More Than You Know

by Penny Vincenzi

  The thought came to her, swift and unbidden, that if she had married Jeremy, her life would be at least a little like this one.

  On the morning of the day that Adrian died, he had been listening to the news about the shooting of Bobby Kennedy and had called Sarah to join him.

  “Who could have imagined anything so dreadful,” he said, “only five years after his brother. What a dreadful thing. And how hard for the family to bear. We’ve been lucky,” he said, taking her hand, his voice faint, but quite cheerful. “We’ve been spared that kind of grief; we still have each other and our … our …”

  “Children,” Sarah said into the silence, for he often lost his place in sentences these days, but then, turning to smile at him, she got nothing in reply but a blank stare, and watched as his head lolled sideways and his body slumped heavily away from her, still holding her hand.

  She sat for a short while, listening quite carefully to the details of the events in the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, recognising the much greater importance of what had just happened in her own kitchen, but not quite yet able to face it and all the procedures that must follow.

  And so Eliza heard the news not as she had always feared—by way of a panicked phone call in the middle of the night—but by an almost unnaturally calm one, halfway through the morning: a small, sad voice that was almost unrecognisable as Sarah’s, telling her that her father was in hospital and was not expected to last the day.

  She and Charles arrived too late to say good-bye to him. Sarah was calm, clearly shocked and relieved in equal measure; they spent the rest of the day talking, the three of them, remembering, laughing, crying, reliving what had been the happiest of childhoods and family life—Adrian’s greatest gift to them all.

  The funeral, a week later, was beautiful. The little church was full, people standing at the back and even on the porch, the flowers done with particular care by the ladies of the parish, the vicar at full throttle, his rather fruity voice extolling Adrian’s courage through his long illness, and his outstanding virtues as church warden, his generosity both with his time and Summercourt’s produce (eggs and strawberries) at the village fête, his diplomatic skills as a parish councillor.

  Charles, pale and very nervous, spoke of childhood and adult memories of his father and said how greatly his life had been shaped by both Adrian himself and life with him at Summercourt; Eliza spoke briefly but tenderly of her parents’ long and happy marriage, and of their wedding in the same church, almost forty years earlier.

  “Too short, of course,” she said, glancing briefly at her mother and smiling, “but they were lucky that it was nonetheless longer than many.”

  Sandra and Pete had come, Pete genuinely sad at the loss of his new friend; Anna and Piers Marchant were there, Anna surprisingly subdued, although she came over to embrace Matt and Eliza, telling Matt how marvellous it was to see him and berating Eliza for not bringing him over for dinner, and Piers pumped his hand and said he hoped the whole family realised what a lot Matt had done for Sarah.

  “Lucky to have you, dear boy, that’s the fact of the matter. See you later up at the house. Share a few jars, eh? Like to know what you think of this Roy Jenkins chappie. Five bob on a bottle of Scotch indeed! Daylight robbery.”

  Emmie had been left in the care of Charles and Eliza’s old nanny, who was, with her little problem, she said, unable to attend long ceremonies. “Incontinence,” whispered Eliza to Matt, “but Emmie will be fine with her; they’re going to play snakes and ladders, and the catering lady has promised to keep an eye on them both.”

  But as they walked up the hill, Emmie was standing by the big gates, with large tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “I was too sad to play,” she said.

  It was perhaps a most fitting tribute to Adrian the family man.

  Sarah had wept quite a lot at the service, but afterwards at the party at Summercourt she seemed surprisingly cheerful, sparkling her way round the room, thanking everyone for their help and generosity.

  “Poor Mummy,” said Eliza to Matt, standing and looking at her, as people began to leave, “she’s still in shock. She’ll have to leave now, of course; she can’t stay here. And Charles certainly can’t afford to keep it, so it really will have to go.”

  “But I thought it couldn’t be sold. Because of this trust.”

  “It can’t. Not in Mummy’s lifetime. She has this power of appointment thing, which means she can appoint it out—that is, say who is to have it—but there still won’t be any money to do it up. I know you’ve been wonderful and done the roof, but it still needs so much more spent on it. I think there are some cousins in Canada somewhere who could afford to spend money on it. Of course, the trustees would have to agree to that. Bit of a poisoned chalice, you could say. And who is to say they’d do it properly? How we’d want?”

  “Now, hang on a bit,” said Matt. “If someone else has got the house and they’re pouring money into it, why should it be the way you want?”

  “Because it’s Summercourt,” said Eliza. “Because it’s ours.”

  “But it wouldn’t be yours.”

  “Matt,” said Eliza, “Summercourt will always be ours. It’s part of us. Even if someone else was living here. I mean, suppose they decided to … oh, I don’t know, put in modern windows so it was warmer. It would be unbearable. And wrong. You don’t understand.”

  “Too right I don’t understand,” said Matt. “If it was mine, I tell you, I’d put in any sort of windows I liked, and paint the door sky blue and pink if I wanted to. You people really are something else. Eliza, if my dad sold our house, do you think he’d have the right to hang about outside telling the new owner not to paint the front door green just because he liked it red? Course not. I tell you, Eliza, if you think having grown up in a house that you can’t afford anymore gives you the right to lord it over anyone who can, you’ve got real problems. Now, I’m going to get myself a drink and find someone I can have a reasonable conversation with. Where’s Emmie, anyway?”

  “She’s with Nanny. Playing snap, last time I looked.”

  “Eliza, the old bat’s completely immobile. Anything could have happened. I’d better go and check on her.”

  “Yes, do. And don’t hurry back,” said Eliza. Tears choked her suddenly; she looked at him as he moved off in the direction of the kitchen. He could be such a bastard; he seemed to have completely forgotten she’d buried her father today.

  A few weeks later, Charles rang Eliza. Could they meet?

  “Charles, I’d love to see you. Come over here if you like. Emmie’s at play school now, thank God, and the mornings are wonderfully peaceful.”

  “I’d like that. What about Matt?”

  “Matt’s never here,” said Eliza briefly.

  “The marriage is over,” he said, sitting down and sighing heavily. “Juliet’s divorcing me.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. She’s got someone else. Rich bugger, South African, banker. She married me largely for my nonexistent money, it seems. Oh, Eliza, I feel such a fool. We’ve had awful rows, all about money—”

  “But … I don’t understand. What does she want?”

  “A small fortune. Which she was mistaken in thinking she’d found with me. Summercourt, family, the stock exchange job—it all added up to a huge mistake on her part. And I … I fell for it.”

  “Charles … oh, God, I’m so, so sorry. How dreadful for you.”

  “The worst thing is I really did care about her. She made me feel good about myself. Stronger, more successful. I’m a bit of a disaster, really, Eliza. If anyone should make money, it’s a stockbroker. And I lost thousands. I couldn’t handle my own wife, stop her spending a ton of money we hadn’t got, just stuck my head in the sand and hoped it would be all right. Her father had to bail me out twice. I gambled money on the stock exchange, money I didn’t have, lost the lot, and then … well, I was so bloody miserable I started going to the races with clients. I’ve always loved doin
g that, and I started risking money with the bookies. Just to cheer myself up, really, and I did quite well sometimes. But mostly I didn’t. In the end we’d have lost the house if Geoffrey hadn’t stepped in again. But it was very much a loan and I’ve got to pay him back.”

  “Even though his daughter’s leaving you for someone else? Oh, Charles. I’m so, so sorry. You should have asked Matt.”

  “I couldn’t have. At least Judd knew I was a disaster. Matt respects me; God knows why. I think so, anyway.”

  “Yes, he does,” said Eliza.

  “Anyway, final straw, I lost my job—told I wasn’t pulling my weight. So as of the end of this month, I’m unemployed.”

  “But … but …” Her mind was whirling. “Why is Juliet divorcing you, for a start? Why not the other way round?”

  “Her old man insists on it, says I’ve got to do the decent thing, provide grounds. And then she won’t ask for anything in the way of a settlement. And her father will pick up the bill for the court costs. That was the deal. I couldn’t afford to argue. Oh, Eliza—” His voice broke suddenly, and tears filled his eyes. “I loved her so much, you know; I really did. That’s the worst thing, to think she didn’t love me.”

  Eliza sat there, her arms round him, unable to comfort him. Finally she said, “What are you going to do about … about your job?”

  “Oh,” he said, and he looked slightly more cheerful, “I’m going to try teaching. I’ve got a good degree and I can get a job in a prep school—quite easily, it seems—teaching history. I’m pretty sure I’d like it. I won’t earn much, though. Certainly can’t help with Summercourt. Matt’s been great, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he has,” Eliza agreed soberly. She still felt stunned. Charles, her big, wonderful brother, turned into a penniless failure. It just didn’t bear thinking about. What on earth would Matt say?

  Matt was characteristically brutal. “Not surprised, to be honest,” he said. “I like old Charles, but he’s too much of a gentleman; that’s his problem. No wife of mine would spend money she hadn’t got.”

  “Really?” said Eliza.

  Her tone was wasted on Matt. “And he should never have let old Judd take things over—”

  “Matt, what else could he do?”

  “Sell that poxy flat, for a start, tell Juliet she couldn’t have her bloody house, rent somewhere modest and the bank would have met him more than halfway. Well, I’m glad about this teaching lark, I tell you that.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought you were going to say he was going to ask me for a job. Then what would I have done?”

  “Given him one,” said Eliza, “I very much hope.”

  “Yeah, I would. But not the sort he’d have wanted. I don’t carry deadwood, Eliza, and Charles would have been no use to me.”

  “You are so vile, you know that?” said Eliza.

  But something deep in her heart forced her to admit that he was to some extent right.

  It was definitely him. No doubt about it. Sitting there looking quite cheerful, smiling at the crowd of people in front of him, signing what she presumed was his name on the books being handed to him.

  She would normally never have gone into Hatchards, that smartest of bookshops, but she had seen a new Margaret Drabble novel she hadn’t read in the window, and couldn’t resist getting it as soon as possible.

  She had found that straightaway and then thought she might get a birthday present for Diana, and was wandering about the shop when someone said, “Are you looking for the signing?”

  She’d said not really and then, in case the signer was someone famous, thought she’d just find out and … Well, best get out quickly, Scarlett, before he sees you.

  But it was too late; he had seen her, and his grey eyes widened with alarm. She was about to turn away and leave the shop when something very peculiar happened. She could hardly believe it and had to blink and then look again to make sure she hadn’t imagined it. But … no—no doubt about it: he was smiling at her.

  She smiled carefully back, and one of the shop assistants who was managing the queue noticed that they were smiling at each other and came over.

  “Did you want to get a book?” she said, indicating a pile of very large and expensive-looking volumes. “It’s Mr. Frost’s companion volume to My Favourite Train Journeys. My Favourite Island Journeys.”

  It occurred to her that he might have included Trisos among his favourites. “I’ll just have a look,” she said, “thank you.”

  “That’s all right. And then, of course, if you buy it, Mr. Frost will sign it for you.”

  The book was very large and very glossy, with color photographs every few pages; Scarlett picked it up and started rather cautiously looking at the index, which was difficult, as it was so large and heavy. She glanced over her shoulder rather guiltily. Mark Frost had stopped smiling and was watching her quite closely. She quickly put the book down and saw to her horror that the assistant was coming back.

  “I don’t think I want it, thank you,” she said.

  “Oh, right. But I’ve just got a message for you from Mr. Frost. He said to tell you Trisos was on page seventy-two.”

  “Oh. Oh, thank you.” She felt herself blushing. Damn. Now she’d have to look at it again, or it would seem very rude.

  She opened the book and there it was: a picture of Trisos, of a trio of white houses with the sun setting behind them, and a seagull trailing across the sky. She could almost hear it, with its wild, raw cry, feel the heat, smell the herbs. It was a glorious photograph; she turned to Mark Frost in a moment of pure, unself-conscious delight. He smiled again.

  “I think,” she said to the assistant, “I think that I will get one after all. Thank you.”

  “Good. It’s four pounds nineteen and eleven. I’ll take it over to the desk for you. Would you like to pay by cash or cheque?”

  “Oh, cheque,” said Scarlett firmly. Nearly five pounds. For a book. She must be mad.

  She joined the queue feeling a bit silly; there were only three people in front of her.

  “Hallo,” he said, when she finally reached the table, taking it from her.

  “Hallo. It’s … it’s a very nice book.”

  “Thank you. Right now— No, I know what to write …”

  He scribbled away, big sloping letters in thick black ink, handed it to her.

  “There. Hope that’s all right.”

  “I’m sure it will be. Yes, well, thank you.”

  “Thank you for buying it. Maybe we’ll meet there again one day. On Trisos, I mean.”

  “Maybe. Yes.”

  She left the shop, the book in a large brown paper bag. She was dying to see what he’d written, but she couldn’t stop in the street to look; it was too heavy, and anyway, it was raining. She went into Lyons Corner House at Piccadilly Circus, sat down at one of the tables, and opened the book. And smiled with pleasure.

  “For Miss Scarlett, from Mark Frost, a neighbour.”

  Miss Scarlett. That was what Demetrios and Larissa called her. How nice that he’d remembered. He really was quite … quite charming, in a quiet sort of way. She felt touched, sat there staring at it, at the black ink on the white paper, at the sprawling writing spelling her name. And then it happened.

  One of the waitresses collided with another, both of them carrying cups of coffee: both cups went over the book. The precious five-pound book.

  “Oh, madam! Oh, I am so sorry. Oh, how dreadful, how careless of me. Oh, dear.”

  One of them dabbed helplessly at the brown-stained paper, smudging the writing into illegibility; the other tried to wipe the table, and the coffee dripped into Scarlett’s new Fenwick handbag. She suddenly felt furious.

  “Look, just leave it, would you? You’re making it worse. Leave it alone.”

  “What is this, Doreen?” It was the manager, pompous, red-faced.

  “I spilt some coffee, Mr. Douglas, on this lady’s book.”

  “Oh, I do apologize, madam. May w
e offer you a free coffee by way of recompense?”

  “Coffee?” said Scarlett, losing her temper completely. “You call coffee recompense for a five-pound book? Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve only just bought it—”

  “Yes, I do see. Very annoying for you.”

  “Annoying! It’s much worse than annoying. I actually think you should buy me another copy.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, madam; I’m afraid that’s not possible. Maybe a contribution—please wait.”

  He went away, was gone for ages, came back smiling. “I’ve just spoken to our regional manager, and he says if you’d like to write a letter explaining what happened, he’ll consider it and perhaps send you a book token for some of the amount. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.”

  “It’s a very poor best,” said Scarlett, glaring at him.

  The entire café was now silent, everyone’s eyes fixed on her. She picked up her ruined book and left.

  Outside she found herself near to tears. Her lovely book with its lovely inscription—ruined. To make matters worse, it was raining much harder and the brown paper bag was getting soggy too and the cover wet.

  “Oh … shit!” exclaimed Scarlett aloud, and dumped the whole thing in a rubbish bin.

  “Was it that bad?” said a voice. “How very embarrassing.” It was Mark Frost.

  Five minutes later they were back at Hatchards. Another book was found and inscribed, Scarlett protesting helplessly, and slightly quaking at the thought of parting with another five pounds.

  “No, no,” said Mark Frost, as she rummaged for her chequebook. “I get a dozen complimentary copies from the publisher; I’ll bring Hatchards one of those.”

  “Thank you again for coming, Mr. Frost.” It was the manager. “Such a success.”

  Mark Frost handed the book to Scarlett. “Now you must excuse me,” he said.