‘Mast’s broken above the spreader. Look. There, see?’
He could see: it had snapped, almost at the top.
‘So now what do we do?’
‘So now it’s almost impossible to sail. We’ll just have to head back. Make for the nearest safe harbour. Sorry, Barney, but it’s the only thing to do.’
Relief flooded Barnaby, violent, hot relief. ‘That’s OK.’ ‘Damn shame. But I can’t risk the boat in this … Get ready to go about.’
‘Sure, Dad.’
After lunch that Sunday, Naomi sent the children next door to play and told her husband that she thought they ought to have one last stab at making their marriage work. She said she had given it a great deal of thought, and now that they were under less strain she could see things more clearly.
‘We owe it to the children, and I still think it should be possible. I know I said some very harsh things to you, before you had your accident, and I’m sorry.’ She added that she was still very fond of him.
Liam said he thought it might be worth trying, and that he was still very fond of her as well. He said that he had been very hurt by some of the things she had said, but he could nonetheless understand her saying them.
‘And as soon as I’m back on my feet – literally – I really will carry on trying to get a job. Even if it’s selling insurance.’
Naomi said she didn’t think he would need to sell insurance, he was much too clever for that, and suggested they had a glass of wine to seal the pact. They drank the best part of a bottle and ended up in bed having some extremely good sex.
‘Bard? Yes of course I can hear you. Where are you?’
‘I’m in bloody France, that’s where. Weather’s awful, mast’s broken. I’ve got to get it fixed, it may take a day or two. I probably won’t be back till tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. Let everyone know, will you? I’ve called Marcia.’
‘Yes, but if you’ve called her, then surely – ’
‘Francesca, can’t you just do what I ask?’
‘Yes, Bard, all right.’
‘Children OK?’
‘The children are fine. Thank you.’
The phone went dead. Francesca looked at her mother and smiled wearily. ‘There is a God after all,’ she said.
She decided to go back. She wanted to see the children ‘and this tooth is giving me real gyp. I’m afraid I’ll have to get it sorted.’ Rachel was going to stay on at the convent for a few days: ‘I need to think and to talk to Reverend Mother some more. And to be with Mary, see if I can make her understand just a little. It’s difficult, I don’t want to worry her or frighten her.’
Francesca, who had observed an attention span in Mary of little more than twenty seconds, didn’t think this was very likely, but she didn’t want to say so; Rachel was distraught enough about the situation as it was, and she didn’t want to make her feel worse by arguing. Or displaying a hurtful and probably unhelpful ignorance.
‘I think I’ll go to Stylings tonight,’ she said, ‘and stay there for a few days. There’s no point my being in London.’
‘Well, there is if Bard wants you to be.’
‘Mummy, he doesn’t.’
Rachel looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ she said. ‘He’s very upset, darling, probably terrified, and he loves you very much.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I know so.’
‘I wish I did,’ said Francesca.
The children were both asleep when she got back to Stylings; Nanny was in her most self-righteous mood.
‘We had a very nice weekend, Mrs Channing. Quiet, but not dull. Kitty has been extremely good and seems very well, as I told you, she always responds to a strict routine, and Jack and I have gathered a great many flowers which we are going to press. Once his interest is aroused in something he becomes much quieter and all that upper activity disappears.’
‘Hyperactivity, Nanny, not upper. And he isn’t hyperactive, he’s just an ordinary lively little boy.’
‘Just as you say, Mrs Channing.’
She went in to look at them both. Kitty was sound asleep, breathing sweetly and steadily, but Jack was restless; she pulled his duvet up and he opened his eyes, looked at her, smiled sleepily.
‘Hallo, Mum. I missed you. Grandma all right?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. How are you?’
‘All right. We had such a boring time, Nanny made me pick about a hundred stupid flowers and then she put them in a big book in the library to press.’
‘Well, that sounds a nice idea.’
‘It’s stupid,’ he said. ‘Flowers are for growing, and being looked at, not squashed in books.’
She bent to kiss him. ‘Well, thank you for being so good.’
‘That’s all right, Mum. Anyway, Horton gave me a driving lesson.’
‘A what?’ said Francesca faintly.
‘On the grass cutter. I sat on his knee and drove it. We had a crash, it was great.’
‘A crash?’
‘Yeah, into a tree. Only a little one. But it’s all right, the cutter can probably be mended.’
‘Oh good. And the tree?’
‘I thought we could press it,’ said Jack.
Francesca checked her answering machine in London. There were very few messages; there was still silence from all but a very few friends. But there was one from Graydon Townsend. Could she call him? He thought she had his number, but just in case here it was.
Francesca thought for a bit and then dialled it. He answered it immediately.
‘Graydon Townsend.’ He sounded as if he was eating something.
‘Mr Townsend, it’s Francesca Channing. Sorry, have I interrupted your supper?’
‘Oh – hallo. Thank you for ringing. No, don’t worry. Only an omelette,’ he said and added, as if it mattered, ‘fine herbes.’
‘How nice for you,’ she said, amused.
‘It is, very nice. How are you?’
‘Fine. Thank you. Er – if this is about what I think it’s about, I really can’t say anything to you at all. I’m not allowed to.’
‘Not allowed to! By whom?’
‘Well, obviously my husband. And my husband’s lawyers.’
‘Well, you have to do what lawyers tell you, of course. But I’m only ringing you on behalf of someone else. As I know you personally.’
‘Who would that be?’
‘Our woman’s editor. She would like to do an interview, obviously we were hoping for this week’s paper, but next would do. The crash from the woman’s angle.’
‘Mr Townsend – ’
‘Please call me Graydon,’
‘Mr Townsend, you can’t really think I’d agree to that?’
‘Well – I’ve learnt never to think — or rather assume – anything. You never know, in this business.’
‘Well, you know about me,’ said Francesca firmly, ‘and I have to say no. I’m sorry,’ she added, ‘I know you were very kind to me, about the auction, and that you were extremely kind to Kirsten, and I appreciate it, but – ’
‘Is Kirsten well?’
‘Yes, she’s fine.’
‘Good. And it was a pleasure being kind to her, I do assure you.’
‘And that’s something else,’ she added, trying to sound severe, finding it very difficult when he was so charming, so civilised, so unlike any journalist she had ever met.
‘Yes?’
‘My husband has discovered you went to see his mother. And he’s fairly cross about it. And – ’
‘Your husband being fairly cross is quite something, I would imagine.’
‘Well – Kirsten shouldn’t have done it. Without checking with him.’
‘Whyever not? I’m writing an article about politics, and Mrs Channing was kind enough to talk to me about it from her viewpoint. She’s a remarkable lady, a walking, talking history book.’
‘I know that,’ said Francesca, ‘but she’s still Bard’s – my husband’s
– mother. And things are very – delicate at the moment.’
‘Yes of course. I’m sorry. But I saw her before – before things got delicate, you know.’
‘I appreciate that. But just the same – I hope it is only about politics, your article.’
‘I do assure you that that particular article is only about politics.’
‘Good.’
‘And thank you for the warning.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘And I really can’t persuade you to talk to our woman’s editor? Not even try to persuade you personally, over the most delicious lunch at, where shall I say, Ceccone’s?’
‘Not even there. Sorry! Much as I’d love it.’
‘Ah well, I have to say I’m not honestly so surprised. Give my best wishes to Kirsten, won’t you? If you see her?’
‘I will. Thank you. Goodbye, Mr Townsend.’
He was so nice, she thought. Good looking too. Now why couldn’t Kirsten have an affair with someone like that, instead of the riff-raff she normally went around with? Graydon Townsend could do her nothing but good.
John Martin and Peter Ford of Muir Whitehead had an oddly telepathic relationship. They were slightly sheepish about it, being accountants by training and profession, with all that that implied, but they had found that in several cases in the past they had both become first intrigued and then troubled by various aspects of an investigation at roughly the same time.
And that Monday it happened again. It was not John Martin’s discovery that the Channing golf complex did not seem actually to exist, despite such a large sum of money having been paid for it, nor even Peter Ford’s growing awareness that the dates of some of the statements of the Channing accounts with their various bankers did not entirely line up with some of the others, and that their system for the presentation, clearing and paying of cheques into the accounts seemed more than usually complex; it was none of those things that alerted them to their anxiety; they agreed there were many perfectly reasonable, indeed highly satisfactory, explanations for all of them. It was the thud of unease they both felt, and recognised in one another, at the news that Bard Channing was not in the country that day, that he had sailed his boat across the Channel at the weekend, and clearly could, if he so wished, and thought it desirable, sail it on ever further away from them and their investigations, that made them agree over their ploughman’s luncheons that the time had come for them to get him into the offices and have a little chat.
‘Just to elucidate things,’ said Martin, pushing his last bit of french bread round the plate in search of his final piece of pickle.
‘Sure,’ said Ford, draining his glass of low-alcohol lager and shaking the last crumbs of his ham and pickle crisps out of the bag and into his palm. ‘On the other hand, we don’t want to alarm him. Not while he’s over there. Or he might decide it’s all getting so uncomfortable he — well, he might not want to come back …’
‘True. Which would be very unfortunate. So on second thoughts, we’ll keep things ticking over quietly. Maybe we should have a few more words with the individual managers of the banks as well. That chap at Methuens, I felt he was a little edgy. Didn’t you?’
‘Just a bit,’ said Martin. ‘Anyway, I have no doubt it can all be explained as yet another example of eccentric accounting. All these entrepreneurial chaps go in for that. What about the Scottish development though? Possible case of leapfrogging, do you think?’
‘Well, let’s say it does seem possible,’ said Ford, ‘although of course we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. What’s the name of the subsidiary that actually conducted the transaction?’
‘Border Leisure. Haven’t found it yet. But of course it’s early days. Now, should we talk to Barbour, do you think? About the accounts?’
‘Could do,’ said Ford, ‘after the banks. Get him in tomorrow, maybe, or the next day. Has Mr Channing got any other boats, do you know?’
‘I’m not sure. Yes, I think he has. We’d better get a full list drawn up of all that sort of thing. Young Oliver Clarke could do that for us. Nice boy, that one.’
‘Very nice. Channing obviously does a lot for the family, did you take that in?’
‘I did indeed.’
The recognition that they were both speaking with this identically cheerful, if rather heavy, irony, was the next stage in the telepathic process. It was interesting, they both agreed later, that it had followed on the first rather more quickly than was usual.
‘No honestly, everything’s fine,’ said Pete Barbour. He shifted in his seat, in an effort to ease the pain in his abdomen that seemed to have been with him ever since he could remember, intensifyng daily. ‘Sorry about your boat. But really there’s nothing to worry about. Well, nothing more. Nothing’s happening. They still haven’t even asked to talk to me. So I really don’t think there’s any point you rushing back. Get your boat fixed, take your time. I wish I was over there with you. What? Well, I don’t think Vivienne would be too pleased about that. But thanks for the offer. Another time, maybe. What? Oh, Marcia’s fine. How’s young Barnaby? Good. Right oh, Bard. See you Thursday or Friday. Enjoy yourself, I would.’
Kirsten sat at her desk trying to keep her mind on her work. She wasn’t having a great deal of success. She felt sick now; misery she supposed, there was no other reason why she should have felt sick today when she’d been fine yesterday. Morning sickness didn’t come on that quickly. Sick and totally miserable. She just didn’t know what to do. Presumably have an abortion; that was the obvious thing. She’d had two already. Physically it was no big deal. But God, they’d screwed her up: she was only just properly recovering from the last one. She knew why: it was her Catholic upbringing. No amount of logic, of intellectual reasoning, of common sense, could rid her of the dreadful guilt she endured. Abortion was murder: that was the Church’s teaching. It also just happened to be true. Inside her now, growing, growing fast, was a person. At eight weeks – which was about what it was – a person with a head, a body, a brain – she should know, she’d studied the subject often enough. It was sitting there inside her, growing steadily, with its funny little curvy body, its big head, its strangely smiling face. It was safe, warm, comfortable, it trusted her; what she was going to do was drag it out, kill it, throw it away. It wasn’t just that it was a mortal sin, and she would go to hell for it: it was a barbaric act, a dreadful, savage crime. It was murder.
And she wasn’t sure she could face all that again. The guilt, the fear, the revulsion.
On the other hand, how could she not do it? How could she have it, look after it, bring it up? She could scarcely look after herself, let alone a baby. A child. God, she was a stupid fucking cow. How could she had been so stupid? And with Gray of all people. If only, if only it were Oliver’s – that would be different. Quite different; Kirsten stopped to think, dangerously, of what might happen if the baby were Oliver’s. He would be pleased, proud, happy, all the normal things. He’d want to marry her, live with her, bring it up. She could start again, be a nice person, a good person. Instead of a killer, a murderer. Even if it had been Toby’s it might have been all right. She could have married Toby. They could have had a lot of laughs. He had loads of money. They could have worked something out. But Gray! OK, she liked Gray, he was very sweet, but he was – old. Old and really a bit hopeless. She’d even wondered, until that night, if he might be gay, what with the cooking and the nice house and the ridiculous fuss he made over his clothes.
Not that Oliver didn’t fuss about his clothes. Thinking of Oliver again made her feel sicker. Very sick. She was going to be sick. Oh Christ. This was awful. This was absolutely awful …
Francesca had woken up very early on Monday morning with something feeling terribly wrong somewhere inside her head. She couldn’t think what it was at first, then realised it was her tooth, throbbing deeply, regularly, in time with her pulse. She touched it gently with her tongue: it stabbed violently. An abscess, it felt like: she’d have to see her denti
st.
She phoned him, and he said he could fit her in at noon.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Jack, ‘I just have to go to London. I’ve got really bad toothache.’
‘You don’t have to go to London,’ said Jack, ‘I’ll do it for you. You just tie a bit of string round it and tie the other end to the doorknob, then slam the door. It’s easy. That’s how George’s brother got his tooth out.’
Francesca was beginning to feel even that would be preferable to continuing to house the tooth in her head.
On her way to London, her mobile rang. It was Liam.
‘Hallo, darling. How are you, I’ve missed you so all this long weekend.’
It was so nice to hear his voice, his lovely, caressing voice, she didn’t even reprimand him for calling her darling. Anyway, she liked it. And it was harmless, lots of people used the word all the time, it didn’t mean anything, anything at all …
‘I’m not very well,’ she said, ‘I’ve got an abscess, I think, on one of my teeth. On my way to the dentist now.’
‘Oh, you poor angel. There is no pain in the world worse than that. I’m so sorry. Well, I hope your husband will be very kind to you.’
‘I’m afraid he won’t be,’ said Francesca, ‘he’s in France. His boat’s broken.’
‘Oh really? How long will it be broken? Long enough for me to see you, to comfort you, to kiss your poor hurt face better?’
‘No Liam, certainly not,’ she said, laughing (while thinking how nice that would be), ‘he’ll be back any hour, I should think.’
‘Oh, dear. Well look, phone me the minute you get out of the dentist, because I shall be worried. Otherwise I shall phone him myself, it’s Mr Porter isn’t it, yes I thought you’d go to him, and make sure he’s taking really good care of you.’
‘Yes, Liam, all right,’ she said, ‘I’ll phone you. But – ’
‘Don’t say it. Good luck, my darling. Be brave.’
She phoned Hamilton Terrace, to see if there was any further news of Bard. Marcia answered the phone.
The Dilemma Page 55