A Home in the Sun

by Sue Moorcroft

  So they were back to the animosity, evidently. Judith wiped her eyes, blew her nose and refused to be drawn into a spat. ‘You’re exhausted.’

  He brushed that away with a gruff, ‘I’ll live. Shall I see you to your car?’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Awkward mare,’ he said tiredly. He hunched his meaty shoulders and shambled off like a bear seeking its cave.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A letter trembled in Judith’s hand.

  It was ten days since the heartbreaking day at the maternity unit and this morning the family was to gather at the crematorium to say goodbye to baby Aaron. She’d been thinking about Tom, about the catastrophic thing that had happened to Kieran and whether it would push father and son together or further apart when the letter dropped onto the mat and worries about Tom faded away.

  The letter had the kind of heading designed on computer software with phone numbers and an address and was printed on white paper, plain, an economy buy for printers and photocopiers.

  Dear Mrs McAllister, it read, in navy ink and a font that looked like copperplate.

  My father was Giorgio Zammit. Judith’s heart gave a great kick.

  After his death, it was discovered that my father’s gold cross and chain had gone missing, causing great distress to the family.

  And then, ingenuously: Should you know the whereabouts of this valuable treasure, please send it to me without delay.

  Alexia Zammit

  And, at the foot of the page, Giorgio Zammit RIP

  Automatically, Judith’s fingertips twitched upwards towards Giorgio’s crucifix. She wore it all the time, touching it occasionally through her clothes, reassured by its weight and its associations with Giorgio.

  A part of him she’d been allowed to keep.

  The letter was obviously designed to cause her to feel like a grave robber, to make her snatch off the crucifix and send it to Giorgio’s daughter.

  She thought of Cass in her black lace dress, standing on the hillside beside Giorgio’s fresh grave and pressing the crucifix into Judith’s hand. ‘Only his body is here. You have his heart. Take it with you.’ The gift of the crucifix had given Judith comfort by acknowledging and validating her status as someone important in Giorgio’s life. But, for the first time, she wondered by what right Cass had acted. She couldn’t imagine Johanna or Maria authorising Cass to give Judith such a personal keepsake, and one that had a monetary value, judging by the hallmark imprinted in its yellow Maltese gold. Probably it was only Cass’s soft heart that had urged her to do something for the woman Giorgio had loved.

  The muted chime of the clock in the hall jerked her out of her thoughts, reminding her that something else needed her full concentration right now.

  Shakily stuffing the letter inside her bag, she swept on a mac that belted at the waist – the only black coat she owned and nowhere near as warm as the unsuitably vivid emerald cocoon coat – and let herself out into the chilly day. She’d arranged to pick Molly up at the modern and bright semi-detached house she’d bought on a neat estate on the edge of town.

  ‘We look like a couple of waitresses, all in black,’ Judith observed half an hour later as they drew up at the crematorium. Molly had dressed as suitably as Judith.

  ‘The car park’s nearly empty.’ Molly tucked her long hair inside her coat to keep it from the wind that swirled leaves across the tarmac as they emerged from the warmth of the car.

  Judith hunched her shoulders against the cold. ‘Kieran and Beth kept it to close family because they didn’t want hundreds of their friends turning up. I can understand that.’

  Inside the modern building, a tile marked Aaron McAllister Sutherland hung on the glass of a door. It was the smallest, most intimate room, but still their footsteps echoed as they entered.

  The others were already there. Bethan’s parents flanked her as if concerned someone might contaminate her with their presence in the same wooden pew. Kieran stood across the aisle in the dark grey suit he’d bought for his new job. Tom stood beside him, eyes front, as if on parade. Judith and Molly slid in alongside.

  Seven mourners for baby Aaron. Just seven. It couldn’t have been sadder.

  There were no hymns. In fact, no one but the vicar made a sound at all. He took the short service in a hushed voice from a spot just in front of the two occupied pews, and the funeral seemed to be over in minutes.

  When he’d finished and shaken everybody’s hands with expressions of concern and offers of comforting chats, Hannah made a frigid announcement without meeting anyone’s gaze. ‘We’re taking Bethan home – she’s not fit to stand about.’ And in seconds they were gone, leaving Judith, Molly and Tom with Kieran, who sent an anguished look after Bethan, then turned his gaze to the blue velvet curtains that had shut between them and the tiny coffin. He gave one long, quiet sigh, then allowed himself to be herded out, his face set with misery.

  ‘What was that all about?’ he asked no one in particular, hunching his shoulders against the chill as Tom held the door for his slow, gangling figure to pass.

  At first Judith misunderstood him. ‘She’s very pale, she’s just given birth. They just wanted to get her home, I expect.’

  Kieran grimaced. ‘I know that. She needs looking after and I knew they’d clear off the instant the ceremony was over. They’ve made it very plain that they don’t want me around while she heals. No, I mean … Aaron. What was he about? The pregnancy. All the pain and hate it created. For months it felt like we were part of some major disaster, a train crash or a bomb. Like things couldn’t get any worse. But then, when … when he died, we realised how bad things actually can get.’

  Kieran stared around the crematorium grounds, the formal gardens impressive even in winter with cushions of pansies and polyanthus between the shrubs and conifers, the memorial garden for stillborn babies a quarter circle in a sunny corner. ‘It feels as if we’re being punished, taught a lesson. You weren’t fit to look after a baby. You didn’t deserve a son. But I would’ve loved him. Even when we considered adoption it was because we thought it might’ve been, like, best for him and we’d be no good at it. We’d just about decided we couldn’t let him go to someone else and then he died, as if we didn’t make up our minds in time.’ He sounded bleak. Hopeless. He looked less boyish now, his face aged by pain.

  ‘Of course you would’ve loved him.’ Judith squeezed the words out past the lump in her throat.

  Tom’s voice came suddenly, deep and gruff, making Judith jump. ‘Will they try to keep the girl away from you, now, boy?’

  Kieran’s face screwed up bitterly. ‘Of course. Protect her from me because I’ve ruined her life, given her a dead baby, mucked up her A-Level year. Their idea’s to move away, taking Beth with them. They say it will give her a fresh start.’ He shivered suddenly, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. Hopeless, angry, he turned up his collar against the onset of chilly drizzle. Judith wondered how – if – he’d ever become his usual self.

  She linked his arm. ‘Come with us. We’ll get coffee together. Maybe a snack.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, thanks, Mum. And I don’t want company.’ Kieran managed a smile and squeezed her hand against his side with his arm. As if to pre-empt any argument she meant to put forward he added, ‘Yes, I really do think that’s best. But thanks for coming. Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Aunt Molly. I’m glad you were all here.’

  Judith watched, heart aching, hair blowing in a spiteful wind, as his drooping figure folded itself into his car and drove away.

  When he’d gone, she turned to say her goodbyes to Tom but she looked up into his face and her conscience smote her at the bleak expression of loss in the gaze he sent after his son. On impulse, she tucked her hand through his elbow. ‘I bet you were just going to offer us a cuppa at your place, weren’t you, Tom?’

  ‘If you like.’ But he turned with such alacrity for the car park that Judith knew, despite the daggers Molly’s eyes launched in her direction, that she’d done th
e right thing.

  ‘What did you say that for?’ Molly demanded, as they strapped themselves into Judith’s car and followed Tom’s navy Volvo out through the gates.

  Judith checked for oncoming vehicles, indicated and pulled into the traffic. ‘Because he’s sad.’ Her tone was mild. ‘And when you were sad, you appreciated a bit of company. He’s no different.’

  Molly sniffed but she turned to gaze out of the window without further argument.

  In Tom’s kitchen that once had been hers, too, Judith sat herself down on a beech stool at the table and watched Tom shambling about, assembling boiling water, teabags, sugar and milk into the correct combinations. He didn’t, as Molly had probably anticipated, try and put in a good word for Frankie.

  When he’d delivered steaming mugs to Judith and Molly he sat himself down and drank his tea at a temperature that would’ve scalded most people, his eyebrows twitching like corpulent caterpillars above his eyes. ‘Never had a chance,’ he observed gruffly.

  Judith put down her own tea, untouched. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said, quietly. ‘As Kieran said, it’s difficult to understand.’

  ‘Only a babby.’ Tom’s face worked, his complexion deepening to the brick red it seemed to be so much of the time. ‘When Kieran was a babby, I used to watch him in his cot. Make sure his little chest was moving. And Pam. She’d get up in the middle of the night sometimes, just to check.’

  Molly joined the conversation. ‘I used to, too, with Edwin. I think all parents do it.’

  Tom let out a huge, wavering sigh. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot, lately. How different things would have been if Pam hadn’t died.’

  Judith knew this wasn’t a barb aimed in her direction. She’d always known Tom and Pam’s marriage had been strong and Judith would never have been in Tom’s picture if Pam had lived. The thought had never hurt her, even when she and Tom had been together. If anything, she understood that better since she’d lost Giorgio. ‘I know what you mean. But you still have Kieran.’

  Tom stared into his empty cup. ‘Are you sure?’

  An hour later, Judith was back at Lavender Row, having been firm with a protesting Molly that she would be perfectly OK to go home for lunch.

  ‘OK,’ Molly had said. ‘I’ll see you later when we take Mum out.’

  Judith had confirmed she’d remembered this arrangement before driving off. Now she’d eaten a sandwich she was lounging on her sofa, enjoying the feel of a hot drink in her cold hands. Recently, she’d painted the sitting room walls a dignified pigeon grey. She’d been going for ‘understated’ but ended up with ‘disappointed’ at a dull result. Then Adam, who, like many photographers, had an arts college background, took a flamingo pink and a deep cream to the ornate white plaster ceiling roses and patterned coving. With the lightest touch of his paintbrush, highlights to a flower here, a teardrop there, and the whole room took on fresh life. It was stylish and unusual and she loved it.

  The fire was roaring as it fed on the wind blowing down the chimney when her doorbell rang and then she found Adam on her doorstep, coat open over a midnight shirt that accentuated his spare frame. He said, ‘I was passing and saw your car.’

  ‘Come in. The kettle’s just boiled.’ She ushered him in and he gave a whistle as he followed her up the passage. ‘Jude, you have legs! I suppose it’s not funeral etiquette to tell you that they’re nice?’

  ‘Probably not.’ But it was quite pleasant to be noticed as a woman.

  Over the second mug of tea, and after she’d given him an account of Aaron’s funeral, she dug the letter from Alexia Zammit from her bag and showed it to him.

  His eyebrows shot up into his hair as he read. ‘This is extraordinary.’ His eyes moved over and over the page. ‘What do you intend to do?’

  She leant closer to reread the letter over his arm. ‘She’s made me feel like a thief.’

  ‘She meant to, obviously. But you were given the crucifix – you didn’t steal it or even ask for it. Even if you suppose, just for a minute, that you’re not entitled to it – how can you be sure that Alexia is? It could’ve been left to anybody: Giorgio’s other daughter or his parents. Or the local cats’ home. No one’s offered you sight of the will.’

  Letting the page flutter to the coffee table from her fingers, she scratched her head. ‘So what do I do? Just grimly cling on to it and see what happens?’

  ‘Get a solicitor.’ He hesitated, looking faintly embarrassed. ‘If the fees are a problem, I think there’s assistance available. Or I could … you know. If you were stuck.’

  She picked the letter up again, folding it neatly between her fingers, troubled and uncertain. ‘Thanks, but it’s not the money. I just hate the thought of setting a solicitor on Giorgio’s family.’

  ‘And being proved to be in the wrong isn’t your strong suit.’ He grinned and tugged a lock of her hair.

  She acknowledged his point. ‘True. But I probably am the one in the wrong because I doubt that I’m in the will, if one exists. The executors would’ve written.’

  He frowned, his mind obviously working. ‘Where would they get this address?’

  Judith stared at him. ‘For that matter, where did Alexia get it?’

  Diagonal frown lines appeared on Adam’s forehead. ‘The aunt? Cass? The only explanation for the whole thing is that she admitted she’d given you the crucifix and coughed up your English address.’

  She shoved her now empty mug onto the table. ‘But surely Cass would’ve rung to warn me that trouble was on the way?’

  He yawned and stretched. ‘Your faith’s refreshing.’

  She frowned. ‘Cass wouldn’t drop me in it.’ But she heard the uncertainty in her own voice.

  He took her hand. It was his unharmed hand, of course, the fingers strong and healthy as they curled around hers. ‘Think about her husband being furious, and probably all the rest of the family too. It might have been difficult for her to resist the pressure. Then, having given way, she might not have been in a rush to own up to you.’

  She sighed and let her eyes close. ‘So you feel I’m presuming too much upon Cass’s loyalty.’ The thought hurt. When Giorgio had been alive Cass had been their one supporter and Judith had called her a friend.

  Adam’s voice came very close for a moment, his breath brushing against her cheek. ‘I think, realistically, she might’ve had to choose – loyalty to you, or loyalty to her husband and his family.’

  She sighed again. ‘And she’d have to choose her husband Saviour and the rest of the Zammits, obviously.’ Covering her eyes with her arm, she groaned. ‘I bet the damned thing’s valuable.’

  It was several seconds before Adam replied, carefully, ‘Actual monetary value might not be Alexia’s main motivation in trying to get the crucifix back.’

  ‘No. The family just doesn’t want me to have it,’ Judith concurred miserably.

  They chatted for a little longer then Adam confirmed the arrangements for the next photoshoot and pulled on his coat as he prepared to leave the warmth of the fire.

  ‘Friday, eight sharp,’ Judith noted. ‘And, of course, I’ll be assisting you at Matthias and Davina’s wedding on Saturday.’

  Adam stuffed his phone in his trouser pocket. ‘I wish they hadn’t asked me to do it. I’m no bloody wedding photographer.’ He frowned.

  She threw him a sympathetic grin. ‘A photographer’s a photographer to them, I expect. Would you enjoy the wedding more if you were simply a guest?’

  He pulled a face. ‘Probably not. I’d be criticising whoever was doing the photos instead. You are staying for the reception, aren’t you? Shelley’s going to be with her new bloke – I don’t want to be all on my own, ain’t-it-obvious-Adam-has-no-date.’

  She laughed. ‘Get a date, then.’

  ‘You forget how long I was married. I’ve forgotten how.’ He gave a crooked grin as he moved towards the hallway and she rose to see him out.

  She gave a disbelieving sniff. ‘I bet your mates’ wives are
always inviting you to dinner parties. I bet they line up divorcees and you could get eight dates, if you wanted.’

  He lifted his eyebrow in mock-hurt surprise. ‘I do get invited to dinner parties, do you think that’s the only reason? Shelley was always dragging me out to sit at someone’s ugly dining suite and talk to people I didn’t know. I took it as a perk of the separation that I could give those evenings a miss. Anyway, a date would expect phone calls, after.’

  ‘Dire,’ she observed gravely, watching him push his feet into the shiny black shoes he’d jettisoned on the tiled floor when he came in. The laces were elasticised and didn’t need tying. ‘How do you know that I won’t?’

  His eyes gleamed with laughter as he straightened. ‘But that’s what I like about you, Jude – you never expect me to phone unless I’ve got something to say. Neither do you dredge up grudges from a week last Thursday and leave me to guess what’s wrong. You don’t create tenuous cases to make things my fault, you don’t tell me what to wear, you don’t put on stupid heels and then bitch because your feet hurt, scream over a broken fingernail or sulk because your hair’s only ninety-nine per cent perfect.’ He grinned. ‘In fact, you’re not like a woman at all.’

  Somewhat to her surprise, Judith felt herself flinch. ‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’

  His grin faded. ‘Um … it was meant to suggest that you’re pleasant, easy company. But it came out a bit …’

  ‘As if I have no feminine attraction?’

  This time his smile blazed right from his eyes. ‘Not that. My compliments might be skewed, but my sight is excellent.’ He smoothed his shirt collar neatly beneath his jacket, thoughtfully. ‘I’ve annoyed you, haven’t I?’ He sounded surprised and intrigued and Judith noticed he didn’t actually say sorry.

  Then he swung back, an expression of alarm flashing across his face. ‘Just don’t say you won’t come to the wedding.’

  Later, as Judith showered, she reminded herself that frowns and pouts would only add unwelcome lines to those she owned already, but, nevertheless, kept finding herself frowning and pouting, Adam’s words circling annoyingly in her mind. Seriously? Not like a woman at all?