The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Oh really! Responsible! How interesting you should say that.’

  ‘I don’t see why. Anyone would have. A young woman, with two small children, widowed like that. Duggie must have told you.’

  ‘Oh – yes. Yes, he told me the story. Of course.’

  There was an odd emphasis on the word ‘story’. Francesca suddenly felt uncomfortable, defensive on Bard’s behalf.

  ‘But he was hardly killed on company business, was he? I mean he was in a car crash, simply driving home to his family, I understood.’

  ‘Yes, of course he was. But Bard is a very – conscientious – person. And he felt he had a duty to look after Nigel’s family. Well, to keep an eye on them.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Well, that is very nice. Very nice indeed. And for such a long time. And so very generously – ’

  ‘Teresa, I’m sorry, but I really must go.’ She couldn’t take much more of this. ‘I have to collect Jack from a party. He loves his car, by the way. Thank you again. And thank you for today, for your generosity. If you change your mind about the tickets, just let me know. Love to Duggie.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Goodbye, Francesca.’

  Without quite knowing why, she wanted to speak to Bard; she dialled his private number. Marcia answered it, sounding, as always, smugly unhelpful.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here, Mrs Channing.’

  ‘Well, when will he be back?’

  ‘I really have no idea; I’m sorry.’

  ‘But isn’t it in his diary?’

  ‘Mrs Channing, he’s in a meeting at the Bank of England.’

  ‘Ah. How long is this meeting sceduled to last?’

  ‘Meetings with Mr George are rather open-ended affairs, Mrs Channing,’ said Marcia patiently, as if talking to a small child. A not very bright child, Francesca thought.

  ‘Yes, I see. And has he been at the Bank of England all day?’

  ‘He has been out of the office all day.’

  ‘But not at the bank?’

  ‘No. He’s been out of town. I’m sorry, I would have thought he’d have told you that.’

  ‘Sadly not. Well, ask him to ring me when he gets back, would you, Marcia? I must say, if my husband ever committed a serious crime, you’d be a very good witness for the defence.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s all right, Marcia, just a joke. Goodbye.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Channing.’

  At the same time as Bard Channing was attending his meeting at the Bank of England, Desmond North, a senior divisional manager of Methuens merchant bank (situated only a few streets away) was studying, just a little uneasily, a report of the continuing failure of the Docklands development in general, and the Channing Corporation’s stake in it in particular, to show any signs of achieving its much vaunted potential. He put in a request to one of his managers to supply him with a statement of the Channing account with the bank. Looking at it over his Earl Grey tea and shortbread biscuits (the latter forbidden to him by Mrs North, in the interests of his health), he was reassured to see that the figures looked, under the circumstances, perfectly healthy.

  He did, however, ask the manager in question, an earnest and ambitious young man who had his eye on a job even bigger than Mr North’s own, if he thought it might be prudent to bring a firm of accountants into Channings and do a full report. The earnest young man, whose name was Michael Jackson (a fact which caused him some anguish), said he thought it would be very prudent and that he would get on the case first thing in the morning.

  Bard finally came in at half-past eight.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hallo, Bard. How was your day?’

  ‘Oh – pretty much the same as always. I’m going up to change,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  He came back ten minutes later, a large whisky in his hand. He bent and kissed her head, caressed the nape of her neck. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Oh – yes, thank you. So tell me about your day, Bard? What did you do?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I want to know what you did today. I want to hear all about it, your conversation with the Governor this afternoon, what deals you made, what his outlook is for the financial health of the country in the foreseeable future, where you went this morning, out of town – ’

  ‘I really cannot tell you all that,’ he said scowling at her. ‘Certainly not about my meeting, it was highly complex, it would be very tedious for you.’

  ‘No it wouldn’t. I really want to know.’

  ‘We were just discussing financial trends,’ he said after a pause. ‘Falling inflation, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh really? Just you and him?’

  ‘No of course not, there were a dozen of us.’

  ‘All in property? Or different industries?’

  ‘Different ones,’ he said. ‘What is all this, Francesca? I’d rather hear about Jack’s schooling than rehearse the tedious details of my day.’

  ‘It can’t be much more tedious than mine. I’m just trying to do what you told me to do, Bard, make you my career. Take an interest, all that sort of thing. Only it’s difficult if you won’t tell me. All right then, what about this morning? Where did you go, what was that about?’

  He looked at her for a moment, his eyes blank, then he said, ‘I went to look at a possible site.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said where was it?’

  ‘Oh – in the west of England. Near Bristol.’

  ‘Big site?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said was it a big site?’

  ‘Pretty big, yes.’

  ‘Bard honestly,’ said Francesca, losing her temper suddenly, ‘you ought to set up an espionage agency with Marcia Grainger. You’d be a brilliant pair. Never crack under interrogation. Well, would you like to hear what I did today?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, all right. What did you do today?’

  ‘Went to a lunch, to discuss the Grasshopper Ball. Got landed with selling advertising space in the programme. You’ll take a page, won’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bard, please listen to me. I said would you take space in – ’

  ‘Talk to Sam about it,’ he said.

  ‘All right. Oh, and I had the most extraordinary conversation with Teresa Booth.’

  He was with her then: sharply and totally. ‘What on earth were you talking to her about?’

  ‘Well, I sold her a page in the programme. A whole page, two thousand quid’s worth. I was really surprised. That company of hers must be doing quite well.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then she started talking about the Clarkes.’

  ‘The Clarkes?’

  She watched him closely; he was lying back, taking another slug of whisky, ostensibly relaxed. But the muscle was twitching on the side of his head.

  ‘Yes, the Clarkes. And making sort of – oh, I don’t know. Innuendoes.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘There’s no need to sound so cross.’

  ‘I’m not cross,’ said Bard, scowling, ‘I was surprised, that’s all. It sounded an odd thing to say. What sort of innuendoes?’

  ‘Well, maybe not innuendoes. Hints. About how very responsible you seem to feel about Nigel’s death, how very very underlined generous you’d been to them all.’

  ‘I haven’t been especially generous,’ he said.

  ‘Well, she seems to think you have. She was quite – odd about it. What exactly did happen about that, Bard, he wasn’t killed while he was on company business, was he?’

  ‘No of course he wasn’t,’ he said. ‘Why on earth did you think that?’

  ‘Because she seems to think so.’

  ‘Bloody woman. She’s a pain in the arse.’

  ‘That’s true. But Bard, what exactly did happen? I thought he was just driving home, late at night, and – ’

  ‘Francesca,’ he said, and his voice was
heavy with irritation, ‘that is exactly what happened. Can we stop this, please? I’ve come home for a bit of peace and relaxation and it’s been one bloody inquisition after the other.’

  ‘Well, I’m very sorry, Bard,’ she said, the irony icily heavy in her voice, ‘I’ll just creep back into my little hole and get on with some nice quiet embroidery. Or perhaps I should go and check on the kitchen floor, in case it’s not quite shiny enough. Would you like that better? Anyway, I won’t talk to you or bother you any more.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he said, and went out of the room. She heard him go into his study and slam the door.

  ‘Bastard,’ she said ferociously, and tried to concentrate on an article she was reading in The Times. She was too cross to think about their conversation for a while; but later, as her thoughts settled, she found herself increasingly troubled by it. Not his bad temper, but his unease. About her talking to Teresa Booth in general and about the Clarkes in particular. She felt yet again the drift of unease – more than a drift now, a stab almost, sharp, insistent – and then it was gone. No reason for it really; no reason at all.

  Chapter Five

  Rachel wondered if she should, if she could, jump. End it all. Anything, anything would be preferable to this, this awful rising and plunging and dipping and circling, and the terrible noise, and the fear that any moment now she was going to be sick. She must be mad to have agreed to this, totally mad; nothing else in the world would have persuaded her, not bridge with Omar Sharif, not lunch with Paul Newman – such old heroes, Rachel mused, trying to distract herself, old men, how depressing – to this long helicopter ride on a windy day – not that she’d known it was going to be windy, of course, who could? But Bard had said he was short of time, and if they were going to go, it would have to be in the helicopter. Knowing he was aware of her terror of flying, even in a large, liner-style jumbo, even on Concorde with its built-in five-star pampering, she wondered if he had done it on purpose, to test her. If he had, then it was all the more important to say yes, to go. And she was so terrified already, of what he might think, say, ask, a mere death-trap of a helicopter ride seemed only a little worse. A dozen times since their breakfast she had lifted the phone to cancel, to tell him she’d found someone else, simply to say she was ducking out. But then she’d remember the priory and what it could be, and the nuns and their faith in her and – well, and everyone there, dependent on her – and she’d put it down again, known she had to go on. The alternative for all of them was too hideous.

  Christ, this was awful. The vibrations of the thing seemed to have entered her body; her stomach itself had become detached from its moorings, was shaking wildly within her, heaving along with the helicopter. She desperately wanted to pee, but that was obviously impossible. God, why had she had that tea at the heliport? Rachel looked out, trying to distract herself by the scenery, but the scenery rose and fell at her, making her feel worse. ‘How much longer?’ she shouted at Bard, and he raised his eyes briefly from the papers he was scribbling all over and said, ‘Only about forty-five minutes,’ and shut off from her again. She closed her eyes and, for want of anything else to do, prayed.

  It was actually less than that, a little over half an hour, when the northern coast of Devon came into sight, and they were swooping down over Exmoor, towards Hartland Point; she had arranged for them to land in the field next to the convent, had warned the nuns (who were all hugely excited at the prospect); as the helicopter suddenly dropped dead into the centre of the field and her tortured stomach leapt painfully into her chest, she saw some of them with the residents, leaning on the gate, watching. Mary, as she had known she would be, was with them.

  She climbed out finally, gratefully, and really thought she was going to black out; Bard had to steady her.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘No,’ said Rachel, ‘I’m not. I’m not getting back in that thing. I’ll go back on the train.’

  ‘Rachel!’ he said. ‘Toughest woman I know. I’m surprised at you. Right, let’s go and case the joint.’ He grinned at her cheerfully; she looked back at him thoughtfully and fondly. She knew he was tired, he had had a gruelling trip to Stockholm, there was some problem with a new development, and yet when she had phoned, half fearful that he would cancel, to ask him if the arrangement stood, he had said almost indignantly that of course it did. He was as famous for never cancelling arrangements – except with the Press – never reneging on agreements, as he was for his rages and his ruthlessness.

  ‘This is very good of you, Bard,’ she said simply. ‘I do appreciate it.’

  ‘I haven’t yet said I’d do any more than look,’ he said. ‘Remember that, please.’

  ‘I’ll remember.’

  Reverend Mother greeted them very sweetly; she said she had coffee waiting in her room. ‘Or would you like something more substantial, we have some delicious fresh rolls in the oven?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Bard, ‘thank you. My mother-in-law tells me I overeat, I don’t want to risk my reputation by refusing anything.’

  ‘Perhaps, Mary, you would go and fetch some rolls,’ said Reverend Mother.

  Mary came back, the rolls carefully piled in a basket, honey, butter and plates on a tray. Her tongue stuck out just slightly with the effort of concentration; she set them down, smiled at Bard, then went over to Rachel and took her hand.

  ‘Mary is my special friend here,’ said Rachel carefully.

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘The honey is from our own bees,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘Our latest achievement.’

  ‘It’s quite an achievement,’ said Bard. He looked over at Rachel and grinned at her. ‘You should market it properly. Worldwide.’

  ‘This is very good of you, Mr Channing,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘We are so grateful.’

  ‘I’ve already said, and I hope you realise,’ he said, wiping his mouth and his fingers, ‘I’m only examining the project. At this stage.’

  ‘Of course. I understand. But for a man as busy as yourself, finding the time to do even that is difficult, I imagine.’

  ‘Well,’ said Brad, ‘I should think you are quite busy here.’

  ‘We are. That is why we understand busy-ness.’ She smiled at him, a sweet, sudden, conspiratorial smile: Good God, thought Rachel, if she wasn’t a nun I would think she was flirting with him.

  They finished their coffee: Reverend Mother stood up.

  ‘Well now, you will want to do our tour here, and then we can go over to the priory. Rachel my dear, you can show Mr Channing round here. And Mary, I think perhaps you had better not go with them. They have important business to discuss.’

  ‘She can come with us,’ said Bard. He winked at Mary, who had been gazing at him, following the progress of each bite of roll and honey into his mouth with patent pleasure; she smiled back. She was looking very sweet, Rachel thought, pink faced and well; she was wearing a new sweater she had brought with her last time, and some new trainers that she most assuredly had not. It always upset her, the clothes that Mary wore, even while she knew their role was to be hard wearing, practical and – most important – easy to put on, so that maximum independence could be achieved. Jumpers, not blouses, pull-on trousers or skirts without buttons or zips, trainers with Velcro fastenings. Surely, she had said to Reverend Mother once, surely some ordinary slip-on shoes would do; and Reverend Mother had said yes, of course they would do, but they would not be so comfortable, or so hard wearing, and besides Mary loved her trainers. She always chose them herself on expeditions to Bideford.

  She had expected the tour of the Help House to be quick, but Bard constantly delayed it, talking to the residents, peering into pots and ovens in the kitchen, asking how the knitting machine worked that dear Brenda, who could hardly manage to dress herself, manipulated with such skill, insisting on a visit to the henhouse with Richard, who took his hand and led him on an egg-finding expedition.

  ‘I should instigate an Easter egg hunt here,’ he said to Rachel, wi
th a grin. ‘I fancy they’d do a lot better than my lot.’

  All this time, Mary walked with them, quietly, studying Bard carefully; suddenly she whispered something to Rachel, who laughed.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said you had a good face.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Bard shortly. ‘Well, she doesn’t know me very well.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ said Rachel, ‘but her judgment is usually pretty reliable.’

  They got into Reverend Mother’s mud-spattered Ford Fiesta after an hour and drove to the priory. Mary and Richard, who had taken a great fancy to Bard, were told gently but firmly they could not come.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Bard, ‘if it’s going to be their home.’

  ‘It might not be,’ said Reverend Mother, ‘so they would be very disappointed. And besides, the others might be resentful. It doesn’t do to show favouritism.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bard.

  The priory was in its own small valley, just in from the coast; a huge, grey sheltered house, it had been used most recently as a prep school which had been forced to close in the wake of the recession and the slow ending of the British upper classes’ tradition of estrangement from their children at a hideously early age. It was freezing cold inside, but dry and clean; rooms were filled with piled-up desks, with maps and globes and blackboards, with games paraphernalia, the upstairs ones with bunks and iron beds.

  ‘We inherit those if we want them,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘They would probably be of some use.’

  Outside, there were still rugby posts, football goal nets, a hideous empty swimming pool filled with leaves, and several dead field mice.

  ‘It would be wonderful to have a pool,’ said Rachel. ‘They love swimming, and at the moment they have to go to Exmouth.’

  ‘What about the sea?’ said Bard.

  ‘Too dangerous for them usually. This is a very treacherous coast, the surf is heavy.’

  But the most wonderful thing about the whole place was the outbuildings, seven altogether, that the school had neglected, but which had clearly been, in the days of the priory’s true occupancy, used for what they would be again: henhouses, bakeries, a laundry.