by Imogen Clark
This thing with Melissa was merely an aberration on Charles’s part, Grace felt sure – a moment of madness, no doubt fuelled by the element of risk. That was him all over. He’d be seeing himself as a character fresh from the pages of Le Carré or Forsyth and in his excitement at the danger of it all, he would have forgotten exactly what was in jeopardy here. Put in that context, Grace was sure that Charles would choose her over Melissa. She and Charles had a history, their lives stitched so tightly together that they couldn’t just be wrenched apart by one foolish mistake. And they had children, for God’s sake. Surely he couldn’t ignore that?
But first, maybe she’d spend a few days with her sister Charlotte. She could lick her wounds and gather the strength she needed to put her plan into action. She was going to have to be brave and strong, and she could not be either until she had had the chance to scream and rage.
Grace drove back to the Hall through the spring sunshine and by the time she arrived she felt calm. This was a crisis, but she would get through it with grace and dignity, just like her mother had done. All she had to do was keep a steady mind and not let her emotions get the better of her.
40
CLIO – NOW
Clio didn’t think she would ever get used to their new reality. Her lovely, affable, vivacious, larger-than-life father was gone. It had been over two months now, but she couldn’t seem to make the idea of his death stick in her brain. She kept forgetting that it had happened. When she read something that she thought might interest him or make him laugh, she still made a mental note to tell him when she saw him, only to remember moments later that she would never see him again. It was so painful, this process of constantly having to remind herself of the horrible truth.
Living at the Hall didn’t help, either. Maybe if she had a more normal existence away from the home that she’d grown up in, there might not have been so many reminders to ambush her. As it was, there wasn’t a corner of the house or gardens that didn’t have some memory of her father attached to it. Sometimes the recollections were so very strong that she almost felt them physically strike her, and she would have to stop what she was doing and wait until she had regained her equilibrium before she moved on.
And as if the unexpected death of her beloved father wasn’t enough for her to deal with, she also had to find a way through the rest of it. Slowly she had been joining the pieces of the puzzle together until she felt like she was starting to see the whole picture. The trouble was that the more she saw the worse it became, and it hadn’t taken her long to work out that she was going to have to keep it to herself. There was no way that she could ever let her mother find out, nor Hector for that matter.
Had it been simple coincidence or a cruel twist of fate that made Clio the reluctant custodian of her father’s secret? She wasn’t sure which. Hector had gone outside to get away from the cloying air of the hospital’s family room, and her mother was occupied filling in forms as the next of kin, leaving Clio the only one there when the nurse arrived with the pitiful plastic bag containing her father’s possessions.
‘These are your father’s things,’ the nurse had said, making a decisive effort to look her directly in the eye. This connection had felt fake to Clio, as if the nurse was simply following the training manual rather than displaying any true empathy. Unexpected death occurred every day and Clio, it seemed, was just the latest in a long line of the bereaved who had to be dealt with. Clio resisted the urge to take the nurse by the shoulders and shake some genuine emotion into her. ‘My father is DEAD,’ she wanted to shout, but instead she accepted the clear zip-lock bag, taking care not to let her eyes fall on its contents.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and the nurse nodded and then retreated from the room as if she couldn’t get away quickly enough.
Clio looked down at the bag in her hand and her stomach lurched so badly that she thought she might be sick. Breathing deeply through her nose, she stuffed it into her handbag which she zipped tightly shut, as if that would make it all go away, like a child closing their eyes against the dark.
She hadn’t opened the handbag again until the following day and found the forgotten little bundle of her father’s possessions where she had buried it. Clio had readied herself for what was to come, making a cup of tea first and then sitting at her kitchen table, the plastic bag in front of her. She took a deep breath, opened the zip and slid the bag’s contents out on to the wooden surface.
There wasn’t much, just his watch and what had been in his pockets. The watch was Cartier, an anniversary gift from her mother. Clio picked it up. The leather strap had taken the shape of her father’s wrist and when she lifted it to her face she could still smell the woody trace of his aftershave. Clio let her tears fall unchecked – there was no one here to be brave for.
The bag also contained a handful of change and a pristine white cotton handkerchief pressed into a neat square. It was perfectly plain. Clio had once had some monogrammed for her father as a gift for Christmas, but she had rarely seen him use them. He said that they were too precious to blow his nose on and had continued to use the plain white ones.
Finally, there had been a battered little blue book. It was small enough to fit into a breast pocket and the cover, made of butter-soft leather, had curved slightly as if it had always been kept close to his person. Its corners were bent and the pages had yellowed with age. It had certainly been well used, possibly well loved.
Clio had assumed it was an address book as it was too ancient to be a diary, but when she opened it, it was a notebook. Seeing her father’s extravagant lettering and knowing that he would never write another word was almost too painful for her to bear. How did people get through the death of their loved ones unscathed? It felt like an impossible task to her, and one that she was totally unprepared for.
She flicked through the notebook’s creamy pages. Her father did seem to have used it as a diary of sorts. Her thumb stopped at a page headed 1992. There was a list of the orchestra’s concert dates and where they were to take place. Under that, her father had copied out the Grand Prix schedule for the year. Clio vaguely remembered that her father had once been fond of the Grand Prix, but he hadn’t shown any interest in it for well over a decade before he died. She had almost forgotten how he would disappear off at the weekends to watch some race or other. She had suggested more than once that he might take her and Hector with him, but there was always some reason why that wouldn’t have worked. Clio had had the impression that it was more that her father didn’t want them with him, that it was something he preferred to do on his own.
There were similar sections for other years, each with orchestra schedules, Grand Prix fixtures and dates of their family holidays. Pages and pages of dates and entries written in her father’s flowing hand.
Clio continued to flick through the book. Another page was headed ‘Important Dates’. The first one read ‘15 January 1981 – Married to Grace’. Clio smiled to herself. What a strange way to refer to his wedding. She would have written Wedding Day or Wedding Anniversary, although surely such an important day would have been etched into his memory without him having to record it. Maybe he had it listed for the sake of completeness, because below it there was her mother’s birthday and Hector’s, which surely he would never have forgotten either. Apparently, Melissa’s birthday was 13 May. Clio had no idea who Melissa was. Then another name she didn’t recognise – Leah, born 1 April 1984, came next. Poor child, Clio thought. An April fool. No doubt there had been endless teasing at school. Next came her own birthday – 25 September – but that date had a second entry next to it. It just said Melissa again, but this time her father had drawn a tiny heart. Clio stared at the little heart, trying to work out its significance, but nothing came to mind. It seemed off, though. Why did Melissa get a heart when that day was Clio’s birthday? Where was Clio’s little heart?
Clio knew the story of her birth. It had gone down in the annals of family folklore, how her father had been AWOL when her mother
had gone into labour, how he couldn’t be located and had missed the whole thing. When the story had been raised, always by her mother when her father had stepped out of line, it had been as a joke, but with just enough bitter resentment for Clio to recognise that her mother had never quite forgiven him. Now Clio wondered to herself: did her father’s absence have something to do with this tiny, hand-drawn heart?
Something had made Clio uneasy. It felt odd that her father had had this battered old notebook on him when he died, when the latest entry she could find related to 2002, over fifteen years earlier. It must have been so precious to him that he held it close. So precious . . . or so confidential?
Even though she had known that she was safe in her own home, Clio had looked over her shoulder just to check that she wasn’t being watched. She’d felt guilty, like a child who was up to no good and might get caught at any moment. Then, with her heart pumping harder, she had begun to work her way through the whole notebook, scrutinising every page for anything that might help explain what she was looking at, but nothing made things any clearer. Then, towards the back, she had found the address of a house in Whitley Bay, the address that had taken her to Leah.
What would her father have thought if he’d known that she and Leah were now friends, that Leah had been to the Hall? Clio hoped he would have liked that, although she wasn’t sure that she could second-guess how he might have reacted. In the past she would have been certain that she knew him well enough to know all his thoughts. Now she wasn’t so sure.
41
MELISSA – THEN
Melissa was planting some petunias in the front garden when the posh woman who was married to Ray’s brother turned up again. For a moment, Melissa had to dig deep into her memory to even work out where they had met before. It had been years since she had last visited. Leah had been, what, about five? She was eleven now, so it wasn’t really any surprise that Melissa’s memory was kind of hazy.
Then Melissa remembered that she wasn’t meant to let her into the house. Ray had been adamant about that. This woman was married to the man who had refused to pay for life-saving drugs for Ray’s dad, and for that she was never to be forgiven. The subject had never come up again in the intervening years, but Melissa could still remember how vehement Ray’s reaction had been as he related the story. Melissa also recalled how it hadn’t seemed entirely fair to taint the woman with the actions of her man, especially when she was far too nice to have played any part in what he’d done.
So, Melissa thought, she wasn’t supposed to let the woman into the house, but as she was currently in the front garden she wouldn’t be disobeying Ray. Also, Leah was at school, and if she didn’t tell her daddy about their visitor how would he ever know? Melissa saw the net curtains at number 7 flicker at the arrival of someone new. She gave the neighbour a little wave, just to show she knew she was there, and then turned her attention back to the woman.
She was beautifully dressed in a cream trouser suit with a navy-blue scarf at her neck, and was carrying a handbag that Melissa had seen in a magazine. The passing years hadn’t been kind to her, though. Melissa thought she looked a lot more than five years older. Her hair, pulled back into a flyaway chignon, was more grey than brown now, and Melissa was proud that her own face had far fewer wrinkles than her visitor’s, even though they must have been a similar age. Melissa had to admit to carrying a little bit more weight, though.
‘Hello, Melissa,’ said the woman. ‘Do you remember me?’ She gave Melissa a little half-smile as if she wasn’t feeling entirely sure of herself.
‘Yes. It’s Grace, isn’t it?’ Melissa said, the name flying back into her mind the second she needed it. ‘You’re the one married to Ray’s brother.’
Melissa had to speak to her. It would be rude not to, especially when she’d come all this way and was standing right outside her house. And anyway, what harm could come from being civil? After all, whatever the problem was, it was between Ray and Charles, not the two of them.
‘It’s been a long time,’ Melissa added, making an effort not to sound accusatory because there had been no obligation on either side.
The woman nodded. ‘About five years, I think,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’m not quite sure where the time went. Anyway, I was passing and, well . . .’ She shrugged, letting the rest of her unlikely explanation hang in the air. Melissa thought it was highly doubtful that she had been passing. There was nowhere to pass to unless you fancied a swim.
‘I’ve brought biscuits,’ Grace said, holding up a packet of digestives. They were proper McVitie’s ones, not the supermarket own brand that Melissa usually bought. Grace handed them to her. A well-intended peace offering.
Melissa took them. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
Grace looked so sad, Melissa thought. All the sparkle that had radiated from her the last time she’d visited seemed to have eked away, and Melissa could feel sympathy for her welling up. Whatever Charles had done was in the past and couldn’t be changed, but Grace looked broken and in need of her friendship right now.
Melissa turned back towards where she knew her neighbour was watching and glared at the curtains. A shadowy shape moved away from the window.
‘Shall I stick the kettle on?’ she asked, and Grace smiled with such gratitude that Melissa thought she might actually cry. ‘You’d better come in, pet,’ she added recklessly, flicking the compost from her hands and standing up. ‘We can make a dint in these biscuits and you can tell me how life’s been treating you.’
Melissa led Grace inside and into the lounge whilst she went to make the tea. Her heart was beating a little faster than normal as she thought about the risk she was taking, but she was more excited by her daring than scared. She was sure there was a story to be told. Why else would Grace show up now, looking so woebegone? Well, she’d never find out if she kept skulking around in the kitchen. Melissa picked up the mugs of tea and headed into the lounge.
‘Here we are,’ she said in a voice that sounded overly cheerful, even to her. She put the tea down on the table, sat in a chair opposite Grace and tore open the digestives. ‘So,’ she said, biting into a biscuit. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Well, thank you,’ said Grace. ‘And you?’
‘Grand,’ said Melissa. ‘I don’t know where the time’s gone. Leah’s gone up to the high school now. She’s getting on great. Far better than I did there, anyway. She’s a bright kid and she’s dead determined. Not sure where she gets that from, like.’ Melissa felt her cheeks grow pink with shame at her lack of education in front of Grace, who had clearly made a better stab at school than she had. ‘Not me, that’s for sure. I’m happy going with the flow. But Leah? I reckon she’s going to make something of herself.’
It was nice to have someone to talk to about Leah. None of her own friends rated school that highly, so being keen wasn’t seen as anything to be particularly proud of.
‘How’s your little girl?’ Melissa scrabbled about for her name, but nothing came. It was something weird; that was all she could remember.
‘Clio?’ replied Grace. ‘She’s doing well, thank you. She misses her brother . . .’
Melissa was confused. Had he died? Was that why Grace seemed so broken? The thoughts must have shown on her face, because Grace clarified.
‘He’s away at school now. He only comes home a couple of times a term. I think Clio gets a bit lonely without him.’
‘Boarding school, like?’ asked Melissa. Who sent their kid to boarding school? Rich people and Tory politicians, as far as Melissa knew.
Grace nodded. ‘His father, well, Charles, he wanted him to go to boarding school.’
‘Ooh, I’d hate that,’ said Melissa. ‘I’d never let Ray send our Leah away. How old is he? It must break your heart every time he goes.’
Grace nodded again. ‘Yes. It does. But he’s thirteen and all his friends are there. Hector doesn’t mind at all. In fact, he likes it, but it’s hard for Clio.’
They must be loaded, thought Mel
issa. Boarding schools cost a fortune. No wonder Ray had been so cross that Charles hadn’t stumped up for the drugs for their dad. She was about to ask what Charles did for a job, but she stopped herself just in time. She didn’t want to get into talking about Charles because that would remind her of the promise she’d made to Ray about not letting Grace into the house, and then she’d feel bad. She was enjoying their chat and didn’t want anything to spoil it.
‘Why doesn’t Clio go to boarding school?’ she asked.
‘She’d rather stay at home,’ replied Grace simply. ‘My old school is open to day girls, so she attends there.’
‘So that’s like where Leah goes, then?’ said Melissa, feeling on slightly more familiar ground.
Grace opened her mouth to explain, but then seemed to change her mind. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just like Leah. Is that Leah now?’ she added, pointing up at Leah’s school photo that was sitting on the mantelpiece amongst a cloud of other pictures.
Melissa nodded. The pictures told the story of Leah’s life so far. On a couple she had gappy smiles where her baby teeth had been lost. On another, only one plait was fastened up, the hair on the opposite side of her face hanging loose. Melissa wasn’t sure why she’d kept that one, other than that it made her smile. On the most recent photo Leah was staring directly into the lens as if daring the camera to take a bad shot.
‘She’s growing into a beautiful young woman,’ said Grace. ‘You must be very proud of her.’