Tread Softly (26 page)

‘Look, forget about me. What we need to –'

‘Forget about you? How could I? You're the most important person in my life.'

‘I am?'

‘Well, who else, for heaven's sake?'

‘Your … your pupils, maybe. Or Celia.'

‘Celia died last month.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry. How awful.' Celia was Agnes's closest friend, the companion of many holidays.

‘As for my pupils, how on earth could they mean more to me than my sister's only child? I adored my sister, Lorna.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘You don't know. As I said, you know very little. In fact these last few weeks I've been trying to decide how much I ought to tell you.'

‘What d'you mean?'

‘Drink your tea before it gets cold.'

Mechanically, Lorna picked up her cup. What was all this stuff she didn't know? The cancer itself was a terrible shock. And that it had been diagnosed in January yet Agnes hadn't mentioned it until now. How badly that reflected on
her
– the busy (selfish) niece who mustn't be bothered. The smoking was also a bolt from the blue, although it made Agnes seem more human and it was surely understandable in the circumstances: a single woman with a demanding job being suddenly landed with a traumatized orphan.

Agnes was coughing again – a racking cough deep in her chest.

‘Can I get you a glass of water?'

‘No, for goodness' sake sit still. It's difficult enough talking about your father, without you jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box.'

‘We're not talking about my father, are we?'

Agnes muffled another cough in her handkerchief. ‘We have to, Lorna. There's something I feel you ought to know.'

Lorna tensed. Agnes's forceful voice had become unexpectedly flat and forlorn. ‘Yes?' she prompted uneasily.

Agnes sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘He killed your mother.'

‘
What?'

Agnes gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Oh, I don't mean deliberately. But the night he crashed the car he was blind drunk.'

‘You're lying! I don't believe you.'

Agnes remained silent, although she couldn't disguise the hurt on her face. Agnes never lied. She was the only person Lorna knew who would never tell even the tiniest untruth.

‘I'm sorry, Aunt. That was rude. But … but I just can't take it in.'

‘No, of course you can't. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you. It's not easy to know what to do for the best. Though one thing I
am
clear about – I owe you an apology.'

‘What for?'

‘Sending you to Grange Park. I knew it was wrong and I knew you were unhappy there. I should have taken you away.'

‘But I thought my father –'

‘Yes, he chose it. Silly man.'

‘Silly? Why? You always told me what a good school it was.'

‘Not good for a motherless child. And not good for you to be so far away. Your father was a romantic, Lorna, and also, I'm afraid, something of a snob. He fell in love with the place because it was ancient and historical and had once been the home of the Earl of Stockwood. He and your mother toured the country looking for the perfect school. He did love you, Lorna, and he certainly wanted the best for you. The trouble was, he lived in a dream world. For instance, you might think they'd have consulted me about your education, as a trained teacher with twenty years' experience. But because I worked in a village school he thought I was the lowest of the low. My opinion counted for nothing.'

‘Look, why are you being so horrible about him? It's jealousy, I assume – because my mother married and you didn't.' OK, it was hurtful, but Agnes had hurt her first, practically accusing her father of murder.

Agnes took a slow, reflective sip of tea. ‘It's true I wished that Margaret hadn't married him. I'm not talking about the age difference. That needn't be a problem, as you and Ralph have found. But Garret was so wild – a crazy, starry-eyed Irish fantasist, who swept the poor girl off her feet and then gambled away all the money.'

Lorna gripped the arms of her chair. Her father a
gambler
as well as a drunk? Could she be hearing right? ‘That isn't true. It can't be. He paid for my schooling, didn't he?'

More protracted coughing from Agnes, which angered Lorna suddenly. Was it a convenient way of blocking out what she didn't want to hear?

‘Well,
didn't
he?' she repeated, louder.

‘He certainly intended to, my dear. He was obsessed with schools from the moment you were born – probably because his own education was … well, sketchy, shall we say.'

‘Stop rubbishing him, for God's sake!' An ignoramus now, on top of all the rest.

‘Lorna, please … I'm trying to explain. He put your name down for Grange Park when you were only tiny. Your mother wasn't keen on you boarding, but he could always charm her into doing what he wanted. He set up an endowment fund to cover the fees, so you could go there from eight to eighteen.'

‘Well, that was decent of him, wasn't it? And generous. At least he was thinking ahead.'

‘No, it wasn't quite like that. The money ran out when you were ten. I'm sorry to say he had a chronic drink problem, and it often clouded his judgement. So when he made his investments –'

Lorna sprang up from her chair. ‘I'm not listening to any more of this. You're determined to run him down. I'm leaving!'

‘Don't be silly, Lorna. You've only just arrived.'

‘Oh, silly, am I? Like him, you mean. Except he
wasn't
silly – he was wonderful. You're just too eaten up with jealousy to see it.' Lorna slammed out of the room and wrenched open the front door. How dare Agnes turn her beloved father into a feckless alcoholic?

She blundered out into the lane, heedless of what she was doing or where she was going. Horrific images curdled in her mind: her father lolling drunkenly at the wheel, or flinging his last £50 note on the gaming-table, or risking all he owned in crackpot schemes. She sobbed aloud with frustration – and with pain from her stupid foot. Without her stick every step was difficult and she kept tripping on the wet ground. Vicious as ever, the wind continued to harry her, whipping her hair across her face, shaking trees as if they were frail poppies, ripping the storm-clouds to shreds. She understood its fury. Fury at her aunt's vindictiveness; fury at her father's criminal negligence. No, she didn't believe it, couldn't. It was a lie – a colossal lie.

Agnes didn't lie.

She stumbled to a halt. Flurries of rain were spitting in her face, drenching her thin skirt. She sheltered in the lee of a hedge, trying desperately to suppress the allegations and instead summon up convincing, concrete memories of a good and honourable father. In truth, she barely remembered him. He was little more than a fantasy, concocted from hints and dreams. For all she knew he
might
have been wild and feckless – like her, now, storming out in the rain because Agnes had shattered her dreams so cruelly.

Agnes wasn't cruel.

Bewildered, she brushed the rain from her hair. There had been such a web of secrecy over the past.
Had
her father been a drunkard – the man she'd imagined as a hero? Agnes's remarks were surely prompted by spite.

Agnes wasn't spiteful.

Strict, yes, curt, yes, bossy and opinionated, but not deliberately unkind. It was
she
who was unkind: perpetually too busy to visit, and thus unaware until today that her aunt was ill or that Celia had died. The two friends had spent Christmas together in a second-rate hotel – a joyless time, no doubt, with both of them in the shadow of death and reliant on each other in the absence of any relatives. Agnes never made demands; if she was neglected for a year she didn't complain. She was used to coping on her own – it was what she had always done.

On impulse, Lorna turned back towards the cottage. Hunched against the wind, she hobbled on, scarcely able to see in the leaden, murky light. Dusk had fallen, although it was only four o' clock.

The day had lost heart, as if it no longer had the will or strength to keep the night at bay.

The cottage, too, stood unlit. Lorna felt a surge of panic. Normally Agnes switched the lights on at the first sign of darkness. Suppose she were dead already? It would be like her parents' death again – no goodbyes, no last words.

Ignoring her painful foot, she strode up to the front door. Although the bell shrilled loudly, no one came. Frantic now, she darted round the side of the house to see if the back door was unlocked.

Yes, thank God. She hurried in, not daring to think what she might find. Nervously she peered into the sitting-room. Agnes was still in her chair – not dead, not even asleep, just staring at the wall with expressionless eyes. A scum had formed on her cup of tea; the gas fire had gone out. The room was dim and chilly. Lorna groped her way over to the chair. ‘I'm sorry, Aunt. I'm so sorry.'

Agnes shook her head, unable to speak. Tears were sliding down her face.

Agnes never cried.

Lorna took her hand. The swollen fingers were cold. ‘I shouldn't have run out like that …'

Agnes rubbed her eyes vigorously with a handkerchief, as if angry that they had betrayed her. ‘It's I who should apologize. I made a grave mistake. I thought you'd prefer to know the truth, but I was wrong. I didn't realize how upset you'd be.'

‘It's OK. It was … just the shock.'

‘I know. I understand. But I'm not sure
you
do, Lorna.' Agnes got up to turn on the lamp by the window and stood supporting herself on the sill. ‘I've been going through all my possessions, turfing out as much as I could. The clothes were no problem. They're too big for me now and Oxfam were glad to take them off my hands. But, when it came to the other things, I was faced with a dilemma. Some of them I felt sure you'd want – your drawings and letters and school reports and so on.'

‘You kept all that?'

‘Well, naturally I did. It's your history in a way. You were my
child
, Lorna, and a mother keeps everything.' Agnes folded her handkerchief and tucked it back into her sleeve. ‘But, as well as all your handiwork, I'd saved the newspaper cuttings of the car crash, and the details of the post-mortem. And your mother‘s letters to me when she and Garret were having financial troubles. So I had to ask myself, “Do I throw all this away and say nothing, or hand it over as your legacy, unwelcome or no?'' After much deliberation I decided on the latter – mistakenly, it appears.'

Lorna sat in silence. Press cuttings, post-mortems … Brutal facts damning her poor father. But didn't he deserve it? Killing her mother, leaving her an orphan? If he hadn't crashed that car, her whole life would have been different. And Agnes's too.

‘I have to admit, Lorna, that there was another, more selfish, motive. I wanted to justify myself for not being able to leave you more in my will. This house is yours, of course, but I'm afraid it's riddled with dry rot, so I doubt you'll get much for it except the value of the land, which won't exactly be a fortune in this neck of the woods. No, please don't interrupt, and on no account thank me. I'd have left you a good deal more if I hadn't got myself into debt.'

Another shock. Debt was anathema to Agnes. It was one of her maxims in life that what you couldn't afford you didn't have.

‘It wasn't easy to pay the Grange Park fees on a teacher's salary. I remortgaged the house, which of course was bigger than this one. That helped, but it wasn't sufficient. I took out a loan at an extortionate rate of interest, and the payments continued for years.' Agnes shook her head impatiently. ‘But that's quite enough about financial matters. I don't want the subject mentioned any more. The important thing is that we both survived.' She went back to her chair, coughing again and breathless. Taking a sip of cold tea, she gave Lorna an affectionate glance. ‘I can tell you, my dear, I was very proud when you left Grange Park with the Sixth Form Prize.'

‘A prize for Effort, wasn't it?' Lorna said acidly. ‘I suppose that was the only prize they could possibly award to a dunce like me.'

‘You weren't a dunce. And there's nothing wrong with effort. That's what life's about.'

‘Is it?'

‘Definitely.'

‘Well, in that case I'm a dunce at life.'

‘Nonsense. You've always done your best, from childhood on. Look at your drawings and letters, and read those school reports. I'll get them out for you now and you can decide what you want to keep. Then I'm going upstairs to rest.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry, Aunt – I've worn you out.'

‘Not at all. It's the cancer that makes me tired. Anyway, I need to use my nebulizer.'

‘Your what?'

‘It's a machine to help my asthma.'

‘I didn't know you had asthma.'

‘It's of no consequence. Don't fuss.'

‘But all these ghastly illnesses … it must be hard to bear.'

Agnes shrugged. ‘More a nuisance than anything else. The tumour's pressing on my oesophagus, so I can't eat much except slops. But there's a kind soul in the village who keeps me supplied with Complan. Her husband's a builder, conveniently. He installed a shower for me at a very reasonable price. I can't get in and out of the bath, you see, but that's due more to the arthritis. And as for the asthma, it just makes me wheeze a bit. But enough of this dreary talk. We all have to die of something.'

‘But how will you cope? I mean, later – if … when …

‘I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Now for goodness' sake get out of those wet clothes. You don't want rheumatism, do you? You can change upstairs in your room. I put the fire on there at lunch-time to take the chill off. And while you're getting dressed I'll go and fetch your drawings and things.'