by Judy Astley
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Judy Astley
The Right Thing
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
Judy Astley was frequently told off for daydreaming at her drearily traditional school but has found it to be the ideal training for becoming a writer. There were several false starts to her career: secretary at an all-male Oxford college (sacked for undisclosable reasons), at an airline (decided, after a crash and a hijacking, that she was safer elsewhere) and as a dress designer (quit before anyone noticed that she was adapting Vogue patterns). She spent some years as a parent and as a painter before sensing that the day was approaching when she’d have to go out and get a Proper Job. With a nagging certainty that she was temperamentally unemployable, and desperate to avoid office coffee, having to wear tights every day and missing out on sunny days on Cornish beaches with her daughters, she wrote her first novel, Just for the Summer. She has now had eight novels published by Black Swan.
www.booksattransworld.co.uk
Also by Judy Astley
JUST FOR THE SUMMER
PLEASANT VICES
SEVEN FOR A SECRET
MUDDY WATERS
EVERY GOOD GIRL
EXCESS BAGGAGE
NO PLACE FOR A MAN
and published by Black Swan
This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Epub ISBN: 9781409057789
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
THE RIGHT THING
A BLACK SWAN BOOK: 0 552 99768 4
First publication in Great Britain
PRINTING HISTORY
Black Swan edition published 1999
5 7 9 10 8 6
Copyright © Judy Astley 1999
The right of Judy Astley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Black Swan Books are published by Transworld Publishers,
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a division of The Random House Group Ltd,
in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,
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in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd,
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd,
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For Annie, my dancing friend
Chapter One
Large Antonia must have slimmed down a huge amount to fit into her coffin. Instead of the four-square mahogany box the size of a grandmother’s wardrobe that Kitty had been expecting, the casket was a narrow, elegant pale oak number, reminding her of the flooring she’d almost chosen for the sitting-room. She was glad now that she’d gone for the beech instead. The last thing she wanted, as she trod between the front door and the kitchen for the next however many years, was to be reminded of the tall fat frightened girl she and Julia Taggart and others had so brutally bullied at school all that time ago.
‘Upside down in the Range Rover, three hours to cut her out . . .’ a woman was murmuring in the pew behind her. Julia Taggart, next to Kitty, turned her ferrety head and her eyes swivelled sideways to see who was speaking. Kitty nudged her, embarrassed. Julia had always been shamelessly nosy, progressing from early trawling for scandal with her ear to the school staffroom door to taking on the running of the Hartsvale Old Girls newsletter. No-one she’d ever come across in her whole life could marry, give birth, get divorced, ennobled, imprisoned or die without the information somehow finding its way past Julia first.
The small village church was full and its chill stony air was moist with so much unaccustomed collective breath. Some people were even standing at the back, and as the congregation rose to sing ‘Jerusalem’ Kitty wondered how many of them, like her, were simply there through chance rather than a heartfelt wish to pay their last respects to Antonia.
‘Oh do come with me, it’s only a couple of miles from you. I’ll come to you, stay the night, and we can go together,’ Julia had persuaded over the phone, assuming as all people from London did that Devon-and-Cornwall formed just a teeny village peninsula tacked prettily on to the end of England. ‘After all, funerals aren’t like weddings are they, you don’t need invitations. No-one will ever know you weren’t her very closest friend. They’ll just assume you kept up with her through the HOGS, like I did.’
‘Except her very closest friends, not to mention her family, her neighbours, all that. And I haven’t even set eyes on her since the final speech day,’ Kitty had protested, picturing Large Antonia at fourteen, green eyes wild for mercy as Kitty, Julia, Rosemary-Jane Pigott and the rest of their vicious circle had hoisted her up high in the cloakroom and made her swing from the hot-water pipes till she shrieked with pain. What a cruel, exaggerated fuss they’d made about the weight of her, stamping and circling the great dangling body with rhythmic chants of ‘Large! Large!’ and falling to the floor in mock-faint as if they’d just captured an elephant and hauled it up a tree.
‘And it’s not just a couple of miles, either, Julia,’ Kitty had added, ‘it’s at least fifty from down here and the far side of Bodmin.’
‘Yes but,’ and Julia pulled out the clincher, ‘you just must see her house, it’s to die for, truly.’ Not perhaps the best choice of words in the circumstances, Kitty now thought as she mouthed her way through what had been their school hymn. She doubted it would have been Antonia’s favourite. There could hardly have been happy abiding memories of her time at their dull Home Counties girls’ school where the casual spite of the pupils was equalled by a bitter streak of sarcasm among disappointed teaching staff envying the careless youth of their charges. It was possible she’d never spoken of those days since, either walling up the hurt from the awful years or even shrugging them off with no apparent effort. Either of those would be just as well, if Kitty and Julia were to offer convincing sympathy to Antonia’s widower in the polite funeral aftermath out in the churchyard. How awful, but how justified, if he chose that moment to accuse loudly, ‘Oh, so you’re two of those bullying bitches she talked about . . .’
The house was worth the trip, though. It took pride of place on the edge of the village, just tantalizingly visible from the road. Driving past its ornate iron gates on their way to the church, Kitty could only admit that Julia had been quite right, it wasn’t often you got a close look at one as grand as that without paying folding money on the door first. Antonia, against any odds Ladbrokes would have dreamt of offering, had married more than well and lived in mellow Georgian splendour in the depths of personal parkland just out of view of the farm her husband’s family had run for several generations. I
t was owed to her, Kitty granted guiltily, after that appalling teenagehood. Some sort of compensating karma must have been operating the day Large Antonia met the supremely eligible man she was soon to marry. Kitty, coming in with well-remembered precision on the beat for ‘“Bring me my bow of burning gold . . .”’ wondered why the fickle gods had then so callously changed their minds, claiming Antonia back soon after her forty-first birthday. They must have loved her. Wasn’t that what they said, that those the gods loved died young, like Princess Diana, Marilyn Monroe and Jimi Hendrix? They wouldn’t love me, Kitty admitted to herself, eyes meekly towards the floor during the Lord’s Prayer, I’m just a run-of-the-mill not-bad-not-good person who doesn’t deserve any special deal. She saw herself condemned to a stickily overripe old age, mouldering in a plastic-covered chair in front of daytime TV, wondering if Lily and Petroc (teenagers now, but they’d be sulky pensioners themselves by then) were ever going to visit.
The coffin was being lifted and carried back along the aisle and Kitty thought of her children. Not so much the two who thrived and prospered in lazy comfort at home, but the absent one from before their time that she’d called Madeleine and given away to strangers. She might be dead too, perhaps years ago or yesterday, Kitty couldn’t know. Her mind skipped through a variety of possible coffins, starting with a tragically tiny one, white, posy-decked and carried lovingly in the arms of a grey-faced, weeping man. Next she thought of a box like Antonia’s, narrow and pale but shorter – a child who’d dashed out into the road after a puppy, or, heart-churningly, a dark woodland murder victim, half rotten from months in a shallow grave. Kitty felt in her pocket for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes as Antonia’s mortal remains were borne past the end of her pew. No-one would guess it wasn’t a lost schoolfriend she was grieving for, but a misplaced baby.
‘We’ll go back to the house. There’ll be drinks,’ Julia hissed in Kitty’s ear a little later as they lurked politely at the back of the crowd by the graveside.
‘I’d rather just go home,’ Kitty murmured. It was cold; March darkness was starting to sneak up on the afternoon sky and she longed for her big snug kitchen and the soft constant breath of the sea out beyond the window.
‘Well I’d rather just go home too, but what would it look like, and besides . . .’ Julia was looking round rather wildly as if she was seeking out someone in particular. Her pointed nose jabbed at the air as she searched through the backs of the assembled heads. The rector was doing ‘ashes to ashes . . .’ and Kitty tried not to hear him throwing the first terrible clod of earth down onto poor Antonia’s casket.
‘Besides what?’ she whispered.
‘Oh, just besides. You never know who’s here do you?’
‘Well we won’t know any of them anyway, so what’s the difference?’ Kitty’s feet, in too-delicate black suede boots, felt as if they were turning to stone.
Julia’s face moved close enough to Kitty’s for her to scent the pre-funeral sherry. She whispered, ‘Oh you’d be surprised. You’ll never guess who rang and said she’d be coming . . .’ A tall broad man in front of them turned and glared and Kitty, feeling small and told-off, stared at the ground, mortified. She shifted her feet in an effort to see if her toes still moved without cracking and tried to concentrate on how awful the whole day was. Antonia had children, three of them, evenly spaced in size like Russian dolls from mid-teens or so down to about ten, welded together at the grave-edge in their grief, clinging and weeping quietly, their distraught faces every bit as scarlet as Antonia’s had habitually been through her tortured schooldays. She might well have wept daily, too, either after or before school hours, perhaps both. Probably the salt tears had worn her skin to that rough red rawness that so astoundingly clashed with her crazy tangerine hair. Poor girl, if only she hadn’t looked so exactly like a victim. She’d been irresistible bully-fodder, a devil-sent target. No counselling had existed to help her then, no Childline, no comfortable teacher-pupil committees where sweet moral reason prevailed, no drama workshops on the evils of pupil malice, with role-play and group hugs. Fair play had been something to do with netball, complaining about classmates was snitching and intolerance of the odd hard knock (mental or physical) was drippily spineless. Most of the stiff-backed schoolmistresses had worked their way through a world war and considered a good dose of being hard-done-by to be character-building, so there’d been no point seeking sympathy there.
‘I am sorry, Antonia,’ Kitty whispered under her breath. The man in front flicked his head slightly again and she shuffled guiltily backwards away from the crowd to where a looming churchyard yew provided shelter from the bitter breeze. Around her chilled feet fat bright spikes that would become bluebells were pushing their determined way through the earth, and she marvelled at their ability to thrive so well in the shade of this ancient, almost black, tree.
‘Kit Cochrane! I thought it was you! Saw you in the church with old J. Taggart. After so long one can’t be sure, can one?’ The voice, a sort of piercing hiss like a cross cat, seemed to be coming from inside the tree and Kitty peered through the branches to where she could just make out a glow from a cigarette and a long thin shape swathed in layers of pale grey wool. ‘I mean, we could all have been only steps away from each other on any number of occasions and not known about it. School fetes, Sainsbury’s, airport check-ins, all that.’
The garrulous body stepped forward into the light and Kitty gasped. ‘Good grief, Rosemary-Jane Pigott!’ she squawked.
‘Ssh! They’re still at it over there!’ Rosemary-Jane giggled. ‘And it’s just Rose now, and Ruthermere, by way of Madison, not Pigott any more, but then you knew that, didn’t you? All years ago, of course.’
‘No I didn’t know actually. Julia insists on sending me the HOGS newsletters even though I don’t subscribe, but she can’t force me to read them.’ Kitty laughed. She didn’t much feel like laughing. No less than three of poor Antonia’s childhood tormentors turning up at her funeral was no joke to anyone.
‘So. Come to make sure poor old Large is really dead?’ Rose grinned, her teeth huge and menacing. Gums receding, Kitty noted, certain that Rosemary-Jane’s pretty little egg-shaped face at seventeen had been nothing like as wolfish.
‘I was dragged along by Julia, actually,’ Kitty confessed. ‘She’s always trying to round me up for some Old Girls’ function or other and insisted that this particular event was “in your area, sweetie”. She even came down into deepest Cornwall and stayed the night with us, just to make sure I couldn’t back out. I wish I had. This is awful isn’t it. Poor Antonia. And those children . . .’ Kitty felt glum and shivery. She wanted very much to ask Rose exactly which Ruthermere she’d married, just so she could be reassured that it wasn’t Ben. Of course it wouldn’t be. Clever Rose had gone off to Oxford straight from school, then married someone glamorous on the fringes of motor racing. She could have come across dozens of people with Ben’s particular surname. Whoever would slink back to their home town with a dazzling degree and one flighty marriage behind her and marry some underpowered local? Even the question would sound dismally parochial.
‘Oh, so you two found each other.’ Julia looked disappointed, discovering Rose and Kitty together by the yew, thwarted by the two of them managing this small reunion all by themselves. The graveside gathering was dispersing. Groups of mourners hovered near their cars, giving each other gentle hugs of comfort and chatting quietly. An impatient groundsman smoked against the side wall of the chapel, leaning on his spade and wishing them all away so he could get on with the filling-in that nobody liked to see and go home.
‘We must all go together, back to Antonia’s place for the knees-up,’ Rose suggested brightly, striding off across the grass without waiting for a reply.
‘Is it really such a good idea?’ Kitty hesitated. ‘I mean, Antonia might well have talked about us at home, you know, to her family about how her schooldays were . . .’
Rose turned and looked at her, puzzled. She pulled the blank
et-like grey coat around her, folding her arms across her long angled body. Kitty recalled their games mistress, keen on deportment, commenting that Rosemary-Jane always looked as if she was lounging against a gatepost that no-one else could see. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ she now asked Kitty, head on one side like a confused dog. ‘We were her very best friends!’
‘Absolutely,’ Julia agreed, sliding her arm through Kitty’s and pulling her towards the cars. ‘I mean, if she’d had that bad a time, she wouldn’t have kept up with the Old Girls, now would she?’
Kitty thought about being warm, about a smoked-salmon sandwich, just the one small creamy sherry and perhaps a log fire to thaw her bones. ‘OK. Just for half an hour and then I must get going,’ she conceded.
Rose and Julia, one each side, smiled at her, smart women in early middle age who were wearing more than well enough and were pleased with themselves.
‘There you are, you see, not so difficult is it?’ Julia said, satisfied at having got her own way. ‘Now isn’t this nice, the three of us all together again?’
Antonia’s widower greeted his guests with unnerving gratitude, welcoming Kitty, Julia and Rose into a suitably subdued library – all treacle-dark shelves and murky book-spines. A large buffet was laid out on a table beneath rows of ancient volumes that were probably being secretly munched away by paper-mites, and trays of what looked like the traditional post-death sherry were being offered round. Kitty was rather disappointed. There weren’t many houses like this one that hadn’t been fossilized by the National Trust and were actually properly lived in and still evolving. She’d been looking forward to inspecting a grand pale-panelled drawing-room, overlooking the terraced formal gardens she’d glimpsed from the drive, and having a look at what she assumed would be terrifically good heirloom paintings. Perhaps the family hadn’t wanted to blight future enjoyment of such a room with sad memories of this funeral feast. And maybe Antonia’s broken body had been brought to lie in state in here and after today the room would be locked and left with romantic poignancy to the dust.