by Lulu Taylor
‘Thank you, Aileen, I’m glad you liked it.’ It always jarred when they called him Pat, but it was their name for him, much as he’d detested it.
‘We’ll be heading off soon.’
‘You’re welcome to come back to the house . . . ?’
‘Oh no, thanks. We’re going to drive off this afternoon and we can be at my cousin’s for dinner.’
Caitlyn nodded. She’d invited them all to stay in her house but they’d declined, and booked a place through a website instead. More relaxed, Aileen explained. Caitlyn understood. There was no way they would ever feel at home in Patrick’s house. Now they were going to tour the country seeing relatives. No point in wasting the air fare after all.
‘So,’ Aileen asked, ‘what are your plans?’
‘I don’t know really. I haven’t thought. It’s all so soon.’
‘One thing’s for certain, you’ll be taking Max out of that snotty school of his, won’t you? I never approved of him going there. Put a little boy in boarding school? I don’t know what Pat was thinking of. He got some very strange ideas in his head at times but that was positively evil.’
Caitlyn was possessed by a sudden hatred for Patrick’s mother and her certainty in her own judgement. What right did she have to decide what was best for Max? She didn’t even know him. She hadn’t bothered to come and visit her grandson, even when he was newborn. She just moaned and made Patrick feel guilty that he hadn’t gone out there, with his infant son and postpartum wife. Phone calls always included her complaining that she didn’t see them enough, even though Patrick had taken Max out for two long stretches when he’d been only little and again when he was eight, for a whole month. But she’d never once come over herself – ‘I don’t want to go all that way at my age’ – until now. When Patrick was bloody dead. And still nothing was good enough.
‘No, actually.’ Caitlyn’s voice was cold, her hands tightly gripped to hide their shaking fingers.
‘What?’
‘No. Max is staying at school. This is the worst possible time to move him. I’m not saying it’s been easy but in many ways he’s happy at Spring Hall. And it’s what Patrick wanted for him.’
Aileen blinked at her. Her eyes were hooded like Patrick’s, but without the green beauty. ‘Staying at that school? While you’re here in London?’
Caitlyn sensed an attack. ‘No. I’m selling the house. I should have said. I’m moving to Oxford. Max will go as a day boy and live with me there.’
Aileen’s lips and a nostril twitched as though she wanted to sneer but didn’t quite dare. ‘I see. You’ve kept that quiet, haven’t you?’
‘I don’t see how it affects you one way or the other.’
‘He’s my grandson.’
‘You live on the other side of the world. It’s just a case of sending his birthday card to a different address.’
‘He should be in a normal school with normal kids, not with a load of snobs. You’ll ruin him at that place with all those stuck-up people.’
‘You know nothing about it. You’ve never been there, or met any of the other children. If anyone’s being a snob, it’s you.’
‘What?’ Aileen looked disgusted. ‘How dare you talk to me like that? I’ve just lost my son. Pat would have wanted us to be involved in his son’s life. We have the right to have some input into what happens to Max.’
Caitlyn wanted to laugh at this. It was entirely the opposite of the truth. Patrick would be happy if Max never saw you again. She longed to say it. But she didn’t care enough, and was bored at the thought of the tantrum that would surely follow. Instead she said coldly, ‘I’m his mother and I’ll decide what’s best for him.’
Aileen stared at her, eyes narrowing, and she opened her mouth to say something, just as Maura swooped in and said, ‘Mrs Balfour, hello! I’m Caitlyn’s sister, my name’s Maura. I want to say how sorry I am for your loss. Can I get you another glass of wine?’ and she expertly steered Aileen away from Caitlyn, who stood staring after her, seething and yet suddenly certain.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll move to Oxford with Max. He doesn’t have to leave school. Which, of course, she’d been thinking would happen. Her vague plan had been to stay in the house and move Max to a new school close by. But when she’d suggested it to Max, rather than being delighted to leave Spring Hall, he’d seemed reluctant. Now she’d found the perfect solution, allowing her to stay true to Patrick’s wishes while keeping her and Max together. It isn’t Spring Hall that’s the problem. It’s being away from home. I don’t want to take him away from his friends and lovely Mr Reynolds, not now when he’s lost his father. And I was happy at college in Oxford. Maybe I’ll be happy there again.
Real life had started there: her first love affairs, her first steps into the adult world, her first experience of so many things. She credited Oxford with making Patrick fall in love with her. Not long after they’d started going out, they’d gone for a romantic weekend in the city and she’d taken him round her old college: the beautiful quads, exquisite gardens, the magnificent dining hall lined with ancient portraits. He’d been so impressed. It was everything he loved. The traditions, the grandeur, the effortless hauteur of the place, and its sense of exclusivity all spoke to him.
‘You must have had a marvellous time!’ he’d said.
‘I did. It was wonderful. I loved it.’
He’d looked at her with new eyes after that, as though she carried some of that grandeur inside her permanently. Even recently she’d heard him say proudly to someone, ‘Well, my wife was up at Oxford . . .’ and knew that he felt it almost gave him the same cachet.
Yes, we’ll go to Oxford.
‘Caitlyn?’ It was Ryder, Patrick’s best friend. He had already spoken to her but now he had come to say goodbye. ‘You don’t mind if I head off, do you? Got to get back to the office.’
‘Of course. Thanks for coming. And for that beautiful eulogy. It meant so much to us.’
‘It was the least I could do.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Poor Patrick. I still can’t believe he’s gone.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘I know this isn’t exactly appropriate . . .’ Ryder leaned in to her conspiratorially. ‘But you’ll forgive me, won’t you? I wanted to ask you about your gorgeous redhead friend. Sara, isn’t it?’
Caitlyn followed his gaze. Sara was standing talking to one of the lawyers from Patrick’s chambers, looking chic in a black suit edged with white, and high heels. Her red hair fell in a torrent of curls down her back. Ryder had met her before at their house but now that he was divorced, he clearly thought he might be in with a chance. ‘That’s right.’
‘Is she single? I saw her having lunch with Patrick a while back and thought I ought to look her up. I’ve got a thing for women who look like Julianne Moore.’
‘Lunch? With Patrick?’
‘Yes, at that place we always take our clients. I was with a rather important judge, so I couldn’t go over and chat. It was just a week or two before the accident.’
‘Really?’ Caitlyn blinked at him, stunned. But she said she hadn’t seen him.
‘So . . . is she single?’
How many times have I been asked that by an eager-faced suitor? ‘I don’t think so. Sorry.’ She wasn’t sure one way or the other. Sara generally had a man in tow. But, in any case, she liked Ryder too much to put him in harm’s way.
Ryder looked crestfallen. ‘Shame. Oh well! Back to Tinder. Bye, lovely. I’ll be in touch soon.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She watched as Ryder made his way through the remaining guests to the door. Then she looked over at Sara. Why didn’t she tell me she’d had lunch with Patrick?
Sara seemed to sense her gaze and glanced over. Then she excused herself from her conversation and made her way to Caitlyn.
‘Hi. How are you?’ She embraced Caitlyn hard. ‘You’ve been so brave.’
‘I’m coping. That’s the main thing.’ Caitlyn stared at her, holding back t
he impulse to ask about the lunch. How strange not to tell me. When I asked her particularly if she’d seen him.
Caitlyn appreciated that Sara had given up her own time to stay with her, keeping her company in the evenings after work, but her presence was becoming suffocating. Perhaps it was the way Sara made herself perfectly at home, subtly changing things for what she thought was the better, whether it was which side of the stove the knife block was on, or the way the framed photographs on the bookshelves were arranged. She always seemed to be on the lookout for something, and Caitlyn sometimes came into a room to find Sara with her nose in a cupboard or looking in a drawer. She always had a reason, and was never disconcerted, but even so, Caitlyn found it odd. One afternoon, Sara had asked if she could have a meeting with potential clients for her interior design business in the drawing room and Caitlyn had agreed. Walking past the door, she’d heard Sara’s voice floating out.
‘Yes, this house is all my work. I think you’ll agree it’s been a success. The clients wanted a very soothing ambience, with a classic mixture of old and new. I chose the colour scheme, fabrics and fittings, with some input from the man of the house who had absolutely magnificent style and taste.’
Caitlyn had frozen at the foot of the stairs. She didn’t do any such thing! She remembered Patrick poring over paint charts, ordering fabric samples, directing carpenters and workmen. He’d loved all of it. Perhaps it was harmless enough, to claim credit for the house and its exquisiteness.
But why would she lie to me?
Now, among the muted hubbub of the mourners, Sara said, ‘Isn’t it wonderful how well Max seems to be coping? In some ways, he seems more carefree now.’
Caitlyn snapped, ‘What do you mean? That he’s happier now Patrick’s dead?’
‘No! Of course not.’ Sara looked hurt. ‘I’d never say that. Just that he’s doing well now. Better than he was.’
‘Actually, I’ve come to a decision. Something that will help both Max and me.’
‘Oh yes? What’s that?’
‘We’re moving to Oxford.’ There. She’d said it out loud as a real plan, something she’d have to carry through. But it was good. It was right.
Sara looked astonished. ‘What? Leave London?’
‘Yes. I can be closer to Max that way.’
‘But you’ll be so isolated. You won’t see Maura as much.’
‘I’ll probably see her more. Crossing London takes about as long as getting to Oxford.’
Sara frowned. ‘I don’t think you should go. Take Max out of school. Move him to that excellent boys’ school in the City. It’s not far from your place.’
‘I’ve made up my mind, Sara.’
They stared at one another for a moment and then Caitlyn added in a quieter voice, ‘And I think it would be best if you thought about going back home.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ Sara said quickly. Then she seemed to take a breath and added, ‘I mean, I don’t want to leave you on your own.’
‘You’ll have to go at some point. And I think I’m going to sell the house.’
‘You can’t sell Patrick’s house!’ Sara said, her expression horrified. ‘He put so much into it. He loved it! How could you even think about it?’
‘I have to move on, Sara. I have to think about Max and me and the future.’
‘But . . . the house is him. It’s his vision.’
So it wasn’t all your idea then? But she bit back her retort and said, ‘I know. But he’s not here and I can’t keep it as some kind of very expensive memento.’
Sara’s voice started to tremble, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t sell it. Don’t go. We can’t lose him like this.’
Caitlyn looked at her friend with growing apprehension. Everything I feel, she feels too. It’s like she has an ownership of all of this. ‘Sara,’ she said quietly, ‘he was my husband.’
The words dropped into the air between them like stones.
‘My husband,’ Caitlyn said again. ‘My house. My life.’
‘Oh really?’ There was almost a challenge in her voice. ‘If you say so. Fine. Of course.’ Sara’s grey eyes grew stony. ‘But Oxford, Caitlyn? I’m surprised you can even stand the idea, considering how miserable you were there.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Come on – you can’t have forgotten how much you needed me to get you through it.’
‘I don’t remember that,’ Caitlyn said slowly.
‘What do you remember?’ Sara said in a tight voice. ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? Or what do you choose to remember? Is it because Nicholas is still there, is that it?’ She looked away, and then returned her gaze to Caitlyn. ‘All right. You go. I’ll move out if you like. I’ve only been trying to help you, like I always have.’ She leaned in towards Caitlyn and said, ‘You’ll never know how much I did to keep your marriage alive.’
Caitlyn gasped. ‘That’s a horrible thing to say! What do you mean, you kept my marriage alive?’
‘I mean, there’s lots about Patrick you never bothered to understand. And you ought to be grateful to me, that’s all.’
Without another word, Sara turned on her high heels and walked purposefully across the room and out of the door without looking back.
Chapter Eight
Tommy lay in bed, not wanting to get up. It was still dark in any case, but the main thing was that she was warm, and outside the covers the air was sharp enough to freeze her breath. She knew without looking that the windows were laced with ice. Cold lay heavy on the house.
But I must get up. There’s work to be done. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to brave the chill. Instead she was suffused with a bleakness that she was afraid was close to hopelessness.
What will become of me?
During the war there had, at least, been a sense of purpose, a goal to be achieved. What land they had left had been turned over for agriculture, and empty cottages and lodging requisitioned for land army girls and women. Tommy had taken charge, striding about in her trousers and tweed jacket, giving orders and overseeing what needed doing. Her mother hadn’t liked it but Tommy had driven the farm trucks, forked hayricks and learned to change tyres. She’d liaised with government officials and the Ministry of Food, done her bit volunteering with the WVS when she could. She’d taken a dozen evacuees for a long summer and for a couple of months the house had been like a chaotic, noisy boarding school. It had been wonderful to have so much to do, to be here safe with the children, feeling that she was contributing.
Food had obsessed them all. Tommy thought about little else almost the entire time: how to grow it, rear it, harvest it, cook it and preserve it. Thank goodness for Ada, who had the practical knowledge to feed them all, and for the gardens, woods and hedgerows. Compared to many, she knew, they ate richly, supplied by the kitchen garden, orchards, streams and a forest full of game. They had chickens, pigs and goats. There was even wine sitting in the cellars, bottles of it. Good or not, she couldn’t tell, but it was there if they wanted it. One of her friends had discreetly hinted she might sell it on the black market for a nice profit but Tommy pretended she hadn’t understood. She preferred to give it away as gifts and she sent boxes of bottles to hospitals and rest homes for the wounded soldiers.
There’s still so much I miss. I want limitless tea, lashings of butter and . . . oh, for some chocolate!
Just after New Year, she’d driven to Bristol to collect a banana each for the children, fresh off the boat from the West Indies, and the smell of them alone had been divine, filling the car all the way back with their sweet, sunlit aroma. The children had eaten them with interest and enjoyment. ‘Very delicious,’ was Antonia’s verdict. ‘Nice,’ Harry said. He left just enough in the bottom of the skin for Tommy to nibble, who let the soft pulpiness slip over her tongue and down her throat, the tiniest taste of a vanished time.
It had made her think of a night in London when she and Alec had gone to the Cafe de Paris and she had eaten a banana souf
flé. At least, she’d had some and pushed the rest away. Imagine now – the sugar, the cream, the eggs, the exotic fruit; such precious rarities that she had pushed away without a second thought, like a jaded pasha!
But that was how life had been then. Rich but dangerous. Teeming with activity, full of brightness and colour, and yet empty and barren.
The necessity of coming home had been forced upon her. With the outbreak of war and Alec going off, the lease on the London house had been given up and Tommy brought the children to Kings Harcourt, back to the house she had once been desperate to escape. But she’d been so happy to return, to see her mother and Gerry emerge from the side to meet them, waving, dogs barking at their heels.
I’m safe here, she had thought. Nothing too terrible will happen.
The threat to them all was far away on the continent and she could sleep easy.
But now the war is over. Life has to start again. It can’t go on the way it has. Roger is back. I have to find a new reason to go on. There’s always the children, of course, but . . .
Ever since Fred had arrived, she’d felt as though a tiny rip had appeared in the fabric of her life, so carefully woven to protect her. He guessed something, and she was afraid that he would somehow tear away the veil and make her look at what was underneath.
The thought was enough to propel her out of bed into the freezing air, the cold biting at her feet as they touched the floor.
I’ll think about that later.
After breakfast, Tommy took Roger to one side. ‘Come to the morning room with me, won’t you?’
He followed her in, huffing a little. ‘Fred and I are walking the dogs this morning. Mother says it’s too cold for her. We’ll go over the fields to the village. Fred’s just getting his coat.’
‘Well, it won’t take a minute.’ She smiled to keep the conversation on an even keel. ‘You like having Fred here, don’t you?’
‘Of course. It would be me and a houseful of women otherwise.’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’ She felt a little stab of hurt that they were all so easily dismissed. ‘I can see it could be dull for you. How long does Fred expect to stay with us?’