‘No.’ Jenny sensed Ian chafing nearby. But Ian was wrong to chafe: so long as they had the daughter, then they couldn’t lose the father.
‘Oh yes! There’s even a monument to poor old John Talbot, who got killed there, by the river. And my father says … losing the American colonies was no great loss—no one minds losing them. But losing Bordeaux, where the wine comes from—that really was the most rotten luck. Because it’s much too good for the French, he says.’ She giggled again. ‘And he said all that to a French couple and an American couple we met at the Parador at Ciudad Rodrigo—honestly, I thought Mummy was going to kill him … But that was later on. Because from Chastillon we came over the Pass of Roncesvalles—where Roland was killed … that was super … And then down the other side, to a lovely old Parador, in a medieval hospital—that was so he could show us the battlefield at Najera, where the English longbowmen wiped out that Spanish-and-French army in five minutes—like machine-gunners, Father said—wow!’
Suddenly, Jenny understood: this poor child had been holidaying for nearly a fortnight now, with her overwhelming father and disapproving mother, between whom she hadn’t got a word in edgeways. But now she’d met a sympathetic English-speaking stranger, so the floodgates of pent-up speech had burst, just as they had done with the Spanish waiters.
‘But this isn’t a medieval battlefield surely, Miss Audley?’ Ian intruded suddenly with the same silly question which he had put to her.
‘Oh no—‘ Cathy Audley fielded the statement almost joyfully. ‘But we did the medieval battles the first week, you see—and Mummy’s having a week in Paris, for shopping, on the way back—‘ the grin twisted. ‘—and so am I … Father’s going back to work and we are going shopping, Mummy and I!’
So ‘Mummy’ wasn’t so stupid, thought Jenny: Audley himself paid for his idiosyncrasies—and quite properly, too!
‘The middle week’s the Peninsular War,’ Cathy Audley concentrated on Ian. ‘We’ve just come from Ciudad Rodrigo: another super old Parador … except Father hated the food there—‘ She cocked her head at him suddenly, almost shyly, yet unchildlike. ‘Are you staying at the Salamanca Parador, Mr—Mr Robinson?’
Ian nodded, matching her shyness. ‘We just checked in this morning, Miss Audley.’ Then he blinked. ‘The Peninsular War?’
‘Yes.’ Nod. ‘We stormed Ciudad Rodrigo in 1812. And my father … he wanted to see where “Black Bob” Crauford was killed—and where they buried him in the ditch there … I mean, he used to flog them, and hang them, but they loved him, my father says … He’s a great admirer of General Crauford.’ Cathy Audley nodded seriously. ‘He wanted me to see Badajoz too, where our army did a lot of raping-and-pillaging. But Mummy said we didn’t have enough time for that.’
‘Why the Peninsular War?’ Ian, when a ‘why ‘ eluded him, was as persistent as any child, regardless of raping and pillaging.
‘Oh, not the whole of the war.’ The child accepted his curiosity as quite natural. ‘It went on for years and years, you know. But my father is only interested in 1812. And really he’s only interested in here, because Salamanca is our special battlefield, Mr Robinson: my father has been talking about coming here for ages and ages.’ She blushed slightly. This is a sort of reward for my A-levels—‘ The blush combined with a grin ‘—this … and Paris.’
A-level exam results were a blow below the belt: she had waited herself for them, through endless days a dozen years ago, to find out whether she had been accepted by the university of her choice, and it had been Philly who had been there, waiting for her at the last, as she’d scraped through by the skin of her teeth, with champagne ready for congratulation or commiseration! Philly, oh Philly—damn them all!
‘So … you passed then?’ Now it was her turn to grit her teeth and concentrate on the matter in hand, all sweetness and light, (it had been mid-August then, a month ago now; so, to travel safely from Parador to Parador, Audley must have booked ahead, planning this holiday-reward; so that meant he hadn’t prudently removed himself from the country, to avoid awkward questions after Philly’s body had been found—? Or had it been just luck, and not just confidence in his clever daughter?)
‘What’s so special about Salamanca, Miss Audley?’ Ian, having decided to be involved, was even more single-minded in seeking answers to questions which were bugging him—quite oblivious of the child’s awkward modesty about her results (straight bloody A-grades, with distinctions in the special papers, the clever little beast? But she mustn’t let her sour grapes betray her smile!).
‘Oh yes!’ The child seized on the question eagerly again: it saved her from immodesty, for a guess; but also (if she was normal) she properly preferred men to women now, for another guess. ‘My great-great-great-grandfather was killed here, you see. In 1812, at Salamanca, Mr—‘ she floundered momentarily.
‘”Ian”,’ Jenny supplied the Christian name tartly. ‘He answers to “Ian”, Cathy. But … your great-great … grandfather was killed … here?’
‘Oh?’ The child blinked at her for another moment. But then her years increased again as she measured Jenny up, and took in her slightly battered condition to even up the reckoning. And then turned back to Ian coolly. ‘Not actually here, I mean.’ She smiled at Ian and then swung on her heel and pointed away past the rocky headland of the Greater Arapile towards the distant ridge behind it, on which a long line of scrubby trees marked the skyline. ‘That’s where the British cavalry charged. And my great-great-great-grandfather was in the charge: he charged right through two whole French divisions … before he was killed, right at the end. So this is our special family battlefield, do you see?’
Wow! thought Jenny: Ian had wanted an answer to his ‘why’—and he had got it to the last syllable. ‘Like … the Charge of the Light Brigade—?’
‘No—not at all!’ Ian’s voice was stiff with contempt. ‘He must have been in General Le Marchant’s charge—‘ He began by addressing her, but then dismissed her, to turn the words back to Cathy Audley ‘—and General Le Marchant was killed up there, too—in the moment of victory—?’
‘That’s right—gosh!’ The child was quite enchanted by this supremely useless piece of information. ‘You know about the battle, Mr Robinson?’
‘I know about Le Marchant, Miss Audley.’ Whether Ian really knew about ‘General Le Marchant’ hung in the balance for an instant: it could be either that he had always known, because it was the sort of thing he knew: or it could be that he had just done his homework last night, to know just enough, but no more than that. ‘He was the one man in the army who was a scientific soldier—? A Guernsey man—from the Channel Islands?’
‘That’s right!’ Cathy Audley positively bubbled with pleasure. ‘You really do know about the battle, don’t you!’ Then she frowned. ‘But that’s silly, isn’t it!’
‘Silly?’
Not silly, thought Jenny, amending her previous contempt abjectly as she realized what Ian was doing—and what he had done, which she hadn’t even thought to do—
‘I don’t mean you—gosh! I mean me.’ Cathy hunched her shoulders. ‘I mean … you wouldn’t be here, traipsing around like this, if you weren’t interested in the battle. So … you’re probably a historian—are you a historian?’ She cocked her head at Ian, but not coquettishly: it was a simple, straight question, as unfeminine as it was unshy, but with logic behind it. ‘Or are you a dragoon?’
‘A—?’ Ian was good, having done his homework. But he wasn’t that good. ‘A … dragoon, Miss Audley?’
‘My father was a dragoon, in the war … Not the Peninsular War, I mean … but his war.’ Cathy threw out her inadequate chest with filial pride. ‘He wasn’t on a horse, of course—he was in a tank … He doesn’t even like horses … But, then, he doesn’t much like tanks, either. Even though he’s always talking about them.’ Pride quite vanished beneath honesty. ‘But … my great-great-great-grandfather was a horse-dragoon, you see. And he was shot right beside General Le Marchant�
�in “the moment of victory”, just like you said … And my father says all British dragoons should come here, because this was one of the best charges they ever made. But, of course, he wanted me to see it because of great-great-great-grandfather … Are you a historian, Mr Robinson?’
‘Not a historian, Miss Audley. Or a dragoon. But we are writers, Miss Fielding and I.’ Ian smiled and nodded at the child. ‘And we are thinking of writing a book on Spain—aren’t we, Miss Fielding?’
‘Possibly, Mr Robinson.’
‘And if we do, we shall certainly mention the battle of Salamanca, Miss Audley—General Le Marchant’s charge.’
‘And the dragoons, Cathy.’ It was Jenny’s turn to smile. ‘At least, we will if your father will tell us all about them—would he do that, do you think?’
‘Oh … yes—‘ Cathy looked up towards the Greater Arapile ‘—well, I don’t see why not.’ She came back to Jenny. ‘So long as you make allowance for him not being in a very good mood, I mean.’ She made a face at them both. ‘He’s been like that ever since—‘ She stopped abruptly.
‘Ever since—?’ Ever since they tipped him off that there was trouble back home, thought Jenny. It was only to be expected. And with Fielding and Robinson on the loose it was doubly to be expected. ‘Something he ate, dear?’
‘Oh no!’ Cathy was quite disarmed by the fatuousness of the suggestion. ‘He just got a phone call from home. And he hates being bothered by the office when we’re on holiday, you see.’
‘Don’t we all, dear!’ Jenny laughed. ‘But … is that him up there, watching over us? Up by that … what is it? It looks like a sort of monument—?’
‘Yes.’ Cathy followed her glance. Then she waved suddenly. ‘All right—let’s go and see him, then—‘
Once she had her second wind the climb wasn’t so bad, really: even, it was preferable to the corn-stubble, so long as she took care to avoid the occasional thistle.
‘See these walls, Jenny?’ Ian had stopped to let her catch up, while the child bounded ahead. They must have cultivated this land right up to here in the old days—‘ He spoke loudly, but then dropped his voice as she came level with him ‘—if Mitchell’s phoned him he’ll know who we are, and what we’re up to. So he may even be expecting us, Jen.’
She waved at Cathy, who had also stopped now. ‘Surprise, surprise. So he’s expecting us, then.’ She turned, as though to admire the view, and saw that the deceptive undulations of the fields had already flattened out far below her. It was hard to imagine that flesh-and-blood could ever have been so brave (or so stupid?) to march all the way she’d come, buttoned-up and constricted in silly uniforms and weighed down by weapons and equipment, and through a hail of Cathy Audley’s elusive musket balls. But then, it was also fairly way-out, the process which had brought her so far from home, to this unlikely place: she was here because Philly had once carried Daddy on his back in far-off Korea (another unlikely place, by God!)—and because an Audley ancestor had once charged to death-and-glory here, to find his unmarked grave.
Philly had almost had an unmarked grave of his own, she thought. And the thought turned her round again. ‘Come on, Ian. We’ve got work to do.’
Cathy was waiting for them.
‘See there, Miss Fielding—Jenny—?’ She pointed at the ground.
‘What?’ Behind the child the final tumble-home of the Greater Arapile rose more steeply, in a jumble of rocks. But it would be no more exhausting than climbing up to Piccadilly from the Underground without the benefit of the moving escalator.
‘Autumn crocuses, Miss Fielding.’ The child pointed again.
Jenny looked down. And there at her feet was a tiny delicate pale-mauve flower with a bright white-into-yellow centre, thrusting out of the dead grass like a promise of life-in-death.
‘Isn’t it beautiful, Miss Fielding?’
‘Yes, dear.’ Jenny stepped carefully around the crocus. And then she saw another, and another … and some were already wilting in the fierce Spanish sun, as ephemeral as butterflies. ‘Very beautiful.’
‘Here, Jen—‘ Ian reached down to help her up over a steeper place, almost like the old Ian.
Now they were on the edge of the summit, with bedrock and tumbled rock all around them.
Their hands and their eyes met. And it wasn’t strange that he looked sad: they were at the beginning of their long goodbye; which had always been going to come one day, inevitably; but that didn’t make it any sadder, now that they could both see it ahead of them: maybe they would write a Spanish book together, but it would be their last book; or maybe he’d write it, while she was frying some other and very different fish.
But this was Philly’s day for her, anyway—
She felt his strength as he hauled her up, and mourned the loss of it already. But then she saw Audley, waiting for them.
And this was Philly’s hour.
The sun beat down on her head, hotter than ever, behaving as she always felt it should now that they were closer to it, melting her as it had melted the wax holding Icarus’s feathers to his wings. But there was a lump of ice-cold resolution in the centre of her which resisted the heat—which even seemed to expand as she stared past them, at Audley—
Audley waiting for them: he knew who they were, and what they were, and why they were here. So he was sitting there, on the plinth of the monument, on its cooler shadowed side: Audley still unhappy this morning, after last night’s phone-call, but cool and calm and collected now, and ready for them—
‘Wait a minute, Ian.’ She used the last ounce of her waning influence over him in her voice. ‘Please wait!’
He stopped. ‘What is it, Jenny?’
‘There’s no hurry. He’s not going away.’ She looked round deliberately, taking her time; at first seeing nothing, then seeing everything with sudden clarity in the crystal air.
The Greater Arapile was shaped like a ship, exactly: long and flat-topped, and barely a dozen yards wide. And they were standing halfway down the deck, between the supertanker prow and the slight rise to the monument; and the deck itself was covered with a carpet of dead grass, brown and withered, through which an astonishing profusion of Cathy Audley’s delicate autumn crocuses burst out defiantly.
‘What an amazing place!’ It wasn’t particularly amazing, actually: it was just another piece of the great yellow openness that was so much of Spain, with nothing to betray the great and terrible event which it had once witnessed. In fact, nothing had happened here since that moment when the rolling fields below had been black with marching lines, and columns, and screaming horses and thundering cannon. But there wasn’t the slightest echo of the past up here now, anymore than of the future.
But she had to say something.
And, by God! something was going to happen here now!
‘Look!’ She saw a sudden flick of movement in a jumble of rocks on the flank of the ridge.
‘What—?’
‘There—‘ She pointed. ‘It’s a fox—with long pointy-ears—see!’
Obligingly, the fox moved again, and became visible for an instant before it vanished into the hillside.
‘Yes—!’ In that same instant Ian’s face lit up, with pure pleasure, and he was just like the old Ian at the sight of any small interesting thing, like a new postage stamp on a letter, or an old building which caught his eye. (Had he welcomed the sight of that first autumn crocus? Or had he had eyes only for Audley, and thought only for his Frances Fitzgibbon?) But then he frowned at her, and was the new Ian again. ‘What are you playing at, Jen?’
Now they were at last facing each other in the face of the enemy, and facing their moment of truth. ‘Audley’s mine, Ian—he’s not for you. I want him.’
He breathed out. ‘Because of Philip Masson?’
‘Because of Philip Masson. And because this was my idea, not yours—my truth … not yours, Ian.’
‘Your revenge, more like. And that’s the wrong way to look for truth, Jen—it’s a bad way, Jen.�
��
He was right, of course. He was always fucking right—going to church on Sundays, and giving to charity, and never getting drunk on a Saturday night, or any other night! But she wanted to hurt him, not to argue morality with him. ‘And you want the truth about some silly woman who forgot to pack her gun when she went to arrest a terrorist? A woman you’ve never met—who wouldn’t have given you the time of day if you had met her? That’s stupid—‘ The image of Philly came back to her: Philly smiling his big slow smile at her, when they met—Philly hugging her, godfatherly—the smell of his pipe-tobacco and his malt whisky, Philly strong and safe—Philly praising her, Philly laughing as the champagne cork popped … even Philly in that rare unguarded moment, looking at her with that ungodfatherly look, of naked-desire-well-controlled … which she’d shared—oh! how she’d shared!—but which she hadn’t truly understood until it was too late—
Too late! Too late!
But she had hit him hard. And that was all that mattered. ‘He’s mine, Ian. Even if we don’t write this book … he’s mine.’ She corrected her own thought: all that mattered was that someone was going to pay in full; that was all that mattered. ‘You can have your bloody Spanish book instead.’ She swept a hand over the Greater Arapile. ‘But I want Audley, Ian.’
Ian bit his lip. With Ian—or, at any rate, with the old Ian—there had been times when commonsense, and confused affection, and old-fashioned journalism (never mind self-doubt!), had played the very devil with his Christian imperatives! ‘Well … we’ll see, Jen—we’ll see!’
‘Yes—we’ll see, darling.’ If she’d got that much back, to make him question his irrational obsession with the Fitzgibbon woman, then that much was better than nothing.
‘Miss Fielding—?’
‘Oh—?’ Jenny turned quickly towards the question: she had halted Ian, but Cathy Audley had progressed towards her father before she’d realized that she was alone, and had had to turn back to them ‘—we’re coming, dear … This is an amazing place—isn’t it? All these lovely little flowers!’ She grinned at the child. ‘We saw a fox, Cathy—down there—‘ She pointed ‘—with great big ears … he’s in the rocks down there, somewhere—‘
A Prospect of Vengeance Page 25
