The Shape of Sand (22 page)
He gave her time to get herself together, not revealing his exultation. At last!
“After my boys died,” she went on eventually, her voice not quite under control, “well, you know how that affected me, losing both of them, at once. But I'd been obsessed by thoughts of death long before that â everyone dear to me seemed to die
and leave me â Marcus â my father. And my mother ⦠my mother, most of all. I became tormented by thoughts of whether she was actually dead or not, where she might be ⦠and then, quite suddenly, when I heard she'd been found, something I'd seen the night she died came back to me, and I put two and two together and made the connectionâ” She stopped, overcome.
and leave me â Marcus â my father. And my mother ⦠my mother, most of all. I became tormented by thoughts of whether she was actually dead or not, where she might be ⦠and then, quite suddenly, when I heard she'd been found, something I'd seen the night she died came back to me, and I put two and two together and made the connectionâ” She stopped, overcome.
“Can you tell me about it â if it is not too painful?” These moments of eidetic memory could be unbearable. He held her hands to stop their trembling.
“I think â I think I must, now.”
Â
Later, into the silence that followed the outpouring of all she had previously held back, Vita said in a choked voice, “Dear Oscar, I shouldn't have transferred my burden to you.”
“But you see. You feel better, hmm?”
And she did, a little.
“I should have guessed what it meant, shouldn't I? But I didn't, until it was too late. I was married to him by then.”
“You were not to know. You had led a sheltered life. And you were very young.” And, he wanted to ask her, but did not, are you sure?
“Yes, I was, wasn't I? Young and so naive.”
Abruptly, she rose and left the room, returning with a few old, faded sepia photographs. “There you are, that's what I was like when I was young.” One by one she passed across pictures of a plump, vivacious, exceedingly pretty girl. “Me, dressed for the hunt. And me again when I was a child, with Marcus, and Harriet holding Daisy, the new baby. And here's one with Dolly Dacres, my dearest friend. I was to be her bridesmaid, until ⦠Look, here's this, actually taken on the night â the night Mama died.” Finally she fell silent as he took this last picture from her, one where she was dancing, barefoot, with her sisters, clad in filmy garments of a vaguely classical nature. He looked from the laughing girl with the sparkling eyes and rounded limbs to Vita as she now was. She had begun to weep; big, silent tears which poured down her cheeks, tears he knew were a necessity, and he was filled with a tenderness he had never known before. He took her in his
arms and laid her head on his shoulder. Presently she was able to speak again, though her words came disjointedly. “You see how it has been for me? I knew I was cowardly not to ask him about it, but I owed it to him to keep my part of the bargain. He'd married me, and kept me, and he's always been so kind to me â that's what I thought, don't you see? But now, now that she's been found â oh God!”
arms and laid her head on his shoulder. Presently she was able to speak again, though her words came disjointedly. “You see how it has been for me? I knew I was cowardly not to ask him about it, but I owed it to him to keep my part of the bargain. He'd married me, and kept me, and he's always been so kind to me â that's what I thought, don't you see? But now, now that she's been found â oh God!”
Yes, indeed, he saw how it had been for her, and at what cost? Even he could find nothing to say for the moment, he could only shelter her in his arms. They stayed like that for several minutes, while he gently stroked her cheek.
“I smelled coffee as I came in so I've brought myself a cup. One to spare?”
They froze. How long had he been standing there? Just how long? The master of the house himself, standing at the half-open double doors to the room, smiling and holding a cup and saucer. Perhaps he'd been there some time, surveying the tableau in front of him. His wife, obviously overwrought, her beautiful make up smeared, being held by the man sitting on the sofa next to her. The air vibrating with emotion. She turned as if in slow motion towards him and for a moment didn't seem to register who he was. Then her gaze refocused. “Myles!” She blinked and threw a hurried glance at Schulman, and received an almost imperceptible nod. Her voice was husky with tears, but controlled, when she spoke. “I didn't hear you come in. You should have let me know you'd be coming.”
He walked towards her with his upright, military carriage and bent stiffly to kiss her, still holding the cup and saucer. In a seemingly involuntary movement, she turned her head, and the kiss landed somewhere in the region of her ear. “It was an impulse,” he answered, “after Harriet telephoned me with the news. I knew what a shock it would be for you. No time to telephone you if I was to catch the train down â you all right, my dear?”
Vita said, “How can any of us be all right?”
“Well. Well.” He seemed at a loss as to what else to say. “Schulman, how are you?”
“I am well, thank you. There is no need to ask how you are!”
It was difficult to believe Wycombe was the age he was, an unbelievable eighty-six. His hair was white, and time had etched lines on his face, but he still had the soldierly bearing and physique that many a man twenty years younger would have envied, the same austere, direct look that told of the drive and initiative to carry through any course of action he intended. Seeing his pictures restored to their proper places seemed to have released a new source of energy in him. They were the only things in life he cared passionately about now. Perhaps once, he and Vita ⦠but he had always been a man difficult to read, seemingly stiffly inculcated with military attitudes. And yet, deep within him had existed that love of beauty, and a capacity for deep affection, such as he'd had for his sons. And possibly other areas of his life that no one, least of all Vita, could ever have suspected. It was understandable why Wycombe had married a beautiful young woman thirty years his junior â he had wanted an heir, and a hostess â but it was difficult for even Schulman, practised at reading motivations as he was, to accept the reasons why Vita had married him. Theirs was a strained relationship now, whatever it had once been, but he had supported her throughout her breakdown, and that had not been easy, God knew. Rigid in his attitudes, he had always done the right thing, an officer and a gentleman to the last.
At that juncture, Wycombe's eyes registered the old photographs on the table and he stiffened.
“How long are you here for?” Vita asked as she poured his coffee, unaware of his glance.
“What? Oh, a day or two. Must get back. The packers, you know ⦔
It was difficult to say what might have transpired then, had the police not arrived.
Â
Harriet had finished marking her stack of papers by eleven, made herself a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. She'd tried to spin the job out but she'd known it wouldn't take her all that long. The day stretched before her. An idea entered her mind, so unexpected it took her breath away for a moment. Almost without making a conscious decision, she squashed out her
cigarette and picked up the phone â she would make a couple of quick calls, and if by doing so she could arrange a meeting, she would just have time to change into clothes suitable for Town before the next bus at twelve. She'd already told Nina to take the front door key. “In case I'm not in when you get back. We're nearly out of bread and I may be down at the shop. I'll use the back door.”
cigarette and picked up the phone â she would make a couple of quick calls, and if by doing so she could arrange a meeting, she would just have time to change into clothes suitable for Town before the next bus at twelve. She'd already told Nina to take the front door key. “In case I'm not in when you get back. We're nearly out of bread and I may be down at the shop. I'll use the back door.”
Recalling this little exchange now, it occurred to her that maybe the idea was not so unexpected after all, that she'd known what she was going to do all along. Yesterday, the world had shifted on its axis and it was imperative that she must do something to restore the balance of her life. Best get this over with. It would, after all, sooner or later become inevitable.
His latest skin graft had taken well, and his plastic surgeon had assured him he'd soon be able to get back home, to Egypt. The treatment had been lengthy, and during the last year, endeavouring to come to terms with his new face, Tom Verrier had sometimes questioned his own motives in volunteering to join up on the outbreak of hostilities. It was a question to which he'd never actually found the answer, apart from the fact that he'd felt a strong compulsion to do his bit in this European war in which the different homelands of both his parents were involved â an unnecessarily quixotic compulsion, in his father's opinion, but then Egypt had, in effect, become Michel Verrier's adopted country and his native France a distant memory. He was a precise, ironic man, still working on the various important digs on which he and Tom's mother, Rose, had worked, he as an archaeologist, she on the restoration of wall paintings. When Tom had talked of volunteering, Michel, pragmatic Frenchman that he was, had suggested that some sort of job could have been found for him in Egypt, perhaps working in a civilian capacity with an army intelligence unit based there, but he didn't bring any emotional pressure to bear, though he wasn't getting any younger, and must have been aware that the chances of their ever meeting again could be uncertain. But he'd known Tom well enough to realise that the restless itch he had in his blood, that damned uncomfortable penchant for adventurous travel to remote places of the earth, couldn't be contained by some desk-bound position while a war to end all wars was being fought on the other side of the world.
The Declaration had come at a time when Tom had actually been at home, having just returned from Peru, where he'd been gathering information on the Inca civilisation. He realised his next project would have to remain on hold for the duration, but his in-built restlessness would need some other
outlet. He'd picked the Fleet Air Arm for no better reasons than it obviated the necessity for choosing between the Air Force and the Navy, and that they were prepared to accept him, which he felt was as good a reason as any.
outlet. He'd picked the Fleet Air Arm for no better reasons than it obviated the necessity for choosing between the Air Force and the Navy, and that they were prepared to accept him, which he felt was as good a reason as any.
He'd flown Swordfish aircraft from the battleship
Warspite
and his luck had held out until the day he'd been catapulted off in the Mediterranean to attack a German U-boat, when he'd been hit by enemy fire and spiralled into the sea in flames. He was damn lucky not to have been either drowned, like the rest of his crew, or fried to a crisp. As it was, he was pretty badly burned and knocked up in other ways, and was sent first to the burns unit in the naval hospital at Basingstoke, then transferred for special treatment when things went wrong to East Grinstead as a patient of Dr Archibald MacIndoe, a breezy but temperamental New Zealander who was pioneering plastic surgery on young airmen, who cut through red tape like a hot knife through butter and wouldn't take no for an answer. Months of skin grafts followed, with interminable hanging about in between. Going home between his treatments wasn't an option, home being the flat in Heliopolis he shared with his father, largely unoccupied because Michel was usually away working on some dig or other and Tom exploring in the Andes, the Himalayas or some other far-flung part of the globe. He could have wangled a lift on some RAF plane or other had he been so inclined, but what was the point, simply to stay in the empty flat?
Warspite
and his luck had held out until the day he'd been catapulted off in the Mediterranean to attack a German U-boat, when he'd been hit by enemy fire and spiralled into the sea in flames. He was damn lucky not to have been either drowned, like the rest of his crew, or fried to a crisp. As it was, he was pretty badly burned and knocked up in other ways, and was sent first to the burns unit in the naval hospital at Basingstoke, then transferred for special treatment when things went wrong to East Grinstead as a patient of Dr Archibald MacIndoe, a breezy but temperamental New Zealander who was pioneering plastic surgery on young airmen, who cut through red tape like a hot knife through butter and wouldn't take no for an answer. Months of skin grafts followed, with interminable hanging about in between. Going home between his treatments wasn't an option, home being the flat in Heliopolis he shared with his father, largely unoccupied because Michel was usually away working on some dig or other and Tom exploring in the Andes, the Himalayas or some other far-flung part of the globe. He could have wangled a lift on some RAF plane or other had he been so inclined, but what was the point, simply to stay in the empty flat?
By now, MacIndoe was saying, give it another few weeks, another slight operation, and Tom could be looking towards being discharged, demobilised and on his way home. Meanwhile, he'd bought himself an old Riley Nine, ten years old and still full of guts, and when he could scrounge petrol, he spent his time tootling around, looking at old churches and villages that were there before the Norman conquest, castles and cities with ancient streets, crooked little houses and cathedrals that took his breath away with their calm beauty. He'd fallen in love with England â even its weather, which gave it its green, lush countryside, so different from the arid landscapes of his own homeland â and with nearly everything else about it, its air of genteel shabbiness, battered London
theatres, village pubs. He had a feeling his next book, rather than being set in the remote stretches of the Hindu Kush, as planned, might be centred upon little old England.
theatres, village pubs. He had a feeling his next book, rather than being set in the remote stretches of the Hindu Kush, as planned, might be centred upon little old England.
At present, he was spending some time in London, delighted to find there were still historic sites and ancient, tucked-away churches which had survived not only the Blitz, but the Fire of London four centuries earlier. Yesterday, he'd visited St Paul's and seen the damage done when a bomb had crashed through the roof into the choir, bringing several tons of the fabric with it. He'd stood gazing at it, trying and failing as usual to comprehend the futile destruction and misery of war, then he'd left, putting several pounds more than he could afford into the collecting box for the repair fund which had already been started. And then, this morning, over breakfast in the small hotel on the Gloucester Road where he was staying, he'd picked up the newspaper â¦
Charnley House.
The name had leaped out at him. Good God! Who ever said there were no coincidences? Charnley had been a must on the list of places he'd intended to visit before he finally left England. He'd had no notion who owned the house now, whether he'd even be allowed inside, or if the frescoes his mother had painted would still be extant (though she'd always stoutly averred they would last for centuries, given the right conditions), but he'd been determined to find out. Then he read the rest of the report in the newspaper and discovered that the police were anxious to trace a woman named Rose Jessamy, who had once been employed to do some wall paintings at Charnley His stomach did a roll. Not much liking the ominous sound of that â a body being found behind a wall that his mother had been working on â he nevertheless immediately went to the police. They were as cagey as he'd anticipated. They asked him a lot of questions and parried more of his own. He suspected that they'd very little to go on. They had, however, been willing to tell him how he could get in touch with the Jardine family. A telephone call, and here he was.
The name had leaped out at him. Good God! Who ever said there were no coincidences? Charnley had been a must on the list of places he'd intended to visit before he finally left England. He'd had no notion who owned the house now, whether he'd even be allowed inside, or if the frescoes his mother had painted would still be extant (though she'd always stoutly averred they would last for centuries, given the right conditions), but he'd been determined to find out. Then he read the rest of the report in the newspaper and discovered that the police were anxious to trace a woman named Rose Jessamy, who had once been employed to do some wall paintings at Charnley His stomach did a roll. Not much liking the ominous sound of that â a body being found behind a wall that his mother had been working on â he nevertheless immediately went to the police. They were as cagey as he'd anticipated. They asked him a lot of questions and parried more of his own. He suspected that they'd very little to go on. They had, however, been willing to tell him how he could get in touch with the Jardine family. A telephone call, and here he was.
Â
Nina struggled on with the horrible sandwich. She began to feed bits surreptitiously to the old dog, and the bits got bigger.
When it was finished, she reached out to pour herself more coffee (which was, to tell the truth, not much better) and saw her stepmother's eyes on her. “Sorry, Daisy, not terribly hungry,” she murmured apologetically.
When it was finished, she reached out to pour herself more coffee (which was, to tell the truth, not much better) and saw her stepmother's eyes on her. “Sorry, Daisy, not terribly hungry,” she murmured apologetically.
“That's all right. Never been partial to mutton myself since Mrs Heslop sent up a roast saddle for lunch, that dayâ” She broke off abruptly. “Well, we have to be grateful for what we can get, nowadays. And what is Rose doing now?” she asked, turning to Tom. “Is she still working in Egypt?”
“My mother? No, she died when I was just a boy.”
Daisy was sorry, remembering her first impressions of that small, vital person with her unconventional clothes and behaviour. In the short time they'd known her, how she'd
electrified
them all! Shaken them out of their complacent lifestyle, awakened them to other possibilities. Even Mama, who'd astonished Daisy when she'd suddenly agreed to the bizarre notion of using an Egyptian theme when decorating the guest rooms. (Though perhaps it hadn't been so bizarre, after all. Later, after the first war, when more tombs were being excavated, the style had become all the rage.) And as for poor Marcus â¦
electrified
them all! Shaken them out of their complacent lifestyle, awakened them to other possibilities. Even Mama, who'd astonished Daisy when she'd suddenly agreed to the bizarre notion of using an Egyptian theme when decorating the guest rooms. (Though perhaps it hadn't been so bizarre, after all. Later, after the first war, when more tombs were being excavated, the style had become all the rage.) And as for poor Marcus â¦
“Forgive me. I didn't meanâ”
Tom waved away any possible embarrassment. “That's all right,” he said easily, “it was a long time ago. She was killed in a rock fall in a newly discovered tomb she was working on, when I was very young â too young to remember all that much about her. Except the way she used to talk about those paintings she did at Charnley, I've never forgotten that. Working on them was apparently what first inspired her to go to Egypt, and once there, she'd no desire ever to return to England. She vowed, according to my father, that she'd found her spiritual home.”
Daisy gave him a sharp look. “Hmm. So that's what she said? She said that was why she went to Egypt?”
It must have been something in her tone that brought a wariness into Tom's voice. “Well, I gather it wasn't the main object of her visit, but it was why she stayed. As you probably know, she originally went there with your brother, Marcus, in search of Valery Iskander.”
Daisy had not known until that moment that Rose had accompanied Marcus on his abortive trip to Egypt, none of the family had, and her quick flush betrayed this, but she merely nodded. He went on carefully, “I suppose there must have been some compelling reason why they went all that way to search him out, but I never learned why â until today. My mother never talked much about her previous life, apart from various aspects of her work, and my father taught me to respect that need, as he did. Perhaps that was why they had such a successful marriage. A partnership in every sense of the word.”
Had he said something he shouldn't? Daisy was looking resolutely at her sensibly clad feet. He couldn't have known that in a sudden piercing shaft of memory, she was recalling a hot, bright June morning in the rose garden at Charnley, when she had come round the corner from the hothouse with a basket of peaches, and Marcus had been standing looking down at Rose, holding her hands, smiling and talking nonsense about
âRosa Perfecta'.
It wouldn't do, she'd known it even then, at that young age. Looking outside one's own circle â for a wife, at least â was social disaster. Evidently, Rose had been of the same mind. Poor Marcus, whose intentions had been nothing if not honourable.
âRosa Perfecta'.
It wouldn't do, she'd known it even then, at that young age. Looking outside one's own circle â for a wife, at least â was social disaster. Evidently, Rose had been of the same mind. Poor Marcus, whose intentions had been nothing if not honourable.
“They worked and lived together, you see, my parents,” Tom was going on gamely, “hardly ever spent a day apart in the whole of the rest of her life. She adored him, and my father ⦠he isn't a demonstrative man, but he was devastated when she was killed.”
There was a short British silence after this, while Tom, sensing undertones and deciding not to say what he'd come to say, after all, picked up his cup of weak grey coffee and found only the dregs, for which he was immensely thankful. It had apparently been made with some extract out of a bottle and boiling milk, so that a skin had formed on top almost immediately, and had been served with some rather pointless biscuits which were called ârich tea', for what reason he could not fathom.
Wondering how to continue, he stared through the window. The rain had begun again and he could just see to the end of the garden, a broken down fence and the back of what had
once been the garden of the house in the next street, now given over to willow-herb and a tribe of feral cats, the scourge of the dog Phoebe's life, he'd been told. The house itself was no longer there, it had left a gap like a missing tooth. Few houses around here could have escaped, entirely. Here, in this very room, was a crack in the wall, running diagonally from floor to ceiling. He thought perhaps they didn't notice it any more. It seemed to have been subsumed into the unremarkable, shabby comfort of the room, along with the threadbare rugs on the scuffed, polished boards, the faded watercolours against wallpaper weathered to the colour of wheaten biscuits, and the worn covers on the chairs with their washed-out roses and frilly skirts, against which the old terrier bitch was now snoring at her master's feet.
once been the garden of the house in the next street, now given over to willow-herb and a tribe of feral cats, the scourge of the dog Phoebe's life, he'd been told. The house itself was no longer there, it had left a gap like a missing tooth. Few houses around here could have escaped, entirely. Here, in this very room, was a crack in the wall, running diagonally from floor to ceiling. He thought perhaps they didn't notice it any more. It seemed to have been subsumed into the unremarkable, shabby comfort of the room, along with the threadbare rugs on the scuffed, polished boards, the faded watercolours against wallpaper weathered to the colour of wheaten biscuits, and the worn covers on the chairs with their washed-out roses and frilly skirts, against which the old terrier bitch was now snoring at her master's feet.
He saw Nina looking at him, got a glimpse of that sweet, fleeting smile. He made a conscious effort to keep his hand from straying to his facial scar, which itched unbearably at times as it healed.
He was nonchalant about his wound, in the best tradition of war heroes; and had never asked himself how much he really minded. He hadn't been any oil painting to begin with, and since his face had never frightened the horses or put the girls off, he reckoned he'd be all right again, given time. What did worry him was other folks. The shrinking from his scars (or even worse, the bright, determined acceptance of his damaged face, the tendency to smile at him more often than was necessary). He'd developed a tendency to judge people by how they reacted and all three here had stood up to the litmus test well. Equanimity was to be expected of the old man â he was a doctor, after all â but not necessarily of Daisy Tempest or, more surprisingly, of Nina. By now, he'd come to expect an initial shrinking away by most attractive young women, but she'd neither pretended not to notice, nor had her eyes been drawn back to his face again and again. Nice brown eyes, a sense of fun behind them. Mouth that curved up, even when she wasn't smiling.
The old man, tamping down tobacco in his pipe, suddenly said, “So in what way can we help you, Commander Verrier?”
“Oh, Tom, please.” More suited to directness than tact, he
had to think carefully before answering the question. “Not quite certain. I'm sorry to have intruded, at a time like this, but I have to say this, though it's not something any of us want to think about, I imagine â I can't believe that my mother could in any way have been mixed up with your mother's death, Mrs Tempest. But whether she was or not, I intend to find out. If there's anything you can tell me about her at that time, it would help. I guess she wasn't perhaps an easy person, in many ways, but there was no one quite like her.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Even allowing for the fact that I'm prejudiced.”
had to think carefully before answering the question. “Not quite certain. I'm sorry to have intruded, at a time like this, but I have to say this, though it's not something any of us want to think about, I imagine â I can't believe that my mother could in any way have been mixed up with your mother's death, Mrs Tempest. But whether she was or not, I intend to find out. If there's anything you can tell me about her at that time, it would help. I guess she wasn't perhaps an easy person, in many ways, but there was no one quite like her.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Even allowing for the fact that I'm prejudiced.”
“I knew her for only a short time,” Daisy said drily, “but I was convinced she was unique.”
Glancing at Guy as she finished speaking, she bit her lip. Tom, however, chose not to see this as a two-edged remark, since he didn't think she'd meant it to come out like that. He guessed, from the half-amused looks on the faces of the other two, that Daisy Tempest might be given to saying the wrong things at the wrong time. He could understand that. Tactfulness wasn't something he'd been born with, either.
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