Wish You Were Here (28 page)

‘But Granny, that's fantastic! You and JC are just made for each other. Tara and I have said so all along, haven't we?'

‘You're one of those soul-mate couples, you know?' Tara said earnestly. ‘That you read about? Who sometimes take years to find each other, but when they do, you just know it's right.'

The older members of the party smiled at their plates.

‘It's brilliant, Mum, isn't it,' she went on, turning to me. ‘Don't you agree?'

‘I do,' I said carefully. ‘But Granny's going to live in France, don't forget.'

‘Oh, Granny, we'll miss you!' Despair now, and real shock, as the implications dawned. But youthful idealism and enthusiasm returned as Mum quickly outlined her plans.

‘No, because, look, on easyJet it costs practically nothing and they fly straight to Nice, two flights a day. And you can come out every holiday, not just in the summer. Imagine having a granny in the south of France! How glam is that? You'll be in St Tropez in a jiffy. And, anyway, I'll be back and forth.'

‘Will
you?'

‘Of course I will! And think how brown you'll be – a year-round tan!'

‘And we could come out and revise with you?'

‘Exactly! Bring your books and laze in the sun.'

They were loving this already. In their mind's eye, they'd recreated a luxurious setting just like this one: a huge garden full of tropical palms, an infinity pool, a view of the sea, whereas the reality would be a tiny back yard, or even just the front step of the shop, in a provincial, dusty town, above which, Mum and JC would live. Not that it would bother Mum. She'd make it pretty. Fix windowboxes, fill them with trailing plants, add a balcony, perhaps. Arrange pots of herbs around the front door, bring the antiques outside and sit amongst them in the summer, sewing and chatting to new friends, playing backgammon, basil and thyme wafting. She'd persuade the girls when they came out that it was charm, not glitz and glamour, that was important: get them sewing, too. For now, though, as they adjusted to Granny not being round the corner, where they often went straight from school or college, or later on in the evening for a glass of wine and no doubt a cigarette, baring their souls in a way they never would to me, she let them think they'd be jetting out every other week to join the smart set. In reality, of course, flights to Nice not being cheap, once a year they'd drive to Portsmouth, put their old Clio on the ferry and drive mile upon mile to see her. They'd miss her so much. More than they knew. We'd all miss her so much. She was, quite simply, the lynchpin of this family. Just as she'd been in my small one, years ago. James caught my eye in sympathy, and I was grateful.

Supper
rattled along and I held my own with Mum and the girls, exclaiming, delighting in their every plan and idea for her new life, but I was glad when it was over. There was a limit to the extent that I could say, ‘Yes – terrific idea!' or ‘Why not sell greeting cards, too?' and sound like I meant it. Now, with pudding over, I could leave them to their cheese and port and legitimately help Thérèse in the kitchen, even though I could tell she didn't want me. All the while, whilst I was pottering about and getting in her way, putting the dishwasher on when it wasn't quite full, causing her to tut and open it again, I kept an eye on the table. If someone had a plan, I had one, too. One that would help, I knew. I was waiting for the one who I was sure would go early to bed, with her book. Who'd rise quietly from the far end of the table and slip off. Ah. There. As she duly bid goodnight to everyone and came through the kitchen, I intercepted her.

‘Rachel – could I have a word? Before you go up?' My voice was a bit breathless.

She looked surprised. But then – not so surprised. Instantly, the shutters came down. ‘Well, I was just going to help Daddy …' She turned. Drummond was a few steps behind her.

‘Oh, nonsense,' he roared. ‘You fuss too much. I'll be absolutely fine! Anyone would think I was an old crone. Go on, Rachel, you girls go and have a natter and a glass of something. You never have a night with the younger crew.'

‘Because I'm happy with my book.'

‘It won't take a mo,' I pleaded, and anyway, Drummond was already on his way past us. Waving his stick in a
backward salute, he successfully negotiated the step up from the kitchen to the hall, and was shuffling eagerly – showing off, almost – across the limestone floor to bed. Rachel looked scared.

‘Let's go through here.' I knew I had to be firm. Seize the initiative and the moment. Not let her dither. I led her down the corridor and through the door to the drawing room, but it was a huge, formal room, the only light, when I flicked it on, being the bright, overhead chandelier. I hesitated in its glare. Rachel, to my surprise, wisely crossed through and opened the French doors to the terrace on the west side.

‘I'd rather be outside,' she told me, as we slipped out into the night.

In the dark, I decided she meant, and my heart began to pound. I'd thought, given half a chance, she'd run, but there was something decidedly collaborative about her now.

We walked down the sloping lawn, away from the house, in silence. On we padded, distancing ourselves from the chattering family around the table, from the twinkling lights strung between the trees. The buzz of voices became more muffled in the still night air. I realized we were heading for a tiny terrace the children smoked on, a round, stone one, which came equipped with a small iron bench. It was in a natural hollow just short of the orchard; a sunken space that someone – Camille's landscape gardener, no doubt – had realized would make a delightful sanctuary to catch the setting sun. The evening air was heavy now with the powerful scent of the rosemary bushes he'd planted strategically in a circle around it. There was a
tiny candle on the little mosaic table and a lighter the children had left. I went to light it, but Rachel stayed my hand. The faint glow from the house made our faces just visible, and that was enough for her tonight. Also, I realized, it would threaten our privacy.

We sat down on the bench side by side, and I wondered how to embark on this. How to phrase it. Rachel, I knew, was not going to assist me. It helped that we weren't facing each other. I could study my hands. I licked my lips and dived in.

‘Rachel, I know – have known, for years – that James has been keeping something back from me. But, out of respect for his privacy, I've never asked him what it is. I asked him tonight for the first time, but he wouldn't tell me.'

There was a silence.

‘And now you're asking me.'

‘Because I feel I need to know.'

‘Why, so suddenly?'

‘Well …'

‘Because you divulged something yourself?'

I turned. Blinked at her. ‘How did you know?'

‘I don't. I'm guessing. But, often, people don't question a secret if they have one themselves. But now that you've shared yours, you feel you have a perfect right to know his, is that it?' Her voice was uncharacteristically hard. I was startled.

‘No. No, of course not. I just –'

‘And now that your mother's deserting you, you want to clutch at another security blanket. You need to be sure of
James. You don't want this loose end. You want to claw something back, for you. Have all of him.'

I stared, shocked. Her expression was not one I recognized. It was tough. Unfriendly. All of a sudden, though, it collapsed back into the Rachel I knew.

‘Sorry. I didn't mean that, Flora. Well … I did, and I didn't. I didn't mean it to sound so harsh.'

I gulped. Nodded. ‘No. But … God. You're right, I suppose. I do feel a bit like that. A bit quid pro quo. A bit – now it's your turn. And I am upset about Mum. I hadn't analysed it to that extent. I suppose I am being a bit desperate.' My breath was becoming shallower. ‘And I shouldn't be asking you, Rachel. It's James's secret and, if he doesn't want to tell me, I've no business going around his back. No business –'

‘Except, it's my secret, too,' she interrupted.

I held my tongue. Held my breath, too. In the still night air, the cicadas paused in their chattering, and it seemed to me that, should a feather drop from a passing night owl, should a field mouse scuttle by, I'd hear it.

‘And the thing is, Flora, I've always thought that one day you would know. That it was really just a question of time. A question of when. And I imagine that moment's arrived.'

We sat in silence for a moment before Rachel spoke again. At length, she cleared her throat. Her tone, as she went on, was contemplative, reflective.

‘D'you find, as you get older, Flora, that you're more accepting of others? Their foibles and habits? Faults, even?'

I blinked, wrong-footed. ‘Up to a point, yes. I try to be less judgemental, if that's what you mean.'

‘I think it is. When you're young, everything is so black and white. So categorical. People are honest or dishonest. Trustworthy or unreliable. Good or bad. And, once that label is there, it sticks. We press it down hard with the heel of our hand. But I'd like to think I've become more accepting – more realistic, anyway – as I've got older.'

It occurred to me to think Rachel had never been anything other. At least, that was how she presented to the world. It was me who was quick to judge, to proclaim on someone.

‘You've always been generous-spirited, Rachel.'

‘No, I haven't. I was very hard on Mummy.'

I glanced at her. I'd never heard her say that. Only refer to her as ‘our mother'.

‘She was not so terribly different to your mother, Flora.'

I must have looked shocked: felt it, too.

‘Who is completely delightful and enchanting,' she went
on quickly. ‘Which Mummy wasn't, always. I'm just saying, there were some similarities. Both high-spirited women, young at heart – young, full stop, in my mother's case. Light-hearted. Fun. I was serious-minded and bookish. And I minded very much about her frivolity, as I saw it then. I was hard on her.'

‘You were very young,' I reminded her.

‘Yes. But I was … priggish. I hope I'm less so, now.'

It occurred to me that a young, bespectacled Rachel in dreary clothes and constantly with her nose in a book could have been described so.

‘Sally was more like Mummy. But I was so disapproving, I even turned Sally against her. A bit. And Sally always looked up to me. Sally would say – Oh, but it's so dull here, Rachel, we know that. Mummy dresses up to go into town occasionally, to have some fun, buy clothes and have her hair done, just because she's bored: what's wrong with that? But I told her it was more than that. That she was staying out late, drinking with local men. Coming back very drunk in the small hours. Driving whilst drunk.'

‘Which she was,' I reminded her.

‘Yes, but I could have protected Mummy more. I told James, too. Went on about it. In a way, I think I poisoned them against her.'

‘But she was out of control, Rachel. You had good reason. And why should you shoulder all that knowledge yourself?'

‘Some older sisters might have done. But we were alone a lot in that cold, echoing place and, sometimes, stories were our only company. And, don't forget, I read a lot. Lived through stories, really. So I'd embellish. Say she was
a disgrace, even though, on that particular day, she might only have been seeing a girlfriend for supper. My imagination ran riot. And Mummy and I didn't get on. I adored my father and hated his sadness. But … there were only two people in that marriage. I shouldn't have got involved. Shouldn't have taken sides. It was for them to work out.'

I shrugged. ‘OK, but I think it's inevitable. Eldest child, you love them both, but side more with one –'

‘Yes, but I didn't really,' she interrupted. She twisted round on the bench to face me. ‘Love them both. I came to hate Mummy, and I idolized my father.'

I waited. Wondered what was coming.

‘The night that … Mummy went into town, I told them about Darren, the builder she was seeing.'

‘Told who?'

‘James and Sally. Upstairs in my bedroom. Aunt Sarah's old room. We were all under the bedclothes, hugging our knees in the dark in that huge, spooky room, which hadn't been decorated since Daddy's childhood, with the big brass bed. I told them she was sleeping with another man.'

‘Which she was.'

‘I … don't know.'

She looked scared for a minute.

‘Well, Rachel, everyone in the village said she was, it all came out in court. Darren's wife said so. It was in the paper I found.'

‘Yes. It's just, I didn't know for sure. I was guessing. And came down against her. In a child's mind, that is obviously the ultimate treachery. One parent cheating on the other. Your mother sleeping with someone other than your father. They were incredibly shocked. Sally sobbed. She
was only eleven. James shook, I remember. Physically shook with rage. Sally and I had to hold him. He went so white. I hurt him very badly. Couldn't have hurt him more if I'd stabbed him.'

I gazed at her, imagining it. Three children in their nightclothes, huddled together in bed.

‘Anyway, that was the night Daddy got so drunk. I went down to the kitchen and tried to take the bottle away from him, but he wouldn't have it. Just sat there at the table with his whisky, staring at the door, waiting for her to come in. I went back upstairs and told James and Sally how upset he was, and nobody went to bed that night. We sat on my bed, frightened, in the dark. Squished together, still holding James, who was trembling.

‘But you went to sleep eventually? I thought –'

‘No.'

Thought the shot had wakened them, I was about to say. That's what I'd been told. I stared at her.

‘Eventually, we heard the car, coming up the drive. I got out of bed and ran to the window. I remember seeing her get out of the car, staggering about. James was beside me. We saw her swaying in her high heels, which she took off. She was barefoot as she approached, clothes all askew. Sally was still crying quietly in the bed. We watched as she came stumbling, giggling even, towards the house. James was completely rigid beside me. Then we heard her come in. Obviously, she tried to creep in the back door to the kitchen, but she was met by a terrible roar from my father. We clutched each other as we waited for what would happen next. Daddy called her all the names under the sun – a whore, a tart, an adulterer, a cheap and trashy
tramp. Mummy was shrill, defensive at first, but then derisive – abusive even. Very drunk. She was caustic and cutting. I remember hearing, ‘Compared to you,
old man.
'

Then we heard a scuffle. We ran to the landing. James and I fled along the passageway and down the back stairs to the kitchen. They were fighting in there, really fighting. Wrestling. I remember racing to separate them and, as I did, I passed Daddy's gun, at the foot of the stairs, which was unusual. It was always in the gun safe, always – he was meticulous about that. But the fox had been prowling round the chickens the last few nights. He, or James, had put it there for easy access.'

‘James doesn't shoot.'

‘He did. Loved it. Rabbits, pheasants. Grouse, even. I saw James glance at it, too, but for longer than I did. Really stare.'

Oh dear God. I went cold.

‘I don't remember much of what happened next, because I was so intent on separating them. Daddy had a hand round Mummy's throat and her knee was up in his groin. Daddy gasped in pain and I remember pushing him back hard, in the chest. He let go of Mummy, but she still had his hair. Chunks came out in her hands, but I managed to push them apart and give Daddy a superhuman shove, back against the wall. And then a shot rang out.'

Both hands flew to my mouth in horror.

‘But how – it was Drummond!'

‘No.'

I gazed at her. ‘James shot his mother?' I breathed. ‘Jesus Christ, Rachel – it was James?'

She stared back at me, her face like porcelain in the
darkness. ‘Mummy was face up on the floor, arms and legs splayed out, blood gushing out of her mouth. Pumping. Her chest was covered in blood, too – soaked. At the foot of the stairs was Sally, in her pink nightie. The gun was in her hands.'

I went silent in horror. When I came to, both my hands were clamped over my mouth. At length, I extracted them. ‘
Sally
shot her?'

‘Yes. James was frozen, still halfway down the stairs. I'd thought he was behind me. Had felt someone on my heels. But it was Sally. It was her glance I'd felt rest on the gun and, in the confusion, I thought it was James.' She swallowed. ‘There was a moment when we were all suspended in time like that. The entire family, in the kitchen, in total shock and disbelief. And then the whole scene came to life. Jerked horribly back into action. Although, bits of it, I've blanked. I remember Daddy rushing to Mummy, bending over her, but there was so much blood. He was slipping in it. An unbelievable amount of blood. I remember lots and lots of screaming. Me, I think, mostly. Hysterical. James was still frozen. Then I remember Daddy taking the gun from Sally, who'd lowered it but still had it in her hands. He wiped it with a tea towel. Then he clutched it hard, before tossing it aside. I remember him dashing for the telephone. Ringing the police, the ambulance. Saying there'd been a terrible accident, to come quick. Then I remember him breathing very hoarsely, like a death rattle, herding us back up the stairs, to my bedroom.

‘Up,
up!
Go! Quick!'

We ran to my room. Away from Mummy. Terrified. And, once he'd shut the door on us, he raced back down.
The police came very quickly, considering we were so remote. It all happened very fast. But they came by helicopter, you see, from Dundee. I remember it hovering outside the window, the trees all whipped up and important-looking, like something in an American movie, the long grass rustling as it landed. Daddy's footsteps were pounding up the stairs again. He flew in.

‘Is she dead? Is she dead?' I shrieked, knowing she was. I was hysterical. The other two were silent.

‘Yes, she's dead. The gun went off by mistake in my hands. I only meant to frighten her.'

I remember the three of us staring at him in the darkness, bewildered.

‘But …'

‘Yes, that's right, went off in my hands.'

‘But – you didn't have the gun, Daddy.'

‘I did, I had the gun. Remember that. If you do anything for me this night, you'll remember that. Rachel?'

‘Yes, Daddy.'

‘James?'

‘Yes, Daddy.'

‘Sally?'

‘Yes, Daddy.'

She shuddered. ‘None of us will ever forget that. As the police banged on the front door, down he went. And there we stayed, huddled and terrified, as I, Daddy's natural supporter, rammed it home. Sally, in prison? Unthinkable. Of course, I didn't know that might not have happened.'

‘Daddy shot her by accident, yes, James?'

‘Yes.'

‘Sally?'

‘Yes.'

We
were so scared.

A kind policewoman came up, and we were wrapped in blankets and helped downstairs. Sally was carried. We were taken down the front stairs, not the back ones to the kitchen, but outside to the front drive. We passed Mummy, on a stretcher. She was covered in a blanket, about to be taken to the helicopter. I remember her face. There was no blood on it now, it was pure white above the red blanket. Daddy was talking to a policeman. We were driven away in a car. After that, it's all a bit of a blur. At the police station, we all told the same story. We were in shock, deep shock, and doing exactly as we'd been told, which was something we'd always done. We always obeyed my father. Never questioned him.'

She breathed deeply: gave herself a moment. ‘And then we went to Aunt Sarah's, in Kent. She came and got us. And it all became sort of … surreal. Otherworldly. As if we'd simply come to stay, which, of course, we never did. In this nice, creamy, Edwardian house in a row of other houses outside Tunbridge Wells, with a big back garden and a cedar tree. It was as if … nothing had ever happened. I remember one day, at teatime, our cousin Paul said something about Scotland, and Aunt Sarah shot him such a look. It was never, ever mentioned again. It was as if our parents had been airbrushed from our lives. We even went to school with Paul and Anne for a couple of months. No mobiles, of course, in those days, and I don't even remember us talking to Daddy on the phone. Perhaps we did. I don't know. As I say, I've blanked a lot.'

I stayed very still.

‘After
that, of course, there was the court case. They decided not to put us in the dock, not to question us further, since my father had made a full confession. The gun had been there for the fox – of course, it shouldn't have been loaded, or out of the safe, he was genuinely culpable in that respect – and in the heat of the moment he'd grabbed it and it had gone off in his hands by accident. We thought he was going to be charged with manslaughter, and it was a terrible shock when they changed it to murder, which carries a mandatory life sentence. But life sentences vary – the shortest, at the time, being nine years, which Daddy got. I remember Aunt Sarah taking the phone call in the hall by the front door. We hadn't been allowed near the court in London, and no newspapers had been allowed in the house. I remember her coming back through and collapsing at the kitchen table.