Guilt Trip

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Perhaps there was someone else in the room.’

  ‘Exactly. Someone who got to hear that it was a long time since we’d met and why didn’t we have a quiet drink together one day soon. I was afraid that that was all I’d get out of him, so I suggested he email me with a few dates. Then I went further: I asked him for his email address so we wouldn’t lose touch. Before you ask, it’s a valid address, I’ve already had a reply and we’re meeting at the Granville on Stone Street tomorrow. I’ll book a table, just to make sure.’ He grinned. ‘To be sure of a table, but not him turning up, of course. Now, I’ve found some tuna in the freezer: would you like it crusted with herbs or with saffron mayonnaise?’

  I pointed to the pots on the window sill. ‘Whichever is better for your cholesterol, of course.’

  At least I had important things to talk about when Morris and I Skyped later that evening.

  ‘He just goes from one test to another,’ I said, ‘and each seems more serious than the last.’

  ‘At least he’s started to tell you. He’s probably more scared than you – after all, it’s his heart they’re interested in. My father simply wouldn’t tell my mother what was going on. In the end, they were at a petrol station and while he paid she drove off. Wouldn’t come back for him until he promised to explain.’

  ‘And what happened to him?’

  He laughed. ‘Well, if I tell you he’s off hillwalking in the Lake District even as we speak you’ll know there was a happy ending. He had to have surgery, which was actually worse for Mum and me than for him, I suspect, and there was a longish convalescence, but he’s fine now. You know the only reason you’ve never met them is that they’re always jetting off somewhere.’

  ‘So you’re thinking Griff may have to have an operation!’ My voice broke.

  ‘Sweetheart, don’t panic! That’s what all these tests of his are for. To find out.’

  ‘He keeps saying they’re because of some research programme. Not that he needs an operation.’

  He pulled a face. ‘We both know Griff, Lina. Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s wrong – but the dear old NHS is pretty good once you’re in the system. They won’t do anything that isn’t necessary, though.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re worried sick, aren’t you? Why didn’t you tell me before? Or at least say you were worried – I’d have spoken to him myself.’

  ‘It was better for him to confess. And we haven’t really had much time to talk about anything, have we?’ I added. I didn’t want a long-distance row, but having persuaded Griff to tell the truth I might as well try it myself. Any moment I’d get on to the Charles Montaigne issue.

  He bit his lip. ‘I wish I could tell you I was hopping on a plane right now and could spend next week with you. But I’m up to here in work. We know there’s someone exploiting rich people’s gullibility by selling them tat at hugely inflated prices.’

  Good luck to them. ‘I thought you were over there to sort out Interpol communication or lack of it,’ I objected.

  ‘I was. I have.’

  So he could come home! My smile soon faded, however. He’d not finished speaking.

  ‘But when a French government minister is defrauded – no, I really must not talk about it. I’m sorry. Not even to you, Lina. Though I tell you, I could do with your divining skills. And you. Oh, Lina—’

  At this point the conversation at last took on a more personal tone, and I went off to bed feeling a lot happier. That was what I told myself, anyway. Though I still hadn’t told him about the problems with Gorgeous Eyes and Charles Montaigne, had I?

  SIXTEEN

  Since I couldn’t raise Freya on either her landline or her mobile, I emailed her the details of my sighting of Charles Montaigne and the apparently friendly warning from Gorgeous Eyes. Until I’d seen Mrs Walker, who took Mondays off, there wasn’t much point in saying anything about the threatening customer.

  The email went through, and I got her out-of-office standard reply. I tried her home address too, but there was no reply at all. Of course, she could have been cleaning her teeth or hanging out the washing or a million and one things. All the same, considering what Griff called Her Condition, I found myself worrying. Not much, just enough to try her mobile. I had to leave a message. For a moment I thought of contacting Robin and asking if everything was OK, but since Monday was one of his lighter days, it occurred to me – at last! – that they might be doing something nice together.

  I wouldn’t be nosing anywhere till Thursday, of course, so I told myself not to be a wimp and to get my head down and work. I obeyed so thoroughly that I hardly came up for air, working on several highly rewarding repairs simultaneously. It sounds impressive, but in fact all I was doing was getting them to the point where they had to rest for at least twenty-four hours before I started the next stage.

  I managed to finish one spectacularly ugly but very precious Victorian vase on Tuesday morning. But then there was Griff’s lunch date with Andrew to think about.

  I offered to drop Griff off at the Granville and collect him later. It meant he could have a glass or two of wine – he was now religiously drinking red, even when he was eating white meat or fish. Thinking I could kill two birds with one stone, I phoned my father to offer to bring over some lunch and do any shopping he needed. For a moment he sounded flustered, so he obviously had company, but he very audibly took a deep breath and said he’d love to see me, but not to bother shopping en route.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he announced as he greeted me, ‘I thought on a nice day like this I might come shopping with you.’ He patted his sports jacket, worn with his better trousers. He’d shaved, too, and remembered to brush his hair.

  Catching sight of Titus’ car tucked deep into the overgrown shrubbery, I nodded. I always kept shopping bags in the boot, so I was happy with the change of plan. I thought I’d provoke him a little first, however. ‘What about the lunch Griff has prepared for us? Shall I just go and pop it in the fridge so you can eat it later?’

  ‘You’ve got to turn this splendid new car round,’ Pa said, grabbing the bag of food. ‘Let me deal with this.’

  It was hard not to laugh out loud. Poor Pa. He really didn’t like expeditions to the outside world, but he was equally keen for me not to know officially about his work for Titus. Strangely, he was happy to talk about it with Griff, but it was absolutely taboo between us. I think it was my fault, actually – I didn’t want to know about his forgeries, since I was so horribly above board myself.

  I took him, raving about the Fiesta’s features, to Waitrose in Hythe, Griff’s favourite supermarket, where he shopped far more briskly than Griff until he reached the booze section. Then he became a good deal more selective. Finally, he shouted me a sandwich lunch in their little café – less healthy than what Griff had prepared, but infinitely more nutritious than his former diet of endless Pot Noodles. And I do mean endless.

  He even suggested a stroll along the front. Clearly, he was giving Titus as much time as he could to finish whatever he was up to.

  ‘How’s that Morris of yours getting on?’ he asked as he settled on a bench facing the sea.

  ‘Frantically busy. He’s investigating some Euroscam, I think. But he can’t tell me about it at this stage.’

  ‘Do you tell him when you’re worried about things? Because I tell you straight, you’ve hardly smiled today. Old Griff OK? Because I thought he seemed a bit short of puff last time I saw him, and at his age you’ve got to think about angina and other cardiac diseases.’

  Since I knew Pa spent all his non-forging hours watching TV, I didn’t blink.

  ‘He’s actually having a few tests at the moment – says he’s part of some medic’s research programme.’

  Pa snorted. ‘What do they call it? On that programme with a shrink? Denial. That’s it. You need to keep an eye on him, Lina.’

  ‘I’ve got to do more than that, Pa – I’ve got to go and pick him up from the Granville.’ I held up the phone to show him the text
that had just come through. I texted back that I’d be about half an hour and to have an extra cup of coffee. All the same, I’d collect him before I took Pa home: they rubbed along quite well these days, now Pa saw me pretty often and Griff didn’t suspect I was going to abandon him to live with Pa.

  Although he looked exhausted, Griff was full of the delights of his lunch at the Granville – the food at least. How much illicit cholesterol, how much unrefined sugar he’d shovelled down I didn’t dare ask. He did confess to having shared a bottle of Rioja, and he wondered complacently how Andrew Barnes had dared to drive when he was so over the limit.

  ‘An old acquaintance,’ he told Pa blithely. ‘Sadly run to seed.’

  This from a man with angina and potential diabetes. Still, Andrew Barnes might have actual diabetes and have worse heart problems. As for Pa – who knew what damage he’d done to himself? Being an alcoholic was one thing; being a Pot Noodling alcoholic might be worse. Sometimes I felt very scared.

  Griff was wittering on about his previous relationship with Barnes. ‘Like me, an ex-thesp. Like me, he’s had to supplement meagre savings with a day job. His was design: interior and exterior. Lina always says my mauve cords are OTT, but you should have seen his outfit today. Floral shirt – so very sixties, maybe seventies – and apple-green chinos.’

  Pa, on the surface every inch the English country gentleman with his addiction to wearing cords or cavalry twill with a leather-elbowed sports jacket, managed not to shudder, though this was possibly because he’d simply no idea what Griff was talking about. We drove slowly up the dreadful track to Bossingham Hall, and Pa duly invited us in. Griff accepted immediately, as I knew he would, and headed, predictably, to the loo. I found a couple of boxes of assorted china to sell – bottom of the range, I warned Pa, but a good way of making a little space, even if not making much cash. Pa reached out champagne, frowned at it, and put the kettle on. Green tea all round, then, and a little polite chat before Pa made it clear there was a TV programme he had to watch. I was happy to indulge him, because Griff was obviously rattled by something he couldn’t talk about in front of anyone else.

  Instead of heading straight back home, I drove through Bossingham towards Stelling Minnis, parking on a bit of the Minnis where easy walking was available. At first protesting, Griff eventually nodded.

  ‘No hidden ears,’ he observed. ‘Do you truly believe that someone’s already bugged this splendid new vehicle?’

  ‘Who knows? But it’s a nice day, and I don’t think either of us has had as much fresh air as we ought recently.’

  ‘For fresh air read exercise,’ he grunted, patting the pocket he kept his spray in.

  ‘You said it. You were supposed to be exercising to keep your blood pressure down. Or was it blood sugar?’

  He stomped off, mumbling about nannying. At last he had to slow down, of course.

  I stopped by a huge hole. Several other holes nearby, and a lot of digging, made the patch look like something out of a kids’ sci-fi book.

  ‘A badger sett,’ he explained. ‘It’s years since I saw a badger in the flesh – a live one, I mean, not a poor dead huddle in the road.’ He embarked on a long, meaningless ramble about cattle and bovine TB and culling.

  Finding a convenient fallen tree, I sat down.

  Looking incredibly furtive and guilty, he sat too. ‘Very well. Andrew was scared off.’ He raised a finger. ‘It’s quite a long story. Andrew was – maybe still is – a promiscuous creature. He’s also extremely loquacious and can be relied on to spread quite confidential information to any handy pair of ears. Oh dear, I think I mixed a metaphor there. He’s also much given to boasting. Reading between a lot of lines, all crossed like a Jane Austen letter, I suspect he told a casual . . . “acquaintance” . . . that he was the star of a new production, that he was central to it, that without him it would immediately collapse. His interlocutor was visibly impressed – possibly all his interlocutors were equally impressed. No one expressed anything except fervent admiration. And then a complete stranger – we will not ask in what circumstances they met, loved one – told him to pull out of the play, or else.’ At last he paused – it could have been for dramatic effect or simply to breathe.

  I jumped in. ‘What sort of else?’

  ‘Very precise physical consequences. That sort of else. To do him justice, he insisted that the play was the thing. But then his car was damaged, paint and other things thrown at his house, and the message came through that the original threats – though not so far carried out – would follow. He must withdraw from the play – and thus bring about the collapse of the whole enterprise.’

  ‘But the play didn’t collapse. And – to be honest – the things that have happened to the cars, even our van being trapped overnight, have been pretty mild. Stupid jokes at one level. That fish was quite a good one, if you have that sense of humour.’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes, actually, I think it was! Dear me, Emilia’s reaction. Overreaction. And the way you stood up to her . . .’ He chuckled at the memory.

  ‘So why have the life threats been reduced to irritations – assuming his life really was threatened?’

  ‘He always did overact. But I think he was truly fearful. As you were, when the so-called Charles Montaigne spoke to you,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘And yet you weren’t so scared when that beautiful young man accosted you.’

  ‘Hmm. I’d already quite taken to him, on a personal level. And basically he just told me not to be nosy. Me! Nosy! As if I ever was!’ All the same, I had the tiniest tweak of an idea at the back of my brain. ‘But Montaigne was much more threatening. Without actually saying anything.’ Except about breaking fingers, of course. ‘Actually, I am nosy about one thing. Those planks. Did you ask—?’

  ‘I did. When I got a word in edgeways. I tried to introduce the topic obliquely, but in the end I had to ask point-blank. All I got was that they came from some skip, which he implied was near his house, though that could simply have been because his narrative was so jumbled.’

  In other words, they could equally have come from a skip on the estate.

  A little silence grew, while we looked about us. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The sky was the sort of blue that makes you wish September would never end, and all the trees and bushes glowed as if they’d never even had the idea of shedding their leaves one day soon.

  Maybe it wasn’t so warm, though – or why was I shivering?

  Griff took my hand. ‘It occurs to me, sweet one, that we are very close to the rectory. As a friend, you might well pop in to see dear Robin, and to ask how things are. And, lest you feel any embarrassment, I could always ask to use the loo.’

  I hoped he didn’t really need it, as the rectory was firmly locked and there was no sign of Robin’s car – or anyone else’s. I scribbled a note saying hello, then we made way home.

  There was still no response from Freya the following evening, thirty-six hours after I’d tried to contact her, and now I was worried enough to try phoning again, although I knew she hated to be hassled. The scenarios I played in my head ranged from her being attacked by Charles Montaigne to lying distraught in a hospital bed having lost the baby. I left a couple more messages, an hour apart, and then gritted my teeth to phone Robin. No, I couldn’t quite manage it.

  Eventually, I passed the phone to Griff, who’d always had a soft spot for him and could be relied on to sound just right in any tricky conversation.

  ‘They’re really both your friends, loved one,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Always dodgy for an ex – even as ex as I am – to call a bloke who has a new woman,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose so. But you’re such very good friends. But for you there might not be a baby, might there? And Robin might now be an altogether different sort of father if you hadn’t talked him out of becoming a Roman Catholic.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think I can claim responsibility for that. More a matter for him and God, surely.’

 
; Griff kissed my forehead. ‘Go on: call him.’ Or it might have been, ‘Call Him.’

  I did both. And – guess what – while One might have answered, the other certainly didn’t. I left a message that he might have been able to work out, given time and patience. And was more worried than ever.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘Try again,’ I told Griff. ‘I can see what you’re doing. More unobtrusively. Go on!’

  We kept on and on until he could take a photo on my mobile while apparently just using it to make a call.

  Eventually, he put the phone on the garden table and flopped on the bench beside it. The weather was still wonderful, and the garden was loud with the sound of next door’s bees. With luck, we’d get a pot of their honey. ‘Exactly why do I need to do this?’

  ‘Because I can’t. I’m going to be talking to the guy. I’d bet my teeth he’s OK, but even if he is – especially if he is! – I can’t go round taking photos of him and telling him I’m going to show them to the police just to make sure.’

  ‘But why now? It’s only Wednesday!’

  ‘Because I want your brain to transfer it from the short term memory to the long term, so you don’t panic. We’ll try again this afternoon and then tomorrow. OK?’

  ‘Not quite. Why take Gorgeous Eyes’ photo, not one of the Big Bad Wolf that you consider Charles Montaigne to be?’

  ‘See him and I scarper,’ I said.

  ‘Very succinct. Just as I had to hide in the car?’

  ‘Exactly. Oh, Griff – still nothing from Freya. I’m beginning to feel – unprotected.’

  ‘Surely, she has a team you could contact.’

  ‘Since the reorganization I don’t know any of them.’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘That nice young man Will – the one I always hoped you’d get together with – working for an auctioneer. Such a waste.’