The Dream House

by Rachel Hore

  Come back, she wanted to shout, but the words wouldn’t form in her mouth. She picked up the photograph from the arm of the sofa and gazed at little Agnes, happy and secure on her mother’s knee.

  That afternoon, Kate sat drinking tea in Debbie’s kitchen whilst the children played in the garden. She hadn’t told Debbie about Dan. That was a secret she had been thinking about since he kissed her, re-enacting it in her mind for the twentieth time. Despite her guilt, the part of her that craved physical comfort and security had welcomed his passion like manna in the desert. Sternly, she told herself to think of something else; she couldn’t unravel her marriage that quickly. And it was madness to fall into the arms of the first man who came along after Simon.

  ‘Everything seems a mess,’ she muttered as she picked at a toffee muffin. ‘I don’t know what to try and tackle first.’

  ‘You’ve got a huge amount to deal with, that’s for sure,’ Debbie agreed, ‘but things will sort themselves out. It’s a journey to another stage of life. There are relationships to be reforged and practical arrangements to be made, but you can do it. Just don’t expect everything to happen right away.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about something Dan said earlier. It was about a house not being a home if the people you love aren’t there. Seddington House is lovely and it was my dream house, but now that Simon has gone, I feel I shouldn’t fight for it so hard. If it’s meant to be mine it’ll come to me, but if Simon or Max or this mysterious child of Agnes’s should take it away from me, then that’s got to be all right, too. We’ll survive, we’ll be happy again. Home will be with the people I love. That’s with Sam and Daisy at the moment – I’ve got to get used to the fact that it won’t be with Simon.’

  Debbie nodded. ‘Jonny and I were broke when we met. We rented a flat in London that was on a big junction. Bus passengers could look in through the grime on our windows as they swung round the corner inches away. But we were so happy there.’

  Kate laughed wistfully, then said: ‘I’ve got to start thinking about getting a job, too. Any ideas?’

  ‘Plenty, actually. But do you have to yet? You’re not broke, are you?’

  ‘Jasmin’s trying to sort that out. Both our names are on the bank account holding the money from the London house, thank goodness, but I’ll need something regular from Simon soon or the children will be going back to school without shoes!’

  ‘But I don’t understand why you can’t come down here and talk about it . . .’

  That evening, Joyce was on the telephone to Simon in the kitchen. The door with its dicky latch had swung ajar, and the words drifted up to Kate, stopping her dead on the landing between the children’s bedroom where Daisy was changing into her pyjamas and the bathroom where Sam gurgled like a sea monster in the bath, catching plastic farm animals in his mouth.

  Kate knew she shouldn’t listen, but the horrific fascination of hearing her husband and her mother-in-law discussing their marriage was too much to resist. She stood slowly turning Sam’s pyjamas inside out, a frown on her face.

  ‘You’re throwing it all away, Simon. You’ll live to regret it – yes, you will. Poor little Kate. How can you do this to her?’

  Kate closed her eyes as a bolt of fury shot through her. Did Joyce really think this approach was going to work with Simon? Downstairs, the woman must have been aware that her voice was carrying, because the kitchen door closed again.

  This was an impossible situation. Since her return from Italy two days before, and learning about Simon’s demands, Joyce had been beside herself with shock and frustration. ‘It’s wrong, it’s so wrong, I don’t know why he’s doing it,’ she sobbed to a grim Kate one moment, the next she would be on the phone wheedling her son to think again about his actions, Kate listening in, mortified.

  This evening, however, she could take it no longer.

  ‘Joyce,’ she said hesitantly, as they cleared up in the kitchen later on, ‘when I say this, I don’t mean that you shouldn’t be talking to Simon, but please, please, don’t try and act as go-between. It won’t work and it’s possibly making things worse. It’s a particularly sensitive matter at the moment because of the legal situation.’

  Joyce dabbed absent-mindedly at a stain on the pine table and looked up, her face etched with misery. ‘I have to support my son. I can’t just say nothing.’

  ‘You’ll be supporting him more if you don’t tell him what to do or give away details about how I’m managing. I’m sorry, I know it’s awful for you. I’ve been thinking. It’s high time we moved out, found somewhere nearby.’ If she could just work out the money situation with Simon.

  ‘No,’ Joyce said firmly. ‘I thought you might say that and I don’t want you to. I want to help you, you and my grandchildren. Please don’t go.’

  Kate studied Joyce’s face and was shocked to realize how she had aged over the last few weeks. Under the slight tan from the cruise she was pale; her eyes were red and rheumy, with great dark shadows underneath. Her usually upright figure seemed slightly stooped. Kate reached across and hugged her.

  ‘This is as miserable for you as it is for us, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think,’ Joyce said, hugging Kate in return, ‘that you’re being incredibly brave, dear. If only Simon would act in a more civilized fashion.’

  After that conversation, Joyce came gradually to accept that Kate and Simon should sort out their own affairs and that her role must be restricted to providing practical help and support. But there was one more damaged relationship that was on Kate’s mind.

  After her encounter with Dan in the attic of Seddington House, Kate avoided being alone with him. She didn’t trust herself in her present confusion, and she feared hurting him. But she couldn’t help thinking about him often; indeed, on many lonely nights now, she lay and imagined what it would be like to make love with him. However, when they did meet at Seddington House, amongst the Farrell’s staff, or with Max or Conrad, their conversation was stilted. Was it her fault, or had Dan at some level withdrawn from her? That thought made her angry. Had Dan only been interested in her in that way, and not in her friendship?

  Ten days passed and she could endure the stand-off no longer. Plus she needed to ask Dan some more questions about Agnes, so on the Monday morning, armed with the diaries, Kate plucked up courage and walked into the Waveney Gallery in the High Street to find him. It would be best, she thought, to see him on neutral ground. Part of her wondered guiltily whether Max should have seen the diaries first, but she brushed that thought aside.

  Dan was on the phone, but smiled and mouthed at her to wait, so she spent five minutes walking around and gazing at the paintings. Dan’s portrait of Linda and Shelley graced one wall, Kate noticed, and when she peered at the label, she realized with a little stab of satisfaction that he had chosen the title she had eventually suggested – One Morning at the Beginning of the World. It was so apt, she thought again now, studying the sharp purity of the silver light. He had portrayed a state of innocence seen through the eyes of love. But all that was sullied now. Dan and Linda had parted acrimoniously and Shelley, by all accounts, was a very sad and confused little girl.

  When Dan put down the phone and came and stood beside Kate, she told him again how much she loved the painting and asked him how Shelley was now.

  ‘I’ve seen her a few times. Linda’s mum brings her over, and I’ve taken her out to the beach once, but Linda’s edgy about it. She came round yesterday and took the rest of her stuff. Hardly spoke to me. She’s got a new boyfriend, but I’m told he doesn’t like kids much. It’s a shame – poor little Shelley. I’ll be there for her as much as I can. I can’t be her dad, but why should she suffer because Linda can’t sort her life out?’

  Kate nodded, glad that he had decided to help the little girl, then, showing him the diaries she said, ‘I’m sure you’re busy now, but I wanted to give you these.’

  Dan took them from her and opened the cover of the top volume. He stared at the title page as tho
ugh weighing something up, then closed the book and looked at Kate.

  ‘It’s quiet today,’ he said. ‘Have you got a moment for coffee? Grant’s round the back. He’ll cover for me here.’ When Kate nodded, Dan shouted to his partner in the office that he was going out and they wandered into a busy coffee shop several doors down and ordered cappuccinos.

  Now that they were sitting down together, face to face, Kate felt self-conscious, so she showed Dan the order in which to read the diaries then asked him again if he knew anyone who might remember the old days.

  ‘There is a neighbour of mine, lives three doors down,’ he said. ‘He’s always telling me how his parents ran the village shop until after the war. I’ll ask him if he’d have a chat with you, if you like.’

  ‘That would be great. Thanks,’ said Kate.

  There was silence for a moment and then both of them started to talk at once. ‘No, you go on,’ said Kate.

  ‘I’m sorry about the other day,’ he said, stirring his coffee slowly.

  ‘Don’t be.’ Kate reached out and rested her hand on his for a moment. ‘It was . . . nice. No, that’s a silly thing to say. It was wonderful. It’s just the time’s not right. And I can’t promise it ever will be.’

  Dan looked sad, but he nodded. ‘Don’t not see me though,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t bear that. We’ve become good friends, haven’t we?’

  Kate couldn’t stop herself breaking into a smile at that. After a moment, Dan smiled back. They sat there in silence smiling at one another, blind to everything going on around them.

  When they parted, Dan said, ‘I’m going away next week for a fortnight. Friend of mine has a place in Umbria. I’ll give you these back,’ he indicated the diaries, ‘before then.’ He kissed her quickly on the corner of the mouth and let her go. The time was wrong for them, but she still had to force herself to walk away.

  Chapter 34

  September 2004

  Agnes In the event, Sam and Daisy did go back to school in September with new shoes. They also began a new routine, for Jasmin was as good as her reputation. After several rounds of sassy bargaining, she sorted out regular payments to Kate and relegated Simon’s demands for custody of the children to fortnightly weekends in London and Sunday visits to Suffolk, plus parts of the school holidays. In the meantime, Simon came down twice to Paradise Cottage to spend time with Sam and Daisy. Once Kate made sure she was away for the night, going to the theatre in London with Liz; the other occasion she went over to stay with her parents.

  The first weekend of the new arrangement, Kate delivered Sam and Daisy to Simon on Liverpool Street station on a Friday evening. She had been dreading that Meredith would be there, although they had agreed that the children shouldn’t meet his new partner yet, and was relieved when they walked out through the ticket barrier to see that Simon was alone. He looked tense, his face greyish and tired.

  Sam dropped his little rucksack and ran to his daddy’s arms. Daisy, on the other hand, looked up at her mother as if asking permission.

  ‘Go on,’ whispered Kate, and took her time picking up the rucksack. When she straightened, it was to see the three of them regarding her anxiously, as if waiting for instructions.

  ‘I’ll meet you here three o’clock on Sunday,’ she said to Simon, making no pretence at the nicety of saying hello. ‘Sam’s toothbrush is in the pocket here and he’s only allowed one drink at bedtime.’

  Simon took the rucksack, nodding briefly then saying humbly, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after them.’

  Jasmin was right, Kate reflected. The American lawyer had to have been Meredith’s idea.

  It took an immense effort of will for Kate to kiss her children goodbye and walk away. After a moment, she turned and looked back. They were weaving through the oncoming crowd towards the Underground, two diminutive figures so dear to her, the man between them holding their hands so familiar-looking it was painful to remind herself he belonged to her no longer. Then just before they reached the steps, Daisy half turned, saw her mother and waved. Kate relaxed. It was time to go.

  She was travelling straight back home again. Next time she might stay in London with Liz for the weekend, but for now, after the long holidays, she wanted a couple of days for herself, not to be on the edge of another family’s happy life.

  The early-evening train was full of tired commuters and when she found her booked seat, a large florid-faced man was already in it, head back, eyes closed. She was just mustering the courage to nudge him and ask him to move, when someone said, ‘Kate?’

  She turned to see a man half rising from a nearby window seat. It was Max. He gestured to the empty seat beside him, so she went over.

  ‘No one’s turned up,’ he said, peering at the white ‘reserved’ ticket on the top, so Kate abandoned the sleeping seat-stealer and joined him. Immediately, there was a judder and the train started to slide away from the platform.

  ‘Not first class for you, then?’ she teased as she took in his formal suit, conservative tie, the small silver laptop waiting open and ready.

  ‘Not when it’s a Legal Aid client,’ he said good-humouredly as he closed the lid of the computer. ‘What have you been doing up in Town then? No shopping bags?’

  Reassuring herself that their fellow travellers opposite – a young man plugged into an iPod and an elderly lady absorbed in a Danielle Steel library book – were not listening in, Kate took a deep breath and dived into an edited version of her separation from Simon.

  ‘I’m sorry. And it’s hard for the children, too, I know,’ Max said. ‘Grace particularly – she was Daisy’s age – blamed me for going away, as she put it. She was angry for weeks. And even now, Emily says “When you come home, Daddy . . .” It’s heartbreaking.’

  They moved on to the matter of Seddington House, where Farrell’s had almost completed their job and expected to deliver a full report for probate in the next couple of weeks. In the meantime, Raj, together with Agnes’s accountant, had trawled the old lady’s finances with some input from Max. Kate had been happy to let them get on with it.

  ‘Has Raj had any more responses to his advertisements?’ Kate asked eagerly. Large announcements requesting any close relations of Miss Agnes Melton to apply to Horrocks & Spalding, solicitors, had appeared in the local papers and the legal newspaper, the London Gazette for the previous few weeks.

  ‘I spoke to him yesterday. Only the usual round of tryers-on and loonies.’ Max shook his head. ‘Have you had any leads?’

  Kate had told Max about finding the final volume of the diary, and now she explained how her recent enquiries had gone.

  ‘Basically I’ve drawn a blank.’ She shrugged. ‘I really need to go up to London and search the birth and death certificates, but I haven’t had a chance yet, and frankly, it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  She told Max how, by visiting the parish where Diana’s husband had been vicar and then working through a local telephone directory, she had tracked down Diana’s youngest daughter, Angela, who lived at Lowestoft. Now herself an elderly widow, Angela had nursed her mother until she died fifteen years before. She didn’t know anything about Miss Selcott, just that her mother had mentioned being taught by a strict governess who had later lodged with them. And Angela knew Agnes, of course, though Diana hadn’t seen much of her in later years. ‘Mother always said Agnes had changed – became very depressed – and thought it was a love affair that had gone wrong. She felt very sorry for her.’

  The current rector, Mike, had helped Kate look through the Seddington parish records. He was almost as intrigued by the mystery as Kate. The idea of the very correct elderly spinster he had known being a woman of mystery, with an illicit affair and a love-child in her past, both amused and touched him in equal measure. They had read through the baptisms for 1929 and copied out some names, but it was difficult to make judgements about what to do next. After all, you could hardly visit families still in the area and ask if there was any possibility that
Grandad was born the wrong side of the blanket. Mike promised, however, that he would make some tactful enquiries amongst elderly parishioners he visited regularly. They were only mildly cheered by the fact that there had been no infant funerals during April.

  ‘What would have happened to a stillborn baby? It would have died unbaptized. Weren’t there rules about that?’ Kate asked Mike suddenly, remembering there were sometimes complications about who could be buried in consecrated ground.

  ‘Strictly speaking, there was no duty to bury them in the churchyard,’ mused Mike. ‘But it was usually left to the local clergyman, who would often be sympathetic to the bereaved family. If the mother had died, too, as in Evangeline’s case, then mother and baby would be buried together. Sometimes I’ve heard of a dead newborn being slipped into the grave of an unconnected person being coincidentally buried at the time. The clergyman concerned might or might not have made a note of that in the records.’ However, that clue, too, bore no fruit.

  ‘I think what must have happened,’ said Mike, closing the heavy leather volume of burial records, ‘was as Agnes believed. Her baby was secretly given away for adoption to some local, unidentified couple. It might well be that he never had a birth certificate, let alone adoption papers. Children were still considered relatively less important in that period, and all too often, uncomfortable questions would not be asked. The matter might have been brushed under the carpet.’

  ‘But what would have happened when the child grew up and applied for a passport, or when the Welfare State came into effect and everybody was given National Insurance numbers?’

  ‘Today, yes, everything is regimented, but then, especially in the muddle after the war, when so many documents had been destroyed or gone missing, or people were displaced, I suppose officials just had to make strategic decisions. As for a passport, remember that foreign holidays are relatively new. Many people never needed to apply for one.’