Night Music (23 page)

He was not sure how long he had been asleep, possibly hours, possibly minutes. When he opened his eyes, his exposed skin protesting at the cold of the flagstone floor, there was a quilt half over him, scattered items of clothing beneath his head, and the deep black of the small hours cloaking the windows. He tried to work out where he was, what he was doing there, and then he saw her, her clothing intact, as if nothing had happened, seated on a chair, watching him, her silhouette black against the dim light.

He raised himself, smelling the faint scent of her on his skin, and the answering echo of his immediate arousal. His mind was flooded with images, the sensation of her on him, around him, her cries in his ears. And he lifted a hand. ‘Come here,’ he murmured, ‘where I can see your face.’

‘It’s nearly two,’ she said. ‘You need to go home.’

Home. Oh, Christ, this would take some explaining.

Matt stood up, letting the quilt slide to the floor. He refastened his jeans and belt. The air was cold, but he hardly felt it. Something astonishing was moving through him, as if his own blood had been washed, renewed. He walked up to her, still unable to see her face clearly. But he touched the hair that he had grasped earlier.

Everything had changed. And he was strangely glad, accepting this.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He wanted to tell her what it meant. How it had altered him. And then he realised, as he drew his thumb across her cheekbone, that it was wet with tears – and he knew suddenly that he could remedy this. ‘Don’t be sad,’ he said softly. ‘It’ll be all right, you know.’ She did not reply.

‘Look,’ he said, wanting her to smile, wanting to lift her unhappiness, ‘about the money. Forget the next instalment. We’ll work something out.’ For an insane moment, he thought he might confess to her how things might change. But even he was not disoriented enough for that. ‘Isabel?’

He felt, rather than heard, the new quality of the silence. She had stiffened, drawn back from his touch.

‘I have never done this before,’ she said, and her voice was cold.

‘Done what?’ he said, trying to see her face.

‘I’ll pay you everything I owe you.’

He was dumbfounded, as the true nature of their exchange struck him. ‘Look – I didn’t come here tonight because . . . I . . . Christ.’ He was half laughing, unable to believe what he had heard. ‘I wasn’t suggesting—’ He had been wrong-footed. ‘I’ve never . . . paid for it in my life.’

‘And I’ve never offered it.’ Her tone was icy now. ‘I’d like you to go.’

Matt found himself outside in the chill, walking towards his van, head spinning. He had to make her understand. He couldn’t believe she had thought that that was about money. But even as his feet crunched back across the gravel he heard the heavy, unanswerable sound of a door being bolted.

On the other side, Isabel sank to the floor with a silent howl of despair and self-loathing. She let her head drop to her knees, her bruised lips fall against the soft fabric of her skirt, hiding her face from her own betrayal.

Her whole body ached with loneliness, the loss of her husband, the rough communion with a man who wasn’t him. She was sober and she was empty. Emptier than she had ever been.

Laurent!
she cried.
What have you brought me to? What have I become?
The house met her with a silence that was deafening.

Fourteen

There was a train every two hours that shuttled between her new home and London, and Isabel had calculated that even if this one arrived on time, she’d be lucky to get back before the school bus. She sat, resigned, as the man opposite worked his way methodically through his newspaper and the two backpackers to her right chatted in some language that sounded harsh and northern European, letting the dull monotony of the wheels on the track lull her mind into nothingness.

She thought of Mary, who had met her for coffee, and who had commiserated about the tyranny of the school run. ‘Just be glad you’re not doing it in London,’ she had said cheerfully. ‘I spend half my life in the car.’

It had been good to see her, a reminder that Isabel had once been part of another life. Mary asked eagerly after Kitty and Thierry, told Isabel she looked a lot better (a diplomatic fib, Isabel guessed) and promised to visit soon. But it was clear that she belonged elsewhere now, that she was already at the hub of another family. She had brought one of her new charges with her, a doe-eyed baby whom she dandled on her knee with the calm confidence she had shown in dealing with Isabel’s children.

‘Not been shopping, then?’

Isabel glanced down the carriage and saw a woman she recognised. She took in the neat pastel mackintosh, the inappropriate hat, and the woman smiled.

‘Linnet. Deirdre Linnet. You know me from the Cousins’ shop. You live at the Spanish House.’ She told Isabel this as if she were offering information. She gestured at Isabel’s legs. ‘I thought you might have gone to London for a bit of shopping but you’ve no bags.’

‘Bags,’ said Isabel.

‘Of shopping.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not today.’

‘I’ve gone a bit mad. I only go up twice a year and I like to have a splurge. My little treat.’ She patted the plastic carriers that flanked her seat, each bearing some brand name that announced to the world the avenues Mrs Linnet’s savings had taken. ‘My little treat,’ she repeated to herself.

‘I’m in a mess,’ Isabel had told Mary. ‘I’ve got it all wrong. The children are desperately unhappy and it’s all my fault.’ Mary had listened to almost the whole story (there was one part Isabel had deliberately omitted) and then laughed easily, as if none of this were particularly worrisome. ‘She’s a teenage girl,’ she had said. ‘It’s her job to be unhappy. You’ve actually got off lightly so far. Thierry . . . Well, he’ll find his voice in time. But they’re doing okay at school. They’re coming home every day. They’re eating. Strikes me they’re doing fine, considering. It’s you who’s the unhappy one.’

‘Work, was it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Work. Your trip to London.’

Isabel smiled wanly. Her eyes felt gritty with tiredness. She had spent most of the previous night awake, and the missing hours of sleep were gaining on her. ‘Something like that.’

‘You’re a musician, aren’t you? Asad told me. He’s not one to gossip, him or Henry, not really, but you’ve probably worked out there’s not a lot happens in our village that doesn’t go through the shop.’

Isabel wondered dully how long it would be before last night became conversational currency.

‘I saw your advert for violin lessons. I used to sing, you know. I could have done it professionally, my husband always said. But I got caught up with the children . . .’ She sighed. ‘You know how it is.’

Isabel turned to the window. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘You need to work,’ Mary had said. She had paid for the coffee, which Isabel had found almost unbearably humiliating. ‘You need to do a bit with your orchestra again, bring a few pounds in, restore your peace of mind. You can leave them for a day. Kitty’s old enough now to look after her brother.’ She had hugged Isabel, then walked off, pushing the pram, back to ease the path of some other family.

They had passed the last stop before Long Barton. She watched Mrs Linnet gather up her bags, clutching them to her, poised to disembark the train some time before that might be necessary. She noted the now familiar landmarks of church and houses, the glimpse of the high street through trees, the verges and hedgerows green with new growth and wondered what it took for any place to feel like home.

It was only when the train drew into Long Barton station that Isabel stood up and did what she had sworn she wouldn’t. She reached out and found her hand closing on the handle of a violin case that was no longer there.

When she returned they were in front of the television, Kitty with her stockinged feet up on a table in front of the sofa, eating a packet of crisps, Thierry lying across an old easy chair, his school tie rolled into a ball on the floor.

‘You weren’t here when we got in,’ said Kitty, accusingly. ‘Even Matt wasn’t. We had to use the key under the back-door mat.’

Isabel dropped her shoulder bag on a side table. ‘Thierry, did you eat your lunch today?’

Her son nodded, his eyes not leaving the television.

‘All of the sandwich?’

His eyes flicked towards her and he nodded again. The room was unusually peaceful and she realised it was because the builders were absent. Even when they were not banging or crashing about, their presence added a vibration to the air. Or was that just Matt McCarthy? Isabel rubbed at her eyes. ‘I’m going to make a cup of tea,’ she said.

‘Where have you been?’

Kitty’s natural curiosity must have swamped her desire not to talk to her mother. She saw her daughter register her tiredness, and felt herself flush, as if the reason for her exhaustion might be apparent.

‘London,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain in a minute.’

When she came back with her tea, the television was off and they were sitting upright. They sprang apart, as if there had been some muttered conversation to which she had not been privy. Except it would have been one-sided, she thought. Because her son did not speak.

Isabel met their eyes, and told them. ‘We can go back to London,’ she said.

Afterwards she was not sure what she had expected, perhaps not tumultuous applause but some excitement, maybe smiles, a little bounce of joy. But they sat and stared at her.

‘What does that mean?’ said Kitty, a little aggressive still.

‘What I said,’ said Isabel. ‘We can go back to London. We’ll pay to have this place smartened up, get it to a point where it’s saleable, and then, hopefully, we’ll have enough to find ourselves somewhere near our old house. And your friends,’ she added.

Still they stared at her.

‘It probably won’t be as big as our old house, but I’m sure we’ll find something we like.’

‘But . . . how can we afford it?’ Kitty was frowning, one finger looped unconsciously round a lock of hair.

‘That needn’t concern you,’ Isabel said. ‘I just thought you’d like to know.’

Kitty was staring at her suspiciously. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘You told me we had no money. You said the building work was costing everything we had. What happened?’

‘I’ve . . . reorganised our finances. That was why I was in London.’

‘You don’t know anything about finances. I know our finances and we don’t have any.’

Suddenly it hit her. Her eyes cast around the room, to the table, the bureau. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said quietly.

Isabel had rehearsed a calm, serene smile. A smile that told her children nothing of what it had cost her, of the anguish she had experienced when she had handed her instrument to the dealer. It had felt as if she was parting with one of her children.

‘You didn’t sell it.’

Isabel nodded.

Kitty broke into hysterical sobs. ‘Oh, no!’ she cried. ‘Oh, no! I made you do it.’

Isabel’s smile vanished.

‘I didn’t mean you actually to sell it. I know what it meant to you. And now you’re going to be really miserable and hate me for ever. Oh, Mum, I’m really sorry.’

Isabel sat down heavily and pulled Kitty to her. ‘No,’ she said, stroking her hair. ‘You were right. That instrument was an extravagance we couldn’t afford. And, besides, Mr Frobisher has found me a replacement – much cheaper but with a very nice sound. He’s fixing it up and he’s going to send it next week.’

‘You’ll hate it.’ Kitty’s voice was muffled.

‘No, I won’t,’ said Isabel, although she knew that her daughter was right. ‘Kitty, I made a big mistake, and I’m going to put it right,’ she said. ‘Music is going to take a back seat. The sooner we can raise the cash to get this house into shape, the sooner we can go home.’

It was then that she noticed Thierry’s expression. He didn’t look delighted at all. ‘You still want to go back, don’t you, Thierry? Back to London?’

There was a short silence. Then, slowly, her son shook his head. Isabel stared at him, then at Kitty. ‘Thierry?’ she said again.

His voice, when it came, was small but definite. ‘No,’ he said.

Isabel looked at Kitty, who seemed incapable now of meeting her eye.

‘Actually,’ said Kitty, ‘I . . . don’t mind it here.’ She glanced behind her at her brother. ‘. . . I mean, I don’t mind staying for a bit . . . if that’s what Thierry wants.’

Isabel wondered if she would ever truly understand her two awkward, mercurial children. She took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll pay Mr McCarthy what we owe him, and see how we go. But at least we have some options. And now,’ she said, ‘I’m going to sort out some of this paperwork.’

The sun was setting through the drawing-room window, and the children turned on the television. Isabel sat at the table and began to open the letters she had ignored and to write lists of things to be done. She felt almost physically bereft at the loss of the object she had cherished for so long, daunted by the months ahead of her but, curiously, better than she had in months.

He said no, she told herself, eyeing her son as she opened another envelope. That had to be better than nothing.

‘She looked terrible,’ Mrs Linnet said, with relish. ‘Pale as a ghost, with big, dark shadows under her eyes. She hardly said a word to me the last two stops.’

Asad and Henry exchanged a glance. It was possible that Mrs Linnet’s conversation might not exert the same pull on everyone she met.

‘That house will give her a nervous breakdown. You know one of the ceilings fell in not two weeks ago? Anything could have happened. Her children might have been underneath.’

‘But they weren’t,’ said Henry. ‘So all is well.’

‘I don’t know what Matt McCarthy’s thinking of. A man of his experience . . . You’d think the first thing he’d do is make sure it was safe. Especially with the children.’

‘You would think,’ said Asad, who was counting notes in the till.

‘I’m sure it was a one-off,’ Henry put in.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the ghost of Samuel Pottisworth come to haunt them.’ Mrs Linnet gave a theatrical shiver.

‘Oh, Mrs L, you don’t believe in ghosts,’ Henry chided her.