The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  She was silent. She knew he was right.

  ‘And I have tried,’ he said, ‘I really have.’

  ‘I haven’t seen much evidence of that,’ she said. ‘Certainly not lately. And I really don’t approve of the way you behave towards Francesca.’

  ‘Well, you’re very wrong there,’ he said, ‘she and I are quite good friends now.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. She came to visit me in hospital, several times, and I have made it very plain that I’m sorry about — well, about my attitude to her.’ God, this was fun. Talk about exquisite irony.

  ‘That rather sounds to me as if she made all the running,’ said Jess.

  ‘Not really. In fact we’d started to build bridges before that. I met her at Channing House one day, long before the accident, and we had a long talk. I was wrong about her; I don’t mind admitting it.’

  ‘Well, that’s very nice of you,’ said Jess, ‘and I’m pleased to hear it. She’s never mentioned it to me, but there’s no reason why she should, I suppose – ’

  ‘Not really, no. We’re both a bit embarrassed about it, I think. Well, I certainly am. Anyway, if it’s any comfort to you, I wrote to my father after the crash, told him I was sorry.’

  ‘And has he responsded?’

  ‘No,’ said Liam, with a carefully light sigh, ‘but I’m sure he’s very busy.’

  ‘I’m afraid he is. And very upset. His pride’s hurt as much as anything.’

  ‘Yes. Poor old Dad.’ And I know all about pride being hurt, he thought, a lot more than he does.

  ‘Anyway, back to the Clarkes. You were going to give me your view of all that.’

  ‘I was?’

  ‘I think so. Trying to whiten Dad’s reputation a bit.’

  ‘I would never try, as you put it, to do that,’ she said, with great dignity, ‘I would only tell the truth. As I know it.’

  ‘And what is that? Is there really some more to it, something that I – that we all should know?’ Again, he held his breath: literally.

  ‘Not – not really,’ she said after a long pause. ‘But I do know he felt – still feels personally guilty for Nigel’s death.’

  ‘Guilty?’ And now the astonishment was genuine. ‘Why should he feel that?’

  ‘He and Nigel were drinking that night. In the office. He felt responsible for letting him go out and drive home. It wasn’t illegal then, of course,’ she added, sternly. ‘Thanks to Barbara, things are different now.’

  Barbara? Barbara who? What was she talking about? Maybe she was getting a bit past it after all. Then he realised: Barbara Castle. ‘Oh. Oh I see,’ he said carefully, very quietly. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have thought that was so very terrible.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ she said, and her sharp old face was softer suddenly, almost grateful. ‘Wouldn’t you really?’

  Liam seized on the gratitude. ‘Granny Jess, of course not. Nigel was hardly a kid, he could decide whether or not he was in a fit state to drive.’

  ‘Yes, I told your father that. But he couldn’t accept it. And it’s been eating away at him, all these years.’

  ‘That really is ridiculous. I wish I could tell him I think so myself.’

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ she said.

  ‘If ever the opportunity arises, I will. I promise. I wouldn’t wish that sort of burden of guilt on anyone.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, stern again now, ‘I do feel he has to bear some of the responsibility. Obviously. I like it that he does. It always encourages me that he still has a conscience. But perhaps he need not take on quite as much as he does.’

  ‘No. No indeed.’

  There was a silence; there had to be more, he thought; his father wouldn’t have been eaten up with remorse for twenty years over feeding a colleague a few drinks. Even if the colleague had then gone out and virtually killed himself. He waited, patiently. Silences were very potent, certainly in court: witnesses felt bound in the end, even subconsciously, to say something, anything, to break the silence. Graydon Townsend could have told him the same thing about interviewing subjects.

  ‘They’d had a quarrel, you see,’ she said slowly. ‘Well, not a quarrel, a disagreement.’

  ‘Not so surprising. Partners often have those.’

  ‘I suppose so. But that was why they were having the drink; they’d sorted it out, and were – well, relaxing, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh. Yes of course.’

  Yes of course. That was it. It was the quarrel that had made his father guilty; the quarrel that had been fatal. The quarrel that had caused the crash. Not the drink. From what he remembered of Nigel Clarke, he was the mildest, most self-contained of men, most unlikely to drink himself into the sort of stupor that would cause him to crash his car. He sat there, very still, looking at Jess, watching her carefully, his key witness.

  ‘Do you know what this row was about?’ he said gently.

  ‘Oh – no. Not in detail. Something about the way the company was being run.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I see.’

  ‘So you see,’ she said briskly, standing up, ‘your father is not so unfeeling. Not conscienceless. Try and make up with him, Liam. You’ll regret it if you don’t.’

  ‘I will,’ he said, ‘I promise.’

  ‘And try to feel a bit less sorry for yourself,’ she added. ‘Self-pity is a very destructive emotion.’

  It was very hard to maintain the ruefully regretful smile at that, but he thought he’d just about managed it.

  He wondered if he might share this new information with Teresa Booth; she had seemed interested in it all. He stopped the cab at a phone box on the way home to call her, but her housekeeper informed him she was out for the evening. He didn’t want her phoning him, and when he got home Naomi was there. What looked like a very long weekend lay ahead of him, deprived as he was of making any progress in his campaign; but Naomi was in surprisingly friendly mood, and he supposed he did have a great deal to think about.

  John Martin sat back wearily in the chair that had once been Marcia Grainger’s and decided to leave Channing House for the weekend and go home to his wife and baby in Guildford. It had been a tough four days, and he wasn’t thinking properly any more. He was as sure as his name was John Martin there was something going on here, that Channing had something – a lot — to hide, but he was buggered if he could find it. So far everything seemed totally in order. Yes, there were a lot of complex goings-on; yes, there were dozens of different bank accounts; yes, there were all sorts of insurance funds and pension schemes and offshore trusts; yes, a great deal of money was sent on apparently circuitous journeys round the globe, ostensibly in order to finance foreign developments; yes, Channing did personally hold an enormously high percentage of the shares; yes, he and the poor old bugger who’d copped it, Douglas Booth, had been dual signatories on a great many of the company accounts; yes, there was a house in Greece that was clearly something of a tax dodge; and yes, that pompous twit Peter Barbour was living in a house that appeared on the face of it to be rather beyond his fairly modest salary; but none of it was actually seriously illegal. None of it. So far he hadn’t found anything, anything at all. Of course there were still the shareholders to dredge through, but the register appeared, on the face of it, in order. Anyway, he was bushed. And he couldn’t think straight any more. He’d leave it now till Monday. He wanted to go home and have the nice supper that his wife had told him she’d prepared several hours ago, and sit and listen to the new CD they’d bought of the Pavarotti concert in Hyde Park. And tomorrow he would get up early and go to the golf course.

  He was just walking through Reception when he saw the pile of photocopies and print-outs young Oliver Clarke had been working on all that day for him. Nice lad; slightly funny business about his mother’s nursing home fees, but there was nothing illegal about paying for a crippled old lady’s comfort out of your own pocket. He could hardly get Channing on that one. He picked up the envelope, went downstairs, said goodnight to
the porter and hailed a taxi. As it wove its rather tortuous route to Waterloo, he pulled out the first sheaf of papers, which was a breakdown of company purchases and assets for the year 1989. All pretty predictable. All in order. Nothing that would interest him: shopping malls, blocks of flats, office blocks, exactly the sort of stuff that left the Martin pulses running pretty slowly. Except – well, except for this. This would be very nice indeed, by the sound of it. Something to be personally checked out, perhaps. A golf complex, up in Scotland in a place called Auchnamultie. He hadn’t realised Channing had one of those. Bought by the company, undeveloped, for two million. Must be worth three, four times that now. If it was any good. He loved playing golf in Scotland. The air was so marvellous. He had once, only once, played at Gleneagles, on a corporate day’s entertaining, and had told his wife afterwards it was the nearest thing to heaven he’d ever known. She hadn’t been terribly impressed.

  Anyway, he had a week’s holiday coming up. He’d investigate it on Monday, find out where it was and see if he could book into it. Before it had to be sold, which it undoubtedly would be, to benefit Channings’ creditors.

  The cab had reached Waterloo. Thank God. John Martin put the file back into the envelope, found his train, got into the first class compartment that was one of the few perks of working overtime for Muir Whitehead, and fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Kirsten sat in the bath, gazing down at her stomach (so flat, so reassuringly flat), and tried not to panic. Of course she wasn’t pregnant; she couldn’t be. It was impossible. Quite impossible. She’d been taking her pills. Hadn’t she? Regularly. Well, quite regularly. Of course she did forget from time to time. And since she hadn’t been having any sex lately, she’d been getting quite sloppy about it. But mostly she took them. Probably she was just late because her system was all mucked up, simply because she was always forgetting to take them, and then taking two or even three. That was it. She didn’t feel sick or anything. Last time she’d been terribly sick. And her boobs were still just the same. She seemed to remember they’d got bigger and sore before. No, she was just being silly. It wasn’t even worth doing a test. But she might, just to set her mind at rest. She would, just to set her mind at rest. But she’d only missed one. Well, one and a half. Yes, she’d get a test and do it and probably that would bring it on. It was a pity, her being so worried – well, not worried, but distracted – because it had spoiled the evening with Oliver, scuppered her plans for finally seducing him. He’d known there was something up, had even asked her (slightly embarrassed) if she was feeling OK. Probably thought she had her period. That was an irony. Well, she was seeing him later that day; she’d have done the test by then, the chemist was just down the road, and then she’d know she was OK and could go along with his suggestion for another jaunt into the country and reset the scene.

  She smiled happily to herself, reached for the razor, started shaving her legs.

  Reverend Mother had received two letters that morning; it was hard to say which gave her more anxiety. The first was from Rachel, a sad, careful letter explaining that there was no longer the slightest hope of Bard Channing putting any money into their project and explaining why. She said she had written personally to the bank, to apologise and explain to them, thanking them for their patience; and she also said that Bard had suggested a few other people who might help. ‘But I feel, honestly, that having to go back to square one, we will lose so much time we have no hope of getting the priory, or the land for that matter, now. The property developer has been waiting in the wings, and is now bound to rush on stage, waving wads of notes. I am so sorry, Mother; and Mr Channing has asked me to apologise and to tell you that he intends to write himself in a few days. I think things look very bad for him, and his problems are extremely complex and severe; please bear with him, therefore, if the letter is a while materialising! My love to Mary; I feel I can’t leave London and Francesca just at the moment, but I will be down in a few weeks. Yours ever, Rachel.’

  The second letter was from the Department of Health and Social Security, and it said that its Mr Rutherford would be calling upon Mother Felicia within the next few weeks to discuss with her certain aspects to the running of the convent and the community in the light of new EEC regulations as they applied to residential accommodation. If Reverend Mother would care to phone Mr Rutherford on the above number then a mutually acceptable meeting could be arranged.

  The meaning of this, despite its excruciating grammar, was very plain; the countdown to the dissolution of the Help House in its present form had begun, and the happiness and security of at least some of the residents was seriously under threat.

  Reverend Mother went to the chapel for a while and sought guidance, and then, with a very heavy heart, sat down and wrote a letter back to Rachel, saying that while she understood Rachel’s presence in London was clearly very desirable, she would like her to come to the convent as a matter of urgency, so that they could discuss matters further.

  ‘Bard,’ said Francesca tentatively, ‘is there anything at all that you’d like to do? This weekend?’

  He glared at her. ‘Short of taking a sawn-off shotgun to those morons who are raking over the ruins of my company, no, there isn’t.’

  ‘Well, just supposing you don’t do that, do you want to go down to the country? Would that help?’

  ‘Help? How could it help?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. It would give you something to do.’

  ‘Francesca, I’ve got a great deal to do. Thank you. And I don’t think wandering round discussing the roses is going to be particularly therapeutic.’

  ‘Bard, you never discuss the roses. Or anything else to do with the garden, except to complain about poor Mr Parker.’

  ‘I’d like to go sailing,’ he said suddenly. ‘That really would be worthwhile.’

  She knew why he’d said that: to hurt her, because he knew she couldn’t or wouldn’t go with him.

  ‘Well,’ she said calmly, refusing to rise, ‘why don’t you go? I don’t mind. Take Charlie, or Henry. I’m sure they – ’

  ‘Charlie and Henry have their own lives to lead. I can’t expect them to drop everything at a moment’s notice to come sailing with me.’ Francesca didn’t point out that under different circumstances Bard expected everyone to drop everything to do what he wanted; she simply smiled at him and said, ‘Well, what about Barnaby? He likes sailing.’

  ‘Well – ’ He hesitated. ‘I could ask him I suppose. No doubt he’ll think he’s got better things to do. Where is he?’

  ‘Asleep I suppose. It’s only half-past ten. That’s what the morning is for, when you’re twenty.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. I didn’t spend all my time in bed when I was his age. I wasn’t allowed to and nor did I want to. He ought to be up, sorting his life out, not lying there, doing nothing. Has he organised next term, where he’s going to go, yet?’

  ‘Bard, I don’t know. He’s not my child. I can’t be – ’

  ‘Yes, so you’re very fond of telling me. Especially when he’s not doing what he ought to be doing. Which reminds me, I have to get hold of Kirsten. Bloody girl’s done it again.’

  ‘Done what?’ said Francesca, a procession of possible events ranging from arrest to pregnancy drifting past her eyes.

  ‘She’s talked to the press. I know it’s hard to believe, but she has.’

  ‘What? But – ’

  ‘Oh, it’s not quite as bad this time. But almost. Fixed for that bloody Townsend man – your friend – to see my mother.’

  ‘He’s not my friend,’ said Francesca, keeping her temper now with a huge effort. ‘But I don’t see why – ’

  ‘Nor do I. Whatever her reason, she must be half-witted. I tried to get hold of her yesterday and she wasn’t in the office. Skiving off somewhere, no doubt. Anyway, I’m going to go and kick Barnaby out of bed, and see if I can get him to come sailing with me.’

  Half an hour later, grumbling loudly, but actua
lly quite pleased at the prospect, Barnaby was being bundled into the car by his father, en route to Chichester harbour and Bard’s latest water-based toy, a state of the art thirty-five-footer ULDC – ‘short for Ultra Light Displacement Craft’, he had told Francesca, one of the many times he had tried to tempt her onto the water, ‘incredibly fast, so light it skims through the water, almost planes in fact.’ Francesca had said she was sure it was wonderful, but she’d rather go on just hearing about it.

  Bard had promised Barnaby, who had been longing to experience the delights of the ULDC – christened Lady Jack, much to Jack’s resentment, since he had not been allowed on it once — that given a following wind – of which there seemed considerable promise – they would sail across to France and spend the night there. Francesca breathed a sigh of relief, put in a brief prayer for the wind back to England to be light, if not non-existent, for several days, and decided to go and see her mother.

  Oliver put the phone down, feeling rather depressed. He had been looking forward to his day with Kirsten; they had been planning on a long drive out to the country, dinner somewhere nice and – well, who knew what might have happened after that. He was beginning to feel rather physically obsessed with Kirsten, not to mention frustrated. It just wasn’t easy, being so close to her, feeling so – so involved with her, wanting her, really wanting her now very badly, wanting to explore her, to enjoy her, to feel her enjoying him.

  But he liked, on the other hand, her attitude towards sex; well, the one she presented him with, anyway; he felt quite sure she was not always so circumspect, but that, in a way, made him feel he mattered to her. It was a rather weird, back-to-front judgment to make, he supposed: that because she wouldn’t go to bed with him until she knew him (and presumably liked what she knew), then she saw him as important. But he felt it was the right one.