But like Antonia, he couldn’t commit. He gave willingly of his heart repeatedly – he was a deeply loyal friend – but never all of it. He always held back when it came to relationships. She wondered what it was about their upbringing that made them both so wary and unable to share themselves with others.
Now her affair with Dom was over, she felt she could confess it to her brother, because she wanted his advice.
‘Oh my God!’ said Herbie, when he’d given her a big white cup full of Nicaraguan coffee that made her heart pound. ‘So you’re not perfect after all?’
‘I’m awful,’ said Antonia, sinking into his ancient sofa. ‘I’m horrible and evil.’
‘Stop blaming yourself,’ he told her. ‘He was a married man. He knew what he was risking.’
‘But I knew it was wrong,’ Antonia protested. ‘And his wife is … just lovely.’
‘Maybe she’s got a dark side? No one is perfect, Toto.’ He used her childhood nickname. ‘I know how hard you try to be.’
‘I feel so guilty.’
‘Guilt never changed anything. It’s the most useless emotion there is.’ Herbie never felt guilty about anything. Or if he did, he didn’t show it. He was completely unashamed, sprawled in a beanbag, his feet bare, a cup of coffee in his hand. He was so at ease with himself, so chilled.
‘How come we’re so different?’ Antonia asked him. ‘How come you’re so out there and I’m so uptight, but we’re both so screwed up?’
‘Mum was a narcissist,’ Herbie told her. ‘We never got any love from her. All she was interested in was that bloody charity. Casting herself as the heroine over and over and over again. I responded by rebelling and doing whatever I liked; you kept your head down, desperately hoping you might get some attention one day if you were good enough.’
‘Wow,’ said Antonia. ‘That kind of makes sense.’
‘I’m on a constant quest for love and attention. You’ve always been too scared to look for it. But maybe this affair with this guy is a breakthrough. Maybe you can finally admit to yourself that you’re human.’
He waved his cup at her.
‘You need to get out of Bath. You need to get out of that bloody solicitor’s and go and see the world. Come with me to Mexico for Christmas. That’ll rub the edges off.’
He was taking a month off at the end of the year to go travelling. He could do that, because he had no real ties or responsibility. Antonia felt a twinge of envy.
‘I can’t. I can’t take that much time off work.’
‘For God’s sake. It’s conveyancing. Not high art. Someone else can do it.’
Antonia bristled for a moment, but she knew Herbie was right. If she didn’t want to stay as she was for the rest of her life, she should get away. Have some adventures, get dirty, take some risks.
But she couldn’t, because she had to see the sale of the apartments through for Dom. She couldn’t delegate that task to anyone. But she didn’t tell Herbie, because he would say she was sabotaging her chance of change. That she was clinging to Dom even though she knew the relationship was wrong.
And it was true. She was in a trap she couldn’t get out of. She longed to be more like Herbie. They came from the same parents. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it?
24
‘Oh, Laura.’ Kanga looked around the bedrooms in amazement. ‘It’s wonderful. You’ve totally transformed them.’
They were up on the top floor, and Laura was showing off the fruits of her labour: two double bedrooms waiting for her first guests. It was the beginning of November and they were ready bar a few minor details.
The decor was warm and cosy and soothing: simple comfort rather than showy luxury, done in pale mauve and heather. The beds were dressed with pale-grey stonewashed linen then layered up with cable-knit throws and velvet cushions in plum and mulberry. Everything smelled of delicious lavender and fresh laundry; the windows were sparkling clean.
On the wall, Laura had stencilled some literary quotes about Bath:
Bath is the worst of all places for getting any work done – William Wilberforce
Bath is a place of gallantry enough; expensive and full of snares, where men find a mistress sometimes but very seldom look for a wife – Daniel Defoe
‘Do you think they’re a bit much?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I think the second one might be a bit close to the mark. Life imitating art …’
‘I think they’re a brilliant touch,’ said Kanga.
‘And I used a power drill,’ Laura grinned. ‘I put those curtain poles up myself. They are straight, aren’t they?’
‘They’re perfect. It’s all perfect. Like home from home but without the clutter. You’ve thought of everything.’
‘I’m not doing televisions. People can watch stuff on their iPads if they need to. They’ve got the Wi-Fi code.’ She’d hung up a little chalkboard with the code on it, next to a bookshelf with a row of paperbacks inspired by Bath: Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer, mostly. ‘The two rooms have to share a bathroom which means I can’t charge top whack. It’s bed and breakfast, not a five-star hotel.’
‘People understand that. And it’s very comfortable. Luxurious, really.’
‘Oh yes. Fluffy white towels and constant hot water. I’m going to take some pictures tomorrow and Jaz is going to load it all onto the website. Then I can start taking bookings.’
Kanga hesitated before asking. ‘What does Dom think?’
Laura’s eyes hardened. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Darling – what is going to happen? What are you two going to do? What about the girls? I mean, it’s fine while they’re away at university because they have no idea. But Christmas isn’t far off …’ Kanga looked anxious. ‘And money. What about money? And what’s happening with Wellington Buildings? Is he anywhere near finishing? He needs to get those apartments on the market by the New Year.’
The trouble with Kanga was she didn’t miss a trick. You couldn’t fob her off. She knew how things worked. She was nobody’s fool.
Laura sat down on the bed. She picked up a velvet cushion.
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know about any of it. Which is why I’m trying to figure out who I am and what I want to do with my life. Then I can see where – if – Dom still fits in. I didn’t have a choice in this happening. So it’s my turn to choose what’s happens next. It has to be on my terms.’ She looked up. Her face was determined, her jaw set. ‘Does that make sense?’
Kanga knew her granddaughter wasn’t as tough as she was making out. That she was putting on this bravado to hide all the hurt she was feeling inside. She could tell by the way she was hugging the cushion to her, clinging on to it for comfort. Maybe it was better for her to be in denial than to do something impulsive that she regretted. And she did seem to be taking positive action. Letting out the bedrooms was a stroke of genius. And the kitchen at Number 11 was filled with glorious smells – sugar and vinegar and fruits and spices – as Laura experimented with what she was going to sell at the market.
‘As long as you’re not being an ostrich about it,’ Kanga told her. ‘Problems don’t tend to go away just because you’re ignoring them.’
‘I know that. And maybe I’m punishing Dom in my own way. Though I keep asking myself where I went wrong. I didn’t see it coming.’
‘No. None of us did. But you didn’t do anything wrong, darling. It’s a sad fact that people don’t always behave as well as they should. It doesn’t always make them bad.’
Laura ran her fingers over the intricate cabling. ‘I think I could forgive a one-night stand. I get that, in a funny way. That you might find someone irresistible and it might be just too tempting. But this was more than that. They have – had – a relationship.’ Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘He needed her.’
Kanga sat on the bed and slid her arm round Laura, squeezing her tight.
‘I am proud of you, darling. You’ve been very dignified. Not many women would have been so composed.’<
br />
For some reason, this made Laura unravel.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel composed. Not inside. Mostly I want to dump all his things right outside Wellington Buildings for all his workmen to see. Or tell James Kettle she’s been shagging one of her clients – what do you think he’d say if he knew that? Part of me would love to get revenge.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But I’ve always told the girls to walk away and hold their heads high if people behave badly. So I have to set an example. Even if they don’t know what’s going on.’
‘You’ve set a very good example.’
‘What – by messing about with a few paintbrushes and jam pots?’
‘Lesser women would have fallen apart. Or taken to the bottle.’
‘Or turned into a bunny boiler?’ Laura smiled. ‘I suppose there isn’t a right answer.’
‘Sometimes you have to go with your heart.’
‘But I don’t know how I feel or what I want. That’s why it’s taking me so long. The girls coming home will force me into doing something eventually. So I’m hoping the answer will come.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, you don’t need to listen to my stuff when you’ve got Ivy to worry about. That’s a real problem, not stupid mid-life crisis affairs.’
‘Ivy’s settled in,’ said Kanga. ‘She’s sorted for the time being. There’s not much I can do to help you. But I can listen or give you advice. Any time. So come on. Let’s see some of that fighting spirit.’
‘I’m seeing the market people this week,’ Laura replied. ‘If I get the thumbs-up, my first stall will be the week after. And I might get some bookings in. That’s my focus at the moment. That’s all I care about.’ She paused, then tilted her chin up defiantly. ‘Me.’
There was no need to say anything for a few moments. As she held Laura in her arms, Kanga looked around the room again.
She could almost see the ghosts. Helena and the little ones: these very rooms had brought shelter and comfort to those who had needed it at a terrible time. She had done her part in repairing the damage to the heart and soul of her city. It had been a small gesture, but the most she could do, a young girl bereaved herself. Looking back sometimes she wasn’t sure how she had coped. But you did. You just did.
25
James Kettle’s office at Kettle and Sons looked just as it might have done two hundred years ago. A gleaming desk, a plush carpet, a clutch of portraits staring down and the smell of money, tradition and a little bit of provincial power. As one of Bath’s longest practising firms of solicitors, Kettle and Sons was party to most of what was going on in the city: wheeling and dealing, property purchases, divorces and lawsuits – some petty, some founded.
James was as charming as his father had been, and his grandfather before that, thought Kanga. He treated her like royalty, because she was probably their oldest client. She was sure he had far bigger fish to fry than sorting out her affairs, but he hadn’t let her feel that for a moment. There had been no question of her being assigned to a junior member of staff. She was led into his office, given a china cup and saucer with coffee and a piece of shortbread and his undivided attention.
James was dressed in an immaculate navy-blue suit that screamed Jermyn Street. His Patek Philippe watch and the Paul Smith tie whispered money and style. She felt very safe in his hands. Both her father and Jocelyn had used Kettle and Sons. They knew how to look after you.
‘How can I help you, Mrs Ingram?’
Kanga gave him a rundown of what had happened to Ivy, and the arrangements that had been made.
‘I want to make provision for Ivy’s care in my will. If I should die before her I want to make sure she’s looked after. I’ve spoken to my financial adviser. He’s suggested ring-fencing some of my capital – the interest should cover the fees, and then when Ivy dies the capital can pass on to Laura.’
‘That’s very generous,’ said James. ‘I can liaise with your FA and set something up. I suggest we revisit the arrangement every year to make sure you are still happy with it.’
‘Yes. I also want to redo my own will. I want to put Acorn Cottage in trust for my granddaughters. And I want you to advise me on the rest of my assets.’ She looked at James piercingly. ‘What I don’t want, if there is a divorce in the future, is for my son-in-law to walk away with any of my money.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I like him very much, but my money belongs to Laura, not him.’
‘Is a divorce likely?’ James steepled his fingers.
‘Well,’ said Kanga. ‘You never know, do you? I’d rather put things in place now.’
‘There are several ways of organising things. Let me have a word with my colleagues and we’ll draw up some suggestions. If you make an appointment to come and see me in a week or so, we can talk it all through.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘Actually,’ said Kanga, ‘yes. There is.’
Afterwards, she drove over to Amhurst House to visit Ivy.
‘I don’t know if it was a bug she picked up in hospital,’ said the manageress. ‘But she’s been very quiet. She’s sleeping a lot.’ Her face was genuinely concerned. ‘We’ll call in the doctor if she doesn’t perk up by tomorrow. Unless you’d rather we called one now?’
Ivy looked very small in her little bed. But Kanga was pleased the room smelled fresh and clean, and the sheets were crisp, and although she was asleep she was a better colour than she had been in hospital – her cheeks were pink. Unless that was a fever.
‘Is she eating?’
‘She had some lunch. Some fish pie and some sweetcorn. And some syrup sponge. She’s got a sweet tooth.’
‘She has.’ Kanga smiled. She remembered Ivy getting her hands on an illicit supply of chocolate. The Fry’s factory in Bristol had donated free chocolate bars to the city of Bath after the Blitz, and somehow Ivy had managed to secure more than her fair share. She had brought it home and handed it round, even to Helena. ‘Let’s have it all now,’ said Ivy, her eyes bright with greed and pleasure. ‘Let’s eat it till we’re sick.’ They had feasted until they could eat no more. ‘Let’s see how she is in the morning.’
‘She might just be sickening for a cold. It’s that time of year.’
Kanga went and sat in the upholstered chair next to Ivy’s bed. She swallowed down a lump in her throat. Events were hitting her hard today, after the adrenaline of the hospital and then the move. She was worried about her friend, and her granddaughter. She’d done everything she could to protect them, she told herself. James Kettle would make sure of that.
She’d brought in a framed photo for Ivy to put on her dressing table. Earlier in the year, they had both attended the seventy-fifth memorial of the Bath Blitz. It had been a clear April day, and they had stood together, arms linked, heads bowed, as a young girl played the Last Post on the trumpet, by the memorial gate in Victoria Park. They were two of only a handful of survivors to attend.
A journalist had taken a picture of them for the local paper: Kanga in a navy-blue overcoat with her mother’s brooch on the lapel, Ivy in defiant red with a beret at a jaunty angle, still in high heels. Ivy had put two fingers up at Hitler for the photo, and Kanga had to tell the journalist quite firmly that he wasn’t to use that one.
‘Four hundred and seventeen. Four hundred and seventeen of the poor buggers,’ Ivy had told him, and Kanga had wiped her eyes at the memory of her mum and dad. Seventy-five years since she had seen them, that last night, over a supper of lamb and boiled potatoes. What would she have said to them if she had known that was the last time she would see them? She’d been so busy thinking about her rendezvous with Harry Swann, she couldn’t remember what they’d talked about. But she comforted herself knowing that there had never been any rancour between them, that although she had been preoccupied she would not have been rude or unkind, and they would have gone off to bed knowing she loved them.
And Harry. She’d seen his name in the paper too, towards the end of the war. S
hot down over Italy somewhere. She’d wept when she’d read it: that handsome young man, so full of promise. What a waste of a life.
Ivy had scoffed. ‘He wasn’t much of a gentleman. You’re better off being looked after by me,’ she said. ‘I won’t ever let you down.’
It was true. Ivy had never let her down. Though sometimes she had tried her patience. She shook her head, a smile on her lips as she remembered Ivy’s antics. She’d been a handful. She had never quite known what her friend would get up to next. It was never dull, life with Ivy.
26
1942
A few weeks later, another letter arrived on the doormat.
Helena ran into the kitchen waving it excitedly.
‘He’s coming home. He’s got leave. My Tony will be here in less than a fortnight!’
She was crackling with the excitement, her eyes sparkling as she reread the letter in her hands.
‘Oh, that’s fantastic,’ said Jilly. ‘I’m so pleased.’
She had often thought how hard it must be for Helena, not knowing if, let alone when, she might see her husband again. Scouring the paper every day for news of battles and fatalities. Always slightly dreading the ring or knock on the front door in case it was a telegram.
Helena’s face fell for a moment.
‘It will be all right for him to come and stay here, won’t it? Only there’s nowhere else we can go. I’m not going to his mum’s. She doesn’t like me. We don’t get on.’
‘Tony would be very welcome here,’ she reassured Helena. ‘I’ll prepare a special lunch to welcome him home. There might be a war on but it won’t stop us celebrating.’
The relief on Helena’s face was palpable. She held the letter to her heart.
‘Oh, thank you. I can’t believe I’m going to see him. Just you wait till you meet him. He’s a dreamboat, my Tony. And so handsome. I sometimes don’t understand why he picked me, but he did.’
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