Sheer Abandon (74 page)

She had been right, Jocasta thought, a full church did make a funeral more bearable. So many people, so determinedly there for Martha. She stood, holding Kate’s hand, singing “Lord of All Hopefulness,” and thought how it had to bring some comfort to the Hartleys. Lovely people, both of them. She had hugged Grace and told her what a good friend Martha had always been to her—such things could not be said too often—and watched Peter Hartley now, looking at his flock over his daughter’s coffin, and wondered how anyone could be so brave. She smiled encouragingly at Kate, who did not smile back.

The elderly organist, who had played at Martha’s christening and confirmation, was pouring his heart into Elgar’s “Nimrod” for her, tears blurring his eyes. Nick, sitting with Clio and Fergus, looked at the two political rows, the only people he properly knew here, apart from Jocasta, and wondered what Martha could have found in these self-seeking, power-obsessed people that could have lured her under their spell. What was it about politics that people found so irresistible, and worth sacrificing so much for? To observe, to be entertained by, to pronounce upon it, that was one thing: to be a part of it quite another. And if she had resisted them, then she would, very probably, have been alive today. He tried not to dwell on that; it was too awful.

Richard Ashcombe was standing up now, moving to the lectern; deeply touched to have been asked by Grace and Peter to read St. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. He only hoped he would not fail them. He felt desperately upset; the last time he had seen Martha had been at his leaving party, in fact she had made a brief speech; he could see her now, her small face laughing at him, pushing back her hair, holding out his present (a gold champagne bottle stopper, engraved with his name), telling him that the London office would be more sober, and more effective, with him removed, “although a great deal less fun,” and then giving him a kiss. How could she be gone, how was it possible? He reached the end—just.

It was with the words “the greatest of these is charity” that Ed’s heart felt as if it might explode with pain; he gripped the pew in front of him and bowed his head, fighting his tears back; Jocasta, who was sitting behind him, reached forward and placed her hand on one of his shoulders to let him know she was there and wept too. They all loved her, Grace thought, noticing this. How can she have gone and left us alone?

Paula Ballantine, who sang at every funeral in the district and had done for forty years, was giving Martha an
Ave Maria
all the richer for her voice occasionally losing its certainty. Fergus, who had an Irish love of music, found himself deeply moved. It was the waste, he thought, looking at the coffin, the waste of a bright and lovely life: albeit filled with hidden darkness, and thought then that she had taken her secrets with her and that no one need know them now. No one who was not deemed fit to know them; he thought how hard her parents would have found it, and wondered if, in fact, they would ever wish to know. It was a very difficult question.

And then, praying for enough strength to do it, Peter Hartley spoke the briefest of eulogies.

“You must forgive me,” he said, “if I am unable to finish this. But with God’s help I will. I want only to say a very few words of farewell to Martha. She was not an effusive person, and as most of you know, anything flowery irritated her. Although I think she would have liked this church today. She was a remarkable person and, allowing for some natural prejudice, strong as well as gentle, kind as well as ambitious, brave as well as tenderhearted. She was a perfectionist, as many of you will also know, and hard at times to live up to. We were always immensely proud of her, and although it was sad to lose her to the big city and her highflying career, we could see that was where she belonged. But this year she had come back to Binsmow, and was working for the community in a new way in her guise as a fledgling politician. Who knows what might have happened to her? Maybe a future second woman prime minister grew up in this parish and in the house next door. We shall never now know. But what we do know is that while she was”—his voice shook—“while she was with us, for that too-short a time, she failed no one. Not her family, not her colleagues, not her friends. And we all loved her.

“There could be no better epitaph than that. Thank you all for coming to say goodbye to her. My wife and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”

Kate was aware of something strange happening to her, which had begun as they first went into the church, a little melting of the cold around her heart. This mother of hers, this woman who had abandoned her as a baby and pursued her own interests ever since, had begun to change—just a little. That person, had she been as cold and as selfish as she had imagined, could not have earned all these flowers, all these people, all this love. It wasn’t possible. There must have been a different Martha, a kind and generous one, who meant a great deal to a great many people—who were those Asian people, for instance? And who was that gorgeous bloke, sitting and crying right in front of them? He was quite young, maybe a brother or something. She must have been not at all as Kate had thought. Better. Not all bad. And Martha’s poor mum, she looked really nice, and her dad too—that had been brave, standing up and saying all that. How could they have had a daughter who had done what she did to her? And what would they say, if she said, “Hi, I’m Kate. I’m your granddaughter, thought I’d just say hello.” The inappropriateness of this, the tension of the occasion, suddenly had a dreadful effect on Kate; she felt an overwhelming desire to giggle. She bit her lip, looked at Jocasta, and at Clio, Martha’s friends, her real mother’s friends; they were both crying and it sobered her. They were both so nice, so cool. How could they have cared so much about the monster she had created in her head?

God, if only she’d known her, if only she’d been a bit nicer that day.

Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor filled the church now from the organ loft. Clio, who had been sitting clutching Fergus’s hand, listening and watching and remembering as if in a dream, saw the whole thing almost detachedly, as if she was watching a film, a strange, disconnected series of images. The pallbearers picked up the coffin, turned very slowly; she looked at Jocasta, wiping her eyes, and at Kate, her small face frozen with confusion, and thought, for the thousandth time, how absurdly alike they were.

And then the coffin began to move slowly, so slowly down the nave, the flowers spilling over it, the sunlight streaming so determinedly in—she would always think of Martha in sunshine, Clio thought, only not here, not in this church, but on a sun-drenched white beach. And then she looked at Ed, ashen-pale, his eyes red-rimmed and still full of tears, moving off behind the coffin, and thought she had never seen such pain on so young a face, it was too soon, far too soon. And then Martha’s mother she supposed it was, leaning on a young woman’s arm, her other daughter obviously, sobbing in a dreadful silence.

She looked at Nick, at dear, sweet, good Nick, who had struggled so hard to save Martha from pain, and thought how special he was, and then at Josh, standing next to Jocasta—how strange that he had wanted to come. They had all been so surprised, and he looked really upset, white and heavy-eyed. Why, when he had hardly known Martha? God, they were alike, he and Jocasta, like twins, as she had thought when she first saw them, and then it was her turn to leave and she began to move slowly down the aisle, holding Fergus’s hand. Outside, it was all confusion; the hearse bearing the family was already gone to the cemetery, and another car behind it, clearly with more relatives; she had become separated from the others now, had become caught up somehow in the political lot. She saw Eliot Griers, and Chad Lawrence, totally subdued, and Jack Kirkland, blowing his nose repeatedly on his handkerchief; and the hideous Janet Frean. God, she had a nerve coming. Clio supposed she should admire her in a way, so much easier to have feigned illness and she did actually look ill, dreadfully ill, her eyes huge and staring in her gaunt, almost grey face, her mouth set rigid—well, good, she deserved to be ill.

This wouldn’t do, she must get back to the others, Jocasta might need her, Kate might be very distressed. There they were now, the three of them standing together, Kate between them, they could almost be a family, they all looked alike. Josh and Jocasta could have been the parents, young, young parents, and Kate the child—and then everything really did move into slow motion, and the sound around her was echoey and the sunlight dazzled her and she began to hear things, over and over again, echoing through her head…they could be twins…Kate looks just like Jocasta…why should Josh be coming, I wonder…Josh seemed really upset…And Fergus said “Clio, are you all right, you look a bit faint” and she said “Shush” quite fiercely and the thoughts and the words kept on coming at her, relentlessly, words and memories. Martha saying she couldn’t tell her who the father was, studying the old photographs of them as children, so amazingly alike, she had thought, and someone at the party saying how alike they still were…Kate looks so like Jocasta…Josh seemed really upset…I can’t tell you who the father is…And then it was there, right there, as it had been all the time, in front of their eyes, and she looked again across at Jocasta and Josh, standing there together, so alike, so fatally, extraordinarily alike, and Kate so like both of them, like both of them, like a family, just like a family: and Clio knew in that moment, in a roar of shock and with an absolute certainty, who Kate’s father was.

Chapter 39

         He was really nice, Kate thought, Jocasta’s brother. Very kind and jolly; she liked him a lot. Jocasta didn’t have time to introduce them until after the service—he’d been almost late, arriving with Nick with about five minutes to spare. Jocasta had been furious, spitting tacks at him as he slipped into the pew about three along from them.

It didn’t seem that bad to Kate—they got there, and that was all that mattered—but Jocasta kept muttering things to Clio like “typical” and “this is just so Josh.”

Since it turned out it had been Nick’s fault, and not even his, really—he’d had a puncture—this seemed pretty unfair; but Kate was beginning to learn that the Jocasta she had for a long time considered perfect did actually have some faults, and one of them was jumping to conclusions, often wrong, and overreacting accordingly.

As they walked out into the sunshine (she’d been feeling pretty odd, upset and a bit happier at the same time), he’d held out his hand to her and said, “Hi. I’m Josh, Jocasta’s little brother. You must be Kate.”

He didn’t look that old, he was a bit fatter than Jocasta and very tall, with the same blond hair and the same blue eyes; he was wearing old people’s clothes, of course, a suit and so on, but quite a nice one, dark grey. Clothes for funerals were obviously a sort of uniform; her mother had been very worried about what she should wear today and sent her down to Guildford to her grandmother, who had bought her a black shift dress and long jacket in Jigsaw, and some black pumps as well; she’d felt like some old woman, but once she got there she could see Jilly had been right, and she’d have felt a total idiot in the light blue trouser suit she’d wanted.

She’d smiled at Josh and said yes, she was Kate, and he’d said something like it was jolly nice of her to come when she’d hardly met Martha. “It’s a lovely day for it, anyway,” he said, moving into grown-up rubbish, and then asked her how her exams had gone, he’d heard she was doing her GCSEs.

“Oh, fine, thanks,” said Kate, and then Jocasta told her to come over to the house, and that the Hartleys would probably be quite grateful if she wouldn’t mind passing plates of food round. It seemed quite odd to Kate that something so emotional and sad should have turned into a sort of party, with people shouting “Nice to see you” and “How are the children” at each other, but she was glad to have something to do. She’d been a bit worried that people might be wondering what on earth she was doing there and who she was, but mostly they didn’t, just smiled vaguely at her and took their vol-au-vents or whatever, and if they did ask, she simply said she had met Martha through her best friend, which was what Jocasta had told her to say. She still felt totally dazed, and hoped they wouldn’t have to stay too long; she was dreading she might have to meet Mr. and Mrs. Hartley.

The Asian family were standing alone, looking lost; she went over to them with her vol-au-vents, but they shook their heads.

“And how do you fit into this gathering?” the man said and she made her small speech and asked, because she was genuinely curious, how they had known Miss Hartley, as she called her. Martha felt a bit overfamiliar, somehow.

“Oh, she was extremely good to my wife,” said the man. “She has died now, but she worked for Miss Hartley, cleaning her office, and she was always so kind, took such an interest in Jasmin here, my daughter, and her studies, found books from her own collection that would help her. And also she visited my wife when she was in hospital, and fought a battle with the authorities for her, tried to get her moved into another ward. She really was the most kind person.”

Kate smiled and moved on with her plates, feeling more confused and upset than ever.

Jocasta appeared at her side and said, “I think we’ll leave in about ten minutes, Kate. I’m sure you won’t mind and we’re not really needed here. I’d just like to say hello to the Hartleys and then we’ll slip off.”

At this point she heard someone saying, “You must be Kate. I’m Ed, hi!” and she turned round and felt she must be looking at a picture in a magazine or something. It was the gorgeous bloke in the church, he was blond and quite tall, with the most amazing smile, and although he was wearing a suit, it wasn’t an old person’s suit, it was really cool: very dark navy, lined in dark green, with a lighter blue shirt, the colour of his eyes. Kate’s knees felt quite weak.

“Hi,” she said, smiling at him, taking the hand he offered, wondering wildly who he was and how he fitted into the day’s proceedings; and then he said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Kate. I’m Martha’s…friend. Well, I was. It’s lovely of you to come.”

She remembered now: Jocasta had told her about him, as she had about lots of people on the way down, and of course she knew Martha’s boyfriend would be there, but she hadn’t expected he’d be like this, more like the one from New York, probably, who’d read the lesson. Not young and looking like something out of a Calvin Klein Eternity ad. How had Martha done that? Got a bloke as fit as this one? He must be at least ten years younger than her. Weird.

It felt a bit weird altogether, talking to him; presumably he must know who she was. Kate felt more and more as if she had walked into some strange film.

“Oh, hi, Ed. Lovely to see you.” It was Jocasta; she kissed him and gave him a hug. “I see you’ve met Kate.”

“I have indeed. Thank you for coming, Jocasta, it’s really good to have you all here.”

“It’s the least we can do,” said Jocasta, “and I’m just sorry Gideon hasn’t made it. He’s been held up in Canada. I won’t ask you how you’re feeling, because it must be perfectly dreadful, but I’m going to call you later in the week, and get you round for supper with Clio and me. Only if you can’t face it, just say so, we’ll totally understand.”

“I think I’d like that,” he said, “and thank you, but I’m not sure how next week will be, how I’ll be feeling…”

“You can decide an hour before,” said Jocasta, giving him another kiss, “half an hour if you like, five minutes. Now, if you don’t mind, we’re going to go. Nick had a puncture on the way down and he’s got to get back to work, and we’ve promised to follow him up to London, make sure another one doesn’t go. I’ve spoken to Mrs. Hartley—she was completely dazed, obviously didn’t have the slightest idea who I was.”

“No, she’s in a bit of a state, poor lady. Anyway, thank you again. You two could be sisters,” he said suddenly, adding, “Sorry, Kate. Don’t suppose that’s exactly a compliment to you.”

“Well, it is to me,” said Jocasta, “so that’s fine. And we’re always being told that. Aren’t we, Kate? It’s only our hair.”

They set off in convoy; Clio said she wasn’t feeling too good and was happy to leave. She did look a bit rough, Jocasta thought, exhausted and very pale. Well, it had been a hell of a day. She didn’t feel great herself; she wondered when Gideon would be home. She really didn’t feel up to the Big Welcome.

As they reached London, Nick drove off with a wave of his hand, and Josh got into their car. Kate moved into the back; she had been asleep and said she had a headache.

“Poor old you. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit…confused. But I don’t want to talk about it. I’m glad I went, though.”

“Have you decided what you’re going to do about your contract?” said Jocasta.

“No, I can’t. I know everyone thinks I’m stupid when it’s so much money, but I sort of agree with Mum. It’s too much; in a way, it’s scary.”

“What’s this?” said Josh.

“She’s been offered a fortune to model some makeup range,” said Jocasta.

“What sort of a fortune?”

“Lots of noughts,” said Jocasta briefly, giving him a look.

“So why don’t you want to do it, Kate?”

“I’m not even sure I don’t want to, but I feel like I’m signing my life away.”

“Take it from me, young Kate,” said Josh, swivelling round to look at her, “if you’re not sure, don’t do it. No point doing some job you don’t like, just for the money. I should know. I’ve spent my life doing exactly that. Ask yourself if you’d do it for nothing. Or very little. That’s the test.”

Kate was silent for a while, then she said, “I don’t think I would. I mean, it’s so boring. Everyone thinks it’s glamorous and it’s not. I can’t stand all this where-did-you-get-your-Botox-done rubbish. And acting like your jeans were a religion.” Josh laughed, and Kate told him about Rufus and Jed, and their whispering, and Crew as well. “They’re completely insane. Not like lovely Marc, who did the shoot for the
Sketch
,” she added to Jocasta. “He’s really quite normal. Although in that business, abnormal is normal.”

“You ought to be a writer,” said Josh, “like my sister. You have a great turn of phrase.”

“I did think of it for a while,” said Kate, sounding at least forty-five, “but I don’t think it’s for me. I tell you what I would like—I’d like to be a photographer. That seems much more fun to me. You’re really doing something then, aren’t you? Making something, I mean, not just sitting there.”

“How extraordinary,” said Josh. “I’ve often said that’s what I’d like to do, given my time over again. Remember all those pictures I brought back from Thailand, Jocasta? Some of them were really quite good. I was looking at them the other day.”

“I don’t, actually,” said Jocasta.

“Well, anyway, Kate, I think you’ve really hit on a good career there. Much better than modelling. Tell you what, I’ve got a whole drawerful of pretty good cameras I never use. Bit antique, some of them, but they’re what the real boys use, none of your automatic nonsense.”

Bought by our father, thought Jocasta tartly, when it was that month’s fad. “I could give you one if you like, get you going,” Josh was saying. “Give you a couple of lessons, even.”

“Josh,” said Jocasta warningly. She gave him an icy look. She could see he was very taken with Kate. Silly bugger. How Beatrice stood it, she couldn’t imagine.

On the way back to London, Janet Frean was repeatedly and violently sick; when she got home, she locked herself in her bedroom and refused to come out. Bob found it hard to care; she’d done what she needed to do, attended the funeral of the woman she must realise she had—possibly—helped to kill, and she now had to face her demons. He made her a cup of tea, called to her that it was outside her door, and went to see his children.

Clio didn’t know what to do. She could be wrong. Josh might never have slept with Martha and it was hardly something you could ask. She had no proof at all. Jocasta always said that the only real similarity between her and Kate was their hair. And how awful if she was wrong: if she accused him of something he was totally innocent of. And even if he weren’t, what good would it do now if it came out? It would create dreadful problems in his marriage and he had enough of those. Maybe she should just remain silent. But she knew, as surely as she knew anything, that she wasn’t wrong. There was more to that likeness than hair: it was a smile, a way of standing, and an overall impression. And it all added up. If it had been some bloke Martha had just met travelling, she would have told them. She had said—what had been her exact words? “I couldn’t possibly have told him. Not possibly.”