About Last Night . . .

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘No, none at all.’

  A silence ensued. Paddy sipped his beer. ‘Go on then, Molly,’ he said gently, this time more as one would to a six-year-old. ‘It’s round the corner, isn’t it? Onslow Terrace, you said? I’ll get this.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Right.’ I got to my feet. ‘Sure I can’t …’

  ‘No, no, my shout.’

  Before I’d even turned to go, that bloody phone was out of his pocket again. I hesitated for a second then walked away. When I got to the corner of the street I turned back. He was still totally absorbed. On I went to the solicitors’ office.

  Mr Hamilton was unavailable, in a meeting. But then, when I explained to the receptionist who I was and what it was about, suddenly he was available, and in I went. His face wore a tragic expression as he got to his feet from behind his leather-topped desk. We shook hands as I approached.

  ‘Mrs Faulkner. I’m so sorry.’

  I frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, I gather another will has been found, which contradicts a straight inheritance by you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but that’s what I was going to do anyway. It’s only fair.’ I sat down heavily and handed it over to him blithely. I waited as he read it. He looked up. ‘Well, it’s legitimate. Legal and binding, if that’s what you wanted to know.’

  ‘No, not really. As I said, it’s what I wanted. I’m just lodging it here for safe-keeping, although I’ll obviously take a copy.’

  ‘Right.’ He seemed nonplussed by my indifference. ‘Well, I’ll get Sandra to do that for you.’ He glanced down at the paper again. Stared. ‘Hang on. There is just one thing.’ He turned to his computer. Tapped away. I waited. ‘OK,’ he said at length.

  ‘OK what?’ I asked.

  ‘There is something … here,’ he said slowly, still reading. ‘A directive, to me, to one of Mr Faulkner’s files, by way of this asterisk at the bottom. It points me to a clause which is commonplace in wills, and which allows the eventual recipient to bequeath something within the house right now, during Mr Carrington’s lifetime, to whosoever they choose.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, although Mr Faulkner does seem to have a specific person in mind, and a specific painting.’ He scrolled down: read some more. ‘It’s by an artist called Fernand Léger. In a magical mystery tour kind of way, the clause suggests the recipient is a Miss Bennett.’

  I stared. ‘Camilla.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Yes. And I agree. Camilla should have something.’ In a way, I’d wondered why she hadn’t been provided for. ‘But … but why didn’t Paddy – I mean, this friend of mine – spot that?’

  ‘Because it’s not written down. It’s just a directive, to one of my files, which when I open it, says see clause twenty-six of transaction lodged on file of treaty of intent, and when I go to Mr Faulkner’s file of treaty of intent …’ he tapped away again, ‘that’s what it says.’ He turned to me. ‘If you hadn’t brought it in, it wouldn’t have been disclosed.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘Some people very much like to leave complicated wills. It diverts them. To think they’re still in control, still pulling the strings from – you know …’

  ‘Beyond the grave. Yes. Well, it has a certain amusement factor, I must admit. To think of everyone running around in circles when you’re not there.’

  He grinned. ‘Quite.’ He leaned back in his chair, interlaced his fingers. ‘But this is better than most. This is satisfyingly intricate, even for an old hand like me. He was an extraordinary man, you know, Mr Cuthbert Faulkner. Larger than life, certainly, colourful and exuberant – some would say outrageously so – but a man of extraordinary sensitivity and integrity too. Very much hidden depths.’

  ‘Yes. I wish I’d known him.’

  I stared past Mr Hamilton through the window behind him to the leafy square beyond, thinking of Camilla’s small fortune. I didn’t know who Fernand Léger was but I was pretty sure he could paint.

  ‘I didn’t even know it was in the house,’ I said, meaning, I suppose, that I was rather surprised a certain person hadn’t lifted it off the wall.

  ‘Oh, it’s not in the house. It’s in a vault. I’ll write to Miss Bennett now and say you thoroughly accord with Mr Faulkner’s wishes, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please do. But … make it a very private letter. The most private.’

  ‘Oh yes. I have strict instructions to do just that. Interesting, though, isn’t it? That it’s not a straight bequest. It’s at your discretion. In your jurisdiction. He also wants it to be made clear to Miss Bennett that this is the case.’

  ‘Right. And if I hadn’t agreed? Could I have done that?’

  ‘Oh yes. You had right of veto, could have removed the clause. It might have gone to court, of course. She might have contested it, had she discovered, and it could have become unpleasant.’

  ‘So … in a way he was testing me, too?’

  Mr Hamilton regarded me kindly over his reading glasses. ‘I believe so, yes.’

  He returned to his computer, clearly intrigued. He patently wanted to peruse it all again, and I left him to it. As I got to my feet, the receptionist appeared with a copy of the will, which I put in my handbag. Then I went outside and down the steps into the sunshine. I paused for a moment. The shadows from the trees in the square opposite were long and thin as they cut across the pavement and I put my sunglasses on in defence against the low light. As I turned and walked away I thought of many things. I thought about friendship, the sort Cuthbert and Camilla had, which was actually love. I thought about her never once saying a word about the contents of the will, about it all being left to me, even though, as we knew from Cuthbert’s letter, she’d been like a daughter to him. She hadn’t complained. I thought of her surprise and astonishment and joy when she eventually heard, which she would soon. Most of me hoped she’d make a new life for herself without Felix, as Paddy had strongly advocated, but a bit of me knew she wouldn’t. I sighed. And then I thought about other friendships and other forms of love, and how, if one wasn’t terribly careful, they could just slip through one’s fingers: evaporate before one’s very eyes.

  28

  The peace of my Herefordshire farmhouse seemed a million miles from the shenanigans of London when, many hours later, having collected my car from the station, I pulled into the yard. It was late, nearly midnight, and I’d crept in without even alerting the dogs. I turned off the engine and let the blackness and the silence wash over me. The countrywoman I’d become knew that there was no real silence, though: a busily thriving universe was murmuring away out there, one of foxes creeping back to their lairs, badgers emerging from burrows and bat wings whispering down through dark corridors of trees. It occurred to me that if there was an optimum time to return home, this was it. No ducks and chickens clamouring to be fed, no ill-disciplined dogs scratching their welcome on the side of the car, no children looking shirty and disgruntled. Yes, Re-Entry, as my friend Anna called it – two teenagers, husband on a short fuse and, like me, too many animals – was best done under the cover of darkness, so, for a moment, I sat there savouring it, and trying not to feel sad.

  I hadn’t seen any more of Paddy after that. He’d texted me to say he’d got things to do and would probably stay for the weekend in London since Poppy seemed to be holding the fort admirably back home. He hoped all had gone well at the solicitors’ office and said that his mother knew I was popping by to collect my things. Right. Quite sort of … formal. And, unless I was being hypersensitive, a tiny bit pack-your-things-and-go. So I’d gone.

  I’d popped round to Essex Villas for my bag. Paddy’s mother had opened the door with another dazzling smile and another blast of Dior, wearing a beautiful floral dress. She’d been to the Royal Academy, she explained, to a private view, an exhibition of Monet’s garden paintings, so she’d thought she’d look the part, but she wondered, rolling her eyes ironically down at her dress, if she didn’t look too
much like a herbaceous border? I assured her, laughing, that she didn’t. She grinned and led me down the black-and-white hall to the kitchen, her heels clicking on the limestone. Then she embarked on a story about how, at the gallery, she’d been cornered by some frightfully familiar-looking old boy whose name she could not remember. In an attempt to jog her memory she’d ventured ‘… still doing the same old thing?’ to which he’d replied, ‘Yes, still King of Spain.’

  ‘Can you imagine?’ she shrieked, turning to me. ‘It transpired we’d met in Madrid, at some art event Jack had got involved in. I’d sat next to him, for heaven’s sake!’

  I’d laughed along with her but as she reached for the coffee percolator my heart was sinking rapidly. Not only beautiful but a sense of humour, too, I thought with rising panic. If only this family were more dislikeable.

  ‘Luckily he roared,’ she told me, eyes sparkling, ‘and we had a terrific gas after that, but I mean honestly.’ She poured the recently brewed coffee into porcelain mugs. She turned, smiled. ‘My dear, you’re not really off just yet, are you? Paddy says you are, but surely you’ve only just arrived?’

  ‘I am, I’m afraid,’ I said, perching on a stool and trying to keep a bright smile going. ‘I’ve got stables to muck out and mouths to feed. Sadly the animals don’t look after themselves.’

  ‘I can believe it. I’ve only got a shih-tzu but there never was a more demanding dog.’ She stooped and gathered the ball of white fluff into her arms, kissing his nose. She regarded me kindly over the dog’s head. ‘And did you get what you wanted? What you came up here for?’ she asked carefully.

  ‘Up to a point,’ I replied, equally carefully. She nodded. You see, the thing was, suddenly her son seemed the whole point. But obviously I couldn’t say that. I took a deep breath. Said something different. ‘Paddy’s staying up here for the weekend, I gather.’

  ‘Is he? Oh good. Well, that’s news to me, but us mothers are always the last to know – why keep the catering corps in the loop?’ She grinned. ‘I expect he’s got plans.’

  ‘Yes, I – I think he’s seeing Claudia.’

  ‘Oh, I am pleased.’ She beamed. ‘We love Claudia, we’d adore to see more of her. Did you get to speak to her the other night?’

  ‘Only very briefly. In the drawing room, over coffee.’ I felt a bit sick. ‘Um, Mrs Campbell—’

  ‘Virginia, please!’

  ‘Virginia, there’s a train that leaves at four minutes past, so if you don’t mind I think I’ll leave this – it’s a bit hot – and get my things.’

  ‘Of course, of course! Golly, don’t burn your mouth, for heaven’s sake. Can I give you a lift or—’

  ‘No, no, the tube’s quicker, but that’s such a kind offer. I really appreciate it and you’ve been simply marvellous to have me here.’ Oh God, I was beginning to speak like her.

  I slid off the stool at the marble-topped breakfast bar and slipped down the hall. Then I went up the stairs, two flights, three, to my room. When I came down with my bag I made a big show of being in a panicky rush, just popping my head around the kitchen door where she was sitting reading the newspaper, begging her not to see me out as she made to get up, thanking her again and saying that I really must fly. Then I left. I shut the front door behind me – ‘poof’ – and walked quickly down the street. When I turned into the next road, I slowed. Right down. There was no real rush. My train wasn’t for another twenty-five minutes. But I was protecting myself. I didn’t want to spend any more time in Virginia’s company. Didn’t want to soak up any more of that gorgeous, loving, homey atmosphere than I could possibly help. I knew it wouldn’t do me any good. Tempting, obviously, to be as greedy as possible: to drink in every minute detail about his life, ask about his sisters, their husbands, children perhaps, then relive it all on the train – but no. That way madness lay. Instead, I made my way to Paddington, and drank heaps of coffee in Starbucks. Then I texted or rang the children ascertaining their whereabouts, and now, here I was, sitting in my yard under an inky, starless sky. Alone again, naturally. Who’d said that? Shakespeare? Oh. No. Leo Sayer. Right.

  As I went inside, flicking on the kitchen light, a strange, eerie calm assaulted me. The dogs got up to greet me, but not in their usual wild manner, flinging themselves accusingly and demandingly against my legs, merely wagging their tails politely and returning to their baskets. The cat didn’t dive-bomb me from the top of the cupboard where she slept from a position of insecurity and vigilance; she was asleep with the dogs in their basket. Were they drugged? I glanced around. The kitchen was remarkably, uncharacteristically tidy. Oh my, Mum had done a good job. Dad was very much better, I knew that from her texts – a rest had indeed been the answer – but still. I hadn’t expected any more than the animals being cared for; she had her own house to run. I went to the blackened window and turned on the outside light, illuminating the garden. The pink caravan was obviously shut up for the night, but the collapsible steps were down and the ‘Open’ sign hung on the door. When I’d spoken briefly to Nico from Starbucks, he’d said he thought Granny had managed to fit in a couple of clients.

  ‘Hoodwinking the gullible as usual!’ I’d joked, hoping for a comradely moment with my son, who was still sounding cool. But it had backfired.

  ‘If Granny has a nice chat with some lonely old local who doesn’t see a soul because he’s on his tractor all week and his wife’s died and he’s feeling a bit low and he pays her ten quid to chatter away, so what? So what if she tells him it’s all going to be fine and all sorts of lovely things are on the horizon and he goes away feeling better? What’s wrong with that? What’s the difference to talking to a counsellor? For a lot more money? In a far more depressing place, without Granny’s charm and humour and music? What’s the bloody difference, Mum?’

  I couldn’t tell him but I was taken aback. And I resolved not to be such a moralizing old cow in future. And when I saw her, to thank her profusely for everything she’d done. I felt ashamed. And a bit guilty too, about liking Paddy’s elegant, fragrant, sophisticated mother so much.

  No sign of Minna: she must have gone to bed. I glanced up the stairs. Having got no response from her mobile, I’d texted Lucy, who’d said Minna had gone home, which had surprised me, so I’d rung. Obviously she hadn’t answered the landline, but then my children didn’t, on the basis that it wouldn’t be for them, so why bother? It only involved the tedium of taking a message. Yes, she must be asleep, I decided, except … there was a light on through here.

  I pushed through the sitting-room door and caught my breath. The room was empty but pristine. Low, subtle lamplight I didn’t even know I possessed revealed a hoovered and dusted sanctuary. There was a smell of beeswax in the air. Even the cushions were plumped. Cushions were never plumped in this house. The nasty stain on the carpet where it looked like someone had been battered to death but was in fact a whole bottle of red wine had disappeared, and the throws covering the threadbare sofas had been washed and ironed. In a daze I followed the sound of music. Soft, low music that was coming from the old playroom beyond. I pushed through the door to behold Minna, at a table in the bay window, playing chess with Toxic Ted. I didn’t know she could. Ted stood up when I came in.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ Minna flushed a bit. ‘You remember Ted?’

  I took his hand as he proffered it. ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘Sorry about that, Mrs Faulkner.’ He didn’t do his usual charming grin but went a bit pink instead. ‘I think I overdid it the night before with Nico and his mates.’

  ‘These things happen,’ I said, playing for time and crossing to close the curtains, which was about the only thing that hadn’t been done in this room. It was otherwise immaculate. ‘Did Granny do all this?’ I asked Minna incredulously, looking around.

  ‘No, Ted did it.’

  Ted went even pinker and his brow furrowed. ‘Hope you don’t think it was cheeky, Mrs Faulkner. It’s just I heard you had to be in London and that Minna’s granddad was poorly
and your mum seemed to have her hands full, so I thought I’d lend a hand.’

  I stared at him. ‘You did all this?’

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t stay or anything. I just came after work and did the animals for your mum and tidied the house and that. Gave the dogs a long walk to tire them out. The cat came too.’

  ‘Yes, she … does that. Well I – I don’t know what to say. I’ll pay you, of course.’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t want that. Didn’t do it for that. I did it for – well …’ He tailed off. Minna was looking very dewy-eyed. Someone had to speak.

  ‘Gosh, well, how incredibly kind. Thank you.’ I wasn’t going to overdo it, though. I gave him a bright smile. He took the cue.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’d better go. It’s late. See you, Minna. Mrs Faulkner.’ He went towards the door and Minna went after him. A few minutes later she was back, glowing visibly, eyes bright.

  I widened my eyes meaningfully at her. ‘I thought he was a love rat? Thought you’d got him out of your system in London and were seeing other boys?’

  ‘Is that what you wanted to think?’

  ‘Well, I … what about Adam? I thought you liked him?’

  ‘Adam was nice, but he was a bit dull. And persistent. And I’ve told Ted about him. I mean, we only dated, but I’ve told him.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Look, Mum, I know you’re being protective, but you don’t need to be, because you don’t know everything. You think you do, but you don’t. Ted and I were only ever having a thing. We weren’t exclusive. He didn’t screw me over.’

  ‘I see.’ No. Not a clue.

  ‘But now we are. Exclusive.’

  ‘Right.’ Did we have that in our day, I wondered? Exclusive? Inclusive? Things? I think we just called it cheating or playing the field and merrily got on with it. There were more rules these days. In fact I’d say the young were more moral. More … responsible. Faithful. Perhaps because of social media. You couldn’t get away with anything any more. Would be found out in moments. Yes, the courtship plates had shifted seismically, perhaps for the better.