by Jenny Harper
‘Well,’ Lexie said eventually, ‘I’ll start to sort things, at least. I’ll make three piles: things to be thrown out, things to go to charity shops, things to keep. How does that sound?’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to start now.’
‘Don’t expect me to join you,’ Martha said.
It was better than a straight ‘no’.
Chapter Eleven
Catalogue number 17: Miner’s boot. Knee-length leather boot, safety caps attached by studs to toe and sides. Private collection. Boot recovered from Mauricewood Pit, near Edinburgh, after disaster of 5 September 1889: ‘Patient labour and diligent search were rewarded yesterday in the recovery of the last seven of the bodies of the unfortunate victims … One man’s identity was established by his widow recognising his tobacco box, his boot and the neck of his shirt.’
Cora Spyridis arrived on the eleven o’clock flight and stood in the middle of the arrivals hall, waiting for her brother. When he finally succeeded in parking his car (no possibility of leaving it for a few minutes to nip in these days, it had to be driven into the official car park and money paid), he spotted her at once, texting furiously and completely oblivious to the admiring glances she was attracting.
‘There you are, Pats,’ she cried, glancing up from her phone and spying him.
Heads turned as brother and sister embraced. They made a magnificent couple.
‘Cora.’ He held her at arm’s length and studied her. ‘Greece agrees with you. What makes you think Scotland will?’
She shrugged. ‘Needs must. Anyway, you haven’t told me about this job yet. I might be back in London on the next plane.’
He looked at the bags strewn round her feet. ‘That’s why you’ve only brought a toothbrush, I suppose.’
‘You never know what you might need. I thought I’d better come prepared for anything.’
‘Nothing changes.’
How was it the woman he loved was so fundamentally unmaterialistic, while all the other women in his life – Diana, Cora, the legions of beautiful faces that came and went – had to surround themselves with things?
Half way to the car park and laden with cases, Patrick stopped short so that Cora almost cannoned into him.
The woman I love. Did I think that?
‘What’s wrong?’ Cora looked alarmed.
‘Nothing. Just remembered something.’
Remembered bright hair bejewelled by the moonlight. Remembered eyes like a fawn’s, telling him – what, exactly? He grew angry. It wasn’t love he felt for Lexie, he told himself, but another emotion entirely. He’d made an overture of peace, dammit, and she’d turned it aside. Comparisons became inevitable. Next to Diana’s poise and assurance, what did Lexie have? Not beauty measured by a classical yardstick. Not style – at least, not Diana’s effortless elegance. Not tact, or sophistication or—
Yet she had loyalty. Her loyalty to her family had overridden personal ambition, and that must have cost her a great deal.
She had courage.
And she had honesty, which shone like a beacon beside Diana’s subtle manipulation.
Damn Lexie Gordon!
She played games with his heart and she didn’t even know it.
Cora looked around the living room at The Gables admiringly.
‘You certainly keep it beautiful, Patrick.’
‘Thanks. I try.’
A gloriously rich abstract by Barbara Rae hung above the marble fireplace. On the wall opposite the window were a painting by Anne Redpath and a large oil by Sir Robin Philipson. Patrick might decide to sell any of the paintings at any time, but he was particularly attached to the Philipson, an intricate and subtle rendition of the interior of a cathedral.
The floor was oak, a herringbone pattern, burnished to a high gloss. There were two Le Corbusier sofas, stark and simple in cream leather and chrome, and the Arne Jacobsen ‘egg’ chair that had started his passion for design classics some years ago.
Diana, seeing Patrick’s home for the first time the other day, had almost drooled, but had complained it ‘lacked a woman’s touch’. He supposed she meant no flowers, no cushions and no curtains, and his interpretation was that by ‘a woman’s touch’ she’d meant to say ‘my touch’. He’d skirted the comment at the time, but now he thought perhaps he could do worse than ask Diana to share his home.
‘What’s this?’ Cora asked, nudging a velour-covered fireside stool with her foot. ‘It’s seriously out of place, Pats.’
‘It’s nothing. I just haven’t put it away yet.’
‘Put it away? Why’s it here at all?’
‘If you must know, I’ve got a collection of odds and sods in the back. Mostly rather good antique furniture, actually. I won’t lose out.’
‘Antiques? Hardly your style, I’d have thought.’
‘I buy them from a shop in town. Cobbles. I very much like the owner, an elderly man, half Polish. It’s quite simple. He struggles to make a decent living because he has no business sense – but he does have fabulous taste. I buy from him, store things here, sell them on in batches to a London dealer for a good profit. Pavel makes money, I make money, the dealer in London makes money. Win, win, win.’
‘Does he know you buy just to sell them on?’
Patrick’s shoulders lifted. ‘I expect he believes my house is furnished with the stuff, but as I never invite anyone in, how’s he ever going to know?’
His sister’s gaze was penetrating.
‘What?’
‘You’re an old softie under that hard shell, aren’t you?’
Patrick laughed. ‘Don’t you dare tell anyone.’
He prepared lunch quickly and expertly, chopping fresh herbs into salad leaves with liberal abandon. He roasted pine nuts quickly in a dry pan and sprinkled them on top. The kitchen was simple but high-tech and the cheese was stored in the walk-in larder at a constant ten degrees Celsius so that it was always perfectly ready for eating.
‘Looks delicious,’ Cora smiled, eying the fine array on the cheeseboard.
‘I must have had some sixth sense about your arrival,’ he grunted, ‘because I asked the housekeeper to lay in some extra. Pass the bread, will you?’ he asked Cora, and when she handed it to him, put the loaf into the oven until its crust was crisp.
‘Wine?’
‘Need you ask?’
As it was warm, he set the patio table and they basked in the sun and grazed.
‘Not quite Greece,’ said Cora, ‘but surprisingly pleasant for Scotland. Heard from Aidan at all?’
Where angels fear to tread...
‘No,’ he said shortly.
‘I don’t think things are going well between them.’
Patrick reached out and snapped off a faded bloom from the rose bush next to the patio. Something in him surged at these words – probably triumphalism because it certainly wasn’t hope. In any case, he didn’t want to be sucked into a conversation about his brother.
‘Don’t you want to know about the job?’ he asked.
Cora gave him a hard stare, her brown eyes shrewd.
‘I suppose you’ll never forgive him. But you can do better than Niamh, you know. I’m surprised you haven’t found someone by now.’
Patrick thought of crimson-spiked hair and a loyalty so far beyond his experience that he’d been unable to comprehend it, but what he said was, ‘Job, Cora? Or if you prefer, I’m happy to drive you back to the airport.’
‘You made a mistake, Pats, that’s all. You have to stop beating yourself up about it one day.’
‘I’m not into self-flagellation.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. ‘I think the next plane is in an hour. We could just make it.’
Cora laughed.
‘Okay, okay. I’ve got the message. So tell me about the job.’
The hardest thing was making a start, so Lexie made herself tackle the most challenging tasks first – like putting her hand inside Jamie’s underwear drawer and pulling out garments he’d once worn
next to his skin. Socks, briefs, vests, all went into a large bin bag. There was a shop in Hailesbank that bought textiles by the kilo.
Downstairs, she heard the doorbell. Its off-key chime had always grated. She was aware of the creak of the door as her mother answered it, and of the low murmur of voices, but her focus was on her task and she bent back to it with scarcely a pause.
One drawer emptied. There, that wasn’t so bad. Next, leisurewear. Pyjamas, sloppy jumpers, assorted running gear. She picked up a sweatshirt and laid her cheek on the soft cotton. Had it been washed since he’d last worn it? She thought not, because she was sure she could smell a faint whiff of Jamie’s distinctive cologne.
Lexie closed her eyes and let the smell wash over her, musky and powdery, with overtones of orange and cinnamon.
Christmas, five years ago. Downstairs in the front room, with the fire roaring and the lights on the tree twinkling like stars in an evening sky.
‘Perfume?’
She could hear his voice now, not so much mocking as lightly amused. ‘Perfume? Moi? Sis!’
‘Give it a try. Dare you! Anyway, I can’t take it back, so don’t waste it.’
‘Christ, must I?’
Then Martha’s voice. ‘Don’t be so ungrateful, Jamie,’ and the rustle of cellophane.
‘Actually…’ sniff, then, grudgingly, ‘it’s not bad.’
‘Thanks. Give me some credit for good taste.’
He’d given her a bear hug and said affectionately, ‘Smug cow. I got something for you too. Here.’
He’d tossed her a parcel. The gift-wrapping had hardly been expert, but at least he’d made an effort. ‘What is it?’
‘If you open it, you might find out.’
The package had been squidgy and soft. ‘A scarf? A dishcloth?’
‘Just bloody open it,’ he’d laughed. As she’d pulled at the cockeyed bow to release the ribbon he’d added, with sudden doubt, ‘God, hope you like it. I looked everywhere.’
She’d pulled aside tissue paper and glimpsed brightness: purples and greens, yellows, creams and white, red, mauve, pink, flowers, stems, peacock feather and rooster tails, a riot of pattern and colour and shape.
‘What’s this?’ She’d lifted the fabric up and shaken out soft folds.
‘They described it as an artist’s smock, but God knows if that’s what it is.’
Jamie had looked embarrassed, as if he’d regretted the purchase.
‘It’s amazing.’ Lexie had held it up in front of herself and looked down to watch the flowing pleats drop. The fabric had felt washed and well worn, although it wasn’t thin or faded.
‘The owner thought 1960s.’
‘Definitely 1960s.’ She’d looked inside the back, but there’d been no label. ‘Home made, at a guess, I’ve never seen sleeves like these.’ She’d lifted a soft corner. ‘Look, they’re like angel’s wings. Oh Jamie, you are clever.’ She’d kissed him delightedly and pulled the smock on over her thin sweater. ‘But it’s much too good to paint in.’
Lexie still had that smock. It hung on a hanger on the back of her bedroom door. She’d never worn it for painting, but she’d looked at it every day and thought of Jamie and the trouble he’d gone to.
She sniffed the sweatshirt again. Yes, the scent was still there, powdery and spicy. Some girlfriend (picked up and blithely discarded along the way later that spring) had told him she loved it and given him more, and it had become a staple.
Lexie walked over to the window and looked out.
Jamie.
As casual as you like with girls. Easy come, easy go. They’d flocked after him, unsurprisingly, but for years he’d barely seemed to notice them – he’d been too immersed in the physicality of rugby to be serious about anything else in his life. Then there’d been a sweet young girl called Estelle, a slip of a thing whose patent adoration soon became overwhelming. Who was next? Charlotte the Harlot, as he’d wickedly dubbed her in private? ‘Curvaceous and voracious, Lex,’ he’d confided. But her overpowering sexual appetites had interfered with his training.
He’d never taken these girlfriends seriously: Anne, Jane, Eve, Suzanne, Leanne, Joanne – whoever – a string of beautiful and adoring women he couldn’t in truth be bothered with. They’d been out of the door and on their way before they’d realised they’d been rejected. And if ever there’d been one more important than the others, he’d never told her.
Something had changed in the months before he died. Lexie had sensed it in things unsaid more than feelings voiced. He’d had no girl in tow when she met him, for a start – and Jamie had always worn women on his arm like bracelets, or draped around his neck like a chain of office, glittering with diamonds. Thinking back, it occurred to her that he’d stopped admiring passing waitresses and barmaids, stopped making puerile quips about the shape of their bottom or the size of their breasts. Yet he’d been almost high with happiness – or, at least, more relaxed and content than she ever remembered seeing him.
She turned away from the window and resolutely put the sweatshirt into the charity bag. There was no point in keeping it, not now. It would never be worn again in this house, so why not let someone else enjoy it?
Now sorting things was beginning to be a challenge, because Jamie’s filing system could hardly be described as logical. She came across a hairbrush, a tie, some belts and an odd cufflink in the next drawer, alongside three crumpled polo shirts and a navy merino sweater.
Lexie could feel Jamie’s presence all around, like an itch she longed to scratch. He was laughing at her. Get on with it, sis, just chuck the lot, he was saying. Be done with it. Be done with me.
She tried to find a sense of humour from somewhere as she unearthed half a packet of Jaffa cakes from their hiding place among a swamp of crumpled running gear.
That’s what I’m bloody well trying to do, you annoying, inconsiderate bastard.
She wiped a hand across her forehead. The room felt airless, as if the life had been sucked out of it. She tossed the Jaffa cakes into the rubbish bag and crossed to the window, to wrestle with the catch.
‘Carlotta has persuaded me that you might be right,’ said a voice from the doorway.
Lexie whirled round. Two bright spots burned in the pallid grey of her mother’s thin cheeks. She looked uncomfortable, but she was here. Carlotta, her glorious thick mane of black hair tumbling onto the thrilling flame-orange of her jumper, almost looked more nervous than Martha. Odd.
‘It’s good, yes? I say to Martha, it’s time. Lexie is right. It’s time now.’
A bubble rose in Alexa’s throat. ‘It’s good, Carlotta. Yes. Thank you.’ Why was she so distrusting of the woman? They all owed her a great deal.
Carlotta stepped into the room like a skittish foal, fearful of shadows.
‘This is Jamie’s room, yes?’ She looked around, nodding slightly. Her hair bounced and shimmered as she moved and gold glittered from a chain round her neck, perfect against her olive skin. She was so fine-boned she looked like a doll, unrealistically beautiful. ‘I have never been in here.’ She spread her hands expressively. ‘Yes, he is in this room, I can feel him here.’ Her gaze fell on Martha and she said firmly, ‘But he will always be where he is important, yes? In here,’ She folded her hands elegantly across her chest, ‘in all our hearts.’
Oh please, Lexie thought, spare me the drama. But Carlotta’s words seemed to help Martha, who took a step forward and across the threshold.
‘This photo I love.’
Carlotta moved to a black and white photograph of Jamie, aged around fourteen, hanging on the far wall. He was lying in coarse grass and sand, laughing up at the camera, as if he was mocking the photographer. And so he had been, Lexie remembered, because she’d just pushed him over, cross at his teasing. The camera had been in her hand and she’d pressed the shutter. Later, when the image had been developed and Martha had seen how crisp it was, and how perfectly it captured Jamie, she’d insisted on getting an enlargement framed. ‘It is so inn
ocent, yes?’
‘We were having a family day out,’ Martha said, her voice thick. ‘I’ll never forget that day. It was perfect.’
Not for me, Lexie thought. She remembered it as one of those days when Jamie’s teasing had driven her to distraction. Still, it had toughened her for life, made her fight for what she wanted. What had happened to that Lexie, the Lexie who knew where she was going and was utterly determined to get there? She’d been submerged by a sense of duty and a loss of confidence. Bother Jamie.
‘I will go.’ Carlotta edged away from the photograph. ‘This is a private time, I think. Martha, you call me and tell me what you think of the polvorones, yes?’
‘Of course I will.’ Martha clutched at Carlotta’s hand. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘Is nothing. See you tomorrow. Bye Lexie. No need to come downstairs, I will close the front door, trust me.’
‘Goodbye, Carlotta. And thank you.’
Carlotta turned and was gone in a bright streak of tangerine.
Lexie, determined to keep stark emotion at bay as long as possible, said, ‘It’s hot in here. I thought I’d get some air in, but I can’t find the key for the window.’
Martha crossed the room and opened a small carved box. ‘Here.’
Sweet fresh air flooded the room and the oppressiveness of Jamie’s presence receded.
‘Thanks, that’s better,’ Lexie touched her mother’s arm. The contact was light, but it established a connection between them, and that seemed important. ‘I’ve almost finished the chest. I was going to tackle the wardrobe next.’
‘I’ll give you a hand.’
They worked side by side, wordlessly, except for the odd query.
‘Bin or charity shop?’
‘Bin.’
Lexie held up Jamie’s kilt outfit. ‘We should sell this. It’s too good to just give away.’
‘No. I don’t want to profit from any of this.’
Lexie laid it carefully onto the bed. ‘You’re right.’
She gazed at it thoughtfully. ‘How would you feel about letting Pavel have it? It’s far too good for a charity shop, and he really could use some extra cash. I’m sure he’d make sure it went to a good home.’