She took her mug back to the sitting room and sat in the corner of the sofa, trembling, sipping at her tea and trying not to cry. What should she do? Should she lock him out? The mere idea of such an act filled her with horror. It seemed so degrading, such a dreadful admission of failure. What could be wrong with him? Why should he hold out so adamantly about giving up and going to Bournemouth? After all, who would know? The family that he had strived to impress were all dead. Did he refuse to go to the Bournemouth house because of memories of his unhappiness there? So then what? Must all their lives be ruined because of his exaggerated sense of insecurity?
Nell shook her head. She simply didn’t have the answers. It was as if she were living with a stranger and it was very frightening. With a tremendous effort she composed herself a little and going back to the kitchen she prepared herself some supper which she didn’t want and could barely swallow. She knew now that she couldn’t lock John out. Somehow it would be the end of everything. She didn’t analyse why she felt like that, she just knew it instinctively. Wrapping herself in a rug, she settled on the sofa and waited; but evening passed slowly into night and night into morning and still John did not come.
The telephone rang early. Nell woke, stared round her and crawled stiffly from the sofa. Fear clutched her heart. Maybe it was the police … She seized the receiver.
‘Nell?’ It was John’s voice and Nell closed her eyes, weak with relief. ‘Nell. I’m just so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?’
‘Where are you?’ Her brain jumped about, framing and rejecting questions.
‘I spent the night at the office. Nell …’
‘I’m fine. Honestly. I was just so worried when you didn’t come home.’ Nell strove to keep her voice level.
‘I couldn’t imagine that you’d want me in the house. Oh Nell …’
‘It’s all right.’ She simply couldn’t cope with the disintegration process, the change from bully to weakling. ‘It’s OK, John. But we must talk. We can’t go on like this. We’ve got to make some decisions.’
‘I know. I know that. Look. Just give me a few days. I promise I’ll discuss anything you like then. But give me a few days, a week, no questions asked and then we’ll talk. Please?’
‘OK.’ Nell was too weary to argue. ‘A week. But that’s it.’
‘Yes. I promise. I’m really sorry, Nell.’ She could hear him crying and her spine stiffened in rejection. All she could see was the hate and the upraised hand.
‘OK then.’ She forced warmth into her voice. ‘And I’ll see you tonight.’
She put the receiver down, unwilling to prolong his selfrecriminations. She was too tired. Pulling the curtains to let in the dull grey morning light, she felt the baby leap and kick and smiled a little to herself. She mustn’t give in. Turning away, she went into the bathroom and turned on the taps. She would bathe, dress and make some breakfast. Life must go on.
Eighteen
WHEN LYDIA OPENED THE door and saw Elizabeth standing outside, her first instinct was to slam it smartly in her face. Poor Lydia had been prey to so many emotions during the weeks following Gillian’s departure that she felt ill and exhausted. She wanted to see no one, least of all Elizabeth. In her terror that Henry might telephone her she’d unplugged the instrument from the wall and then suddenly, in the middle of the night, she’d imagined Gillian trying to get in touch and unable to make contact. She’d leaped from her bed and plugged it in with a shaking hand, praying her daughter wasn’t in trouble and needing to talk to her. Gillian had already written twice which made Lydia suspect things were not quite so wonderful as her daughter had imagined they might be. The telephone remained silent but a few days later Lydia received a letter from Henry. It was a kind, tactful letter that made her cry – again – and wonder how on earth Gillian could be so foolish as to turn her back on him.
‘I understand you may be speechless with delight at seeing me so unexpectedly,’ observed Elizabeth drily, ‘but d’you mind if I come in?’
‘Elizabeth. Sorry. Yes, of course. Do come in. It was just a surprise,’ said Lydia distractedly, stepping aside to let her pass and then following her into the sitting room. ‘Sorry.’
Elizabeth looked at her closely. ‘Are you OK, Lydia?’ she asked. ‘You look terrible. Have you been ill?’
A measure of pride mixed with the old antagonism stiffened Lydia’s spine and lifted her chin.
‘I’m fine.’ She took in Elizabeth’s tailored suit with its short skirt showing off the long elegant legs, the sleek dark hair and the discreetly made-up face that looked younger than its fifty years. It was only to be expected that Elizabeth would turn up on the morning she’d dragged on an old sweatshirt and hadn’t bothered with her makeup! ‘You look wonderful, of course,’ she said resentfully.
Elizabeth laughed. ‘I’ve been with some clients who’ve bought a lovely old Victorian house that needs restoring. I have to look businesslike, you know that. No good getting bitchy about it. I was going to invite you out to lunch.’
She raised her eyebrows interrogatively and Lydia’s antagonism vanished and misery took its place.
‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ she said, visited with an urge to unburden herself. ‘Everything’s awful. I simply don’t know what to do.’
‘Heavens,’ said Elizabeth, with the calmness we reserve for other people’s problems, ‘whatever has been going on?’ She sat down and crossed her legs, studying Lydia thoughtfully. ‘Is it anything to do with Gillian, by any chance?’
‘She’s left Henry and run off to France with some man or other,’ said Lydia flatly and, sitting down beside Elizabeth on the sofa, she burst into tears.
‘Good God!’ Elizabeth was startled out of her placidity. ‘Oh really, Lydia! What on earth came over her?’
‘She says she loves him,’ sobbed Lydia, attempting to staunch the flow with some kitchen roll she’d ticked up her sleeve against emergencies. ‘She says she shouldn’t have married Henry. It was all a mistake and she never loved him.’
‘Yes, well I can believe that. Who’s the man?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lydia sniffed and blew her nose disconsolately. ‘I’ve never met him. His name’s Sam Whittaker or something.’
‘Honestly, Lydia.’ Elizabeth sighed and rolled her eyes heavenwards in exasperation. ‘You really are hopeless. No wonder Gillian’s such a twit.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ wailed Lydia. ‘You’ve never had a child. You don’t know how harrowing it can be.’
‘Thank God,’ agreed Elizabeth devoutly. ‘So where is she?’
‘She’s in Provence. He’s got a house there. She’s says it’s a little village house, quite nice but, of course, she doesn’t speak French and he’s away a lot on business.’ Lydia’s brow wrinkled a little. ‘There’s something not quite right. You know? I think she thought it would be all sun and wine and romance and I have a feeling it isn’t.’
The two women looked at each other.
‘You mean she wants to come home?’ suggested Elizabeth.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Lydia at once. ‘It’s just that I thought it would be that she’d “lost the world for love” and all that for a while. I was amazed to hear from her so soon.’
‘Perhaps they’ve run out of money,’ said Elizabeth cynically and raised her hands apologetically when Lydia cried out hotly against it. ‘Sorry, sorry. But you must admit, Lydia, she is the most expensive child.’
‘She appreciates good things,’ said Lydia defensively.
‘Tell me about it,’ murmured Elizabeth and smiled at Lydia. ‘You spoiled her rotten when she was little. That’s the trouble,’ she said, but her voice was warm and teasing and Lydia responded, smiling ruefully and looking a little guilty.
‘She was such a pretty little thing,’ she said wistfully, ‘and I’d miscarried with the two before, remember …’
‘I know.’ Elizabeth gave her a friendly pat and hastened to distract her. She didn’t want any emotional scen
es. ‘So what now? You’ve got an address?’
‘Yes. But she’s made me promise not to give it to anyone else. Henry writes to a poste restante.’
Elizabeth lifted her brows quizzically. ‘Henry writes?’
Lydia shrugged her own amazement. ‘Apparently they’re keeping in touch.’
‘Well, that’s a good sign. You’re probably right. It’s just a mad moment. But would Henry take her back?’
‘Oh yes.’ Lydia was very positive. ‘He wrote me a perfectly charming letter. He feels very responsible it seems. He’s such a nice man.’
‘Well then.’ Elizabeth spoke bracingly. ‘Perhaps it will turn out OK.’
‘If only she can swallow her pride and come back,’ said Lydia worriedly.
‘Pride’s a very expensive commodity,’ said Elizabeth drily. ‘Not everyone can afford it. I feel quite certain Gillian will get her priorities right when the time comes.’
She stood up and looked down at Lydia.
‘I’ll give you five minutes to get changed. Go on. It’ll do you good to get out. But get a move on. Richard’s meeting us and we’re late already. ’
JOHN SAT ALONE IN his office. If he’d thought life had looked desperate before, he realised it was nothing to the prospect facing him now. He felt so frightened he could barely speak, eat, think. Why had he been such a fool? He shook his head, burying his face in his hands. It had all sounded so plausible and Sam seemed such an honest sort of guy; showing him the site and the drawings, organising the second charge papers. John nearly cried out in fury and disgust at his own gullibility. Why hadn’t he gone to a solicitor or checked with his bank? Why had he taken the word of a man he’d only just met and simply handed over sixty thousand pounds? Sixty thousand! John crashed his fist on to the desk and stood up, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, his brain churning in his aching head as he tried to think of some way out.
The trip to Exeter, now nearly a month ago, had been quite abortive. He’d driven out to the site, his heart sinking when he saw it standing empty and forlorn, lashed by a gale blowing in from the sea. He’d picked his way through the muddy tracks back to his car and driven away, through the lanes to Totnes and so back to the A38 and Exeter. With some difficulty he found his way to Sam’s flat and, with very little hope, rang the bell. To his surprise the door opened at once and a complete stranger stood regarding him.
‘Oh! I … Is … ?’ John stammered uselessly but made an attempt to pull himself together. ‘I’m looking for Sam Whittaker.’
Restraining the urge to say, ‘Join the club,’ Jeremy smiled and shook his head.
‘Sorry. He’s not here any more.’
‘Not here? D’you mean he’s moved? Have you got an address?’
‘He was caretaking for me while I was abroad. It’s my flat,’ explained Jeremy, resisting the urge to take John inside and give him a stiff drink. The poor chap looked quite ill. ‘I’ve no idea where he is now except he’s abroad.’
‘Abroad?’
Sam should be put away, thought Jeremy, guessing he was up to his usual tricks. He wished he’d never lent him the flat but Sam had been desperate and they were old friends.
‘Apparently. He left a note. It seems he’s not expecting to be back for some time. If ever. He’s got a place in France somewhere.’ Jeremy shrugged sympathetically. He had no intention of getting involved. ‘Sorry, chum.’ He shut the door.
John stood staring at it for some minutes before stumbling away. The blood beat in his head with such thick heavy strokes he had to lean against the wall for a time before he could go out into the street. He tried to tell himself that things might still be going ahead and that, because Sam was abroad, it didn’t mean that the site wouldn’t be built. So why the weeks of silence, why no forwarding address, no telephone number?
Back in the office fear had rendered his brain useless. It paralysed his thinking processes and he sat, cold and still, hour after hour. He felt incapable of thought or action, knowing only that something had to happen, some miracle must occur to put everything right. How else could he go on living?
No magic solution presented itself. All that happened was his row with Nell. His impotent rage with himself and the sheer terror of telling her the truth had – triggered by her insistence that they move to Bournemouth – burst out in a terrifying, unforgivable rage. Afterwards he was sick to his stomach with self-disgust and remorse but at least it had the effect of breaking through the miasmic fog that paralysed him, pushing him into action. He remembered Sam showing him the plans of the conversion and the architect’s name in the corner. It was such an odd name that it had stuck in his mind and Sam had used it several times: Simon Spaders. It didn’t take John long to track the name down and, when Simon answered the telephone, John felt a surge of relief. He explained who he was and what had happened and there was a long moment of silence.
Simon was thinking very quickly indeed. He’d decided to go ahead with the drawings – work wasn’t flowing in and time was heavy on his hands – and out of the blue, he’d had a cheque from Sam thanking him for his work and telling him that time had run out; the bank was foreclosing and he was going back to France, taking Gillian with him. Simon couldn’t decide which was most surprising; Sam taking Gillian or that he’d paid him for his work! Simon decided to accept the money and keep a very low profile but this was something else again. Simon knew now how he’d been paid and why. It was, in effect, a bribe. He was shocked.
‘Look,’ he said at last, ‘never mind the rights and wrongs. Let’s see what can be done to salvage some of your money. Did you know the bank’s foreclosed and the site’s going to auction?’
‘To auction? But I’ve got a second charge.’
‘Good God!’ Simon was still thinking fast. ‘Then you might come out with something. I’m surprised nobody notified you, though. Wait a minute! Was it registered with the Lands Registry Office?’
‘I don’t know. Sam had it drawn up and signed. I assumed he’d done everything necessary.’
Simon sighed. ‘Look, give me a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back to you.
John sat waiting in an agony of suspense but when the telephone rang it was Sam’s bank. Everything was made painfully clear. The bank had got possession of the site, had advertised it to auction and – taking into consideration Sam’s debts and their own costs – were expecting barely to cover the amount owed.
‘But what about my sixty thousand?’ John could barely utter the words.
The bank shrugged its shoulders and said they must hope that a good price was forthcoming. A lot of developers were land-banking at present; buying sites cheap and holding on to them until things were better. It was a very good site. Perhaps he might be lucky.
‘But can’t we hold out for the whole amount?’ asked John desperately. ‘Put a reserve on it or something?’
The bank smiled to itself a little at such naivete and told him, firmly but sympathetically, that it was obliged to seek a reasonable market price, nothing more. He must wait and see. Did he wish to attend the auction? No. Well then, it would keep him informed.
So John waited. Nell kept her promise and said no more of moving and, although the atmosphere was heavy with unspoken thoughts, they managed to get along, politely, like strangers. John prayed again for a miracle; that the site should sell for a price that would restore his money to him. If it did there would be no more arguing. He would shut the office, pay off the loan and move to Bournemouth. Nell was right; somehow they would manage and at least there would be no more of these dreadful anxieties. He saw them living economically and quietly together: Nell playing with the baby, himself working in the garden. He would get an ordinary, easy job. He didn’t care what it was as long as it carried no responsibilities. They would take the children to the beach and into the New Forest and be simple and happy together. Suddenly it seemed like paradise. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier? The miracle must happen. It must! He willed it: pacing the office floor, fists
clenched, arms folded. He prayed as he had never prayed before, holding forcibly away from his conscious mind the thought of telling Nell that they’d lost everything.
On the morning after the auction John received several letters at the office. The first was from Barclaycard; he must return his card at once and, meanwhile, they were putting the matter of his debt in the hands of their solicitors. The second was from British Telecom advising him that the office telephone line would be disconnected at the end of the week, unless the amount owing was paid in full by return. The third was a County Court Judgment on behalf of the company who had leased the photocopier. They had come and taken it away long since but they still wanted the money owed to them.
When the telephone rang, John seized the receiver eagerly. It was the landlord asking when the arrears in rent would be paid. He wasn’t prepared to wait any longer and if John couldn’t find the money by the weekend he would be evicted. John explained that he was waiting to hear that he would be receiving funds from an auction held yesterday. As soon as he had them, he would pay the rent in full. The landlord, unconvinced, said he’d phone again later. John got up and walked about. He couldn’t even afford coffee and milk any more. If it hadn’t been for the family allowance they received for Jack and the tiny amount of pension – if only he hadn’t commuted it! – they would be starving.
The telephone rang again and John leaped to answer it. It was the agent dealing with the house in Bournemouth. Someone had looked over the property and had rather fallen for it. They were prepared to offer seventy thousand.
‘Seventy thousand?’ repeated John stupidly. ‘Seventy thousand! You must be joking. It was valued at a hundred thousand just after Christmas.’
‘Come on, Mr Woodward.’ The voice sounded weary; no doubt he needed the sale. John felt a momentary stab of sympathy. ‘A valuation is just a figure on a piece of paper. You don’t need me to tell you that a house is worth just as much as someone wants to pay for it.’
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