Death Comes First

by Hilary Bonner

  Perhaps if she understood the nature of whatever threat was facing them she would feel differently, but the letter conveyed nothing beyond Charlie’s anxiety and mistrust of her father. Too bad he hadn’t seen fit to confide in her before he went and fell off his bloody boat. If there was a threat of such enormity that his family had no option but to take flight because of it, surely even a man as secretive and moody as Charlie would have thought to broach the subject with his wife?

  His letter had done nothing but raise questions for which she had no answers. He won’t be interested in Molly – what did that mean, for God’s sake? Was he implying that Henry was some sort of paedophile?

  An outsider who knew nothing of Henry Tanner might leap to that conclusion, but while Joyce was the first to admit that he was manipulative and devious, she had never known her father to behave in any way that was remotely inappropriate. Certainly she had never experienced anything untoward during her own childhood. But then again, Charlie had said that Molly was safe, so the inference was that Henry was only interested in boys, that he was in some way grooming Fred and already had Mark under his control.

  The thought sent a cold clammy shiver down Joyce’s spine. But she forced herself to consider the possibility. She had grown up with a brother two years older than her. Was it possible that Henry had been abusing William without her knowledge? Had there been anything, anything whatsoever, in her father’s relationship with her brother that might, if only with hindsight, have been disturbing?

  Joyce could think of nothing. William had been a happy, confident child. Henry frequently took him on golfing trips and other ‘boys’ adventures’ as he called them, but far from being fearful at the prospect of spending time alone with his father, William had always been excited and enthusiastic, and on their return would talk endlessly about whatever they’d got up to.

  Henry was a big man, and physically expansive. He was forever hugging his family, male and female. In her mind’s eye, Joyce could see him standing by the fireplace with his arm around William’s shoulders. The two had been very close, there was no doubt about that, but the idea of Henry having a sexual relationship with his son was preposterous. In fact the idea of Henry having a physical relationship with anyone of his own gender was inconceivable. He might proclaim himself liberal and non-judgemental when it came to homosexuality, but on the rare occasions she’d seen him in the company of gay men there had been an awkwardness and sometimes a distinct coolness in his manner. Try as she might to entertain the possibility that her father was a closet gay, Joyce could see no evidence of it.

  And yet Charlie’s letter had made it clear that Henry was the source of the danger. And that his concern was only for his sons, not his daughter . . .

  Joyce felt as if she was going around in circles, getting nowhere. Part of her wanted to confront her father and demand to know what he had done that might cause Charlie to write such a letter. But she knew it was pointless. Henry would tell her not to torment herself, that there was absolutely nothing to worry about – all the usual platitudes. The one thing he would never do was treat her as an adult and an equal and divulge whatever he might know on the subject. If she wanted answers, she would have to come up with a more devious approach.

  The silence was shattered by the sound of the front door opening and voices in the hall. Joyce glanced up at the clock on the wall: ten past four. Molly and Fred were home from school, delivered to the door by Henry’s driver. Unlike other mothers, Joyce didn’t have to worry about doing the school run; her father saw to it she was cosseted in that as in everything.

  She sprang to her feet and hid Charlie’s letter and the two envelopes under the bread bin, then made ready to greet her two younger children with the smiling hug they would expect.

  As usual, Fred’s first words as he bounded into the kitchen and flung himself at her were, ‘What’s for tea, Mum?’

  Tall for his age with floppy dirty-blond hair like his dad’s, Fred sniffed the air theatrically.

  ‘I can’t smell anything,’ he said.

  Joyce was a good cook and enjoyed cooking. On school days she always served the children’s evening meal at five, but she’d been so preoccupied by the letter she had completely forgotten about food.

  ‘I decided we’d treat ourselves and order in a pizza,’ she said, thinking on her feet.

  Fred’s face split into a wide gap-toothed grin that was the image of his father’s – except that his father hadn’t had gaps in his teeth. Or not by the time Joyce met him, anyway.

  ‘Wow! On a school night. Cool.’ Then his expression turned thoughtful. ‘It’s not my birthday, and I haven’t done anything good, I don’t think. Well, not particularly good. Why the special treat? Has Molly done something good?’

  His big sister nudged him. She took after her mother and was small, dark and pale skinned.

  ‘What?’ Fred demanded.

  ‘Think before you speak, you little monster,’ said Molly, nudging him again.

  ‘What?’ said Fred, frowning.

  ‘You know Mum gets sad sometimes. She’s missing Dad. She doesn’t always want to cook like she used to.’

  Fred stared at Joyce with big eyes full of remorse. ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Joyce. ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart. Your mum’s been lazy today, that’s all.’

  She wondered what she had done to be blessed with children so perceptive and sensitive to others’ needs. Unlike his elder brother, who seemed to have inherited the Tanner gene for impenetrable inscrutability, Fred’s every emotion was reflected in his face. There had been a time when Mark was open and unguarded too, and in light of Charlie’s letter Joyce couldn’t help wondering what manner of indoctrination into the Tanner way of life he’d been subjected to at the hands of his grandfather, particularly since Charlie’s death. A frisson of panic ran through her again: perhaps Charlie had had a point. Perhaps something did need to be done to prevent her younger children falling under the spell of their grandfather.

  Joyce realized Fred and Molly were studying her intently. They’d barely been in the house five minutes and already they were picking up on her anxiety. How would she get through the rest of the evening without alerting them to the fact that something was amiss?

  It struck her then just how desperately she needed to confide in someone, to vent her fears, and with luck find some answers – and she knew just the person to turn to. A pizza delivery would let her off parental duties for at least an hour, long enough to nip down the road to her mother and show her the letter, see whether she had any idea what could have prompted it. Henry’s driver wouldn’t have made it back to the office yet, so there was no way her father would be home before six. That left the coast clear for her to speak to Felicity alone.

  Galvanized by the prospect that some answers might be within reach, Joyce reached out, wrapped an arm around each child and pulled them close to her.

  ‘Thank you, my darlings,’ she said. ‘I’m not really sad. Well, no more than usual, anyway. It’s just that I need to see your grandmother about something, and she was out when I called by earlier. I thought if we ordered pizza I could pop over now for an hour. You can order, if you like, Molly. Four seasons for me. Choose anything you want for yourselves – but easy on the garlic bread.’

  ‘What time will you be back?’ asked Molly.

  ‘I shouldn’t be long. Have them deliver at five thirty, if you can wait that long. And look after the monster for me, darling.’

  ‘I’m not a monster,’ said Fred.

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Joyce.

  It took two minutes for Joyce to walk to her parents’ house. Felicity was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to a steak-and-kidney pie – Henry’s favourite. She seemed surprised to see her daughter.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be getting the kids’ tea?’ she enquired.

  ‘We’re ordering in a pizza,’ said Joyce. ‘Molly’s doing it.’

>   Felicity raised her eyebrows. ‘On a school day?’

  ‘Yes, on a school day,’ replied Joyce tetchily and without offering any further explanation.

  Was she really such a creature of habit that her entire family responded this way to the smallest change in the daily routine? She suspected that the answer was yes. Ever since she’d married Charlie and moved back to Tarrant Park, she’d clung to routine as a means of getting through each day, never deviating from her schedule during term time.

  It was as if she’d turned into a sort of Stepford wife, a far cry from the girl she’d once been. Remembering the old Joyce, that determination to be independent, to follow her dreams, she felt the spirit that had been subdued for so long flare up inside her. It was that spirit that had carried her to her mother, with the intention of coming straight to the subject of the letter and quizzing her about what Henry could have done to warrant the accusation.

  But the moment she was in Felicity’s presence, her resolve evaporated. What could she possibly hope to glean from her mother? There was no question where her mother’s loyalty lay: firmly with Henry. Felicity’s first instinct would always be to consult her husband, and then defer to him in whatever course of action he saw fit to decide upon. Anything Joyce told her mother would immediately be disclosed in full to her father.

  Since she had already eliminated the possibility of discussing the letter with Henry, Joyce was now at a loss how to proceed.

  Perching on a kitchen stool, she tried for a breezy, casual tone: ‘Hey, don’t I get a cup of tea?’

  ‘If you make it yourself,’ responded her mother, lightening her words with a warm smile. ‘You can see I’m busy, can’t you?’

  Joyce stood up, filled the kettle from the sink and switched it on. Perhaps she could instigate a more subtle interrogation than she had originally planned. But the thought of deceiving her mother made her feel uncomfortable, and whenever Joyce felt uncomfortable she was inclined to blush. Already her cheeks were burning. Thankfully she had her back to her mother, and to keep it that way she took her time rummaging in the cupboard for the jar of teabags and selecting a mug.

  ‘What time are you expecting Dad back?’ she asked.

  ‘Sixish – same time he always comes home,’ responded her mother, puzzled.

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ There was a long silence as Joyce searched for the right thing to say next. ‘I wish I was expecting Charlie home.’

  ‘Of course you do, sweetheart.’ Her mother’s voice softened. ‘Has it been a bad day? Come and sit down.’

  Hoping her hot cheeks had not turned too red, Joyce took the mug of tea to the table, and sat.

  ‘I’m sorry if I wasn’t as welcoming as I should have been,’ said her mother. ‘You know you can come around here and talk, or just be here, any time you like, don’t you?’

  Joyce sipped her tea and said nothing.

  ‘I do understand how you’re feeling,’ Felicity continued. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get over losing your brother. Not completely. It’s the little things, isn’t it? You find yourself making sure you’ve got the breakfast cereal he likes, remembering how he likes his eggs, planning his favourite dinner. I do know, Joyce.’

  Joyce could only stare at her. It was typical of Felicity to empathize, or try to. But losing Charlie was nothing like losing William. Felicity had no idea what a moody bastard Charlie had been at home. Or at least, Joyce assumed she hadn’t.

  She wondered again for a moment if she should summon up all her waning courage, plunge in and tell her mother about the letter and take it from there. Did it matter if Felicity told Henry? Presumably he would have to know sooner or later, if Joyce were ever to solve this mystery.

  With one hand she felt the pocket of her cardigan. She had removed the letter from its hiding place beneath the bread bin and slipped it there before leaving The Firs.

  Then Felicity spoke again:

  ‘It’s hard for your father too. After all, he worked with Charlie every day. He doesn’t say much – you know what he’s like. Nobody could ever replace William for your father. That’s why he’s shut the loss out. But I do think he’d come to regard your Charlie as a second son. And there’s no doubt he misses him terribly.’

  Joyce grasped the opportunity to steer the conversation toward the concerns raised by the letter, hoping she could find answers without mentioning the letter itself.

  ‘Yes, they were close, weren’t they,’ she said. ‘Not that Charlie ever talked about it much – or work, come to that. Is Dad still as tight-lipped as ever?’

  ‘Well, you could put it like that,’ said Felicity. ‘It’s the way your father is, that’s all. He’s the old-fashioned hunter-gatherer, bless him. He doesn’t believe in bringing his work home. The way he sees it, a wife shouldn’t have to worry about finances, work problems, or anything like that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want you worrying your pretty little head, eh?’ said Joyce mischievously, managing a grin in spite of the way she was feeling.

  ‘Now, Joyce, you are terribly naughty,’ scolded her mother, speaking to her the way she had when Joyce was a child. ‘You know perfectly well that your father has never said such a thing to me in the fifty years we’ve been together.’

  ‘So you say,’ muttered Joyce.

  ‘And I’m absolutely sure Charlie never said anything like that to you,’ her mother continued, as if Joyce hadn’t spoken. ‘He wouldn’t have dared.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Joyce. ‘I sometimes thought he was on the verge of saying it, though. He would never tell me anything about anything. If I so much as asked him what sort of day he’d had, he’d go all secretive and change the subject.’

  She paused, trying to get the right note of playfulness into her voice.

  ‘Tell you what though, Mum, I bet you know everything about Tanner-Max. In fact, I bet you’re the one who runs the place, only it’s a deep dark secret. It’s all a front, isn’t it? Dad just won’t let on how much he depends on you.’

  Her mother leaned over the table and appeared to focus her attention on her pie-making as she answered: ‘I can assure you, I know next to nothing about the business. Why would I want to?’ she asked. ‘That’s your father’s territory.’

  Joyce sighed inwardly and changed tack.

  ‘And he was always a good father, wasn’t he?’ she asked.

  Her mother looked up from her pastry, eyes alert. ‘What sort of question is that? You know he was a good father – and still is! What’s got into you today, girl?’

  ‘And a good father to William, too?’ persisted Joyce, refusing to allow her mother to divert her from her purpose.

  ‘Of course your father was good to your brother. They adored each other.’ Her mother scrutinized her, puzzled.

  ‘Yes, but did you ever think maybe they adored each other too much, that they might have been too close?’ Even as she blurted the question out, Joyce wondered whether she had gone too far. But if it occurred to her mother that Joyce might be implying something untoward in the relationship between father and son, Felicity Tanner gave no sign of it.

  ‘I do know what you mean,’ she replied, rather to Joyce’s surprise. ‘It was a bit like they were in their own private club. Nobody else could ever get a look in. But I was always glad that they got on so well. It’s a shame more men don’t get on that well with their sons.’

  ‘True,’ said Joyce. ‘And it was much the same with Charlie, wasn’t it? Being in their own private club, I mean, with their own private agenda. And we wives were kept right out of it.’

  Felicity pushed aside the pie and put her hands on her hips. ‘Joyce, you managed to make that sound quite sinister,’ she said. ‘Whatever has brought this on?’

  ‘Brought what on?’ Joyce responded, her blush deepening. ‘I wonder about Charlie, that’s all. I know he loved me, and I loved him. And he cared for me and was almost always kind. He did have some black moods, though. And there was definitely something missing in our marriage. I think it w
as honesty. I just wondered if you felt the same.’

  ‘Joyce, just because a man likes to keep work and home apart, that doesn’t mean he’s hiding something,’ said Felicity, wiping floury hands on her apron. ‘It doesn’t mean he has secrets. Well, not the sort of secrets a wife should worry about anyway.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’ asked Joyce sharply.

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ It was Felicity’s turn to blush. Her skin was even paler than her daughter’s. Practically translucent. The flush started around her neck and spread instantly up over her cheeks. ‘Only a figure of speech,’ she said.

  ‘You’re blushing, Mum.’

  ‘So are you,’ countered Felicity.

  ‘No, I’m hot, that’s all,’ lied Joyce.

  ‘Well, if I am blushing it’s because you’re embarrassing me with all your questions,’ said Felicity.

  ‘It seems to me we don’t ask enough questions in this family. I mean, Charlie died before his time – in a boating accident, even though he was such a good sailor – and we never did get to the bottom of William’s death.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Joyce!’ her mother snapped. ‘You make it sound as if Charlie was doing nothing more dangerous than messing about in a pedalo on the Serpentine. He was sailing in the Atlantic Ocean. On his own. In November. I know the weather was pretty good, and that it was what he liked to do, but the dangers were obvious, no matter how good a sailor he was. As for your brother: William was knocked down by a motorist who was probably drunk and therefore didn’t stop. It was a tragic accident. They were both tragic accidents. Of course they were.’

  ‘Maybe. But Charlie’s body wasn’t recovered, so there couldn’t be a post mortem – which might have revealed exactly what did happen to him. And the motorist who killed William was never traced. Yet – and I suspect you remember me telling you at the time – the police manage to track down nine out of ten motorists who are involved in a fatal traffic incident and leave the scene.’