Relative Love (16 page)

At the sight of the quince blossom edging the main lawn, her spirits lifted. Its colour, a brilliant pinky crimson that lit up the otherwise drab February landscape like an exploding firework, never failed to amaze her. She would make jelly as usual with the hard green fruit when it came, not too much and only in her smallest jars, because it was an acquired taste and not popular with the children. Alicia loved it, though, Pamela reminded herself, and made a mental note to look out a jar from last year, bubble-wrap and post it to Wiltshire. During their most recent conversation her sister-in-law had sounded poorly still, talking about wanting to get home but without much conviction, as if something more than her hip had been fractured in her fall.

John, Pamela knew, was worried, not so much because they were close (his sister had always been too preoccupied with her own woes to prompt any easy flow of affection between them) but because the frailty of both his elder siblings made his own mortality seem more real. He never said as much – he didn’t have to: Pamela could hear it in his voice, the way he gruffly dismissed his anxieties, how he strode more purposefully on his excursions round the estate, rubbing furiously at his back when he thought he was out of sight, as if sheer determination would allow him to keep hold of the energy stuttering so visibly now in his brother and sister. She would put together a hamper, Pamela decided, not just of quince jelly but of all sorts of other treats too: chutney, marmalade, honey, fruit, sugared almonds and maybe even a little bottle of cherry brandy. She would have it delivered on the day Alicia was discharged from hospital as a welcome-home present and to help ease her back into the real world. Pleased with the thought, she returned her attention to the quince blossom: she clipped off several sprigs and slid them carefully into the large pockets of her coat.

She had reached the rhododendrons when the phone rang. There were scores of them, thick, towering bushes that took up half of the sky if you were standing beneath them. Every branch was already laden with tight green buds and had been for some time. Pamela reached out and stroked one, enjoying the thought of all the violent colour inside, enjoying above all the
indulgence
of so many months of preparation for a display that lasted only a few weeks. The sound of the telephone, connected to a special Tannoy system, echoed round the garden. One, two, three, four, five. She counted with mounting impatience, willing John to get from wherever he was to take the call. He knew she was in the garden and he knew the children were in the village. Half-way through the sixth ring it stopped, which meant he had got there. Pamela stood stock still in the silence that followed, all her senses alert to the possibility of being summoned, the vibrations of the phone still ringing in her ears.

‘Well, I’m going and you lot can bugger off.’

‘Thanks. That means we’ve got to carry the shopping.’

‘Diddums.’

‘Oh, let’s all go, for God’s sake. There’s nothing else to do, anyway, is there?’

‘There’s the attic,’ said Roland, in a small voice. So far he had kept out of the argument, certain that Maisie’s plan of trying to catch a glimpse of the pop star Neil Rosco was unwise but fearful of saying so. Maisie was a scary proposition, tossing her long shiny hair and flashing her eyes, full of fire and certainty and defiance; a far cry from the girl who, he could remember dimly, had liked to dress him in funny clothes and push him round the garden in a wheelbarrow. It was
disappointing that Ed, magnificently unafraid of her, appeared to be caving in too. Clem, clutching the small bag of shopping, was looking equally uncertain. ‘Granny won’t like us being late.’

‘Well, we’d better get a move on, then, hadn’t we? I saw his car in the drive on the way back from the station, so I know he’s there. All we’re going to do is look through the gates. What harm is there in that?’ Maisie turned on her heel and began to march through the village, so sure of her victory that she didn’t even look over her shoulder to check that the other three were following. One glimpse through the gates was all she wanted, partly for the sheer knee-weakening thrill of getting near to a real celebrity, and partly to bring reality a little more in line with the version of it she had been peddling at school. Not that she had lied outright, but Monica sort of presumed that when she was at her grandparents’ she bumped into Rosco all the time and so far she hadn’t had the heart to disillusion her. Monica wanted it to be true as much as Maisie did. It was like sharing a dream, but a special magical dream that had a toehold in reality.

Clem walked between her cousin and her brother, watching the swing of defiance in her sister’s hips and hating it. Before they had left for the walk Maisie had changed into her new denim skirt, ankle boots and black jacket, which meant she had planned the whole thing. Just like when she’d got all tarted up to go to church at Christmas. It was pathetic. Clem slowed her pace, torn between making a stand and the unattractive prospect of fuelling her sister’s hostility. Their easy alliance against Ed during the journey down from London that morning was over. Maisie cared about no one but herself, Clem decided bitterly, and she was fed up with it.

‘What’s all this about the attic, then?’

Ed shrugged, while Roland tugged a leaf off the hedge running along the pavement next to them and scrunched it to pieces in his hand. Up ahead the heavy iron gates protecting the drive to the great Rosco’s country retreat were in sight. ‘I went up there with Granny. There’s lot of stuff in it – and it’d be good for playing with guns.’ He cast a sideways glance at Ed, who ignored him.

‘Well, I think it sounds a much better idea than this silly walk.’ Clem stopped, compelling Ed and Roland to do the same. ‘Don’t you?’

‘I guess.’ Ed kicked a stone, too caught up in his own wretchedness to care what they did. He had been in the Ashley House attic before and didn’t think much of it.

‘Maisie?’ She had to call twice to get her sister’s attention. ‘We’re going back. This is pointless. It’s obvious no one’s there and Granny will be worried.’

‘Okay, Miss Goody Goody. I’ll see you later.’

‘Maisie?’ But she was already walking on, her nose in the air and her shoulders back. ‘See you later, then,’ Clem called, trying to sound strong because of the two younger ones but also hoping that her twin would turn to offer some sign of conciliation. ‘I’ll tell Granny you’ll be back soon, that you’re just —’

‘Oh, bollocks to her,’ muttered Ed, nudging a new stone with the toe of his trainer and setting himself the private challenge of kicking it all the way back to Ashley House.

‘Okay, Roland?’ Clem patted his shoulder. ‘You can go on with Maisie or come back with us. Whatever you like.’

‘With you,’ Roland muttered, aware that what had started as a lovely day was somehow in shreds and that he was powerless to set it right.

That Saturday afternoon Cassie was in a gloomy maisonette in Fulham looking at carpet samples.

‘I know you suggested green, but I was wondering about gold. There’s gold in the curtains, isn’t there?’ The client, a woman in her fifties with crisp bleached hair, knelt down beside the swatches Cassie had laid out on the floor and began rearranging them like a pack of cards.

‘Gold would work too,’ said Cassie smoothly, ‘but it’s much less forgiving. I mean, when it comes to wear and tear, a tiny stain will show up terribly, whereas with the green – especially this lovely bottle green one here – you’d get away with far more. And I think, on balance, it goes just a little bit better with the curtains you’ve chosen. The overall effect will be stunning – sort of sumptuous but practical too …’ She tailed off, hoping she had said enough. The gold sample, which her client had produced, was perfectly horrible. And although she had every right to make the wrong choice – it was after all her money – Cassie had learnt through bitter experience that if the client was allowed to go ahead it was very often the designer who was left with the blame. A bully of a man in Ealing had once refused to pay the final instalment of her fee on the grounds that the paint on the walls – chosen with huge obstinacy by his wife – looked hideous.

‘Oh, God, I don’t know, I really don’t.’ The woman, who was the worrying type, as capable of agonising over the colour of toilet roll as twenty feet of curtain fabric, wrung her hands. ‘It’s so jolly hard, isn’t it? Whatever one does, it’s bound to be wrong.’

‘Not at all. With colours there simply isn’t a right and a wrong. It’s entirely up to individual taste. And, of course, I’m here to help you.’ Cassie sneaked a glance at her watch. It was already half past two, well after the time she had hoped to leave.

‘And you are
such
a help.’ She picked up the square of muddy gold and put it down again. ‘Another coffee I think, don’t you?’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ Cassie replied briskly, her mind scrambling for a polite way to bring the meeting to a close. ‘Perhaps it would help if I left you to think about it for a bit longer, Mrs Shorrold. There’s no hurry, is there?’

‘Oh, but there is. I’ve got hordes of visitors coming in a couple of months and I
so
want the house to be right by then.’ She got to her feet and straightened her skirt. ‘I simply must have another coffee. Are you quite sure you won’t join me?’

Cassie declined again, thinking how insufferable people were and how selfish. She had agreed to come on a Saturday as a favour, wanting to make up for cancelling a previous appointment in favour of a last-minute rendezvous with Dan. That this pampered middle-aged woman thought she had nothing better to do than twiddle her thumbs on a weekend afternoon was deeply insulting. She would add five per cent to her usual commission, she decided, wreak revenge in the only way she could. ‘Let’s have another proper look, shall we?’ She picked up all the samples and spread them out on the table, placing the gold and green bits of carpet on either side of the swatch for the curtains.

‘Do you know?’ said the woman, her voice tremulous with inspiration, her hands clasped round her fresh mug of coffee. ‘I think it’s the curtains that might be wrong. Maybe the gold carpet should be my starting point. What do you think?’

Cassie, whose view was too insulting to express, was searching for a suitable reply when the muffled trill of her mobile sounded from inside her handbag. ‘Excuse me.’ She made a show of rolling her eyes in exasperation, although inside she felt jubilant. It would be Dan, telling her that Sally had decided to go to her mother’s and he was free to see her after all. ‘Hello? Cassie Harrison speaking.’ She did her best to sound businesslike, hoping he’d understand it was because she was working.

‘Cassie, it’s me, Elizabeth.’

‘Elizabeth?’ Cassie was so surprised that she forgot about putting on a show for Mrs Shorrold. ‘I can’t really talk right now, Elizabeth, I’m … in a meeting.’ She cast an apologetic look at her client, who had begun to make sharp tapping noises on her saccharine dispenser with the pearly tips of her nails.

‘Cassie, something terrible has happened.’

‘What sort of terrible?’ Cassie, aware now of Mrs Shorrold stirring vigorously – meaningfully – at her coffee, was still only half concentrating. Part of her was still thinking of Dan, wondering if he was trying to make contact at that very moment and getting annoyed that her mobile was busy.

‘Tina. Charlie and Serena’s Tina. She’s – she’s been killed.’

‘Killed?’ The stirring teaspoon stopped abruptly. ‘What do you mean, killed?’

There was a long silence.

It was Elizabeth’s third such phone-call and she was running out of the steam, courage, or whatever it was, that had empowered her thus far. Her father, to whom she had spoken first, had responded so inadequately, with such a hotchpotch of platitudes and gruff monosyllables that she almost cried out in frustration. This won’t do, she wanted to say, what has happened is too huge. It requires a bigger response. Since the first numbing shock of the accident had worn off Elizabeth’s own emotions had been spilling out of her unchecked; the images of Tina, innocent and impish in her green dungarees, then so pale and still on the hospital bed, were too vivid, as was the sight of Serena, her eyes wild and swollen, on her knees before the doctor, beyond dignity or reason, begging for some intervention that would bring her child back to life. Pamela was in the garden, her father had said. He would tell her and call back. The conversation had ended with a laboured exchange about where to call and what her mobile number was, when Elizabeth knew it was written perfectly clearly in the leather address book next to the telephone. Hearing the slow scratch of his pen on the pad, it had dawned on her that her father was as devastated as she was, clutching at the act of writing the numbers only as a refuge from shock. Between bouts of crying she had been doing similar things all afternoon. Would Serena like one spoon of sugar in her tea or two? Were they allowed to use mobiles in the hospital? When was the rugby due to end and what had Charlie been planning to do afterwards? Offering to phone the family had been part of the same pattern: something to do, something necessary and useful within the vacuum of helplessness in which she found herself.

After speaking to John Elizabeth had called Colin. When she heard her husband’s familiar voice she had broken into sobs, feeling a sudden rush of belief in what had recently seemed precarious. The petty quarrels, his obsession with the problems at school, anxieties over his strictness with Roland paled into insignificance. They had so much that was good and should be grateful for it. Life was precious and fragile and to be treasured. The creak of emotion in Colin’s responses, his concern and simple offers of support, made Elizabeth wonder how she could have lost touch with such things. He was the old Colin, the one whose strong shoulder she needed to lean on, her anchor. He would come to London that instant, he said, or drive to Ashley House, or wherever she thought he could be of most use. Elizabeth, as yet unsure of where and how Serena and Charlie would end the day, suggested he drive to Sussex. ‘And hug Roland for me,’ she added hoarsely, seeing again the image of her little niece lying in the road and experiencing a sudden aching need to press her son to her chest.