In bed, gazing out at the night sky through the too-small curtains that never quite drew shut, Tess would hear him arrive, let himself in, and go upstairs to Francesca’s room. She could hear them, though she tried not to: she could hear the bed creaking loudly, Francesca crying out and occasionally Adam too, and she found it upsetting, she didn’t know why, not for what one might think were the obvious reasons but because there was something so desperate and undercover about it.
In the mornings, he was always gone—she was usually up around seven and Adam was never there. Once, coming up for three weeks since Leonora had died, when there was no news, Tess had heard him arrive late, after midnight. It was a particularly sultry, airless night and she had got up at three in the morning to get some water. Tiptoeing silently across the uneven floorboards to the bathroom, she saw Francesca’s bedroom door was wide open, with Francesca asleep, alone. He had been there for less than three hours. It wasn’t just once or twice, either. It was at least four times a week, so that she got used to it, though she never saw him.
She asked Francesca once, during those weeks, ‘Is Adam OK? I haven’t seen him properly for ages.’
And Francesca said, ‘Not really, no. But you wouldn’t expect him to be, I suppose. The poor bastard.’
‘What does he say? Anything at all?’
Francesca put down her magazine, and gave her a searching look. ‘He doesn’t say anything. He’s looking for some sort of release, I guess. And that’s fine by me.’
And then she’d got the email from Peter, only the night before the funeral, which only served to emphasize how far away those days in Rome were.
Dearest darling Tess, cara mia—
I’m sorry I missed you. Darling, I’m going to stay here and take the job. The good news is—perhaps this is good news? Hope so—it’s only for around three months and then they want me back in Rome for the new year, to finish work on a big piece about Berlusconi we’ve been doing. It’s probably going to be a book, and they want me to pull it all together when I get back. But here, I can start straight away. Perhaps it’s good for me to leave Rome for a while, get away from bad memories: but there are good ones too, and they are all to do with you.
So, the long and the short of it is that, thanks to a crazy Italian PM, I will be coming back to Rome for Christmas. Christmas in Rome is the best place to be. Can we meet then? Will you come over then? I think what we had was worth exploring. I think of you and it is magical. Don’t you agree?
I’ll call you later.
All my love
Peter
‘I am sure Leonora Mortmain would be gratified to see the church so packed,’ Reverend Forster said, after the hymn was over. She paused, and patted down the green silk stole around her neck. ‘As you know, she lived in Langford all her life and loved this town.’
The silence in the congregation was broken by a few, faint noises of dissent here and there, and by a couple of people clearing their throats. Reverend Forster pressed on, undaunted.
‘Her family has asked me to let you all know that tea is being provided at the Feathers, after the service.’
‘Tea?’ Tess heard someone say loudly.
‘I’m sure we could all do with a refreshing cup of tea in this muggy weather!’ Reverend Forster said, grinning and resting her hand comfortably on her stomach. ‘Thank you, all of you, for coming. We finish with a few lines from John, chapter fourteen—like all these other readings, chosen by Miss Mortmain herself.’ And then she opened her Bible, and read:
‘…Philip saith unto him, Lord, shew us the Father, and it sufficeth us. Jesus saith unto him, Have I been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known me, Philip? he that hath seen me hath seen the Father; and how sayest thou then, Shew us the Father?’
‘What did that mean?’ Francesca asked as they were filing out. ‘Who’s Philip? What was that about?’
Tess had no idea, but Francesca was speaking loudly and people were turning round. ‘Um—’ she said. ‘I think it was about how we should acknowledge God more in our lives.’
‘But I’m an atheist,’ said Francesca. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘Well,’ said Miss Store, leaning on her as they reached the door and stepped outside. ‘Absolutely don’t, then.’
‘Did you enjoy that?’ Francesca asked her. ‘I mean, not “enjoy”, exactly, but are you glad you went?’
‘Ooh, ever so glad,’ said Miss Store, beaming and waggling her hairy chin. ‘It was a very good service, I thought. Something for everyone.’
‘Hm,’ said Francesca. ‘Not sure about that.’
The majority of the congregation stood chatting outside the church before slowly trickling towards the high street and the Feathers. The clouds were thicker and darker than before and Tess turned to watch the little procession to the side, making its way to the open grave, where the committal was to take place. Reverend Forster walked behind the coffin, borne aloft by four very erect but small pallbearers, her head bowed, and behind her Jean Forbes, Carolyn Tey and Clive Donaldson followed sombrely, with Diana Sayers behind them and, last of all, Adam, taller than any of them, his suit especially black in the darkening gloom. Diana turned to him, put her arm around his shoulders, and squeezed him.
‘Aren’t you going to wait for him?’ she said to Francesca, who turned away from Miss Store and looked at her.
‘No,’ Francesca said shortly. ‘He knows where I am. He’ll want me later, not now.’
‘Right,’ said Tess. ‘Well—do you want some tea?’
‘Tea? Oh, you old lady.’
‘I meant the wake, at the Feathers,’ said Tess. ‘I won’t be ordering tea, for what it’s worth. I will be very much on the gin. Do join me, Miss Jackson.’
‘You betcha,’ said Francesca.
‘Miss Store, shall we walk you home?’ Tess asked politely.
‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Store. ‘I shall be going to the Feathers for a cup of tea. Or perhaps a little gin and tonic, now you mention it. I must say,’ she said, blinking at Tess and Francesca, ‘I know he’s had a difficult time, that poor boy, but he’s lost his mind if he thinks we’ll be wanting tea. Shall we adjourn?’
‘With all possible haste,’ Francesca said, striding grimly on ahead while Tess grinned uneasily at Miss Store and gave her her arm.
‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ said Miss Store. ‘To see all the town together.’
‘Quite a weird reason for them to be together,’ said Tess. ‘I mean, I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, Miss Store, but she wasn’t exactly popular, was she?’
‘No,’ said Miss Store. ‘In fact, she was a nasty woman. But you should have known her when she was little. Sweet thing.’ She smiled. ‘We were almost friends, she and I. We were the same age when I was a maid there, and we have a similar name.’
Tess tucked Miss Store’s arm even tighter into her own. ‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘My name’s Eleanor,’ Miss Store said. ‘And hers was Leonora, you know that. We used to say we could have been twins, we were the same size, same age.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Tess. ‘So you knew her when she was a girl?’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Store. ‘Used to bring her tea in the mornings. I’d lay the fire in her room, put out her clothes. We’d talk about the day ahead, she’d ask me about my day, we’d have lovely little conversations. I—yes, I liked her.’ She looked up at Tess, smiling. Tess wished Francesca could hear this too, but Francesca was several strides ahead, her mind somewhere else. Tess bent down.
‘So when did she become—like this?’ she said curiously.
‘I don’t know,’ Miss Store said. ‘It was sometime towards the end of the war. She went away for a few months, and when she came back she was very different. And she never smiled again. Isn’t it funny.’ There was a pause. ‘I suppose that’s when she had the baby. Of course.’ She shook her head. ‘Funny, it never crossed my innocent mind. And we’ll never know what happened. Poor dear.�
��
Someone patted Tess on the shoulder; they turned and parted to let the empty hearse that had carried the coffin drive through the crowds. Tess looked thoughtfully towards the procession in the graveyard, as they turned onto the high street and walked slowly towards the pub.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tess knew what they’d let themselves in for when she opened the door to the main bar of the Feathers, standing aside to let Miss Store go in front of her. To her question, ‘Shouldn’t we be going in there—where the tea is?’ Miss Store had looked scornfully at the parlour at the back of the courtyard, with a sign on it which read, ‘Private Function—Tea’ and said, ‘Goodness gracious, no. We want to be in the bar.’
She was right, too. Everyone else in Langford had had the same idea, it seemed, for on opening the door Tess was hit with a wall of sound, the smell of sweaty bodies, beer, perfume—and heat. The heat was overpowering—the low-ceilinged rooms of the Feathers meant it was always warm but today of all days, it was almost unbearable.
Miss Store, who was small and surprisingly wiry for a woman of her years and vision, disappeared almost immediately into the crowd, worming under the armpits of her fellow citizens while Tess and Francesca hung back at the door, almost afraid to go any further.
‘We could just go home…’ Tess said. ‘It’s pretty—’
‘Are you kidding?’ Francesca said. ‘No way. This is a last hurrah. In more ways than one. We’re staying, mon amie, and we’re getting trashed.’
Tapping the two old men in front of them, and with a charming smile saying, ‘Excuse me, so sorry, can I just—’ she slid her way to the front of the bar, Tess following in her wake.
The path to the bar was at least eight people deep. Tess saw people she hadn’t seen since she got back all those months ago, like Donna Roberts, who bullied her at school, still wearing a ponytail to the side of the head—or perhaps it was just the crush that had dislodged it, Tess thought crazily, as she pushed past her. Joe Collins, the elderly owner of the fields beyond the water meadows, who’d been involved in a boundary dispute with Leonora Mortmain for decades; he was standing up straight, chatting merrily away, a gleam in his eye. With him was Guy Phelps, owner of George Farm, drinking moodily at his side and talking loudly to Mick, who was smiling politely at him while frantically filling glasses. There was Suggs’s girlfriend, the surprisingly respectable Emma, who ran the mobile library between Thornham, Morely and Langford. She smiled at Tess as she squeezed past.
‘All right, Tess? What a day, eh?’
Tess smiled. ‘You’re telling me.’ She patted her on the arm and rolled her eyes, as if to say, ‘I’m going this way, see you later,’ then turned and bumped into someone.
‘Hello, Tess, dear,’ said Jacquetta Meluish, clutching a large glass of wine. She paused to remove her paisley scarf. ‘Well, what a day. It seems a long time ago when it all happened, doesn’t it? Ah, Roma. Oh, dear me, it’s hot in here, isn’t it!’ She patted her forehead dramatically. ‘I hate the heat. Don’t mind it when it’s somewhere exotic, hate it here.’
Tess nodded, having unexpected sympathy with this point. She smiled at her. ‘Oh, your scarf—’ Tess pointed to the floor where the offending article had slithered, as Francesca moved further towards the bar. ‘Look, you’ve dropped it.’
‘Oh, my God,’ Jacquetta crooned, slightly unnecessarily. She looked down, then up again. ‘Oh, well—I’ll just have to get it later,’ she said, draining the rest of her wine and turning back to her companion, whom Tess couldn’t see. ‘More wine!’ she called out, like the Lady of the Camellias at a glittering Paris soirée.
‘What do you want?’ Francesca yelled from the bar.
‘Wine,’ said Tess. ‘Let’s get a bottle.’
‘Where’s Miss Store?’ Francesca yelled. ‘She OK?’
Tess stood up on tiptoe, and swivelled round like a ballerina. ‘She’s by the bar. Talking to the vicar. She’s fine.’ Francesca nodded, and Tess turned back, catching sight of someone. ‘Liz! Hi!’
‘Thank God,’ said Liz with relief, turning round with some difficulty. She was wedged between Ron and someone from the Parish Council whom Tess recognized but couldn’t put a name to. ‘This is crazy,’ she said. ‘First the funeral—then this. It’s biblical, that’s what it is. If you know what I mean.’
‘I know,’ said Tess. She looked at Francesca, at the bar. ‘Are you OK?’ she mouthed. Francesca nodded. ‘We’ll stand back—can you get three glasses?’
‘Sure,’ Francesca bellowed back.
Tess squeezed through the massed ranks, clutching hold of Liz by the arm, feeling strangely protective of this relative newcomer in the insanity of Langford.
‘I’m OK!’ Liz exclaimed, as they burst forth from the throng, almost falling over, by the windows. ‘Thanks, Tess, though. Phew.’ She put her hand on the back of her neck. ‘It’s boiling in here. I think I’m about to melt.’
‘The windows aren’t open, for God’s sake,’ said Tess. ‘There’s no fresh air in here, it’s mad.’
‘It’s just as hot outside,’ Liz pointed out. ‘It must rain soon, mustn’t it? It can’t go on like this, it’s been weeks.’
‘I know,’ said Tess, as she looked up to see how Francesca was doing. It was like a Brueghel painting, she thought fancifully, the wooden interiors, the apple-cheeked villagers, the beer tankards frothing, sheafs of wheat in the corners—only the villagers were apple-cheeked with alcohol, heat and hysteria, and the sheaves of wheat were old, dusty, dried, and stuck up as decorations around upon the ceiling. She patted her forehead and stepped forward into the crowd to help Francesca, who was carrying three glasses, and a huge plastic cup filled with ice.
‘How on earth—’ Tess said, in admiration. ‘Francesca, you are amazing.’
‘Ask and ye shall receive,’ Francesca said. ‘Thanks,’ she said to Andrea Marsh, who handed her a chilled bottle in a wine cooler.
‘No probs,’ said Andrea. Francesca took the glasses and poured out the wine.
‘Do you want some, Andrea?’ she said.
‘No thanks. I’m drinking Campari and orange juice.’
‘With an Amaretto chaser, eh?’ Ron said from behind her, patting her flank. Andrea blushed, looking not unpleased at this rather public display of affection. Ron raised his glass to them. His cheeks were slightly flushed. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re here, Tess. It’s a big day for Langford—’
‘Please, Ron,’ Andrea said, in quelling tones. ‘We don’t want any speaking ill of the dead.’
‘Wasn’t going to!’ Ron said in outrage. ‘I just meant—’
Francesca turned from them, taking a glass and giving it to Liz, and another to Tess. ‘Well—’ she said. ‘Here’s to—’ She raised her glass. ‘Not sure, really.’
‘Cheers,’ said Tess. ‘I think we just say cheers.’ She took a sip. ‘I’m going to open the window,’ she said, moving the ice cup and bottle of wine off the sill. ‘It’s boiling. No one’s going to steal our stuff,’ she said to Andrea, who looked alarmed. ‘There’s no one else left, is there? Everyone’s here.’
She undid the catch, pushing both windows out wide, and breathing in. She closed her eyes at the tiny rush of fresh air from outside. Then she looked up, and across the street.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said quietly.
There, directly opposite, framed by the window as if by design, was the drawing room of Leda House, powder blue and cream, and through the glass, clearly visible, stood a stiff, weary-looking group, clutching very small glasses of sherry and standing in apparent silence. Jean Forbes and her husband Mike, Clive Donaldson, his bald pate glistening in the heat, Richard and Diana Sayers, Carolyn Tey and, his face a mask, Adam.
Once again Tess found herself fleetingly thinking how unlike the Adam she had known he now was, in his black suit, his hair combed, his eyes dark with grief, trapped in a situation not of his own making, and she could not help him. For one second he turned, his gaze caught by the mov
ement from the pub opposite, and he saw her. She stared at him.
‘Look—’ said Ron. ‘There they are.’
In the distance there was a faint, almost ominous sound.
‘That can’t be thunder,’ Andrea said hopefully. ‘Is it going to rain?’
‘Oh, my goodness, look,’ said someone behind Tess, and she turned around. It was Beth Kennett, her boss from the college, curiosity written all over her face. She was with Jen and Guy Phelps.
‘Must be about to read the will,’ Beth said. ‘That’ll be an interesting conversation, I bet.’
‘I bet,’ said Guy. ‘Well, Adam’s a sensible man.’ He drained his pint; he was a little drunk. ‘I’m sure he’ll see us all right.’
‘Do you think?’ Francesca said suddenly from the corner. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Hello there,’ said Guy, reddening slightly. She raised her glass to him, but didn’t move. ‘I just meant—it’s good a chap like Adam’s inheriting all that dosh. And the water meadows. No chance of that shopping centre going up now, that’s for sure.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Francesca said. She looked bored.
‘Well…’ Guy said, slightly uneasy under her unwavering gaze. He licked his lips. ‘Just mean—he’s one of us, isn’t he?’
‘What’s “one of us”?’ Francesca asked, putting her glass down. Her voice was soft over the din of the pub.
‘One of the village, the town. From Langford, I mean. He’s a local.’ Guy sounded flustered. ‘He knows what we want.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ said Francesca. She smiled her catlike smile. ‘Being “one of us” didn’t stop Leonora Mortmain, did it? She sold you all out for the money, and why?’
‘Oh, you don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Guy. He smiled in a frank way, that curiously posh English combination of politeness and contempt.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps he wants to keep the money,’ she said. She put her bag over her shoulder. ‘Perhaps he feels he doesn’t owe this town anything, anything at all. And I have to say I can see his point.’
I Remember You Page 33
