by Mary Nichols
‘I dunno. How do you feel?’
She considered the question for a minute. ‘Nothing at all. I don’t like George Kennett. Is he like his father?’
‘To look at, yes, but whether he’s like him in other ways, I’ve no idea. I’ve always steered clear of him.’
‘And you’ve kept quiet about it all these years?’
‘Didn’t see any point in broadcasting it. There was nothing to be gained except a lot of upset. I was protecting you as much as anyone. But if that reporter unearths the truth, heaven knows what she’ll make of it. I wish there was some way we could stop her.’
‘I’ll have to talk to Colin.’
She got up from the table and busied herself clearing the table and washing up in the yellow stone sink. Her mother seemed to have talked herself out, because she leant back in her chair and dropped off to sleep. She had had her say and now the burden of her troubles had landed squarely on her daughter’s shoulders, and Rita’s mind was in a whirl. One thing she was determined on and that was to protect her mother and Zita. And Barbara, if she could.
Colin was sprawled in an armchair listening to jazz on the radio when she arrived home after work that evening. He had a tankard of beer in his hand. Beside him on a low table was a knife and fork on a dirty plate. Without thinking, she picked them up and took them out to the kitchen where she added them to the pile in the sink, then went back to him. ‘Turn that racket off. I can’t talk above it. Unless you want me to shout. The neighbours might find what I’ve got to say very interesting.’
Reluctantly he switched off. ‘So? Spit it out.’
‘It’s about this.’ She tapped the newspaper she had brought with her. ‘I suppose you’ve read it?’
‘Course.’ He grinned. ‘I bet it’s made Kennett squirm.’
She sank into a chair and stared at him. ‘It was you…’
‘Yup.’
‘But why? What on earth did you have to gain?’
‘Why should I take the rap for everything that bugger does? I served time for him and he pulled the rug from under me. And the reporter’s promised two hundred pounds if I find out more. We could make a new start with that.’
‘Two hundred?’ she queried, shocked.
‘I thought that would make you sit up and take notice. She wants the low-down on Melsham Construction. Seems our friend George has been a naughty boy. Donald Browning is being used, just like I was. Melsham Construction belongs to George Kennett, Donald’s only the front man. The paper is prepared to pay big money for proof.’
‘You’re not going to give it to them, are you?’
‘If I can get it. Zita could help.’
‘Our Zita?’
‘Yes.’ He laughed. ‘Did you know Kennett is screwing her?’
‘What?’ she shrieked. ‘George Kennett and Zita?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who told you?’
‘The reporter, but Zita confirmed it, when I asked her. She was laughing about it, said she was only in it for what she could get out of it.’
‘Oh, my God! Colin, we’ve got to put a stop to it. Tell the reporter you made it up.’
‘Why should I? What do you want to save that bastard’s skin for?’
‘It’s not his skin I’m thinking of, it’s Mum’s and Zita’s. Us, Colin.’ She took a deep breath. ‘George Kennett is my half-brother. My father was Fred Kennett. Ma only told me today.’
He laughed. ‘You’re having me on.’
‘I wish to God I were. Shut up while I tell you.’
For once in his life he listened while she told him Dora’s story. Two days later Maggie had a break-in, and among the things taken were the notes of her conversation with Colin Younger. She was annoyed, even a little frightened at her own vulnerability, but she didn’t think it was anything more than a straightforward burglary until she asked Colin to repeat his allegations and he refused, categorically denying he had ever said anything against George Kennett and she must have misunderstood him. Far from discouraging her, it made her all the more determined.
Barbara stood at her studio window looking out onto the garden. The golden hues of autumn had gone; now it looked bleak and bereft waiting for spring to bring it back to life. The trees that were left on the other side of the fence had lost their leaves and she could see the manor roof through their bare branches. She had accepted a part in the hydro project and the alterations were being done to the main house and the coach house, which was to be converted into a home for Isobel, marketing strategies were being worked out, equipment and soft furnishings being discussed. Simon hadn’t come; she supposed he had stayed away for her sake. He probably supposed her marriage still meant everything to her and didn’t want to upset her.
She would need to call on her courage later, not only to face Simon and treat him as a friend and fellow director, but to tell George what she was doing. He wouldn’t be pleased, he’d tell her she didn’t know the first thing about business; he might even want to take over. She would have to deal with that. But what worried her most was that people might say it was just another scam of George Kennett’s and there was bound to be something dodgy about it.
She was worried sick by the rumours. She could see every little twist and turn of George’s business deals, the bribes, their first house, the arson, the deals over the industrial site, being splashed all over the pages of the Melsham Gazette and probably the nationals too. It would devastate the children. And Elizabeth, too. And what would happen to her own life? Some of the dirt would be bound to rub off on the hydro project. She’d tried talking to George and been told it was nothing to get steamed up about, she was making a mountain out of a molehill. He’d got very angry and shouted at her, which just proved he was worried too; he hardly ever raised his voice. And because there was nothing else on her mind, probably on his either, if he were honest, they stopped talking about anything at all. They dealt coolly and politely with each other, but now even the pretence they had a happy marriage had been dropped in private, though they maintained it in public. They were two people living under the same roof and that was all they had in common.
A few flakes of snow drifted down from a slate-grey sky as she turned from the window and picked up the box of Christmas tree decorations, which was the reason she had come up here, and took it downstairs where she put the box on the drawing room table and began taking out the shiny, fragile baubles, the lights, the silver tinsel and attaching them to the tree. When the children were young they had all done it together, laughing and trying to guess, from the shape and size of the wrapped parcels they put beneath it, who had been given what, looking forward to the day, to the year ahead. Now all she could do was get through one day at a time: looking ahead terrified her. But whatever was happening around them, Christmas could not be postponed. She had done the shopping, made the pudding, iced the cake, pretended they were going to have a lovely time, all the family together.
She wasn’t so sure of herself when Christmas Day came. George had been absent until after midnight the night before, and whatever he said, she was sure no one did business that late on Christmas Eve. He had been with her, whoever ‘her’ was, preferring the company of his mistress to that of his family, no matter that three of them were children. From loving him, she had almost come to hating, except that she was not the kind to hate anyone. And not half a mile away, the man she really loved was enjoying Christmas with Penny and Hal and Lady Quarenton. Penny had told her they would be there. ‘A sort of try-out of the hydro,’ Isobel had said. ‘You’ll come and share a Christmas drink with us, won’t you?’ She might have gone if Isobel had been on her own, but she couldn’t face Simon. He had always been able to read her moods and he would know without being told that she had never been so miserable in all her life. ‘I’ll see if I can get away for a few minutes,’ she had said, knowing perfectly well she would not. Could not.
She picked up her glass and returned to the drawing room where Jay-Jay, because he was the youngest
, played postman and distributed the parcels from around the tree. He was a handsome child, good-natured and every year became a little more like Simon. How long before someone commented that he was nothing like the other two, Barbara wondered, and then what would she say?
Her children were happy with their gifts. There were books and clothes for Alison, skates and a toboggan for Nick, extra Meccano and a box of paints and brushes for Jay-Jay. George had bought pearls for her and a gold brooch for his mother. Barbara wasn’t at all sure she was quite ready for pearls. No doubt they were costly, George always equated cost with value, and she thanked him and gave him a gold pen and pencil set. Soon the whole floor was littered with wrapping paper, ribbon and cardboard boxes.
They left it to go into the dining room for dinner. Everyone said it was delicious, though the adults, including Barbara, basked in the glow of too much wine and after-dinner port. ‘I’ll help wash up, Mum,’ Alison said, getting up and gathering together a pile of plates. Barbara smiled at her, pleased by the offer, and mother and daughter spent half an hour in the kitchen companionably together, and when everything had been neatly put away, joined the others in the drawing room.
Elizabeth had dropped off to sleep in her chair. Barbara smiled indulgently and began clearing away the rubbish, folding the paper and putting it into the biggest of the boxes.
‘Let’s go and try out the toboggan,’ Nick said. It had been snowing steadily all morning and he was tired of staying in the house. ‘We could go up Long Hill.’
‘Why don’t we all go?’ George said.
‘Yes, let’s.’ The others were enthusiastic.
‘Barbara?’ George asked.
‘I’ll stay here and clear up the rubbish,’ she said. ‘If Granny wakes up and finds we’ve all disappeared she’ll wonder what’s happened. You go and have fun. I’ll have the kettle on for tea when you get back.’
They wrapped themselves up in coats, scarves and gloves and set off down the drive with Nick pulling the toboggan. Barbara watched them disappear then gathered up the rubbish and took it out to the dustbin. When she returned Elizabeth was awake.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘They’ve taken the toboggan up to Long Hill. They’ll be back for tea. Can I get you anything, a drink, perhaps?’
‘No, I think I’ll go home and have a nap.’
‘You could nap here.’
‘No, the sofa isn’t good for my bad hip. I’ll be better under the eiderdown on my own bed.’
‘Then I’ll take you over, the ground might be slippery.’
Having made her mother-in-law comfortable, she was letting herself back into the kitchen when someone came in behind her and put his hands over her eyes. ‘Guess who?’
‘Simon!’ She pulled his hands down and swung round to face him. ‘You made me jump.’
He was smiling down at her, his blue eyes raking her face, questioning her without words, making her breathless and afraid. ‘You look stupendous.’
She was shaking, unable to believe he had been so foolish as to seek her out in her own home, when, for all he knew, her family were all round her. On the other hand, his coming had lifted the gloom which had been engulfing her for days, months, even years, and set her heart beating, making her want to smile, to laugh, to be happy. ‘Simon, what are you doing here?’
‘Spending Christmas at the manor with Penny. Didn’t she tell you?’
‘Yes, but I meant here, in my kitchen.’
‘You wouldn’t have come up to see us, would you?’
‘I couldn’t get away. Simon, I really think you should go. The family—’
‘They’ve gone out, I saw them go. You’ve got time to say hallo to me, surely?’
‘Hallo.’
‘Oh, Barbara, unbend a little, please. I see the coffee pot is on the stove, will you offer me a cup?’
Like an automaton, she poured it for him. When he took it from her, their hands touched briefly. She became aware of nerves twitching in the middle of her belly, that somewhere, deep inside, she was opening out. Oh, no, she mustn’t, she mustn’t want this lovely golden man, with his wide smile and alluring eyes which seemed to be able to see right through the thin fabric of the beige crêpe dress she was wearing, through flesh and bone, to a longing laid bare.
‘Why did you come?’
‘Because I wanted to see you and because I was once invited to view a painting…’
‘By Jay-Jay.’
‘Yes, bright lad, isn’t he? I could really take to him. I don’t know about the others, I’ve never met them.’
‘Simon, stop it.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Teasing. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?’
He sighed heavily. ‘If you say so. But how about showing me that painting?’
‘It’s in the dining room.’
He put his cup on the draining board. ‘Lead on, then.’
He followed her and stood looking at the picture of old Melsham market, from a distance and then closer. ‘Jay-Jay was right, everyone’s in it, including me. I’m flattered.’ He moved on to the portrait of Alison. ‘And that’s Alison.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s a pretty girl.’
‘Yes, but she’s an easy subject. The boys were more difficult.’
He looked round the room. ‘Where are those?’
‘Up in my studio. They weren’t good enough to bring down.’
‘Who said so?’
‘I did. I know when something is substandard. And I hate people telling me something is good because they’re too polite to tell me any different.’
‘Show me. I’ll give you an honest opinion, no holds barred.’
She wondered about the wisdom of taking him upstairs, but it was so wonderful to have him there, to know that someone was interested in her and her talent and not simply because she was Mrs Kennett, wife of Mayor Kennett, largest employer in Melsham. She could pretend it was only an artistic interest, couldn’t she? If she kept a tight rein on her emotions and didn’t let him get too near, she could talk art on an impersonal level. Just who was she trying to fool? He knew and she knew what it was all about. But she couldn’t bring herself to turn him away. ‘OK, I’ll hold you to that.’
She led the way. ‘Here we are, the inner sanctum.’ She gave a little embarrassed laugh. ‘You don’t know how privileged you are, I don’t show many people up here.’
He stood looking about him. There was an uncompleted landscape on an easel near the window, framed pictures hanging on the walls and canvases stacked up on the floor below them. She watched him wandering about the room, admiring the pictures while she admired him, his lean torso, fair hair, expressive hands. Mentally shaking herself, she crossed the room and turned two canvases round. These are the boys. This one is Nick and this is Jay-Jay. I painted them a couple of years ago.’
He looked at them with his head on one side. ‘They are good.’
‘You promised to be honest.’
‘I am. Nick is like you, isn’t he? Fair and slim. I imagine he’s an open-hearted, affectionate boy.’
‘He is, but you can’t tell that from the picture, surely?’
‘Oh, yes, you’ve captured the essence of him, just as you’ve caught the essential Alison in the painting downstairs.’ He turned to the one of Jay-Jay. ‘This is good too…’ He stopped.
She laughed shakily. ‘Go on, you were going to say “but”…’
‘I sense a kind of restraint, a stiffness which is different from the other two, it’s as if you suddenly lost your confidence. The easy-flowing lines have gone…’
He did not have to tell her, she knew that already. It was why she had not hung the pictures. The one of Nick she wouldn’t have minded hanging beside that of Alison, but not Jay-Jay, not her love child. Every line, every stroke of her brush seemed to emphasise his likeness to Simon and the red-gold hair was so like Penny’s she didn’t see how anyone could fail to notice. And she couldn’t have hun
g one without the other: it would have invited comment. ‘It shows? I had trouble with the colour of his hair. It’s not red and it’s not blonde, but a bit of both and it’s difficult to get exactly right.’
‘A bit like Penny’s.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I suppose it is, but I believe my father-in-law had auburn hair, though of course, I never met him.’ She was beginning to wish she hadn’t brought him up here: he was far too perceptive for comfort. She replaced the pictures against the wall and pulled out others: fenland scenes, water and skyscapes, a kingfisher diving, a village fete, an old pleasure boat sinking at its moorings, colourfully clad golfers on the fairway. He commented on them all, not eulogistically, but fairly, until he came to a miniature she had done of Jay-Jay before starting on the large one. He picked it up and ran his hands gently over the child’s face. ‘Can I keep this one?’
‘Why?’
‘To remind me of Barbara Bosgrove, who has never, in fifteen years, left my thoughts for long and never been absent from my heart.’
He knew the truth, but he would not speak of it openly. She knew, without his saying so, that if she wanted to talk to him about Jay-Jay, then he would listen, but until she did his lips were sealed. ‘Simon, please don’t,’ she said.
‘May I have it?’
She nodded and he popped it into his pocket and strolled across the room to the gramophone. ‘You like to listen to music while you work?’
‘It helps my mood sometimes.’
He slipped a record onto the turntable and wound it up. The soft strains of ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’ filled the room. It had been playing the night of Penny’s party, the night she ran away from him, too afraid to confront the truth. She had been running ever since. She shook herself, realising he had spoken. ‘Do you remember that?’
‘Yes.’
He turned to face her, putting his right arm round her waist, taking her right hand in his left and holding it against his heart. Slowly he began to move to the music. Mesmerised, she allowed it to happen, did nothing to stop what she knew must follow. She shut her eyes and held her breath, and when his mouth came down on hers, she was not surprised. Sweet and gentle, the kiss went on for a long time, while the music continued to play and they swayed together to its beat. He stopped and held her close against him, murmuring in her ear, ‘Oh, Barbara, my love, my dearest love—’