A Banquet of Consequences

by Elizabeth George

  She said, “Oh my dears . . . I’m so delighted . . .” as she looked from one of them to the other, her hand reaching out to grasp Charlie’s arm. It came to him that she thought a ceremony was about to take place that would once again tie him and India together, perhaps a renewal of their wedding vows, although God only knew why they’d choose Shaftesbury for such a moment. Yet her conclusion wasn’t entirely unthinkable, he realised, for the white canopy alone, not to mention the arrangement of chairs, certainly suggested something of a matrimonial nature.

  Before he could disabuse his mother of any idea she might have in that regard, Clare rejoined them. She indicated the chairs with Reserved printed on placards on their seats, and she asked everyone else to sit as well.

  The ceremony began with words from the lady mayor that Charlie listened to only dimly. She spoke gratefully about Clare Abbott’s project to enhance the natural beauty of the area, making it a spot from which the citizens of Shaftesbury could not only enjoy the view of Blackmore Vale but also find the peace that promotes contemplation. She went on a bit too long for Charlie’s liking. He faded out and glanced down the row at his mother. She was watching serenely but beginning to appear a little confused. Obviously, this wasn’t looking like anything close to Charlie and India’s declaring their renewed devotion to each other.

  Finally, the mayor turned the event over to Clare, who went to stand near the tarpaulin-covered stone. She clasped her hands in front of her and said prefatorily, “Caroline. Alastair. Charlie. India.” She exchanged a glance with her friend Rory and then went on. “No matter how it comes, the loss of someone dearly loved is a devastating thing. This happened to all of you when your William died, and while I was not so fortunate to have ever known him, I have known and seen what the loss of William has done to you. Particularly to you, Caroline. I think that, when someone young dies, one of the fears a parent has is that, because his life was cut off prematurely, there’s a chance that the very fact of his living at all will somehow be forgotten. Not by you, of course, but by other people and by all those people who never knew him in the first place, the sorts of people whose lives he might have been able to touch. I hope this place prevents that. I hope that it gives all of you some peace. It’s long been a favourite spot of mine, and I’ve often thought as I passed it on my daily walks how lovely it would be to fashion it into what you see now. But with one addition that the town council has generously allowed to be placed here. Alastair . . . ?”

  This was, Charlie saw, a cue. His stepfather rose and offered his arm to Caroline. He brought her to Clare, who then unveiled the memorial stone and, upon it, the fine bronze plaque. As Caroline read it, Clare did so as well, aloud: “In Loving Memory of William Francis Goldacre. ‘From the contagion of the world’s slow stain / He is secure, and now can never mourn / A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain.’” Included were the dates of Will’s birth and death, and beneath these, a depiction of some sort of wreath.

  There was a moment of complete silence. Then, as if on some soundless cue, an enormous flock of starlings rose from the hillside beneath Breach Lane and soared in unison, as starlings will do, patterning the sky above the ceremony with the black cloud of their rhythmic flying.

  Caroline took a few steps towards the memorial stone. She said nothing. Alastair went to her side. For several moments in which the starlings soared and swooped, it seemed she might not speak at all. Then she said, “He would have loved this spot. It would have given him so much joy just to . . .” She could go no further. Alastair put his arm round her shoulders, saying quietly, “That he would.”

  At that, Caroline reached out towards Clare Abbott, saying, “Thank you. This means so much.”

  Finally, as if to give the moment’s emotion release to join the still rhythmically swooping starlings, those gathered beneath the canopy applauded. The mayor gestured them forward to enjoy the spring and its pool, to see the memorial stone. Charlie joined them, India at his side. People mingled and much was said about the stone and its handsome bronze plaque, about the now-pooled spring, about the benches and the garden.

  An announcement was made of a reception to be held at Clare Abbott’s home in Bimport Street, just above Breach Lane. All were invited for champagne, afternoon tea, and a chance to mingle and enjoy the summer sun.

  People began to wander off, and that was the moment when India grasped Charlie by the arm and said, “Oh my God, Charlie,” looking towards Breach Lane.

  A young woman was standing there, draped in black like a banshee come to call. But after a very brief moment, she was not what Charlie took in at all. For beyond her and coming along the verge was his father Francis. With him was his second wife Sumalee, bearing an armload of Asiatic lilies.

  SHAFTESBURY

  DORSET

  India saw only the young woman. So altered was she that India didn’t realise at first that Lily Foster had at some point arrived at the ceremony. It was only when Lily acknowledged India by raising her hand in a form of greeting that India understood that Will’s lover—present at the moment of his death—had somehow got word that this event was going to take place. God only knew how or even where she had come from.

  India loosed herself from Charlie and, at that point, took note of Francis Goldacre and his much younger Thai-born wife. She and Charlie took separate paths then. He set off to speak to his father and, doubtless, to question why he’d been so callous as to bring the beautiful Thai sign of his familial desertion in tow. She went to Lily.

  Lily came no nearer than four cars parked away from the site. As India drew close to her, Lily retreated to a bend in Breach Lane that effectively would keep her out of sight of anyone else at the memorial ceremony.

  Lily could not have been more different from the person Will had brought to meet Charlie and her early on in London. India saw that the change in Lily went beyond dull black hair in place of her lovely ginger curls to include many more piercings and studs and now even a thick hoop through her septum. She wore some sort of body-shrouding black gown and a floppy black hat from which her long hair limply hung. Only the Doc Martens showing themselves from beneath the gown remained the same from the Lily of old.

  India didn’t need to ask what on earth had happened to Lily that she was so changed, for she knew the likely cause. Only in Lily’s case this cause was so much more excruciating. In pursuit of Will when he’d flung himself over the cliff in Seatown, she’d scrambled to the body afterwards, not the first person to arrive since a few others had been below on the beach, but far in advance of anyone who would have known to keep her away from the sight on the stones of the brains and blood and tissue of her lover.

  That Caroline Goldacre blamed Lily for Will’s death was something that had come out just after the service that preceded the cremation of the body. There, grief-stricken beyond the capacity to consider the impact of her words, Will’s mum had confronted Lily. Caroline hadn’t known Lily was even in Dorset until after Will’s death. She hadn’t known that they’d gone to Seatown to camp. She hadn’t known anything save that Will was trying to win Lily Foster back. And Caroline declared this to be the cause of his death: Lily’s selfish rejection of him since “he never fell apart till you came into his life, you self-consumed little bitch.” It had been a terrible scene between the two of them, and India had not seen Lily since.

  Now she said to her, “Lily, Lily,” and she held out her arms to the other woman. “Please. Don’t go. You’ve come to see the memorial, haven’t you?”

  Lily moved off no farther. India saw that she had a padded envelope in one hand and this she lifted to clutch to her chest. India dropped her arms and went to stand before her. Close, she could see that Lily was skeletally thin. Where her wrists emerged from the sleeves of her gown, they looked like a child’s. Unlike a child’s, however, they were now even more tattooed than they’d been at the time of Will’s death although India could see nothing of th
e artwork that disappeared into the fabric of the sleeves. Her eyes were red rimmed as if with drug use or with weeping.

  “What’s happened to you?” India asked her. “Where did you go? Where have you been?”

  “Here,” Lily said.

  “Dorset? Shaftesbury? Ever since Will . . . ? Why?”

  “She knows. Ask her.” Lily inclined her head in the direction of the ceremony just down the lane.

  “Who? Not Clare. Caroline, then?”

  “Caroline, then.”

  “Are you staying with them?” India realised how ridiculous the query was once she’d made it. Lily’s having been blamed for Will’s death by his mother made it unlikely that she’d take up residence with the woman. She said, “Never mind. What a stupid thing to say. Where do you live now?”

  “Here,” she said.

  “Shaftesbury. Whyever . . . Lily, what are you doing here? This can’t be . . .” It was somehow worse than Charlie, she thought. Charlie had been suffering extraordinarily. But this looked like self-punishment on Lily’s part.

  “Tattoos,” Lily said obscurely.

  “On your arms. I see that you’ve got more than—”

  “I’m doing tattoos, India. Just like in London. I saw a niche here. I stepped in to fill it.”

  “Tattoos in Shaftesbury? Is there actually business for you here?”

  “Enough. And even if there wasn’t, it doesn’t matter. That’s not why I’m here. She’s why I’m here. Because until she’s punished for William, there’s no point to anything else.”

  India felt a shudder quake through her at the word punished. She said, “You can’t mean . . . Lily, you can’t want to be here. Not near them. Not after . . . I mean, not with what she thinks about you . . . and what she said at the cremation to you.”

  “Oh, it’s exactly what I want. To be close to the source.”

  India was about to say, “The source of what?” when the sound of agitated voices reached her, coming from the direction of the spring and its memorial. She swung round but could see nothing as the lane’s curve prevented her. But she recognised Caroline’s cry and Alastair’s angry voice. Something had happened and since she’d caught sight of Francis Goldacre and his wife, she had a fairly good idea what it might be.

  She turned back to Lily who also was looking in the direction of whatever was going on. She could see that Lily knew as well what the source of the disturbance was. She could also see that Lily was gratified, which spoke volumes about her part in whatever was going on.

  India said, “You invited them, didn’t you? Lily, why? And how did you know in the first place?”

  Lily looked back at her. “I make it my business to know everything that’s going on with Caroline.” She thrust the padded envelope at India. “Charlie’s meant to have this,” she told her. “Will you see that he gets it?”

  India didn’t want to take it as everything about Lily felt wrong and bent on malevolence. She said, “What is it, then?”

  “Just give it to him, India.”

  “Why don’t you give it to him yourself?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  Still India did not take the envelope, so Lily dropped it to the dead wild grasses of the verge. She turned then and walked away, in the direction of The Knapp and Tout Hill, which would take her back up to the town centre above them.

  SHAFTESBURY

  DORSET

  Clare clocked the armful of Asiatic lilies first and the exquisite visage of the woman who carried them second. Then she took in the man accompanying her, and in that moment what she felt was horror that, on this day of all emotionally wrought days, Francis Goldacre would show his face and would bring along with that face the woman for whom—according to Caroline—he’d deserted home, hearth, and paternal responsibilities. Thankfully, many of the invited guests were already trekking up Breach Lane in the general direction of Bimport Street, so they were unaware of Francis Goldacre’s arrival or of what came next.

  Caroline seemed to shrink back from the sight of her former husband and his current wife. She said her own husband’s name, and Alastair moved to stand in front of her, as if she needed protecting.

  Clare heard Rory say next to her, “Who on earth . . . ?”

  “The ex and his current missus,” Clare said in an undertone.

  “Heavens. Clare, you didn’t invite them!”

  “’Course not. P’rhaps I can head them off in some way.” She went to do so as Rory retreated towards the invited guests.

  Charlie Goldacre moved towards his father. Apparently clueless, both Francis Goldacre and his wife greeted Charlie with smiles. These faded when Francis put his hand fondly on Charlie’s shoulder, and Charlie shook him off. His wife, not seeing this as she was searching the faces of the remaining people for someone, said, “I have brought these for your mum, Charlie. Is she . . . ?”

  “You damn well leave this instant,” Charlie hissed at his father. “What the hell’s the matter with you, coming here? And bringing Sumalee. D’you ever think of anyone besides yourself?”

  Clare heard all of this, thanking God it was not loud enough to carry to the dispersing group. Behind her, she heard Rory say to those who remained beneath the canopy, “We’re beginning with champagne all round up at Clare’s. Do follow me,” in a way that urged the rest of the guests to disband. As Clare approached the Goldacres, she passed Caroline and Alastair, still keeping their distance from the new arrivals. She heard Caroline say, “But why would anyone . . . ?” and Alastair reply, “Let me see to this, Caro.”

  That was all they needed, Clare thought. She hastened to reach the others before Alastair could. Charlie was in the midst of telling his father to clear out and take his Thai slag with him, which Francis wasn’t receiving in a particularly good light. His face had gone the colour of dried putty when Charlie had shaken the man’s hand from his shoulder. At Charlie’s words, though, fire washed up his neck and onto his cheeks.

  Sumalee took a step backwards, her head lowered in what could have been either embarrassment or shame. Francis said hotly, “You bloody well watch that tongue of yours or I’ll have it out of your head,” and Clare thought, Wonderful. She intervened.

  “I’m Clare Abbott,” she said determinedly to the man and his wife. Then locking extremely meaningful eyes with Francis, she went on with, “You’re Will and Charlie’s father.”

  He took this up. “Thank you for the invitation to come. I was hoping . . . Obviously, I was hoping for too much.”

  Clare drew her eyebrows together as Charlie said, “You? Jesus, what is this, Clare? Some sort of sick joke?”

  Clare had no chance to reply to this, for Alastair was with them, then, and it looked as if every hair on his bulky arms was standing on end in agitation. He said to Francis, “Clear off. I don’t want to tell you twice.”

  Francis said, “As this is a memorial for my son—”

  “Oh that’s rich,” Charlie cut in. “Your son. Your son.”

  “—I think I have a place here, Alastair.”

  “I was more a dad to Will than you ever thought long enough to be” was Alastair’s answer to this. “Since he were a wee lad, I was his dad. Now are you going to clear out or am I going to have to do something to encourage you? And don’t you take one step closer to her, or I swear to God, I’ll rip your head off.”

  The her was obvious to them all. Caroline had retreated to the memorial stone, and she stood by it protectively, as if she thought Francis and Sumalee Goldacre had come to deface it before it was one hour old.

  “I’ll see the memorial before I go,” Francis said coldly.

  “You’ll have to walk straight through me to get to it,” Alastair said. “You who couldn’t be bothered even to come when the lad was cremated. What the hell sort of father are you? What the hell sort of father were you ever? That poor lad with his
monster ear that you never saw your precious way to fixing when you had the means and the talent and the—”

  “You haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about,” Francis said. “Darling,” to his wife as he extended his hand to her, “we’ll set the flowers by the stone and then we’ll be off if that’s fine with you?”

  Sumalee looked up. She was many years younger than her husband. Her dark hair fell completely to her waist, and the sun glinted off it and off the smooth caramel of her unlined skin. She said, “As you wish, Francis,” and she took his arm.

  Alastair put his hand on Francis’s chest as Francis took his first steps towards the memorial stone. He said hotly, “Are you hard of hearing? I told you—”

  “Get your hand off me.” Francis’s words were icy. “If you don’t, the consequences—”

  “You’re half a man at the best of times and we both know it,” Alastair said. “You really want me to take the rest of you down to nothing?”

  “Please. Francis.” It was Sumalee speaking. She bent and placed her armful of fragrant lilies on the ground at Alastair’s feet. She said, “If you will place these by William’s stone, we will go no closer.”

  Francis said, “Don’t let this lout frighten you into—”

  “Shut up,” Charlie said. “Alastair’s right. He’s been more a dad to me than you ever were and he was the same to Will. So don’t you bloody pretend you’ve the slightest interest in honouring anyone except yourself.”

  “We’ll put Sumalee’s flowers near the stone,” his father said.

  “Oh, will you indeed?” Charlie stepped forward and began to trample them. His father surged towards him. Alastair burst towards Francis with a roar of “You touch that lad and I’ll bloody kill you!”