She was grateful for the frosty air, clearing the fug of whisky from her head. She was grateful, too, for the unspoken consensus with which they’d set off on foot through the city centre. It felt important, somehow, to walk away from the police station, not to linger in the building waiting for a taxi. Apart from anything else, she wanted to get away from that other family as fast as possible. As they approached Cornmarket she was conscious of the silence that only Robert’s brief remark had broken, and of the invisible thought bubbles hovering over their heads, waiting to burst into speech.
“Are you okay?” she asked Alastair eventually.
“I’m fine.” He turned a little towards her. His face was hollowed by the street lights; he looked, Olivia thought with a shock, as though he’d aged ten years. She hadn’t expected such a cliché; or if she had, she’d expected it for herself. “Mum, honestly, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”
“For getting caught,” Olivia asked, “or getting involved?”
“Both. Getting in over my head.”
“Has it been going on a long time? A regular thing, I mean?” She cast her mind back for signs, tried to assess how much he’d been out in the last few months. All she could remember was his pleasant attentiveness, and her gratitude; the memory of that sharpened her wits.
“Not exactly.”
“That other boy,” Olivia said. “The one who was in there with you. Do you know him?”
Alastair looked down at the pavement. He was easy to read, Olivia thought. He’d always been easy to read.
“Is he the supplier?”
Alastair shrugged.
“I’ve seen him before,” Olivia said. “He attacked me one day, on the canal bridge.”
“Oh, God.”
Robert stopped. “What?” he demanded.
“How did he know who I was?” Olivia asked.
“Probably saw you coming out of the house.” Alastair’s voice sounded unfamiliar. “When he was waiting for me.”
“Hold on,” said Robert. “I’ve got my head round a one-off slip, but what are we talking about here? How on earth can this have involved your mother?”
“I’m sorry,” Alastair said again. “I really am. I promise you, it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Explain,” said Robert. “Explain everything.”
“That boy you saw – he gave me some weed at a party, a few months back. A few parties.” Alastair sighed. “I was just trying it. I thought – I was kind of bored of being a nerd, you know? There’s lots of it around, I didn’t expect it to go anywhere.”
“But?”
“One night – I don’t know why, I guess I was just there, and I looked innocent, or something – one night he gave me his stash to look after, but then people said the police were coming and I panicked and chucked it. He waited for me outside school the next day, said I owed him for it. More money than I expected. I was a bit freaked. I mean, it was too much money for just weed. I brazened it out, and he said I’d be sorry. I didn’t know – “ He put a hand on Olivia’s arm, and she flinched; exactly the spot where she’d been punched, she thought. He couldn’t have known that. “He said something, next time he saw me, but I thought he must have got the wrong person. After that it sort of dropped away. I paid him for the weed and kept away from him.”
“Found another supplier?”
Olivia could tell that Robert was angrier than he sounded. Perhaps Alastair could, too.
“It’s really not like that, Dad. I’m not that into it.”
“All very well for you to be so blasé, when it’s your mother who’s been assaulted by a drug dealer.”
“He’s a bit crazy, but he’s not.” Alastair stopped.
“So how did you end up with him tonight?” Olivia asked.
Alastair stared at the ground again. “Bad luck,” he said.
They were at the top of Cornmarket now, emerging onto Magdalen Street.
“Look, there’s a taxi.” Olivia raised her arm, and the cab swerved over to the kerb. Good timing, she thought; she’d walked far enough now. It must be well past one.
None of them said anything more as they swept up the length of St Giles. They sat in a row, Olivia between her husband and her son, the swoon of a late-night radio station filling the silence. God only knew, Olivia thought, how much of the truth Alastair was telling. How much they really wanted to know, or ought to interfere. She felt old and out of touch; adrift in a place where she didn’t belong, and anything she said or asked would reveal her ignorance. Not even the fact that she’d hardly been an innocent herself, in her time, could make Alastair’s world, Tom’s world, even Angus’s and Benjy’s world, less mysterious and inaccessible. She was the mother now; the rules that defined her role were as intricate and inflexible as the hierarchies of a feudal state.
“Okay,” Robert said, as they turned into their road. Olivia thought at first he was addressing Alastair, but he leaned towards the cab driver. “Just here is fine. Thanks.”
“Happy Christmas.” Olivia smiled at the sulky driver as they climbed out of the cab. The mother’s part, observing the niceties of social engagement.
She was surprised to see that the house was in darkness. Usually the boys left lights blazing everywhere; she imagined them creeping around tonight, awed by the situation, being responsible.
Robert halted in front of the door, as though he wanted the subject closed before they went inside.
“You’ve been damn lucky, Alastair. I hope you know that. A caution’s a serious matter, but you could have faced charges, found yourself in court. Maybe everyone’s doing it, maybe you think it’s not a big deal, but you won’t get off so lightly next time. And one thing can lead to another, you know that as well as we do. So that’s it, okay? You’ve put your mother in jeopardy; you’ve let us both down.”
“It won’t happen again,” Alastair said.
And maybe it wouldn’t, Olivia thought, as she came into the hall, inhaling the evocative scent of pine needles, but maybe it would. Who knew? Sweet Alastair; she couldn’t really manage to think differently of him. Part of her, bizarrely, felt grateful. It was better to have an explanation for that thump than to be the victim of a chance act of violence. Much better than being targeted for some fault of her own. Her desire for punishment was subtle and specific, and the events of this evening had diminished it, in some odd way.
It wasn’t her failing that had led Alastair into a police cell, or incited her assailant. She was tied for better or worse to her sons, responsible for their begetting but helpless, in the end, to shape their lives. She had never done less than a good mother would, not even on that horrible day in Suffolk, but there were things beyond her control, well-meaning decisions that would turn out to be flawed, failures of judgment she had learned from, just as there would be for her sons.
She watched Alastair climb the stairs, his retreating silhouette both familiar and alien. Robert was still in the front garden, moving the dustbins out onto the pavement. Olivia went on down the passage towards the kitchen, but the door of the music room stood open. On a whim she went in, slipped around the side of the piano and sat down on the stool. A book of Chopin nocturnes she’d brought out for a pupil was open on the stand; the same book she’d played from when the boys were babies, that she’d hoped would soothe and nurture them.
Outside the windows, the sky looked very dark; it was hard to imagine they’d been out there a few minutes ago, walking through the city streets. Olivia couldn’t make out the notes on the stave in this dimness, but she didn’t need the music to play these pieces. She laid her fingers on the keyboard and the first few bars of the B flat minor nocturne floated up around her, like something conjured from nowhere, from her subconscious. Like an emotion she didn’t have to find words for.
After a few moments she heard the click and slide as Robert locked the front door. Without breaking off from the music, she shut her eyes and waited for him to come and join her.
Chapter 44
&nb
sp; The week between Christmas and New Year was a busy one. Sarah had rung on Christmas Eve to break the news of her father’s death and to ask Olivia and Robert to come to his funeral on the 28th. Later that morning, Clive Shotter had called to say that he was coming to Oxford on Boxing Day to take Aunt Georgie out, and hoped Olivia would join them for tea at the Randolph. And Olivia made a phone call of her own, the same afternoon, to confirm an arrangement she’d made for the 30th. Pieces of life, she thought, to stitch together like a patchwork quilt: deaths and births, coincidence and reconciliation. Appropriate for the turning of the year, this collage of endings and new beginnings.
Alastair offered to come with her to the Randolph. His scrupulousness over Christmas had surprised Olivia. She’d expected the ties between them to be strained by the drugs incident, but instead there had been what she described to herself as a rebound. Perhaps his attentiveness wasn’t a front for secret delinquency but as real, in its way, as the life she’d glimpsed that night at the police station. She could see him, all of a sudden, as a grown-up: a man like Clive Shotter, holding his mother in affection even as he teased and humoured her. Her reaction to this insight was more than she could have anticipated, too; the absurd pride of having raised her sons to adulthood, flawed but whole.
Nonetheless, she went alone to the tea party. This wasn’t an occasion for Alastair to display his charm or his tact or anything else. There was already quite enough in play.
Clive and Georgie were well ensconced when she arrived, settled in matching chairs either side of a linen-clad table. Clive rose to greet her, indicating the third chair with a waft of the menu. He looked entirely at home; the Randolph was exactly his milieu, Olivia thought. The walls of the tea room were adorned with Osbert Lancaster’s famous illustrations of Zuleika Dobson, and it seemed to Olivia that Clive Shotter would have fitted admirably into these scenes of undergraduate frolics a century before, with Zuleika creating merry mayhem among the bright young things.
“We’ve ordered the whole caboodle,” he said. “That do? Cake, sandwiches …?”
“Perfect.” Olivia smiled, concealing her nerves, or perhaps failing to.
“We’re hungry,” Clive declared. “Aren’t we, Aunt Georgie? Energetic day.”
Georgie had her eyes fixed on Clive. Did she look different, Olivia wondered, or was it the effect of her plush surroundings? She had selected, perhaps by accident, a navy dress less institutional than most of her wardrobe; she looked almost like any other aunt being taken out for tea.
“What have you been doing?” Olivia asked.
“Aunt Georgie has pronounced my person acceptable, but not my education,” said Clive with satisfaction. “She’s pledged herself to improve me. Today we’ve visited the Pitt Rivers Museum, and her old college.”
Georgie’s eyes swivelled towards Olivia. “I was a student of English Literature,” she said, “at Somerville.”
“Great reader.” Clive beamed. “Puts me to shame. But I can do paintings. Tit for tat, eh?”
The tea, when it came, was sumptuous, set out on a three-tiered cake stand. Olivia had thought she wouldn’t be able to eat much, but she surprised herself. It was a long time since anyone had offered her a plate of cucumber sandwiches, and Clive’s enthusiasm for the occasion made it hard to resist. Perhaps Georgie felt the same: she certainly ate with gusto, although she said little and revealed even less, after that brief allusion to her Oxford past. Clive filled the gaps in conversation with accounts of their day which implied a rich seam of roguish banter. Olivia wondered whether her arrival had silenced Georgie, or whether Clive was cheerfully reconstructing the outing in terms that suited his purposes. In any case, they both seemed content with the arrangement.
“All right, Aunt Georgie?” he asked, as she refilled her plate. “Sandwiches acceptable?”
“Very nice, thank you.”
“National Gallery next, then? Chauffeur-driven excursion, all expenses paid?” Clive winked at Olivia. “I know my place, you see. Education comes at a price. Speaking of which, don’t think I’ve forgotten your place in my grand scheme. The board’s keen to have you. Grand name for a collection of old buffers, but the work’s serious. Counting on you to talk sense to us.”
“I don’t talk much sense,” said Olivia, “but I’m happy to help if I can.”
“I’ve heard you play, don’t forget.” Clive looked at Georgie again. “First-rate pianist, isn’t she? First-rate people, both of you. Lucky fellow.”
Olivia, dipping her head modestly, almost missed Georgie’s smile.
The weather stayed very cold all week, and there was a heavy frost on the morning of Jock Brewster’s funeral. The roads were empty that Sunday morning, the country enjoying its extended Christmas break. Nonetheless, Olivia was glad of Robert’s company, even if they didn’t talk as much as she’d expected, or about the things she’d expected, on the way down to Hampshire.
Perhaps, she thought, as the miles sped by, there wasn’t any more to say about Alastair, or about Tom, who had used his brother’s celebrity as an excuse to slip even further into the background in the last few days. Robert’s mother was on Olivia’s mind too: she was noticeably frailer than she’d been when they last saw her back in June. That was the next chapter, Olivia thought, another unfamiliar stretch of life to negotiate. Both their fathers had died young; they had two widowed mothers to think about in the years ahead.
That thought brought her back to the purpose of their journey.
“Poor Sarah,” she said. “I do feel sorry for her. She must be wishing she’d picked December for the wedding, not January.”
“Better than it happening the day before,” Robert said. “Better than the middle of the reception.”
Robert’s elbow was propped on the arm rest, his habitually casual driving position. Olivia prodded him. “Unfeeling brute.”
“What kind of funeral do you think it’ll be?” he asked.
“What kind?”
“Haven’t they diversified, like weddings? Rock music, video testimonies?”
“I hardly think we’ll have either of those today.”
“Modern vicar, maybe.”
Olivia laughed. “Sarah’s a match for anyone,” she said.
Though as it turned out, the surprising thing about the funeral was that it bore Sarah’s imprint rather lightly. The church, decked with holly and ivy, was full, and the proceedings followed the Prayer Book almost to the letter. The village choir made its way valiantly through Purcell’s funeral sentences, and Sarah and her brother each read a passage from the Bible. The whole service, Olivia thought, was unexpectedly moving: the power of ritual, unadorned.
Afterwards, in the churchyard, Sarah hugged Olivia. She looked dramatically thinner, even though it was barely more than a week since Olivia had last seen her.
“You remember my brother Andrew? He was a baby last time you saw him, fifteen or sixteen maybe.”
Olivia did remember. He’d been a very beautiful teenager, rather shy. The romantic poet look, Sarah had called it. Somehow he’d turned into a solid, smiling man who bore a much closer resemblance to his sister, these days.
“How nice of you to come,” he said, shaking Olivia’s hand and then Robert’s, the trace of a transatlantic accent attractive. “I hear you’ve been a terrific help with the wedding preparations.”
Nearby, his children circled their mother like a maypole, a trio of strawberry-blonde girls somewhere between five and ten. Olivia felt a rush of warmth: not just for the children, she thought, though that was part of it, the sweetening that children brought to funerals, but for the occasion, the village, the family.
She and Robert were turning away when Olivia felt Sarah’s hand on her sleeve.
“Olivia,” she said, “I need to talk to you.”
It was surprisingly easy to manage a private conversation at the edge of the knot of mourners and well-wishers. Sarah drew them a few yards away, into the shadow of the yew trees that guarded the east e
nd of the church.
“I’m not good at confiding,” she said. “We’re such a terribly secretive family.” She stopped, sighed, tugged at the wool scarf that provided a leavening of colour against her black coat.
Olivia thought of the things Sarah had confessed to her and wondered whether grief had confused her, or whether this entrée was a prelude to asking for discretion.
“I haven’t repeated anything you’ve told me,” she said.
“No, no.” Sarah shook her head. She looked very distressed now; Olivia reached a hand out to her. “This is something I haven’t told you. I’ve almost told you several times, but I – “ Another pause. “I’ve never talked to anyone about it. About my mother. No one outside the village knows. She committed suicide, you see.”
Olivia said nothing, but she grasped Sarah’s hand more tightly.
“I always blamed myself. Maybe it sounds strange, but I thought – the thing is, I found some letters in my father’s desk, the day before yesterday. Love letters to my mother from someone else.”
“Oh God!” Olivia bit her lip. “Oh Sarah, how dreadful. I’m so sorry.”
Sarah brushed tears away from her eyes. “I read them,” she said. “All of them. I couldn’t stop myself. It was the strangest feeling, like seeing my mother again. Like one of those dreams where people come back quite different.”
“Do you know who he was?” Olivia asked.
Sarah shook her head. “Hugo,” she said. “I think – I got the feeling they’d known each other a long time. But most of the letters were from the last two years. The time – “ she rubbed fiercely at her eyes “ – the time when she was happier. But the last few – it’s not clear, there may even be some missing, but either he was going abroad somewhere or pulling away from her. I guess that’s what – that’s why – “ She shook her head again, more slowly. “I feel so dreadful for my father. I feel so dreadful that he never told me.”
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