Would it have been worse to have known earlier? She couldn’t judge; couldn’t think coherently at all. ‘What can we do?’
‘Well, just this week Philip phoned to say he had good news. Hardly good – it’s all relative, of course – but Bowden’s willing to settle for forty grand, so long as it’s paid by the end of May. And that includes the cost of resurfacing the court.’
‘Forty grand? But we’ll still never be able to pay!’ She rose shakily to her feet, clutching the back of the sofa to steady herself. If only she could escape – not just the appalling facts but the turmoil in her body. She felt sick, feverish, frighteningly unreal. She tried to control the shaking – she was no help to Ralph in this state. ‘Why would he cut his damages so drastically? Isn’t that rather suspicious? What d’you think’s going on?’
‘God knows. But Philip had a phone-call from Bowden’s solicitor, off the record or whatever they call it. It seems Bowden’s not keen on going to court. You know what used-car salesmen get up to – clapped-out old bangers with a miraculously low mileage on the clock, stolen cars with switched number-plates … He’s bound to have something to hide. And he’s desperate for the cash by May. Again I don’t know why. But reading between the lines I’d say the VAT man or the Inland Revenue are breathing down his neck. Or he may have less kosher creditors – the criminal fraternity demanding money with menaces: pay up or the showroom gets torched.’
She couldn’t take it in. This was the stuff of nightmare: criminals, blackmail, arson. ‘But if he’s such a crook, or involved with crooks, why don’t we call his bluff?’
‘We haven’t any proof, Lorna. And he’s the injured party – literally. He’ll milk the situation for all it’s worth, hobbling into court on crutches and claiming to be half-paralysed. He says he’s in constant pain from his back and that the bones in his ankle haven’t knitted properly and he may still not be able to drive for a whole year.’
‘But that is awful, Ralph. Not driving for only three months has been incredibly hard for me.’
‘Stop being so gullible! The man’s an out-and-out liar. Philip thinks so too, although he’s sure Bowden will produce a tame doctor or three to swear he’s falling apart.’
She glanced at the wedding-photo on the sideboard. She and Ralph were smiling, raising champagne glasses in a toast. Another era, another life entirely. ‘So why should we let him get away with it, if you say he’s such a liar?’
‘Because we haven’t any choice. If we fight him it could drag on for a couple of years at least, and the legal fees would be astronomical. And think of the adverse publicity. He’s already made veiled threats about exposing the hazards of Astroturf if we don’t agree to settle by May. Apparently he knows this bloke on the Daily Mail, and you can just imagine the line they’d take: a death-trap for children, a danger to life and limb – all that sort of emotive stuff. He’s got us by the short and curlies, Lorna.’
‘That’s blackmail.’
‘Maybe. Unfortunately he’s the one calling the shots, so we’re in no position to argue. I mean, if we lose – which Philip says is likely – we’ll be liable for Bowden’s costs as well. And the strain of a court case would probably kill us both. Remember poor old Michael Moore – he ended up with a heart attack and costs of two hundred grand.’
Lorna dug her nails into her palm. The figures kept rising and rising.
‘Philip said it might not even get to court for a year or more, what with all the legal rigmarole that has to be gone through first. And with every month that passes you can bet your bottom dollar Bowden will suffer more convenient complications and lose thousands of pounds’ more business until he’s dunning us for Christ knows how much.’
She sank down on the sofa again. How could one weekend produce so many shocks? She was still struggling to come to terms with the violence of her parents’ death and her father being the cause of it, and now this new revelation.
‘We have to face the facts, Lorna. If we don’t pay Bowden by May we’re finished.’
‘We’re finished anyway. How on earth can we find forty grand? We just haven’t got that sort of money.’
‘We’ll have to sell the house.’
Suddenly it seemed unutterably precious – the house she had always thought of as isolated, gloomy and too big. Nevertheless it was home: the place where she felt safest, the place where she belonged. ‘We can’t do that in two months.’
‘I’ll ask the bank for a bridging loan.’
‘They won’t agree, with the enormous mortgage we’ve got.’
They will if Philip undertakes with them to repay the loan from the proceeds of the sale. The trouble is, without a house I don’t see how we can run the business.’
No house. No business. She closed her eyes, saw a snail without its shell, a tent collapsing in a hurricane. Was it any wonder that Ralph hadn’t been able to sleep? He had had to bear this on his own. And, far from giving him support, she had let herself believe that he was involved in an affair. Desperately she cast around for a solution. ‘What about Agnes’s cottage?’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s ours – or soon will be. I know it isn’t worth a lot, but Agnes says we’ll get the value of the land.’
‘That won’t be much where she lives. She moved to Lincolnshire precisely because property was cheap.’
More guilt. Unwittingly she had been the cause of Agnes’s financial difficulties and hence her move to a benighted village.
‘Besides, we can hardly turf her out of her own home.’
‘Maybe we could live with her, instead of the other way round.’ She was clutching at straws.
‘Oh sure! With the cottage crumbling around us. And what would we live on?’
‘We still have clients – a few. And there’s that golf-club job in Dorset. They’re debating about whether to go ahead. The estimate’s only just over their budget, so if we could trim it slightly I’m pretty sure we’d get the contract.’
Ralph shook his head wearily. ‘It’ll be months before they make up their minds. You know what these committees are like, squabbling over their own petty interests. And the other clients are as bad – ditherers or penny-pinchers, or both. We work ourselves to death and there’s sod-all to show at the end of it. It’s hard enough when things are going well, but with that little shit holding us at knifepoint the situation’s hopeless.’
‘No, it’s not!’ she said, astounding herself. Never before, in the grip of panic, had she managed to fight back. It was Agnes who had inspired her. If a woman of seventy-nine could show such courage in face of a terminal illness then she too must take a stand. ‘We’ve got to be positive, Ralph. I know you’re feeling down at the moment, but once the house is sold we’ll have some money. Then we can rent a place and keep the business ticking over. We don’t need a vast amount of storage space. The material’s usually delivered direct to the site, and we can keep the tools in the van and …’
‘The van’s not big enough.’
‘We’ll make it big enough.’
‘What’s the point? It’s clapped out anyway.’
‘Ralph, for pity’s sake! Are you determined to wallow in gloom?’
‘I’ve told you, I’ve had it up to here with bloody Astro-Sport. I’m sick to death of having to be polite to clients who shilly-shally about and then won’t pay on time. And arguing the toss with tinpot little surveyors who think they’re God and –’
‘OK, we close the business down and find jobs somewhere else. That’s the only alternative. Where do we start?’
‘I’ve started,’ Ralph said bitterly. ‘I’ve already approached various people, but no one’s the least bit interested. It’s my age, obviously. They think I’m past it, but they’re too polite to say.’
‘Past it? At fifty-three?’
‘I’m nearly fifty-four. Anyway, in some jobs you’re past it at thirty-four.’
‘Well, that’s me done for too.’
‘Oh, you’re all rig
ht. With your computer skills you’d be snapped up in a trice.’
Did she detect a note of jealousy? ‘But surely that’s an advantage, Ralph. One wage is better than none.’
Ralph knocked his pipe sharply against the ashtray. ‘I don’t intend to be kept by my wife.’
‘You may not have much choice.’
‘There’s no need to rub it in.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘There isn’t any help. Not now.’
‘I’m sorry, Ralph, I don’t agree. I admit the Bowden thing’s a terrible setback, but if I can keep working that’ll tide us over.’
‘And where are we going to live?’
‘I’ve told you – we’ll rent a flat.’
‘Great! Ending our days in a grotty little bedsit.’
Lorna tried to draw on Agnes’s vigour, her refusal to exaggerate.
‘Come off it, Ralph, we’re hardly ending our days! You’re still twelve years away from your pension. And I didn’t say a bedsit.’
‘That’s all we’ll be able to afford.’
She went over to the window and peered out at the garden. Everything was shadowy, wet, depressing, dead. She could feel herself capitulating already. Ralph’s relentless negativity was too much for her to withstand. The panic was surging back, Agnes’s determined voice drowned by the craven bleating of her fears.
She heard Ralph strike a match, then another and another. Each one fizzled out, followed by a muttered curse. His failure to light his pipe seemed to symbolize their predicament. She remained standing at the window, watching drops of rain snail down the glass. Shapes in the garden came gradually into focus: the wooden bench, the laurel-bush, the dark stump of the beech-tree. It had fallen last year in a gale and crashed through the roof of the shed. Luckily the insurance had …
‘Ralph!’ She wheeled round. ‘We’re mad, stark staring mad! We’ve forgotten the insurance. How could we be so stupid? They’ll pay.’
Ralph’s expression didn’t change. He was sitting with his shoulders hunched, one hand fidgeting on the chair-arm.
‘Ralph?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you hear? The public-liability policy. End of panic – we can relax! I’m just amazed we didn’t think of it before. But I suppose with all the upheaval of Agnes and my father … Oh, darling, I’m so relieved! Come and give me a hug.’
He didn’t move. The muscle in his cheek was twitching.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Leave it, can’t you. I’m tired.’
‘Leave it? With a solution staring us in the face! I’m beginning to think I’m married to a masochist.’
He drained his whisky. His hand was shaking as he put the glass down. ‘They … won’t pay,’ he grunted at last.
‘Why ever not?’
‘I can’t explain.’
‘Look, I’ve read the policy enough times, and there’s no reason why they shouldn’t.’
He put his head in his hands and let out a muffled groan.
‘Ralph, what is all this? I don’t understand. We should be jumping for joy.’
‘We haven’t any insurance,’ he mumbled.
‘What?’
‘I … didn’t renew it.’
She stared at him, incredulous. The efficient, prudent businessman letting his insurance lapse? There must be some mistake. ‘You can’t mean you forgot it?’
‘No.’ His voice rose querulously. ‘But money was so damned tight. The renewal came at the worst possible time. There was a tax demand, a VAT demand, that big repair on the car. I did intend to renew it, Lorna, every day, I swear, but whenever any money came in it was swallowed up by yet another bill. Besides, we’ve been shelling out on premiums for ten years without putting in a single claim on the business. Then I make one mistake and all hell breaks loose.’
‘Stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself. You landed us in this mess.’ How weak he looked suddenly, and shifty, deliberately avoiding her eye, and that stupid muscle still twitching in his cheek. Kathy was right: he wasn’t her great protector – he was a bungler and a fool. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t renew it, Ralph. You must be out of your mind.’
‘Look, you’re the one who sees to all that side of things. You should have –’
‘Don’t you dare blame me! I distinctly remember telling you it had to be paid in December and did you want me to do it before I went into hospital. And you said no, you’d take care of it yourself this year. But I see now – you’d already decided not to renew it, hadn’t you? You didn’t even have the decency to talk it over with me. I slave my guts out for the business, and then you go behind my back and land us both in the shit.’
‘Slave your guts out? You’ve been sitting on your arse for three months.’
‘If I can’t even have an operation without you begrudging me the time to –’
‘I don’t begrudge you anything – you know that. You’re just determined to put me down. But if you had to cope with the pressure I’m under you’d crack up in half an hour.’
‘Thanks very much! At least I wouldn’t be idiotic enough to cancel the insurance – the one thing that’s absolutely crucial. No wonder you don’t dare go to court. They’d make mincemeat of you, running a business like ours with no insurance cover. And don’t give me that spiel about never having needed it before. If you used that as a defence you’d be laughed to scorn.’
‘It’s easy for you to criticize. What else could we have economized on? We’ve already cut out new clothes, new cars, holidays, painting the house, repairs …’
‘Couldn’t you have discussed it with me first, though? That’s what really hurts. We’re supposed to work in partnership, but when it comes to the crunch it’s your business – like this house is yours, and all the important decisions are yours. I’m just a minion, too lowly to be consulted.’ Her cheeks were flaming, her heart racing – with fury now, not panic. She seized his whisky glass. ‘This is what’s wrong with you,’ she shouted, slamming the glass on the sideboard. ‘You keep telling me we have to economize, but think of all the money that gets pissed down the drain every day. How can you expect to run a business when you’re always half cut?’
He sprang to his feet, his right hand clenched in a fist. She cowered, terrified he was going to hit her, but he just punched the fist into his other palm. ‘That’s rich, I must say, coming from you. At least I haven’t managed to kill us both through drunk-driving.’
Without another word she turned on her heel and marched out. Grabbing her coat, car-keys and a pair of battered shoes, she wrested open the front door.
‘Goodbye!’ she whispered. ‘Good riddance!’
Chapter Nineteen
She sat shivering in the car outside Clare’s flat. Where was Clare at five past midnight? The street seemed deserted except for a skinny black cat crouching under the hedge. The lamp-posts cast an amber glaze across pavements glistening with rain and trembling with the shadows of gaunt and naked trees.
She counted the lighted windows in the flats: fewer now than half an hour ago. People were going to bed – normal, solvent people, cuddling up companionably; husbands and wives safe, at peace; children who had living, breathing parents.
Was Clare away, perhaps? They had spoken only two days ago, but if her mother’s flu was worse she might have had to rush off to Wales. Alone, she was prey to ominous visions of the future: she and Ralph thrown out of the house, living on benefit, pitied by their friends. Or she back in some lonely bedsit, jobless and despondent.
Listlessly she traced a series of noughts on the misted-up window. The panic had burned itself out, leaving the usual dregs of dejection, shame, fatigue. Her earlier attempts to rouse Ralph from his pessimism now seemed crass and superficial. His gloom had seeped into her bloodstream like a virus and was killing off all hope.
On an impulse she started the car. Driving – somewhere, anywhere – would serve as a distraction, despite (or even because of) the throbbing i
n her foot. Also it would give Clare time to return. Only Clare would take her in. True friends were rare.
As she turned into the main road, she passed a guest-house with a Vacancies sign outside, and was tempted for a split second to stop and book a room – human contact, a friendly welcome … But, in a strange place on her own, the Terrors were bound to strike again as soon as she closed her bedroom door. Besides, she would seem suspicious, arriving so late and dressed in an old gardening coat over a nightie.
Perhaps she should just go home, admit defeat.
No, dammit. For once in her life she had stood up to Ralph. She would not go grovelling back.
She continued past the golf-course into a more prosperous part of the town. No poky little houses crumbling with dry rot or large ones about to be repossessed. Stone lions stood guard outside colonnaded porches, flanked by bay-trees in smart tubs; carriage-lamps gleamed on gold-tipped railings designed to keep out ne’er-do-wells and bankrupts.
A car overtook her, followed by another. Each time she glimpsed only the anonymous back of the driver’s head before they were swallowed up in darkness. This was how it would be when she and Ralph had gone their separate ways: a world inhabited by faceless strangers.
She glanced at her watch: ten to one. Clare must be back by now.
But, as she drew up outside the flats again and switched off the engine, silence closed around her. The world had shut down for the night. Only the sky was restless: menacing clouds besieging a sliver of moon.
She got out of the car, pulling her coat around her. The wind knifed between her bare legs, ran cold, taunting fingers through her hair. She pressed Clare’s bell. No answer.
She stood wretchedly in the shelter of the porch, listening to the rain drumming on the balconies. Her thoughts kept circling back to Ralph. Had he drunk himself into a stupor or was he, too, awake? Perhaps he was out searching for her, sick with remorse.
Unlikely.
Returning to the car, she drove on aimlessly, wondering what to do and where to go. Even if she found an all-night café, she had no money for food or drink, and in any case she shouldn’t really be driving at all. It was her first time since the operation, and her foot was registering its protest. She also felt uncomfortable without socks or underclothes, her rain-spattered nightdress clinging soggily to her legs. If only she could stop thinking about the future. Was there any future? – with Ralph? In some new job? The past, too, had changed grotesquely from her cherished vision of it: her parents’ happy, stable marriage before the crash …
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