A Tangled Thread

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘She was brave and cheerful and funny and always there for us,’ he ended quietly. ‘We shall miss her more than we can say.’

  Some thirty people had accepted the invitation to go to Sally’s house after the service, and they gathered a little awkwardly in her light-filled sitting room – patients and ex-patients, colleagues, friends and neighbours. The nine-year-old twins, overawed by the occasion, were handing round canapés and sandwiches as David and Will refreshed glasses, and after the solemnity of the service people began to relax and exchange memories of Sally.

  ‘We’d had a girls’ night out the week before,’ a former school friend confided. ‘I just couldn’t believe it when I heard.’

  In Sally’s kitchen her daughters-in-law filled kettles and set out cups and saucers. ‘They’ll need tea or coffee before they leave,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t know about you, but wine always makes me thirsty.’

  Sylvie smiled. ‘I keep telling you, you should dilute it as we do in France.’

  Julia glanced round the comfortable, familiar room, at the pots of herbs on the windowsill, the rubber plant in the corner, the memos that were no longer needed pinned to the noticeboard. ‘It seems so strange to be here without her,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  They turned as Nina Hurst came into the room. Small and grey-haired, she seemed to have aged ten years in the last ten days.

  ‘We’re just about to produce tea and coffee,’ Sylvie said.

  Nina nodded distractedly. ‘And then perhaps they’ll begin to leave. It sounds ungrateful but I’m not sure how much longer I can last.’

  She moved restlessly about the room, rearranging cups on the tray, gazing unseeingly out of the window and coming to a halt at the cork notice board. ‘There’s a dental appointment down for next week,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘Someone will have to cancel it.’

  Sylvie put her arms round her. ‘Don’t worry about that now. How about coming with me to collect Amélie?’

  Will and Sylvie’s year-old daughter had spent the day in the care of a neighbour down the road and was due to be picked up at five o’clock.

  Nina’s face lightened. ‘I’d love to.’

  And, mouthing, Back soon at Julia over her head, Sylvie led her from the room.

  It was two hours later. The guests had gone, cups and glasses had been washed and put away and the twins had taken Amélie to play in the garden. The six remaining adults had gathered in the sitting room, postponing the moment of departure in the knowledge that this was probably the last time they’d all be together in this house where they’d shared so many memories. It was to be put on the market at the end of the week.

  Breaking a brief silence, Will cleared his throat. ‘I was talking to one of Mum’s chiropodist friends and he asked what we plan to do with the equipment. He offered to take the workstation off our hands, and he’s sure the rest could be disposed of among her colleagues. They’d obviously pay a fair price and it would save all the hassle of having it evaluated then advertising it for sale.’

  David nodded. ‘That would be one less thing to worry about; we could clear the surgery any time, but I think we agreed to leave the main house clearance till after it’s been sold. It’ll look much better to prospective buyers furnished.’

  ‘I still think we should cancel the cruise,’ Nina said suddenly. The Hursts were due to leave on a three-week holiday the following week, and it had taken the combined efforts of the younger members of the family to convince them that they should go ahead with it.

  ‘We’ve been through that, Gran,’ Will said patiently. ‘There’s nothing you can do here and you’re both in need of a break. It’ll do you good to get away and have a change of scene.’

  Nina still looked uncertain, but Henry nodded. ‘He’s right, love.’

  ‘But when the house is sold you’ll need help going through everything, deciding what—’

  David shook his head. ‘It’s not even on the market yet, and it’ll be months before anything happens. There’ll be plenty of time when you get back.’

  There was a roar from the garden, and as Sylvie rose to her feet the twins appeared at the patio doors, leading a crying Amélie.

  ‘She fell,’ Cassie reported, ‘but she didn’t really hurt herself.’

  ‘She’s tired,’ Sylvie said, lifting the child, who promptly stopped crying. ‘Time we were going, anyway.’ She turned to her parents-in-law. ‘If we don’t see you before Tuesday, take care, try to relax and send us a postcard!’

  ‘Lots of postcards!’ interposed Pippa, and her twin nodded agreement.

  Everyone stood and emotional hugs and kisses were exchanged as they took their leave of each other. After a last look round David followed them all out of the house, locked the door and put the key in his pocket. The end of an era, he thought sadly.

  Foxclere

  ‘Well, the evening didn’t go too badly, despite your reservations,’ Tim remarked. ‘I think they were quite impressed with what we’ve done with the house. “Sympathetic conversion”, wasn’t that the expression?’

  ‘Victoria’s, yes.’ Georgia leant towards the mirror to remove her make-up. ‘Richard wasn’t so enthusiastic. In fact,’ she added, frowning slightly, ‘I thought he seemed a bit … subdued.’

  Tim gave a snort. ‘Your brother, subdued? That’ll be the day!’

  ‘Didn’t you think he was unusually quiet?’

  ‘I can’t say I noticed, but as you women were chatting nineteen to the dozen neither of us could get much of a word in.’

  She pulled a face at him in the mirror. ‘Well, at least we’ve broken the ice – if there was any to break. Now it’s up to them to return the invitation.’

  He bent and, lifting her hair, kissed the back of her neck. ‘Hurry up and come to bed,’ he said.

  Stonebridge

  David and Julia were also preparing for bed. The raw emotions of the day had given way to a dull ache and overwhelming lethargy. Seeing tears in her eyes, he went to put his arms round her but she shook him off, turning her face away.

  ‘Don’t, David,’ she said, her voice choked.

  ‘Darling, I—’

  ‘And don’t “darling” me!’ she added in a low, vicious voice.

  ‘Julia, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Exactly!’ she said and, slipping off her dressing gown, slid quickly into bed and turned off her bedside light. ‘Goodnight,’ she said.

  He stood looking hopelessly at her rigid back, misery sluicing over him. ‘Goodnight,’ he echoed dully.

  ‘I worry about them, Henry,’ Nina said into the darkness. ‘Now more than ever. Don’t you think we should tell them?’

  Henry sighed. ‘We made a promise, love,’ he reminded her.

  ‘That was years ago. Things are very different now.’

  ‘But what possible good would it do?’

  ‘My poor girl!’ Nina said brokenly. ‘My poor, beautiful girl!’ And she turned her face into her husband’s shoulder, feeling his arm come round her as the tears started again.

  Blaircomrie

  That Friday evening, as usual, Eric Barnes left straight from the office to go home to Kent, and also as usual Beth had begun to prepare something special for her and Johnnie’s supper. Because he’d be back for it, she knew he would, or he’d have told her.

  But by the time eight o’clock had come and gone she knew he was not coming and, her throat clogged with unshed tears, she tipped the whole meal into the bin. Where was he? Had he dumped her, was that it? But then surely he’d have taken all his possessions, cleared out of the house? She’d seen him go, she reminded herself, and he’d not been carrying anything. Might he have come back while she was at work to collect some belongings – but if so, why not all of them? She’d glanced into his room again that evening, hoping against hope he might be there, and though she couldn’t bring herself to go in, she could see his trainers on the floor and his raincoat draped ov
er a chair.

  Had something happened to him? Bracing herself, she took out the old telephone directory and fearfully rang all the hospitals in the neighbourhood. No one called Johnnie Stewart or even answering his description had been admitted to any of them in the last two days. Which was something, she supposed numbly.

  She longed to phone Moira, but she’d gone to stay with her daughter for a long weekend and Beth had no wish for her concerns to be discussed between them. She’d be back in time for their Thursday lunch, but that was almost a week away and by then, Beth told herself, all this anxiety would be in the past and they’d be able to laugh about it. But, oh God, she wished she could speak to her now!

  Anxious and fearful, she made herself a cup of tea, her usual panacea, and sat drinking it at the kitchen table, its heat searing her tongue as she played a game with herself: by the time the hands of the clock had reached the half hour, she’d hear his key in the lock. By the time they’d reached a quarter to, the hour, a quarter past …

  Never had the house felt so empty. At ten o’clock, shivering despite the warm night, she went up to bed and cried herself to sleep.

  London

  On the first weekend since his return, Paul’s daughter invited him to Sunday lunch. At twenty-nine Vivien was making a name for herself at the BBC and still sharing a flat with her long-time friend Wendy. It had crossed his mind more than once that there might be more than friendship between them, but when he’d ill-advisedly suggested this to Laura, she’d flown off the handle and roundly castigated him for even entertaining the idea.

  ‘Neither of them has found the right man yet, that’s all,’ she’d declared, and he hastily let the subject drop, having no intention of sullying one of their infrequent meetings with argument. For himself, he’d no strong feelings on the subject, and since he’d known Wendy since she was a schoolgirl, regarded her as almost another daughter.

  They both greeted him warmly, small, curly-haired Viv and tall Wendy with her smooth golden pageboy – a hairstyle that hadn’t changed since she was fourteen.

  ‘Welcome home, Pops!’ Viv cried, throwing her arms round his neck. ‘Lovely to see you in the flesh instead of on Skype!’

  ‘Likewise.’

  She stepped back and surveyed him critically. ‘A little greyer and a little plumper round the jowls!’ she pronounced.

  ‘That’s American food for you! I have to say neither of you has changed an atom.’

  ‘Flatterer! Now, sit down and let me get you a drink. Still Scotch? You haven’t succumbed to bourbon, have you?’

  ‘Scotch it is, thanks.’

  Wendy excused herself to check on something in the kitchen and Viv asked, ‘Seen Mum yet?’

  ‘No; how is she?’

  ‘Blooming.’ She handed him his glass. ‘It was she who told me about Uncle Greg.’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, really bad news. I shall miss him.’ He’d also, he thought privately, miss reading the Jake Farthing column in the Sunday Chronicle, though he couldn’t admit as much.

  ‘Well,’ Viv said philosophically, ‘he always liked living on the edge, didn’t he? He probably went out the way he’d have wanted to.’

  Paul smiled crookedly. ‘With a characteristic bang? I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.’

  Wendy returned, and the conversation switched to an exchange of news which continued over lunch. Then there were photographs to show and exclaim over, among them Paul’s skiing trip in the Rockies and Viv and Wendy’s holiday in Thailand. Viv also produced photos of her half-brothers, now, incredibly, aged fourteen and sixteen. She glanced affectionately at her father.

  ‘Ever thought of marrying again, Pops?’ she asked.

  He smiled, raising his hands in mock-surrender. ‘Once was more than enough!’ he said, adding, since it might have seemed strange not to, ‘What about you two? Any Prince Charming on the horizon?’

  They both shook their heads. ‘We’re career girls, Pops. We work hard and play hard.’

  ‘As long as you’re happy,’ he said.

  It was after six by the time he got back to his flat, where he poured himself a glass of whisky before settling down with the Sunday papers – and received a severe shock. For there, on its accustomed page, was an article by Jake Farthing.

  Briefly he wondered if Greg had supplied copy in batches to be used as and when, but that couldn’t be it; this week’s column, like all the others, was concerned with current news. As he ran his eye disbelievingly down the page, a more likely explanation occurred to him. When the monthly articles had inexplicably stopped arriving, the paper must have guessed something had befallen its anonymous author, and, reluctant to lose one of its most popular features, commissioned another journalist to take it over. The old Peterborough column in the Daily Telegraph had, he remembered, passed to successive authors over the years.

  This, however, was altogether more personal, and as he started to read it Paul prepared to be highly critical. But to his grudging surprise it seemed the baton had passed seamlessly and the words he was reading were, both in style and content, much as he remembered them. The substitute writer had studied his predecessor assiduously and proved himself a worthy successor. Nonetheless, it made painful reading and, on coming to the end, Paul decided not to repeat the exercise. Albeit with reluctance, for he was a creature of habit, he would change his Sunday newspaper.

  Foxclere

  It had been decreed that Toby should have a week at home in order to recover from the shock as well as the pain he’d suffered, and as her family were up north and unable to help, Maria took a leave of absence to look after him. Meanwhile, the accident report form had been completed and filed and running in the playground was being more closely monitored. As far as the school was concerned the incident was virtually closed.

  At the end of lessons the following Monday there was a tap on Richard’s door, which opened to admit Maria and Toby himself, looking pale and somewhat reluctant.

  ‘We’re sorry to disturb you, Mr Lawrence,’ Maria said, with the smile that always caught him unawares, ‘but Toby would like to thank you for being so kind when he fell over.’

  Richard rose from behind his desk. ‘I was glad to help. Are you feeling better now, young man?’

  The child’s eyes dropped to the floor. ‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ he murmured.

  ‘He made something for you,’ Maria added, gently pushing him forward, and Richard saw he was holding a folded sheet of paper which he shyly handed over. The picture on the front depicted a small stick figure lying on the ground, a lopsided car and an uneven oblong painstakingly labelled Hospital, all executed in various coloured crayons. Inside, someone had faintly pencilled in Thank you for helping me. From Toby, which had been laboriously traced over.

  ‘That’s lovely, Toby,’ Richard said warmly. ‘I shall put it on my desk. But be careful not to fall again, won’t you.’

  He nodded and returned to his mother’s side.

  ‘And I’d like to add my own thanks,’ Maria said warmly. ‘I hope I thanked you at the time, but I don’t remember – all I could think about was Toby. It was really extremely kind of you to run us to the hospital.’

  ‘It seemed the most sensible thing in the circumstances.’ He paused, suddenly unwilling to let them go and, ignoring the clarion of warning bells in his head, added rashly, ‘You were a very brave boy, Toby, and I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?’

  Aware of Maria’s puzzled glance, he was careful to keep his eyes on her son. ‘School’s finished for the day, and I know a place where they sell particularly nice ice cream. Would you like one?’

  ‘Mr Lawrence—’

  He turned to her. ‘Do you know Angelino’s in the High Street? I have a couple of things to tidy up, but I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.’ And as she hesitated, he added humbly, ‘Please.’

  After a moment she nodded, and, Toby’s hand in hers, they left the room. As the door closed behind them Richard sank back on to his chair
, his heart pounding. What in the name of heaven was he thinking? Suppose someone from school saw them? He’d instinctively picked a café some distance away but there was still a chance another child would be taken there. Well, too late to do anything about it now. The die was cast.

  What exactly he hoped to achieve from this ill-considered invitation was a point he was not prepared to consider.

  ‘So,’ Mike Chiltern said, coming into the kitchen where his son was having tea, ‘how did his first day back go? Did Mr Lawrence like his card?’

  Fortunately Toby had a mouthful of shepherd’s pie and Maria was able to forestall him. ‘Very much; he said he’d put it on his desk, didn’t he, Toby? As for the rest,’ she went on quickly, ‘Sue Little said he seemed nervous at playtime and kept very much on the edge of things, but that’s all to the good. He’s been excused games and PE for the rest of term.’

  Toby swallowed his mouthful. ‘Daddy, we went—’

  ‘And they had a nature walk in the afternoon, didn’t you? Tell Daddy about seeing the baby rabbit.’

  And as he happily embarked on the story, Maria silently blessed the distractibility of children. It would not do for Mike to know Mr Lawrence had singled them out in any way; after the episode at her last school, which had resulted in Mike’s applying for a job transfer and removing the whole family from lingering gossip, he understandably remained distrustful.

  Staffroom opinion was that Richard Lawrence was a self-contained man who never gave a hint of what he was thinking, which made approaching him with any kind of problem somewhat daunting. ‘Brilliant academically, by all accounts,’ Stephanie James had volunteered, ‘but a bit of a cold fish, if you ask me. Can’t help feeling sorry for his wife, though as they say she’s on the arty side perhaps it suits her. No kids, if that’s any indication.’

  But suppose staffroom opinion was wrong and there were hidden depths to Richard Lawrence, depths she herself had stirred? She was pretty sure he fancied her; she’d seen that expression in men’s eyes often enough not to mistake it and his kindness with the ice-cream treat had surely been beyond the call of duty. Not to mention the fact that he’d seemed more interested in her than in Toby – asking where Mike worked, how they were settling in, and so on.