by Lulu Taylor
Roger fumbled for his cigarette case inside his jacket pocket and took one out. ‘I’ve told him he can stay as long as he likes. He’s not fit to do anything at the moment, with his wound still healing. We’re convalescing, you know.’ He looked at his sister almost accusingly as though she might be suggesting they were malingerers. He pulled out his lighter, lit the cigarette in his mouth and exhaled a stream of white smoke. ‘I think we’ve earned our time to recover, haven’t we?’
‘I wouldn’t suggest otherwise.’ Tommy went to the window of the morning room. Usually this was bright and welcoming at this time of day, the pinks and blues of the wallpaper and silk curtains cheerful and sunlit. But the iron quality of the day outside had leeched the sweetness out of the colours and they were dull and lifeless. The ash-coloured clouds, tinged with yellow, hung low in the sky. ‘But we’ve got problems, you know. There isn’t a lot of money left. When we had our Ministry of Food business, it was a help. But that’s over now. We’ll have to stand on our own feet.’
‘I know that,’ Roger said, irritated. He smoked in three rapid inhalations. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘Well, I suppose the house is, in fact, yours . . .’
‘So I’m told. But I’ve heard nothing but how marvellous you were while I was away, running this place. Everyone seems to prefer you in the job. You can just continue, can’t you?’
‘But that’s the point. We can’t just continue. Things are changing. We have to look seriously at the financial position—’
Roger went white. ‘I can’t believe you would do this to me, Tommy. You know how I am. I’m ill! Why would you torment me with these things? Everything will be fine if you just stop worrying me with it all!’
‘All right,’ she said hastily, holding up a hand. ‘I’m sorry. Of course you’re ill. We’ll wait until you’re better before we discuss it again.’
‘Thank you. Now if you don’t mind, Fred and I are going out.’ He marched to the desk in the window and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray there. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Yes. Goodbye, Roger. Enjoy your walk.’
Roger and Fred didn’t get back until after lunch, missing the pilchard and salad cream sandwiches Ada served up. Tommy suspected they had eaten hot pasties in the pub, which had no doubt been much nicer. She waited for her chance and when Roger went upstairs, she found Fred in the library with the newspaper, still wearing his coat and muffler.
‘This cold spell doesn’t seem as if it’s going to pass anytime soon,’ he said, looking up as she came in. ‘It’s bitter outside. And look at this.’ He held up the weather forecast on the back page of the newspaper.
She looked at it blankly. ‘I’m afraid that doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s just lines all over a map.’
‘There’s a huge amount of high pressure over Scandinavia. I mean, a really vast amount. Just sitting there.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s going to get colder.’
Tommy was shocked, and she pushed her hands deep into the silk-lined pockets of her fur coat. ‘How can it? We’ll freeze here.’
When they weren’t at school, the children had been spending all their time in the bathroom over the kitchen, where the hot pipes from the boiler went up to the tanks above. They only came down for food. Mrs Whitfield had not come into the main house at all except for meals, staying by her cosy fire swathed in blankets. Gerry looked comical in her three jumpers and fingerless gloves, a scarf wound around her throat. How could they manage if it got colder?
Fred looked over towards the window. ‘There’ll be snow soon. Look at the sky. I know that yellow, it means we’ll get a big fall.’
‘We must have a look at the wood and coal stores,’ Tommy said, suddenly serious. ‘And I’ll get Ada to check the larder. We’ve always had plenty to see us through the cold spells or the floods but we’re running much lower than usual. At least we have your ration book now.’
‘You do a magnificent job of feeding us,’ Fred said quickly. ‘I haven’t eaten so well since before the war.’
‘It’s all down to Ada, really. I’m hopeless in the kitchen.’
‘Then she’ll look after us all. You mustn’t worry.’ He fixed her with a clear, candid gaze. ‘What did you want me for?’
‘How do you know I want you at all?’
He smiled. ‘I guessed.’
She flushed slightly. She’d not been alone again with Fred since they’d looked at the Gainsborough together but their private few words seemed to have created a small, unspoken bond between them. She caught his serious gaze at meals and felt that, somehow, he understood her and was on her side. It was an odd but comforting feeling. ‘Well, as it happens, I did want to ask your advice.’
‘I’ll be glad to help if I can.’ He gave her a keen look. ‘You’re bearing quite a lot on your shoulders, aren’t you?’
‘That’s the problem. Roger can’t cope at the moment. I’ve tried to talk to him but it’s no good.’
‘He was always the same, even at Cambridge. He never could keep himself on track.’
‘Well, it’s worse now.’ Tommy sighed. ‘I can’t bring myself to tell him how bad things are going to get without some money. We might struggle through this year, but next looks impossible.’
Fred said slowly, ‘Then you won’t have a choice. You’ll have to sell the beautiful Venetia.’
Tommy felt a burst of frustration. It was an answer, but no answer. ‘I don’t see how I can! My mother would most certainly forbid it, and Roger won’t do it either. He’s too proud, and he’d never go against what Mother wants. She can’t bear to see us lose anything.’
There was a pause and Fred looked thoughtful. Then he said, ‘What if she didn’t know you were selling it?’
‘I think she might notice if it vanished!’ Tommy said with a laugh. ‘Rather hard to explain its disappearance.’
‘Unless . . . it didn’t disappear.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One of my hobbies is painting. I don’t have much talent of my own, and I’m completely bare of inspiration. But one thing I love doing is copying and, for some reason, I’m rather good at it. I could paint a copy of Venetia, and you could sell the real one. Your mother need never know.’
Tommy stared at him, astonished. Of all the solutions she imagined Fred might suggest, she would never have guessed at this.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Fred went on quickly. ‘It would be wrong to deceive her – and so it would. But look at it this way: you’re going to sell it anyway when she’s no longer here to forbid it. So what’s the difference? You’ll get the money when you need it, instead of when it’s too late.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Tommy said slowly. ‘When you put it that way, it doesn’t seem so wrong. But . . . could you really do it?’
‘I could have a damn good try. And if my efforts aren’t up to snuff, well, what have you lost? We don’t do anything but consign the plan to the scrapheap and have a laugh about it. After all, we’ll only be fooling your mother, not Sotheby’s. We’re not trying to commit an art fraud, not a real one.’
Tommy laughed suddenly. ‘But that’s just what it is! Fraud!’ She stared at Fred whose expression was wary, as if he were half afraid that she would think him base for his suggestion. ‘It’s an extraordinary suggestion. I’ll think about it. Let’s talk again soon. Now I’d better go and check the coal, if you’re right about the blessed weather.’
Chapter Nine
Standing in the sitting room of the rented house, barely able to move for boxes piled high into great manila mountains, Caitlyn was overwhelmed by relief. It had taken so much time and work to get here, but now here she was, with Max upstairs unpacking his box of treasures carefully brought on his knee in the car. It had been a gargantuan effort, and now it was all done. Her next task was to unload their life and set up home for the two of them. All the people she’d needed to help her were
gone now. It was just her and Max.
Thank God. I need the peace and quiet.
She did. But she was half afraid of it too, fearful of what she might find out in the silence. Since Patrick’s death four months before – four months? Already? – life had been full of noise and activity. After the funeral, all the admin of moving had begun. The house had been sold but she hadn’t found anywhere she wanted to buy, so she had rented this little furnished cottage in Jericho. What would happen now it was all sorted out, and here she was?
Caitlyn went to the window and looked out onto the little road outside. There was just a wall opposite and behind that, she guessed, the gardens of the large houses on the main road. It meant she had a pretty view of treetops and assorted greenery, which was part of what had decided her on this house. That, and its primrose-yellow facade and the white front door with a lion’s head knocker. Surely it was only possible to be happy in a house that was so cheery looking.
Maybe that was why Max seemed to be coping so well. There had been no trouble with the school about his becoming a day boy, despite the usual requirement for a term’s notice.
‘I think this is the right thing for Max,’ Mr Reynolds had said when she’d collected Max’s trunk and cleared out his little cubicle at the end of the Easter term. ‘He’s never quite found his feet as a boarder. Some don’t. He’ll get another chance this way.’
Another chance. Caitlyn liked the sound of that. So the London house had been sold, along with many of Patrick’s possessions, and the furniture put into storage. She had folded her life down from the four-storey London townhouse with a large garden to a small terraced cottage in a run of identical, candy-coloured houses on a dead-ended lane close to the river. She gave away Patrick’s rowing machine and gym equipment, his bicycle, his skis, his expensive fishing gear and his golf clubs. All the accoutrements of his comfortable middle-aged life.
At least he enjoyed himself.
The wine collection went to auction. The cars had gone last month, causing a small ripple of excitement in the sale room and a good solid amount of cash that would go into Max’s fund.
On moving day, Maura came over to help her sort through the final things. She’d looked around the kitchen, with its open empty cupboards and the piles of stuff and the half-full boxes on the floor. ‘God, this place looks so different. I can’t believe how much was in it. It’s sweet of you to give me so many things.’
‘You’re welcome. I’ll never use most of it anyway.’
It’s odd, Caitlyn thought, looking over at her sister, who was now busying herself with filling the kettle for another round of tea. For once, I wish the children were here, and the whole place was packed with noise and chaos. The quiet seems so oppressive now. But they’d been kept away, and Max was with them at Maura’s house, occupied with computer games while his old life was packed away for good. She glanced around. The house was almost empty and she felt freer with every box that was carried out of it, as though the great tyranny of its perfection was finally being lifted from her shoulders.
‘When do the new people move in?’ Maura asked, rinsing out mugs.
‘Tomorrow,’ Caitlyn said. So strange. So odd. Those were the words that floated around her mind all the time now. Her inner voice exclaimed them all the time in a tone of mild surprise, or confided little things to her: Just think, tomorrow this house will belong to strangers! They’ll live here! Isn’t that bizarre? Every day it said, The strangest thing has happened. Patrick’s been killed in a car crash on the motorway! He’s dead! And Caitlyn would feel the punch of his loss all over again.
Maura turned around with a look of concern. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us tonight? It’s so late to head down to Oxford now.’ She smiled tentatively. ‘Come and stay, Cait. You know Max’d love it. Don’t go off on your own, I’m worried about you.’
‘Don’t be,’ Caitlyn said. ‘We’ll be fine. I . . . really want to get to the new place. Honestly. It’s what I need.’
‘Are you sure?’ Maura came over, looking as though she wanted to hug her but didn’t dare. ‘I know it’s still early days, but you really don’t seem like yourself.’
Caitlyn smiled at her. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I don’t know if you should be on your own. Where’s Sara? She was living here with you, wasn’t she?’
‘She’s gone.’
Maura looked at her searchingly. ‘Is everything all right between you?’
‘Well . . .’ Caitlyn would usually confide most things in Maura, but this was not an easy one. She had spent years defending Sara against Maura’s obvious dislike. If she reported what Sara had said to her at the funeral – how I ought to be grateful to her for saving my marriage! – she knew it would turn into a diatribe against Sara, rather than a calm discussion about what it all meant. ‘I think we spent a bit too much time together. And she didn’t want me to sell the house.’
‘What business is it of hers?’ Maura asked indignantly. ‘Cheeky bint! You should have told her to get lost, it’s your house, and your life, she can piss off.’
I knew it. She can’t wait to disapprove. ‘That’s what I said, sort of. So she went off in a bit of a huff. I haven’t heard from her for a while. I think she’s gone to America on a job. She’ll be in touch eventually.’
‘Enjoy it while you can then,’ Maura said with a laugh. ‘Sorry. I know she’s your friend.’
Caitlyn turned back to another box. She didn’t want to think about what Sara had said to her, not now when there was so much to do. It was a relief that Sara had gone away. And, she realised with mild surprise, she was dreading her return. More than anything, she wanted to get to Oxford before Sara got back, so there was a good safe stretch of distance between them.
‘I thought I might look up a friend of mine when I get to Oxford,’ Caitlyn said as she packed in some mugs.
‘Oh yes?’
‘A guy called Nicholas. I haven’t seen him for years but Sara reminded me about him. He’s an academic now at my old college.’ She scrunched up some packing paper to put around the mugs. After Sara had mentioned him at the funeral, Caitlyn had looked Nicholas up. His thumbnail portrait on the college website had shown a familiar if older face, and she began to remember how they had been students together. They had been close once, she recalled. I wonder what he’s like now.
‘That sounds like a good idea.’ Maura smiled encouragingly. ‘Well, that’s nice. I’m glad you’ll have a friend there.’
*
But even though she’d intended to, Caitlyn hadn’t looked up Nicholas. The Easter holidays started soon after they arrived, and she and Max spent all their time settling into the new house and doing up his bedroom, choosing him a cabin bunk bed with a desk tucked beneath. Caitlyn reflected that Patrick would never have allowed the football posters that Max had tacked up, or the glow-in-the-dark stars to be stuck on the ceiling. Max didn’t seem to mind that his new bedroom was much smaller than his old one, or that it lacked the muted chic. He spent hours there, assembling his football trading cards into teams, or curled up on his bed reading and listening to music.
One day, he hung about in the doorway of Caitlyn’s room next door to his, and stared in as she sat at her dressing table, brushing out her hair. ‘I like that you’re so close, Mum,’ he said. ‘Not like it used to be.’
‘Yes.’ She smiled at his reflection in her mirror. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Cosy.’
‘But . . .’ His face grew solemn. ‘I miss Dad.’
‘Me too, darling.’
‘I wish he was here with us. Not in London. Here.’
She smiled at him again. ‘Yes. That would be perfect.’
But they both knew Patrick would never have left London, and would never have lived in this house.
When term began, for the first time Max went to school without howling. He still stayed close and went very quiet, but when she said, ‘I’ll come and get you at five o’clock,’ he turned and beamed at her, t
hen trotted off into school with the others.
Caitlyn watched him go, her hands deep in her mac pockets, happy, feeling able to meet the eyes of the other mothers for the first time, as they herded in sons loaded with sports bags and musical instruments. In the evening, Max came out with the handful of other day boys, looking about for her, relief washing over his face when he saw her waiting for him. She drove him home, crawling back through the city in the evening rush hour but not minding because Max chattered about his day all the way back. Then it was supper, some television, some reading together, a bath and bed, tucked up on the top of his cabin bed, with the pale green stars glowing above him.
There was no doubt about it, this change suited Max.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Maura said, when she called up for a face-to-face over the internet. She looked rather grey in the light from her kitchen, and a large glass of wine, too close to the camera spot, loomed in front of her with an unattractive greenish tinge to the liquid. ‘And does he talk about Patrick?’
‘Not much. Sometimes,’ Caitlyn said. ‘But it seems to be easier for him now.’ She got the impression that Max dipped in and out of the pain of losing his father, as though he sometimes put it away to be taken out when he had more time to give it. His world was so full already, and Patrick had been – now she thought about it – quite absent from it anyway. Work, travel, outside interests had all taken so much of Patrick’s attention, and he had administered decisions on Max’s life from afar, like an emperor making decrees about some far-flung outpost of his dominions that he had never visited.
‘Poor wee kid,’ Maura said. ‘He’s only going to know what he’s lost later on, isn’t he? But what about you, eh? How are you getting on all on your own there?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Have you met your neighbours?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘They can’t be very friendly then. You’ve been there six weeks.’
‘Our paths haven’t crossed, that’s all.’