In a Dry Season (19 page)

“To some extent. But you have to remember, there's a big, big gap between someone like my dad and Van Gogh or Picasso. It's all relative.”

“What about your mother?”

Again, Annie was silent a few moments. “She died,” she said at last. “When I was six. I don't really remember her very well. I wish I could, but I can't.”

“That's sad. I'm sorry.”

“More wine?”

“Please.”

Annie poured.

“That oil portrait in the living-room, is it your mother?”

Annie nodded.

“Your father painted it?”

“Yes.”

“It's very good. She was a beautiful woman. You look a lot like her.”

It was almost dark outside now. Annie hadn't put on any lights, so Banks couldn't see her expression.

“Where did you grow up?” he asked.

“St Ives.”

“Nice place.”

“You know it?”

“I've been there on holiday a couple of times. Years ago, when I worked on the Met. It's a bit far from here.”

“I don't get down as often as I should. Maybe you remember it was a magnet for hippies in the sixties? It became something of an artists' colony.”

“I remember.”

“My father lived there even before that. Over the years he's done all kinds of odd jobs to support his art. He might have even rented you deck-chairs on the beach. Now he paints local landscapes and sells them to tourists. Does some glass engraving, too. He's quite successful at it.”

“So he makes a decent living?”

“Yes. He doesn't have to rent out the deck-chairs any more.”

“He brought you up alone?”

Annie pushed her hair back. “Well, not really. I mean, yes, in the sense that my mother was dead, but we lived in a sort of artists' colony on an old farm just outside town, so there were always lots of other people around. My extended family, you might call them. Ray's been living with Jasmine for nearly twenty years now.”

“It sounds like a strange set-up.”

“Only to someone who hasn't experienced it. It seemed perfectly normal to me. It was the other kids who seemed strange. The ones with mothers and fathers.”

“Did you get teased a lot at school?”

“Tormented. Some of the locals were very intolerant. Thought we were having orgies every night, doing drugs, worshipping the devil, the usual stuff. Actually, though there always seemed to be some pot around, they couldn't have been further from the truth. There were a few wild ones—that kind of free, experimental way of life always attracts a few unstable types—but on the whole it was a pretty good environment to grow up in. Plus I got a great education in the arts—and not from school.”

“What made you join the police?”

“The village bobby took my virginity.”

“Seriously.”

Annie laughed and poured more wine. “It's true. He did. His name was Rob. He came up to see us once, looking for someone who'd passed through, one of the occasional undesirables. He was good-looking. I was seventeen. He noticed me. It seemed a suitable act of rebellion.”

“Against your par—your father?”

“Against all of them. Oh, don't get me wrong, I didn't hate them or anything. It was just that I'd had enough of that lifestyle by then. There were too many people around all the time, nowhere to escape to. Too much talk and not enough done. You could never get any privacy. That's why I value it so much now. And how many times can a grown person listen to ‘White Rabbit'?”

Banks laughed. “I feel the same way about ‘Nessun Dorma.' ”

“Anyway, Rob seemed solid, dependable, more sure of himself and what he believed in.”

“Was he?”

“Yes. We went out until I went to university in Exeter.

Then he turned up there a year or so later as a
DC
. He introduced me to some of his friends and we sort of started going out again. I suppose they found me a bit weird. After all, I didn't throw out the baby with the bathwater. I still had a lot of my father's values, and I was into yoga and meditation even back then, when nobody else was. I didn't really fit in anywhere. I don't know why, but being a detective sounded exciting.
Different
. When you get right down to it, most jobs are so bloody boring. I'd thought of becoming a teacher, but I changed my mind and joined the force. It was a bit impulsive, I'll admit.”

Banks wanted to ask her why she was in a dead-end place like Harkside, but he sensed that this wasn't the moment. At least he could ask a leading question and see if she were willing to be led. “How has it worked out?”

“It's tough for a woman. But things are what you make them. I'm a feminist, but I'm the sort who just likes to get on with it rather than whine about what's wrong with the system. Maybe that comes from my dad. He goes his own way. Anyway, you know all about what it's like, about how
unexciting
it is most of the time. And how bloody boring it can be.”

“True enough. What happened to Rob?”

“He got killed during an armed drugs bust three years later. Poor sod. His gun jammed.”

“I'm sorry.”

Annie put her hand to her forehead then fanned it in front of her face. “Ooh, I'm hot. Listen to me go on. I haven't talked to anyone like this in ages.”

“I wouldn't mind a cigarette. Would you like to stand outside with me? Cool down a bit, if it's possible?”

“Okay.”

They went out into the backyard. It was a warm night, though there were signs of a breeze beginning to stir. Annie stood beside him. He could smell her scent. He lit up, inhaled and blew out a plume of smoke.

“It was like drawing teeth,” he said, “getting you to talk about your personal life.”

“I'm not used to it. I'm like you in a lot of ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, how much have you told me about your past?”

“What do you want to know?”

“That's not what I mean. You just wouldn't think of telling people about yourself, of letting someone in, would you? It's not in your nature. You're a loner, like me. I don't just mean now, because you're . . . ”

“Because my wife left me?”

“Right. Not just because you're
physically
alone or because you're living alone. I mean in your nature, deep inside. Even when you
were
married. I think you've got a lonely, isolated nature. It colours the way you see the world, the detachment you feel. I'm not explaining it very well, am I? I think I'm the same. I can be alone in a crowded room. I'll bet you can be, too.”

Banks thought about what Annie had said as he smoked. It was what Sandra had said when they had their final argument, what he had refused to admit was the truth. There was something in him that always stood apart, that she couldn't reach and he wouldn't offer. It wasn't just the job and its demands, but something deeper: a central core of loneliness. He had been like that even as a child. An observer. Always on the outside, even when he played with others. As Annie said, it was a part of his nature, and he didn't think he could change it if he tried.

“Maybe you're right,” he said. “Funny thing, though. I always thought I was a simple family man.”

“And now?”

“And now I'm not so sure I ever was.”

A cat meowed in a nearby yard. Down the street, a door opened and closed and someone turned a television on. Emmylou drifted through the open kitchen window singing about losing this sweet old world. Banks dropped his cigarette and trod on the red ember. Suddenly a chill gust of wind rustled the distant trees and passed through the yard. Annie shivered. Banks put his arm around her and moved her gently towards him. She let her head rest on his shoulder.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I don't know if this is a good idea.”

“Why?”

Annie paused. Banks could feel her warm shoulder under the thin T-shirt, the ridge of her bra strap.

“Well, we've both probably had too much to drink.”

“If it's the rank thing that's bothering you—”

“No. No. It's not that. I don't give a damn about that, to be honest. As I said, the job's not my be-all and end-all. I still have a bit of the bohemian left in me. No, it's just that, I've had some bad experiences with men. I've been . . . I mean I haven't been . . . Oh, shit, why is this so difficult?” She rubbed her forehead. Banks kept silent. Annie sighed deeply. “I've been celibate,” she said. “By choice. For nearly two years now.”

“I don't want to put any pressure on you,” Banks said.

“Don't worry. I wouldn't let you. I make my own choices.”

“I'll never find my way out of this labyrinth alone.”

“I'd lead you,” Annie said, facing him and smiling, “if I really wanted you to go. But somehow I doubt whether you're in a fit state to drive. It's probably my duty to arrest you. Crime intervention.” She paused and frowned, then rested her hand lightly on his chest. His heart beat more loudly. Surely she could hear it, feel it? “There are a lot of reasons for not taking this any further, you know,” she went on. “I've heard you're a bad lot.”

“Not true.”

“A womanizer.”

“Not true.”

They looked at one another for a few moments. Annie bit her lip, shivered again and said, “Oh, hell.”

Banks wished he hadn't just smoked a cigarette. He leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips yielded and her body moulded itself to his. Then he forgot all about cigarettes.

Six

M
atthew and Gloria decided to have a party on Christmas Eve, but first we all went ice-skating on Harksmere Reservoir. Already there were lots of people around and fires
burned in braziers set up along the edges of the ice. It was dark and there was something hypnotic about the mix of ice and fire in the twilight—to me there was, at any rate—so I was skating in a sort of trance. If I shut my eyes I could see the flames dancing behind my eyelids and feel flashes of warmth as I sped by the bank.

People started drifting back to Bridge Cottage at about seven o'clock, then the other guests started to arrive, including more airmen from the base, some with their girlfriends. Alice's Eric was away in North Africa by then, but Betty's William hadn't passed his medical, which didn't surprise me at all, so they would only let him in the Home Guard.

Michael Stanhope came dressed in his usual artistic “costume,” including hat and cane, but he did bring two bottles of gin and some wine, which made him most welcome indeed. He must have had a cellar full of drink. Alcohol wasn't always easy to come by then, most of the distilleries having shut down, and it was very expensive if you could get it. I could picture Michael Stanhope, knowing a war was coming, hoarding his private stock away, bottle by bottle. I hoped he wouldn't run out.

Matthew and Gloria had decorated the tiny front room as best they could, with balloons, concertina streamers and fairy lights over the mantelpiece. The whole place had a warm, cosy feel with the blackout curtains up, especially when you thought of the icicles and the frozen puddles outside. There was also plenty of mistletoe and a fake Christmas tree dressed in lights and tinsel.

The only cigarettes we had in stock were Pasha, and Gloria said they tasted like sweepings from the factory floor, which they probably were. The Canadians had some Players, though, so the room soon seemed to fill with smoke. Mark and Stephen had also contributed a bottle of Canadian Club whisky.

Unfortunately for Gloria, John Cooper's musical taste hadn't extended much further than opera, so the record collection she picked up along with the radiogram was of little use to her. She didn't have many records of her own, so we listened to the radio. Luckily, there was a Victor Sylvester concert on that night, and soon people were dancing close together in the cramped space.

Matthew had hardly let Gloria out of his sight for a moment all day, but as the tiny cottage grew more and crowded and noisy, it was harder for them to stay together.

Couples danced or chatted. Cynthia and Johnny Marsden hogged the sofa and kissed one another. Once, I even saw him trying to put his hand up her dress, but she stopped him. Gloria drank too much Canadian Club and then switched to gin. She wasn't loud or falling down or anything, but there was a sort of glaze to her eyes and a slight wobble in her step. It all got more pronounced as the evening wore on, as did the way she held her cigarette slightly askew as she swayed in time to the music.

I got distracted by an
RAF
radio operator, who first dragged me under the mistletoe and gave me a kiss that tasted of tinned sardines, then proceeded to explain the intricacies of radiolocation to me. I should have told him I was a German spy. Hadn't he seen those “Walls Have Ears” posters everywhere?

It must have been close to ten o'clock by then, and the party was still going strong. I suppose quite a few people were already drunk. I had only been drinking ginger ale—well, I did have just a drop of Canadian Club—but I was feeling light-headed because of all the gaiety. When you had a party in wartime, especially at some important time like Christmas, everything seemed so much more intense. Everyone really worked at having the best time they possibly could, and the fun was just a little louder, a little gaudier and a little more desperate than at peacetime parties.

Michael Stanhope was holding forth to a young corporal about how artists had a duty to shun propaganda in their search for truth. “If governments listened to the artists,” he said, “there would be no wars.” The corporal would probably have moved on ages ago had Mr Stanhope not been topping up his gin every few minutes.

Matthew, I noticed, was leaning against the wall deep in conversation with two men in army uniforms, no doubt trying to find out what military life was really like once the training was over.