by Lynn Watson
A few minutes later, she was out of town and softly humming that last piano tune to herself as she tested the windscreen wipers and checked out the horn and light controls. She had ten miles before she came to the main road; ten miles to decide whether to go straight back to London or drop in on Andy. If she did go, she would stop and text him on the way and if he didn’t reply, well, maybe she would turn up anyway. Her mood was light, still influenced by the Junoco party and the amazingly good effects the truffles seemed to be having on her relatives. She would keep her promise to help Uncle George organise his ideas so he could discuss them with a current expert. And she would go along with Eleanor’s imaginary boyfriend, as long as it didn’t get too loopy.
Then Marina, the subject her mind left until last, too busy absorbing the fact that she wasn’t a toddler in a pushchair and she never grew into the mop-haired, mischievous little girl or the young woman with flowing curls of Fran’s imagination. It was a hefty shock, but beyond that she felt enormous relief, unburdened of the lifelong guilt at having caused or contributed to her sister’s death.
She pulled into a lay-by to send the message. If she had the will and courage to ask Eleanor about Marina and then provoke the final departure, she hoped, of Tom Harrison, she could surely have a grown-up conversation with Andy about their relationship and whether it was going to continue, change or simply end. Maybe she could draw a line by luring him into bed one final time, before or after a bracing walk with Winnie on the beach? No, that would never work. She had to summon up the strength of will to end it today, gently and affectionately, with no hard feelings or disappointment.
She waited for a few minutes after sending the text, walking around the car to inspect the bodywork for minor scrapes and finding a couple of tiny scratches and a small dent at the rear. Jumping back in, she started the engine and decided she was going to visit Andy right now, whether he answered or not.
***
The short lane leading to the cottages was bumpier than she had noticed when walking from the taxi drop-off point. Seeing the pony standing near the fence, she found a widening in the lane opposite the paddock where she could park. A car was sitting in front of Andy’s house, which made her nervous enough to pull up some rough winter grass from the verge and offer it to the pony while stroking her nose. The animal nuzzled into her hand as if she recognised her, and Fran wondered how much she missed Judi’s loving attention. It was typical of Judi to tease Fran and Andy by suggesting, decreeing almost, that they go on holiday together. Had she suspected how electrifying it would be, how madly Fran would anticipate falling into bed with him each time, the sheer physical thrill that coursed through her body when she heard him coming upstairs to the bedroom or watched him undress?
The pony flicked her tail and began to turn her head away. Fran played for time by checking her car doors were locked and nothing valuable was in sight. Then she walked along the row of cottages towards Andy’s front gate and the silver Volkswagen. It looked familiar, the registration number was familiar; she had been driven in this car last summer, to Judi’s funeral. It belonged to Vicky.
She ducked back, out of sight. Probably no one had spotted her and she could flee now, drive straight home. But why would she do that? She could feel the rising adrenaline, the strange excitement of something wholly unexpected that might turn out to be terrible – and the absence of fear that made it possible to act.
There was an overgrown path between two of the cottages, leading to a small gate into the field behind the back gardens. She brushed her way through and kept close to the hedge as she crept along until she could peer into the garden and through the glass patio doors. Vicky was there, in the room, in Judi’s lilac dressing gown, gesturing and talking to somebody, although Fran couldn’t see Andy. She watched, a plan forming in her mind even as she reeled in disbelief. The side door was left unlocked in the daytime and she just had to wait until Vicky moved out of view, then run across and catch them by surprise. She was acting in a film now; part of her had detached from the reality of the scene she was witnessing, and all the more so as she was still under the influence of Junoco.
Vicky walked forward, out of the room, and Fran darted to gain the side door. Straightening up, she smoothed her hair and took three deep breaths before turning the handle and entering the kitchen. There was a smell of burnt toast and Andy was at the hob, spatula in hand, jiggling the frying pan to stop the eggs sticking. He turned towards the sound of the opening door, as if in slow motion, then screwed up his eyes and took several uncertain steps backwards, dropping the spatula to the floor.
‘Hey, it’s you, Frankie! Where did you come from?’
That was it. He turned and bolted out of the kitchen and through the front porch before Winnie could do more than stand up and wag her tail in expectation of a good walk. Vicky wandered through to the kitchen, perplexed. The dressing gown was too big for her and she had rolled up the sleeves.
‘Hello, Vicky. Excuse me a moment.’
Fran turned off the gas beneath the shrivelling fried eggs. A slew of emotions skimmed over Vicky’s face, too fast for Fran to take in. She was curious now, waiting for a reaction.
‘Frankie, what are you doing, what the fuck? Why did you burst in like that?’
‘I could ask you the same question, Vicky. And don’t you dare call me Frankie, just don’t dare. You’ve no right.’ She had the advantage of surprise and was going to make the most of it; ensure Vicky didn’t have the chance to disarm her and gain the upper hand.
‘Okay, so I stayed here last night. It was the only time. It’s not such a big deal, is it?’
‘Not a big deal? You’ve only destroyed two beautiful friendships in one fell swoop.’ Fran was amazed at the deadly calm and certainty in her own voice.
‘Oh, come on now, girl, you can talk. We both know how you carry on.’ Vicky attempted to muster her conspiratorial smile, but her voice was trembling. ‘What about Ned – he’s your lover as well, isn’t he, your London one? And you insisted it wasn’t what you wanted with Andy; you wanted out, it was just a holiday fling. You told me that, I’m not making it up.’
‘It’s irrelevant. Lots of different and contradictory things can be true, all at once. I thought you understood that, understood me and knew my feelings, how complicated they were. I thought you were a special kind of person, someone I could trust and believe in.’
This was straying into perilous emotional territory, giving Vicky a handle to manipulate her emotions again. Before Vicky could reply, Fran jabbed a finger towards her waist.
‘Take it off. It’s too big for you.’
Vicky undid the towelling belt and slipped the soft gown off her shoulders, letting it fall. She stood naked, her arms at her sides, waiting for the next move. Fran stepped forward and swept up the gown, then continued with it out the front door, closing it behind her. As she reached the gate, she stopped to look over the fields towards the coast. Andy would be halfway to the headland by now, and anyway she had no desire to see him; not today or ever again.
She gave the waiting pony one final stroke on the nose and decided to reverse down the lane, rather than driving forward and having to turn in front of the cottage. This demanded concentration and as she backed out carefully into the village high street, she was assessing her emotional fitness to drive. It was fine. She was in full control and just had to avoid speeding and pay attention to the task, in effect letting Junoco take her back safely before its influence wore off.
What she hadn’t bargained for was the feathered missile that descended from the sky and landed splat in the centre of her windscreen, detaching the rear-view mirror from the glass and leaving a trail of blood and gore that obscured half the view in front as well. Luckily, there was no other traffic on the immediate stretch of road and she was able to pull into the side without any further jolt. This was a replay of that dream, not a Junoco dream but the one where the car had been hit by a bird or bat and she had died and been led to heaven b
y a friendly robot-like being flashing blue and white lights. Or was it a different dream, the one with Judi ignoring her and the terrifying line of nannies? There was a child in the car too, who in the dream had survived unhurt. Now it was Lily in the passenger seat, but only for an instant before the ghostly image vanished.
She needed fresh air. Her mind was playing tricks and she had to stay grounded and deal with the practicalities of the situation. Clambering out of the car and walking round the front to inspect the damage, she saw that that the crushed pile of feathers with stalk-like legs was a pigeon. That glistening black eye again; maybe it was the same one that dropped into her chimney, taking its suicidal revenge. The deranged idea made her smile at the absurdity and futility of everything. She would clear this mess up as best she could and stop at the next service station for a jet wash and a strong coffee.
***
Afterwards, she wished she had stayed in for the rest of the weekend and kept her feelings to herself, but she was too restless to be confined and anyway, she had failed to buy any food and there was nothing left in the house. She opened the fridge and surveyed the near-empty shelves. The cream cheese was going mouldy and the cheddar was as hard as a rock. She shut the fridge door, too forcefully.
‘You know what, your days are numbered. I’m going to junk you and replace you with the latest, smartest fridge on the market, one that will tell me what’s running out, what’s out of date and what I can put together for a sensational dinner – or better still, one that can order and stock up by itself. It will be one better than Ned’s fridge, a few notches up on that.’
She went into the living room and spoke to Guacamole.
‘Hello, Mr Mole. Did you miss me? Are you ever going to start speaking to me? At least you would never betray me – or maybe you would, I don’t know.’
Guacamole stared at her squinting face over his glasses. He looked crestfallen.
She picked up the shopping bags and left the house, but had barely reached the pavement when Lily bounced off her front wall and came running towards her.
‘Fran, I’ve been waiting for you!’ She was close to tears.
‘I’m sorry, Lily, but I can’t talk to you right now. I’m busy – later, perhaps.’
She started walking away quickly, but Lily persisted and ran along beside her.
‘But I have to tell you, something terrible has happened. My mum found a cat on our path, dead.’
Fran’s step faltered, but she didn’t stop or look down at Lily. ‘That’s terrible, I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s none of my business; you’ve drawn me into this and I can’t cope with it, on top of everything else. I need my own space, Lily, and you should be playing with your friends, not doing this stuff.’
‘But you are my… I thought…’
Lily stopped running and pulled at the loose sleeve of Fran’s shirt. Fran looked down at her with a mix of extreme irritation and guilt, causing Lily to release her grip, stand up straight and put her hands down by her sides before making a solemn and heartfelt pronouncement.
‘This is the worst day of my life so far.’
Fran watched her walk off with a stiff little stride, proud and upright.
Her next encounter was with Kwesi, who was in the patisserie sitting at a table with the street girl, the one they had tried to help when she was out for the count that day. It was too late to turn and leave without being seen. He waved and beckoned her across.
‘Fran, will you sit with us? This is Charley.’
Fran closed her eyes and looked pained. It was all too much. The girl gave her a hostile stare and stood up, pulling her oversize parka tightly around her.
‘Okay, I know when I’m not wanted. Thanks for the trainers, they’re ace. See you around.’
Kwesi opened his hands in a gesture of mild exasperation as Charley scowled once more at Fran and left, giving the glass door a careless shove as she went. Her worn-out pink canvas trainers lay under the table and an empty shoebox was on the chair. Kwesi shook his head and turned back to Fran.
‘I want to tell you, Fran, I heard something.’
What was it with everyone? They had all heard or seen something or they wanted something from her; it was exhausting. She’d had enough.
What Kwesi had heard was a cat wailing through the adjoining wall, in Eric and Delia’s upstairs back room, and another time what sounded like a cat fight. Normally, Fran would have treated this as a possible breakthrough in the investigation, but today it seemed trivial and irrelevant. She replied that she and Lily would ‘take it on board’ and perched on the corner of the chair for a minute or two longer, then made a mumbled excuse and left the café without buying the bread she had come in for. At least she had avoided being overtly rude or mean to Kwesi, even if her dark mood had been picked up by the savvy street girl.
As she approached her house, Petra was parking her car outside. She opened the window to talk. Couldn’t she sense either that Fran needed to be left alone?
‘Hi, Fran, I’m glad I caught you. Lily is very upset; did she tell you about the cat on the path? Now she’s shut herself in her bedroom and she’s refusing to talk to me. It is not like her.’
‘I don’t know anything about it, Petra. I have other issues at the moment.’
Petra was clearly confused by the sharp change of tone, but after a momentary hesitation she responded sympathetically. ‘Yes, she’s disturbing you, I understand. She is not an easy child, my daughter.’
‘No, Petra – well, yes actually… I just need some space, I’m sorry.’
Petra nodded and left Fran on the pavement, cursing her crass insensitivity but incapable of giving any other response right now. And to make matters worse, she had a pair of ladies’ leather gloves in her bag, fuchsia pink, which she had deftly slipped off a table and up her sleeve while she was leaving the café.
‘Look at these ridiculous pink gloves, Guacamole; look what your idiot friend has gone and done. I’ll have to ignore Daniela’s instructions and have more Junoco truffles tonight. It’s the only way to stay sane.’
Guacamole raised his paw, only slightly but there was no mistaking it this time. Whether it was a sign of agreement or disapproval was impossible to say.
Someone was knocking on the back door; it could only be Marcus. She waited until he had knocked three times before going through to the kitchen to let him in. Despite the evident risk of upsetting more people she cared about, the thought of being on her own throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening was now just too depressing. It could also lead to even more regrettable behaviour, either online or on the phone.
‘Hi, I’m sorry to be a nuisance but Kirsty is loitering out front again, under the tree. Can I shelter with you, just for an hour or two? And we haven’t seen each other for a while, so if you’re not busy…’
She put the kettle on while he told her that Eric and Delia had stopped Kwesi in the street, in a neighbourly way of course, and asked how he was settling in and enjoying his studies.
‘Fortunately, I had filled him in about being a medical student on a scholarship and it seems he did a decent job of expanding on it, telling them he was training to be a paediatrician. When they heard that, they got onto the subject of Lily and her ‘abnormal and obsessive carrying-on’, as they put it. Anyway, it seems like they were put off the scent.’
‘Ah, that’s why he was alerted by a cat wailing; they must have mentioned—’
‘What’s that about?’
‘Oh, it’s probably nothing. Just that they told me their beloved cat had died, and Kwesi said this afternoon he’d heard a cat fight through the wall of his bedroom. It could have been a telly programme or anything. To tell you the truth, I’ve had a peculiar couple of days, really up and down, and I didn’t absorb what he was saying.’
‘Oh, sorry, am I intruding? Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No, it’s fine, good to see you in fact. It’s been like a bombardment, too much coming at me at once. I do
n’t feel ready to talk about it rationally.’
She sounded a lot saner than she felt. She had kept it at bay while driving back, but since she got home she had experienced a series of visual flashes, graphic scenes of Andy and Vicky making passionate love on the beach, on top of the cliffs, in bed. It was physically painful; the proverbial kick in the stomach. And mentally even more so, although there was still that internal voice questioning why it mattered so much, why she didn’t just shrug and let it go.
‘I think I should leave.’ Marcus was uncomfortable with the prolonged silence.
‘No, please stay. I want you to. Let’s see if Kirsty is still outside. I’ll go into the room first and shut the blinds, so she doesn’t see you.’
Kirsty was still there, and was moving out from under the tree. She came across the road and stood on the pavement, legs planted slightly apart. The large sports bag was at her side, an ominous sign that she might invite herself to stay the night again, and Fran saw she had hold of something in her hand.
‘She’s got a brick again, Marcus, a half-brick!’
She turned back to peer through the slit in the blinds that she was keeping open a little with two fingers. Kirsty started to shout.
‘Come out, you coward, Marcus! Man up and talk to me, let me in. You know we’re fated to be together. I love you, man, for God’s sake.’
This was the familiar first volley, usually followed by much more belligerent fire.
‘I know you’re in there, I followed you. I’m going to follow you for the rest of your life, and if you don’t get it, this brick here is coming straight through your window, smash! And you have to get rid of that fucking lodger, end of.’
Fran shifted her position slightly so she had a view of Eric and Delia, who were turning out of their path towards Kirsty, marching side by side. Eric spoke first.
‘I’ve told you before, young woman, and I’m not going to tell you again. Put that brick down at once and go away, leave us alone. We don’t want to know about your wretched love life and we won’t have that kind of language in this street.’