by Roberta Kray
‘Thoroughly respectable.’
‘Good,’ Eden said, dropping the clothes on the bed. ‘At least that’s one thing he won’t be able to complain about.’ She went over to the mirror, pulled back her hair and started twisting it into a knot at the nape of her neck. ‘So tell me about Greenham. How’s it going there?’
‘It’s amazing, and there are more women arriving every day. It’s turning into something big. You’ll have to come down one weekend.’
The protest, against the siting of nuclear missiles at RAF Greenham Common, was a cause that Eden would have once embraced with enthusiasm. Women were uniting and standing up for what they believed in, challenging male dominance in a way that had not been seen before. Of course the press didn’t see it like that – she had taken to reading the papers more closely since Tom’s arrest – and were already making jibes about how the protestors would be better employed staying home and taking care of their children. ‘I will… you know, once things have calmed down a bit here.’
Caitlin nodded. ‘Yeah, you don’t need any more trouble at the moment.’
Eden looked at her in the mirror. ‘Is there going to be trouble?’
‘There’s bound to be. You can’t go trampling over male sensibilities – or their army bases – without there being some kind of backlash. Men don’t like their decisions being questioned. I reckon they’ll try and break up the camp before too long. You don’t want to end up being arrested.’
Eden gave a wry smile. ‘Or you,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t face visiting both of you in prison.’
Caitlin laughed. ‘They’ll have to catch me first.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘So when are you meeting your dad?’
‘Seven.’
‘You’d better get a wriggle on if you want to get there on time.’
‘I don’t want to get there at all.’
‘Are you taking the car?’
Eden shook her head. ‘The Tube. I’ll need a drink, lots of drinks, to get through this evening.’
‘Come on, then. Get your glad rags on and I’ll drop you off at Angel. I’m going past there anyway.’
The Fitzpatrick was one of those old-fashioned hotels, full of wide gilt mirrors and overstuffed sofas, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in the nineteen fifties. It had a quiet, almost reverential, air. Eden braced herself as she walked through the foyer, trying to prepare for what lay ahead. Just how did you tell your father that your husband was in jail? On the Tube, she’d rehearsed several different methods, all of which seemed equally inappropriate now that she was here. Tell him straight away or wait until they were eating dinner? Just blurt it out or build up to it slowly? She still had no idea.
Eden hesitated at the door to the bar, almost tempted to turn on her heel and make a run for it. It was that look in his eyes she dreaded most, the unspoken disappointment she had lived with all her life. ‘Get a grip,’ she murmured. What she had to do was stand up for Tom and protest his innocence. It didn’t matter what her father said, or even what he thought. She just had to bite the bullet and get it over and done with before he heard the news from someone else.
She painted on a smile as she walked into the bar. It wasn’t busy and she saw him straight away, sitting at a table over to the right. For a brief moment she saw him as a stranger might – grey-haired, middle-aged, a solitary man, perhaps even a lonely one, staring wistfully into a glass of malt whisky – before he lifted his head, rose to his feet and became the person she was more familiar with.
‘Eden,’ he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. ‘I thought you might have forgotten.’
‘I’m not that late. It’s only five minutes.’
‘Ten,’ he said.
‘Sorry, there was a hold-up on the Tube.’
‘No Tom?’ he asked, looking over her shoulder.
‘Er… no… I’m afraid he can’t make it. He sends his apologies.’
Her father’s eyebrows shifted up a notch, disapproval etched into their curves. ‘I booked the table for three.’
‘Yes, well, there was… something came up. Anyway, it’ll be nice, just the two of us.’ And before he could ask any more probing questions about Tom’s absence, she quickly went on, ‘How was the conference? Was it interesting?’
‘Moderately.’
Eden turned towards the bar. ‘I’ll get a drink and then we’ll go on in, shall we?’
The dining room was as quiet as the bar, with only half a dozen customers, none of whom would ever see sixty again. They were seated in the centre of the room where, surrounded by a sea of white tablecloths, Eden had the sense of being stranded. The waiters came and went, soft-footed, solemn, quietly spoken, as if they were dealing with the terminally ill rather than a few hungry diners wanting to fill their stomachs.
Eden sipped on the wine, trying not to gulp, as she perused the menu. The contents were bland, typical British fare – lamb chops, steak and kidney pie, cod in parsley sauce – with none of the ‘fancy foreign muck’ that her father couldn’t stand. She ordered the fish, hoping she’d be able to eat it when it came. Her stomach was fizzing with nervous anxiety. A part of her wanted to get the confession over and done with, but the greater part preferred to put it off for as long as possible.
While they waited for dinner, Eden made slightly manic small talk about everything from the state of the underground to the weather. She figured that while she was talking, he wasn’t – which had to be good when it came to the avoidance of awkward questions.
‘So how’s college?’ her father asked when she finally paused for breath. ‘Did you ever finish that essay on Caravaggio?’
‘Yes,’ she lied, thinking of the books lying unopened on the table, ‘all done and dusted.’
‘And so what will you do with this degree when you finally get it?’
Eden knew her father thought all arts degrees were a waste of time, a frivolous accessory like a pair of expensive shoes or a handbag. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe some kind of restoration work.’
‘Is there money in that?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
Her father pursed his lips. ‘Well, so long as you’re happy.’
Unsure as to whether he was being sarcastic or not, Eden gave him a probing look. She was used to his disapproval, which to some extent she had nurtured through the years, negative attention being better than no attention at all. As a teenager she had learned which buttons to push – wrong clothes, wrong friends, wrong attitude – and had never really got out of the habit. And now, of course, she was about to deliver the cruellest blow of all, the news that she was married to a would-be murderer.
He met her gaze. ‘Is everything all right? You’re looking a little tired. Not been burning the candle at both ends, have you?’
Eden bristled at the question, hurt and annoyed by the presumption that her weariness must be self-inflicted. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You know me. Life’s one big party.’ And as if to underline the statement she beckoned the waiter over and ordered another glass of wine. ‘A large one, please.’
Her father stared at her. ‘You’re not driving, I hope.’
‘No, I’m not driving. I’ve already told you I came on the Tube.’
While they ate, she watched him surreptitiously, trying to figure out what he was thinking. They were like two snipers standing on opposite sides of a river, waiting for the opportunity to take a shot. It was ironic that her father made a living out of building bridges and yet there seemed no way to bridge the gulf between them. And now, very soon, everything was going to get a whole lot worse.
That moment came when her father had almost cleared his plate. As he gathered the final mouthful on to his fork, he asked, ‘So how is Tom? Hard at work, I presume?’
Eden swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry and she felt her heart start to hammer in her chest. ‘Er… actually there was something I wanted to —’
‘Oh,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘I almost forgot to tell yo
u the good news. Your brother has got engaged! It’s about time, but he finally got round to popping the question.’
‘To Alison?’ she asked rather stupidly. The interruption had thrown her off balance and she said the first thing that came into her head.
‘I can’t think of anyone else he’d be likely to propose to.’
‘No, of course not.’ Iain had been dating Alison since university. She was a clever, sensible, practical girl who would, no doubt, be an excellent wife and mother. Not to mention daughter-in-law. This marriage, unlike her own, was one her father thoroughly approved of.
‘Well, pass on my congratulations to them both.’
‘Or you could pick up the phone and do it yourself.’
‘Yes,’ Eden said. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘It won’t be until next year. The wedding, I mean. They’re thinking April or May.’
‘Lovely,’ Eden murmured.
‘And it’s going to be a proper church wedding, one with all the trimmings.’
Eden felt the bullet whiz through the air. A proper wedding, rather than an improper one at a registry office. He just couldn’t resist. He couldn’t help himself. And Eden’s response was as predictable. ‘Let’s hope you manage to make it this time.’
A thin brittle silence fell over the table.
Eden drank the rest of her wine. When had it started, this tension between them? Or had it always been there? She was reminded of that experiment she’d done at school where if you put the north pole of a magnet near the south pole of another, the two of them were attracted. But if it was north to north or south to south, the magnets repelled each other. They were like the latter, always pulling away as if ordered by a natural force they had no control over.
‘Perhaps you and Tom will come up to Edinburgh this summer,’ he said. ‘If you’re not too busy.’
And Eden knew in that moment that she wouldn’t tell him, couldn’t tell him, at least not face to face like this. It would have to wait. She would write a letter, perhaps. Yes, that would be better. She would put it all down on paper and send it through the post. ‘We’ll try.’
The meal finally came to an end and – although it was only half past nine – neither of them made any attempt to prolong the evening. Her father muttered about having to be up early in the morning to catch the train, and Eden said she understood, she had things to do too. Now that it was over, they both made the effort to be pleasant, to smile, to part in a manner that if not exactly loving was at least civil.
He insisted on walking her out of the hotel and hailing a black cab despite her protests that she’d be fine on the Tube.
‘Just humour me,’ he said, pushing a ten-pound note into her hand. ‘This way, I’ll know for sure that you got home safely.’
Eden hesitated, battling with that familiar knee-jerk reaction to do exactly the opposite of whatever he wanted. But she was too tired to argue, and too downhearted. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning across to kiss his cheek. She caught a light lemony whiff of aftershave. ‘And thanks for dinner.’
As the cab pulled away, Eden glanced over her shoulder. Her father was still standing on the pavement outside the hotel. She felt a sudden urge to stop the taxi, to get out, rush back to him and say, ‘Dad, something terrible has happened.’ But even as she turned her head towards the driver, she knew she wouldn’t do it; the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t run to her father. She never had. She was too proud, too wary, too afraid of rejection. With a sigh she sat back in the seat, defeated by her own history.
30
Teddy Gill had been obsessed by fire since the age of seven when he’d stood with his mother and watched, wide-eyed, while the Albany pub burned down. To this day he could still recall it vividly, the flames raging through the building, the heat and the smoke, the crackling, splintering, destructive thrill of it all. And while he was watching, nothing else had mattered. He had been as consumed by the fire as the building itself.
His first attempts, a few years later, had been minor, tentative affairs – a pile of timber stacked up in a yard, a garden shed, an old garage with its doors hanging off – but gradually he’d grown more ambitious. It was the drama he craved, the spectacle. Fire shouldn’t be contained to a few mouldering planks of wood; he had to set it free and let it run wild.
The church had been his finest success to date – and worth the time he’d spent in jail for it. God’s house. Grey brick, solid, the place of holy secrets. He had watched the flames grow and spread. He had seen the stained-glass windows illuminated for one last time before they exploded into fragments, blown out into the night air, showering the grass like glass confetti.
And when the shrink had asked him why he’d done it, he’d said, ‘Why not? If God wanted it saved, he should have called the fire brigade.’
Teddy was still pleased by that retort. He smirked as he turned the corner into Pope Street, lit a fag, and began checking out the numbers on the houses. Already he was feeling the buzz of anticipation, the sense of exhilaration that never faded no matter how many matches he struck.
The street was quiet, residential, two rows of smart three-storey terraces with big windows. Behind the drawn curtains, lights were blazing. It was early, half past nine, and he was only here to do a recce, to make sure he knew exactly which house it was before coming back later.
Teddy found number twenty-four. He didn’t stop but strolled casually past, his gaze taking in everything he needed to know without appearing overly curious. You could never tell who might be watching. The whole house was in darkness. He liked the look of the letter box – a decent size – and was pleased to see that the door was set back, creating a small porch area where his activities could go unobserved by everyone but the occupants of the houses opposite. Hopefully, by the time he returned they would all be asleep.
His feet made a cracking noise as he tramped down the snow-covered street. He pushed his cold hands deep into the pockets of his anorak. The handles of the carrier bag were looped around his right wrist, and inside the bag was a litre bottle of petrol, a rubber hose and some old rags. The bottle knocked against his leg as he walked.
Teddy always worked at night, never in daylight. This was partly for practical reasons – he was less likely to be noticed – but also because he preferred the look of fire against a dark background. It was more intense, more dramatic, more satisfying. He raised his left hand to his neck and scratched. Already the itch was with him, the longing to be getting on with it. But he knew he had to wait.
He would walk to Upper Street, to one of the pubs, and hang out there until they closed. A few pints would hardly make a dent in the thirty quid CJ had given him. The six crisp five-pound notes were neatly folded in his wallet.
‘Just torch the place,’ CJ had said. ‘Send it up in smoke. Reckon you can manage that?’
Which was like asking if Pelé could kick a ball around. ‘What do you think?’
‘Don’t fuck it up.’
Teddy hadn’t enquired why he wanted the house burned. It was none of his business. His only questions were where and when. ‘Consider it done, mate.’
‘And don’t hang about, huh? Don’t wait for those big shiny fire engines to turn up.’
When he reached the corner of Pope Street, Teddy glanced back over his shoulder towards number twenty-four. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Ashes to ashes, he thought, dust to dust.
31
It was ten past ten by the time Eden got home. She toyed with the idea of ringing Iain, but decided it was too late. Her brother, if he was in, wouldn’t welcome a call at this time of night. Although they now had an amicable relationship, they were not especially close. He was five years her senior and the gap meant they’d had little in common while they were growing up. She had always been the annoying kid sister and, to some extent, this was probably still the case.
Eden went through to the kitchen, made a weak coffee and took it back to the living room. The light was blinking on
the answer machine. She pressed the button and sat down at the table. There was a message from her tutor requesting that she get in touch. Eden grimaced. It was two weeks now since she’d last graced college with her presence and she suspected she was never going back. The next message was from Denny, asking after Tom. The third and final message consisted of one of those long silences while someone made up their minds as to whether they were going to speak or not. They didn’t.
Eden sipped her coffee while she thought back over the evening. She felt the same things she always felt after seeing her father – disappointment, irritation and a faint sense of regret. Snatches of their conversation drifted into her head and she turned them over, examining them from different angles, wondering what he’d meant by this or that. There had been no full-on battle tonight, only a few minor skirmishes from which she’d emerged relatively unscathed. Had she given him the ammunition – the truth about Tom – the outcome would have been very different.
