.’

  ‘It mightn’t even be Philip who’s responsible. She could have bumped into something—’

  ‘No, Rona. You and Lindsey fobbed me off with that before. It won’t wash this time.’

  Rona sat back in her chair and stared at him belligerently.

  ‘So what do you propose to do about it?’

  For a moment he held her gaze. Then she saw the fight go out of him, and his shoulders slumped. ‘God knows. I can hardly go round and read him the Riot Act.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So we all just turn a blind eye? Is that what you’re suggesting? Walk by on the other side?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Rona said irritably.

  ‘Well? Is that what you’re proposing?’

  ‘I’m not proposing anything. You’ve made Adele your protégée; it’s up to you how you deal with her.’

  ‘Thanks for your support.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect me to say?’ Rona flared. ‘You’ve been obsessed with that woman from day one, and frankly I’m sick of hearing about her and her problems. You have absolutely no evidence of any trouble between her and Philip, and you admit you can’t storm round there and accuse him. You could end up being sued for slander. Nor can you report your suspicions to anyone, since you’ve no basis for them other than occasional bruises.’

  ‘Occasional? She always covers her arms, as you well know, and the only other time I saw one bare – five months ago, mind you – it was also covered in bruises. What do you deduce from that?’

  Rona thought back to her meetings with Adele, visualizing the small, pointed face, the slatey eyes so unwilling to meet hers, the short, ash-blonde hair curving on to her cheek. Portrait of a born victim, she thought. If she hadn’t been so petite and pretty, would Max still have played knight errant?

  ‘Persuade her to see her doctor again,’ she said at last. ‘That is literally all you can do.’

  The same advice, she reflected, as she might soon be offering to Freya Tarlton.

  Having already delivered the third article to Chiltern Life, Rona spent most of the next morning preparing for her meeting with Coralie Davis. This case had raised several questions, and she hoped they’d be satisfactorily resolved. If not, or if the search was incomplete – as Coralie had half-hinted – it might not qualify for inclusion; in which case she’d have to resort to the half-dozen or so she’d discarded, in search of a substitute.

  The phone rang, and a cheerful voice said in her ear, ‘Hi, Rona! Where have you been hiding these last weeks?’

  ‘Magda! Good to hear from you. How are you?’

  Magda Ridgeway had been her closest friend since childhood, and was married to Gavin, to whom Rona had been briefly engaged before meeting Max. She was the owner of a string of highly successful boutiques scattered about the county.

  ‘Oh, rushing from pillar to post, as usual – New York, Paris, Rome.’

  ‘As one does!’

  ‘The reason I’m phoning is that there’s a concert at the Darcy Hall on Saturday. We were taking friends who should have been spending the weekend with us, but they’ve had to cry off, and we wondered if you’d like to join us? They’re doing Messiah.’

  ‘I’ll check with Max, but I’m sure we’d love to. Two party invitations and now the Messiah too – Christmas is coming, and I’ve not even ordered my cards!’

  ‘So what have you been doing? Are you still on this finding parents kick?’ It had been at Gavin’s birthday party that the whole idea had been born.

  ‘Coming to the end of it, actually. One to go.’

  ‘So no doubt you’re already looking ahead. What next?’

  ‘A series on long-established local businesses – shops, firms, hotels, and so on.’


  ‘Including me, I trust?’

  ‘You hardly qualify, love; you’ve only been going six years!’

  ‘I was afraid you’d say that. Sounds promising, though. It’ll be interesting to hear how they all started.’

  When she had rung off, all Rona’s apprehension about Christmas returned in full measure. They’d still not decided how or with whom they’d spend the day, and she dreaded ending up by having to go to her mother’s and sit round the table as they had every Christmas of her life, but without her father there to carve the turkey. She must tie Max and Lindsey down to a decision.

  It was after eight o’clock when she arrived back from Shellswick. She dumped the photograph albums and papers Coralie had given her on the bottom stair, and ran down to the basement to give Gus his supper and prepare something for herself. Impatient to transcribe the tape with the interview fresh in her mind, she took out a frozen cottage pie and lit the oven, smiling at Max’s imagined disapproval. Cooking was a chore to her, and she indulged in it as little as possible.

  While the pie was heating through, she went upstairs, switched on the computer, and opened the document she’d already prepared for Coralie. So – what had she learned, and was it interesting enough to qualify for inclusion in the series? She thought that it was; the Hong Kong element lent an air of glamour, and the fact that Coralie could remember her early years singled it out from the previous accounts.

  Rona switched on the tape, listening to the halting voice as Coralie related the traumas of her past, and mechanically transcribing them on to the screen.

  Having learned from the adoption agency that she’d been abandoned in Woodbourne, she had gone to the town and driven round till she found the park and row of houses she remembered. There, by dint of ringing doorbells, she’d learned that a family named Craig had lived at number five at the relevant time, but they’d moved away and no one knew where they were. The electoral register, duly consulted, gave their names as Graham and Judith, and Coralie had then turned the information over to an organization specializing in that field, who traced them to Hertford.

  Rona heard her own voice ask, ‘Judith never tried to find you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You did meet her, though?’

  ‘Eventually. She took a lot of persuading, terrified her husband would find out, but curiosity got the better of her. It wasn’t much of a meeting, though. She cried the whole time, and kept saying how sorry she was. She’d never told Graham about me, which might be why he reacted as he did, and she insisted she’d have kept me if she could. To be honest, though, I didn’t feel anything for her. She certainly didn’t seem like my mother.’

  ‘And Lena?’

  Coralie’s voice brightened. ‘That was the one good thing to come out of it; Judith gave me Lena’s address. We’ve been writing to each other, and I’m going out to Hong Kong in the New Year to stay with her and Jim, and to meet my father. He’s married now with a family, so I have half-brothers and sisters, which is an exciting thought.’

  The reason for taking the child to the Craigs was also explained; Jim Chan had been offered a government job in Hong Kong, and had panicked, thinking that if the irregular arrangement over Coralie came out, he’d be in trouble. But once they were settled there, they’d written to Judith asking if they could have her back and adopt her formally, and were shattered to learn what had happened.

  Rona again: ‘Why didn’t they take you out to your father, since they were all going to be in Hong Kong?’

  ‘That was the first thing I asked her. She told me he’d been a very wild young man, and was in prison at the time. It would have been an added complication. So – that’s the story, and I’m glad I went through with it. I now know who I am and exactly what happened, and the bonus is that I’m in touch with Lena again.’

  The recording ended there, a fact Rona now regretted. Because, interesting though the parent search had been, their subsequent conversation, concerning the Fairfaxes, had intrigued her more. As her mind went back over it, she began to tap it out on the keyboard.

  Coralie had come to Marsborough six years ago, when Andy, her boyfriend at the time, had moved here with his job, and she had worked at the Clarendon to help pay for the secretarial course she was taking at night school.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ Rona had asked idly, remembering the encounter in the hall.

  ‘Yes, on the whole. As you know, it’s family-run, so there were two Mrs Fairfaxes and three Misters – though Gerald was known as “Chef”, if you please. Pretentious, or what? To avoid confusion we called them Mrs Dorothy, Mrs Ruth, and so on. I suppose it made sense, but it made me feel like a family retainer.’

  She’d smiled reminiscently. ‘It was quite an eye-opener, seeing how they interact. Mrs Dorothy’s the queen bee, but she has her soft side and positively dotes on her grandsons, while Mrs Ruth is calm and efficient and makes the day-to-day decisions. Chris – well, Chris is just Chris, plodding along and doing his job, but the sparks often flew between Gerald and his father. Mr Stephen was always criticizing him, but then he’s a moody so-and-so at the best of times, and drinks like a fish; though, give him his due, he can hold it. Occupational hazard, perhaps.’ Coralie had shot her a glance. ‘I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Gerald batted for the other side, if you see what I mean. That could be what gets his father’s goat.’

  It seemed wiser not to comment, but Rona, intrigued by this insider view of the Fairfaxes, had decided to probe a little further.

  ‘Didn’t you say before that you were only there six months?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And that was enough to fund your course? You must be a wealthy woman!’

  Coralie laughed. ‘Spot the deliberate mistake. You’re right – I’d meant to stay longer, but fate intervened. No doubt you noticed the atmosphere between Chris and me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rona said belatedly, ‘it’s none of my business.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no secret, but you need to know the background. Chris and Sophie had been going out together for some time, but shortly before I started there, she met Lewis Tarlton at a family wedding, they had a whirlwind romance, and married within weeks. Chris was devastated, especially since she carried on working at the hotel. She couldn’t have realized what it was doing to him, because she’s normally so considerate of everyone’s feelings. I suppose she was on cloud nine, and blind to everything else.

  ‘Anyway, that was the state he was in when I arrived. Then, one evening when I was delivering room service, I met him in the upstairs corridor. He was very drunk, and since I didn’t want any of the guests to see him, I helped him up to his room. Big mistake. You can guess what happened.’

  ‘You had an affair with him?’

  ‘Yes; I liked him, and my pride had been hurt by Andy dumping me. It was good to feel I was still attractive. But after a month or two we were discovered, and all hell broke loose. I was sent packing, with a handsome severance pay in lieu of notice. It was most efficiently hushed up – by Mrs Dorothy, no doubt – and none of the rest of the staff knew why I was leaving. It wasn’t put into words, but the understanding was that I shouldn’t darken their doors again. Hence Chris’s reaction, when he saw me with you.’

  ‘Did you feel unfairly treated?’

  Coralie had shrugged. ‘I don’t see what else they could have done. I’ve no hard feelings.’

  ‘And eventually Lewis and Sophie divorced, and Chris got her after all.’

  ‘Yes. Happy endings all round.’

  Rona sat back in her chair, reading over what she’d typed. Then, with a sigh, she deleted it. Though an intriguing insight into the Fairfax family, none of it could be used in an article, and, reluctantly putting it out of her mind, she went downstairs to her cottage pie.

  Stephen Fairfax poured himself a stiff shot of whisky. What the hell was the matter with him? he wondered irritably. Everything was going smoothly, the restaurant full most e
venings, a waiting list for all the Christmas meals, an excellent write-up in the latest food magazine. Gerald was good at his job, no denying that. If only the boy would be a bit more manly, stand his ground occasionally, instead of jumping like a startled rabbit every time he, Stephen, appeared.

  He tossed the whisky back, feeling it burn the back of his throat, and immediately poured another. So what was needling him? Well, for one thing, Mother was getting a bit doddery, bless her; he’d seen her stumble a couple of times during the last week, and she’d knocked into an occasional table in her flat, sending a vase of flowers crashing to the ground. It had been a trifling accident, and he’d been startled to see her eyes fill with tears. Was she ill, perhaps, hiding something from them? He’d ask Ruth to have a word with her; it would come better from her, especially since it might be women’s problems.

  As always at the thought of his wife, he felt himself relax. Thank God for Ruthie; she was more than he deserved. Though Mother liked to consider herself the matriarch, it was Ruth who was the linchpin, holding the family together.

  Come to think of it, he reflected, cradling the glass in his hand, another concern, barely acknowledged, was his own health. He’d had an attack of palpitations last week, and, frankly, it had frightened him. God knew what it indicated – high blood pressure, probably – but no doubt the cure lay in his own hands: cut down on the hard stuff. He knew Ruth worried about his drinking; she’d hinted once or twice that he was overdoing it, and he’d bitten her head off for her pains, though he’d apologized later. A man had to have some vices, he’d said.

  Time Chris and Sophie were starting a family, he thought suddenly. They’d been married over three years now, and not getting any younger. The sooner a new generation of Fairfaxes was in the pipeline, the better.

  He turned as the door opened and his wife came into the room. She glanced at the glass he held, but all she said was, ‘The Mayor and his wife are in the restaurant. It might be prudent to go and have a word with them.’

  ‘Let’s be prudent, by all means.’

  She frowned. ‘Is everything all right, darling?’