by Judy Astley
‘Well at least the truth’s out.’ Delia sat heavily on the bench next to Heather and handed her a cup of tea.
‘Yes, but what good did it do?’ Heather said.
‘In the end, it’s probably better. I should have been more honest,’ Delia told her. ‘Running off seems to be in the family.’
‘Did you . . . ?’
‘No, not me. Your father.’ Delia gazed at the ducks battling over food on the opposite bank.
‘You always said he died. Something he picked up during the war.’
Delia smiled wryly. ‘What he picked up during the war was a little red-headed Wren, stationed down on the south coast. She was married, too. They couldn’t make up their minds, or at least he couldn’t. He kept coming and going for years. Didn’t go for good till you were born and I was safely tied down. He didn’t like to think of me being as free as he was. They went off together and died together, crashing her car.’
‘Why did you never say?’ Heather asked in a whisper.
Delia’s cup was trembling in its saucer, and she had to put it down on the bench. ‘Because I didn’t want you to think I hadn’t been able to keep him,’ she said. ‘By the time I’d realized he wasn’t worth keeping, it was far too late to tell you.’
‘Another of those moments that pass,’ Heather murmured.
‘Yes. Well it wasn’t all awful, your Uncle Edward was very comforting.’
‘Good grief! Was he?’ Heather looked at her mother and saw a spark of happy memory in her eyes.
‘Oh yes. Did you really think your generation was the one that invented sex?’
‘Kate’s probably thinking hers is.’
‘You shouldn’t have hit her. She might not have gone. Now you’ve left her no choice really, have you?’
Up in her room, Kate packed a small bag with flimsy summery clothes, sun-tan lotion and beachwear. Her face didn’t hurt any more and she gently touched the place where her mother had hit her. In the mirror she could see the red stripe had started to fade, so she rubbed at it to make it come back. What did her mother mind about most? Her or Iain? She decided to think it was Iain, far more convenient at the moment than having to face the responsibility of her mother loving her. Her GCSE results were due in a week, she noticed from the calendar on the wall. How important they’d seemed only a few weeks ago. Now she thought she’d probably not even ring home on the day to find out how she’d done. She also knew now why she’d felt so different from her friends, couldn’t stand the girly chumminess of school. She was different. Imagine Annabelle, she thought with a giggle, ordinary, nice, everyday Annabelle with her huggy-buggy family, even thinking about a relationship with someone more than a couple of years older than herself! She’d probably get as far as a fling with an Australian surfer during the statutory year off, marry a nice Environmental Science graduate that she’d meet at Exeter and spend the rest of her life mothering him and moaning at him. Kate, meanwhile, pushed her toy panda into the corner of her bag and hugged herself at the knowledge that she was treasured.
‘Kate? Can I come in? What’s happening, why’s everyone so cross and peculiar?’ Suzy appeared in the doorway and Kate felt an unexpected rush of sorrow. Suzy looked bewildered and frightened. She wanted to hug her, but was afraid they’d both cry, and she didn’t want that – she wanted this to be a triumphant outgoing, no invading, painful, conscience in the way. ‘I’m going away for a while Suze. Just like a holiday, but maybe for a bit longer.’
‘You’re going away with Iain?’ Suzy’s voice was small, but sure of the facts.
‘Did you guess, or did you know?’
‘The way he looked at you, right from the time he pulled you out of Margot’s pool. I didn’t think I could be right though because he’s—’
‘Don’t say it.’ Kate put her hand gently over Suzy’s mouth. ‘I’ve heard it enough from them. I don’t want to hear you say it too, not you. Get Mum to tell you the whole thing.’ She screwed up her nose. ‘It’s all a bit tacky.’
‘Taxi’s here!’ Tom called as he came up the stairs. ‘Shall I carry your bag?’
‘It’s OK, I can manage. Why are you being so nice?’ Kate felt she might cry in spite of being so determined not to.
Tom grinned at her. ‘I want you to know that you’ve got someone to come back to. I’m old and I love you too, but I’m allowed to, I’m your dad,’ he told her as they went down the stairs.
‘Why is she off to Heathrow in a cab? Why didn’t he just drive her there? How gutless can you get?’ Heather agonized tearfully as she felt the impact of Kate’s absence the moment the taxi disappeared down the drive. The house felt instantly too big, as if the walls had suddenly moved outwards because Kate had left behind great silent echoing hollow spaces where she had been. When Edward’s dead body had been parked in the dining-room, the house had seemed to contract around them, making them whisper, making them aware of the small space between themselves and the presence of death. Kate left great, aching spaces echoing with the phantom of her energy.
‘She said he told her to meet him there,’ Tom said, opening a much-needed can of lager from the fridge. ‘I suppose he could hardly saunter up to the front door and say “Excuse me, I’ve come to steal your daughter.”’ Tom’s voice wobbled with the effort of trying to stay in control.
‘Oh, he arranged that, did he?’ Delia said with interest. ‘Then I think you’d better get in the car,’ she told Heather. ‘After all, what makes you think he’ll be there?’
It was like admitting that Kate, who was so special, could possibly have been just someone to be used, Heather thought as she drove through the village. She was ashamed of her lack of faith in her own daughter’s lasting attraction, no trust that Kate could keep Iain interested for any longer than she herself had. Perhaps it had been for as little as that one night. Heather thought of the last, agonizing chapter of Peter Pan, the one she’d found impossible to read aloud to the girls, where Peter returns years later to claim Wendy’s daughter. She’d looked at their little clean pink faces in their beds as she’d tried to read, imagining with painful foresight, just how Wendy must have felt, having to let her child go. Iain was the very last Peter she’d have then imagined Kate flying with.
The traffic through the village was horribly slow. Trucks and vans were leaving Margot’s driveway and forming a slow and ramshackle convoy that rumbled along in a tired procession, like a broken-down fair-ground at the tail-end of the season. Along the pavement where the shops started, Heather, crawling along with her windows open, could hear the conversations of people who stood around gossiping about the previous night, about the awfulness of young people, the undoubted influence of drugs. Julia Merriman with her dogs was in the thick of the gathering, smiling and full of purpose, looking as if she was relishing the fact that the village had some common cause for concern at last. Perhaps trouble and problems were really the only thing that could link the community, now that no-one could summon up much interest in the church organ fund or the cricket tea rota.
The airport was stifling and dusty, and reeked of oily fuel and overheated cars sweltering in lines trying to get past building works to the central terminal areas. Heather drove around the perimeter road as fast as she dared, and parked opposite Terminal Four, scanning the car park as she drove for the scarlet Mercedes and not finding it. She wanted very much to take that as a sign that Iain wasn’t there and wasn’t going to be there, but intrusive reason told her he’d probably left it somewhere else or taken a taxi like Kate.
Once she’d parked and locked her car, Heather came suddenly to the point at which she wasn’t sure what to do next. Down on the pavement, with all the terminal entrance doors in view, all she could do was find somewhere to wait. She paused, feeling that her hesitation made her conspicuous. Baggage-handlers eyed her for suitcases that needed carrying, traffic wardens shied away in case she was going to ask them for change or for directions. Suddenly she caught sight of a man climbing slowly out of a black hire
car, accepting the help of the driver’s arm. It was Iain, suddenly, recognizably on his way to overripe old age. He was alone, moving strangely slowly and awkwardly like someone who wasn’t bothering to disguise a bout of rheumatism. She noticed his hair was looking unusually thin and stringy, clinging limply round his head as a result of the heat. There was something pathetic about him, an ageing fool still chasing young girls who were so much more easy to flatter and charm than mature, wise, questioning women. Now she watched Iain’s stooped figure counting out cash for tips while baggage (expensive, soft leather) was unloaded from the car boot and stacked on a porter’s trolley, then taken through the automatic doors into the building. Kate must be somewhere just beyond those doors, noticing the same things, she thought. If she doesn’t now, she will later and she’ll wonder what on earth she’s done. In case it was now, and praying to all available Gods that it might be, Heather found an abandoned trolley and sat on it in the shade watching the doors till her eyes blurred, prepared to wait for her daughter, either here or at home, for as long as it took.
the end
About the Author
Judy Astley was born in Blackburn, Lancashire and educated at Twickenham County School for girls. After taking a degree in English, she worked at the BBC for a while and then became a dressmaker and designer for Liberty’s followed by several years as a painter and illustrator.
Judy Astley’s previous novels, Just For The Summer and Pleasant Vices, are also published by Black Swan and she is currently working on her fourth novel. She also writes short stories for teenage magazines. She lives in Twickenham and Cornwall with her songwriter husband and two daughters.
Also by Judy Astley
JUST FOR THE SUMMER
PLEASANT VICES
and published by Black Swan
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SEVEN FOR A SECRET
A BLACK SWAN BOOK: 0 552 99629 7
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781446487501
First publication in Great Britain
PRINTING HISTORY
Black Swan edition published 1996
Copyright © Judy Astley 1996
The right of Judy Astley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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