Sins of the Fathers

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘I know it wasn’t planned,’ he went on when she didn’t speak. ‘But we always wanted a family some time, didn’t we? Were you afraid I wasn’t ready?’

  She moved back slightly, reaching under the pillow for a handkerchief. ‘No,’ she said unsteadily, ‘it was more selfish than that; it was because I’m not.’

  ‘But why, sweetheart? We’ve both got good jobs and a lovely home. Surely there’s no need to wait any longer?’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ she burst out. ‘It’s because I’ve a good job – and one that I love. There are important contracts that I’ve been nursing for months and they’ll need all my care and attention to land them, but lately I’ve not been able to concentrate because I’ve felt so rotten! This weekend, for instance, I haven’t dared go out or come to meals, because I keep being sick! I only just managed yesterday to get back from bowls in time. Goodness knows what everyone thinks of me!’

  He felt a wave of shame at his own intolerance. ‘But surely there’s something you can take for the sickness? Have you been to the doctor?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was muffled.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  She looked up at him with swimming eyes. ‘Because that would make it – official.’

  ‘But you are sure? It is definite?’

  She sighed. ‘Oh, it’s definite all right. I’ve done several tests and they all showed positive.’

  ‘Well, we’ll ask Nat to write a prescription for the sickness and track down a pharmacy. As for these contracts, how long do you need to complete them?’

  She shrugged and blew her nose. ‘Six to eight weeks, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, once you’re over the sickness you’ll be perfectly capable of dealing with them, won’t you? The baby won’t be here for – what? – seven or eight months?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said dubiously. ‘As long as I do stop vomiting.’

  ‘And when the baby’s born,’ he went on encouragingly, ‘Joanna can carry on for a while without you. You’re always saying she’s your right hand. Then, when you’re ready to go back, we’ll find a nanny.’

  He cupped her face between his hands. ‘So the only thing left to establish, now all the problems have been sorted, is whether or not you want this baby. Do you, Jess?’

  She looked at him for a long moment and all her doubts fell away. ‘I don’t deserve you, Harry Crawford,’ she said humbly.

  He smiled, feeling his heart begin to lift. ‘Be that as it may, you’ve not answered the question. Do you want this baby?’

  She drew a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I do.’

  The news of Jessica’s pregnancy lightened what was a dismally dark and wet day, but when approached, Natalie regretfully shook her head.

  ‘You’d have to get a prescription from your own doctor,’ she told her, ‘but by all means have a word with the local pharmacist, who should be able to advise you. In the meantime stick to small meals of bland food – I’m sure Meg and Andy will oblige – and take plenty of drinks of tea or water. A biscuit before getting up in the morning should help, too – some people swear by ginger nuts.’ She looked more closely at her sister-in-law. ‘Incidentally, you look fine to me. Have you been sick this morning?’

  ‘Oh!’ Jessica gazed at her in belated realization. ‘No – no, I haven’t, actually.’

  ‘Then you might be over it. Just go carefully this week, and see your doctor as soon as you get home. And congratulations, Jess! It’ll be great to have a baby in the family.’

  Slowly the day passed. They were all in for lunch, but afterwards, as the rain had lessened, they went for a brisk walk, peeling off in twos and threes en route. Mark took the chance to slip into a stationer’s and buy a card for Helena. The choice was pretty limited and he’d no idea whether to go for a humorous or a sentimental one. Since their alleged engagement was so recent, he gritted his teeth and went for the latter, then bought a jokey one for Florence, scribbled a message inside it and posted it in a nearby pillar box. Fingers crossed it would arrive in time.

  By the time they set out that evening the rain had moved on and a clear sky promised frost later. It had been arranged that they’d meet the Mackays at a restaurant in town rather than the hotel. ‘It’s where we go when we’ve a night off and want to escape!’ Blair had explained. A phone call ascertained there’d be a choice of dishes suitable for Jessica, and as she’d been well all day she was prepared to take the risk.

  The restaurant was warm and welcoming after the chill outside. Since they were a large party a round table had been laid for them upstairs, and they had the room to themselves. The Mackays were already there, and there was a flurry of greetings among those who’d not already met on this visit. Mark and Nick were introduced to Ailsa and her French husband, a small man with fair, thinning hair, and they took their places round the table.

  Mark was agreeably surprised at the scope of the menu, and the prices were a fraction of what he’d expect to pay at home. There was a general discussion as Blair and Ailsa recommended various dishes they’d enjoyed on previous visits, and the orders were finally given. The waiter departed and there was a brief lull in the conversation, broken by Ailsa saying, ‘Oh, by the way, did your mother get her phone call?’

  The Crawfords looked blank. ‘What phone call?’

  ‘Someone rang the hotel on Thursday wanting to speak to her. I told them she was at Touchstone and they said they had that number.’

  ‘We didn’t arrive till Friday, so we wouldn’t know,’ Seb replied. ‘Though I can’t think who’d be calling her up here.’

  ‘They didn’t leave a name,’ Ailsa said.

  ‘Speaking of your parents, is your father still working full-time?’ Blair enquired. ‘He must be nearing retirement, surely?’

  ‘He has a couple of years to go,’ Helena said, ‘though I think he’ll stay on as long as he can. He’s a workaholic, and I don’t envy Mum having him under her feet all day! He’ll be like a caged tiger!’

  ‘Dad’s slowing down a bit now,’ Ailsa remarked. ‘He’s letting Blair take over more and more.’

  Mark, who could take no part in this conversation, sat back and studied the speakers in turn. Ailsa, a slim, petite blonde seated diagonally to his left, was attractive rather than pretty, with a retroussé nose and a ready smile. He imagined she’d be ideal in a front-of-house position, either at the hotel or at the tourist board where she worked, quick to put people at their ease.

  Blair too had the ease of manner requisite to his line of work, and Mark decided on further acquaintance that he must have imagined the tension he’d thought he detected at their earlier meeting. Certainly he was now the life and soul of the party, lightly flirting with both Jessica and Natalie who sat on either side of him.

  As well as himself and Nick, both newcomers, there was another member of the party who was taking little part in the general chat – Jean-Luc, the French chef. Mark guessed this was partly because he’d not met the Crawfords before and felt overwhelmed by them – a totally understandable reaction – but also, as became evident, because his English was somewhat limited. Mark, who’d had some dealings with French colleagues, made an effort to draw him into the conversation and was rewarded by a flood of hard-to-follow French. He did, however, gather that he’d been in the UK for just over two years, and that he and Ailsa had married the previous autumn.

  Ailsa, flashing Mark a grateful smile, joined in the conversation, unobtrusively translating when the flood of Gallic became too swift. Once his shyness was dispelled and he was able to converse in his own language, Jean-Luc proved to be an interesting companion, with unexpected flashes of humour.

  After several minutes of this entente cordiale, Helena, who was sitting on Mark’s other side, reclaimed his attention.

  ‘Hey, lover boy – remember me?’ she demanded, only half-joking. He saw to his surprise that she was a little drunk.

  ‘How could I forget you?’ he parried, and to his startled embarr
assment she leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, to a brief round of applause, and Mark, his face uncomfortably hot, hastily returned to his steak, his mind buzzing with hitherto unconsidered questions.

  The rest of the meal passed without incident and as the wine flowed he and Nick played more part in the conversation. When asked about his work, Mark had to remind himself not to be too explicit; in the unlikely event of anyone asking for him at Bellingham’s, the auction house would deny all knowledge of Adam Ryder.

  By the time they left the restaurant to go their separate ways, the Merlin contingent crossing the square to the hotel and the Touchstone party starting up the hill towards home, it was almost eleven thirty and the ground was white with frost.

  Jessica, who’d partaken of only a small amount of the bland dish prepared for her, was looking tired, but there had been no return of her sickness and good reason to believe it had run its course.

  Seb went ahead of them up the garden path and opened the front door with his key. The hall light was on, but the sitting room was in darkness and it was clear Paula and Douglas had retired to bed. Mark had turned towards the stairs when Helena caught hold of his arm.

  ‘You two go on up,’ she told Natalie and Nick, her voice slightly slurred. ‘We’ll join you later.’ And she gently pushed him towards the sitting room.

  Alarm bells started to ring: this was not what had been agreed between them, and he had no wish to take advantage of her when she was in a vulnerable state. He drew back and she gave a low laugh, giving him an extra nudge.

  ‘I won’t eat you!’ she said and, pushing the door closed with one foot, she put her arms round him and started to kiss him. Her breath tasted of wine and he felt his own quicken. Gently he took hold of her arms and pulled them away.

  ‘This isn’t part of the deal,’ he said. ‘You’re a little tipsy and you’ll regret this in the morning.’

  ‘According to the Bible, the morrow can take care of itself. Anyway, Benton’s rules don’t apply here – we’re free agents. And as a “free agent”’ – she made quotation marks in the air – ‘I want you to make love to me.’ And as, nonplussed, he continue to stare at her, she added softly, ‘Please!’

  Mark’s head swam. He too had imbibed fairly freely during the meal. She hadn’t switched the light on and the room was lit only by the dying fire. When he didn’t speak, she took hold of his hand and led him towards it. Then, as its warmth stole over their cold bodies, she systematically began to kiss him, while her fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt.

  His breath caught in his throat. He’d not been with anyone since Sophie left – nor, for that matter, with her for a considerable time before that – and here was an undeniably attractive woman literally begging him to make love to her. Why the hell was he hesitating?

  The last of his resistance dissolved and with mounting urgency he pulled her down on the rug.

  When he finally reached his room, Nick was sitting up in bed reading. Embarrassed, Mark avoided meeting his eye.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t be!’ Nick replied, and Mark heard the grin in his voice. ‘You did us a favour – Nat and I took advantage of your joint absence!’

  ‘That’s all right then!’ he replied.

  Later, lying in bed, Mark reflected with a touch of shame that although he had wholeheartedly enjoyed Helena’s lovemaking, he was still not sure whether or not he actually liked her.

  EIGHT

  Kent

  Mark stared at her, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘What?’

  Sophie crumpled against him and he caught her, holding her up.

  ‘I don’t know any details,’ she whispered, ‘only that Mum needs me. Now.’

  ‘Of course.’ He took a deep breath, feverishly searching for words of comfort that wouldn’t come. Don’t worry? It’ll be all right? It could be worse? The normal platitudes were useless in the face of such enormity.

  He took her arm and gently led her into their bedroom, where the suitcase from Bournemouth stood waiting to be unpacked. ‘Lie down for a minute, darling, you’ve had a shock. I’ll get Florence out of the bath, then I’ll throw a few things together and take your case back down. We can be there within the hour.’

  She murmured something he didn’t catch and he paused in the doorway.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said it’s my fault,’ she repeated tonelessly.

  ‘That’s nonsense, sweetheart! How can it possibly be your fault?’

  ‘I’m being punished,’ she whispered.

  Mark stared at her – nonplussed. She was in shock but he hadn’t time to reassure her – he’d left Florence for long enough. With a heavy heart he returned to the bathroom, where his daughter was playing unconcernedly with her toys.

  ‘Mummy’s had some bad news, sweetie,’ he began. ‘Grandpa Peter’s … very ill, so we’re going down to be with Granny.’

  He lifted her slippery little body out of the bath and wrapped her in a towel. ‘So we’ll put your day clothes on again and you must be a good girl, because Mummy’s very upset.’

  Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Will Grandpa be all right?’ she asked tremulously.

  Mark hesitated. God help him, he’d no idea how to prepare a child for such news. Should he delay the full facts, let her acclimatize to a lesser fear?

  ‘I don’t know, darling,’ he hedged. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

  She was silent for a moment, sitting on his knee and submitting to the drying process. Then she said, ‘Would it help if I drew him one of my pictures?’

  Mark hugged her fiercely. ‘I’m sure it would,’ he said.

  It wasn’t until they were in the car that Sophie told him her mother was at his parents’ house. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said dully, and retreated back into herself.

  The journey down was a nightmare. Sophie barely said a word, sitting in frozen silence beside him, hugging herself and staring straight ahead. From time to time he glanced in the mirror to check on Florence, who was gazing out of the window at a world turned suddenly upside down. He tried to think of something comforting, but without success. Eventually, in desperation, he slid one of her CDs in the slot and the car was filled with the wildly inappropriate jollity of ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. At least it filled the silence.

  Belatedly he wondered if he should have phoned his mother to learn what he could before their arrival, but it was too late now. Peter was dead! The words kept repeating themselves in his head but he could make no sense of them. Could Sophie have misunderstood, got the message wrong, suspected the worst when the news was really less dramatic – a fall, perhaps? Even a heart attack?

  Then, suddenly, they were turning into his parents’ gateway, and he wished there were a dozen more miles before he had to face what lay ahead. The car had barely come to a halt before Sophie fumbled frantically at her seatbelt and half-fell out, running crookedly to the front door which opened as she reached it. Mark could see his mother outlined against the hall light, but Sophie pushed past her, intent on reaching Lydia.

  With a heavy heart he climbed out himself, freed Florence from her car seat and carried her into the house. Margot, white-faced, was still in the doorway.

  ‘Mum …’ he began, and came to a halt.

  She nodded and took the child from him. ‘Go after her,’ she said. ‘I’ll take care of Florence.’

  Lydia was standing by the fire in the sitting room, clutching Sophie to her. Over her daughter’s head she caught sight of him and stretched out an arm. He went to her, murmuring her name, but could think of nothing else to say. She enfolded him in her embrace and for several long minutes the three of them stood unmoving. Tears, he thought, would come later; at the moment shock was dominant.

  Then Lydia drew a deep breath and released them. ‘You both need a drink,’ she said steadily. ‘I’m sure Charles will do the necessary.’

  His father
! Mark realized with a stab of guilt that it was the first time he’d thought of him. It would be an enormous shock for the old man; he and Peter had been friends almost since boyhood. He said quickly, ‘I’ll go and find him,’ and hurried from the room.

  Margot was coming down the stairs.

  ‘Florence?’ he queried.

  ‘Totally exhausted, bless her – the drive back from Bournemouth, then this. I tucked her into bed and she was asleep before I’d reached the door.’

  He nodded. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I’ll get us a drink,’ she said, and he followed her into the kitchen.

  She poured them both a neat whisky and he joined her at the table, scene of so many family meals. Her face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed, and Mark reached impulsively for her hand. She smiled bleakly, returning the pressure.

  ‘The first I knew was a completely hysterical call from Lydia mid-morning.’

  Mark stiffened. ‘Mid-morning? Why in heaven’s name didn’t you phone then? Granted, Sophie wouldn’t have been home, but I could have broken the news when she got back.’

  Margot shrugged helplessly. ‘What could I have told you? All I could make out was that Peter was dead, and we assumed it was a heart attack. So we dashed over, and were appalled to find the place crawling with police.’

  ‘Police?’ He seemed unable to stop repeating what she said. ‘For God’s sake, why?’

  Margot drew a steadying breath. ‘Mark, I could hardly tell Sophie on the phone, but he … he hanged himself.’

  Mark’s world tilted. ‘He …?’

  ‘They’re treating it as a crime scene. Crime! Can you believe it? The drive was so full of vehicles we’d difficulty parking – ambulance, forensic van, a couple of police cars … Honestly, Mark, it was like stumbling on to a TV set. A uniformed policeman was at the door, and wouldn’t let us in until Lydia came flying out and hurled herself into my arms.’

  She took a gulp of her whisky. ‘The staircase was sealed off with that ghastly yellow tape.’

  Mark drained his own glass. ‘Where did—?’