A slither of fear made its way into Drew’s consciousness; he pushed it resolutely out again.
‘Maybe. Do you have a number of the harbour, something like that?’
‘Yes, indeed, Mr Drew, I’ll just get it for you.’
Drew phoned the harbour, and got put through finally to Mike Langton. He sounded cheerful.
‘Yes, that’s right, he went out this morning. Saw him go. About nine-thirty, I’d say. I should think he’s a very long way away by now. Lovely wind out there.’
‘Oh I see,’ said Philip Drew. ‘Well, thank you very much.’
He put the phone down and sat staring out at his perfectly mown lawn. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he said.
‘There’s some new people arrived,’ said Hattie, looking out of the window of the apartment. ‘Look, they’ve got children too. Our age, Jasper, come on, let’s go and see them.’
‘Well, don’t be long,’ said Naomi, ‘we’re going to have lunch in a minute, and then we’re going to the beach.’
‘I don’t like that beach,’ said Hattie, ‘it’s boring, and it’s so hot.’
‘Oh God,’ said Naomi.
Liam watched the children running down to the central area of the development, saw them go and speak to the new arrivals, watched the family – mother, father, two boys – smile, clearly pleased at the welcome, saw Hattie indicating where their own apartment was: saw the family disappear inside, saw the children re-emerge, start playing in the pool with Hattie and Jasper; watched them for a while, listened to Naomi banging plates about in the tiny kitchen that led out of the living room; looked out again and saw the father emerging. He had swimming trunks on, and a T-shirt, and was holding a beach bag; under his arm was tucked a copy of the News on Sunday. Liam’s heart lurched. He stood up.
‘I’m just going down to the pool for a minute,’ he said, ‘get a dip before lunch. I’m terribly hot.’
‘Don’t you start about the heat,’ said Naomi.
He almost ran down the stairs, went out into the pool area. The man was now sitting back in a deck chair, the paper by his side. Liam squinted at it, but he couldn’t see anything.
‘Morning,’ he said casually, ‘just arrived, I saw. Good flight?’
‘Yes, not too bad,’ said the man. He had a North Country accent. ‘What’s it like here, good weather?’
‘Oh – yes,’ said Liam, ‘very good.’ It always astonished him that people cared so much about the weather; that hot sun equalled a good holiday. He hated the sun himself. ‘Er – mind if I look at your paper? If you’ve finished with it? Bit starved of news out here.’
‘Jolly good thing if you ask me,’ said the man, ‘can’t wait to get rid of the lot of it. All this nonsense about Blair and Prescott, who bloody cares. Yes, you have it.’
‘Thanks.’
He was so nervous his hands were shaking. He sat down on the side of the pool, picked it up. The front page blurred briefly, then settled into legibility. This might make the front page, you never knew. It hadn’t. Well, the first inside spread, then. It was big news. Nothing on the inside spread.
Liam turned to the financial section. Of course, that’s where it would be. You really couldn’t expect something about a failed businessman, however crooked, however dramatic the story, on the front page; not competing with Tony Blair and the Princess of Wales.
There was nothing in the financial section. Nothing at all. He went over it again and again, feeling increasingly angry, turning the pages more and more frantically, crumpling them. He saw the man looking at him curiously, and didn’t care. Shit, where was it, what had happened, why hadn’t they used it? That bloody stupid secretary of Townsend’s had assured him it was going to be used, his stuff; this Sunday, hopefully, she had said. Well, he thought that was what she had said. He retraced the conversation.
‘Yes, Mr Townsend asked me to tell you your information was very, very helpful and he had put it into his story.’
Well, it couldn’t be much clearer, could it? So what had happened? Liam felt sick: sick with frustration and rage. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to help Townsend, apart from anything else. And he could have given it to half a dozen journalists. He should have done. He really should.
How could he find out, who could he ask?
Of course: Teresa Booth, she’d know. She’d be able to tell him all about it.
He looked up at the window to make sure Naomi wasn’t watching him, then walked away from the pool, through the archway that led into the village – village, more like an industrial estate – and the phone.
Teresa Booth answsered the phone at once.
‘Oh, hallo Liam,’ she said. She didn’t seem very surprised to hear from him.
‘How are you, Teresa?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Liam. How are you? Where are you?’
‘In Spain, I’m on holiday.’
‘Nice?’
‘No, pretty bloody awful, staying in a grotty flat in an awful holiday village.’
She laughed her throaty laugh. ‘You should have asked me, Liam, I’ve got some very nice timeshares in Spain.’
‘Yes, well, perhaps next time. Teresa – ’
‘Yes?’
‘I was – well, I was expecting to read that story today.’
‘What story?’
‘In the paper. The story of Graydon Townsend’s. About my father.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘yes, that story. Yes, it didn’t appear, did it? Gone off the boil apparently, the whole thing. Editor wouldn’t touch it, something like that. Such a shame for you, Liam. After all you did. Never mind, maybe later on. Sorry about your holiday.’
Liam put the phone down and walked slowly back to the apartment. He felt shattered, exhausted and shaky.
‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ said Naomi.
‘Oh, nothing. Got a bit of a headache, that’s all.’
‘Daddy, do we have to go to the beach this afternoon?’ said Hattie. ‘Those two new children are really nice, and they’re staying here, by the pool. Can we stay here too?’
‘Please?’ said Jasper.
‘Oh – yes. Yes, sure. That’s fine.’
‘And we can have a little siesta,’ said Naomi. She looked at him, and smiled, a confident, determined smile. Liam tried to smile back.
A long hour later, he sat up, looked down at her naked body, then at his own failed, incompetent one.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘very sorry. Maybe later.’
‘Yes,’ she said, her face closed, ‘maybe.’
She stood up, pulled on her robe, turned to face him. ‘I hope it isn’t going to be like last time, Liam,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Last time one of your little affairs went wrong.’
‘Naomi, what are you talking about?’
‘It took months, as I recall. For you to – what shall we say – recover. I don’t think I could stand that again, Liam. I might have to rethink the whole arrangement. Even ask you for a divorce. Anyway, I’m going for a swim. Got to do something to dissipate my energies. See you later.’
Gray was dozing on the sofa when he heard the bell. He had slept appallingly badly, had spent most of the night talking to Terri about Briony and then what was left of it moving in and out of a fevered, disorientated sleep. He had an appalling headache and he felt horribly nauseous. Terri had offered to fix him some breakfast, but fearing it might be bacon and eggs and greasy at that, he had refused. She had left mid-morning, leaving a revoltingly strong cup of tea on the table beside him, and told him she’d phone later. That was at least two hours ago.
He heard the bell a second time and decided to ignore it, but it went again, and then again, insistent, boring into his throbbing head. Finally, because it was easier, he stood up, staggered out to the hall, opened the door.
Briony stood there. She was looking very solemn, almost cross; Gray looked at her warily.
‘Hallo.’
‘Hallo Gray.
I heard you weren’t feeling too good.’
‘Oh really?’ He frowned. ‘How do you know?’
She ignored the question. ‘Honestly Gray, you really are pathetic. Getting so drunk, at your age. It’ll land you in trouble, you know.’
‘Look Briony, I really would rather not be chastised like this, if you don’t mind. Even if I do deserve it. So if you’ll excuse me – ’
She ignored him. She still looked cross. ‘It’s about time you grew up, Gray. Got a bit more sensible.’
‘Bri, please – ’
‘But I’m afraid that’s a bit unlikely. Actually. What do you think?’
‘What? Briony, what are you talking about?’
He looked at her again. She wasn’t looking cross any more; she was smiling, the rather reluctant smile he could hardly remember, and had never been able to forget, and her blue eyes were very soft, very amused.
She moved nearer to him, looked up into his face.
‘You do look terrible, Gray. Not surprising, really. Two bottles of wine and a bottle of whisky. Come on, let me take you inside and make you a nice cup of really, really strong tea.’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Gray. ‘I feel sick.’
‘You deserve to feel sick.’
She walked in behind him, her hands guiding him gently into the sitting room, settled him back on the sofa, and disappeared into the kitchen. Gray lay back and stared up at the ceiling, trying not to think about anything.
He heard her come back in, heard a cup go down on the table, felt her sit down beside him. He turned his head, looked at her; she was looking very serious again, her small face set, her blue eyes fixed on his. He had forgotten how pretty she was. He always did. Oh God. Oh God, he was a fool.
‘Oh God, Briony, I’m a fool,’ he said. ‘Such a fool.’
‘Yes, you are,’ she said. Then she smiled at him, slowly and sweetly, and nodded in the direction of the tea. ‘Drink that.’
It was very, very pale beige; there was a thin slice of lemon floating in it. Gray lifted the cup, and sipped it. It was almost tasteless, slightly scented. He sighed and said, still looking into it, ‘Briony, this is perfect, and I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ she said.
Chapter Thirty-three
It was mid-afternoon. Kitty was asleep, very still and pale now, in her little oxygen tent. She had had some X-rays and some blood tests to establish her oxygen level; she had been given some extra diuretics to try to rid her small body of the fluids it was retaining. The cheerful young doctor had promised to come and see her again and to talk to Francesca the minute he had the results. There was nothing to do but wait.
‘Maybe,’ said Francesca to Rachel, who had just come back with two plastic cups of something which might have been tea, ‘maybe you should get back to the convent. To Jack. Poor Reverend Mother must be at the end of her tether.’
‘Apparently not,’ said Rachel. ‘I just phoned, and the Curdle has taken Jack off to the beach. They’re great friends, those two. And this morning he helped Sister Florence with the housework. Apparently he is planning to be a monk when he grows up.’
‘Ah,’ said Francesca. She smiled in spite of herself. Rachel looked at her, then at the sleeping Kitty.
‘She really will be all right,’ she said. ‘She is having the best possible care, and babies are – ’
‘Mummy,’ said Francesca, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but if one more person tells me babies are very tough I shall scream.’
‘Sorry, darling.’
The door of the small room they had been given opened and the cheerful young doctor came in, followed by an older, rather less cheerful one.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Mrs Channing, this is Mr Bateson. Our consultant paediatrician. I asked him to come in, dragged him away from his gardening actually, because I wanted his view on Kitty’s condition.’
Francesca nodded briefly at Mr Bateson. ‘Well, that was kind, thank you.’
Mr Bateson looked as if he had been born with a stethoscope round his neck. ‘Not really. I am not over-fond of walking up and down with a lawnmower. Now then, your baby. Er – Kitty.’
‘Yes?’ said Francesca. Please, please just say she’s better, she’s responding to the treatment, she can go home tomorrow, she’ll be fine.
‘Now Kitty is nine months old?’
‘Yes. Nearly.’
‘And the VSD – that is, the hole in her heart – was diagnosed when?’
‘In May. By Mr Moreton-Smith. At St Andrew’s.’
‘Ah, yes. And she’s been quite well since then, has she?’
This was bad. When they started going over old ground, appearing to consider it as if it was new, instead of getting to the point, it meant the news was bad.
‘Yes, she has, she’s been much better. Until she got this chest infection.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. And according to Mr Moreton-Smith, this hole was quite small, is that correct?’
‘Yes. He said he was hopeful that it might heal itself.’
‘Yes, well, of course, that does very often happen in these cases. But – well, I’m afraid that is not what has happened with Kitty.’
‘Oh,’ said Francesca.
‘The hole is, I would say, of a size not to do that. It is quite possible, of course, that the strain of her recent illness has made it larger.’
‘Oh,’ she said again. What he meant was that Mr Moreton-Smith had boobed.
‘Now, I’m not going to beat about the bush, Mrs Channing. Your baby is quite ill. Not dangerously ill at the moment, but she could become so. Her lungs aren’t coping, and neither is her heart. Her oxygen levels are quite low, I’m afraid.’
‘So – ’
‘So I would recommend to you very strongly that she is operated upon. As soon as possible. What we do is quite literally put a patch into the heart. Over the hole. It sounds very alarming, but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the children make a complete recovery.’
‘Yes, I see. And would you do it here, the operation?’ It was extraordinary how calm her voice sounded; as if she was discussing a dinner party menu, or an appointment with the hairdresser.
‘No, I wouldn’t. We really don’t have the facilities here, and this particular area is very specialised. I would recommend that she is taken back to London, and that Mr Moreton-Smith does the operation at St Andrew’s.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Francesca again. It sounded very dramatic. ‘Would she be all right, travelling so far?’
‘Oh, yes, I think so. She is already benefiting from the extra medication, and she would go by ambulance, it would be a pretty quick journey, and she could be given her oxygen and so on on the way. She could go in the morning, I wouldn’t recommend it tonight, and in any case if she continues to stabilise, she will be stronger tomorrow. So, that is my recommendation. If you would like me to call St Andrew’s and make the necessary arrangements, I will do so.’
‘Yes,’ said Francesca. There seemed to be very little choice. ‘Yes, please, if you think that really would be best. Is it – is it a big operation?’
‘Quite big. But not impossibly so.’ He smiled at her. ‘You really must try not to worry too much, Mrs Channing. I know that’s easier said than done, but she couldn’t be in better hands, and of course babies are very tough.’
Francesca opened her mouth and screamed.
Later, after she had calmed down and drunk several cups of sweet tea and apologised to Mr Bateson and the young doctor, and they had left, she turned to her mother and said, through the great choke of fear that seemed to have taken up residence in her throat, ‘I think, Mummy, maybe we ought to tell Bard.’
It was a perfect evening in France. The Lady Jack, flying before the wind, had reached the coast in record time; was now moored in a harbour a little down the coast from Sainte Vaas. Bard had not wanted to go somewhere he was known. Next day he would have to leave her, catch the train to Paris. He didn’t like the thought; she was his shelter, his last
link with all that he was leaving behind. But it was no use being sentimental about her; she had served her purpose and now she must be discarded. He was very tired; he would find a good restaurant, he thought, have a meal and then hopefully get some sleep. He’d deliberately kept his radio off all day. Apart from the obvious fact of not wishing to be contacted, he found the constant babbling of voices on Channel Sixteen almost unbearable: people calling other people to notify them where they were, where they were going, what time they might get there, some of them at considerable length (as they were not really supposed to do). It sometimes seemed more like a chat-line than a ship-to-ship radio service.
He did look briefly, thoughtfully, at the telephone in the restaurant, wondering if he should for the last time try to make contact with Francesca, but then he rejected the idea. He had burnt his boats now, almost literally; there was no point. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to see him, or speak to him; there was a limit to how much pride he could swallow and to what he could do. Whatever his mother might say.
‘No, Mrs Channing, I haven’t seen Mr Channing all weekend. Several people have phoned, his mother, his solicitor, Barnaby, but he hasn’t been in touch. I’m sorry.’ Sandie didn’t sound very sorry; she sounded as if she was enjoying the situation.
‘Oh,’ said Francesca. ‘Well, all right, Sandie, I expect he’s in the country. Thank you. If he does phone or anything – ’
‘I’ll get him to ring you, Mrs Channing. On your mobile, yes?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘And I do hope Kitty’s all right.’
‘Thank you.’
Horton gave her the same story. Including the fact that Philip Drew had called.
‘As I said to Mr Drew, I thought Mr Channing might have gone sailing. I haven’t heard from him since.’
‘Oh – thank you, Horton. Fine.’
‘They think he might have gone sailing,’ she said to Rachel. ‘I could phone Mike Langton. At Chichester. See if he’s seen him.’
‘Yes, what a good idea,’ said Rachel. Something in her voice made Francesca look at her sharply.
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