Relative Love (71 page)

Having settled herself on the train for the journey home Elizabeth called Ashley House to check that Roland was all right, then retrieved the little screwed-up photograph of her and Lucien from the bottom of her handbag. She spread out the creases with the tips of her fingers, and studied the numbers written on the back. The temptation to call remained strong, but she distrusted it. It was
too easy, too pat, to remember the good things and filter out the bad. Nothing could have altered what had happened. They had married for love and then, through their own weaknesses and insecurities, lost touch with it. To imagine one could do anything to rewrite such a script was both foolhardy and delusional. Elizabeth screwed the photo into a little ball, dropped it into the bin behind her seat and put it from her mind. She was what her history had made her. She understood that now, accepted it. Much as her mistakes had damaged her, they had also made her stronger, and she needed no cavorting with the past to prove it.

John was sitting on a log in the orchard, when he heard the crunch of the wheels in the drive. A few minutes later the mingled greetings of Roland’s piping treble and the mellower voices of his wife and daughter drifted towards him through the trees, compounding the ache in his heart. They sounded happy. The encounter with Colin must have gone well. Or maybe it was the simple pleasure of family reunion that lent the birdsong merriment to their voices. John slapped the heavy tree-trunk on which he was sitting. It had fallen during the night of the storm, much as his fortunes had fallen during the same few hours. He pressed both palms against the gnarled ridges of bark on either side of him, while the palpitations – never far away, these days – galloped back and forth across his chest. The picture wasn’t complete yet, but claims were already winging their way across the Atlantic and John feared the worst. So much so that he could not bring himself to share his fears, not with his old colleagues, not with his children, and certainly not with Pamela, whose own spirits seemed recently to have gathered fresh momentum. He could hear her calling for him now, her voice reedy with enthusiastic affection. John dropped his head into his hands, not moving.

‘Mr Harrison?’

‘Ah, Sid.’ The gardener was standing right next to him, his weathered face fixed as always in an expression of polite amiability.

‘I’ve made a start on the bonfire – thought I better as there’s only a week to go.’

‘A week – heaven! So there is.’ John managed a twitchy smile.

‘Put it in the lower field as usual. Coming along nicely, though I say it myself. All that stuff from the storm helped no end.’

‘Excellent, Sid, excellent.’

‘Would you like to see it, Mr Harrison?’

‘Not now, Sid, maybe tomorrow.’

His employee paused, pushing the peak of his tweed cap up his forehead, then promptly tugging it down again. ‘That tree …’ He pointed at the trunk John was sitting on. ‘I was thinking it was about time I chopped it for firewood – fill the shed for the winter.’

John looked down at the wood under his thighs, experiencing a rush of irrational reluctance at the thought of Sid’s axe splintering it. ‘I don’t … Not just yet, Sid … I … Not yet.’

‘Right you are, Mr Harrison. You let me know when you want it done.’ The old gardener’s expression did not change, though a trace of gentleness had crept into his gravelly voice. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, then.’ He set off at his usual lumbering pace for the house, then turned after a few yards to add, ‘I thought I’d make it a real big ’un this year – the grandchildren love it so, don’t they?’

John nodded because he couldn’t speak. The thought of his grandchildren – of his children – was almost too poignant to bear. They were the future and he had failed them. When he thought of all Peter and Charlie’s jointly held reservations about his staying in Lloyds, how they had
counselled him over the years to pull out and invest more in the stock market, he felt physically sick. On the basis of current forecasts from his syndicates, the final settlements would leave him with no liquid assets at all. Which meant … which meant … John closed his eyes, trying to imagine breaking the news that after his death Ashley House would have to be sold; to produce enough funds to cover inheritance tax and to ensure that all four of his children received something.

When he opened his eyes again the sun had edged behind a chimney-stack, casting the orchard in shadow. John shivered, feeling the presence of winter in the air. Normally it was a time of year he savoured: the shortening days and colder weather induced cosy images of roaring log fires and the tiptoeing approach of Christmas. Now, looking ahead, he could see nothing but the darkness and shame of his own failure. Stiffly, groaning, he levered himself up from the log and made his way round the perimeter fences, noting bleakly all the odd jobs that needed his attention. He didn’t have the heart for them, these days. It seemed pointless, given that the estate was as good as lost anyway.

When he turned at last for the house, John glimpsed Sid’s towering pagoda of branches and wood in the lower field. He stood staring for several minutes, admiring its size and masterly solidity, but feeling no joy at the prospect of his family gathering for the ritual of setting light to it. At the kitchen table a little later, the tenderness with which Pamela set down his cup of tea only made him want to weep. She was gushing with news of Colin’s new acquiescence, her eyes pleading with him to share some of their daughter’s gladness and relief. John nodded to it all, sipping his tea, aware of the shortfall in his responses but powerless to amend them. He was on the point of sloping off to his study when Roland plunged in through the back door, dragging a huge straw-stuffed guy behind him.

‘Look, Granddad. Look what Granny and I made today.’ He propped the guy against the table, proudly patting the lopsided head and causing a small explosion of straw and sawdust on to the kitchen floor. ‘We used some of your old clothes and a pillowcase for the head. I did the face myself,’ he added proudly, standing back to admire the felt-pen features, which included thunderous eyebrows and a forest of a moustache. ‘Sid’s going to put him right on top so everyone can see him burn.’

‘Marvellous,’ John murmured, forcing a smile of congratulation, while inside he felt a dreadful ghoulish affinity to the misshapen creature, trussed in his own clothes, ready to face his public execution and shame. ‘Marvellous,’ he said again, flinching under Pamela’s distressed and enquiring gaze and fumbling in his pocket for a couple of commendatory pound coins.

NOVEMBER

The music was so loud that Clem, taking a breather in the room next to the disco, could still feel the floorboards vibrating beneath her feet. She had danced a lot, first with Sally Mason and then on her own, closing her eyes to shut out any curious stares and letting her body do what it wanted with the rhythms. She had almost not come, partly out of a last-minute stubbornness at complying with Jonny’s insistence that she should, and partly at the sight of Maisie, preening herself with makeup brushes and hair-rollers hours before it was time to leave. I can’t compete, she had thought, then seized on the brainstorming notion that she didn’t have to. Maisie could stagger round in high heels if she wanted, her lips glossy and hair twirling out of her artfully criss-crossed sticks and pins, but all Clem wanted, she saw suddenly, was to feel
comfortable
, in terms of how she looked and her general state of mind. Scanning the contents of her own wardrobe, she decided that for her there would be nothing worse – nothing more potentially humiliating – than looking as if she had tried too hard with her appearance. Maisie might be able to pull it off, but Maisie actively sought the spotlight of appreciation whereas Clem, while longing to attend the party, longed in equal measure not to present herself in a manner that was too
visible
. With this intention, ignoring quizzical looks from her twin, she waited until it was almost time to leave before she had a quick shower, dabbed on a little makeup and slipped into her green combats and a black T-shirt.

And she felt fine, Clem decided now, retreating to a corner with an orange juice, wondering how she could ever have concerned herself about being too conspicuous in such a packed environment. Jonny appeared to have invited the entire school, irrespective of whose company he sought in and out of the playground. The party was being held in a small cricket pavilion, comprising three rooms and a porch overlooking the playing-field to which it was attached. The doors to the porch had been wedged open but it was so bitterly cold that few guests were venturing outside. Her thirst quenched and feeling suddenly in need of fresh air, no matter how icy, Clem put down her glass and elbowed her way out through the crowd. The porch was empty and she walked the length of it a couple of times, then sat down on the steps leading to the grass.

‘Are you avoiding me or something?’

Jonny was standing on the top step behind her. He, too, was in dark green trousers, much wider and lower on the hip than hers, and a skin-tight white T-shirt that showed off the impressive musculature of his arms and torso. His face wasn’t that attractive, though, Clem decided: his eyes were sunken and haunted-looking, and his lips too full, almost like a girl’s. She swivelled back to face the grassy darkness ahead of her and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Do you want a dance?’

Clem’s heart performed a small involuntary skip. She liked dancing – loved it, in fact. But the thought of strutting her stuff in front of Jonny, with everyone watching, passing remarks behind their hands, was too much. ‘No, thanks.’ She returned her gaze to the dark playing-field, wondering when he would give up on her and go back inside.

Jonny, who wasn’t one to give up on anything until he was ready to, skipped down the pavilion steps and came to stand in front of her. ‘Can I show you something, then?’

‘What?’ Clem narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

‘Something great. Come on.’ He marched back up the steps and round to a side door, nodding at her to follow, which she did, keeping her arms folded to indicate reluctance. The door led into a small changing room, empty apart from a few stray articles of clothing hanging on pegs, and a
stack of cardboard boxes. ‘Extra drink,’ he explained, pointing at the boxes. He reached behind them and pulled out a guitar. ‘What do you think?’ He held it out to her, his brown eyes glittering, his bony face and curiously soft mouth crumpling with delight. ‘It’s my birthday present from Mum and Dad. It cost a fortune. A beauty or what?’

‘Yeah, it looks nice.’ Clem unfolded her arms to stroke the wood, which was a rich yellowy brown and inlaid with circular patterns of pearly diamond shapes. ‘Wow. Really nice.’

‘I’m starting up a band … been working on some songs.’

‘Really?’ Clem observed that he had put the guitar down on the bench and was moving towards her. She hurriedly folded her arms again.

‘We need a singer. Can you sing?’

Clem, forgetting all her awkwardness, hooted with laughter.

‘Someone told me you could sing,’ protested Jonny, ‘that you had a good voice …’

‘Oh, yeah…right,’ Clem gasped, still laughing. ‘I suppose if you count aural tests for my piano exams …’ She was consumed once more with giggles at the notion of her, with her shy soprano, being invited to contribute to a rock band.

‘Will you at least give it a go?’ Jonny persisted, now too busy planning how to engineer the mechanics of a first kiss to share her amusement. He had liked Maisie but she was so
obvious
, but this twin of hers, with her huge wary eyes and angular body, was much more interesting, not just as a challenge, but as someone he wanted to get to know, with kissing, certainly, but other things too. She was supposed to be ill, he knew, wanting to starve herself, but that only made her more intriguing. And she had a bloody good voice, he had heard it himself that very night, dancing near her when she was swaying to the music all on her own, singing along with the tune, her face all closed and trembling. It trembled now as he touched her, holding each hollow cheek steady between his palms as he lowered his lips on to hers. It seemed to take for ever to get there. She flinched but only momentarily, not withdrawing even after he had relaxed his grip on her face. Then she opened her mouth, shyly and not very wide; but enough for him to taste the sweet softness inside and know that he wanted more.

It felt funny to be back in Guildford, holding his father’s hand for the walk to the shops; like coming home, but not coming home because he was there without his mother and because Roland had never once walked to the shops with just his father. He had forgotten how big his father’s hand was, smooth and warm inside, like a glove. But the steps he took were big too and Roland had to trot to keep up, which made the zip of his anorak jab annoyingly against his chin. It was getting too tight and had blue zigzags across the back, which he hated. When his mother had zipped him into it that morning for the journey, saying it was cold and he was to be a good boy and keep his coat done up whenever he was outside, he had asked if he could have a new one – preferably a huge black one with a big white tick across the back, like Ryan from his class at school. She had rolled her eyes, not saying yes but not saying no either. Which meant there was hope, Roland decided now, tugging at his father’s arm with the aim of slowing him down.

Colin glanced at his son. ‘All right?’ When Roland nodded he strode on as if they had a train to catch, instead of six chicken nuggets and a small portion of fries. Today’s treat was McDonald’s and then a video. His dad had chosen it before he arrived –
Free Willy
2 – and parked it on top of the TV ready for watching after tea. The next day, if the weather was fine, they were going to Chessington. If not they would go to the cinema. Then it would be Monday and his mum would
come to fetch him in her new secondhand Ford Fiesta and they would drive back to his grandparents’.

With his legs aching and the McDonald’s sign still nowhere in sight, Roland found himself fixing on the end to his three-day visit with sudden longing. He was pleased to see his father, of course, but not as pleased as he suspected he
should
be. Everything felt so strange with just the two of them and although his dad kept asking how he was and what he was doing, Roland felt reluctant to profess too much contentment, for fear of implying that he hadn’t been happy before, when mostly he had. Given the choice, he would prefer his mum and dad to live together. Yet waking in his bed in the alcove in the barn, with school seeming not too bad and his mum humming as she moved around the little kitchen, and games in the Ashley House grounds with Polly to look forward to, Roland was happy too. Just as he was happy now, being with his dad. It was weird. Like belonging in two worlds but only being able to have one at a time, both okay but miles different from the one he had known before. Later, dipping nuggets into his little plastic punnet of ketchup, chatting about Hadrian and the Romans, such confusions slipped easily to the back of his mind.