Alex made no comment as Helena dialled a number on her mobile, then disappeared onto the terrace to talk. She came back and nodded. ‘Good news. He’s going to come over with his truck, load up the rubbish and take it to the dump for me. We won’t need a skip after all. Come on, let’s get back to work. Alexis is coming at five.’
When William pulled up in the drive at Pandora, he saw Alexis carrying a large box into the outhouse. The back of the truck parked in front of the house was full of broken furniture, old lampshades and moth-eaten rugs. He left Immy and Fred asleep in the back of the car, with the doors open to let in the early evening breeze, and went inside to find Helena.
‘Hello, darling.’ Helena stood upstairs at the door of the empty box room with a broom, dusty but triumphant. ‘Isn’t it great? It’s much bigger than I thought. I reckon we can easily get a double bed in here. Alexis says there’s one in a spare room of his we can borrow.’
‘Oh. Good.’
‘It needs a coat of paint, of course, but it’s got such a lovely view of the mountains and the floor isn’t tiled, just boards, so I thought we could varnish them eventually.’
‘Great,’ said William. ‘So, your friend’s been helping you.’
‘Yes, he came over with his truck about an hour ago. He’s put all the boxes I want to look through in the outhouse, and the rubbish on the truck to take to the dump.’
William nodded. ‘I’m sure he’s been very helpful, but you could have asked me to move those boxes, you know.’
‘You weren’t here, William, and Alexis offered, that’s all.’
William didn’t reply. He turned and walked back along the corridor towards the stairs.
‘You’re not cross, are you?’ she called after him.
‘No.’ William disappeared down the stairs.
Helena thumped the door frame. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! You were the one who suggested I call him,’ she muttered under her breath as she followed him downstairs to find Alexis standing in the kitchen.
‘All is done. I will go now to the dump to take the rubbish.’
‘Will you not stay for a drink with us?’
‘No, thank you. I will see you soon.’
‘Yes. And thank you so much, once again.’
Alexis smiled, nodded and left through the back door.
Having removed two grumpy, tired children from the car, fed them, then put them on the sofa in the drawing room in front of a DVD, Helena poured herself a glass of wine and went out onto the terrace. She could hear Alex splashing around in the pool, and saw William leaning on the balustrade at the end of the terrace. She sat down under the pergola, not inclined to announce her presence. Finally he turned towards her and walked back across the terrace to sit beside her.
‘Sorry, Helena, that was churlish of me. It just feels odd, that’s all, another man doing stuff that I’d usually do. I feel as though I’ve entered your world here and I don’t belong.’
‘Darling, you’ve been here less than a day. You’re still adjusting to the place.’
‘No, it’s more than that,’ he sighed. ‘This is your kingdom, your house, your life from another time. Whether it’s true or not, that’s how I feel.’
‘You don’t like it here?’
‘I think it’s beautiful, but . . .’ William shook his head. ‘I need a drink. One moment.’ He disappeared inside, and came back with a bottle and a glass.
‘Top-up?’
Helena nodded, and he refilled her glass.
‘This wine really is very drinkable. Your friend obviously knows what he’s doing.’
‘His name is Alexis, William, and yes, he does, but then, he was taught from the cradle.’
‘Well . . . I suppose we should have him round for supper to thank him properly.’
‘There really is no need.’
‘Yes, there is. To be frank,’ he said, taking another sip of wine, ‘I’m probably uptight about tomorrow.’
‘You mean Chloë’s arrival?’
‘Yes. This daughter of mine, whom I no longer know, who’s only been taught what a shit I am . . . I have no idea how she’ll be, but I’m as sure as hell that it wasn’t her idea to come here. She’s bound to be resentful about being shipped off to us, so her mother is free to be romanced in France without her. She might be very difficult, Helena. And’ – William took a sip of his wine – ‘I wouldn’t blame her if she was.’
‘I’m sure we’ll deal with it, darling. And there’ll be a lot of people here, which should dilute any tension.’
‘Of which there’s bound to be lots, from all sorts of angles.’
‘We’ll cope.’ Helena reached for his hand, and squeezed it. ‘We always do.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ William sighed. ‘I had hoped that we might not just “cope”. That this summer would be a chance for us to have some fun.’
‘And I don’t see why we can’t. We’ve certainly got an interesting cast of characters on the guest list.’
‘Have you heard from Sadie yet, by the way?’
‘Yes. She arrives on the same flight as the Chandlers. I’m going to see if they can give her a lift here from the airport.’
‘Christ!’ William managed a wry smile. ‘The notorious Jules and her browbeaten spouse, not to mention Rupes and Viola, a suicidal Sadie . . . and a daughter I hardly know.’
‘Well, if you put it like that, it does sound completely ghastly,’ agreed Helena. ‘Shall we give up and go home now?’
‘You’re right. I’m being negative, forgive me. By the way, have you mentioned anything about Chloë’s imminent arrival to Immy and Fred?’ William asked her.
‘No. I’ve told Alex, but I rather thought you’d like to be the one to tell the little ones.’
‘Right. I’d better get a move on, then. Any ideas as to how I put it to them?’ he asked.
‘Casually, I suppose, like it’s no big deal. And remember that blood is thicker than water. Chloë is their half-sister, and they share fifty per cent of their genes.’
‘You’re right. It’s just the other fifty per cent of Chloë that worries me. What if she’s like her mother?’
‘Then God help us all. How about we tell Immy and Fred together?’
‘Yes.’ William nodded his head gratefully. ‘Thanks, Helena.’
The two little ones were, as Helena expected, unperturbed by the impending arrival of the sister they’d never met.
‘Is she nice, Daddy?’ asked Immy as she snuggled on William’s knee. ‘What does she look like?’
‘Well, everyone used to say that Chloë looked like me.’
‘She has short brown hair and big ears? Ugghh!’
‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ William kissed the top of his daughter’s head. ‘She’s far prettier than I am, I promise.’
‘Is Cowee comin’ to live forever with us?’ enquired Fred from under the table, where he was playing with one of his trucks.
‘It’s Chloë, Fred,’ corrected Helena. ‘No, just for the time we’re here in Cyprus.’
‘Does she live by herself, then?’
‘No, she lives with her mummy,’ explained William.
‘No she don’t, ’cos I never seen her in our house.’
‘She has a different mummy to you, darling.’ Helena knew it was pointless trying to rationalise the situation to a three-year-old. ‘Anyway, time for sleep, chaps.’
The usual chorus of complaints ensued, but finally, both of them were tucked up in their beds next to each other. Helena kissed them gently on their sweetly sweaty foreheads.
‘Night-night – don’t let the bed bugs bite.’ She pulled the door to behind her and bumped into Alex on the landing, taking his rucksack downstairs to his new sleeping quarters.
‘Hi, Mum, okay?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘Yup.’
‘You didn’t have to move out until tomorrow, you know. Dad’s not collecting Chloë until after lunch. That’s plenty of time to change the sheets and get the ro
om straight in the morning.’
‘I want to.’ He started down the stairs.
‘Okay. I put a fan in there for you earlier. I don’t want you getting heat-stroke again.’
‘Thanks.’ Alex stopped and looked up at her. ‘Are you going to look through those boxes in the outhouse?’
‘Yes, when I have time, which certainly won’t be for the next few days.’
‘Can I?’
‘As long as you don’t throw anything away.’
‘’Course I won’t. You know me, Mum, I love history. Especially my own,’ he added pointedly.
‘But Alex’ – Helena ignored the remark – ‘a lot of it won’t mean anything to you. Remember, Angus wasn’t related to me. He was my godfather.’
‘Still, I might find out things about him, which would be interesting, wouldn’t they?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Helena didn’t fail to notice the underlying sentiment. Alex was looking for clues, but she knew he wouldn’t find any amongst Angus’ boxes. ‘Go ahead, but I don’t want you festering away in there all day tomorrow. We have guests coming, and I’ll need your help.’
‘Course. Night, Mum,’ he said, as they reached his new bedroom.
‘Night, darling,’ she replied, as Alex closed the door.
ALEX’S DIARY
15th July 2006
I am sitting on the bed in my tiny cell. The fan my mother has equipped me with is close enough to give me a blow-dry in one minute flat. In front of me is a box I have just dragged in from the outhouse, filled with letters and photographs, which may or may not be relevant to me and my past.
My mother is not stupid. She knows what I am searching for. She knows how much I want to know . . .
Who I Am.
Well, she didn’t act as though she was worried that any key to the great mystery might be lurking in those boxes, so there’s probably nothing of interest amongst Angus’ stuff.
I wonder why she’s so cagey about her own past? She hardly ever talks about her mother and father, or where she grew up, or how. She gave a lot of information out about it earlier today, for her.
It made me realise how most kids I know have a granny and grandpa present in their lives, or at least a strong memory of them. All I know for certain is that Helena Elise Beaumont is my mother and I was born in Vienna (she couldn’t hide that as it’s written on my birth certificate) and I lived there until I was three, after which she met Dad, then we came back to England and they got married. Apparently, I was a bilingual toddler. Nowadays, I struggle to count to ten in German correctly.
I lie back with my head resting on my arms and stare at the cracked, yellowing ceiling above me. And muse that my friend Jake – I use that term loosely, in that we communicate occasionally and he is less of a moron than the rest of them in my class – has a mother who is comfortably plump and homely-looking, like most mums with teenage sons seem to be. She works part-time as a secretary at a doctor’s surgery and makes great cakes when I’ve been round for tea, and everything about her is . . .
. . . normal.
Her whole life is photographically displayed on the sideboard, side by side with her freshly baked scones. Jake knows all about his grandparents, and who his father is, as he sees him every day. The only mystery he has to solve is how to persuade his mum to lend him a tenner so he can buy the latest PlayStation game.
So why is my mother, and my past, such an enigma?
I breathe deeply and realise I am starting to seriously obsess again. Apparently, it’s a normal characteristic for someone like me. A ‘gifted’ child. I loathe being a statistic, and do my best not to conform to it, but sometimes it’s hard. To take my mind off things, I sit upright and begin to pull endless sepia photos of unknown people who are now almost certainly dead out of the box. Some of them have dates on the back, some don’t.
Angus was very good-looking when he was younger, especially dressed in his uniform. I’m surprised he never married. Unless he was gay. He doesn’t look it, but you never can tell. I’ve often wondered how you know if you are. I might be weird, but I’m definitely straight, in a bendy sort of way.
I have finally got to the bottom of the box, waded through the mounds of photographs and correspondence concerning shipments of whisky from Southampton and import duty on this painting or that piece of furniture. Then I pull out a bulging brown envelope addressed to ‘Colonel McCladden’ at Pandora and reach my hand inside it.
Out flutters a large number of flimsy blue airmail envelopes. I peer into one, and see its contents are still intact. I remove the letter and see there is a date at the top, 12th December, but no year or address.
I read the first line:
‘My darling, darling girl.’
Right. It doesn’t take Holmes and Watson to deduce that this is a love letter. The writing is beautiful, in ink, scripted in the fluid way people were taught in those days.
I scan through it. It’s a eulogy to an unknown woman known as ‘Darling Girl’ throughout. Lots of ‘the days are endless without you and I long to have you back in my arms . . .’
Not really my type of thing, all this soppiness. I’m more of a thriller man, myself. Or Freud.
Most irritating of all, when I reach the end, there is no signature, just an indecipherable flourish that could be any of perhaps twelve letters.
I put the letter back in its envelope and open a couple more. They read in a similar vein and reveal no more clues as to time or identity than the first one.
I look inside the big brown envelope to check it’s empty, and find a folded piece of paper.
‘I believe these letters are your property. As such, am returning to sender.’
That is all.
So the author of these was obviously Angus. Which would also solve one puzzle and confirm he was definitely not gay.
I yawn. I am tired tonight, having lugged all those boxes around in the heat. I will give these letters to my mother tomorrow morning. They are definitely more her kind of thing than mine.
I switch off the light and lie on my back, pulling Bee from under my pillow and placing him in the crook of my arm. I enjoy the breeze from the fan wafting across my face and wonder how a man such as Angus could command armies and shoot people, yet write letters like those at the same time?
It’s a mystery to me so far – this ‘love’ thing – but I daresay I’ll find out what it’s like.
One day.
ζ
Seven
Where the hell was she?
William ran his fingers through his hair in agitation.
The plane had landed over an hour ago. Passengers had streamed out of arrivals and now the concourse was eerily quiet.
He tried Helena on her mobile, but she wasn’t answering. He’d dropped her off with the kids at a local hire-car firm in Paphos, as it had been decided they would definitely need a car each. She’d said she might take the children to the beach. William left her a message to call him back urgently, then, having made another sweep of the arrivals area, he headed for the flight information desk.
‘Hello, I’m wondering whether you could check if my daughter was on the morning flight from Gatwick. I’m here to collect her and she hasn’t turned up yet.’
The woman nodded. ‘Name?’
‘Chloë Cooke, with an “e”.’
The woman tapped on the computer, scrolled down and finally looked up at him. ‘No, sir. There was no one by that name on the flight.’
‘Christ,’ William swore under his breath. ‘Is it possible to check if she arrived on another flight from the UK today?’
‘I can try, but we have several, from regional airports around the country.’
‘Has there been a flight from Stansted so far?’ William followed a hunch.
‘Yes, it landed half an hour before the Gatwick flight.’
‘Okay, could you try that?’
More tapping, and the woman finally looked up and nodded. ‘Yes, a Miss C. Cooke was on the Stansted
flight.’
‘Thank you.’
William walked away from the desk, a mixture of relief and anger coursing round his veins. His ex-wife had obviously changed the arrangements without letting him know. Par for the course for her, he thought furiously. He stifled his anger and went in search of his daughter.
Twenty minutes later, and on the verge of alerting the airport police to an abducted minor, William stumbled on a small bar next to the arrivals hall.
It was empty, apart from a teenage girl and a dark-haired young man sitting together smoking on bar stools. From a distance, he saw the girl had a mane of long, shiny chestnut hair. She wore a tight T-shirt and a miniskirt on her sylph-like frame, her endlessly long bare legs crossed as she flipped a flat pump on and off one heel. As he drew closer, he realised it was Chloë: a Chloë who in the past few years had changed beyond all recognition from a child into a beautiful young woman.
William recognised his daughter’s allure, as – obviously – did the man sitting opposite her. He was resting a hand lightly on Chloë’s bare thigh. William moved swiftly towards them, realising the man was older than he looked from a distance. Squashing down the primal urge to thump him, he stopped a few yards away.
‘Hello, Chloë.’
She turned, saw him and smiled lazily. ‘Hi, Daddy. How are you?’
Blatantly taking a last drag of her cigarette, she stubbed it out as William walked forward and kissed her formally on the cheek.
Like the stranger she was.
‘Meet Christoff. He’s been keeping me company while I was waiting for you.’ Chloë turned her enormous, fawn-like brown eyes back to her suitor. ‘He’s been telling me all the cool places to go clubbing round here.’
‘Good. Now let’s go.’
‘Okay.’ Chloë slid elegantly off the bar stool. ‘I’ve got your mobile number, Christoff. I’ll give you a call and you can show me the sights of Paphos.’
The Olive Tree Page 9