Change of Season

by Anna Jacobs

  ‘Jenny!’ He shook his elder daughter awake.

  She lay staring at him in surprise for a moment, then remembered Tim, sobbed and covered her swollen eyes with her arm.

  He shook her again. If he let her cry, she’d start him off, and he wasn’t, he definitely was not, going to parade his emotions like some sodding half-man of a poofter. ‘Where’s your mother gone? I can’t find her anywhere. And she’s taken my car.’

  Jenny had no trouble lying to him this time, she who normally blushed and stuttered if she even tried to fudge the truth slightly. ‘She’ll have gone to Harry’s, I expect. They’re good friends.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Harriet Destan.’

  Ah, he remembered now. Sister of the lord of the manor. ‘Well, she has no right to go out and leave us. No right at all. Fine way of showing her grief that is!’

  ‘It’s better than getting drunk and snoring!’

  ‘I do not snore.’

  ‘You were rotten drunk when Mum came back from identifying Tim yesterday afternoon and you were definitely snoring. Loudly.’ Like a hog, a disgusting hog.

  ‘Well, that’s neither here nor there. Get up and make me some breakfast.’

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Go and make your own damn breakfast. I’m not Mum, waiting on you hand and foot.’

  ‘Get up, I said!’ He hauled her out of bed.

  After an involuntary squeal of surprise, she resisted him, shouting and yelling.

  Then Ned was there, pushing past her father to stand between the two of them. ‘Leave her alone, you bully!’

  ‘Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house anyway?’

  Jenny clutched Ned’s hand. ‘He’s here at my invitation. This is Ned Didburin. We’re engaged.’

  ‘Well, well. I only had a drink to blur my grief, but you brought someone round here to screw your troubles away.’

  Whereupon Ned, peaceful, unaggressive Ned, punched him on the jaw.

  And Paul, unprepared for anyone so wimpy-looking to stand up to him, rocketed backwards, crashed into the door frame and overbalanced, to fall sprawling on the landing floor. He lay for a moment, grunting, shaking his head.

  Louise, woken by the noise, stepped over him and arranged herself by her sister’s side. ‘What’s caused this?’

  ‘He wanted Mum. When he couldn’t find her, he ordered me to get up and make his breakfast. I didn’t happen to feel like waiting on him.’ Tears began to trickle out of Jenny’s eyes. ‘I wanted to stay here and pull myself together. So he tried to force me to get up. Then,’ she gulped audibly, ‘Ned came up to see what was happening and Dad accused me of screwing him to – to block out what happened to Tim.’

  ‘What a nasty sod he is!’

  Ned was still standing dumbfounded, gaping down at his fist, then goggling at Paul, who was pulling himself to his feet with an ugly expression on his face.

  Louise went to stand between them. ‘Get out of here, Dad. Jenny wants to get dressed.’

  ‘Oh? And is lover boy going to stay here and help her, then?’

  Louise raised her chin and took a step forward, nudging her sister aside and facing not only her father, but the years of fearing him. Staring him in the eyes, she said, ‘What Ned and Jenny do is none of your business.’

  Then she took her father by surprise by shoving him back out onto the landing before he realised what she was doing. ‘Leave them alone, Dad. If you need waiting on, I’ll come and make your breakfast for you.’

  Rosalind walked in just then and looked up as the door to Jenny’s room opened and Ned peered over the banisters.

  ‘Good morning, Ned. I’m glad you came over to be with Jenny.’ Rosalind ran lightly up the stairs and went to kiss Jenny, then Louise, who gave her a watery smile.

  Still with her arm round Louise, Rosalind turned to stare at her husband who was glaring at her.

  ‘I’ll just have a quick shower and change my clothes, Paul, then I’ll come and make your breakfast. We’ll leave Jenny and Louise to get up at their own pace.’

  He grunted something which might have been agreement and followed her into the master bedroom.

  She got out some clean clothes, the darkest garments she could find, though she owned nothing black. Pastels, she thought, looking along the neat row of hangars, they’re nearly all pastels. She had a sudden longing for jewel tones, for shiny fabrics and rich patterns, for clothes with more life to them.

  Paul flung himself into the small armchair in the bay window and watched her sourly. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘With friends.’

  She walked into the bathroom and locked the door on him, needing a few quiet moments to pull herself together.

  Paul sat down on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, rubbing his aching forehead, not sure what to do next.

  At a nod from the inspector, Constable Thelma Simpton knocked on the front door. They waited, but no one came.

  ‘Knock again!’ he ordered.

  Paul went to peer out of the window, muttering, ‘Oh, sod it. Can’t the bloody police leave us alone for a minute?’

  In the bathroom the water cut off abruptly. Wrapping a towel around herself, Rosalind went into the bedroom and joined Paul at the window. When he didn’t move, she pushed it further open and looked down at the police officers. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  The inspector cleared his throat. ‘Police here. Sorry to intrude on your grief again, Mrs Stevenson, but could we come in and speak to you?’ He gestured around him. ‘This place is a bit public for a discussion.’

  ‘The door’s not locked. I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed.’ Rosalind threw on her clothes at top speed and turned in surprise to Paul, who had flopped into the chair again and was sitting with his head in his hands. ‘Aren’t you coming down?’

  ‘In a minute. And for Christ’s sake, put some coffee on.’

  As she went downstairs, she saw the two police officers waiting in the hall.

  The inspector nodded. ‘Sorry to intrude.’

  ‘You have your job to do. Come through here.’ She led the way into the sitting room. ‘Sorry everything is in such a mess. We haven’t had time to clear up yet this morning.’

  He brightened. ‘Does that mean no one’s touched your son’s room?’

  ‘I don’t think they have.’

  Behind them Louise said, ‘No one’s been in Tim’s room except me, and I only stood in the doorway for a minute to see if he’d taken any money with him. Oh, and I think Dad went in when he was looking for Mum this morning.’ She went to link an arm in her mother’s.

  Rosalind clasped her daughter’s hand as it lay on her arm. Who would have expected Louise to be so steady and dependable in a crisis?

  Paul came clattering down the stairs to join them, his tight business expression back on his face, the front of his hair damp. But he was still wearing the same crumpled clothes and his face looked ravaged. That touched Rosalind’s heart a little. She couldn’t have borne it if he’d been unmoved by Tim’s death.

  ‘Would you mind if we checked your son’s room, Mrs Stevenson? We need to find out if he’s been storing drugs here.’

  Paul breathed in deeply. ‘Come upstairs. I’ll want to be there while you search Tim’s room.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, too,’ Rosalind added quietly. ‘I know more about my son’s possessions than my husband does. He didn’t see Tim this time.’ Alive or dead. And would presumably never see him again. None of them would. She felt the grief solidify in her chest as if ice was still building up. She couldn’t weep out her grief until it melted.

  ‘Very helpful of you, madam. We’re much obliged. If there’s anything my officers can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask.’

  There wasn’t, of course, but you said things like that to offer them comfort, make them feel you were on the ball – well, you said it to the nice ones, anyway.

  He sighed as he walked downstairs again. Th
ere had been nothing in the room to show that the boy was a junkie, but judging from the condition of his arms, he’d been well into the stuff, though not recently.

  Maybe it was time to take that early retirement he’d been offered after all. He’d seen too many grieving, bewildered families, people he’d wanted to help and couldn’t, because the accountants had got into everything and the talk nowadays was all of bottom lines and staying within budgets, instead of service to the public.

  When the inspector had left, Rosalind went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. Paul followed her and put his hand across the dialling pad. ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘Surely that can wait till after breakfast?’

  ‘I don’t want any breakfast. And I can’t face cooking.’ She pushed his hand aside and began to dial. ‘If you’re hungry, get something.’

  ‘I don’t know where anything is in this house.’

  ‘Try opening a few cupboard doors and looking. They’re not locked. Ah, Mum.’ Her voice was quite steady. ‘I have some very sad news, I’m afraid …’

  He watched her in disbelief as she told her mother about Tim, not weeping, speaking calmly, doing her best to console the older woman, whose sobbing was quite audible from where he stood.

  He looked at her in puzzlement. Ever since it happened, he’d been expecting Ros to collapse, give way to her grief, but she hadn’t done. He didn’t understand how she could be so strong about this when she was so weak about everything else.

  As for Tim – Paul stood still and fought yet again to contain his grief – as for Tim, well, that was over and done with. He didn’t have a son any more. You just had to get on with things. But he’d make sure his daughters didn’t go off the rails, by hell he would! And as for that chinless wimp Jenny said she was engaged to, they’d see about that. She was useless at picking men, absolutely useless.

  After the phone call, Ros went up to do her hair and calm herself in the en suite with the door locked. By the time she came down again, Paul had made himself some toast and instant coffee, and was crunching an apple. The sound was obscene.

  ‘The bathroom’s free,’ she told him and felt nothing but relief as he grunted an acknowledgement, took the plate of toast and went upstairs, not running as usual, but walking slowly and heavily.

  The phone rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ she called. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Harry here. I’m so very sorry to hear about Tim. Anything I can do to help, Rosalind?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you if I need you.’ She heard someone else breathing and realised that Paul was listening in, spying on her. Anger filled her for a moment.

  ‘You won’t hesitate to call on us?’

  ‘No, of course not. You and Jonathon have been good friends to me.’

  ‘I told Alice Tuffin you’d ring if you wanted her. She’d be happy to help, too. She says to tell you no charge.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Jonathon sends his love. I’m with him now. You sure you’re managing all right?’

  ‘Yes. Thank him for me. Bye now.’

  Upstairs, Paul frowned. Her voice had grown warm as she spoke to those damned friends of hers. But if this woman had to ring and ask how she was, Ros mustn’t have gone to see her last night. Where had she been, then? He pulled his clothes off, leaving them scattered across the floor, and took a very long shower, emerging in better control of himself, thank goodness.

  Downstairs Rosalind brewed some more coffee, taking a cup upstairs to Jenny.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Showering.’

  Jenny looked towards the master bedroom. ‘We’ll come down now. Can I get Ned something to eat?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ Rosalind nodded to him. ‘I’m so glad Jenny’s got you, Ned.’ She felt warmed by the sight of their love. The lump of ice inside her cracked just a little at the way they were holding hands.

  Louise’s bedroom door opened. ‘All right if I go for a jog?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Don’t want to face Dad yet.’

  ‘Do whatever you want.’

  Louise hesitated, then came across to give her a hug. ‘I love you, Mum.’

  Rosalind’s composure slipped for a minute and the ice cracked still further. ‘I love you, too.’ Her voice came out husky and she had to blink away the tears.

  ‘Tim said I’d been a fool and he was right. I won’t let you down again, Mum. Or him.’

  ‘Good.’ Rosalind flicked away a tear, but it was followed by another. Funny what set you off. ‘You go for your run, love.’

  ‘Sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She still had Paul to face about the other thing. But she wasn’t going to have a confrontation about his infidelity with her son lying unburied.

  She was nearly sure now that she was going to leave him. But not till all this – this main trouble was over.

  It was a big decision to make. She couldn’t rush it, had to be very sure of what she was doing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Paul stared at Rosalind incredulously when she explained that Jenny and Ned had gone out for a while, and Louise had gone jogging.

  ‘At a time like this? Her brother dies and all Jenny is concerned about is being with lover boy. And who said they could get engaged? No one asked me.’

  Rosalind was getting tired of him yelling. She kept trying to tell herself that it was just his way of dealing with this tragedy, but it was a way that took no account of others’ needs. ‘She hasn’t been sleeping with him. He’s been here offering her comfort and support.’

  A nasty grin curved Paul’s mouth. ‘Don’t you believe it, Ros. I know all about that sort of comfort. He was in her bedroom, helping her to dress, for heaven’s sake. How you can be so incredibly naïve at your age, I can’t understand.’

  At least she wasn’t cruel to someone grieving.

  She nearly told him what she knew about him, but managed to turn away, taking several deep breaths. Not now. She’d promised herself not to do or say anything about their marriage until after the funeral. ‘I’m going out to the shops. We need something for tea.’ It’d be a relief to get away from him.

  ‘Why bother? We’ll go out somewhere for a meal tonight.’

  ‘You can go out, if you want. I shan’t. There’s only the local pub to go to, anyway.’ Rosalind didn’t want to face a sea of sympathetic faces.

  ‘Well, all right, but be quick. I’ll stay here in case the police want anything else.’

  As if she needed his permission to go shopping!

  In the convenience store the staff and other customers left her alone, except for bobs of the head and sympathetic murmurs as they passed her. They didn’t seem to expect a response, for which she was grateful. She slung food into the trolley as quickly as she could and when she was waved to the head of the small queue, she nodded her thanks, but didn’t speak or make eye contact with anyone.

  Back at the house, she put the groceries away and stayed in the kitchen wondering what to do with herself.

  Paul came into the kitchen. ‘Fancy making us a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No.’ If she did that, he’d expect her to join him, and then she might blurt something out, like, Was Liz a better screw than me? She went upstairs to her embroidery.

  When she saw what had happened there, however, she stopped dead, then rage boiled up in her, absolutely boiled. Paul had taken out his feelings on her things. ‘Oh, you bastard!’ she muttered under her breath. ‘You nasty, rotten bastard!’

  She went first to pick up the broken frame from the floor in the corner, checking every inch of the family embroidery carefully and breathing a sigh of relief when she found it intact. Had he even noticed the picture? Surely he’d have said something if he had, because his figure was very prominent in it, very recognisable and not at all flattering. No, he must just have hit out in blind fury.

  She was picking up her skeins of thread when he poked his head in the doorway. She turned
to look at him and said loudly, ‘If you ever touch my embroidery things again, I’ll make interesting patterns on your business suits with my scissors.’

  He scowled at her, the apology he had intended to make dying in his throat. ‘I might have known you’d come here. You’re sick, do you know that? Stuck in a bloody time warp, spending your life on an outmoded pastime that no one respects nowadays.’ He slammed the door behind him.

  Rosalind sat on the floor looking at her sketch of Tim, which had drifted under the worktable. I’ll do you justice, love, she thought. I really will. If I have to redo your figure a hundred times.

  But she didn’t have to. She mended the embroidery frame with insulation tape, then worked on her son’s head. As it took shape, it turned into Tim, giving her his half-smile, looking rebellious, yet lost and afraid in a hostile world. A few tears fell and the ice that was weighing down her chest cracked a bit more.

  She needed to finish the family embroidery, even though she knew she would never be able to hang it on the wall. It was too full of pain. All their pain.

  But she needed to know.

  That afternoon she rang up the police station. ‘I was wondering how soon we can bury our son?’

  ‘Have to be a post-mortem, even though we know what he died of. Sorry about that, madam. Say three days, four at most. The undertakers will know what to do if you tell them what’s happened. Munham’s in Wareham is well thought of.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Paul came out of the living room. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Three or four days. There’ll have to be a post-mortem.’

  She started up the stairs.

  ‘Is that all you’re going to do? Sit and bloody embroider? Your son lies dead and you fiddle with embroidery silks?’

  She paused only long enough to say, ‘It’s better than quarrelling, don’t you think? If you want something to do with yourself, go and book the funeral.’ She didn’t care about the details. They were irrelevant. However they did it, it would be her son they were burying.