‘Dad! Dad!’ He ran towards the car holding out his arms, the eggs dropping around him like large, messy insects. ‘What are you doing here? Dad, I can surf.’
‘Surf?’ said Bard, getting out, picking him up, hugging him, looking a the broken eggs. ‘Whoever taught you to do that, one of the nuns?’
‘No, they’re not allowed to take their things off. Barnaby told me how, and a nice old man called the Curdle showed me on the beach today. Mum says – ’
‘Where is your mother?’
‘She’s in her room. She’s tired.’
‘Can you show me her room?’
‘Bard,’ said Rachel, ‘Bard, let me go up first. Please. I think it would be best.’
‘Oh – all right.’
‘Dad, come and help with the eggs. Oh and I’ve made a shooter, you could try that if you like, I’ve been trying to hit that – ’ he pointed at the crucifix set above the wall by the five-bar gate – ‘but I haven’t yet.’
Bard Channing was not often seen to look nervous, but he did then.
‘You can say what you like,’ said Francesca, ‘I just can’t forgive you.’
She looked terrible; her eyes were swollen, she was somehow smaller, shrivelled in her pain.
‘Why not?’
‘Oh don’t be so fucking dense!’ She shouted the words: Francesca, who never swore. ‘How do you think it feels for me, to know you’ve been up there in London with Bard, that you sneaked off to be with him, lied to me about it, how do think it feels to know you’re much much closer to him than I am, that he talks to you, confides in you as he never did in me? And you in him, for that matter.’
‘That’s what hurts, isn’t it?’ said Rachel slowly.
‘Yes of course it is. It’s horrible. You told him about Mary before you ever told me, you were there in his office the day of the crash – ’
‘Pure coincidence. I told you.’
‘Yes, so you say.’
‘Francesca, that’s what hurt Bard most, you know, about you and Liam. That you had become so close. Not the sex at all.’
‘Oh so you’ve discussed that as well, have you? Well, I’m glad you’ve both been having such cosy chats about it all. No doubt I seem perfectly ridiculous to you both. Childish, pathetic. I might tell you, Mummy, you bear some responsibility yourself for what has happened. You really do.’
‘Francesca,’ said Rachel, ‘Francesca, you’ve got this all wrong.’
‘Listen,’ said Francesca, ‘this whole thing has happened because Bard shut me out. Wouldn’t talk to me, share things with me. Can’t you understand, every time he gets close to you, it’s just another wedge between him and me. It’s just as bad as if – well, as if you were having an affair with him.’
‘Oh Francesca, really!’ said Rachel. She realised in that instant that she had subconsciously feared Francesca might actually have thought that, thanked God that she hadn’t. ‘Now you’re being really absurd.’
‘No I’m not. You see, you just don’t understand. And anyway, why did you lie to me?’
‘Because if I’d told you I was going to see him you’d have panicked. Tried to stop me. Or insisted on coming too. I had to lie.’
‘You could have told me once you were there.’
‘Darling, once I was there, events took over. Believe me. And I couldn’t leave him. Last night. He was – very low.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘He’ll tell you, I expect. He’s here.’
‘I don’t want to see him. And why, why on earth did you go and see him? I still don’t understand.’
Rachel looked at her, so hurt, so damaged, betrayed, as she saw it, by everyone she was close to and loved, and knew she couldn’t possibly tell her the real reason; that she had gone to offer to lie for Bard, to provide him with his alibi – and knew also that could no longer be an option. It would be the ultimate example of what was so deeply distressing Francesca; she would be moving in on her already sick marriage, taking her place, displaying the ultimate loyalty. It might save Bard, but it would destroy Francesca.
‘Oh, well,’ she said lightly, ‘I’m afraid I was just playing marriage counsellors, darling. Interfering, poking my great hooter in. Probably my besetting sin. As you very well know. And I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m terribly sorry.’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ said Francesca. She looked at her mother and then gave her an odd, distorted smile. ‘But I suppose I have to believe you meant well.’
‘I wish you could. Believe it, I mean.’ She looked down at Kitty, who was sitting on the floor between them, sorting out the waste-paper basket, breathing rather heavily.
‘Is she all right?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. Bit of a runny nose, that’s all,’ said Francesca absently.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh – God, I don’t know. No, I don’t think I am. I don’t even know what I feel. All the worst things. Hurt. Ashamed. Frightened. Humiliated. And just – more unhappy than I can ever remember. Could have thought possible.’
Rachel looked at her, and would have given all she had to have been able to shoulder some at least of her pain.
‘Even Granny Jess warned me about Liam, you know,’ said Francesca.
‘Really? How did she know?’
‘Oh – second sight, I suppose.’ She tried to smile. ‘I don’t know. Anyway, she did. “Beware of Liam,” she said, “he’s dangerous.” I was just angry with her, thought that like everyone else she’d got him wrong. When it was me who’d got him wrong. Hopelessly wrong.’
‘Well,’ said Rachel, ‘it’s very easy. When you’re – obsessed with someone.’
‘No,’ said Francesca, ‘it was just pathetic. I was taken in by him, listened to all his self-indulgent garbage, like some half-witted virgin. Oh, God, how could I have been so stupid?’
‘Being stupid isn’t a crime,’ said Rachel, ‘although it can be dangerous. Will you see Bard? He wants to talk to you.’
Francesca sighed. ‘There’s no point. There’s nothing to say. Our marriage, our relationship, is over. Certainly nothing’s changed that. I’ve still been unfaithful to him, with the person he hates more than anyone in the world, and he’s still totally rejected me.’
‘Francesca, you cannot possibly be sure of that. Not yet.’
‘I think I can,’ she said, ‘and he’s only going to say all the same things, again and again. Most of which I deserve,’ she added, ‘but there is no point.’
‘I think he has some different things to say,’ said Rachel, ‘and before you look at me like that, no, we have not discussed them. Francesca, he loves you still. He wants to – ’
‘Well, I don’t love him,’ said Francesca.
‘How can you be sure of that?’
‘Mummy, don’t start on all your marriage-guidance garbage, please. Of course I’m sure. And – oh, all right. Yes, I’ll see him. I’ve got something to tell him actually,’ she added, and the expression on her face was interesting, Rachel thought; very careful, almost shrewd. She wondered what it was, if Francesca had made her decision.
‘Good. I’ll take the children for a walk. Is it all right for Kitty to go out?’
‘Yes of course. She’s fine. Mary’s got a nasty cold though. She’s had to stay in bed today. I’m sure she’d love to see you. Don’t take Kitty in to her though, will you?’
‘No, I won’t.’
Whenever Francesca hadn’t seen Bard even for a few days, she was struck by the sheer physical force of him. He stood there across the room from her, looking at her, his eyes dark, broodingly blank, and felt him tangibly, as if he was holding her, touching her.
‘Hallo, Bard. I’m surprised to see you here.’
‘I’m quite surprised myself,’ he said. ‘I’m still not sure why I’ve come. I think,’ he sighed, paused, looked at her with the same blank look – ‘I think I just wanted to see you.’
‘I can’t think why.’
‘No,�
�� he said. ‘No, I can’t really, either.’
‘You must hate me,’ she said, ‘really hate me. And hate the sight of me.’
‘Oddly enough, no, I don’t. I hate the thought of what you’ve done. That’s not quite the same thing. Although it has a bearing on it, of course.’ He almost smiled, sank down heavily on the bed.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I suppose it does.’
‘And you, how do you feel about me now, do you suppose?’
‘I don’t know, Bard. I really don’t.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said suddenly, abruptly, the words ripped out of him as if by force.
She stared at him; of all the things he might have said, that was the most unexpected, the most unthinkable.
‘What for?’ she said finally. ‘What are you sorry for?’
‘For saying what I did. About – about what I asked you. And about your reaction to it.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘well, it was understandable, that, I suppose. I’ve been thinking about it.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes. And you were wrong. Quite wrong. But I was afraid you might be right.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Yes, I see.’
‘I did behave very badly,’ she said, after a while, ‘I know that. It was horrifying. As you said.’
‘It was very – painful, yes. But Liam must bear much of the blame.’
The name touched her grief; it was like a physical hurt. She couldn’t say anything for a while, then: ‘Have you spoken to him yet?’ she said. She had to know; it was important.
‘Briefly, yes.’
‘And did he – deny it?’
‘No, of course, not. On the contrary.’
‘I’m sorry?’ she said. ‘What do you mean, what did he say?’
‘Well,’ he said, slightly impatient, ‘obviously he wanted me to know all about it. How very satisfactory it had been, that you had – had – Christ Almighty, Francesca, do I have to go through this? Why do you think he began it all? To hurt me as much as he possibly could. He wasn’t going to go quietly, he wanted to extract the maximum mileage from the situation.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, I see.’ She wouldn’t have thought it could have hurt more, but it did.
‘Are you still – communicating with him?’ he said, and his eyes were darker still.
‘No. No I’m not. Not any longer.’ She was too unhappy, had come too low for pride. ‘It’s – well, it seems to be over. Whatever it was.’
‘I see.’
‘Bard – ’
‘Yes?’
‘Why do you hate him so much? Why have you always hated him so much?’
‘Oh,’ he said, wearily, ‘many reasons. But I suppose mostly because he is mine, part of me, flesh of my flesh and still so – rotten. It’s hard to bear, that. That is what I found hardest about you, about what had happened, thinking of you with – oh Christ.’
He looked down at his hands; remorse, grief for him flooded her, she felt physically sick with it. She stepped towards him, then drew back, sensing the revulsion he felt for Liam must extend to her.
‘Come here,’ he said, reaching out a hand, still not looking at her. ‘Come here, please.’
She went forward very slowly, as if she were making some dangerous, difficult journey; took the hand. He did not move otherwise, did not look up, just sat there, his head bowed, holding it.
‘I still love you,’ he said, ‘I think. I wish I didn’t but I do. And that is what makes it so – difficult.’
She was silent, shocked that he should feel such an unlikely, an impossible thing; just stood there, looking down at him, at his bent head, his hand holding hers.
‘Bard,’ she said finally, feeling she must say, do, something into this awful, dreadful silence, ‘I’m so sorry, so desperately sorry. Not just for what happened, but that I told him. What you’d – what you’d asked. It was so stupid, so totally stupid. I was beside myself, hysterical, desperate, and he – well, there’s no excuse. It was a terrible thing to do.’
‘Oh,’ he said, his voice almost indifferent, heavy, ‘it doesn’t matter.’
‘Bard,’ she said, puzzled, ‘of course it matters. He’s told – told Gray Townsend.’
‘I know that. But it doesn’t matter. Francesca, I’m in this thing so deep, I’m in such trouble, it probably can’t make much difference now.’
He looked up at her then, and said slowly, very quietly, ‘Perhaps – perhaps you should come and sit down. And I’ll tell you about it.’
And she sat down beside him, still holding his hand, and listened. To a long, involved story: one that she could hardly follow at times, of tortuous dealings, of shares bought and sold illegally by long complex chains, of money moved across currencies and continents, moved into bank accounts where it had no business to be, of desperate attempts to shore things up at the last minute, to save the company, money secured against non-existent properties.
‘It’s all I cared about,’ he said. ‘That company and you. And the children, of course. It’s hard to explain; it was me, an extension of myself, I created it out of nothing, took something out of the ether, an idea, a plan, a determination, and turned it into bricks and mortar, buildings and streets, houses and factories, shops and schools, all there because of me. I became part of people’s lives, the people who worked for me, directly and indirectly, hundreds, thousands of them, they had security, a future. It makes for arrogance, that sort of thing. I became very arrogant, I’m afraid.’
Francesca looked at him, sitting there, his head bowed, brought down, no longer arrogant, and could find nothing to say. And then he looked up, at her face, and said, ‘Do you think you can begin to understand?’
She nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’ She sighed a sigh almost as heavy as his. ‘And – Nigel Clarke? And Teresa Booth – ’
‘Oh Christ. Of all the – bad things I’ve done, that was the worst. The only truly bad one. And it’s haunted me all my life. I – ’ He stopped, shook his head. ‘I don’t think you want to hear this, Francesca.’
‘I want to hear it.’
He started talking again, so quietly now she could scarcely hear him. ‘We – well, Duggie and I, were – bribing planning officers. Back in the ’seventies. You had to, almost. You felt, rightly or wrongly, if you didn’t somebody else would, and they’d get the contract. We weren’t prepared to risk it. Anyway, I thought Nigel knew, that he understood. He didn’t. He was incredibly straight – you’ve met Heather, you can imagine what he must have been like. Anyway, he came to me, that night, the night he died, told me he’d found out, that he didn’t like it, that he was going to pull the plug. Tell someone. He was pretty self-righteous about it, read me a sermon about dishonesty. I – well, I told him, if he did, he’d go down as well, that no one would believe he hadn’t been involved, in fact I’d make sure they knew he had been. We were drinking; he got very drunk. I knew he was drunk, Francesca, and how distressed he was, and I knew he shouldn’t drive, and I was so angry with him, so fucking angry, I didn’t care, I let him go off, into that awful foggy night, I should have stopped him, and – well, you know what happened. He was killed. And it was my fault. I killed him, Francesca, I killed Nigel Clarke. And not a day has passed since that I haven’t thought about it, felt guilty about it – ’
Francesca looked at him There were tears in his eyes; one rolled down his cheek. She moved her hand, wiped it away with her finger.
‘Bard,’ she said, ‘you didn’t kill him. Of course you didn’t. He wasn’t a child. He was old enough to know whether or not he should have been driving. It’s not true.’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘it is true. I should never have said what I did, threatened him like that. It was terribly wrong. And at least I should have stopped him from driving, made him get a cab, you don’t understand. And poor Heather, a widow so young, and those children, growing up without a father, all because I was so fucking irresponsible and dishonest – ’
> ‘And I suppose,’ she said suddenly, ‘Teresa had got hold of this. Something of this. Had Duggie told her?’
‘No, he hadn’t told her. But she was suspicious about lots of things, she’s very sharp, Teresa is, and she didn’t like me anyway, she felt I was hostile to her – ’
‘I can’t imagine why she should feel that,’ said Francesca. She smiled; she couldn’t help it. Bard ignored it.
‘And she didn’t like Duggie having a smaller share of the company than I did – ’
‘That’s understandable.’
‘Why?’ he said, and for a moment he was the old Bard suddenly, self-justifying, overbearing. ‘I made all the running, took all the early risks, he just followed along, bit of a taker, really – ’
‘Bard!’ said Francesca. ‘Stop it.’
‘What?’
‘For a clever man, you’re often extraordinarily stupid. Stupid and arrogant. Do you really think Teresa could see it like that? Whatever else, she really loved Duggie. And you did – patronise him. Just a bit.’
‘I did?’ He looked so astonished, so discomfited, so exactly like Jack, she smiled again.
‘Yes. You did.’
‘Christ, how awful. I never realised. Poor old Duggie, how appalling of me …’
‘I don’t think he minded so very much,’ said Francesca. ‘He thought you were wonderful. But she minded. As I would have done.’
‘Yes, well. And she threatened to get a private detective on the case, and he’d have found out what your friend Mr Townsend did, and a great deal more besides – ’
‘Bard, he’s not my friend. If he’s anyone’s, he’s Kirsten’s friend.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, his face heavy with anger again, ‘Kirsten. We have a great deal to thank her for.’
‘Bard, there’s something I have to tell you about Kirsten. She – ’
‘Have you spoken to Townsend today?’ he said, ignoring her.
‘Yes. Yes I rang him when I – when I realised what had happened.’
‘Probably unwise.’
‘I’m – sorry.’
He shrugged. ‘And what is he going to do?’
The Dilemma Page 73