Brought to Book

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Actually,’ she added, ‘I’d just got out the bread and cheese. You’re welcome to join me.’

  ‘Thanks, I will. I’m strictly in my lunch hour.’

  The meal was not as frugal as it sounded; the kitchen table was laid with a loaf of warm ciabatta and a selection of delectable cheeses, the air redolent with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. On the counter, a brightly coloured porcelain bowl overflowed with fruit – oranges, plums, kiwi fruit, a melon. Rona’s avoidance of cooking did not prevent her from eating well. She laid another plate and knife on the table, and waved her sister to a chair.

  ‘Did you want anything in particular?’ Lindsey did not often appear unannounced.

  She shrugged, accepting a slice of bread and carving herself a generous piece of Camembert. ‘Moral support – advice.’ She looked up, meeting Rona’s eyes. ‘I had a letter from Hugh this morning.’

  ‘Good grief! I didn’t think you were in touch.’

  ‘We haven’t been, since the divorce.’

  ‘So what did he want?’

  Lindsey felt in her handbag, extracted a sheet of notepaper, and pushed it across the table. It read:

  Dear Lindsey,

  I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to write to you for some time. The point is, I’ve been pretty miserable these last few months, and I should very much like to see you again. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that we made a terrible mistake. I miss you, darling. If I come up, could we meet somewhere neutral for a meal? I promise not to pressure you in any way. Please say yes.

  Much love,

  Hugh

  ‘Wow!’ Rona said softly.

  ‘Quite.’ Lindsey reached for a pear.

  ‘How do you feel about it?’

  ‘How do you think? Ro, I never want to see him again! The relief when the divorce finally came through . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Rona said quickly, laying a hand briefly over hers. ‘Then all you have to do is say no.’

  ‘But is it?’ Lindsey asked miserably. ‘You know Hugh; once he gets a bee in his bonnet, he won’t let it drop. Now he’s decided he wants to see me, nothing will satisfy him but that he does see me, and I – I don’t think I could face it.’

  Thoughtfully, Rona poured the coffee. ‘Can’t you put a – a restraining order or something on him? You know more about this kind of thing than I do.’

  Lindsey was a junior partner in a firm of solicitors.

  ‘That would only antagonize him. Oh God, why did he have to write to me?’

  ‘As it happens,’ Rona remarked, selecting a piece of Stilton, ‘I’m in rather a quandary myself.’

  Lindsey’s head jerked up. ‘Max?’

  ‘No,’ she returned dryly, ‘not Max.’

  A state of armed neutrality existed between her sister and her husband, which despite all Rona’s efforts she’d been unable to defuse. It was obvious neither of them liked the other, though whether the root cause was jealousy, she wasn’t sure. She retrieved Meriel Harvey’s letter from beside the phone and in her turn tossed it on the table.

  Lindsey read it in silence. ‘So what’s the quandary?’ she asked, when she’d finished. ‘Surely this is the chance you’ve been waiting for, to get to the bottom of all the mystery?’

  ‘Possibly, but I don’t want to bite off more than I can chew. I’d have to tread pretty carefully – he’s only been dead six months.’

  ‘I should go for it. I bet there are any number of writers waiting in the wings till a decent interval has elapsed. And since yours was requested by the family, it’d be the authorized version, wouldn’t it?’

  Rona smiled. ‘Probably, though you make it sound like the Bible! I looked up his web site this morning, but it wasn’t much help; there’s plenty about the books, but nothing on his personal life that I didn’t already know from his obituaries. Still, I’ve arranged to see his wife tomorrow, so we’ll see what that brings.’

  Lindsey glanced at her watch. ‘I must be on my way; I have a client coming at two.’

  ‘Not been much help, have I?’ Rona said ruefully, following her up the basement stairs. ‘Still, the letter was sent to the firm, so he can’t have your home address.’

  ‘That’s no deterrent; he’ll wait outside the office if he’s so minded.’ She gave a little shudder.

  ‘Don’t let it get to you,’ Rona advised, giving her a quick hug. ‘You might be reading more into it than was meant. Write back saying no, and I’m sure he’ll accept it.’

  ‘I wish I could be,’ Lindsey replied.

  Max Allerdyce, walking along Guild Street on his way to buy new brushes, saw Lindsey emerge from Fullers Walk and turn in the direction of her office. He checked his stride and frowned. She could only have been to the house, he thought. Why hadn’t Rona told him she was expecting her? Perhaps, not content with his own advice, she’d wanted to sound her out about the Harvey book.

  He watched her from the other side of the road as she wended her way through the crowds. It was uncanny how like Rona she was: the same walk, the same smile, the same mannerisms, and, even to him, their voices were indistinguishable over the phone. So how was it, Max wondered for the umpteenth time, that one of them should be the most important person in his life, while the other had, from first acquaintance, made his hackles rise?

  Shrugging aside the conundrum, he turned into the art supplies shop and applied his mind to his purchases.

  Marsborough was a pleasant little market town whose mellow brick houses boasted porticoes, white-framed Georgian windows and neat, railed-off basement areas. Even the shops had bow-windows – though in some cases their preserved frontage concealed the layout of well-known chain-stores – and the market, which had originated centuries ago, was still held each Friday.

  Guild Street was the main shopping area, though stores and restaurants overflowed down most of the adjacent streets. The furniture emporium rounding the corner into Fullers Walk had a walkway above it, enclosed by curved black railings, that gave access to a cluster of boutiques and galleries, and a café from where one could sit and look down on the busy thoroughfare. Farther down Fullers Walk was a florist’s, a bakery, a delicatessen and several smaller outlets, before the shops tailed off to give way to residential houses.

  Two roads led off it: a third of the way down, on the left, Dean’s Crescent curved back up towards Guild Street, and, having crossed it, became Dean’s Crescent North, where Max had his cottage; while a hundred yards farther on, the Walk was bisected by Lightbourne Avenue, where their main house was situated. The restaurant in Dean’s Crescent was, therefore, a convenient rendezvous.

  Rona was greeted effusively by Dino himself. She and Max had a running argument as to whether or not this was his real name, or simply purloined from the Crescent.

  ‘Buona sera, signora! Signor Allerdyce is already here.’ He led her, Gus at her heels, to the alcove where they always sat, and as Max rose to greet her, the dog slunk under the table, turned round a couple of times, and settled himself to sleep.

  Max filled her glass from the bottle in the ice bucket.

  ‘Good day?’ he enquired.

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘I gather Lindsey called round?’

  ‘Now how could you possibly know that?’ she asked incuriously, picking up the menu.

  He tapped his nose. ‘You didn’t mention it on the phone.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting her; she just turned up. She’s had a letter from Hugh.’

  Max’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I thought that chapter was closed.’

  ‘So did she. He says he misses her and wants them to meet.’

  ‘And how does she feel?’

  ‘Panicky. She doesn’t want to see him. Have you decided what you’re having?’

  ‘Antipasti and scaloppini al marsala.’

  ‘I think I’ll have the crostini, followed by lasagne al forno.’

  Max shook his head. ‘The amount of pasta you eat, you should be like the side of a h
ouse.’

  ‘I have a good metabolism,’ she returned smugly.

  ‘Any more thoughts on the Harvey book?’

  ‘I phoned Eddie and he agreed with you – that I should suss it out, keeping my options open. So I’ve arranged to see Mrs Harvey at ten thirty tomorrow.’

  He sipped his wine. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Over at Cricklehurst; I reckon it’ll take me about an hour to get there.’

  ‘He’d be a colourful subject for a bio,’ Max commented. ‘He was quite a lad in the early days – brawls, drunken parties, God knows what.’

  ‘Really?’ Rona looked up in surprise. ‘I hadn’t heard that.’

  ‘Oh, it was years ago. Either he sobered up or became more circumspect as he grew older.’

  The waiter approached, they gave their orders, and Rona felt herself relax for the first time that day. The candle-lit table, the low murmur of conversation, and the crispness of the wine on her tongue combined to give a feeling of well-being. There was, after all, no reason to feel apprehensive about the biography; no one could force her to write it. If, on investigation, the prospect didn’t appeal, she would politely decline.

  She glanced at Max across the candle flame and felt the familiar lurch inside her. He was an attractive man, with his thick, prematurely grey hair and piercing blue eyes. It was the old adage of not being able to live either with or without each other, she reflected, and there was no denying that their separation during the week enhanced their weekend lovemaking. Which was not to say they didn’t still have rows, stormy scenes of shouting, recriminations and slamming doors. Both of them were strong-willed and stubborn, unwilling to admit to being in the wrong. Fortunately, they were also blessed with a sense of humour, and frequently, when an impasse had been reached and they stood glaring at each other, one of their mouths would start to twitch and the disagreement would end in slightly shamefaced laughter.

  ‘A penny for them,’ Max invited, breaking into her reflections.

  ‘Just thinking what an impossible man you are,’ she smiled, and leant back as the waiter set down her plate.

  The meal was, as always, delicious, and served with the panache of which only Italians seem capable. ‘Brandy?’ Max enquired, as their espressos arrived. ‘Or shall we have that at home?’

  ‘At home, I think.’

  After the warmth of the restaurant, the night air felt damp and chilly. The street lamps were wreathed in mist, and Rona gave a little shiver. ‘At least there won’t be a frost,’ Max said, taking Gus’s lead from her and threading her arm through his. They set off, walking briskly but pausing every now and then to allow Gus his night-time sniff round the lamp posts.

  The houses in Lightbourne Avenue were over a hundred years old, tall and narrow, with a number of steps leading up to the front doors and semi-basements behind decorative railings. The pavements were tree-lined, and in summer one looked out of the upper windows through a screen of leaves. Each house had a minute front garden bordering the path from gate to bottom step, and an almost equally small patch at the rear. The ground-floor windows were uniformly bay, with long narrow panes.

  Max and Gus waited while Rona fitted her key in the lock, the door swung open, and a wave of warmth came to meet them. Originally, the single-fronted house had had two main rooms on each of its four floors, but before moving in, they’d had the dividing walls demolished on all but the first floor, making a through room in each case. The top level had been transformed into Max’s studio, now seldom used, and the basement into a kitchen-cum-dining room, the work area at the front and the table overlooking the patio. In summer, the back door was usually open, and they frequently ate in the secluded garden.

  Max had designed the ground-floor sitting-room himself, the plain duck-egg walls being intended both to disguise the relative narrowness of the room and as a backcloth for his collection of modern paintings. The mottled marble fireplace had been rescued from a builders’ yard, and several of the small tables came from antique fairs. There were shelves of books, a couple of large and comfortable armchairs and two sofas which, in their contrasting upholstery, harmoniously melded the old and new. It was a room that always felt welcoming, and Rona loved it.

  Now, she dropped on to the hearthrug next to Gus and took the balloon brandy glass Max handed her, smiling to herself as he slotted a CD into the machine before seating himself in the chair next to her. At least, in deference to the hour, the volume was low.

  ‘It’s at times like this,’ he remarked, swirling the brandy in his glass, ‘that I wish we didn’t need separate establishments. While Farthings undeniably has its uses, it also has serious deficiencies.’

  ‘Such as Gus and me,’ Rona said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘If you miss us during the week, cut down on your evening tuition.’

  Regretfully he shook his head. ‘Commissioned art work might be the main source of income, but there are only three or four payments a year, and it’s the tuition that keeps the wheels turning. And as you know, apart from the OAPs and housewives on Wednesday afternoons, my students are either at work or school during the day.’

  ‘Then,’ she remarked, sipping her brandy, ‘we’ll have to make the most of the evenings we have.’

  ‘Which is precisely,’ he said, bending down and taking the glass out of her hand, ‘what I propose to do.’

  After they had made love, Rona lay awake for some time, listening to Max’s steady breathing and the rain on the windows. Her brain, too active for sleep, revolved ceaselessly round Theo Harvey and the questions that had surrounded him, both living and dead. Perhaps, she thought, turning over and resolutely closing her eyes, she would soon have some of the answers.

  Two

  Max left immediately after breakfast. When he’d gone, Rona went back upstairs and had a shower, after which she surveyed the contents of her wardrobe for several minutes before deciding on narrow brown trousers with matching jacket and a cream cashmere sweater. Smart but businesslike, she told herself.

  Gus was awaiting her in the hall, tail thumping on the floor. ‘Right, boy,’ she said, shrugging into her car coat, ‘let’s see what today brings.’

  None of the houses in the avenue had a garage, and the choice was either on-street parking – always difficult – or renting one in nearby Charlton Road. Since she seldom used the car, Rona had opted for the latter. It was from Charlton Road that the alley led up to the park, and as they came to its entrance the dog automatically turned into it. Rona tugged gently on his lead.

  ‘Sorry, boy, not today. We’ve a long drive ahead of us.’

  She opened the rear door of the car and he jumped obediently inside and up onto his blanket on the back seat. She reversed out of the garage, locked the door, and slid back into the car, adjusting her seat belt. They were on their way.

  It was a dull, overcast morning, but she was thankful the mist had dispersed; a large portion of the journey would be along unfamiliar country roads. As she left the outskirts of Marsborough behind, Rona’s thoughts went ahead of her, to the imminent meeting with Meriel Harvey. What kind of woman was she? Would they like each other? First impressions were important in a working relationship. The fluttering in her throat and the coldness of her hands were indications of her tension, and she switched the radio to Classic FM in an attempt to relax. What was the matter with her? she thought impatiently. Usually, she was excited at the prospect of a new project. What was so different about Theo Harvey?

  For a while she made good progress along main roads, but once she’d branched off cross-country she had to slow down. Here, the roads were narrow and twisting, with the odd tractor to overtake or stray sheep panicking on the side of the road. Her spirits lifted as a blink of sunshine broke through the clouds, and for the first time she became aware of a wash of green along the hedgerows and snowdrops on the verge. Spring was at last on its way.

  A few miles short of her destination she pulled off the road alongside a narrow track and
, fastening Gus’s lead, took him for a quick walk down the muddy path. There was no saying how long her interview with Mrs Harvey would last, and she wanted him to be comfortable. The trees lining the path were covered in tight buds, and somewhere above her a blackbird was singing. Briefly, she wished she could keep on walking with the cold nipping her ears and the smell of earth in her nostrils, that there was no anxious widow waiting for her a few miles down the road. But a glance at her watch told her she should be on her way, and reluctantly she turned and headed back to the car.

  Cricklehurst was an overgrown village some twenty miles west of Marsborough, whose main claim to fame was its highly rated restaurant, the Golden Feather, owned by a television chef. Max had taken her there when they were engaged, but it had been on a winter’s evening and she’d seen little of the surroundings. Now, as she approached, she saw that the village straggled along the main road for a couple of miles or so, without any noticeable centre. A midweek market was in progress, and temporary stalls had been set up on the narrow pavements, causing shoppers to spill out onto the road. Rona was forced to slow almost to walking pace, which at least gave her time to look about her. The church, she noted, was away to her left on higher ground. Its squat tower proclaimed its Norman origins, but the buildings that surrounded it seemed to be a hotchpotch of different styles and centuries, some in the local stone, some timbered, some mellowed brick.

  Father along, she passed the attractive frontage of the Golden Feather, its car park almost empty mid-morning, and finally, round a bend in the road and right on the edge of the village, she came to an imposing entrance with a sign proclaiming ‘The Grange’. The gates stood open, and Rona turned in on to the wide gravelled drive that swept up to the front door. She had arrived.

  Aware of possible scrutiny from the windows, she did not, as she’d have liked, pause to take stock of the house, but, having ensured an adequate air supply for Gus, climbed quickly out of the car, retrieved her handbag, and went to ring the bell. The door was opened by a young woman in her early twenties. Unsure if she was a daughter of the house, Rona said tentatively, ‘I’m Rona Parish. I believe Mrs Harvey is expecting me.’