by Granger, Ann
‘Gervase!’ she exclaimed when his dark outline filled the newly opened entrance. ‘We’ve been so worried about you! How are you? How did you get here?’
Gervase tugged at the doors to exclude the fresh breeze that swept across the yard today. He crossed to where she sat and took his former seat on the wobbly chair, uninvited. ‘I drove here. I’m quite all right, just got a sore head. Old Muriel’s aim wasn’t so good. I’m quite tall and she’s on the short side so she had to reach up; and it was dark. She still fetched me a heck of wallop.’
‘She could have killed you!’ Petra said fiercely. ‘She meant to kill you. Just as she killed that other poor man.’
‘She didn’t mean to kill him: she meant to kill me. She’d got it into her head I was the one wandering around the house in semi-darkness that night. Poppy Trenton gave her the idea. She thought she’d seen me around, earlier. But it was that unlucky chap, Pietrangelo, who apparently looked like me. He’d been investigating Key House in the hope of buying it.’ Gervase swept out his arm in a gesture that might have been exasperation. ‘Now Poppy is racked with guilt! She shouldn’t have told Muriel she’d seen me when she wasn’t sure it was me, and so on … I’ve told her, if we got blamed for crimes because of some passing remark we’d made, or a genuine mistake, we’d all, at some stage of our lives, find ourselves in the dock! But she’s in full mea culpa mood and won’t be persuaded out of it. Pity, because she’s such a nice woman. Anyway, I told her not to brood on it. Her husband, on the other hand, isn’t brooding but he is in a dither. Poor old Roger, having saved my life by his intervention, now can’t decide whether to lecture me – as his instincts tell him to – or treat me as an unexpected boost to his ego.’
Gervase gave a wry smile. ‘I always knew Muriel didn’t like me much. I hadn’t realised she harboured murderous intentions. Poor old girl, I ran over her dog, years ago. Or ran into it, one or the other, and nearly ran her down into the bargain. I have to confess, my memory of the exact events is hazy.’ His smile faded. ‘I should remember, of course. I shouldn’t have been fuddled with booze. I should have learned my lesson from that episode and not—’ He broke off and waved a hand vaguely towards Petra. ‘Not done it all again.’
‘Can’t be changed now,’ said Petra simply. ‘Don’t start telling me you’re sorry, Gervase. I know you are. It’s OK, right?’
‘No, not OK, but thank you. Dad bought her off, apparently, that first time. I didn’t know about that then. He didn’t tell me, but he wasn’t in the habit of telling me anything, so it was par for the course. It was Reggie who told me, quite a few years later, long after Dad had died. Reggie is another one who keeps shtum about things. But one Christmas, when I was over here and called in to wish them seasonal good cheer, we had a few whiskies and he got loquacious.
‘Dad meant well, I suppose, but even so. Muriel hated him for it. When people have taken the high ground, as she’d always done vis-à-vis my father, it was humiliating for her to be shown to be as mercenary as anyone else. She wanted someone to blame, not just for the loss of her dog and her brush with injury, but for having Dad there in her living room, holding out a bunch of notes and her acceptance of the bribe. When she’s gone out of her way to be rude to me, I’ve usually found a way of reminding her about that little episode. Not wise of me, you’d say. It added to the little pile of grievences she harboured towards me. But I’m not wise and one way and another I’ve caused a lot of heartache, haven’t I?’
There was an awkward silence. Petra said at last, ‘There’s no excuse for what she did at Key House the night of the fire. It was barbaric. Trying to do the same to you the other evening was just as unspeakable. But in spite of it all, I feel a little sorry for Muriel. As for her taking your father’s money so long ago, well, she was poor, Gervase. You’ve never been hard up. Your father knew she wouldn’t refuse. After the way she’d bad mouthed him for so long, he probably got a kick out of it, just as you say.’
‘You bet he did!’ said Gervase fiercely. ‘I can just imagine him sitting there, crackling the notes under her nose. But she did accuse him of murder after my mother left. So you can’t altogether blame the old blighter for enjoying the moment.’
He caught Petra’s eye. ‘And you’re right. I have never been poor and I didn’t behave well when I reminded her. Perhaps there’s something of the old man in me, after all. I shall have to watch out for that!’
Petra pointed at the easel. ‘I’ve made a start on my portrait of Hamlet. I’ll finish it, whether she ever pays me or not. It will be waiting for her when she gets out of prison. She will go to prison, won’t she?’
Gervase nodded. ‘Probably. It will be hard on her. It bloody scared me out of my skin when I got banged up all those years ago. But Muriel’s tough; and I’ll make sure she’s got a good defence barrister to argue her case, don’t worry about that. Reggie’s making sure she’ll get bail until the trial comes up. I’ll underwrite it. She has commitments – her chickens – and she isn’t going to flee the country … but I am. That is to say, I shall be returning to Portugal in a few days’ time. I’ll come back for the trial.’ He paused. ‘She’s not going to attack anyone else, not once I’m out of the way.’
‘I’m glad you’re making sure she has a good brief,’ Petra said. ‘That’s generous of you, in the circumstances.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s the least I can do.’ He looked past her at the easel. ‘Is that it? You’re making the mutt look almost attractive.’
‘I don’t pretty up my subjects,’ Petra said, affronted. ‘I just concentrate on their best aspects. Hamlet’s got lots of character.’
‘If you say so.’ He looked down at the floor and, when he looked up again, asked unexpectedly, ‘Why don’t you come out to Portugal for a holiday?’
Petra blinked. ‘Visit you, you mean?’
‘Why not? I’ve got a big house, plenty of room, and I could accommodate you on the ground floor. I’ll book the flight and make all the necessary special arrangements, pick you up at the airport in Lisbon.’
‘I couldn’t, Gervase, really.’ Petra gazed at him, stupefied. ‘I’ve – I’ve got work here.’
‘You could work there. You could paint a portrait of my horse. I mean to sell him but it would be nice to have a souvenir of him.’
Petra shook her head. ‘No, thank you all the same for the kind offer.’
He became argumentative. ‘Why not? It would do you good, sea air and sunshine. If you didn’t want to travel alone I could come over and collect you. Or Kit could come with you.’
‘I really couldn’t …’
‘At least think about it. Promise me.’
‘I promise. I’ll think it over.’ Petra spoke the words hastily since there appeared to be no getting out of it.
He seized on her haste. ‘You say that in the way people do when they mean they won’t give it another moment’s consideration.’
‘I will consider it, Gervase, truly. But I really can’t see it happening.’
‘Anything can happen,’ Gervase said suddenly. There was a silence and he got to his feet. ‘I’m staying with my cousin, Serena. She’s made it a project to look after me until I leave.’ He pulled a face. ‘She means well. I should be grateful. I am grateful. But it was more comfortable at The Royal Oak. I’ll look in again before I leave.’
‘Oh, yes, please do!’ Petra said impulsively.
He studied her for a moment until she felt herself blush.
‘I wish I could turn the clock back, Petra. I wish … No bloody use wishing, is it?’
‘Then stop, please.’ Petra reached out and touched his arm. ‘It’s past now. It’s gone. I don’t look back. I don’t want you to.’
He took her hand and raised it to kiss her fingers lightly. ‘Think about coming out to Portugal.’
‘You’re not thinking of going!’ Kit cried out in horror, when Petra recounted all this later on that day.
‘No, I’m not. I told him I’d think about
it and I have thought about it. I couldn’t go, but you could.’
‘Me?’ Kit gaped. ‘Have you gone nuts or something?’
‘No,’ Petra said calmly. ‘I’ve come to my senses and it’s time you came to yours, Kit darling.’
‘You have gone nuts,’ said Kit flatly.
Petra put down her coffee mug and said with surprising sharpness, ‘This has got to stop, Kit!’
Surprised at her gentle sister’s unusually abrasive tone, Kit asked, ‘What?’
‘All this blaming Gervase and letting it ruin all our lives. I couldn’t go out to Portugal because all the time I was there, Gervase would be running round trying to do things for me and make it up to me somehow for – for everything that happened. He’d keep on saying he was sorry and I couldn’t stick it. He’s sorry, I’m sorry, you’re sorry, Mum is sorry … we all are. But it doesn’t change what happened. To let it ruin what’s left of our lives is madness. In any case, he doesn’t want me. He wants you. He always wanted you. When we were kids, he only ever wanted to hang out with you. I used to tag along, but I was in the way. I knew it then, and I still do. I’ve always been in the way, coming between you. Just like I am now.’
‘I thought,’ Kit said in a small voice, ‘that later on, not when we were kids but when you got into your teens, you fancied him.’
‘Yes, I did – then. Not now. Back then one of the reasons I wanted him so badly was because I knew in my heart I could never have him. I was jealous of you, Kit. I hopped into his car that night, when he offered me a lift home, because I thought, wonderful! I’ll have Gervase to myself for a little while. I could see he wasn’t fit to drive. If I hadn’t been such a blind little idiot I’d have reached out and grabbed the car keys – and refused to hand them back to him. Think how much trouble that would have saved all of us! But no, I just thought I’d be with him. You weren’t there that night. It was my chance. I was being selfish and incredibly naïve, obstinate and stupid,’ Petra finished fiercely. ‘So there!’
‘You were seventeen, you can’t blame yourself.’
‘Don’t patronise me, Kit, please don’t do that. I’ve faced the truth. Do, please, face it, too.’
‘All right, then, even if you were being all the things you’ve just said,’ said Kit bleakly, ‘and I’m not agreeing with you that you were … You’ve paid a high price.’
‘And so have you!’ Petra leaned forward. ‘I wrecked the future I might have had. I’ve been lucky and made another decent one. But I wrecked yours, too, and you haven’t. I’ve watched you try to make a life without Gervase in it. I watched you make that hopeless marriage to Hugh. I’ve watched you grow bitter and unhappy. It won’t do, Kit. You’ve got to forgive him. You’ve got to give yourself a chance.’
‘I can’t do it,’ Kit said quietly.
‘Do what, forgive? You’re as bad as he is. He won’t forgive himself.’
‘Gervase is OK. Even when Muriel took a swipe at him in the dark with that priest, she more or less missed. He’s got a charmed existence. Don’t feel sorry for him, Petra!’ Kit burst out.
‘What do you mean, charmed existence?’ Petra shook her fist in frustration. ‘Don’t you see that Gervase can’t come to terms with the past? What kind of life does he lead, stuck out there in Portugal with nothing to do? Afraid to come home, afraid to come back here and face us. Buying a horse – good grief! When was Gervase ever interested in horses? He’s been doing anything that’s come his way to fill his time. Living without the woman he’s always wanted. You say I’ve paid a high price, but so has he!’
‘What about Mum and Dad?’ Kit asked suddenly, steering her argument in a new direction. ‘What about Dad dying full of bitterness, or Mum struggling to come to terms with it all? When I had to tell her Gervase was coming home, following the fire, she was terribly upset.’
‘Yes, she was upset and one of the reasons for that was because she was worried what effect his return would have on you, not just on me. Have you really ever tried to talk to her about it, about how she feels deep down? Have you?’ Petra challenged.
‘I know how she feels!’ her sister retorted.
‘No, you don’t, because you’ve never asked her, not recently. You’ve been so determined to think that everyone has been of a mind with you … and you’ve closed your mind completely to anything but brooding over the past.’ Petra fell silent. ‘If I’d spent all my time after the accident brooding over what had happened, I’d never have made a future for myself. I’ve said what I needed to say, that’s it,’ she finished.
Kit stood up. ‘I refuse,’ she said stiffly, ‘to be cast as the villain of the piece.’
‘I’m not casting you as a villain! Honestly, Kit …’ Petra tailed off in exasperation. ‘Just try, can’t you? Can’t you see, we’ve all got to move on?’
‘And forgive? No, I won’t.’ Kit set down her mug and grabbed for her bag. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call by again tomorrow, or the day after.’
Kit didn’t drive far from her sister’s before she drew into the side of the road and did something she hadn’t done in years – she gave way to tears. She was angry with herself for her weakness but the tears kept coming until in the end there just weren’t any more, leaving her exhausted. She leaned across to the passenger side and pulled down the sun visor to peer into the mirror on the reverse.
‘What a mess,’ she muttered. Her face was blotchy, eyes reddened, nose glowing like Rudolph’s. After a moment she drove off to a nearby pub that boasted a beer garden, and so had an additional ladies’ powder room outside the main building, in a converted stable. Fortunately at this time of the afternoon it was free of customers fixing their make-up. Kit washed her face in the basin, dried it on paper towels and did her best with the lipstick and eyebrow pencil she found after a hunt through her bag. The result wouldn’t have passed muster on one of those TV programmes where the presenter guarantees to make this week’s guinea pig turn from frump to icon of chic with some eyeshadow and a new haircut, but it would have to do. She snapped the handbag shut, slung it over her shoulder and marched outside to her car.
She drove to her mother’s house. There was no sign of Mrs Stapleton but the back door was unlocked and she walked in.
‘Mum?’ called Kit.
‘In the conservatory!’ came a faint reply.
Kit made her way towards the sound and came upon her mother surrounded by a motley collection of potted plants. All appeared to have suffered some disaster. Some had leaves that had withered and turned brown; others were reduced to mere stubs of branches and bare twigs. Kit thought privately that the plants looked the way she felt.
‘Hi, Mum!’ She kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘They don’t look very lively.’
‘They’re all things I’ve brought in from the garden to overwinter in here. They wouldn’t survive outside. They don’t look much now but they’ve bloomed all summer and autumn, and done sterling service. These fuchsias, for instance, aren’t a hardy variety so have to be brought under cover. Now I’ve cut them back I’m fairly certain they’ll sprout new growth in the spring, and do well next year when I put them outside again.’
‘Why not chuck them out and buy a new lot next year?’
Her mother looked at her reproachfully. ‘I’ve got to know them. They’re individuals. I’ve taken care of them. They’ve given such pleasure to the eye all summer. It would be churlish to abandon them now. Besides, I’ve told you, they’ll come back.’
Kit drew a deep breath. ‘Things do come back, don’t they? People, too?’
‘You want to talk about Gervase,’ said Mary Stapleton, straightening up and dusting her hands together. ‘I meant to ring you. A young police detective came to see me. Let me wash my hands. Just put the kettle on while I do, will you, dear?’
A little later, as they sat either side of the kitchen table, she asked Kit, ‘Have you heard how Gervase is? I considered ringing the hospital, but I’m not a relative so I thought they wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Oh, he’s OK. He’s been let out of the hospital and he’s been to see Petra this morning,’ Kit told her with a note of exasperation in her voice. ‘Gervase always survives. He’s indestructible, like some sort of plague they can’t wipe out. He’s moved out of the hotel and gone to Serena’s place, to be looked after by her. You see? Fallen on his feet!’
‘Oh, Kit, dear …’ said her mother with a sigh. ‘I wish you didn’t hate him the way you do.’
‘Don’t you hate him?’ asked Kit, surprised. ‘After what happened to Petra?’
‘I’m very angry about what happened to Petra. I’ll always be that. No, I don’t hate Gervase. If he’d been a stranger – at the time of the crash – it might have been different. But I knew him as a little boy. I saw him grow up. You and he were such good pals. What happened was terrible. But Gervase has suffered, too.’
‘How can you say that?’ Kit gasped. ‘And please don’t tell me he had a rotten childhood. It doesn’t mean you have to grow up to drink and drive.’
‘He didn’t have a good childhood,’ agreed her mother. ‘But you’re right, having an unhappy childhood doesn’t excuse what you do later. Gervase went wrong when he was about nineteen. But he hasn’t been in any trouble I’ve heard about since he left here, and went to live in Portugal. On the other hand, I’ve not heard that he’s done anything positive. It saddens me that he’s wasting his life. He’s harmed himself by his actions.’ She broke off and smiled at her daughter’s outraged expression.
‘I’m not defending him, Kit. I’m not making excuses for him. To see Petra as she is now breaks my heart; even though I admire the way she’s fought back. I’ll never feel differently about the accident. But I also feel sorry for Gervase in so many ways. I certainly don’t let myself hate him. Hatred harms the people who hate, far more than the one who is hated. Do try and remember that, Kit. Hatred eats you up. Sometimes, when I look at you or listen to you talk, I’m afraid you’ve become bitter. I know you aren’t happy. That failed marriage to Hugh didn’t help matters, either. All of that has to sadden me. But Petra hasn’t let it eat her up. It hasn’t made her bitter. Don’t let it do that to you, please, Kit.’