by Lulu Taylor
Tommy was overcome with a tremendous sense of exhaustion. The struggle was so hard and so ongoing. Tomorrow she’d have to try and get to the village again, and the snow had fallen once more last night. She couldn’t sleep for fear the pipes would freeze and there would be no water.
‘Tommy,’ Fred said quietly. ‘What happened between us . . . you’ve barely spoken to me since—’
‘Please don’t,’ she said quickly, flushing. She looked away, embarrassed.
‘I have to talk to you about it. I know you’ve found it hard to forgive me, but please . . .’
‘Forgive you? Of course I forgive you.’
Fred looked at her, puzzled. ‘But I must have offended you very badly.’
She shook her head. ‘But that wasn’t about you at all. It was about me. I daren’t be around you, I can’t trust myself.’
He stared at her, absorbing what she had said. ‘But—’
‘Don’t you see?’ she said, suddenly sharp. ‘I’m the one at fault, not you. And it’s better for you if I simply stay away. I’m sorry, Fred, but it’s for the best. Now, I’m going to ask Ada if she and Thornton want to move back in during the cuts. If you want to help, you could see if you can find the spirit before we turn the lights out.’ She made her way past him, and hurried away, hoping he hadn’t seen the pain on her face.
They turned the lights out that afternoon at exactly two o’clock on the grounds that they might as well get used to it and start saving power right away. It seemed such a strange idea, that the lights going out in a house in the middle of nowhere would contribute something towards resolving the crisis.
‘I suppose it’s like everything during the war,’ Tommy said, as she went around switching off lamps and lighting candles, Gerry helping her. ‘It’s all the little, individual efforts that seem like nothing but put together with thousands and thousands of others make a difference.’
‘It’s wonderfully eerie. We should tell ghost stories,’ Gerry said, not listening.
‘I suppose so. That reminds me, don’t let the children have candles at night. It’s far too dangerous. We can put the lights on again at four, but we should leave them off as long as we can.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Gerry saluted her. ‘You run a tight ship.’
Tommy laughed. ‘What else is there to do?’
They went back to Mrs Whitfield’s sitting room where Barbara, Roger and their mother were playing cards. Fred had taken the children off for a drawing session, and the room was quiet, lit by candles and the glow of the stove. Tommy sat down in an armchair and picked up a book but couldn’t concentrate on it. Gerry settled on the hearthrug and stared at the trio playing cards. Eventually she said, ‘That’s a pretty brooch, Barbara.’
Tommy looked over and saw that on the lapel of Barbara’s jacket shone a large diamond brooch.
Gerry went on: ‘It looks just like one of Mother’s. She has a lover’s knot like that. Almost the same, in fact.’
Barbara looked over from her card game. ‘Oh, it is the same.’
‘Really?’ Gerry asked in surprise. She turned to her mother. ‘Is it yours, Mother?’
‘It’s a very sweet little loan,’ Barbara said quickly. ‘Isn’t it, Nancy?’
‘No it’s not,’ Mrs Whitfield said in her most imperious tone. ‘It’s a gift. I’ve given it to Barbara. She’s been such a help and support to me over these difficult times.’
Tommy looked again at the glittering jewel. Barbara had sat next to Mrs Whitfield and had her ear bent, and folded silk into neat figures-of-eight, or split threads. For these arduous duties, she had received a family jewel. Tommy, on the other hand, slaving to protect the estate and worrying how to feed them all and keep them warm, had barely received a kind word.
Gerry looked scandalised. ‘Mother, you can’t give away your possessions! They’re family things. They belong to the house!’
‘They certainly do not,’ Mrs Whitfield said. ‘They are mine and I shall do what I choose with them. I choose to give this to Barbara.’
Roger spoke up, as he examined his hand of cards. ‘I think it’s a very good idea. I can’t imagine them looking finer anywhere else.’
Tommy turned to him, astonished. She had never heard anything like this clumsy gallantry from him before.
Barbara said demurely, ‘You’re too kind, Roger.’
Gerry looked over at Tommy and mouthed a word that no one else could see.
Trouble.
Tommy gave her a warning look and Gerry, with obvious effort, said no more.
Tommy had gone to the dining room to set the table for dinner when Gerry came to find her as soon as she could escape from the sitting room.
‘What’s Mother playing at?’ Gerry demanded. ‘She can’t just give away those things. That brooch was Grandmother’s. It ought to go to you, or to me. That’s what Father would have wanted. Now it belongs to Barbara?’
‘It’s not the first thing.’ Tommy loaded a tray with cutlery. ‘Barbara has a ring and earrings as well. I can’t help feeling that Mother is trying to get at me. But Barbara said she considered it a loan, so no doubt she’ll give it back.’
‘I’m not so sure. She’s wearing it so the rest of us can see that she’s claimed ownership, I bet. And if darling Barbara is such a help, why isn’t she here with us, instead of sitting in the warm with Mother?’ Gerry started distributing the cutlery from Tommy’s tray. ‘And what about Roger taking her side like that?’
‘They all like her,’ Tommy said. Her spirits were low and she felt as if all the fight had gone out of her. ‘I thought you did too.’
‘I did at first but now I don’t,’ Gerry said. ‘Do you know how much notice she takes of Molly? Almost none. Ever since I’ve been minding the children, it’s quite clear that Babs doesn’t give a toss about poor little Molly. She’s never there at bedtime. I think it’s wonderful for Molly to be here, if I’m honest.’
‘So do I,’ Tommy said, cheered a little. ‘She’s a sweet little girl, quite different from my two with that quiet thoughtfulness of hers.’
‘Yes. We love her, and she gets friendship from Antonia and Harry, and attention from me. She’s quite blossomed since she’s been here, even though she never sees her mother. Barbara’s always somewhere else, oiling up to Roger or Mother. She’s got a plan and I don’t think I like it.’
‘I think you could be right. But what I don’t understand is what she hopes to gain.’
‘As much of our loot as she can pocket probably.’
Tommy stopped short in the middle of placing a knife. ‘Is that it?’ she asked. ‘Just simple, vulgar theft? I find it hard to believe, but you must be right.’ She told Gerry about the things in Barbara’s bedroom.
‘There you are. Proof,’ Gerry said darkly. ‘She strikes me as the kind of person who looks out for herself, and has the audacity to get away with whatever she wants.’
Tommy thought of Arabella Guthrie’s pen. Audacity was right. Barbara had got away with so much. Many times, at school, she’d caught Barbara out in some tiny act of selfishness. She’d always taken the largest serving, or ensured she was first in line, or helped herself to things that weren’t exactly meant for her. One can’t help but see a pattern. And she has no qualms about buying things on the black market.
‘As soon as this weather is over, she’ll leave. She can’t do much harm in that time.’
‘I think she should know we’re on to her. Come on, while she’s busy with Mother and Roger.’
Gerry hurried out of the room and Tommy put down her tray and followed. Upstairs, Gerry went straight to Barbara’s room and flung open the door. Going inside, she stopped short, gasping in surprise. ‘Oh my goodness – the nerve!’
Tommy followed her and saw that there were even more of their possessions scattered about than there had been. ‘She’s taking advantage of the fact that we’re not using the drawing room. Look, all the snuff boxes are here now. And the painted miniatures from the cabinet.’
‘How dare she!’ exclaimed Gerry furiously. ‘Come on.’ She started to go about the room, picking up ornaments and silver and stuffing them in her pocket. ‘We’ll put it all back. She can hardly complain. And perhaps it will stifle her kleptomaniac tendencies for a while.’
Tommy followed her, taking up more of the borrowed possessions. ‘Unless she’s given more by Mother.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Gerry said sternly. ‘I think it’s time we stopped dear Barbara’s tricks. And as soon as the weather turns, she’ll be out on her ear.’
Tommy was walking slowly up the stairs later that afternoon when the sound of her name being spoken made her turn around. Barbara was standing there, on the cold stone flags of the hall, her breath coming out in clouds of steam.
‘Tommy, you’ve been in my room.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Tommy said, outwardly calm but wishing Gerry was there.
‘You know very well. You’ve taken things your brother said I could have.’
‘Have or borrow?’
Barbara shrugged. ‘A little of both.’
Tommy was outraged. ‘Roger can’t simply give away the things in the house! Does he really know how much you’d smuggled upstairs?’
Barbara smiled thinly. ‘Careful, Tommy. I don’t like your language. I think you’ll find Roger can do what he wants with his possessions.’
Tommy gaped at her. ‘This is extraordinary. I’ve welcomed you here, as my guest. Have you forgotten that this is my house, and my family?’
Barbara smiled coldly. ‘It’s not your house. It’s Roger’s. And I’m Roger’s guest – you’d do well to remember it.’
‘If you think you can turn my family against me, you’re wrong.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Barbara. ‘I think you’ll find you’re already on the back foot.’ Then she turned on her heel and stalked away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Once she was on her own, Caitlyn found it impossible not to think about Patrick and Sara and the serenity she had felt at Kings Harcourt evaporated. The thought of them grew and possessed her mind like a virulent infection. As soon as Max was in bed that evening, she went back to the boxes and spent hours going through all of Patrick’s financial paperwork; but there was nothing else that she could find to give her the kind of concrete proof she wanted.
She sat on the wooden floorboards of the spare room, surrounded by mountains of Patrick’s files, and said despairingly, ‘Oh Patrick. I wish you could just tell me the truth. Were you having an affair with her?’
She tried to think back over the years and all the things that Patrick had said to convince her that he really didn’t think of Sara in that way. She had never caught him out in any suspicious behaviours or unusual activity. She could barely remember seeing him on his own with Sara. But then, why flowers? Why a hotel?
What are the chances I would catch Patrick anyhow? He was far too good for that. He was an absolute master of himself.
Patrick had control. He steered his own life with precision and determination, and refused to let anything undermine him or push him off course. And he liked to control those around him too, she knew that. Right from the start, he made it clear that she would have to abide by his rules and that he would be making the decisions. He didn’t impose it on her; he made it clear that it was the only way they could be together, and she, wildly in love, agreed.
Besides, he made me feel so safe. So protected and looked after.
She had a sudden image of the pheasant pens at Kings Harcourt: the fat happy birds in their cage, eating corn and kept coddled until the day they were flushed out and forced to fly for their lives.
Was that me? Never really safe at all, but just getting closer to the day when I’d have to face my greatest fears.
‘Tell me the truth, Patrick!’ she shouted, and then bit her lip, appalled by the sound of her voice in the silence and worried that she might wake Max. I should go to bed. I’m tired. My vision is blurring. She would open one more box and that would be it. Selecting one near the back of the pile, she pulled it out into the middle of the room and opened it. Inside was a jumble of electrical equipment, cables and chargers. Almost on top, in its black leather case, was Patrick’s tablet. It was so familiar that she felt a jolt as she saw it again. She lifted it out carefully, and opened the case. It was out of power and so she took it downstairs to plug into her own charger while she got the list of Patrick’s passwords out of her purse, then waited for the tablet to get enough power to start up.
She waited, her stomach churning, the passwords in hand, the same thought passing through her mind over and over.
Perhaps he wanted me to know his secrets.
The next day, after dropping Max at school, Caitlyn walked into town, the tablet in her bag. She’d stayed up for another hour searching through it but had found nothing out of the ordinary in Patrick’s email accounts. She’d searched for Sara’s name and the messages that came up were completely innocent, usually confirming arrangements that Caitlyn remembered making or thanking Sara for dinners and parties she remembered attending. The tone was what she would have expected: friendly, casual, familiar. There was nothing like the intimacy that Sara had been hinting at, or evidence of their being kindred spirits. It had been enough to make her doubt the fact of their affair again.
She’d finally gone to bed, exhausted, and fallen into the kind of deep sleep that meant she could barely wake up when the alarm went off at seven. With the help of a mug of strong coffee she’d managed to get Max to Spring Hall, and the journey had shaken off her fatigue. Now she wove her way through the crowds milling along Cornmarket, heading determinedly for the college.
‘I’m here to see Professor Brooke,’ she said to the bulldog in his bowler hat as she went through the gate, and hurried along the quad and into Nicholas’s staircase. She bounded up the stairs. ‘Come any time,’ he’d said. ‘My third years are revising, all my tutorials are done this week.’
There was his door, the last one on the staircase. The outer oak door was open and the one inside was slightly ajar. She strode over and pushed it open.
‘Nicholas, are you there?’ she called. ‘I need your help.’
She walked in and stopped abruptly. Nicholas was staring at her from his armchair and opposite on the sofa, turning to look at her from behind a curtain of red curls, was Sara.
‘Well, well,’ Sara said, with her slow blink, ‘fancy seeing you here.’
Caitlyn gaped at her, unable for a moment to take in what she was seeing.
‘So, naughty, naughty!’ Sara said sweetly. ‘You didn’t say that you’d been meeting up with Nicholas.’ And then she turned to Nicholas. ‘You dark horse, you. Why didn’t you tell me you two are back in touch?’
Nicholas looked guiltily at Caitlyn. ‘It was a real coincidence. Sara and I bumped into each other in the street. Completely unexpected.’
Sara cooed, ‘He insisted we come back here for a proper catch-up. He’s been telling me everything he’s been up to since I last saw him. A professor.’ She turned to smile at Nicholas, leaning towards him. ‘What an amazing achievement. You must be so proud.’
‘Well . . .’ Nicholas looked embarrassed.
Caitlyn was dumbstruck. She had assumed that Sara and Nicholas would not meet. She was not going to tell her about him, and she was sure that Nicholas had no desire to see Sara. So why had he invited her here to his rooms? But here she was, talking in that soft syrupy way that Caitlyn knew so well.
A sick feeling rolled through her, and she realised that she was afraid.
She’s doing it again. Invading my life, coming into my space. There’s nothing I have that she doesn’t want a piece of. Why did I ever, ever think we were friends?
‘Do you want a cup of coffee?’ Nicholas said, standing up, still shame-faced. ‘Come and join us.’
‘No, no. I . . . I’m busy. Sorry. I can’t stay.’ She turned on her heel and hurried away, running down the sta
irs as fast as she could, panting and shaken, and not stopping till she was out of the college and halfway up the hill. Then she began to walk and went home slowly, feeling as though she had been hit over the head.
When Caitlyn arrived back at the cottage, she was overcome with exhaustion from her late night. She climbed the stairs, each one feeling twice its size as she dragged herself up. As she lay down on her bed, her phone beeped and she fished it out of her pocket. A text from Nicholas popped up:
I’m really sorry. She ambushed me in the street and made me take her back to college. She’s gone now. Give me a call.
N xx
Caitlyn almost laughed. As usual, Sara was unstoppable. No one could say no to her.
She threw the phone down and closed her eyes. A moment later she was asleep.
Two hours later, she woke, rising groggily from her unconsciousness, woken by a beep from her mobile phone. A text from Sara was on the screen.
You kept that in the dark!! Why didn’t you say? N is quite the silver fox now, isn’t he? What’s the situation? Do you have some gossip to share??? Come on, spill! He’s dishy, quite fancy him myself xx
Caitlyn read it over twice, her spirits sinking, recognising Sara’s modus operandi: she would ply Caitlyn with questions, demanding answers and worming information out of her with persistence. Usually Caitlyn would squirm but surrender the details Sara wanted.
Not this time.
She deleted the text, and sat back with a sigh, one thought possessing her mind.
I want to be out of here. Somewhere Sara can’t find me. What better place than that beautiful house in the middle of nowhere? And when I was there, I felt, weirdly, like I belonged there, even though it’s nothing like where I grew up.
Caitlyn had been raised in a terraced house in Southport, a comfortable but modest dwelling kept in good order by her house-proud mother. Patrick had never criticised it openly, but tiny pointed remarks about the decor told her that he considered it an inferior place. She forgave him because he talked the same way about his own background: the home in Australia that he hated and the way he felt compelled to become everything that was its opposite. As a result, their homes were always beautiful. Perfect. Nothing jarred. Everything flowed.