‘If I was ill I wouldn’t come near your daughter.’
He stood corrected. ‘Of course not.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘my nan’s sick. Back in New Zealand?’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘She’s just about my favourite person in the world. Always been on my side no matter what, and we’ve always had great laughs together. Haven’t we?’ She gave Freya a kiss to conceal another emotion.
‘Is it serious?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know … I suppose when you get to seventy-something it’s always serious. She got the ’ flu and it turned into bronchitis. She’s had to go into hospital so maybe she’ll do as she’s told in there.’
‘Not a good patient?’
She shook her head and laughed. ‘Not used to being a patient, at all. But the problem’s pneumonia, isn’t it?’
‘With the elderly it can be.’
‘Yeah … So I guess we have to hope she doesn’t get that.’
‘I do hope so.’
On the way out, he added. ‘Oh, Lara – if you want to make a call from here, to find out how your grandmother is, please feel free.’
‘That’s kind of you, but I wouldn’t dream of it. I did take the liberty of giving Dad this number though.’
‘Good.’
On the drive in to King’s Newton David was moved by Lara’s concern for her nan. He’d heard and read a good deal about the special relationship between grandparents and grandchildren, but had never experienced it for himself. His own grandparents had been very old and very distant, he’d found them creepy. In Marina’s case the brutal truth was that her children had left procreation so late that his own daughter, and the child which Louise and Coral hoped to have, might well not know or remember their maternal grandparent.
It turned out not to be a day when he could freewheel. As soon as he arrived Jackie reminded him he was due to take Chris Harper to Orchard End that afternoon. There was a job to do, because the visit of Harry Bailey with Alasdair had not been an unqualified success.
‘It’s a little tricky to say the least,’ Alasdair had complained, ‘showing someone round who isn’t the putative purchaser, and when you don’t know their agenda.’
David had divided sympathies. He was sure that Bailey considered Alasdair a chinless hooray, and that Alasdair had resented doing his stuff with a mere emissary.
‘Did you meet Mrs Townsend?’ he asked.
‘No, it was her daughter who took us round. I’m afraid I thought that given the circumstances Mr Bailey was … let’s just say there was no need to be so picky. My understanding was that he was checking the basics.’
That had been David’s understanding too. But at least Harper was coming to see for himself. On his own account he rather hoped the daughter would remain in charge – he didn’t relish confronting Mary Townsend after his encounter with her rival, especially as he couldn’t help liking Joan Samms.
On the basis that forewarned was forearmed, he rang at midday. Susan Bentham answered the phone.
‘Mr Keating, we’re expecting you this afternoon.’
‘Is that still convenient?’
‘Perfectly. I suggest you and I show Mr Harper round. Mother will stay out of the way, she finds the whole thing a bit painful …’ He murmured something soothing. ‘ But I’m primed to take questions, as it were.’
In terms of time, Chris Harper was the easiest client he’d dealt with. David remembered that the Stoneyhaye sale had been swiftly decided upon – it was the subsequent brokering and arbitration which had been lengthy. Susan Bentham either did not recognise him or did not concede that she had, and conducted the tour of the house at a brisk pace. Harper took in each room quickly and moved on with a perfunctory ‘Thanks, right’ or even just ‘Yup’.
When they’d finished, she offered refreshments, which Harper politely declined.
‘It’s a nice place,’ was all he would say.
Afterwards David suggested they went for coffee at the Anvil.
‘So do you think it would suit your parents?’ asked David. ‘It is an almost perfect example of a house of that size and period, I’ve been reading about it in a local history book. The well’s blocked now of course because the Townsends had young grandchildren, but I understand it’s in perfect working order should anyone be moved to draw their own water. In fact the whole place is in excellent order, I don’t think you or your parents would be inheriting any hidden costs.’
Harper listened attentively to all this, then said: ‘No. I’m sure that’s right. It’s certainly what I was looking for.’
David heard the past tense as if he’d shouted it. ‘Was?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to see it. At my age, in my line of business property’s always interesting.’
‘But in general, you seem to be saying, rather than in particular …?’
‘I think so.’
David experienced a thud of disappointment. His time and energy and that of other people had been wasted on what now appeared to be a rich man’s whim.
He said politely, understandingly: ‘So Orchard End isn’t the one.’
‘It might be,’ conceded Harper, ‘ but I’m thinking of moving.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He was thunderstruck.
‘I’ve drunk your wine,’ said Harper in an almost old-fashioned way, ‘ I’ll be straight with you. I’m selling up.’
‘I see.’ David gathered himself. ‘But you’ve made such a colossal investment at Stoneyhaye.’
‘In more ways than one.’
‘Has it – not worked out as you hoped?’
‘No.’
This could not have been plainer or less ambiguous, but David still shook his head in disbelief. ‘What can I say …? You and that house seemed made for each other. Would you care for a drink?’
‘No thanks. Don’t let me stop you.’
‘No … What about your parents?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Harper glanced briefly out of the window, ‘I’ll take care of them.’
‘Of course,’ David felt he’d been reproved.
‘But I don’t want all that. Let alone,’ he jerked his head, ‘ all this as well. I got back from the Far East and looked at it all and thought, what am I doing? Who needs so much responsibility? I like money for the freedom it buys, not the baggage.’
‘I understand,’ agreed David. Now he’d got over his surprise he was full of curiosity. ‘ So what might you do …?’
‘Downsize. Do what normal people do. Get a place where Mum and Dad can stay near their friends, pick up a nice flat in Docklands or somewhere where I can keep an eye on them. I don’t have any friends I want to be near.’ This last was accompanied by a thin smile.
‘It sounds eminently sensible I must say,’ admitted David.
‘And get rid of most of the poxy hangers-on. I don’t want to be a milch-cow for every Jasper and Emma on the make. I’m going to do them all a favour and relaunch them on the job market.’
‘What does Lindl think?’
The question had slipped out almost without thought, and he wondered whether he’d overstepped the mark, but Harper now seemed in a mood to debrief.
‘It won’t affect her. She’s moving on.’
There seemed no end to the shocks. ‘Where?’
There was another flicker of a smile, somewhat sour. ‘More of a who.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.’
He shrugged. ‘ Nothing to say. Shit happens.’
‘And Jay …?’
‘She brought him, she’s taking him.’ There was a short, embattled silence. ‘ Don’t get me wrong, I’ll miss them.’
David had a sudden and unwelcome premonition of what was to follow, and took no pleasure in finding he was right.
‘Still,’ said Harper. ‘Plenty more fish in the sea.’
‘I did know actually,’ said Annet when she got in that evening. ‘Harry Bailey told me.’
David f
elt a humiliating stab of jealousy. ‘ I see.’
‘I went to use the gym. He said it wouldn’t be for much longer.’
‘I suppose I find it shocking,’ he said starchily, ‘that a beautiful old house like that which has been cherished by generations of one family should be picked up and discarded so casually.’
‘What makes you think there’s anything casual about it?’ If he was starchy, she was spikey, it seemed to be the way of things these days.
‘It’s casual by any normal standards, surely. He buys a place like that, for cash, embarks on all kinds of changes and improvements, changes his mind inside a year and bungs it back on the market.’
‘Anyone’s entitled to change their mind. What niggles you is that he has the money to act on it.’
He was hurt, because she was at least in part right. ‘Why would that bother me?’
‘I’ve no idea, especially as B and C are likely to clean up as a result.’
He told himself this was just her usual abrasive style, but he couldn’t help taking it to heart. These days everything that passed between them was stained by what he could only describe as a lack of respect – Tim’s phrase, come back to haunt him.
Over supper he introduced what he hoped would be the less contentious issue of Lara’s grandmother.
‘Himmel,’ said Annet, ‘no disrespect but I do hope she isn’t going to feel compelled to fly to her bedside.’
‘They were obviously very close.’
‘Yes but is anyone that close to a grandparent? I’m not sure it constitutes a valid reason for compassionate leave.’
‘Probably not, but there’s no suggestion she wants to do anything of the sort at the moment, so don’t let’s wind ourselves up.’
‘I wasn’t. But one has to be practical.’
David wondered if, like Tim, he had simply stopped loving his wife, and she him. But if that were so, surely he wouldn’t feel this pain? The effect was more as if they were trying to communicate with each other through soundproof glass, mouthing and gesticulating to no effect.
Annet seemed still to be humming with some nebulous antagonism when she got into bed. She lay on her back with one arm behind her head, staring at the ceiling, as he got undressed. When he got in next to her she said quite loudly as though they were in a boardroom:
‘You know Lindl Clerc’s been playing away from home?’
He was tempted to say ‘Why would I? you’re the expert’, but resisted it.
‘I wouldn’t be entirely surprised.’
‘Why?’
The now-familiar bad feeling churned in his stomach. ‘You’ve only got to look at the setup over there to realise it’s not exactly a testament to family values.’
‘Maybe so,’ she said, switching her lamp off. ‘But at least they did their best.’
The following early evening after work David took the folder of his drawings, those he considered good enough and called in at the central library. For fun, he’d included the sketches of Freya in her basket, and out of curiosity (and a certain bloody-mindedness) the despised portrait of Annet. At the desk he asked for Jean Samms, but was told she was attending an information technology day at county headquarters.
‘Can I help?’ asked the young man. ‘ I’m assistant librarian.’
‘Miss Samms told me about the art exhibition you’re putting on here.’
‘That’s right. Faces and Places.’
‘I’ve got some drawings I’d like to put in for consideration. Some of them are mounted, but I’m afraid there’s only one that’s framed at the moment.’
‘Don’t worry about that. First things first.’
‘I’m pretty sure they won’t stand a chance.’
‘I’m sure they will.’ The young man smiled encouragingly. ‘Are you by any chance a member of the watercolour society?’
‘No. Is that a problem?’
‘Quite the reverse.’ The young man dropped his voice and glanced from side to side theatrically. ‘We’re swamped with tasteful views of the Nevitt as seen from the churchyard and the church spire as seen from the water meadows.’
‘Actually,’ said David, ‘I’m more of a faces man.’
‘Ah!’ The young man took his folder as though it contained precious stones. ‘I don’t want to build up your hopes or pre-empt the decision of our distinguished hanging committee, but I think you have grounds for cautious optimism.’
This small lift to his spirits was all David needed. On leaving the library he drove to Raleigh Road.
At this time of day it presented a rather different aspect from that of his previous visit. There were cars parked in most of the driveways, and people in the street, tired-faced walkers returning from work and children kicking footballs and careering dangerously about on bikes in the fading light.
He did not, on this occasion, hesitate. He parked in the first space he could find and walked steadily, head down, as far as the Kings’ house, and up to their front door. Through the ruched nets in the front-room window he could make out the spasmodic coloured flicker of the television. He pressed the bell.
The door was opened by a stout woman in her forties, with the kind of looks which must once have been sweetly pretty but which had not been treated kindly by the advancing years. A winsome urchin cut did no favours for her grim, grooved face, and the girlish leggings and outsize angora jumper emphasised a weight problem.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m so sorry to bother you but I was looking for Miss Gina King?’
‘Yes?’
‘Does she live here?’
‘That’s right.’
David smiled in what he hoped was a friendly, confident manner, though his heart was pounding.
‘It’s rather a long story,’ he said. ‘Gina worked for me for a while at Border and Cheffins, the property agents. We’ve kept in touch and I was in the area – I wondered how she was.’
‘I see. What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t – David Keating.’
‘I’m her mother.’
‘How do you do?’ He held out his hand but she ignored it.
‘Just wait there would you.’
The door was pushed to and he was left standing on the doorstep. The woman’s expression hadn’t changed one iota but he sensed that his name had rung some sort of bell. This, and the prospect of Gina’s reaction, kept him from beating an ignominious retreat.
Fully two minutes later, the door was opened again. This time it was Gina who stood there, wearing pale blue ski pants and a white high-necked jumper – pretty, soft. Fluffy slippers, he noticed, with faces like little guinea pigs.
‘Hello Gina.’
‘Hello.’ She sounded very quiet and shy.
‘I hope you don’t mind my calling on you.’
‘Why did you come?’
He shrugged, with a smile, wanting to appear casual. ‘I wanted to see how you were doing. I was sorry not to be able to give you a reference.’
‘How did you know where I lived?’
‘It was on your letter,’ he reminded her gently, ‘May I come in for a moment?’
She seemed to glance over her shoulder before saying: ‘ OK.’
He entered and she closed the door behind him. There was a faint, not unpleasant smell of convenience cooking – warm and oily, a hint of ketchup – but he still caught her scent as he passed her. A youth of about sixteen in stockinged feet and the black blazer of the local comprehensive appeared from the back of the house carrying a plate, and disappeared up the stairs without a look or a word.
‘My brother,’ explained Gina.
‘I see.’ The notion of siblings hadn’t entered his head. For so long Gina had been a lone figure, watching and waiting.
‘We can go in here,’ she said, pushing open a door on the right of the narrow hall. As he went in he could see through the half-open door of the room opposite, the plump woman standing in front of the television, talking on the phone.
&nb
sp; They were in the dining room. It felt chilly, and this impression was reinforced by there only being a single overhead light, which Gina switched on – a small chandelier twinkling like a cut-price constellation in a waste of anaglypta. The curtains were open but she made no move to draw them.
‘Do sit down,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ He pulled out one of the hard chairs and sat down. In the centre of the table on a lace mat stood a basket of pink and brown dried flowers, further desiccated to the point where they’d shed a drift of brownish granules on to the surrounding surface. On a trolley beneath the serving hatch was a pile of raffia mats. It had the air of a room not much used.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked.
The question made him realise how much he longed for one. ‘Yes please, that would be nice.’
‘Tea, coffee? Or we’ve got Coke.’
He tried not to show his disappointment. ‘Are you going to have anything?’
‘I might have a cup of coffee.’
‘In that case, if you’re making one anyway.…’
‘I won’t be a minute.’
She left, closing the door after her, and a moment later he heard her the other side of the serving hatch. Then she came back into the hall and he thought he heard her voice and that of the mother. On the wall opposite him was a painting, in acrylics, of the King’s Newton church as seen from the water meadows.
Another couple of minutes and she was back, bearing a tray with two cups and saucers containing dispiriting greyish instant coffee, and a matching jug with milk already added.
‘Do you take sugar?’
‘No thanks.’
‘There you go.’
She put the tray on the table and sat down in a chair at the far end, with her back to the hatch. It was an impossibly awkward situation for both of them, but he knew that it was up to him to breach the awkwardness. He felt his responsibility not as a burden, but as a privilege.
He said: ‘I do hope your mother doesn’t mind my turning up like this.’
She glanced towards the closed door as if checking. ‘Oh no.’
‘She must be a bit baffled – I’ll have another word with her before I go.’
‘It’s all right.’ She blushed slightly. He had forgotten how pale her skin was, her hair fine and light as a child’s … Her air of demureness.
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