by Sarah Mason
Since Barney is working this evening my mother recruits Sam to have supper with us. He arrives about six, still wearing his suit so he must have come straight from work.
“Sorry we've got to eat so early but Sorrel has a rehearsal scheduled for eight o'clock,” my father tells him.
He smiles at her. “No problem. In fact, I might come down and watch tonight.”
“I'll come too!” I put in eagerly, anxious not to be left alone with Emma, who has been resting in her room since she returned from her seaside trip.
“So how was the afternoon?” I ask my father cautiously.
“Yes, what did she tell you?” my mother rejoins, obviously feeling utterly frustrated. She thinks she is the last in the family to be told Emma's story and it is clearly irritating the hell out of her. Not to mention the fact that my father has banned her from smoking in front of Emma because of the baby.
“She didn't tell me anything because I didn't ask her. People are entitled to their privacy.”
“Not in this house,” snorts my mother and lights up a cigarette. “Someone has to tell me soon. God, it's not even as though I can ply her with drink. You must have found something out during that car journey of yours, Sam.”
Sam loosens his tie. “Not a thing, Sorrel. She slept for most of it.”
“Well at least tell me who the father of her child is, Clemmie. Is it someone terrible? Like an archbishop or something?”
“His name is Martin Connelly.”
My mother looks terribly let down that the reality isn't as exciting as her overactive imagination.
“He's the madman who has been chasing her.”
She looks rather confused by this. As well she might. “So the madman found her?”
“Well, no. Not yet.”
“Then how did she get pregnant by him?”
I'm tempted to say via second class post and a turkey baster but firmly desist, for the purely selfish reason that I will completely confuse her and then never hear the end of it. “This was before she disappeared.”
“Before he became a madman?”
“Well, he was always a madman.”
“So she slept with this madman?”
“Yes, but before she knew he was mad.”
“How did she find out?”
“Well, I presume she did one of those tests, you know where you wee on—”
“No, when did she find out that he was a madman?”
“He always was one.”
My mother puts a hand to her head and is about to attempt more questioning when Holly returns from calling James. She looks despondent.
“How was James?” I ask.
“Still mad. Emma is going to be staying with us for a few more days and then we're escorting her to meet these people her father is sending her to.”
“Doesn't Sir Christopher want to take her?”
“I think he's worried Martin will try to follow him or something. I suppose it's pretty important that this final destination stays secret. Besides, I want to try to show James that I'm making up for the trouble I caused. Will you come with me, Clemmie?”
“Of course,” I say automatically, feeling really sorry for her. I'm sure Mr. Trevesky will agree to just one more day off. “Where do they live?”
“In France.”
“France?”
“They're French.”
“In France?” I repeat again.
“That's where the French live, Clemmie,” puts in Sam. “Awfully inconvenient, I know. Brighton would be easier but there you are. That's the French for you.”
I shoot Sam an evil look and then turn back to Holly. “You said we would take her to France? How on earth are we going to do that?”
“James says that Sir Christopher will try to organize some flights for us.”
“But I'm not sure I can get the time off work. I thought you meant we would drop her in Suffolk or something.”
“Please, Clemmie,” says Holly pleadingly. “I've already said to James that you will help, please come. It should only take two days; we might even be able to get there and back in a day. Besides, you speak French and everything.”
“Couldn't we bung her on a plane here and let the people meet her at the other end?”
Holly looks miserable. “I just thought we're morally responsible for her, and if James sees that I'm doing everything I can to help her then . . .”
“Okay, okay. I'll ask Mr. Trevesky tomorrow. He won't be too pleased, although Wayne will be thrilled, but I suppose I can always get another waitressing job.”
“How exciting! Your father and I could come too, Holly. For moral support. We can pay for our own flights,” announces my mother. “You know I adore France. Besides, I'm practically a local.” My mother can barely ask for a loaf of bread in French so I'm not quite sure what she is basing this on but I am very pleased to have them along nonetheless.
“What about Calamity Jane?” I ask.
“Well, we were going to have a few days off anyway. Catherine Fothersby is going for a walking holiday or something and I can leave Matt in charge.”
“Oh, thank you,” says Holly joyfully. “I'll call James and tell him. We can all fly over together.”
“Whereabouts in France?” asks Sam.
“Down in the south somewhere. James didn't say where exactly. I'll go and tell Emma too. She'll be pleased that something has been sorted.”
Chapter Thirteen
Over dinner and a sneaky white wine spritzer that my mother manages to coax Emma to drink, she, my father and Sam hear Emma's story for the first time and I think they are suitably shocked. Well, at least Sam and my father are. In fact, when Sam, my mother, Morgan and I walk down to watch the Calamity Jane rehearsal, Sam can talk of nothing else apart from how sorry he feels for Emma. Holly has opted to stay at home as I think she is feeling far too depressed about James to face the am dram society.
Emma didn't seem at all surprised that we're off to France so she must have been abreast of the plan all along. You know, I do feel really sorry for her. I think of how she was planning to marry the man she loves and then the next minute she's pregnant, her fiancé's turned out to be a lunatic and she's being packed off abroad. That's pretty tough. But then she does something really aggravating and all my sympathy evaporates within about a millisecond. For instance, she has taken an extreme dislike to all the animals. Now, I know this is hypocritical of me because I am hardly a founder member of the Norman and Morgan fan club but at least they are family and I have a completely legitimate right to dislike them. Emma has developed a nasty habit of snitching on them, so she'll squeal loudly that Morgan has been jumping up at her when she has probably been baiting him with bits of bacon. I might have to tell her that Morgan will pee on her if she stands still too long.
I watch Morgan's baboonlike bottom as he disappears into the darkness in front of us. Yet again I have had to take charge of the torch because every time my mother wants to make a point about Emma and her story, she waves it madly around.
“My God, I wonder how she must feel about having his child,” Sam is saying.
“Well, I don't think Charlie, I mean Martin, is like Dr. Crippen or anything. The child isn't going to inherit bad genes. If you know about the case then I think Martin had a really raw deal in all this.”
“I remember the case really well and I agree with you, I think the system was very harsh on him, but what he has done to Emma cannot be excused. How on earth did you and Holly get mixed up in this?”
“It was all Holly,” I announce again.
“Well, she is a reporter,” says my mother idly. “I suppose it's an occupational hazard.”
“She probably thought she was helping,” Sam adds as an afterthought.
God, he has such a soft spot for Holly. He's always sticking up for her. The best you can say after he's finished with me is that I've never set fire to anything or run anyone over.
I open the village hall door rather grumpily and we all wa
ltz in. The cast are waiting for us apart from the ever tardy Bradley. Catherine Fothersby is looking angelic in a baby pink angora twinset and keeps making google eyes at Matt the vicar, whereas Sally is a far more welcoming sight in jeans and a tatty jumper that I think used to be Barney's. Matt looks absolutely thrilled to see us, but then he has probably been stuck with Catherine's theological account of St. John's scriptures or something. He strides forward to grasp Sam's hand.
“Sam, so nice to see you! I haven't seen you for weeks, have you been working too hard again?”
“No more than usual, but how are you, Matt? Converted anyone lately?”
“Lord, no. I have problems enough with the ones I've got. We had a christening last week and the parents were adamant that I light this massive thirty-foot candle. Of course there were about a hundred little blighters running around who would insist on prodding it and I had to keep halting the service every time one came within about five feet of it. I found myself yelling ‘DON'T TOUCH THE CANDLE!' every other second.”
I laugh, my humor instantly restored by this twinkly eyed giant of a man.
“And how are you, young Clemmie?” he asks.
“Bearing up, Matt. Bearing up.”
“Family troubles?”
I try not to catch Sam's eye. “Nothing more than usual.”
“I thank the good Lord every day that I'm not related to them.” He grins widely.
“Any time you want to take them on you'll be more than welcome.”
We smile at each other again and then I move forward to greet Sally who I haven't seen since I left for Bristol. “How are you?” she greets me joyously. “How was Bristol?”
I am sorely tempted to tell her exactly how Bristol was but Holly threatened the wrath of James if I told anyone about Emma. This is enough to keep me quiet.
“Oh, fine, fine. Holly has come back here for a few days and she's brought a friend.”
“Holly is back too?” The village grapevine is fairly voracious and so it will only be a matter of time before the news spreads; already I can see that Catherine Fothersby has overheard and looks very interested as she bustles over to us.
“Did I hear you say that Holly is home, Clemmie?” she asks.
“Yes, and she brought a friend back too. You should meet her, Catherine!”
Thankfully our conversation is cut short because my mother starts to round them all up for the rehearsal.
Sally walks halfway to the back of the hall with me. “I really wish Catherine would just get on and shag Matt if that's what she wants to do. She is being such a pain in the arse at the moment,” she murmurs to me before she turns back to join them all on stage. You know, for someone in the choir, Sally can be really close to the bone sometimes.
Sam and I go to the back of the hall and sit down.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching as Bradley finally makes his entrance and then makes everyone switch seats as he says the draught from the door affects his voice.
“How's work?” I ask Sam hastily before we can begin another “where Clemmie has gone wrong in the Emma affair” conversation.
“We're busy which is great.”
“Is it?”
“When it's your own firm, busy is always great. Stops everyone from sloping off to the pub.” He smiles at me.
“Why do you assume everyone slopes off to the pub? We don't all have that attitude to work,” I bristle.
“Oh, come off it, Clemmie. I bugger off to the pub if we're not busy. We can't all be pillars of society like your good self.”
Oh. I calm down slightly. Here we go again. I always presume he's getting at me somehow, and then I go on the defensive and he lapses into flippant mode. This is why he kisses Holly hello and not me. I make a conscious effort to relax and think of something innocuous to say. Sam gets there before me.
“Are you looking forward to your trip to France?”
“I'm looking forward to getting rid of Emma.”
“That's a bit rough. She's having a shitty time.”
“I know, but she keeps snitching on Morgan for jumping up on the table.”
“Since when have you and Morgan had any love lost between you?”
“That's not the point.”
“Actually, it is really annoying, and I saw her trying to make him jump up for some cheese tonight. But you have to make allowances for her.”
“I have to say that I'm glad my parents are coming with us.”
“Well, you couldn't have gone without your mum. She wouldn't have let you.”
“At least Morgan won't be with us,” I say, thinking of our last French trip.
“Barney or I will take him in.”
“There's Norman too, don't forget.”
“Well, I'll take Morgan then,” says Sam hastily.
“I just want things to get back to normal.”
“And what is normal for you, Clemmie?”
I look at him suspiciously. Usually this would be the precursor to a huge row, but he's looking at me in quite a friendly fashion and so I relax a bit.
“Work, family, I suppose.”
“Are you going to keep on at Mr. Trevesky's café?”
“I might. I don't know. Why? What's wrong with Mr. Trevesky's café?”
“Nothing, nothing. I just thought you might try to get back into the art business.”
“I can't seem to find anything.”
“Would you join another insurance company?”
I really wish he wouldn't keep saying I work for an insurance company but I make a magnanimous effort to rise above it. “It's finding another firm, they're a bit thin on the ground. I might have to go to London and I think I would quite like to stay in Cornwall. I haven't really had a chance to look yet. Why?”
“I just wondered if you were still getting over Seth and that's what was stopping you,” he says quietly.
There's a silence and I shift position in my seat. I feel vaguely annoyed by the presumption behind his question, as though he's trying to father me or something. I watch Sally and Bradley pretend to be madly in love with each other. Bradley, who is as gay as coot (my father's expression and I'm not sure exactly what he knows about coots), keeps trying to unhook Sally's bra so she is acting the entire scene with her arms pinned to her sides. I smile.
“Is it, Clemmie?” asks Sam again, gently.
“No, Sam. I'm not still getting over Seth. I really am looking for a new job.” I turn and look him squarely in the eye. I try to turn the tables. “What about you? Do you prefer it down here in Cornwall? I mean, you weren't tempted to stay in London?”
I remember thinking how strange it was that Sam returned to Cornwall. He had been so adamant about going up to London, and we all wondered at the time whether this was because his parents had lived there. After all, Sam was only brought up in Cornwall by default; this was where his aunt was living at the time of his parents' car accident.
Sam looks down at his hands. “Not really,” he replies shortly and looks straight ahead.
Hmm. There is something slightly intriguing here and I can't quite put my finger on it. Ha! Mr. I'm-so-sorted-in-my-own-life-I'm-going-to-make-a-video-about-it. Sam had put his aunt's house on the market before he left, was about to exchange contracts with someone and then simply called the whole thing off. He never said a word about why he'd decided to come back. Seth thought Sam simply couldn't hack the pace in the big city.
“So why did you come back from London?” I press.
“I just didn't get on there.” He still doesn't look at me.
“But you'd only been in your job a few months,” I say, smelling blood. “It was a really good job, wasn't it?”
“Yes, it was. It just wasn't for me. Haven't you done enough detecting for one week, Clemmie? Just leave it,” he says tersely.
I watch him for a couple more seconds and then think that he's right. I have done enough for this week, but one day I really would like to find out what exactly happened.
&n
bsp; We sit in silence for a few minutes and watch Sally gamely throwing herself into a rendition of “A Windy City” while Catherine sneaks looks at Matt when she thinks no one is watching. Morgan strolls up the aisle toward us, stops and stretches. He then looks at us as though he's never seen either of us before in his life and carries on with his inspection of the hall.
“Holly seems upset about James,” ventures Sam. “Is he really that mad with her?”
“Have you met James?” I ask out of curiosity.
“He came down here with Holly a couple of times while you were away. I like him but I imagine he can be quite tough when he wants to be.”
“They were moving in together, which my mother doesn't know by the way, and it doesn't look like it's going to happen now. Holly said he might take his flat off the market. He's pretty mad with her.”
“I suppose Holly put him in a tricky position with his work.”
“Well, he said that Martin hadn't done anything wrong legally so it wasn't an actual case.”
“God, Martin Connelly must be extremely pissed off to go to all this trouble.”
I remember the scene at the Gazette just before we left Bristol. “I think he is. Emma said her father received regular hate mail from him when he was in prison. Maybe he cooked up this little scheme then.”
“But he gets absolutely nothing out of it apart from pure revenge. No wonder James is mad with Holly for exposing Emma to him.”
“I think Sir Christopher has also been on James's case about Holly and . . .” I'm about to say “and me” but then realize that I don't really want my part in all this featured or preferably mentioned at all, “about Holly. He wanted to sue her and the paper.”
“You didn't feature in any of this, did you, Clemmie?”
“It was all Holly,” I announce firmly.
“Hmmm. So you keep saying.”
The next day is Saturday and although I have only been away from Mr. Trevesky's café for exactly seven days, it feels like a lifetime. Returning to work isn't a completely unwelcome thought because at least I can get out of the house and avoid any nasty run-ins with Emma or Norman. Since Emma's story, or Emmagate as my father likes to call it, emerged last night, sympathy for Emma in the Colshannon household has risen considerably, and has tailed off for Holly and Clemmie.