The grey gauze slowly lifted, to reveal streaks and flecks of pink. The day was struggling into existence, the sun heaving itself from sleep. Clouds marched across the sky, dispersing, changing shape; starlings circled and chattered; a magpie swooped from the sycamore and strutted across the lawn. Such exertion everywhere, and she passive, only waiting.
But then something made her turn. Agnes’s breathing was different: shallower, with longer pauses. She counted the seconds between each breath. Ten. It had been six before.
She didn’t ring the bell. She just sat on the bed and took the sagging body in her arms. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘Mother.’
And then an extraordinary thing: Agnes’s clouded blue eyes seemed to light up for an instant, becoming not just brighter but bluer – luminous points of light against the brown parchment of her skin. There was joy in her face, ecstasy almost, as she fixed Lorna with a piercing stare. Was it Margaret she was seeing?
No, it was Margaret’s child – her child. And she was gazing at her with an expression of utter intensity, as if rallying her last shred of strength to pass on a profoundly important truth, communicate wordlessly things never said before.
Lorna strove to comprehend. Agnes was speaking of fear, and of love that overcame fear, of courage and devotion.
Then suddenly the eyes went blank, the harsh breaths ceased, and there was silence in the room.
Outside, the birds were singing.
Part Three
Chapter Twenty Five
‘Happy birthday, Kathy!’
‘Happy birthday!’
Chris was lighting the candles on two pink-iced cakes in the shape of a 4 and a 0. ‘If you can blow this lot out in one go it’s free champagne for a week.’
‘You might live to regret that offer!’ Kathy expelled her breath in a dramatic burst, extinguishing all forty candles. Amid the clapping and cheering, Jeremy stepped forward with the cake-knife.
‘Wait a minute,’ Kathy said. ‘Let’s light them again for Lorna. It’s her birthday next week.’
All eyes turned to Lorna, who was sitting on the edge of the jacuzzi, a glass of Bollinger in her hand.
‘Oh, Kathy, no! This is your party.’
‘Come on, I insist.’
Lorna approached the table and looked nervously around at faces, faces, faces. The guests had blurred to a patchwork of colours, punctuated by the odd detail: a gleaming bald head, a wide-brimmed velvet hat. She took a deep breath and blew. A dozen candles went out; the rest blazed perversely on. Everybody laughed – she too. ‘Oh, lord!’ she said. ‘I can’t laugh and blow at once.’
‘’Course you can,’ urged Kathy. ‘Have another go. That’s it – brilliant. Now we both get a wish.’
Lorna shut her eyes. ‘I wish that the Monster burns in hell!’ Mercifully he hadn’t turned up this evening, but there was still a long time to go. ‘Marvellous party,’ she told Chris, who was handing round the cake.
‘Oh, it’s hardly started yet. There’s skinny-dipping at midnight, don’t forget!’
Lorna glanced at her feet. Would she dare expose the scarred left and bunioned right? And what about the shingles scars on her breast, which had now faded to an unflattering mud-brown?
‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ said a voice behind her. ‘I’m Jason Carter, a friend of Jeremy’s.’
She recognized the name although not the man: he was small and slight, with fair, floppy hair and blue eyes. Kathy had been talking about Jason Carter only yesterday – a millionaire (multimillionaire?) who had started his first business when he was a schoolboy of fifteen. ‘Hello, I’m Lorna.’ She didn’t give a surname, preferring to divest herself of both Pearson (Ralph’s) and Maguire (her father’s).
‘Are you a friend of Chris’s?’
‘No, Kathy’s. I only met Chris and Jeremy this evening.’ They, in fact, were hosting the party as a birthday present to Kathy, and had invited many of their own friends too.
‘And what’s your line of work?’
Tricky question. Her work in the last month had consisted of spring-cleaning a cottage and preparing to put it on the market, clearing an overgrown garden and disposing of Agnes’s pathetically few possessions. ‘I’m … between jobs at the moment. How about you?’ Or was that a silly thing to ask? Did millionaires work?
Jason flicked back a lock of hair. ‘I have fingers in a number of pies. But mainly I deal in shares and currencies on the Internet.’
‘That sounds exciting.’ Anything but.
‘Well, yesterday it was. I made fifty grand on the euro taking a dive. And I’m praying that the Nasdaq will bomb tomorrow. I’ve been forward-selling all week, so I might cream off another hundred grand.’
‘Really?’ She hadn’t a clue what he was talking about but supposed she ought to look impressed.
Jason held out his glass to be refilled by a passing waiter. (Champagne was flowing in torrents, and the lavish amounts of caviar in the buffet must have seriously depleted world stocks.) ‘Do you live around here?’
Another awkward question. She didn’t actually live anywhere just now. After three weeks in Agnes’s cottage, she (and the Monster) had decamped to Clare’s flat, where she was sleeping on a mattress on the floor. ‘I’m staying in Woking with a friend temporarily. I’m looking for a place of my own …’
‘Ah, I can probably help there. I’m joint owner of a property company in town.’
Mansions in Mayfair, penthouses in Canary Wharf – the very thing.
‘Here’s my card. Give me a bell.’
‘Thanks. That’s kind.’ She imagined a tramp being subjected to such questions: ‘Where do you live?’ ‘On a sheet of cardboard on the pavement.’ ‘What do you do?’ ‘Drink meths and beg.’ She could identify with tramps at present. The Monster frequently suggested begging and cardboard as a solution to her job and housing problems.
Jason raised his voice above the music. ‘Also I’m into vintage sports cars. I’ve just picked up an E-type Jag in mint condition. And last week I managed to lay my hands on an Aston Martin DB4.’
‘Really?’ she repeated. Her responses must seem woefully inadequate. Luckily he didn’t enquire about her car – an elderly Metro suffering from chronic engine-knock.
She felt a hand on her arm. ‘Lorna, you promised me a dance.’
It was Paul, a friend of Kathy’s. His polo-neck and old chinos looked gratifyingly shabby. (Jason’s cream suit and matching silk shirt had probably cost half the price of Agnes’s cottage.)
‘Do excuse me, Jason,’ she said as Paul took her hand and negotiated an obstacle course through groups of chattering people, assorted bronze statuary and glossy-leaved giant plants. Finally they made it to the far end of the pool, which opened out into a glass-domed annexe already crowded with dancers.
‘I’m afraid I’m not exactly John Travolta,’ Paul admitted.
Lorna smiled. ‘Don’t worry, nor am I. All we need do is jig around.’ The champagne had dulled the pain in her foot and she could jig around – just about – hoping her unglamorous shoes would be hidden beneath her long scarlet dress (bought specially for the occasion at Déja Vu, a second-hand fashion shop).
‘Great number, this,’ Paul mouthed, singing along.
She nodded, letting the music take her over and mesmerized by the coloured lights spangling the fronds of ferns, gilding the mosaic floor and stippling the birds of paradise on the exotic hand-painted murals.
A slower song came on and Paul held her close, nuzzling her neck with his lips. She liked the feel of his warm, solid body pressing into hers. No need to pull away. She was free now, available.
She lost the rhythm, tripped. Of course she wasn’t free, shackled by guilt and marriage vows. Ralph was distraught at her leaving and kept begging her to return.
‘I … I’m sorry, Paul. I need a breather.’
She threaded her way back to the pool between the swirl of dancers, Paul stumbling in her wake. She managed to shake him off by say
ing she was going to the loo, and escaped from there into the garden. The night air was a relief after the sultry heat indoors, and the earth, dampened by a recent shower, smelt refreshingly cool. She ventured along a path, unsure of her bearings in the gloom. Although the grounds were floodlit, swathes of light alternated with strips of shadow. She passed the tennis-courts and bowling-green, and came upon the sensory garden, where she sat on a bench amid perfumed flowers and shrubs: honeysuckle, wallflowers, mahonia, viburnum. There were sounds as well as scents: trickling water, recorded bird-song, the muted sound of the music. How marvellous it would be to work in this idyllic place … But how could she take any job when she was a prey to fear on such a scale? She couldn’t even cope with Paul’s innocuous advances, let alone embark on a new life. Indeed, now that the person who had loved her most in the world was reduced to a box of ashes, she seemed to be more vulnerable than ever. Her mind kept harking back to the shamefully cheap coffin, which she had tried in vain to upgrade; the sparse attendance at the tea. Her piles of crustless sandwiches, made with lashings of butter and the most expensive ham, had finally been fed to the birds.
She plucked a petal from a wallflower. She had piled the coffin with flowers so that Agnes should be celebrated with glorious extravagance, at least in one small way. And she had put an obituary notice in The Times – ‘Beloved Aunt and Mother’ – wanting Agnes’s role (and passing) to be publicly commemorated.
Tossing the petal away, she crossed the lawn towards the cedars, envying their sturdy strength. For two hundred years they had withstood gales and storms; she was matchwood in comparison. Ms Unflappable and Ms Courageous had both faded into oblivion, leaving the field free for the Monster to renew his gleeful bullying. At Agnes’s cottage she had got up more than once in the middle of the night and driven round the country lanes in a futile attempt to evade him. And at Clare’s she had to sleep with all the lights on, and still woke every hour. Sleep itself had become frightening, and not only because of the nightmares. There was an aspect of death about it, going down, down, down into a void, alone, with no control. Yet staying awake was little better. From midnight to dawn was a prison stretch of solitary confinement. And just looking at the night sky could induce a fit of terror: the vast, incomprehensible distance from earth to even the nearest star; the sense of being abandoned in a callous universe.
For God’s sake, she told herself, you’re neither imprisoned nor alone – you’re at a fantastic party, so stop this ridiculous introspection and go back indoors to Paul.
But Paul, too, made her nervous. She wasn’t ready to play the field, both because of her ambivalent feelings for Ralph and also through fear of repeating past mistakes. She’d been involved with enough obnoxious men in her time. Even Oshoba was a problem, sweet-natured as he was. During the last month he had written to her twice, asking why she hadn’t been in touch.
Yes, why? Was it only guilt, or fear again? Fear was so restricting. It stopped you being your true self, blighted pleasure, shattered confidence.
Miserably, she wandered back the way she’d come, returning to the lee of the main house, with its weathered brick and reassuring solidity. If she turned down this job, what would she do instead? Temp in a dreary office? Join the ranks of commuters? Every area of her life seemed full of question marks.
She shivered in the night air. Her shoes were getting wet; her dress was damp around the hem. This was Kathy’s night – party night. She should never have left the others and come out here alone.
Then suddenly she saw Kathy, standing on the lighted porch, peering into the garden.
‘Oh, Lorna, there you are! Paul said you’d disappeared.’
‘I … I felt a bit hot. I thought I’d get some air.’
‘Well, come and cool down in the pool. We’ve just started the skinny-dipping.’
Inside, the pool was crowded, although not everyone was naked. The velvet hat was still in evidence but now worn above a minuscule bikini; another woman was topless, and the plump, bearded man beside her was down to his boxer shorts. Jason Carter stood on the side, clad in black Speedo trunks and holding a pair of goggles, as if intent on serious swimming. Paul, in contrast, was larking about in the water, his dark hair plastered to his head. He spotted her and waved.
‘Strip off and come on in! It’s fantastic.’
She hesitated. Her feet, the scars, her age – only eight days away from forty.
And then, with a whoop of defiance, she kicked off her shoes and jumped in fully clothed. As she surfaced among a cluster of guests, Paul grabbed her round the waist.
‘How about finishing that dance!’ he shouted above the noise.
Treading water, she clung to his bare chest. Her worries and indecision began to dissolve in the ripples of turquoise water, then subsided even more as he ran a sensuous hand from the base of her neck to the bottom of her spine, tracing the curves of her clinging dress. What a waste of a party to be mooching around demoralized when everyone else was enjoying themselves. Hell – she would let rip, if only for one night; would be free and flirtatious and of course utterly, blissfully fearless.
The sitting-room door was ajar. Ralph, in black, was kneeling on the floor, flanked by two shadowy figures. He looked gaunt and very old. She called to him, but he didn’t hear. He seemed intent on the service and was gazing at the coffin – a cheap plywood thing, with no flowers to brighten its blunt purpose. There was no hint of colour anywhere: all was mournful black – black walls, black windows, black-shrouded furniture …
Quickly she closed the door. But the minister’s voice still sorrowed through the hall: ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’
She sat up with a start. Where was she? Not at home – the bed was unfamiliar. Not at Clare’s – the mattress wasn’t on the floor. Panicking, she groped for a bedside light and switched it on, to reveal a pleasant, freshly painted room with striped curtains, a thick-pile carpet and new furniture in country pine. And then she recognized it: the spare bedroom in the coach-house. Kathy had insisted she stay the night, wouldn’t hear of her driving to Clare’s at three a.m.
Still shaky after the coffin dream, she lay back against the pillows. She dreamed of funerals almost every night – funerals held in their house, as if it had become a house of death. Sometimes the coffin was empty – her coffin, in waiting. Once, she had dreamed she was getting married, but the ceremony was conducted by an undertaker and her wedding-dress was black.
She noticed with surprise that light showed through the curtains. Normally the dreams woke her in the early hours, but it must be well past dawn. She reached for her watch: twenty-five to twelve.
Unbelievable! She had slept for nearly nine hours. And, in spite of the dream, there was still no sign of the Monster. In her borrowed nightie she went down to the kitchen, glancing nervously about in case he should be stalking her. She found Kathy at the breakfast bar, leafing through the Sunday Times. ‘Happy birthday again!’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m well and truly forty now. On the slippery slope.’
‘I thought you said forty was the prime of life.’
‘Oh, I’m just a bit morning-afterish. Did you sleep OK?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘Good. Help yourself to toast and coffee. It’s still hot.’
‘Thanks. And thanks for a great party, Kathy.’
‘Thank Chris, not me. She’s always been frightfully generous.’
Lorna poured a mug of coffee. ‘Yes, it was decent of her to let you use the health spa. Wasn’t she worried something might get damaged?’
‘Well, even if it did, I suppose it could be put to rights easily enough. I mean, we don’t open for another six weeks. Talking of which, have you decided about the job yet? I must give her a definite answer by Friday.’
‘I’m tempted, Kathy, certainly.’
‘You keep saying that, but you never actually commit yourself. I know you’ve had a hard time of it these last few months, but this would be something positive in yo
ur life.’ Kathy folded the newspaper and put it on the table. ‘I’ve come to see that, although some things might seem vile at the time, they can turn out to be blessings in disguise. For instance, you and I not being able to have children. Well, I couldn’t take the job here if I had a couple of bolshie teenagers on my hands. And imagine how you’d feel if you’d lost your house and left your husband but had two or three kids to look after. We’re free and unencumbered, Lorna, and we should make the most of it.’
Lorna spread marmalade on her toast, playing for time. Whatever the delights of last night, she knew she wasn’t free, either of Ralph or of panic. Kathy didn’t appreciate the full horror of the panics and had once talked about her ‘throwing a wobbly’ – a phrase that struck her as both flippant and inaccurate. In the grip of fear it wasn’t her throwing anything, but being thrown, hurled, flung, crushed, by some malevolent outside force. But perhaps, as with childbirth or falling in love, people couldn’t really understand unless they’d experienced it for themselves.
‘And we share the same ideals, Lorna. I’m determined to make a go of The Cedars. I want to motivate the staff – get the best out of everyone. I’m sure it can be done.’
‘Yes, I saw it at the hospice. I felt quite inspired by the way they treated Agnes.’
‘There you are! We can do the same, pass on that sort of love and care to our residents here.’
Lorna picked up a piece of toast and put it down again. They had told her at the hospice how brilliant she was with Agnes and that she obviously had a special rapport with the elderly. She could use that gift, develop new-found strengths.
‘Quite honestly, I can’t see what’s holding you back.’
‘It’s … partly Ralph. I feel awful leaving him with so much on his plate – selling the house, settling things with Bowden, winding down the business …’
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