by Thorne Moore
Al sat down on a fallen log, and pulled me down beside him. ‘You’ve been nursing guilt about it ever since, haven’t you?’
‘Stupid, isn’t it. I was convinced for years that the image of the cat had been sent to haunt me as punishment.’ It was surprisingly calming to get it off my chest. Clarifying, even. ‘I was feeling guilty about leaving Tam with Chris this morning. He’s a crap driver, even when he’s not bent on deliberate mayhem. Not surprising I imagined things.’
Al’s arm tightened around me. ‘You didn’t imagine it, you felt it. You see, Kate, you’re convinced you only feel the negative, but think about it. If you’d felt nothing, Taz would still be wandering along the road, crying her eyes out. That’s positive. You felt a cry for help and you responded.’
‘You think?’ Al might see it that way, but I could only think of Leo’s cry for help that I’d refused to acknowledge until it was too late. ‘It was hardly a major crisis. A girl left high and dry on the side of the road. She is nineteen, after all.’
‘But a very young nineteen.’
‘Yes, still Sylvia’s baby. But she’d have hitched a lift home before long. She wasn’t hurt or in danger, just upset.’ Not broken and impaled on a shattered windscreen. I pushed away the ghastly thought.
‘You wouldn’t want her upset, though. You love her.’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘So you did fine. You helped her through a transition. She’s growing up, got a lot of travelling still to do, and she travelled some today.’
‘Yes. Of course. And I’m just thankful she’s not travelling down the same road as Chris. In every sense. She can be petulant sometimes, silly, lazy, all sorts of healthy immature things, but she’ll never finish up like Christian.’
No one was like Christian. Pure poison.
Just above us, on a bank of mossy boulders, sunlight filtered down onto one of Michael’s chainsaw sculptures. The Mother Goddess, Al had called it; someone had left flowers at its foot. To me it was a hooded woman, purely abstract of course, like all Michael’s sculptures, but undeniably a hooded woman, fading slowly from womanhood into primeval matter. Dust to dust. Annette. His dead wife.
Christian’s spiteful lies came back to me, about me, about Michael, about everything. ‘To Hell with Christian. He’s an evil little brat and I wish Sylvia would throw him out for good!’
Al followed my gaze. The connection was not obvious. ‘He’s manipulative. He knows how to pull his mother’s strings. He thinks he can do it with everyone.’
‘Has he tried pulling yours?’
‘Of course. He believes he has to play people to get what he wants, and in the end just playing with them is an end in itself. Gets pally, slips in a few drops of vitriol, stands back to watch them squirm.’ Al caught my expression, and laughed. ‘You recognise the technique.’
‘It rings a bell.’
‘I suppose he’s been feeding you venom about me?’
‘Oh, about everyone! He’s universally generous.’
‘Maybe it’s a compulsion. Just another drug for him. So come on then, what did he whisper about me?’
‘Nothing! Nothing that I was prepared to listen to.’
Al smiled. ‘Of course not. Come on, we’re behind the bike shed. Tell me what he said about me and I’ll tell you what he said about you.’
I managed an unconvincing laugh. ‘He came up with all sorts of nonsense about you having a criminal record. About a woman being hurt.’ I preferred to leave it vague. Beaten to a pulp, Christian had said. Whacking girls. What did whacking mean? Could Al really have killed someone? I knew so little about him, and I was sitting alone with him in a wood, taunting him with his secret. Not the wisest move – if there was the slightest truth in Christian’s sly allegations, which of course there wasn’t. ‘I know it’s not true.’
‘Ah, but do you?’ Al smiled darkly. ‘He’s right, you see. I do have a record, for resisting arrest at a protest. And I did have a set-to with a woman who annoyed me. She was Kim’s supplier, and when she seemed disinclined to leave my house, I removed her.’
‘Well there you are.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I don’t have to ask what he said about me. I murdered my baby.’
Al’s eyes widened a fraction. I’d got it wrong.
‘All right, what then?’
He was still taking in what I’d said. Then he smiled. ‘Only that you’re insane, your husband had you sectioned, and you murdered your boss.’ His hand, squeezing mine, turned it into a joke. Ha ha.
I tried to smile. ‘Yes. That’s Christian. My boss committed suicide. He was about to be sent down for fraud. As for the rest, when I lost the baby, I had some counselling.’
Al nodded.
‘And I lost it. A miscarriage. I didn’t kill it.’ My eyes prickled with tears.
Al drew me close, hugging me, and we sat a moment in silence.
‘Look.’ I pulled free. ‘I’ve got to go back.’
‘They can’t manage without you?’
I can’t manage with you, I thought. I’m not used to all this sharing. It’s not what I do. ‘If I leave Sylvia to her own devices, she’ll find a way of excusing Christian, and then I’ll have to shout at her. Sorry.’
‘I’ll save your place,’ he called after me.
*
I needn’t have worried about Sylvia’s reaction. She was a mother tigress to Tamsin, and when Christian hurt his little sister, he’d gone beyond her tolerance pale.
‘I’ll kill him!’ she said, fierce as I’d ever seen her. ‘How could he be so irresponsible? He’s taken all her things, and he just left her there! Well! She’s all right, thank God. And at least she didn’t bring her laptop home, with all her work, but he’s got her bag with everything else in it. Mike’s taking her to Swansea and I’m going to contact the bank, stop her card.’
‘Good idea.’ I hadn’t expected such common-sense efficiency, even less her willingness to see Christian for what he was.
She slammed the bread knife down on the table. ‘When he comes back here—’
‘If he comes back, he can find lodgings elsewhere,’ said Michael, leaning against the Rayburn, arms folded.
‘Yes,’ said Sylvia, and I could see her resolve wavering before my eyes. ‘Or at least—’
‘Elsewhere,’ repeated Michael.
‘Oh hell, how could he be such a…’ She began to cry again. ‘He’s my son. I try and I try. Why can’t I do anything right?’
‘Sylvia.’ Michael gave her a reassuring shake. ‘You are far more than he deserves.’
‘Mike’s so sweet to me,’ said Sylvia, when he’d gone. ‘I don’t know how he puts up with me. And giving Christian that money. I know we’ll never see it again. He was paying him off, wasn’t he?’
‘I think so.’
‘He shouldn’t have to do that for me. Not with all he has to put up with from his own children.’
I hesitated. ‘Why don’t Michael’s children speak to him?’
‘Oh.’ She sniffed. ‘Just a sad family thing. About their mother, you know.’
‘Her dying?’
‘Yes, isn’t that awful? Annette didn’t want all that long drawn-out agony, so she asked Mike to help her. She had pills.’
‘Ah. Of course! So he gave her—’
‘No! That’s the point. Mike refused. Couldn’t bring himself to do it, poor lamb. He felt so guilty afterwards. He told me if only she’d asked a second time, he’d have done it, but she never asked again. Then, of course, his kids blamed him for making her suffer, all those horrible weeks in hospital when she could have died quickly and painlessly at home.’
‘Oh. Poor Mike.’
‘And then there was the funeral. Annette was an atheist, like Mike, you know. But when she died, he was in pieces. Terribly depressed. He just let the undertakers arrange things. A vicar, the full works. He wasn’t in a mood to make an issue of it. But then his children made a big fuss because he hadn’t arranged a proper humanist funeral. I mean,
if they felt that strongly about it, why didn’t they arrange it themselves instead of leaving it to Mike?’
‘Quite,’ I said, remembering my mother’s funeral, arranged by others because I couldn’t face it. One more little stab of guilt.
‘And then Mike gave up his career, sold up and we came here, and anyone would think he was threatening to disinherit them.’
‘They think he’s squandering the family inheritance?’
‘Horrible brats. Barely speak to him anymore. But then, considering how my son behaves… Oh Kate, what are we going to do about Christian?’
‘We’re going to get on with life and stop worrying about him,’ I said. It may have convinced her. It didn’t convince me.
*
‘Mike.’ I surprised him in his workshop as he was doing last minute work for his London exhibition.
He straightened from eying along the flawless gleaming plane of a table top. ‘Kate. Hello.’
‘I’ve brought you a present.’ I held out a set of antique tools I’d picked up on a market stall in Cardigan. A token of penance for giving a moment’s thought to Christian’s slanders.
He looked understandably surprised, picking out a fine chisel, the only tool I could identify by name, and examining its well-honed tip. ‘Well.’
‘I expect you already have them.’
He studied the bundle. ‘Not all. They’re beautiful pieces. Craftsman’s tools.’ He looked up at me. ‘I’m delighted, but why?’
‘For paying Chris off and getting rid of him.’
‘Oh.’ He looked amused. ‘And I thought you’d blame me. I just can’t bear to watch her being used and abused by him. I shouldn’t have done it, I know.’
‘You shouldn’t have had to. It’s my fault the little beast was asking for money. You remember that fuss about having my room. It wasn’t just bloody-mindedness. He was expecting to reclaim some drugs he’d hidden there. I found them, told him I’d flushed them away.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘But I think he really needed the money.’
‘Smart phones!’ Michael scoffed.
‘I know, but he did need money, badly. He’s got creditors and he’s afraid. Unsurprisingly; I’ve spoken to them a couple of times on the phone. They’re looking for him, and they don’t sound the sort to bother with solicitor’s letters or the small claims court. If he can’t pay them off, he’ll be in real trouble. I’m sure he wouldn’t have badgered you if he’d had this.’ I produced a carrier bag with the contents of the old paint tin.
Michael took it and looked inside, picking out the packets, one by one. ‘Better he took all our money than put this lot on the streets.’
‘Do you know what it is? I’ve always steered clear of drugs.’ I had enough to contend with, without additional hallucinations.
Michael opened a packet, shook its contents. ‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘You’re a chemist.’
He gave an ironic smile. ‘Doesn’t mean I can identify every crystal with the naked eye.’
‘No, sorry, I suppose not.’
He raised the packet to his nose, then thought better of it. ‘I’ll make an educated guess if you like. Benzoylmethylecgonine? Diacetylmorphine? Whatever’s the latest craze on the streets?’
‘I didn’t like to flush it down our drains. And I’m not sure burning it would be a good idea. If the wind’s in the wrong direction we might have the whole parish tripping.’
Michael nodded. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll dispose of it. You haven’t told Sylvia about it, have you?’
‘No! She deludes herself he’s clean now.’
‘That boy will never be clean.’
The sound of an engine brought our heads up. Michael met my eye and we laughed painfully. Three days since Christian had left, and we were still on edge.
A vehicle rolled to a halt in the yard, and a loud bray warned us it was Fran Garrick, self-styled queen of Rhyd y Groes parish.
Sylvia was at the kitchen door, arms full of sage and rosemary. ‘Fran! How are you?’
‘Thoroughly thriving.’ Fran eased her tweedy, strapping limbs from her Range Rover. ‘You know there are yobs swarming all over your lodge?’
‘Yes, they’re our first guests.’
‘That’s all right then. As long as they’re not squatters. Thought you might want me to let the dogs loose on them. I’ve brought Ronnie. You remember Ronnie, don’t you? Wanted to take another sniff at your fields, or something. Archaeological claptrap, don’t ask me. Ah, Pat. Is it Pat? I can’t remember.’
‘Kate,’ I corrected.
‘Something of that ilk. Sylvia’s cousin Kate, Ronnie. Kate, this is my brother, the prof. Ronald Pryce-Roberts.’
The professor was a stick insect, a very large nose being his only memorable feature. He was pleasant enough in an academically preoccupied way, rather beyond retirement age and quietly shy, unlike his sister Fran, who boomed like a brigadier.
We shook hands and I left Sylvia and Michael to show them our lumpy, bumpy fields. When Sylvia returned, she was in a state of such hyper-enthusiasm that I could see guilt hovering around her.
‘Ronnie’s going to hold a summer school. A dig. Isn’t that wonderful? He organises them for his students and enthusiastic amateurs, just to get the feel of it, you know. Just imagine, a real archaeological site. Howard Carter? Prizing open a long lost tomb—’
‘A summer school here?
‘Yes. Isn’t it thrilling? In our top fields. He’s looked at aerial photos and he’s really keen. I was hoping they might excavate around the standing stones, but there was some sort of difficulty about that.’
‘Meaning it being an ancient monument and us not owning that bit of land,’ explained Michael.
‘And he said it wouldn’t be as productive as the fields anyway,’ said Sylvia. ‘He thinks there’s definitely some sort of settlement there. Just think, that means Llys y Garn is thousands of years old. Can you imagine, we had people sitting on this very spot, gnawing dinosaur bones—’
‘Sylvia.’ Michael massaged her shoulders affectionately. ‘Not dinosaurs.’
‘Well, hairy mammoths or something. I thought it was a good idea,’ she ended, plaintively.
‘I suppose a couple of weeks of upheaval won’t be so bad,’ I conceded.
‘A couple or so.’
I caught Michael raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘A couple or how many?’ I asked.
‘Well, the whole summer really. They’d need that if they want to get anywhere, won’t they. A succession of schools actually. A relay of students. It’s a public service, isn’t that a good thing? And –What?’
‘How much is he paying us?’
‘Oh. I said he could come for free.’
‘Sylvia!’
‘No, but seriously, I was thinking of it as promotion. Aren’t you always telling us we should promote this place more? And that’s what this would be. Ronnie will be publishing. In academic journals. Maybe even a book. It will put us on the map. And they won’t be in the way, right up there in the top fields.’
‘And where exactly will they be living?’
‘Camping. In the paddock by the orchard and using those old cottages. Don’t you see, it’s perfect. Their own entrance, everything. We can carry on running this place as if nothing’s happening. Please don’t look at me like that, Kate. Is it so bad? I thought it was such a wonderful idea.’
‘Maybe,’ suggested Michael, ‘Kate is thinking, if this is a partnership, shouldn’t we all discuss things before we make decisions?’
‘Oh.’ Sylvia was instantly contrite. ‘Kate, I’m so sorry. Yes of course we should have discussed it with you first. Now I feel awful. We weren’t trying to exclude you. Of course we’re partners. Oh dear.’
Forgiveness is divine, but I couldn’t resist one small jab. ‘As long as you and Mike discussed it fully, that’s all right.’
Behind her, Michael was having a silent chuckle. I doubted he’d been able to sa
y a word before Sylvia jumped in with her offer.
She looked at me brightly, working on the premise that the brighter she looked, the less she’d have to compromise herself.
Michael came to her rescue. ‘The summer school was supposed to be at an existing excavation in Cumbria, but there were last minute problems, so Ronnie needed an alternative, urgently.’
‘And he says there’ll be extra educational value in starting an excavation from scratch,’ said Sylvia, eagerly. ‘It’s a public service, really, isn’t it? Doing our bit?’
Michael and I smiled at each other, in surrender. ‘There is the promotional factor,’ he added.
I doubted that a few pot shards, dug up on a Welsh hillside, would have much publicity value, but I was done with being a wet blanket. I could still be a hard-nosed business woman, though. ‘If they’re having it all for free, I want our lodge booked solidly, all the way to October, by dons and professors. That’s the least he can do.’
‘What a good idea,’ said Sylvia. ‘I’ll give him a pile of our leaflets.’
‘And you’ll get your Tenby order done before you go to London,’ I commanded. ‘Now we’ve got the go-ahead for the hall, we need all the money we can get.’
Chapter 10
Michael and Sylvia set off for his London exhibition a week later. I stayed to deal with our second guests and the work on the Great Hall. Scaffolding had gone up, the moment we received permission from the planning Tsars, and I very quickly learned that any woman in Al’s life would have to accommodate his overriding enthusiasm for antique Lego. So much for my idle dreams of having to fight him off.
On the eve of Sylvia and Michael’s return, I was alone in the house, listening to the whining and moaning of distant silage-making as I dried my hair, when the doorbell rang.
The brass bell of the front door. It reverberated through the house with the impact of an air-raid siren.
I peered out of my bedroom window, but the caller was invisible.
The bell rang again and my skin crawled at the thought that it might be Christian.
Clang!
Stop it! I refused to be cowed by fear of my nephew. I went downstairs as the bell clanged a fourth time. The louder it rang, the slower and more deliberate my actions. I drew back the bolts and calmly opened the door.