Torn (50 page)

‘That's the trouble. I don't know what I feel … what I should be feeling. There's just this huge, empty space …'

‘You're still in shock. Give yourself time. And for heaven's sake don't feel guilty that you're not experiencing the proper depth of sorrow. There's no yardstick to measure grief. Everyone is different. Everyone feels loss in their own way.'

He'd watched her face closely as she spoke and now nodded.

‘Thanks, Jess.'

‘Anyway, you and your brother have plenty to do the rest of the day without me trailing round after you. I don't want anything to eat or drink. I'll just jump in the car and go now. Would you make my apologies?'

But Danny grabbed hold of her and pulled her into a hug. There was no sexual passion in the embrace, just a need for close contact with another, a need to which she instinctively responded. And while they clung so tightly together she could feel the strong beat of his heart; he kissed the top of her head. She stepped back.

‘It's going to be so hard for you, the next few days. But remember … I'll be thinking of you … a lot. And I'm only a phone call away. Use your damn mobile!' she added, with an attempted laugh, which was half choked by a gulp of emotion. She sniffed, looped her hands around his neck, drew his head down, and kissed him full on the mouth. ‘Now get back inside. You're shivering.' Through the kitchen window she saw the surprised faces of his brother and sister gawping out at them. Let them think what they like. She raised her hand to them in a farewell gesture.

As she drove home her thoughts dwelt on loss and bereavement. Never knowing her own father she'd only had one set of grandparents who'd figured in her life, but they were already in their sixties when she was born and had died in their seventies. But by then they'd retired to Eastbourne, and contact with them during her growing up had been limited. The only funeral she'd ever attended was that of her godmother.

Daisy Potter, a maiden lady, had volunteered for the evacuation scheme during the war, and Jessica's mother, Julia, had been billeted on her. Strange, given the extremity of her mother's later political views, that she'd felt it necessary to have her daughter christened at all, let alone taken her all the way to Warford for the occasion, just so that Daisy could be godmother. And Daisy Potter was the nearest thing to a beloved aunt or granny Jess had ever known, and was the reason Jessica had chosen Warford as her refuge.

Jess was twenty-one and doing her PGCE when Daisy died. She recalled the impersonal funeral service conducted at the crematorium, and her struggle to find the correct degree of sorrow. All she'd felt was a sense of raw emptiness, and pity that there were so few there to mourn Daisy's passing. Easy to empathise with what Danny had said. The grief of bereavement could be an indefinable emotion, neither presenting itself at the proper moment, nor in a recognisable form. Instead it infected your life in ways you might even be unaware of. Only days after Daisy's funeral Jess had gone to the party where she'd met an old university friend who'd raved about his job in the City. Suddenly the idea of making money, or more importantly, of having fun, had seemed the most attractive thing in the world.

A vague buzzing began to invade her consciousness. It took a moment to comprehend what it was and where it came from. She pulled off the main carriageway into the opening to a farm track. On leaving the Bowman farm, she'd moved her handbag from the back seat to the passenger seat. Now she grabbed it and extracted her phone

‘Jess? It's Jay. I've been trying to get you all day! Ted was moved.'

‘We found out after driving all the way to Lydney. My phone, I've just realised, Rory must have turned the ringtone to mute last night.'

‘How did he manage that? Look, Jess, I'm so sorry you had a wasted journey, and after all that –'

‘He died.'

‘I heard. I've just spoken to Piers. I am really sorry.'

‘Don't say sorry to me. I didn't know the man. It's his children …'

‘I've already given my condolences to them. How are they bearing up?'

‘Still taking it in. Where are you calling from?'

‘I'm just home. There was nothing to keep me in town. I decided to head back.'

‘So, I'll see you in about an hour? I'll come straight to Gore to pick up Rory.'

‘Jessica, isn't there anything you want to ask me? About
my
day?' James' voice sounded flat, depressed. Worried by his tone she suddenly recalled the reason for his trip to London and his appointment with possible ruin.

‘James! I'm sorry. How did you get on at the bank?'

‘My debts have been rescheduled till the end of the financial year.'

‘Congratulations. You worried me. You sounded so deadpan.'

‘As you know, I'd hoped to celebrate … but in the absence of the person I'd wanted to celebrate with, it seems unreal, a bit of an anti-climax.'

Jessica let that comment lie. It would be too easy to extract a cheap quip from his unintended innuendo.

‘I really am sorry about Ted. How's poor old Sideshow taking it?'

‘Shell-shocked.'

‘I bet. Sixty-four is too young. It'll take a while to sink in. He was a nice man and, given the circumstances, good to Daniel. OK, Jess, I'll let you continue on your way. See you in a bit.'

In fact, she saw little of James. He was at the door to greet her when she arrived at the farm and she congratulated him again on his successful mission to London.

‘Thanks. But it's only a reprieve. I need several other factors to slot into place before I can breathe easy.'

‘But you believe they will.'

‘Yes, I think I'm home and dry.' He did not offer and she did not expect him to revive the subject of celebration, even though there was no reason now to prevent it. Neither of them, it seemed, was in the mood.

Some of her earlier anger, she could now acknowledge, had been born out of frustrated resentment that their plans had been thwarted. He'd not been totally heartless, just over-burdened by his own concerns. But James Warwick was a big boy now and would survive a minor disappointment, while her own disappointment came second to Danny's need of her. They talked superficial platitudes for a while but soon he excused himself and disappeared off to some nether region of the farm.

Over the next few days she and Danny were in frequent contact. Due perhaps to his brother's influence it seemed he'd at last mastered the mobile phone. Not only was he calling her, he was keeping the phone charged and switched on. Neither of them had anything particular to communicate, it was more a need for contact, for reassurance that the other was easily reachable and all right. And they would stay connected for far longer than necessary, once everything significant had been said. In essence these frequent calls were just a kind of touching. The funeral had been arranged for the afternoon of Wednesday, the following week. Danny asked if she would come. And every time she spoke to him he asked again.

‘I'm sorry to be so pathetic, but … I really want someone there for me.'

‘You're not being pathetic, you're being honest. But your brother and sister will be there.' Jessica did not make the mistake of mentioning the mother again. Whatever had happened, it was clear she was not around anymore.

‘I know, but Helen will be there with Grant. Don't know about the kids. They're not very old. And Pete will have Imogen.' It was hard to imagine that the classy Imogen would be delighted to attend such an occasion. But perhaps Piers had insisted?

‘Trouble is, the only person I can ask to have Rory is still Gilda. And it's awkward for her with the kids at different schools. But perhaps James …?'

‘He's coming to the funeral.'

‘James is?'

‘He knew Dad. He used to come down for weekends with Pete, when they were at university together.'

‘So you knew James before you came to work for him?'

‘A bit. But I was only young … five or six.'

‘Of course you were. I forget about the age gap. Look, Danny, if you want me there I'll see what I can do, but mid-afternoon … it's such an awkward time of day.'

‘You could always stay the night.'

For once it wasn't raining, but it was grey and the damp hung palpably in the air. After dropping Rory at school, she turned the car towards the A40. Her dark Hobbs suit was hanging in the back of the car. A pair of boots and a matching handbag completed the ensemble she intended to wear to the funeral. Whether or not Gilda was happy to have been co-opted by her son, yet again, into providing childcare for Rory, Jess knew she could rely on her. She had no intention of stopping the night at the Bowman farm, despite James' assurance that it would be all right with his mother, and yet she threw her overnight bag into the boot, alongside her Wellingtons and waterproof jacket – just in case.

There was nothing about the day ahead she could look forward to. Her relationship with James was now strained. Piers, though friendly enough, was hardly a bosom buddy and Helen was distinctly frosty. Still, her own enjoyment was not what she was going for. It was enough that Danny wanted her there.

He loped out to meet the car and hardly waited for her to extricate herself from the driving seat before throwing his arms around her.

‘I'm so glad you've come,' he muttered against her neck.

‘How are you?' she asked when he at last released her.

‘OK. It's been strange here, just me and Pete. The house seems so empty. Helen came over a couple of times. She's prepared all this food, don't know why, and did loads of washing … bedding and towels and stuff, then made us help her clean the house!'

‘That's because people will come back after the funeral. Some might stay.'

‘And Pete's got in a crate of booze and loads of glasses. It's like they're expecting to party afterwards!'

‘It's the hospitality thing. Men feel the need to offer alcohol, women to offer food. But with women there's the added imperative to make sure your surfaces are dust free, the kitchen floor mopped, and the bathroom sparkling.'

Danny shook his head. ‘Weird. Pete spent the last week going through all Dad's papers, insurance policies and stuff. Turns out his will is held at the solicitor's. Helen's been gagging to know what it says. So that's where they've gone this morning.' Helping Jess with her things, Danny led her through the house.

Just from the smell of polish and cleaning fluid it was apparent that the place had undergone some intensive housework. The decor seemed to have side-stepped every fashion since the nineteen fifties. The walls were papered with Lincrusta, the carpets – muted by age – were indeterminate floral. The furniture was the bulky, wooden sideboards, dressing tables, and wardrobes of two or three generations back. Perhaps Danny's parents hadn't cared about their domestic environment. His father spent most of his life outside and his mother, a teacher, had lived in the world of her mind. A grandfather clock in the hall – wood panels cracked, marquetry peeling – was the only significant piece of furniture she saw. It stood against the banister wall that flanked the stairs; its slow, sonorous tick echoed all over the house.

It was a four-bedroom house but the smallest of the bedrooms had been converted by Ted Bowman into an office after Piers left home for good. It was racked with shelves, a filing cabinet, and a built-in desk. Stacked files with Post-It notes on the front of each were piled on the desk. There was no computer.

‘I'll put your things in here.' Of the three remaining bedrooms, Danny's was the smallest, made even smaller by the overlarge furniture. Jess wondered why he hadn't moved into the larger bedroom when his sister left home. Even though he'd only quit the room just over a year before, it had an empty, unused air. When he opened the wardrobe to hang up her suit Jessica saw it was empty apart from the tangle of wire hangers. There was nothing personal around the room to claim Danny as its previous inhabitant. A lack of books was not surprising, but there were no posters on the walls, no model aeroplanes, no football memorabilia. Only a skeleton leaf and a shard of limestone with a fossil imprint lay on the windowsill. The one item she recognised was his backpack. It slumped by the leg of the roughly straightened bed, spilling odd items of underwear onto the floor.

Jessica's own family background was scarcely traditional, but while her mother maintained the home in London there were still her old clothes in her bedroom cupboards, and books and ornaments collected through childhood on the shelves. And on her bedroom walls were her posters; art by the Austrian Secessionists, photos of Nirvana and Kurt Cobain, and Darcey Bussell as Giselle.

‘Shall we go out for a walk?' Danny suggested.

First he introduced her to the animals. He threw a few handfuls of grain to the chickens and geese, gave the goat some kitchen scraps, and the large, dray horse, named Bruce, received a bucketful of bran.

The terrain rose gradually behind the house, fields bordered by hedgerows rather than the Cotswold stone walls or wire stock netting of Gore Farm. It took some minutes to reach the apex of the gently climbing hill. Once there they sat down on a flattened rocky outcrop. The view was as lovely as any in the immediate vicinity of Warford, but here dark swathes of countryside were thickly fleeced with trees.

‘And we've got the Wye Valley. It's like a really, deep wooded gorge. Have you never been to Symonds Yat? Only a few miles away to the east.' He wafted his hand in a direction vaguely westward, then frowned. ‘No. Wales. It's on the border with Wales. Sorry it's west. This totally amazing high crag you can get to. The river winds along at the bottom. Too many tourists but …'

‘It sounds stunning.' There were sheep in some of the fields and cattle in others. The field they had chosen to stop in was empty of livestock. ‘How much of this is your father's farm?'