Kissed a Sad Goodbye

by Deborah Crombie

  Charles Dickens (1861)

  At five minutes to ten on an already hot Saturday morning, Gemma found herself looking for an address in Lonsdale Square. A few minutes’ walk from her Islington flat, the square was lined solidly with the cars of residents at home for the weekend. A posh neighborhood, this, the preserve of upwardly mobile Blairites, and Gemma wondered how the woman could afford such an exclusive address. The terraced Georgian houses looked severe, their gray-brick facades relieved only by trim in black or white … except for the one with the glossy red door.

  Gemma checked its number against the address on her notepad, then climbed the steps and rang the bell. She tucked a stray wisp of hair back into its plait and glanced down at her casual Saturday clothes—jeans and sandals and a linen shirt the color of limes. What did one wear for the occasion? Maybe she should have—

  Before she could talk herself into retreating, the door swung open. “You must be Gemma,” the woman in the cherry-red jumper said, and smiled. She wore little makeup other than the red lipstick outlining her full lips, her short dark hair was fashionably ragged, as if it had been trimmed with nail scissors, and against her pale skin her eyes were a clear and luminous hazel. “I’m Wendy.”

  “I like your door,” said Gemma.

  “I find it breaks the ice. Come in.” The room into which she led Gemma faced the street. It stretched towards the back of the house, long and narrow with simple lines and a high ceiling. A formal Georgian mantel on the outside wall divided the room into two perfectly proportioned halves.

  Beyond that all Gemma’s expectations failed. The walls were crayon yellow, the furniture sixties contemporary in primary colors, and above the mantel hung a huge poster of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road.

  An upright piano stood against the long wall, between the fireplace and the rear of the room. As Gemma looked round, the woman touched her arm and gestured towards the sofa.

  “Sit down. I’ve made us some coffee. This morning we’re just going to get acquainted.”

  “But I thought …” Gemma’s nervousness flooded back. Whatever had possessed her to make this appointment, to give up a free Saturday morning that could have been spent with Toby? It had been a stupid idea, a chance thought followed up when it should have been dismissed, and now she was about to make an utter ass of herself. Thank goodness she’d told no one but her friend Hazel what she meant to do.

  Wendy Sheinart sat down beside Gemma and lifted the coffeepot. “Now.” Smiling, she filled Gemma’s cup. “You can tell me why you want to play the piano.”

  KINCAID HAD PACKED THE SORT OF picnic he thought a boy would approve of—thick ham sandwiches, potato crisps, Cokes, and the pièce de résistance, an enormous slab of chocolate gâteau from the bakery on Heath Street. He stowed the hamper, specially bought for the occasion, in the Midget’s boot, then put down the car’s top with a grateful glance at the clear blue arch of sky visible over Carlingford Road.

  After the heavy rains of the first few weeks in June, the prospects for Wimbledon Finals had looked dismal. But Kincaid had persevered in his quest for tickets, finally securing two center-court seats for the day, and it seemed that the weather gods had seen fit to reward his diligence.

  Offering up a silent thanks, he hopped into the car with an unaccustomed sense of anticipation. The Midget’s engine roared obediently to life, and as he eased it into gear he felt a spasm of guilt for having even considered getting rid of the old car. Abandonment seemed a poor compensation for its years of faithful service—a bit like putting down a good dog—not to mention the fact that Kit would probably never forgive him. The boy had fallen in love with the car at first sight, and the last thing he needed now was another loss, however small.

  Since his ex-wife’s murder in April, Kincaid had done what he could to fill the gap in her son’s life. He had also come to feel sure that Kit was, in fact, not Vic’s second husband’s son but his own child, conceived just before he and Vic had separated twelve years ago—though he had yet to tell Kit what he suspected was their true relationship.

  Turning into Rosslyn Hill, Kincaid headed south, into Haverstock Hill, then into Chalk Farm and Camden High Street. When he’d passed through Camden Town on his way home from Gemma’s earlier that morning, the street vendors had been setting up their booths. Now the Saturday market was in full swing and the display of colorful cotton skirts and dresses made him think of Gemma. The clothes would suit her, and she’d enjoy the bustle of it all. Perhaps one day soon they could bring Kit for a Saturday outing.

  He wondered how she meant to spend her Saturday. She’d assured him that she hadn’t felt left out over the tennis, that he and Kit needed a bit of male bonding, but she hadn’t offered any hint of her own plans. Or had he simply failed to ask?

  The sudden braking of the car in front caused him to give up his ruminations on the minefields of relationships and to concentrate on survival. The traffic crept along the rest of the way to King’s Cross, but still he found a space at the curb and made his way to the platform with time to spare.

  When the Cambridge train eased to a stop a few moments later, Kincaid felt the same flash of excitement he’d known as a child on meeting a train. In his small Cheshire town the trains had brought a whiff of the outside world, of adventures yet to be had, people yet to be met.

  He craned for a sight of Kit’s fair hair through the mill of disembarking passengers, then waved as he spotted him. Smiling to disguise the painful jolt that Kit’s resemblance to Vic still gave him, he gave the boy a friendly thump on the shoulder before holding out his hand for their customary high five. “Hullo, sport. Anyone for tennis?”

  Grinning, Kit slapped his palm, then swung his holdall over his shoulder as they walked towards the exit. “Colin was so jealous. You should’ve heard him moaning and whinging about it. Laura was that fed up.”

  “And I’m sure you did your best not to rub Colin’s nose in it,” Kincaid said wryly as he opened the boot and took Kit’s bag. “No, don’t look in there.” He snapped the boot shut before Kit could see. “I’ve got a surprise.”

  “A surprise? Really?” Kit’s eyes widened, proof that eleven was not too old for treats. He swung himself over the passenger door into the Midget with the finesse of a hurdler. “What kind of surprise?”

  “The edible sort,” Kincaid teased as he started the car. “Wait and—” His phone shrilled just as he eased the nose of the car into the street. Swearing under his breath, he slipped it from his pocket with one hand while maneuvering the car back into its parking space with the other.

  “Kincaid,” he snapped, and heard in answer the familiar voice of the Yard’s receptionist telling him to hold.

  “What is it?” asked Kit.

  Covering the mouthpiece, Kincaid said, “Work.” Then he added, with more confidence than he felt, “Won’t take a minute.”

  Chief Superintendent Denis Childs came on the line, sounding as unruffled as always. Kincaid had been guilty more than once of wishing for a natural disaster, just to see if Childs were capable of an elevated pulse.

  “Look, Duncan, I’m sorry.” The smooth rumble of the superintendent’s voice hinted at his bulk. “I know you’re not on the rota this weekend.”

  Kincaid’s heart sank. An apology up front was not a good sign.

  “But it’s been one of those days,” his boss continued. “The other teams have already been called out, and we’ve just had a homicide report that the local team feels needs our intervention. Their DCI is away for the weekend, and their guv’nor feels it might be a bit much for the newly promoted inspector on call this weekend.”

  “A proper baptism,” Kincaid agreed. “Where’s the body, then?”

  “The Isle of Dogs. Mudchute Park.”

  “Oh, Christ.” Kincaid hated outdoor crime scenes. At least indoors you had some hope of containing the evidence.

  “A young woman,” continued Childs. “From the preliminary reports it sounds like a strangulation.”
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br />   “Are the SOCOs on the way?” Kincaid asked, grimacing. An outdoor sex crime. Even better. “Have the uniformed lads cordoned off the area?”

  “In the process. How soon can you be there?”

  “Give me—” Kincaid glanced at his watch, and the movement brought Kit’s white, tense face into his focus.

  He had forgotten him.

  “Guv—” Then he stopped. How to explain his predicament to his chief? “Under an hour,” he said at last, with another glance at Kit. “I’ve some things to take care of first. What about Gemma?”

  “The duty sergeant’s ringing her now. Keep me informed,” Childs added, and rang off.

  Kincaid switched off the phone slowly and turned to Kit. “I’m sorry. Something’s come up, and I’m afraid I’ll have to go to work.”

  “Can’t you—” the boy began, but Kincaid was already shaking his head.

  “I’ve no choice in the matter, Kit. I’m really sorry, but you’ll have to go back to Cambridge—”

  “I can’t,” said Kit, his voice rising. “The Millers have gone away for the weekend. Don’t you remember?”

  Kincaid stared at Kit. He’d forgotten that as well. He was finding it increasingly difficult to coordinate the demands of his job with his commitment to Kit, and now he seemed to have run up against an insoluble dilemma.

  “I suppose you’ll have to stay at the flat on your own, then,” he said with a smile, trying to soften the blow.

  “But the tennis—” Kit bit down on his lip to stop its trembling.

  Kincaid looked away, giving the boy time to collect himself. Then an idea occurred to him and he said slowly, “Maybe we can work something out. Wait and see.”

  “CORNSILK,” THE PAINT SAMPLE HAD READ, and Jo Lowell had liked the name as much as the color. As she painted, Jo imagined it spreading over her kitchen and dining room walls like warm butter, and when she’d finished, the rooms seemed to glow with perpetual summer sun.

  There was nothing like a bit of fresh paint to cheer you up if you were in the doldrums, she often told her clients, but she seldom found the time to take her own advice. And of course her clients almost never did the actual painting themselves, but she thought the physical labor might be the most effective part of the therapy. Perhaps she should change her business cards to read Interior Decorating and Mood Counseling and raise her hourly rates.

  The small smile raised by the thought quickly vanished as she thought of the previous evening. Her cheery yellow walls and soothing green trim had done little to prevent the very eruption of tempers she’d meant to avoid. She’d intended a little civilized dinner party—a means of making peace with Annabelle without actually having to offer forgiveness, because in spite of everything that had happened between them, she had missed her sister.

  Jo had been good at entertaining, once, but this had been her first attempt without Martin, and it had been difficult to find the right mix of people. One of the worst things she’d found about divorce was the division of friends into his and her camps. Martin’s friends, of course, were out of the question, but she hadn’t dared bring her own partisan supporters into contact with Annabelle, whom they viewed as the villain of the piece. So she’d invited guests she’d felt sure would contribute to a pleasant, neutral evening—a couple who were recent clients; Rachel Pargeter, a neighbor who had been a close friend of their mother’s; Annabelle and Reg. And it had almost worked—until her son Harry had told his aunt what he thought of her.

  Carefully, Jo slipped the last of the bunch of early sunflowers into the vase on the dining room table. The kitchen door slammed and Sarah’s high, piping voice carried clearly from the back of the house. “Mummy, Mummy!”

  “In here, sweetheart.” Gathering up her shears and the florist’s paper, Jo headed for the kitchen. Her daughter stood just inside the door, her dark hair disheveled, her cheeks pink from the heat. She’d spilled something that looked suspiciously like Coke down the front of her tee shirt, and the waistband of her little flowered shorts had worked its way below her navel. At four, Sarah was a highly articulate and skilled tattletale.

  “Harry’s in the shed, Mummy. You said he wasn’t to go in there. And I know he broke something, ’cause I heard it smash.”

  Jo felt the swiftly rising bubble of anger; she clamped down on it. Sarah didn’t need any encouragement for her righteous indignation. “I’ll deal with Harry—you wash your hands at the sink. You’ve been into the Coke again, haven’t you, missy?”

  Sarah glanced down at her shirt, and Jo saw the swift calculation pass across her heart-shaped face before she said earnestly, “It wasn’t me, Mummy, really it wasn’t. Harry got it out and he spilled it on my shirt.” She tugged the stained fabric away from her chest as if removing any association with it.

  “Oh, dear God.” Jo closed her eyes and breathed a prayer. Her precious baby daughter was going to be an actress or a criminal, and she felt incapable of dealing with either possibility just now. She took a deep breath. “Right. When you’ve finished with your hands I want you to pick up your toys in the sitting room, and I don’t want to hear any more stories. Is that clear?”

  Sarah put on her best injured face. “But, Mummy—”

  Jo, however, was already pushing open the door to the garden. She was learning that the only way to manage her daughter was to disengage from the dialogue, because if she continued to participate the child would eventually wear her down. With Harry, things had been different. The slightest reprimand had been enough to bring the boy to tears, as if his emotions ran uncontainably close to the surface. And now that sensitivity seemed to have been translated into a sullen anger she was unable to breach.

  The garden was quiet except for the drone of the bumblebees in the lavender, and it seemed deserted. The only signs of suspended activity were a chipped cricket bat and an old rubber ball lying in the thick grass, but at the bottom of the garden the door to the shed stood open. The small mail-order building was her retreat and studio.

  She’d painted the outside a color called Labrador Blue and picked out the trim in white. Inside, she’d washed the walls with diluted emulsion, then furnished the space with bits and pieces of old furniture, a few watering cans, and books. Here she experimented with the custom finishes that were her trademark, or read, or sometimes just tried to sort out her life. And the shed was strictly off-limits to both children.

  Slowly, she crossed the lawn and stepped inside. Harry sat on the floor with his back to the bookcase, his knees drawn up to his chin. Beside him lay the cut-glass jug she’d filled with roses from the garden, its handle snapped off. Water pooled on the floor and ran into the rag rug; roses lay scattered like flotsam from a storm.

  Jo knelt and touched him on the shoulder. “Did it cut you? Are you all right?” When he didn’t answer she pried his hands from his knees and checked them. They were unblemished. She kept one hand in hers and tried again. “Harry, did you break the vase because you were angry with me? You know what you did last night was wrong, but maybe I was wrong to punish you instead of talking about it.”

  Harry turned his head further away from her and the sunlight slanting in from the window lit his hair like a flame. What an irony it was, thought Jo, that while Sarah had inherited her own dark auburn coloring, Harry might have been cloned from her sister’s genes. And her father, who had always adored Annabelle at Jo’s expense, had fastened his expectations on Harry as the heir to, if not the family name, at least the family tradition.

  “Sometimes mums can be wrong, too,” she continued. “But somehow I have to make you understand that you can’t say things like that to people. I’m sure you hurt Annabelle very—”

  “I don’t bloody care.” Harry snatched his hand away and for the first time looked at her. “She’s a whore. I meant to hurt her.” He blinked and tears spilled over into his pale lashes.

  “Harry, you mustn’t use words like that. You know better—”

  “I don’t care! I hate her.”
r />   “Harry, darling—”

  “Don’t call me that.” He pushed himself up from the floor and stood over her. “I’m not your darling, and I hate you, too!” Then, with a slam of the door, he was gone.

  THE COINS CLINKED INTO GORDON FINCH’S clarinet case in a staccato, irregular rhythm. The children tossed them, then stood as close as they dared, rapt with attention, moving their bodies unselfconsciously to the music. Both the small girls and boys were bare-chested in the heat, the definition of their ribs showing like the delicate tracery of the branching veins in a leaf. Their faces were flushed from the sun, and some held half-forgotten ice creams in sticky fingers.

  He envied them their uncomplicated innocence, intact until someone came along to bugger it up for them. Thank God he hadn’t the responsibility for the shaping of a life. Caring for Sam was about as much as he could manage, and he’d been off his nut to think otherwise.

  He finished “Cherry Blossom Pink” and wiped the clarinet’s mouthpiece. The children watched him, large-eyed, jiggling up and down in expectation. Their parents stood behind them, some half sitting on the knee-high iron railing that separated the flower bed from the round, brick bulk of the Isle of Dogs entrance to the foot tunnel. Lifting the clarinet to his lips again, he played a bit of “London Bridge.” The children giggled and he thought for a moment, searching his memory for tunes they might like, then improvised “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush.”

  A pied piper with a clarinet, he slid into “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” then “When I’m Sixty-Four,” from the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper album, and the children bounced and swayed happily. But after a bit their parents grew restive, and one by one the families began to drift away. They all had agendas, he thought as he watched them leave—places to go, things to do, people to see. Surely he didn’t envy them that as well?