Relative Love (73 page)

It was cold inside the garage. The Range Rover was a black bulk in the darkness, a sleeping metal beast. John edged round it, fumbling along the wall for the light switch. Alone in the icy dark he felt suddenly afraid, certain of nothing but his own unhappiness. And death. One could be certain of that above all things. Everything else – the house, the car, the cold stone under his fingertips – seemed ephemeral in comparison. Illusions of security. How laughable to have worried about tax liability and backache. How laughable to fear the only thing that offered release. On finding the switch at last, he flicked on the light, screwing up his eyes against the sudden glare. The brightly decorated boxes of fireworks, stacked along the wall to his right, glimmered accusingly. This time last year he had already drawn up a map of how to arrange them, a numbered map indicating the order in which they were to be lit: Catherine wheels, shooting stars, Chinese fountains, small rockets, big rockets and a couple of giant ones for the end. Now he felt only dread at the approaching festivities. With all the family there it would be the obvious time to break his news. He would have to wait till they were all assembled, at the end of dinner, when the children had gone to bed. He would stand up, chink his glass and clear his throat. Their eyes would be expectant, hopeful of good news, even, like the last time, when he had made his announcements about the gifts of cash. You’ll have to launch into it quickly, John warned himself now, leaning against the car and running his hand over his brow, which was damp with perspiration in spite of the cold. Cut to the chase. Cut to the quick. State the bald facts: I have failed. As a father. As a man. As a husband. I thought I had everything, but I had nothing. Nothing now and nothing for the future. It was all an illusion. John groped for the handle and tried to open the car door. It was locked. Of course. Damn fool. The keys. He needed the keys. He thrust his hands blindly into his pockets and let out a lunatic cry of triumph as his fingers alighted upon the familiar metal circle of his key-ring. Soon he was easing himself into the front passenger seat and leaning across to switch on the engine. The CD player sprang into life. A compilation of classics. Elgar.
The Enigma Variations
. Yes, that would do. That would do nicely. He wound down the windows and closed his eyes.
Death will release me
. He recited the phrase in his mind, thinking of Eric and breathing as slowly and deeply as he could.

Pamela finished one row, then another, and another. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked in time with her heart, it seemed. Unbearable in the silence. As if she was the only person on the planet left alive. Waiting for something to happen was no good, she decided at last. Alone or not, one couldn’t just wait to see how life turned out. One had to take control, pick up the stitches, sort out the mess as best one could. Wearily, her hands trembling, she stowed her knitting in the beloved old sewing-bag that had been her mother’s and levered herself out of her chair. She would find John, confront whatever had to be confronted, honour him with the truth. She slipped on her overcoat and opened the front door, then stood still for a few seconds, smelling the faint scent of cut grass in the damp air. The last cut of the year, Sid had said, sipping his mug of tea on the backdoor step that morning, turning his leathery face to the grey sky. Ready for the celebrations. The Harrison fireworks. He had handed back his empty mug, cackling happily.

Oh, there would be fireworks, all right, reflected Pamela grimly, glittering ugly ones, eruptions of truth, sprinkling burning shards over their heads and hearts. She stepped uncertainly on to the front lawn, trying to imagine how it would feel to have her perfidy exposed, how alien the world would seem without the warmth of her husband’s love. Not that there had been much warmth lately, she reminded herself, trying to shake some courage into her heart and noticing the faint glimmer of the garage light. For a moment her spirits soared. He was in the garage, sorting fireworks and pumpkins. Everything was all right. Everything normal. She began to cross the lawn, only registering the hum of the car engine as she reached the gate. And music. There was music. Something searing and dramatic. Half-way across the drive she started to run, awkwardly because her skirt was knee-length and tight and her stockinged feet slid in her slippers. She opened the garage door and paused for a moment, the implications of the scene before her – the running engine, the open windows, John sitting with his eyes closed – taking time, in spite of her presentiments, to dawn fully. Then she was screaming and skidding in her slippers to the passenger door. ‘You stupid man – stupid. Nothing is worth this – nothing.’ She fumbled for the ignition and turned off the engine, then started to slap his face.

John, who had only had the engine running for a few minutes and was far from dead, opened his eyes at once. ‘I’ve lost everything,’ he said, blinking at her hand, poised to deliver another strike across his cheek. ‘Eric gave me everything and I lost it.’

‘Nonsense. Get out – get out of there.’ She tugged on his arm, ineffectually, since her own limbs were limp with shock.

‘You don’t understand, Pammy.’ He began to sob, his chin flopping on to his chest. ‘I should have told you, I’ve known for so long, but – the shame of it – I couldn’t.’

‘The shame?’ She let the arm, so heavy and unresponsive to her efforts, fall from her hands. ‘The shame is mine.’ She glanced sideways and noticed a bag propped against the wall next to the crate of pumpkins. The big sturdy paper bag with plastic handles into which, months before, she had stuffed the baby clothes from the suitcase in the attic. Miranda’s clothes. The bin men had never taken them. John must have retrieved them, perhaps to use as evidence against her. Perhaps to torture himself. Whatever the case, it verified Pamela’s worst fears. He knew it all. ‘The shame is mine,’ she repeated.

But John, swamped in his own despair, marshalling the words to articulate the reasons behind it, did not hear her. ‘I have lost almost two million pounds,’ he said dully, lifting his chin and looking at her, eyes bleary from despair and lack of sleep. ‘The claims on the hurricane … There will be no money for the children, no money to cover inheritance tax. They will have to sell … to sell Ashley House. I didn’t know how to tell you. I don’t know how I’m going to tell them. Pam, I’m so sorry.’

Pamela stared at him, numb with shock and the most despicable relief. ‘Is that all?’ she whispered, the words sliding out of her.

‘All?’ he croaked. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘Oh, John, oh, you silly, silly man.’ She leant further into the car, trying to put her arms round his slumped frame. ‘It’s only money,’ she whispered. ‘Money doesn’t matter as much as – as much as love.’

‘Oh, but it does matter,’ he groaned, burying his head in her chest, ‘money matters so very much. Without it the family is lost. Eric knew that – knew he couldn’t cope with it – which was why he entrusted everything to me, not just the house but the whole responsibility of securing the future of our family. Christ,’ he laughed bitterly, ‘he even gave you up …’

Pamela froze, her arms still round his waist, her chin resting on his collarbone. Here it comes, she thought, here it comes, after all.

‘You know how he loved you, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She had been holding her breath. Now Pamela parted her lips and let the air out, slowly and soundlessly. ‘Yes, I knew that.’

‘Throwing himself across the globe like that, it was partly to keep himself away from you.’ John groaned, tipping his head to rest on hers. ‘I have always known that. Known it and been grateful for it. Just as I was grateful you resisted his manifold charms and stuck with me.’

Pamela clung to him, her face still half buried in his collarbone. Was this a declaration of knowledge or ignorance? To be so unsure, at such a moment, in the midst of such calamity, was intolerable – like hanging on to the edge of a precipice with one ripping fingernail. ‘You know how fond I was of him,’ she muttered into his shirt, easing out the sentence like a probe on a string, not knowing if it would prove a lifeline or a noose for her own neck.

‘Oh, yes.’ John made a noise in his throat, something between a chuckle and a sob. ‘And I’ll admit it made me jealous sometimes, still makes me jealous … You were so good with him and I was so bad. When he died,’ he blurted, the other secret, festering part of his unhappiness spilling out of him, ‘the night of that damned hurricane, I lied to you about what the nurses said. I knew Eric was going to die but I lied. I wanted to be there by myself, to have his death to myself. How shameful is that?’ He felt her tremble and, not knowing it was from relief, buried his face in her hair. ‘I’m so sorry, darling, for everything … Please forgive me.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ Pamela whispered. ‘He was your brother, your own blood. Of course you wanted to be with him at the end. I understand why you lied. Some lies are necessary.’

‘Oh, Pammy, how can you be so kind, so understanding? The money … There’s enough for us to live on, but the children … I’ve failed them. When we’re gone they will be left with so little.’

‘They’ll sort it out.’ Pamela spoke almost briskly, raising her head, daring to look at him at last. ‘The house – what to do after we’re gone – they’ll sort it out in their own way. We can only do our best, John. We can’t control what happens next. Like the hurricane – it just happened, didn’t it? Robbing us in one way, but not harming Charlie who was there in the thick of it. And I know what I would rather, given that choice again – if it was a choice …’ Pamela left the sentence hanging, overcome in equal measure by a sense of life’s impenetrable mysteries and an ache in her shoulders from leaning for so long at such an awkward angle. ‘Let’s go inside,’ she urged gently. ‘I’m so cold and so stiff, and we can talk everything over so much better with a cup of tea.’ She helped him ease himself out of the car and they walked back to the house together, arms linked, their bodies leaning inwards, as if each would fall without the other’s support.

The next morning, while her parents, worn out by the previous night’s dramas, slept late, backs turned but touching, Cassie opened her newly hung bedroom curtains to see Stephen Smith standing on the pavement next to her car. Her first instinct was to leap backwards, jerking the curtains shut. But then, when several minutes passed with no ring on the doorbell, curiosity got the better of her and she ventured back to the window. She parted the curtains gingerly and peered down into the street. He was leaning on her car, arms folded, as if he owned the damn thing. The cheek of it was too much.

‘Hey!’ She yanked open the window, struggling because her recent exuberance with gloss paint had glued the frame to its fitting. ‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Hi.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine, thank you very much,’ she retorted, astonished and faintly disturbed – given the past traumas of their acquaintance – at how casual he seemed, how
relaxed
. He looked different too, sporting a new, much shorter haircut, crisp grey jeans, fancy-looking trainers and a black jumper – all in all, such a far cry from the scruffy, anguished creature who had pressed himself upon her in the summer and fled in disgust at Peter’s seedy proposition that Cassie found herself somewhat lost for words.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not stalking you or anything,’ he declared, grinning at an old lady with a scuttling dachshund, who shot him a nervous glance before tottering after her pet. ‘I really was just passing. Thought I’d stop and see how you were.’

‘By hanging round the street?’

‘Sorry. It must look odd, I know. Only I thought presenting myself at your door might make you more nervous than you clearly are already …’

‘I am
not
nervous.’

‘… which, given how I once behaved, would be perfectly understandable, so I thought I’d just wait out here for a bit and see if you emerged, have a quick chat and then go.’

‘We have nothing to
chat
about,’ she retorted, recalling that in the end, in terms of his behaviour, he hadn’t done too badly at all.

‘Your car needs a wash, by the way, we could talk about that.’

‘Well, don’t lean on it, then.’

‘I’ve just come from my publishers. I’ve got a couple of proofs of the book. I’m rather pleased with it.’

‘Good. I’m pleased you’re pleased and now …’ She reached up to pull the window down.

‘So you are okay, are you?’ Stephen called up. ‘I really did just want to know that. Honestly. You and your doctor, I hope it’s working out. You certainly
look
well.’ He squinted up at the window, relieved to see that it still framed her rather pink face surrounded by the morning dishevelment of unbrushed hair.

Cassie peered back out. ‘My doctor?’

‘Daniel Lambert. You told me all about him, remember?’

‘So I did,’ she murmured, somewhat put out both at his mentioning Daniel and at his assumption that they were back together.

‘Look, I’m sorry, it’s none of my business, I know.’ Stephen pushed himself off the car. ‘I’m glad you’re okay. It was just a whim, honest. Don’t hold it against me.’ He shot her a parting grin and began to walk away, then shouted as an afterthought, ‘Tell your parents I’ll send them a copy of the hardback. It’s due out in March – I might even sign it.’

‘Hang on …’ The sight of him strolling away, looking so unperturbed, so
harmless
, made Cassie fear suddenly that she had been unnecessarily rude. It made her think, too, of how he had stridden away from her and Peter out of the café, so painfully crumpled and offended. ‘Hang on.’ She raised her voice to repeat the plea but he didn’t turn. She watched until he had disappeared round the corner, then pulled on some jeans and a jumper and raced down the stairs. She arrived in the neighbouring street a couple of minutes later to find him astride a large blue motorbike strapping a helmet under his chin.

‘Hello again. To what do I owe this honour?’

‘I’m sorry – I thought maybe I had seemed rude. I don’t like rudeness in any form.’ She made a face. ‘Can we shake hands or something?’