‘Kat got him into that place.’
‘I know.’
‘She thought it was where he would most like to be.’
‘Yes, she did well.’
‘She hated seeing him, you know, but she went once a week.’
‘Yes, Kat was good like that. Much better than me. She said Dad didn’t care about her, but he did.’ Eleanor stood up, her chair legs shrieking against the limestone floor. ‘I’ll go now.’ She unhooked the keys to Kat’s car that hung on a board next to the fridge. She had been using it for months, for convenience on her visits.
‘It won’t mean anything to him, of course,’ Howard repeated heavily. His task that morning was to go to the undertakers with clothes. He had asked Eleanor to help him choose them and then begged her to leave. Even now, she didn’t know what he had selected. An image of gold knee-high boots fluttered across her mind.
‘I read once somewhere that grief is like fear,’ she gabbled, twirling the car key, ‘like being afraid. I think it was C. S. Lewis. I am pretty sure that is what I am feeling. Afraid. Are you?’
Howard’s eyes met hers with an expression of puzzlement and hurt. ‘I’ve no idea. All I know is Kat shouldn’t have died. She was thirty-five. It’s not right, not for me, not for the children, not for her.’
‘No.’ Eleanor glanced away, trying to think of something more helpful to say, but by the time she looked back he had gone.
Eleanor took the longer route to The Bressingham, through Broughton, which meant driving for the first time in many years past the turning to the vicarage and the dead-end lane that led to St Winifred’s, a quarter of a mile beyond. She slowed, marvelling at the smart brass-tipped wrought-iron gates marking the entrance to a residence now described, in big brass letters on a marble plaque, as ‘The Paddock’. Behind it, the winding muddy drive that had defeated family cars and left a crusty brown fringe on Vincent’s priestly robes had been transformed into a crisply gravelled lane, bordered by a formidably thick feathery hedge that served to keep the silver lake of birches from view, as well as much of the sky.
It wasn’t possible to see the vicarage itself from the road and Eleanor was glad. She didn’t need to see the place to know how it would look: extended, repointed, rewired, snugly fitted with pipes that didn’t clank and neatly overlapping roof tiles that gleamed when the sun shone. No gaps in the guttering like a gaping mouth of bad teeth. No knotted old vegetable patches. No rusting hinges. No patches of green slime.
Eleanor accelerated and then, having almost changed her mind, swung a little sharply into the church lane. These days, the sturdy wooden doors of St Winifred’s were permanently closed, the parish Vincent once served having been streamlined to offer larger, more accessible buildings for worship. It was a development that Vincent himself had taken personally, never settling into the new role of roving priest to which he had been assigned. The dementia had set in on the back of these changes, with lightning rapidity. Self-absorbed with her own life at the time, in the thick of things with Igor, Eleanor had been shamelessly happy to let Kat take charge of the situation. As Howard had grimly reminded her that morning, Kat had risen to the challenge with her customary brilliance, getting Vincent into a place he had not only served and loved but which was also a mere thirty minutes from her own doorstep.
Eleanor pulled up onto the grassy verge and turned the engine off. The church’s stocky square tower and grey mottled walls looked squat and stoical beneath the two, now giant, beech trees guarding its main door. Their upper branches, entangled over the years, resembled arm-clasping old friends. Eleanor rubbed a porthole in the steam on her window, trying to picture her father as he had once been, shaking parishioners’ hands, his beard bushy, his sandals and thick socks poking out from under his skirts. Instead, marching into her mind like a parade of ghosts, came other presences from her childhood: the sharp twitchy face of Hilda de Mowbray, tracking her and Kat like a greedy hawk; old Mrs Owens, wheezing reprimands and warnings with the gruffness of one resigned to being ignored; and the Watsons, the old man’s face sun-wrinkled and half hidden under his tatty tweed cap, and dear Charlie half a step behind, in mud-caked wellies and terrible mustard cords. Eleanor blinked tears as she peered up at the sky, all the sadness about Kat merging with the weirdness of the past, how it could feel at once so unreachable and so close.
It took immense resolve to get out of the car. She wasn’t even sure why she had come. Death was death, Eleanor had no illusions on that score. She had never believed Connie to be more in a churchyard than she was anywhere else. And Kat was right, when it came down to it, she had been a crap mother.
After the fug of the car heating, the early December cold was like a slap in the face. Eleanor tunnelled her hands into her coat pockets and trudged up the path, past the church and across the lumpy grass, down to the lower strip of ground that housed Connie’s grave.
Nearly three decades on and the small headstone had weathered to bare legibility. Eleanor stared at it, making an effort to summon fresh thoughts for once – fresh sadness – but all that came to mind was the usual tired, shrunken stock of memories: a smile framed by red lipstick, a yellow coat, a pale-face, alert and erect behind a car wheel, or tired and stretched out under a blanket on a sofa. Everything else – everything that mattered, Eleanor realised suddenly – such as how Connie had sounded, or spoken, or felt to hold – was lost.
She would not let memories of her sister fade in the same way, Eleanor vowed bleakly. She patted at the soft brown earth of a molehill with the undersole of her shoe, thinking fondly of the hours she and Kat had endured as little girls on their knees in that very spot, peeking out of closed eyes to pull faces at each other as Vincent intoned prayer after prayer, keeping them there on purpose, it felt like, testing them.
Eleanor let her gaze drift to the field. There had once been talk of a housing development, but it had clearly never happened. Today the sole occupant was a brown horse, a rough blanket on its back, nosing disconsolately at the thin, half-frozen grass.
Spotting Eleanor, it pricked its ears up and trotted to the boundary fence, snorting frills of steam from its nostrils.
‘Hello horse.’ Eleanor approached warily. Horses put her on edge. They were so huge, so beautiful and with eyes that suggested a knowledge of suffering.
It tossed its head.
Eleanor forced her cold hands out of her pockets and bent down to pluck a few tufts of grass to feed it. As she did so, her attention was caught by something metallic, half buried in the earth. She dug it out with the tip of her shoe, aware of the horse waiting and watching. It was a small pewter tub. A gleam of black and yellow blazed in her mind: sweet williams on a hot summer day. Now it was packed with twigs and mud. Eleanor let it lie and offered a good pile of grass across the top of the fence for the horse. She kept her palm flat as the animal chomped, enjoying the tickle of its big, velvety mouth and the way its moist breath warmed her hand. She blew softly at it through her lips, causing it to stop chewing for a moment, looking surprised.
‘My Mum is buried here,’ she told it. ‘And now Kat has died. And I’ve got to break the news to my dad, who never liked me much and won’t understand anyway. But still.’
But the horse had lost interest. As she spoke, it ambled back into the field.
The sun chose the moment to burn through the shield of cloud. The pewter pot caught in the light, a blinding flash. Eleanor picked it up and shook it with sudden desperation, a futile hope that a clue might fall at her feet. She wanted things to add up, that was the trouble. She wanted the world to make sense. Instead, for as long as she could remember, her existence had felt as if she was lurching round in the dark, groping for doors that weren’t there, backing into corners she couldn’t see. All that fell from the pot was earth and stones. Eleanor flung it away and strode back to the car. As she was about to start the engine, her phone rang.
‘Where are you?’
‘Howard? I stopped… Never mind. I’m on my way to s
ee Dad, remember? Are you okay?’ He didn’t sound okay.
‘Yes… no. Evie needs picking up. I’ve had a call from her school. There’s been some sort of incident. I can’t get hold of Hannah.’
‘I’ll go.’
‘I knew we shouldn’t have sent them in. I knew it was too early. Fuck it. Fuck.’
‘Don’t worry. I can be there in ten. Twenty at the most.’ Eleanor pictured him at the undertakers, gripping the bag containing her sister’s burial clothes. She hoped suddenly that he had remembered shoes. Not the gold boots, but perhaps a pair of the soft leather flats or, better still, the red Converse trainers. Kat had always loved those.
Her youngest niece had locked herself in the end cubicle of a row of toilets housed in the oldest part of her school, a once private stately home set among several acres of garden. Crouching down to peer under the door, Eleanor could just make out the scuffed pink ballet pumps – chosen in spite of Hannah’s gentle admonitions that morning – dangling well above the chessboard tiled floor.
‘Evie, it’s Eleanor, can you unlock the door? I’ve come to take you home. Daddy and Hannah couldn’t come right this minute, but they’ll be home soon too. And Luke and Sophie.’
‘She said she wouldn’t come out and now she won’t talk,’ the headmistress had explained, wringing her hands. ‘The Year Threes only come into this block for Friday Assembly. She must have slipped in during morning break. When her class teacher reported her missing, it took a while to find her. Such a relief, mind you.’ The head threw a pained glance at Eleanor. She wore a plain black polo-neck jumper that heightened the severe pallor of her skin and the plain strong features of her face. It was a face that looked proud of its hard work, Eleanor had decided, where kindness seemed to fight with determination. ‘Removing the door is the only other obvious answer,’ the Head went on, ‘because the gaps top and bottom are so small. As I say, this block is not supposed to be for our young ones. It’s long overdue for refurbishment,’ she had added bitterly. ‘Our handyman took some while to contact but is on his way. Perhaps now you are here he won’t be necessary.’
‘Evie, did you hear me?’ Eleanor tried again, her first effort having met with no reply. When the silence continued, she lay flat on her stomach so as to be able to press her mouth right up against the narrow gap under the door. ‘Evie, dearest, please undo the lock if you can. If you can’t, don’t worry. Just tell us, so we can take the door off instead. The main thing is that we all want the best for you. I bet you just want to go home, don’t you? I certainly do.’
The ballet shoes swung slightly. Eleanor could feel her heart leaping against the cold floor.
‘Or we needn’t go home, not straightaway. Not if you didn’t want to. We could go somewhere in the car instead. Are you hungry? We could buy something extra nice to eat… like chocolate biscuits, or ice cream, or sweets… any sweets.’
Behind her Eleanor was aware of someone arriving alongside the head, the clanking of a ladders and tools.
‘Just tell me what you want, Evie…’
‘Mummy,’ came the sudden screech, echoing round the stone floor and walls. ‘I want MUMMY.’
Eleanor remained very still, half her face squeezed tight into the crack between the door and floor. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘I want her too.’
There was a long pause. Then Evie’s voice echoed out again, much more quietly, ‘Is she in heaven?’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘And so when I go to heaven I will see her again?’
‘Yes, you will.’ Eleanor was acutely aware of her own childhood loss flickering in her mind: Kat seeking comfort and reassurances that their father, for all his godliness, had never been able to give. ‘But Mummy wants you to do a million things with your life first,’ she pressed on hoarsely, pushing the images away. ‘She is watching you right now and if she sees you are unhappy that will make her unhappy too. All she wants is for you to unlock the door so I can take you home.’
Eleanor watched, holding her breath as the scuffed suede soles of the small shoes were slowly lowered to the ground, just a couple of feet from her face. A moment later, when she was still clambering to her knees, there was the grinding of a metal lock and the toilet door flew open, giving her niece little option but to step into her arms in a way that felt almost natural. Eleanor had never embraced the child so thoroughly before. She felt sinewy and fragile, like a sapling. ‘That was very brave indeed,’ she whispered. ‘To come out when you didn’t want to.’
‘Oh yes, well done,’ trilled the head, dancing round them, dots of colour in her pale face, gesturing at the man and his ladder to be gone. ‘Clever girl. And lovely Aunty Eleanor for coming to get you.’
Eleanor got them away as quickly as she could. In the car park, she tried to take Evie’s hand but was shaken off. Instead, her niece maintained a distance of several feet as they crossed the forecourt. When they reached the car, Evie set about delivering several kicks to each wheel with her soft pink shoes, saying in a small angry voice, ‘This is Mummy’s car, not yours.’
‘Yes it is,’ Eleanor admitted sadly, holding the passenger door open till she had finished, glad of the chance to wipe away her own tears.
21
2013 – Cape Town
‘I’m not saying go crazy, I’m saying maybe buy a few bottles. Je-sus.’ Donna rolled her eyes round the table in a manner suggesting an amusement that belied the hostility of her tone. ‘I love my husband’s English thriftiness, but really… there are times.’ Having elicited sympathetic grins from both Lindy and Mike Scammell, as well as her mother (her father had taken himself off to the wine shop), she shook her head at Nick in mock despair. ‘We are here partly to support a family friend, remember? A friend who has given us the most incredible lunch, not to mention—’
‘You are right, darling.’ Nick stood up abruptly, cutting her off. ‘I shall follow your father to the wine shop forthwith.’ He waved his wallet, smiling and nodding in a bid to mask the deep irritation that had prompted the climbdown. Most overwhelming had been the appeal of a pretext for leaving the lunch table. Shelling out a few more thousand rand for twenty minutes’ peace – yes, that seemed cheap at the price.
Family friend? It had been all he could manage not to snort out loud. Dean Cobalt, the vineyard owner, was simply an acquaintance of Donna’s father, mentioned for the first time at their barbecue the weekend before. They had met the man – and then only briefly – on arrival. As far as Nick could see, the entire lunch wine-tasting project, pushed through by Jim Cruick in his usual bulldozer fashion, was simply an excuse for two rich old men to show off to each other.
After a hectic week that had included packed clinics and Sasha’s party sickness evolving into a diagnosis of mild glandular fever, Nick had found it impossible not to wake that morning without resentment in his heart at having to give up virtually an entire Saturday to so unworthy a cause.
The vineyard’s wines, a selection of which had been served with the three-course lunch, were indisputably good, but in Nick’s view far too pricey for everyday drinking. His father-in-law’s decision to set off to the shop to purchase several cases had been announced with typical fanfare, only making Nick even less keen to succumb to the pressure to follow suit. At the time, he had still been reeling from the exorbitant cost of the meal itself – all the more painful for the apparent misapprehension that they were there as Jim’s guests. That had been Nick’s firm understanding, and yet when the bill arrived, his father-in-law had cast a quick look at the total and suggested they cut it down the middle, treating the Scammells between them. Rich men were so often mean-spirited, Nick mused, striding away from the table and then slowing in a bid to savour his few minutes of freedom.
From a distance, the dining area – a stone terrace set under a billowing awning of white silk – looked ready for a wedding party. Each of its four corner-posts teemed with purple and scarlet bougainvillea. Spread around them was a spectacular panorama of the wine valley
, basking that day in sunshine that made the rows of vines planted along its undulations look as soft as goose down.
Nick sighed as he moved on, aware of observing the extraordinary beauty of the location without the wherewithal to be moved by it. The sense of detachment made his heart heavy. Once upon a time, the stunning topography of southern Africa had touched his soul. Once upon a time, he had believed Donna’s claim that trading London for Cape Town would solve all their problems. Once upon a time, he had lived with hope in his heart.
From deep in his memory, a quotation surfaced, from the redoubtable Dr Johnson, one of those engraved by an English teacher he had revered before science had come to dominate his studies: ‘He who has so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing anything but his own dispositions, will waste his life in fruitless efforts and multiply the griefs which he purposes to remove…’
Nick grimaced, nostalgia as well as self-recrimination flooding his heart. Moving to South Africa had achieved nothing except to intensify the spotlight on his and Donna’s dysfunction. He was dumber now than he had been as a teenager. It was a dispiriting notion.
Dr Johnson. The marble bust of the famous lexicographer that had sat at the entrance to his college library floated into his mind, bringing with it a sudden vivid memory of Eleanor Keating on the day he had first come across her – such a towering, shy, powerhouse of a girl.
Nick chuckled to himself, remembering how endearingly flummoxed she had been at his suggestion of lunch. A moment later, however, despair flooded in, not over Eleanor Keating, but for all that he had once been and all that he had since become. A wind-blown tree arched across the path and he leant against it, pretending to drink in the view. Unhappiness was in danger of warping him. He had to stay on his guard. Live in the real world instead of inside his head.
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