Face The Wind And Fly

by Jenny Harper

  Helena’s dark eyes watched her thoughtfully. ‘About Andrew—’

  Kate was still adrift where Andrew was concerned. She couldn’t bear the thought of him with Sophie and was still miserable at the prospect of life without him. ‘I don’t know what to think about Andrew, and that’s the honest truth. If he broke off with Sophie and swore it was over – if he could convince me he still loved me in the old way – I’d probably have him back.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘To be absolutely honest, I think he’s probably in as much of a mess as I am. He wants this viewed as a trial separation, but he’s staying with Sophie and that’s no way to sort things out between us. We’ve talked to Ninian and tried to explain, but how can you explain when you don’t really understand everything yourself? We both feel guilty.’

  ‘So what’s stopping you from sorting things out?’

  Kate put the image of Ibsen firmly aside. Ibsen was absolutely not a consideration. ‘I’m still angry with him. Not just angry – he’s really hurt me. I don’t trust him any longer. On his side, Sophie’s a factor, in a big way. I do get the impression she’s clinging like a limpet.’ She managed to raise a laugh. ‘Sorry. Cheap to take pleasure in their problems, but I’m sure not everything’s rosy there. Ninian’s been round to visit and he tells me they snap at each other all the time. She’s got a small flat and Andrew needs privacy when he’s writing.’

  ‘That would be temporary though, surely. They’d get somewhere bigger in time. Sorry – I’m just playing devil’s advocate here.’

  ‘I know. Don’t apologise, it’s useful to have someone to talk about things with. There are so many imponderables.’

  Kate was sorry when Helena got up to leave. She said, ‘It’s been great to see you again. I’m so glad Ninian and Alice are still seeing each other. How’s Elliott coping?’

  Helena laughed. ‘Surprisingly well. He’s developed a passion for another girl in their year, which is very convenient all round. Listen, Kate, let me know how you get on. At work, I mean. And if you want to talk about anything – any time – give me a ring.’

  ‘Thanks, Helena.’

  Kate picked the post up from the mat as Helena drove away. There were half a dozen letters for Andrew, which she’d have to readdress.

  She hadn’t wanted to show Helena how much she really missed him. She ached for him in ways she had not thought possible, like not seeing his shirts hanging on the line in the garden. She missed his cooking – God, did she miss his cooking! She picked up the scone Helena had abandoned. It was as hard as a brick. She opened the bin and dropped the scone into it, then disposed of the rest of the batch.

  It wasn’t just the cooking she missed. Without Andrew beside her in bed, she felt less than complete. Sixteen years of proximity to his lean body were hard to blank away. She missed making love with him – even their latter-day, mechanical sex had been pleasant and in some measure satisfying.

  In the hall, she stood by the study door. She had envied him possession of this room. Now that it was empty, she discovered to her surprise that what she missed most of all was hearing the clack clack of the keys of the computer keyboard as he wrote, and the conversations they’d had over meals.

  ‘Martyne needs to discover that the abbot has a secret,’ he would say, his brow knotted with the effort of concentration, ‘but there’s no-one he can trust to discuss his suspicions with.’

  ‘Ellyn?’

  ‘Ellyn is currently staying with her father, the chieftain. He has sent her there for safety because of the disease in the village.’

  ‘Another farm worker?’

  ‘There’s no-one as clever as Martyne.’

  ‘But doesn’t he have any friends?’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Men!’ she would laugh. ‘Women operate within support networks, men discuss only football or politics. You’re right to look puzzled, men don’t have friends.’

  Now her words came back to her painfully, because what friends did she have? Only Helena and Charlotte, and she hadn’t spoken to Charlotte since she’d confessed to sleeping with Andrew.

  One morning, she woke from the uneasy sleep that was becoming habitual, and was quite certain that there was someone in the house. Ninian had come in late and this was Sunday. He’d still be deeply asleep.

  It was Andrew. She was sure of it.

  She didn’t know how she felt about him coming in unannounced. Part of her would welcome him, another part was furious that he could so take her permission for the invasion for granted. She tied her negligée round her waist and opened the bedroom door.

  From the top of the stairs she glimpsed flowers, a magnificent vase of lime-green chrysanthemums and white gerbera, set off with roses as large as a hand and as dark as old claret. She drew in her breath sharply at their beauty and descended slowly, considering their meaning. Was he trying to woo her back? And if he was, did she want him? Was she prepared to forgive him for Sophie? For Charlotte? For all the other betrayals over the years that Charlotte had implied?

  At the foot of the stairs, she turned towards the kitchen. Another vase of flowers – wide-open pink stargazer lilies, heavily scented and perfect – had been placed on the small table between the kitchen door and the living room door and the spot had been switched on to light it.

  She could smell coffee. And bacon. Andrew was cooking.

  ‘Hello?’ She ran her hands through her hair, which was growing unchecked because she had not been near the hairdresser. She wished she had stopped to wash her face and put on some make up. ‘Andrew?’

  She turned into the kitchen. A man was standing by the cooker, turning bacon in the frying pan. But it wasn’t Andrew, it was Harry.

  ‘Hi.’ He turned and smiled. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you. I wasn’t sure when you’d get up.’

  Kate said, breathlessly, ‘Hi!’ and sank onto one of the tall stools at the breakfast bar, so stunned that she could hardly speak.

  ‘Thought I’d give you a treat.’ He indicated the frying pan. ‘Hope that’s okay?’ He was looking a little anxious, the astonished look on her face must have worried him. ‘I was going to call, then I thought maybe I’d just surprise you instead.’

  ‘You’ve certainly done that. I didn’t know you had a key.’

  ‘Dad gave me one ages ago. You don’t mind do you? I didn’t mean to scare you. I reckoned that no sane burglar would cook bacon.’

  She had to laugh. Still, it did seem a bit like a dream. Harry? Cooking breakfast? For her? Kate blinked, but when she opened her eyes again he was still here, in the kitchen. She hadn’t seen Harry, or heard from him, since the night he and Jane had descended on them, eager to share the news that Sophie had confessed all. She had no idea how he felt about Andrew’s departure from her life, though she was sure he would be pleased. Yet here he was – with flowers – and coffee – and bacon.

  ‘Did you bring the flowers?’

  ‘I hope you like them?’

  ‘They’re beautiful. Really beautiful.’

  ‘Good.’

  He broke two eggs into the frying pan and set plates to warm. Forks appeared, and knives. Butter, a small bowl brimming with marmalade, toast. Breakfast cups, the ones she particularly liked, the huge round bowls they had brought back from France, laughing because they had had to pack them full of dirty washing to protect them, then coax them into over-full suitcases.

  He dished out the cooked breakfast and sat down opposite her. She stared down at her plate and blinked again.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Ravenous.’

  ‘Then eat.’

  Between mouthfuls of pork and leek sausage, bursting with flavour and dripping with egg yolk, and great gulps of fresh coffee, she surveyed her stepson as if she had never seen him before.

  He said, a little tentatively, ‘I wanted to find a way of showing you how terribly sorry I am about all this.’

  Kate swallowed.

 
‘I’m not great at words. Well, obviously, you know that. But Jane and I – well, we’re devastated really.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Pleased? Good God, why?’

  ‘Well, you know. I mean, you were always so terribly against me when I fell in love with your father.’

  The surprise on his face seemed genuine. ‘Against you? No. I was a bit protective of Mum, I suppose, at first but, to be honest, she was quite happy to see the back of Dad, their marriage had been going down the tubes for ages and she didn’t have the courage to tell him to get lost.’

  ‘What?’ Kate’s fork clattered onto her plate.

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘I thought he’d broken her heart, and all because of me.’

  ‘Well, you’re right in part. I guess he did break her heart, but it had happened before you came along.’

  Harry, square-faced and stocky, had more of his mother’s character than his father’s. He was careful and unadventurous, as well as notoriously unimaginative. It occurred to Kate that Andrew had perhaps never understood his son and that some of that incomprehension might have transferred itself to her. She said, ‘You hated me.’

  To her surprise, Harry flushed. ‘No, Kate. Quite the contrary. I fancied you.’

  ‘You fancied me?’

  He smiled, patently embarrassed by the confession. ‘Give me a break. You were a looker, well, you still are of course, you had bags of personality and you were my age, not Dad’s. If I was angry with anyone, it was Dad for finding you first and making you fall in love with him.’

  Despite the shock of this revelation, Kate’s lips twitched with amusement. Harry had pulled at one end of a misconception and all at once, half a lifetime of guilt was being unravelled.

  ‘What? Don’t laugh at me.’

  ‘I’m not laughing at you, Harry, I’m laughing at myself. I never guessed. Was that why you were so awkward around me?’

  ‘Was I awkward? I suppose I was. I had a crush on you for years, if you must know. Plus, I really was mad at Dad. And now I’m furious with him all over again for treating you like this.’

  The corners of Kate’s mouth began to lift. She couldn’t help smiling. She felt like jumping up and bouncing round the kitchen. It was the first time she’d felt good, really good, for months.

  ‘Jane says—’

  ‘She does know you’re here?’

  ‘Of course. I wanted her to come too, but she thought it would be better this way.’

  ‘She’s a clever girl, as well as a pretty one.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’re not like Andrew at all, are you Harry?’

  ‘Not one bit. Surely you knew that?’

  ‘Yes. I knew it. I guess I just didn’t appreciate the good things about the differences between you.’ She took his hand in hers and couldn’t help being just a little gratified when he blushed again. ‘Thank you, Harry. For doing this. For your honesty. And for your support.’

  ‘It’s a small enough thing to do.’

  ‘But it means the world to me.’

  ‘Really?’ He looked shy, but pleased.

  Harry and shyness? How well did she know him? All she had ever known of Harry was a hostility that was apparently more perceived than real. Charlotte had told her, You don’t know anything about other people’s lives, Kate. You’ve never taken much interest actually, have you? That had hurt, but now she wondered if there’d been some truth in it.

  She laid a hand on Harry’s arm and smiled.

  ‘Really,’ she said.

  There’s a painting, ‘The Card Game’, in a gallery in Madrid by the artist Balthus. It’s an unsettling picture, almost medieval in feel, but in other ways very contemporary. A girl is seated at a table, holding some cards. Her expression is sweet and untroubled, but somehow very knowing. A boy, opposite her, half stands, half leans across the table, his shoulder hunched upwards awkwardly. He’s looking not at her, but out of the canvas, at the painter, and he’s holding a card behind him, out of her sight. His face is sly.

  One picture. Four people looking at it. Each sees something different.

  They’d gone to Madrid, as a family, when Ninian was about nine. Harry had not yet met Jane and was footloose. Kate was exhausted and overworked and Andrew, high on record-breaking advance sales for Martyne Noreis and the Cuckoo in the Nest, had suggested a family break, his treat.

  In the gallery, trying to teach Ninian about art, all he did was snigger at the painting. ‘He really wants to win, doesn’t he?’

  Harry wanted to move on. ‘I like the colours, nice big blocks,’ he said. ‘The guy’s shoulder looks strange, though, doesn’t it? Just a couple of teenagers, playing cards.’

  Andrew was excited. ‘Look again, Harry. There’s a world of meaning in there. I could write a whole book on the basis of that one scene alone.’

  Kate was the only one who looked at the girl’s face and saw power. She was calm, assured and knowing. Whatever the youth did, she knew she was going to win. He was going to try and cheat, but she was going to deal with it. She looked like Kate felt at work – always right, always in charge.

  Harry’s revelations reminded her now of that picture, and of their reactions. They had all been playing out their lives from parallel perspectives. All these years, she and Harry had looked at the situation they were in and had seen in it only one dimension, whereas in fact many dimensions had existed. That realisation gave her strength and hope.

  In the village, though, people still avoided her. As she’d predicted, Mrs Gillies had spread the news of Andrew’s departure more speedily and with more deadly accuracy than an Exocet missile. Many villagers resented the fact that he’d left and some weren’t shy about telling her it was all her fault. Forgie revelled in the fame that came to the village through their local celebrity and Kate had always been a nonentity, at least until the Summerfield project had brought her to their attention for all the wrong reasons. You’re hardly the life and soul of the village, Andrew had said, callously, and she’d felt hurt. She knew now, though, that there had been more than a grain of truth in what he’d said.

  The end of the year was approaching and the weather was dull and damp. The protestors were still encamped in Bonny Brae Woods, she knew, but she had heard that their numbers had diminished. The amateurs and hangers-on had drifted off with the chillier nights and only the professionals were left, doggedly determined. This was, though, a lost cause, and they knew it as well as she did. Even the press had lost interest. As soon as another suitable project presented itself, the eco-protestors would be off – hoping, no doubt, that it might be in a more temperate southerly zone, Kent, perhaps, or Surrey. Few of those Kate had heard talking at the encampment had had Scottish accents.

  The walk through Bonny Brae was still denied to her, for obvious reasons, but there were plenty of other walks to choose from. Most days she found herself retracing the route round the back of Forgie House and up the hill to where she’d encountered Ibsen. She told herself it was because she was pondering the logistics of the Summerfield Project in case she was reinstated as manager, though she knew in her heart this was not really true.

  Once, she saw his asthmatic van disappearing round the corner, farting hazy fumes behind it, and once she met Cassie. She was walking, as she had taken to walking, with her head down, so it was Daisy Rose, the baby, she saw first, in her stroller. Daisy waved a tiny fist at Kate and blew happy bubbles from the corner of her mouth. Little feet kicked energetically with excitement.

  ‘Hello!’ Kate stopped impulsively and bent to offer her a finger. ‘My, you’ve grown.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  She looked up. The family genes were unmistakeable in the tilt of the head and the humorous glint in the eyes, as blue as a loch under a cloudless sky. ‘You must be Cassie.’

  It was the nearest she had come to contact with Ibsen and she wasn’t sure how to handle it.

  ‘I guess you’re Kat
e.’

  Kate’s heart lurched. Cassie knew who she was. She held out a hand. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Ibsen’s talked about you.’

  ‘Really?’

  She grinned, in the family manner. ‘You’re the power behind the wind farm,’ she said, ‘and the garden.’

  Kate smiled ruefully. ‘Actually, neither now. I’ve been suspended by my company, and the garden needs nothing doing now it’s nearly winter. I’m in no-man’s land.’

  ‘Sounds uncomfortable.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘That garden,’ Cassie said, pushing the stroller to and fro with little, reassuring movements to keep Daisy Rose happy, ‘has been the making of Ibsen.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He spends hours on those drawings of his. Planning stuff. Going to meetings.’ She guffawed. ‘Meetings! Ibsen!’

  ‘He was a real natural with the volunteers.’ Kate’s heart swelled as she spoke the words. It was good to talk about him.

  ‘It’s been a bit of a surprise to all of us. It hasn’t been easy for Ibsen since—’ Her voice tailed away.

  ‘He told me about Violet,’ Kate said softly.

  Cassie was clearly shocked. ‘He did?’

  Daisy Rose decided she was bored and started to wriggle and grizzle, and the grizzling turned into a whimper and threatened to become a cry.

  ‘I’d better go. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘And you.’ Kate bent to the baby. ‘Bye bye, Daisy Rose.’

  Give my love to your uncle , she wanted to say, but she couldn’t utter a word. She opened her mouth to ask Cassie to pass on her good wishes, but nothing came out. ‘Bye, then,’ she muttered lamely, and continued her walk, head down, ears burning.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The disciplinary hearing took place in an impersonal meeting room at the AeGen offices. Kate felt her unfamiliar high heels sink into the dark green carpet as she strode across the room to the table. It was strange to be in tailored business wear again. She’d contemplated getting a haircut, but was rather enjoying her new-look longer-length style. It softened her appearance, and in the circumstances, she decided, that might be not be a bad thing. She wore the houndstooth check Burberry scarf she’d been wearing the day Mark told her she’d be managing Summerfield. It seemed a fittingly symmetrical choice. To complete the outfit, she’d pinned the suffragette brooch Andrew had given her onto her jacket, a flash of brilliance that lifted the black. Only she understood its message of defiance, but that was all that mattered.