by Clare Boyd
I had no right to demand anything from him, but he was obviously being plagued by some sort of all-consuming internal dialogue. It was infuriating to know that he was wrestling with the problem on his own, as though the round and round thoughts would somehow produce a new answer. I could see he felt alone with it. Possibly arrogantly, I knew I could help if he would only let me in. I had given up asking him if he wanted to talk, and we did not share lunch breaks or tea breaks. We communicated about the work on the house, but nothing else. Uncle Ralph would sometimes insist we both take a trip with him into the garden to collect conkers, or help him to sweep the leaves, but they were snatched moments. When Camilla visited to check on things, John would put up an excellent front. Smiling and laughing and joking. As soon as she left, a switch would be flicked, and he would retreat back to his silent world.
My phone rang, rudely interrupting my thoughts. The caller was a set painter I used to work with. She was keen to help out, happy for the work. Hesitantly, I ventured across the corridor to tell John the news, but I remained at the doorway, timid in the face of his thunderous mood. I would deliver the news and retreat.
‘Who?’ he asked irritably, looking up from his kneeling position, smacking his hands down his jeans, leaving smears of brown. He was surrounded by cardboard boxes and black bin-liners.
‘Cassie. She was a set painter I worked with years back, and I trust her implicitly.’
‘Why isn’t she a set painter any more?’
‘She had kids and moved to Southampton with her husband, but they’ve recently divorced and she needs the money.’
‘And you think Uncle Ralph will like her?’
‘She’s very pretty.’ I grinned, referencing a conversation we’d shared about Ralph’s penchant for a pretty face.
A glimmer of a smile began at John’s eyes, but it died before it made it to his lips.
‘Make sure you get Mum to meet her.’
Irritation flickered inside me.
‘Oh, yes, of course, we couldn’t possibly do anything without Ma’am giving us the order,’ I rejoined sarcastically.
And with that, he shot up from his kneeling position and slammed the door, leaving me out in the corridor with the oak panels inches from my nose.
I banged on the door once with my fist. ‘What the hell is your problem?’ I yelled.
The old door handle rattled and John flew out. ‘You’re my problem!’ he shouted.
I took a step back. ‘Shh,’ I whispered, frowning furiously, pressing my forefinger to my lips. Having spent days desperate for him to come out of his funk, I was now wanting to shut him down again. ‘Ralph will hear.’
He walked away, back into the bedroom, hitting the door out of his way, but he didn’t close it behind him.
I followed him in and closed the door.
‘John, talk to me, please,’ I pleaded. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing is going on,’ he said, but it was a weak redress.
I looked around at the huge room, cluttered with beautiful antiques and precious ornaments. The bed had elaborately carved wooden posts that shot up to the high ceiling.
‘You’re not telling me everything, are you?’ I knew I was being a hypocrite. The letter came into my thoughts. There was so much I wasn’t telling him.
He was standing by the window, staring out. I clambered over the mess to him, and sat on the window seat, by his side.
‘I had a chat with Valentina the other day,’ he confessed.
I touched the tips of his fingers with mine, and looked up at him. ‘What did she say?’
His fingers withdrew from mine, and he put them in his pocket, but, finally, he spoke, as he stared out.
‘She told me Mum had given Robert Seroquel.’
I let out a long, deep sigh. I was sorry to have been right. The energy drained out of me. I sat back further on the window seat, and leant back into the shutter panel on one side. He did the same, at the opposite side of the window. We were facing each other, our knees pulled up to our chests.
‘Do you know why she did it?’
He looked away, and rubbed his hands through his hair. ‘I’m still finding it hard to believe that she did.’
‘You think Valentina would make it up?’
‘What am I supposed to think?’ he asked searchingly, as though I could possibly answer that question for him.
‘They were caught up in something they didn’t know how to stop.’
‘I need to talk to Mum.’
‘Don’t get Valentina in trouble.’
‘We wouldn’t have to bring Valentina into it. You can say that Robert told you,’ John said.
‘Me? I can’t be there.’
‘I need you there, Francesca.’
My heart constricted. I wanted to throw up. ‘I’m not sure, John.’
‘If Dad’s there, it’ll be easier.’
‘I’m scared of her.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘Have you told Dilys about any of this?’
He rubbed his face. ‘No.’
‘How is it between you two?’
‘The same,’ he said. ‘Torture,’ he added.
I grimaced, and smiled. ‘Sorry.’
His gaze was penetrating. My heart began to pound.
‘It’s not your fault.’
I shuffled closer until our toes were touching. Our chins were on our knees, our faces close. A mischievous grin twitched on his lips. ‘Robert and I used to hide behind the curtains at Byworth End when Mum and Dad had parties,’ he said, pulling the curtains closed, a puff of dust lingering in the air.
It should have conjured a happy snapshot of boyhood, but the insidious images of Camilla’s damaging parenting were dominant, pushed to the forefront, usurping the good. I stared out at the elm tree that glowed gold in the low autumn sun. There were sparkles of light darting from the damp leaves, like fragments of hope. But I knew that nothing could be real until I had told John everything.
Before that thought had time to germinate, there were footsteps in the room and a rustle of bin bags. The curtains of our private world were flung open.
‘What are you two kids up to, eh?’ Ralph grinned, his face beaming red with glee.
I jumped up to standing. ‘We were just talking.’
‘Ha! None of my business! I had a feeling there was something going on between you two. I’m not totally out of it, you know.’
‘Best not mention this to Mum or anyone, Uncle Ralph,’ John squirmed.
‘What do you take me for, John, my boy?’ He slapped John on the back and winked at him. ‘I was young once, too, way back when, and I wasn’t averse to a bit of slap and tickle, myself, you know.’
I cringed. ‘It wasn’t anything like that,’ I protested – like I had the right to plead innocence or take offence at anything any more. ‘Look, I’d better go and pick up Alice from school.’
‘I must say,’ Ralph continued, as we guiltily followed him out, ‘I wouldn’t have expected it of you, John. Your brother, definitely, but not you.’ He chuckled. ‘Wonders will never cease.’
My head snapped in John’s direction. What did Ralph mean? John shook his head, squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear, ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’
Ralph had seemed lucid and together enough to me. But infidelity was the one thing I had never believed Robert capable of. I had to shake off the thought. There was no way I could process that, not on top of everything else.
Ralph was whistling a jolly tune as we followed him down the stairs.
‘I think we’ve made his day,’ John said, under his breath.
‘This is not a joke,’ I snapped. Hurriedly, I collected my bag from the kitchen. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
John followed me onto the doorstep, but I did not stay to talk to him. I waved behind me and whizzed off in my car, feeling humiliated and sullied and rigid with fear. If Uncle Ralph let this slip to Camilla, it would be utterly disastrous.
I wasn’t ready. I might never be ready.
Inch by inch, the box that held the letter was being prised open once again.
Chapter Forty-One
Two years ago
His chair still had his indent in it. She sat into it, into the groove of his body, his living flesh. This was where he had read his scripts. This was where he had talked through the night to colleagues in Los Angeles. This was where he had written his wedding speech.
Her black tights had a snag in them, from when she had knelt down on the tapestry cushion in the church. To pray, like a good girl. Like a good widow.
A widow’s quiet tears were expected at a funeral. A widow’s demure smile was acceptable during the eulogy.
For two weeks, Francesca had been surrounded by hordes of friends, almost breaking her door down with support. Her sister had returned from her never-ending travels, her parents had come back from Portugal. She had not been alone for a minute. Every day had been filled with damp cheeks and shoulders, with conversations about Robert, heartbreaking stories about his role in each of their lives, and jokes about his foibles. There were home-cooked frozen meals on her doorstep, and a steady flow of flowers with beautiful clichés pinned to the stems. She appreciated the endless texts, the ‘I’m here for you, if you need me’ messages, even though she knew they weren’t really.
She was alone now.
The weight of his coffin seemed to come crashing down on her head, killing her poise, knocking the calm out of her.
She ripped open the drawers to his desk and began throwing his documents and scripts at the wall, one after the other. Expletives, vile and thoughtless, flew out of her. Her fingers bled from paper cuts and smeared his work. Work he had loved more than her. Fantasy worlds so much more fun than real life.
Slowly her arms weakened, and she flopped back into his chair, her feet kicking at the scripts on the floor, twitching after her outburst.
As she stared down at the mess of paper, she noticed a white windowed envelope that lay amongst the scripts.
It was addressed to ‘Robert Tennant’ and the seal had been opened. The stamp on the outside was from ‘Whittington Hospital’. She pulled out the letter inside and read the single page of official type.
Chapter Forty-Two
John
Francesca was already there. She was sitting at one end of the large oak kitchen table, with his father and mother either side of her. Her mug was cradled tightly to her chest, as though she was ready to throw its contents in his parents’ faces at the first sign of trouble.
If his mother had picked up on Francesca’s nervousness, she certainly wasn’t showing it.
‘John, darling, hi. Tea, coffee? I was just telling Fran what a fabulous job you’re both doing on Uncle Ralph’s house.’
‘Very impressive,’ his father agreed, smoothing his hair back.
John caught Francesca’s eye and their expressions froze in a split second of shared panic. He wasn’t sure he was going to be able to go through with his plan to confront his mother about the pills, worrying it would let loose the more private, shameful family horrors: the poolhouse; Robert’s sneaking; the dry, bloody bath he took. He was not sure any of them was strong enough for such an exposure.
‘Have you seen the house, Patrick?’ Francesca asked.
‘I took my surveyor around last night.’
‘Was Uncle Ralph okay?’ John asked.
‘He was more interested in that damn puzzle than he was in us.’
John was always amazed by his father’s lack of interest in his own brother. He never went to see him or spoke fondly of him, or even talked of his illness. He had left all of that to Camilla. And now he was secretly selling his house behind his back. It didn’t seem right. John had a flash of irritation towards both his parents. He wondered if Valentina had been wrong about his father’s ignorance. Had his parents colluded?
Before broaching the subject of the pills, he prevaricated, letting by another half-hour of animated chit-chat about colour schemes, and about Cassie the painter. But he realised that if he left it any longer, Francesca was going to bolt.
Gradually, he led the conversation around to Uncle Ralph again, and to his illness.
‘Mum, actually, we wanted to talk to you about what happened the other day at Uncle Ralph’s.’
The ‘we’ was loaded. His mother wiped an imaginary something from under one heavily made-up eye, and flicked a blonde strand of hair behind her ear.
‘Yes?’ she said, her ice-blue eyes trained on him.
John had to look away, and he glanced over at Francesca, who looked down to her mug and took a sip from what must have been stone-cold dregs of tea.
‘Look, we both know that Robert took Seroquel.’
‘You must be mistaken,’ she replied coolly, before shooting a dirty look at Francesca.
‘Ralph’s medication?’ Patrick asked.
John ignored his father. ‘Mum, tell us what went on.’
‘He took sleeping pills, darling, that’s all I know.’ She smiled neatly.
‘You’re seriously going to keep up that crap about Zopiclone?’
‘Everyone takes sleeping pills, darling,’ she trilled, laughing and rolling her eyes at Patrick.
‘Your brother had sleep problems,’ his father stated firmly.
‘It was more complicated than that, Dad.’
Francesca cleared her throat and sat up a little. ‘I found a bottle labelled Zopiclone in his things when I was clearing out his room after he died, but the pills inside were Seroquel.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?’ Patrick snapped, looking more concerned than he had before. Francesca’s lie had been clever.
‘I didn’t know what they were until I saw the same ones in Ralph’s house.’
‘Did you give them to him, Camilla?’ Francesca blurted.
‘Now, listen to me, you two,’ his mother hissed. ‘Why would I give Robert Seroquel?’
There was a part of John that felt embarrassed for his mother. He wanted to stop her from digging the hole more deeply for herself. He wanted to back out of their plan to get the truth from her, but Francesca’s mood had turned from fearful to defiant.
‘Honestly, I don’t know why, Camilla. You tell me.’
‘I have nothing to tell you.’ Camilla snorted.
His father spoke in a low rumble: ‘How dare you make up such nonsense and scare your mother?’
‘Mum,’ John said, ‘he has a right to know.’
His mother’s eyes glazed over. ‘I don’t know who told you that, John, but it isn’t true.’
‘I know it’s true because Robert told me himself,’ John lied.
His father’s jaw slackened. ‘Camilla?’
But she did not respond. She sat there, bolt upright, holding her breath. Her cheeks reddened and she wiped the sheen away from her upper lip.
‘Why are you lying to us?’ Francesca asked, pleadingly.
‘That’s enough from you, young lady,’ Patrick barked at her, pointing his finger.
John had never seen his father lose his temper like that.
Francesca flinched. She moved her chair back.
‘Dad, don’t get at Fran. Mum’s the one you should be angry with.’
‘I think I’m going to faint,’ his mother said, flapping her hand in front of her face and increasing the pace of her breathing.
‘Mum, please,’ John begged.
His mother covered her face.
She began to cry into her hands, hanging her head, unable to look at them. A flow of sympathy rushed through him.
‘He was addicted to it, wasn’t he, Mum?’ John asked, desperate for her to open up, desperate to share the pain with her, to hear her side of the story; to free them all from the chains of the unknown, for peace of mind.
‘No,’ his mother said, dropping her hands. Black stripes cut down her cheeks.
‘You are telling a bare-faced lie!’ Francesca cried.
H
is father slammed his fist on the table. ‘Stop it! I won’t hear it. I won’t HEAR IT!’
‘I’m sorry this is distressing for you to hear, Patrick,’ Francesca interjected, ‘but isn’t it best to know the truth?’
John’s father took his glasses off his face and rubbed his eyes.
‘The truth, eh?’ his father murmured. ‘Francesca thinks we should know the truth? That’s rich.’
His mother stopped hyperventilating.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Francesca asked quietly. John noticed that her hands were quivering.
‘You mean, you can’t guess?’ Patrick said.
Francesca laid her palms flat on the table, poised to push herself to standing.
‘I think I had better go.’
‘What? No! Fran, why? What’s Dad talking about?’ John asked, flustered.
Refusing to look at John, Francesca stood up.
John’s father continued. ‘Right, yes, you can throw accusations around willy-nilly at my wife and Robert, and yet when the finger is pointing at you, my dear, you want to scarper? Is that right?’
Francesca began walking towards the kitchen door. ‘I don’t need to listen to this,’ she said, sounding very frightened.
‘Fran?’ John called after her, standing up.
‘Come back here, young lady! We’re not done!’ Patrick bellowed. Francesca stopped dead in her tracks, but she did not turn around. She bent her head low into her hands, and her shoulders began to shake.
‘Sit down, son. There’s something you should know.’
John sat down obediently, agog at his father’s outburst, and he looked to his mother for a clue. Her frown suggested she was as ignorant as he.