by Caro Fraser
‘Thanks,’ she said, and thought fleetingly of Leo. It would not have gone down well if his present to Oliver had been left behind.
Maybe, thought Charles, it would have been cleverer to let her forget Oliver’s bus. It would have afforded an excuse to see her. But he had the feeling, as he opened the car door for her, that he wouldn’t need an excuse.
‘Well, thanks again for – for everything. I think it’s done me a lot of good,’ said Rachel. She felt a little awkward, not quite sure how to say goodbye. Charles solved the problem by taking her hand lightly and leaning forward to kiss her swiftly on the cheek. It was a comradely kiss, and the squeeze he gave her hand was the ‘be brave’ kind, nothing more.
‘It’s done me good, too,’ replied Charles. ‘I feel years younger.’ At least he’d drunk less than he normally would have. He leant down to the window to wave to Oliver. ‘Be good to your mother, young man,’ he said.
Rachel laughed. Much of what Charles did and said made her laugh. Not because he was particularly funny, but because he seemed to enjoy life, would rather be cheerful than not. She was going to miss his good humour. She got into the car and started the engine, then drove slowly down to where the gravel driveway met the road. She turned to wave to Charles before setting off, and felt a pang at the sight of his tall figure waving back. She thought fondly about him, and about the past two days spent with him, for most of the journey home, and it was only when she reached the outskirts of London that she turned her mind to Leo, and what they would say to one another.
Anthony and Camilla wandered through Kensington Gardens after lunch that day, talking idly, watching the ducks on the cold water of the Round Pond, and a handful of children playing with new bikes or boats. A biting wind whipped grimy leaves along the pathways. Anthony turned up the collar of his coat.
‘Give me your hand,’ he said to Camilla, stretching out his own. She laid her hand in his, and he rubbed her chilly fingers, then bent his head to kiss them. She felt her heart dip as he did this. Then he put her hand into his overcoat pocket with his and pulled her close to him as they walked. She smiled, and he glanced at her and caught this.
‘What?’ he asked. Over lunch they had talked of things remote from themselves, and there had been nothing to presage Anthony’s sudden demonstration of affection. Yet they both knew that they had slipped into the warmth of intimacy perfectly naturally. The night of the chambers Christmas party had been a fresh beginning, erasing all memory of Camilla’s infatuation, of the unhappy events of Grand Night. It had established a new friendship, entirely replacing the former imbalance, when each had been closely conscious of their disparate status in chambers. Now they regarded one another entirely as equals.
‘Nothing,’ replied Camilla. ‘Just smiling.’
He stopped suddenly, put his arms around her and held her against him for a long moment. He could feel his own heart beating quite violently, and was not sure why. He had a sense of rightness, of completeness with her, that he could neither understand nor explain. He stroked her hair lightly with his hand. Then she lifted her head and he kissed her for a long time, without thinking about anything at all.
‘The trouble is,’ he said at last, leaning back a little to look at her and brush some strands of hair from her eyes, ‘you are so impossibly nice. I can’t think of another word for you.’
‘I had a teacher at school,’ murmured Camilla, ‘who was always telling me off for using that word in my essays. “Use a descriptive word instead, Camilla!” she would say. And I would think, well, nice is a descriptive word. The trouble is, it applies to everything.’
‘No,’ said Anthony. ‘Just to you. You are the nicest thing I know.’ And he kissed her again.
After a while they resumed their walk, Camilla leaning against Anthony, her head dipped against his sleeve, feeling extraordinarily, wonderfully happy.
‘You know,’ said Anthony, ‘that no one in chambers must know about this. Not that the situation has ever arisen before, but I have a feeling that certain kinds of relationships between barristers and their pupils might be frowned upon. So I shall have to treat you with my customary stern indifference. Will you mind that?’
She looked at him and laughed. ‘I won’t care.’
‘Hmm. Actually, it will be quite good fun. Pathetically childish, but amusing, pretending something isn’t what it is.’
‘And what is it?’ she asked softly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Anthony. He looked at her, touched her mouth with his finger, tracing her lips. ‘I honestly don’t know.’ But he had his hopes.
Freddie fumbled for the light switch as he set his suitcase down, then closed the door of his flat behind him. It had a musty, abandoned smell about it, even though he had been away for only a week. Bit much being sent packing on Boxing Day, he thought. But his son’s wife, Gemma – dreadful, silly name for a dreadful, silly woman – had booked some skiing holiday for the family over the New Year, so he’d had no choice. When Alec, his son, had been driving him to the station he’d managed to have a bit of a moan at him, but Alec had merely said that he’d told Freddie about it well in advance.
‘You knew before you came that we were going away on the twenty-seventh,’ he had said in mild exasperation.
Freddie had replied that he’d known nothing of the sort, but the fact was, he couldn’t remember whether he’d been told or not. Didn’t matter now. Here he was, shops all shut, nothing to eat, no milk except for that long-life stuff, abandoned by his own son’s family as soon as Christmas was over. He muttered to himself and stepped forward into a little heap of newspapers. He’d forgotten to cancel them. Remembered the milk, but forgotten the papers. Oh, well. He stooped slowly to pick them up. At least he would have today’s paper. Could see what was on television. Though he’d watched a damn sight too much of the thing over the last few days. No conversation to speak of, that family, except when he and Alec had escaped down to the pub. That had been more like it. Father and son. He’d been able to tell Alec about the Lloyd’s litigation, fill him in on some of the City gossip. It was good to be able to show Alec that his father was still keeping abreast of things, pitching in, even though he was on the far side of seventy.
Freddie took off his coat and wandered into the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched on the radio, listening to a bit of Radio Four while he pottered about. He glanced in the cupboards and saw that he had some corned beef and half a packet of Smash. That would do for supper. And he had in his suitcase the bottle of Famous Grouse which Alec had given him after a trip to the off-licence.
Freddie made a mug of tea and went through to the living room, conscious of how cold it was. He turned on the gas fire, blowing gently at it to ignite it, then glanced at his watch. Five to seven. Might as well switch on his electric blanket now. When he had done that, he settled down in an armchair with his tea, unaware that he had been talking to himself below his breath for the past fifteen minutes, as he had gone about his little tasks. It was something he did much of the time now. He took a sip of his tea, then, muttering, glanced across to the window, where the curtains were as yet undrawn. Snow. The first thick flakes drifted in ghostly silence past the windowpane, dimming to invisibility in the darkness. Snow. Hadn’t seen snow in London since he and Dorothy came to live here two years ago. He settled back in his armchair, recollecting how the garden of the house in Hampshire had looked after a fall of snow, the little statues by the herb garden softly shrouded, the walk past the yews down to the wood an avenue of mysterious, wonderful white. The little lone birds that hopped about near the fountain in the deep, wintry silence. He remembered once taking a walk down to the pond to see if it had iced over, then trudging back up to the house, glancing up and seeing Dorothy waiting, looking out from the French windows, the room behind her warm and welcoming, tea by the fire. That picture had remained imprinted on his memory ever since. He closed his eyes and wondered whether it was snowing in Hampshire now, and who was looking from those windo
ws at the hushed splendour of the garden that had once been his.
Alison closed her son’s bedroom door. The sigh which she let out made her body shudder perceptibly. After a second she heard him turn his music on. His refusal to talk to her about anything was pure defiance, as was the music, but the fact that he kept the volume at a reasonable level indicated a certain contrition, she thought. God, having to read signs, instead of being able to speak to him. She went slowly downstairs. Well, she supposed it happened to plenty of boys, getting into trouble with the police. Only not her son, not her Paul. It was never meant to happen to him. When they had had money, she had seen it as a sort of protection, private schools to keep her children away from malign influences. Had she been right? Did this prove anything? Paul might have got into trouble regardless. Children did, wealthy or poor. Look at all the problems they had with drugs at those public schools. She thought of the court hearing that would take place in the near future, and her stomach tightened with fear. It would be in the local paper. Lucy Wright would read about it. God, why did she always think of Lucy Wright as a metaphor for the censorious wide world? She was only Lucy Wright, after all.
Alison paused at the foot of the stairs. It wasn’t the court appearance she was worried about, or the aftermath. They probably wouldn’t do much to a sixteen-year-old committing his first offence. No, it was Paul himself. Paul and the long term. God, the worry … It was as she stood there that she heard the sound, and thought at first that it was muffled laughter, that it was the girls playing some game somewhere. And then she realised it was not that. She took a step towards the door of the little workroom in which Brian kept all his Lloyd’s papers and correspondence, then stopped, listening to the appalling sound of her husband sobbing uncontrollably. A sudden anguish made her put her hand out to the doorknob. Then she drew it back. There was nothing she could do or say. She couldn’t comfort him, tell him that this was just a little thing, that Paul would straighten out in the long run, as teenagers did. Because it was not really to do with Paul – only partly. It was all bound up in the great parcel of guilt which Brian had put together, and which began and ended with Lloyd’s and the money, the world, which they had lost there and would never recover. She stood for a few seconds and then, because she could not help and could not bear to listen, stole quietly away.
Leo was standing in the kitchen with his hands in his pockets, watching the beginning of the nine o’clock news, when he heard Rachel come in. He turned his head and regarded her through the open doorway as she took off her coat, unbuckled Oliver from his baby seat and took off his snowsuit. He turned his attention back to the television as she came down the hallway with Oliver in her arms.
‘Hello,’ she said.
He had not thought about what he would say when he saw her. He had not known what he would feel. But now he knew. He felt relieved. Annoyed, but relieved.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he said.
She sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t bear to be here. Here, you take him.’ She passed Oliver to Leo, who snuggled the baby against his shoulder, enjoying the small, compact feel of him.
‘Did you go to your mother’s?’
‘Yes,’ replied Rachel. Clearly he had not spoken to her mother. Anyway, it was true. She had gone to her mother’s, initially.
‘How was she?’
‘Not exactly ecstatic to see us. Is there any wine in the fridge? I need something.’
‘I think so.’ He put Oliver into his high chair and gave him a spoon to bang with. Then he switched the portable television off and paced round the kitchen slowly. Rachel poured them both a glass of wine, realising that she felt oddly nervous. ‘What did you do?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘You can imagine.’ There was a silence, punctuated only by Oliver smacking the tabletop with his spoon. ‘So’ – Leo stopped pacing and looked directly at her – ‘have you done any thinking?’
‘About what you said?’
‘Yes.’
Rachel sat down at the table. ‘Yes. Yes, I have. That was partly why I wanted to get away.’
‘And?’
‘Leo, isn’t it a bit soon for this? I’ve only just got back.’
‘I want to know how things are going to be resolved.’
‘You want to know how things are going to be resolved?’ She gave an ironic laugh, shook her head. ‘Leo,’ she said after a moment or two, ‘do you think there is any future for us?’ She could not help suddenly thinking of Charles and Nicholas and Chloe, how close they were. Close even in the absence of their mother. Maybe it would be better if she and Leo just cut their losses and parted. The effect on Oliver might not be as dreadful as Leo supposed. But nothing was that easy. She was still in love with Leo, still ready to take any chance that might bring him back to her. And that was why she asked this question, with hope.
He looked steadily at her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. Then he turned and glanced at Oliver, smiled at him and stroked a chubby hand. ‘I told you, life is very confused for me at present. Call it some kind of midlife crisis, the male menopause, whatever.’
‘Do you want there to be? Do you want there to be a future?’
Oh God, thought Leo, she wants me to say that there is a chance in the future that I will love her again as she loves me, which is impossible. All I can do is lie, say yes, and gain some time. Then at least Oliver will be there each evening.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s why I suggested we stay together – nominally, at least. Because I like to think things may change.’ He felt no compunction as he told this lie.
Relief and hope touched her heart. ‘In that case, we can try it for a few months. It seems an impossible way to conduct a marriage. But then this marriage isn’t …’ She was lost for the appropriate word.
‘Conventional?’
‘I always intended it to be perfectly conventional,’ replied Rachel. ‘It’s you who is unconventional.’ He was standing just a foot away from her, and the sight of his familiar, handsome face after an absence of two days still had its old effect on her. She almost willed him to take her in his arms, kiss her, make love to her as he used to. But she could read in his eyes only neutrality, and a complete lack of desire. All she could do was to hope that this arrangement might, in time, return him to her.
‘Good,’ said Leo, as though some delicate negotiation had been satisfactorily concluded. ‘Now, are you hungry?’
She was not surprised by this sudden switch of tack. ‘Yes, yes, I am, as a matter of fact.’
‘Why don’t we have a takeaway? A curry, or something.’
‘If you like. You order. I’m too tired.’
She watched him as he picked up the kitchen phone, realising that the past two days had helped her. She had been able to conduct that brief conversation, which Leo appeared to regard as having settled matters, in a clear and balanced way, without any of her former sense of desperate apprehension. Something of Charles Beecham’s relaxed approach to life must have rubbed off on her. Whatever it was, she felt less pessimistic. She could only wait and see what the next few months were to bring, after all.
‘It’s snowing,’ she remarked, as Leo put the phone down. ‘Quite heavily.’
Leo walked over to the window and looked out. ‘I hadn’t realised. If it goes on like this all night it’ll be quite deep by the morning.’ He thought about the con he had with Murray Campbell at nine-thirty the next day, wondered how the trains would be. No point in driving. His heart lifted at the thought of being back in chambers, and he turned and plucked a surprised Oliver from his high chair, lifted him against his shoulder and carried him to the window. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing to the white flurry of flakes ebbing into the dark night. ‘Snow.’ Oliver goggled at nothing in particular, while Rachel sat at the kitchen table and watched them both, her chin on her hand.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘Two things,’ said Felicity.
Leo looked up from the notes he was reading. He could tell fr
om her face that Felicity was on an organising blitz. She had them every month or so, and he assumed that it was something menstrual, or to do with phases of the moon. There would be a sudden flurry of snappily arranged conferences and hearings, fees would be raked in, people’s affairs sorted out, and Felicity would generally behave with uncharacteristic briskness. He supposed that, on this occasion, it could have something to do with the new year. Like many people with gossamer willpower, Felicity was given to making resolutions. Leo knew this because they had both tried to give up smoking five months ago, he his cigars, she her fags. Each had taken comfort in the failure of the other. ‘What?’
‘One, you’ve got a date for the Capstall hearing.’
Leo sat back in his chair and stared at her. ‘Already? When?’
‘Last week in February.’ Felicity thought he looked tired. Pinched, her mother would have said, or peaky, the shadows beneath his eyes and high cheekbones giving him a gaunt, exhausted look. Even the divine Leo had to age, she reflected. This case probably wasn’t doing him much good. He worked all hours. So did Anthony, but Anthony was only young, he could push himself to the limit, and still have time for other things. Thinking of which, she’d have to have a chat with Camilla, who’d been going around since the beginning of the new year looking quietly happy in a closed-up way.
Leo groaned. ‘I don’t believe it. Christ, two months to prepare. I may be dead by mid February, at this rate. Go on, what’s the other thing?’
‘The other thing is that Sir Basil is doing the hearing.’
‘Sir Basil?’
‘So I’ve been told. Anyway, must get on. Ta ta.’
When she had gone, Leo swivelled round in his chair and stared out of the window at the few scraps of greyish snow that still clung to the slate roof of the chambers opposite. Sir Basil Bunting had been, before his elevation to the High Court Bench a year ago, the head of chambers at 5 Caper Court, a magisterial, old-fashioned figure who had prided himself more on the calibre of his clients than on his grasp of the law. He had become head of chambers in days when nepotism was more widely practised than today, and although he had been a competent advocate, his skills had been those of diplomacy and courtly cunning, rather than legal acuity. Leo wondered whether the old boy was really up to the task of absorbing and understanding the vast wealth of statistical evidence with which he would be bombarded when the Capstall hearing got under way. Feeling like stretching his legs in any event, he decided to go and mull matters over with Anthony.