‘It’s been like a fridge in here this last few days,’ she observes. ‘Am I missing something? It reminds me of when we were all kids and you two and Jack were having a strop about something. Put me out of my misery and tell me what it is.’
Ned is almost inclined to laugh at Jamie’s expression of surprised indignation but Hugo visibly relaxes, as if he welcomes this opportunity to put things right. Rose looks at him questioningly, eyebrows raised, and Ned is reminded of a mother’s impatience with two small children. It’s clear by Hugo’s response that he thinks so, too.
He glances at Jamie’s frowning face and begins to grin. ‘We had a row and he threw all his toys out of the pram,’ he says.
Rose looks at Jamie. ‘Got your cue?’ she asks affably. ‘Now it’s your turn to say, “He started it.” Then we can all get on.’
‘Well, he bloody well did,’ Jamie begins indignantly. Despite his patent irritation he begins to smile – and they all burst out laughing. Hugo heaves a silent sigh of relief and Ned is filled with gratitude. The worst is over even if all is not well.
The next day, Jamie drives Hugo to the station to catch the train to London. One of his friends is having a birthday and Hugo has been invited to the party and to stay for a few days. Jamie’s mood is still heavy, anxious, and Ned is worried.
‘Is Jamie quite well?’ he asked Hugo, the evening before his departure. ‘Does this wretched disability make him depressed?’
‘Only in the usual frustrated kind of way,’ answered Hugo at once. ‘Not in a clinical kind of way. No, he’s just heard something that’s preying on his mind a bit. He’s fine.’
Nevertheless, Ned knew that Hugo was hedging, not telling the whole truth, but he decided to wait; to choose the right time to speak to his nephew in the hope that he might be of some use to him. So he nodded and told Hugo to enjoy himself.
After Hugo and Jamie have gone, taking the dogs so that Jamie can walk them on his way home, Ned paces the courtyard, wondering what his nephew might have heard to cause such a change of spirits. As he often does at moments like these, he thinks about Jack, wondering what he’d be like now, what kind of life he might have had. How terrible to die before he’d barely begun to live; to be unable to fulfil his potential, to experience love, to have children. At least, he thinks, Jack would have had plenty of opportunity to have some fun before he died. He was a good-looking boy, and girls were attracted to him. At one time he’d even wondered if Jack had been tempted by Rose, but it was unlikely. There were too many barriers, and Margaret would have been horrified, of course.
Ned sits down at the table and pours the last of the coffee into his cup. It wouldn’t occur to Margaret that her son could be attracted to their cleaning woman’s daughter, however beautiful the girl might be. Anyway, to her they would have seemed barely more than children.
The thought of his wife is accompanied by familiar sensations – loss, sadness, guilt – and Ned shifts uncomfortably on his chair. Fortunately, Margaret wasn’t the kind of woman to listen to gossip: she was always so composed; so good and kind. It’s odd that he should feel much more guilty about his extramarital adventures now that she is dead than he ever did when she was alive. Does he really believe that she is watching him; seeing his weaknesses and knowing his secrets at last? It’s too late now to admit his guilt, confess his sins to her, but the shame is there. She was so true, so loyal, that it would never have occurred to her to suspect him of disloyalty. Ned grimaces ruefully: somehow that thought doesn’t bring much comfort. A phrase lodges in his mind: ‘A guilty conscience needs no accuser.’
He finishes his coffee, sets down his cup. The house is so quiet, so empty without Hugo or Jamie or the dogs. It’s a relief to hear Rose’s familiar call, her footsteps in the passage. Ned gets to his feet and goes to meet her in the doorway.
‘Morning,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Sitting in the sun?’
‘Jamie’s taken Hugo to the train. He’s off to London,’ he tells her. ‘I was finishing my breakfast coffee out here in the courtyard.’
She hands him the newspaper. ‘I’ll clear up,’ she says.
He takes The Times, glad to be distracted.
‘I’ll be in the drawing-room,’ he tells her, and makes his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Rose looks around the little court. There is a mug on the table and an empty cafetière. She picks them up and stands in the sunshine, staring up at the back of the house, remembering a summer thirty-five years before when she hid out here, praying she wouldn’t be discovered, listening to Margaret’s voice as she came down the stairs with Toby.
Rose gives a tiny choke of laughter. What a shock it was, arriving at what she expected to be an empty house, knowing Lady T and the Admiral were in London, and seeing an unfamiliar car parked outside. Then, once inside, hearing voices from upstairs. She didn’t call out but went up to the drawing-room, wondering if they were home early; perhaps driven down from London in a rented car. But the voices came from Ned and Margaret’s room, the door was ajar, and Rose had a glimpse of a rumpled bed and naked limbs.
She backed away, puzzled, knowing that Ned was abroad, and then Margaret’s voice, amused and happy, could be heard.
‘This was such a good idea of yours, Toby. Travelling down through the night, creeping in, behaving like a couple of teenagers. Why don’t I feel guilty?’
Standing immobile, Rose could hear a voice, mumbling as if its owner’s mouth were pressed against soft flesh, and then Margaret’s laugh, warm and infectious.
‘I’m going to have to chuck you out, though. It’s a Rose day, though she might not come, seeing that the oldies are in London. No. Wait. I’ve had a better idea. Let’s go and find some breakfast in Padstow. Much nicer. Come on, Toby. Quick. In case Rose turns up. Get a move on. Show a leg or whatever it is you say in the navy.’
There was more laughter, a flurry near the bedroom door, and Rose turned and fled, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out into the courtyard. She pressed back against the wall, close to the window but out of sight, and minutes later Margaret and Toby came down together.
‘I haven’t shaved and I smell like a badger,’ he was complaining, and she was laughing at him, saying, ‘I’ve always loved badgers,’ and then the front door slammed and there was silence …
Rose still remembers how shocked she was by Margaret’s behaviour, that morning long ago, and then how she began to laugh, after the two of them had rushed away in Toby’s car; how she stood just here, in the courtyard, exulting in the way Margaret had seized on some pleasure for herself after her husband’s betrayals and her son’s death. Rose experienced a fierce exultation on her behalf.
As time passed it was amusing to note that, occasionally, when Ned was at sea and Margaret came to visit his parents, Toby also happened to be down in Cornwall to see his mother. Walking the dog, driving to the shops, Rose would see his car parked in different places: in the old quarry up on the moor, on a deserted beach. It didn’t take long for Margaret to guess that Rose knew and was not judging her. Nothing was said but they grew closer.
‘Jack was very fond of you, Rose,’ Margaret said to her, not long after he died. ‘You were almost like brother and sister, wouldn’t you say?’
It was a test question, and she looked at Rose intently, not wanting to ask, but longing to know. Rose stared back at her, thinking of how young Jack had died and what he’d never have, and answered the unspoken, almost wistful, question.
‘Fond, yes, but I wouldn’t say brother and sister. Weren’t like that at all, our fondness.’
‘Oh, good,’ Margaret said, as if she were relieved, happy. ‘Oh, I am so glad, Rose. Thank you. And you? Are you …?’
She didn’t know what to say, and once again Rose took the initiative.
‘I miss him,’ she answered simply. ‘There don’t seem to be nobody else quite like Jack.’
‘Oh, Rose.’ Margaret’s eyes brimmed with tears, she held out her arms, and they’d
clung together, grieving for Jack and all that they’d lost.
For the few years that followed, before Toby was posted abroad, life remained much the same. Rose nursed her mum through the terrible cancer, then stayed on at home to look after her old dad, continuing to work for Lady T and the Admiral in their retirement. Meanwhile, Margaret visited her in-laws at regular intervals and, when she disappeared for a few hours to catch up with a local friend, they asked no questions. Margaret had so many friends.
Rose carries Ned’s empty mug and cafetière into the kitchen and grins to herself.
Poor old bugger, she thinks. All those years and he never suspected a thing.
It’s early evening before an opportunity presents itself to Ned to confront Jamie. They decide to have one of Dossie’s casseroles for supper and Jamie puts it into the Aga to heat it through. Aware of the importance of creating the right kind of atmosphere Ned has already opened a bottle of pinot noir, he’s lit the tea-lights in their small glass containers that Hugo scatters around the kitchen table, and now he pours two gin and tonics – very weak for Jamie and a stiff one for himself. This is going to require tact and forethought. He has a huge respect for his nephew; for his career, his operational experience in the Gulf, in Bosnia, in Afghanistan. But he has just as much respect for the way Jamie is dealing with this brutally unexpected change of circumstance. Coping with loss of health, loss of career, will need a great deal of strength and courage.
‘You don’t know how strong you are,’ the naval chaplain said to him after Jack was killed, ‘until strength is the only option left.’
They drink their gin and tonics whilst the dogs shift and groan in their beds, sleeping off a long walk in the woods and over the moor, dreaming of their adventures. Then Jamie takes the casserole from the oven and shares it out on to the warmed plates.
‘Hugo would have done some kind of vegetable,’ he comments. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Dossie stuffs these things with vegetables,’ answers Ned. ‘I’m sure we’ll survive.’
He pours wine for them – just a fraction of a glass for Jamie – picks up his knife and fork, and prays for some kind of guidance. He hates to see the look on Jamie’s face, that withdrawn, anxious expression: baffled, angry. What could possibly cause it? Then suddenly all his plans for tact and caution fall away from him and he speaks out in his usual forthright manner.
‘What is it, Jamie?’ he asks. ‘I can see that you’re brooding over something. Good grief, man! I know you have plenty to brood about but this seems to me to be something new. I’ve no right to question you, and you can tell me to go to hell, but if there’s anything I can do only say the word.’
Jamie sits staring at his wine glass. He turns it gently so that the wine shines and gleams, bright as blood in the candlelight. There is no disclaimer, no embarrassment; only the sense that Jamie is searching for the right words.
‘I’ve seen Ems again,’ he says at last. ‘I bumped into her in Truro.’
Slowly, haltingly, he speaks about the encounter, about Hugo meeting unexpectedly with Emilia’s daughter, Lucy, and her child, Daniel, in the Relish café. Just briefly Ned recalls the girl he saw a few weeks back at The Chough, and the small boy, and how he’d experienced a flicker of recognition. But Jamie is talking on, in that same flat voice, explaining how Ems is very anxious that she should tell him something, explain something. When he told this to Hugo, his cousin reluctantly admitted that he’d been struck by the likeness between the small Daniel and Jamie at the same age. Extraordinary and unlikely though this sounds, Jamie says, it would go some way to explaining Ems’ urgency to talk to him.
‘So,’ says Ned at last. ‘Let me get this straight. Your understanding of the situation is that the daughter, Lucy, is your child and Daniel is your grandson?’
He shows no kind of emotion and Jamie looks at him, relieved.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We’re rather jumping the gun but it seems to add up. Why else would she be so desperate to see me again?’
‘Still. It seems quite a pretty big assumption, just based on Hugo seeing this small boy and thinking that he looks like you did at the same age. Are you going to see her again?’
Jamie sits back in his chair; he sips some wine and then begins to eat. Ned follows his example. The casserole is perfect: hearty, comforting and full of flavours.
The two men eat in quiet appreciation until Jamie says: ‘This sounds a touch bizarre but she gave me her mobile number and the address of the cottage in Rock, but I don’t want to contact her. I don’t want her to have my phone number. Or the landline here.’
Ned nods. He totally understands this. Emilia walked away from Jamie once and he has no intention of allowing her to hurt him again.
‘And would you contact her, if there were any other way of doing it?’
‘Probably. Supposing it’s true? That I’ve had a daughter all these years and nobody told me?’
Ned looks away from the pain and anger in the younger man’s face.
‘Use my phone,’ he suggests.
Jamie stares at him and Ned shrugs.
‘Why not? It won’t hurt me if she texts or rings me. I shall ignore her. But you could at least set up a meeting.’
‘What … What d’you think?’ Jamie asks uncertainly.
Ned is oddly moved – the younger man suddenly looks like a boy, young, vulnerable – but he answers strongly.
‘I think you should go and hear what she has to say. If you have a daughter and a grandson you need to know about it. Don’t let anger and pain get in the way. They might need you – who knows? If you don’t go you’ll always think about it, wonder about it. Don’t be blinded by a sense of injustice. This is not to do with Emilia. This is to do with Lucy and Daniel. Perhaps they don’t know about you, either.’
On an impulse he gets up, roots about on the dresser, finds his phone and hands it to Jamie.
‘Do it,’ he says. ‘Send her a text and set it up. Don’t speak to her. Text her.’
His nephew takes the phone; he looks shocked. Then he puts the phone on the table, pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket and begins to tap a message into the phone. Ned watches him for a moment, then he puts the pudding into the Aga to heat up and sits down again at the table, and refills his glass.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Now we wait. Your food will be cold.’
Jamie shrugs. ‘After six weeks under canvas on ration packs it’s amazing how your tolerance to any kind of food improves.’
Ned is silent. Jamie has never talked of his flying missions during operations in the Gulf, or in Bosnia and Afghanistan, and Ned has no intention of encouraging him to break his silence now. They’ve both signed the Official Secrets Act.
‘Thirty years in the submarine service had much the same effect,’ he answers lightly – and just at that moment the phone’s screen lights up. ‘I think you have an answer.’
Jamie picks up the phone. ‘D’you want to check it’s not for you?’ he asks diffidently.
Ned shakes his head. ‘Most unlikely. Hugo is the only one likely to send me a text but he’d probably send it to you rather than me. He knows I’m very bad at checking my phone. Go for it.’
Jamie opens it and reads the message aloud:
‘Hi Jamie. Thanks for this. Could you manage tomorrow morning around eleven? Do you need directions to find the cottage?’
Ned raises his eyebrows. ‘No hanging about, then. Will you go?’
Jamie sits staring at the message. His expression is unreadable and Ned waits for his reaction.
‘Yes,’ he says at last. ‘I shall go. After all, I’ve got nothing to lose.’
He says it with an air of bravado and Ned silently applauds him.
‘Good,’ he says casually. ‘Well, confirm it and then we can get on with our supper. Dossie makes a mean sticky toffee pudding.’
Jamie sips his wine and then, quite suddenly but with the air of a man making up his mind to something, takes his own phone
out of his pocket, and dashes off a text. Ned wonders if he has decided to keep Hugo in the loop but he doesn’t ask. Jamie returns his phone to his pocket and leans back in his chair. The decision has been made and he looks calmer.
But what a blindsider, thinks Ned. What bloody awful timing.
He can’t begin to think, just at the moment, of the details and ramifications of the news. All he can hope to do is to keep Jamie focused and calm. He gets up, pauses for a moment to get his balance, and then goes to the Aga. The pudding looks good and he gives a sigh of thankfulness. Food can be a great comfort. Thank God for Dossie.
‘Sounds like yours,’ says Adam, not glancing up from the newspaper. ‘Did you remember to bring Jakey’s DS down?’
‘Yes, or the little toad would be watching it under the bedclothes.’
Dossie goes out into the hall, her hand over the phone in her pocket, and into the little office. Quickly she brings out the mobile and looks at the text. It’s from Jamie. She takes a breath of relief and pleasure. It was on the morning of the trip to Truro that he gave her his phone number.
‘I’ve given it to Adam, too,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’
He didn’t say in case of what and she didn’t want to ask the question. He read it to her and she typed it in.
‘Now you can send me a text,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll have yours.’
‘Just in case?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows, and he smiled at her.
She waited, though, not wanting to look too keen. And, anyway, there was no point while Jamie was driving. But even after she knew they must have arrived she hesitated, trying to decide whether it should just be a very brief message or something witty, until in the end she just sent:
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