by Kate Charles
‘Don’t be daft. Let’s order first – I’m really famished.’ Emily applied herself to the menu. ‘I’m going to be really wicked and order the kind of thing I’d never let the children have. A huge plate of fried scampi and chips, I think,’ she said to the waitress who had materialised beside their table.
‘And I’ll have the avocado and smoked chicken salad.’
‘That doesn’t sound like much, Luce. Aren’t you hungry?’
Lucy shook her head, then smiled mischievously at Emily. ‘We could have eaten at your parents’, you know. Your mother positively begged us to stay for lunch.’
Emily grimaced. ‘Very funny. You don’t know what it’s like to have a mother who can’t cook. I love my mother very much, but I have no illusions about her culinary abilities. She’s the only person I know who can ruin a cheese sandwich.’
‘Then how can you bear to leave your children there?’
‘I’ll admit it’s difficult. But they’re only six – too young to suffer any permanent damage from bad cooking.’ She laughed. ‘Of course, when I was their age, I had no basis of comparison – I thought everyone cooked like that. School dinners were an absolute treat for me!’
‘But Viola and Sebastian know better. You’re a good cook, Em. They’re used to a pretty high standard of food.’
‘Thanks to you.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘It seems like such a long time ago now – those days when I was first married, and didn’t have the first idea what to do in the kitchen. And you offered to teach me. I don’t know how I would have managed without you, Luce.’
‘You could have kept the housekeeper. After all, Gabriel got by somehow before he married you.’ Lucy added, ‘Anyway, I seem to recall you telling me that his mother was not exactly brilliant in the kitchen.’
Emily laughed. ‘I never knew her, of course, but I have it on good authority that she never even knew where the kitchen was!’
‘Not impossible in that sort of grand house, I suppose. Poor little Gabriel, only the cook to blame for a deprived childhood.’ Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘How is the Angel Gabriel, by the way?’ she added ironically.
‘All right.’ Emily was silent for a moment, moving her glass around and leaving damp circles on the polished wood table-top. ‘Men . . . you know what they’re like.’
Lucy studied her bent head, certain that she was getting close to the reason for today’s invitation. ‘All too well. What’s he up to now?’
Emily’s laugh was affectionate but bemused. ‘He’s been in a real strop the last day or two. There’s just no pleasing him.’
‘What’s brought it on? A week of the children’s summer hols?’
‘I don’t think so.’ She reflected. ‘There was only one day last week when it didn’t rain, and he went with us to Kensington Gardens. Viola insisted on looking at Peter Pan, as usual, and Sebastian wanted to sail his boat on the Round Pond. Gabriel was fine that day – he really seemed to enjoy it.’
‘And since then?’
‘Well, I’ve managed pretty well to keep the children out of his hair when he’s had work to do. He worked ever so hard on his sermon for the Patronal Festival yesterday.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s overworked since the last curate left, of course, and the new one won’t come till the end of the summer. But I’m sure it’s all this pressure over the Archdeaconry. I think he felt that yesterday was the big test.’
‘And was it?’
‘Probably. The Area Bishop was there, of course. You know how these things work. The position won’t be vacant for some months – the end of the year, I think – but I’m sure they’re already close to taking a decision, and the Bishop of London will want the Area Bishop’s recommendation. It’s really no wonder Gabriel felt pressurised. He wants that job very badly.’
‘How soon will he know?’
‘Probably not for a month or so. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned,’ Emily declared. ‘Gabriel can be obsessive, but he usually handles it better. That’s why I think this promotion must be very important to him.’
‘What exactly has he done?’ Lucy touched her friend’s arm, and added facetiously, ‘He hasn’t been beating you, has he? I didn’t really think the Angel Gabriel would resort to physical violence!’
‘Hardly,’ Emily laughed. ‘Oh, look, here’s the food.’ For a few minutes she concentrated on the scampi in silence, then continued, ‘You know that Gabriel is never ill. He prides himself on that – always says it’s all in the mind. Well, yesterday, after the service, he went home with a headache! I’ve never known him to have a headache. He even missed having a sherry with the Bishop, so he must really have felt rotten.’
‘That does sound like stress. Then what?’
‘I brewed him up some of my herbal headache remedy – it’s an infusion of lavender flowers, lemon balm and a few other bits – and the way he complained you would have thought I was trying to poison him! Honestly!’
‘Was he any better today?’
‘No, that’s the point. I don’t think he slept very well, and this morning he was singularly uncommunicative.’
‘He was meant to go with you to your parents’, I take it.’
‘Yes, he was having a day off to take the twins to Mum and Dad’s. I was really looking forward to having a quiet day with him after the big weekend. I thought that after a decent interval with my parents, we could escape and maybe go somewhere on the way home – somewhere in the country where we could have a nice long walk, if the weather was decent. But this morning he shut himself in his study, and only put his head out long enough to say that he had some very important work to do, and would I mind if he didn’t go along?’
‘So that’s where I came in,’ Lucy mused, twisting a corkscrew of hair around her finger.
‘Yes. I just couldn’t face the prospect of an hour in the car, with the children scrapping in the back seat, and I didn’t think you’d mind keeping me company, Luce. Gabriel suggested it, in fact.’
Emily missed the quick flash of antagonism in her friend’s eyes, as Lucy carefully controlled herself and said neutrally, ‘I suppose he thinks I haven’t got a proper job, so it doesn’t make any difference.’ She added more warmly, ‘I’m glad. We don’t very often have a day out together, Em, and I think we should make the most of it. He won’t be expecting you back for a while yet, will he? Where shall we go after lunch?’
CHAPTER 5
He chose David also his servant: and took him away from the sheepfolds.
Psalm 78.71
As usual it had been a long night, and there was nothing to get up for. David Middleton-Brown looked up at the ceiling, his mind blank. Gradually the noises of the postman – the advancing steps, the clink of the gate, the clatter of the letter-box, the retreating steps – seeped through to his consciousness, and gave him an excuse to get out of bed.
I hate holidays, he thought grimly, slipping into his dressing-gown. And the only thing worse than staying at home for a holiday is going away. He padded quietly down the hall, pausing without thinking to look into his mother’s room. The curtains were wide open and the white counterpane stretched smoothly across the bed. The room was empty, empty even of the force of her strong personality. David would have sworn that that, at least, would have survived her death, would have left an imprint on this room.
‘I don’t know why I bother,’ he muttered to himself as he descended the stairs. ‘It’s probably just bills. And advertisements for double glazing.’
Indeed, as he stooped to retrieve the pile of envelopes, he recognised an electricity bill on the top. He shuffled through quickly: another bill, a newsletter from the Kempe Society, a brochure for the Wymondham Choral Society’s next season, a catalogue from an antiquarian bookseller, some communication from the Law Society. He paused as an envelope with Daphne Elford’s distinctive, nearly illegible handwriting emerged from the pile. You’d never know from her writing that she’d been a school teacher, he reflected idly. The next envelope . .
. his heart lurched involuntarily as he recognised the elegant pen strokes. Gabe, he thought. My God, Gabe.
With characteristic self-control, David carefully laid the letters, unopened, on the hall table and went into the kitchen to make himself a pot of tea. He concentrated almost obsessively on the ritual, willing himself not to think. He filled the kettle and switched it on, retrieved the teapot from its shelf, took a mug from a hook – Mother wouldn’t approve; she insisted on a cup and saucer – and got out the little silver milk-jug, bought for next to nothing years ago at a junk shop on one of his jaunts with Daphne. But he found no milk in the fridge and had to avert his eyes from the pile of post as he made his way to the front door. The milk bottle stood in a puddle of water on the porch. Damn, he thought. Another wet day.
By the time he’d returned to the kitchen and filled the milk-jug, the kettle had nearly boiled. He poured a bit of the water into the pot and swirled it around, then reached for the tea-canisters. Two spoons of English Breakfast and one spoon of Darjeeling, a legacy from Mother. She liked her tea made properly, and wouldn’t have a tea-bag in the house. As he poured the boiling water over the fragrant leaves, her words came back to him. ‘Nasty things, tea-bags, and not good for you, either. Mark my words, David. Someday they’ll find out that the paper in tea-bags gives you cancer.’
David put the things on a tray and carried it through to what his mother had called the sitting room. This room strongly reflected her taste, and he’d always hated it. The crocheted white doilies that to her had indicated refinement were everywhere, on the chair-arms and under the lamps. The lampshades were of a nasty pretentious sort, scalloped rose-coloured satin with little silky pink tassels. A monstrous television set had pride of place, a bland cyclops straddling the corner. Much as David had complained about having a television in the room, she had insisted. ‘If you can afford to have a nice big television, what’s the point of hiding it away somewhere where no one can see it?’ That’s what I’ll do this holiday, he decided suddenly – change this ghastly room. And that television will be the first thing to go. As a first step he unplugged it, and immediately felt better.
It was time. He went into the hall for the post; while the tea steeped he looked at the Choral Society brochure – a nice programme, he thought. He laid it aside and poured the tea, then fetched the letter-knife from the ornate bureau in the alcove beside the fireplace. The fireplace – that was another of his mother’s great prides. At terrific expense she’d had the efficient and homely coal fire bricked up (‘So dirty, don’t you think?’) and a gas fire with a marble hearth and ‘real flame-effect’ logs installed. David despised its synthetic perfection.
He resumed his seat and opened Daphne’s letter with mild curiosity. His correspondence with her was intermittent, but had continued over nearly twenty years, and he’d heard from her several times since his mother’s death.
Dear David,
You may be surprised to hear from me again so soon, but I have a problem and I hope you may be able to help me with it. I’ve told you about St Anne’s Comper crypt chapel – I’ve probably mentioned that in recent years it’s suffered rather badly from damp, and the paintwork is peeling from the walls and the roof. Lady Constance Oliver – I’m sure you’ve heard me speak of her – has offered to pay for the repairs and restoration, but no one here has the expertise to advise on what needs doing. We want it done properly, and I don’t know where to begin to find the craftsmen, materials, etc. Even if you could only stay for a few days, I’d really appreciate it if you could come and have a look, and let me know what you think. Any time would be fine – my spare room is always free, and you can stay as long as you like. A few days in London might do you good! Let me know . . .
It tailed off, and was signed, Affectionately yours, Daphne.
He re-read it thoughtfully. She’d almost had him taken in, until she gave herself away with that last bit about a few days in London doing him good. A put-up job, that’s what it was. Good try, Daphne old girl, he said to himself. I’ve got to hand it to you – the Comper chapel is a masterstroke! He’d write tomorrow and decline. Still, a Comper chapel . . . it would almost be worth going. Almost.
He took a sip of tea, then gulped down half the mug. Out of the corner of his eye he could see it – Gabe’s letter. It hadn’t gone away, wouldn’t go away. He couldn’t put it off for ever. David picked up the stiff envelope and forced himself to study it for a moment. If Gabe’s fluid script weren’t so distinctive, he might not even have recognised it, so infrequently had he seen it. Letter-writing had never been Gabe’s style, and the annual Christmas cards were always addressed and signed by Emily. Ten years, he thought. Ten bloody years. With a swift slash he opened the envelope, and extracted the letter. It was written on heavy notepaper with the letterhead of St Anne’s Vicarage. There were only a few lines. He willed his eyes to focus on them, his brain to absorb them.
Dear David,
You should be receiving a letter from Daphne, asking you to come and advise us on the restoration of the Comper chapel. She doesn’t know that I’m writing this, asking you to please consider coming. We really could use and would appreciate your help with this. But there’s another reason that Daphne knows nothing about. Something’s come up and I don’t know where else to turn. Please come, David – come soon. I need you. Don’t let me down.
It was signed simply, G.
David sat still for a long time, the blood pounding in his head. Through all the pent-up emotions of ten years which now raged in him – the pain, the hurt, the love, and, yes, the anger – shone that brief sentence, like a shaft of sunlight through a storm cloud, piercing in its sweetness. I need you.
Gabe needed him. Years ago he’d needed Gabe, but Gabe had never needed him. Gabe had loved him – of that he was sure. It was that certainty alone that had kept him going through much of the last ten years. But needed him? Never. No more than the planet Jupiter, cloaked in beauty and mystery, needed the tiny moons that spun around it.
Gabe needed him. If he left now, he could be in London by lunch-time. He felt in his dressing-gown pocket for his car keys; the utter ridiculousness of this action returned him to reality.
And with reality came the realisation that things had changed in ten years. Emily. No matter how or why Gabe needed him, Emily would be there.
David rose and started upstairs, unaware of what he was doing, his thoughts now centred on Emily. How could he go; how could he bear to meet her? Through ten years of imaginings she had grown in his mind into a selfish, grasping monster. How else to explain the inexplicable? She had cold-bloodedly trapped Gabe into marriage, that was clear. It was against his nature. Therefore he was an innocent victim, a lamb to the slaughter, and she was a scheming bitch. It was the money, he supposed, and the position; maybe she even fancied him – he couldn’t blame her for that. But why, Gabe? Why?
As he’d done so many times before, he tried to imagine her, this woman who had captured Gabe. She must be attractive, at least in a superficial way. A Sloane Ranger type, he supposed. Blonde. Probably a lot of hair. Long red-lacquered fingernails. Hard, calculating eyes set in a pretty, vacuous face. She was supposed to be bright, something of an intellectual even, he’d heard, but he didn’t believe it. Street-smart, more likely, with an eye to a good thing.
So great was his loathing of this unknown woman that he’d gone to every length to avoid meeting her. He’d declined the invitation to the wedding – of course! that was pain beyond enduring – and all subsequent half-hearted invitations from Gabe to come for a visit. He’d even refused to visit Daphne in the two years since she’d been at St Anne’s, insisting instead that she come to him for their periodic reunions; he’d had his mother’s bad health as an excuse, and Daphne had never questioned that. And, of course, he was too proud to ask Daphne about Emily, to try to find out what she was really like. How could he face Emily now?
He was facing himself now, staring at his own image in the dusty mirror. Dusty? He
looked around with surprise to find that he had gone past his own room and climbed the narrow stairs into the attic room.
This room, shabby as it was, had been his only real refuge from his mother; she had been unable for years to negotiate the steep steps, little more than a ladder really. David hadn’t been up there since she died – there was no more need to escape.
It was also the room which evoked the strongest memories of Gabe, and he knew, looking down at the letter still clutched in his hand, that those associations had drawn him here now. Gabe had visited this house just once, for a week’s holiday, against David’s better judgement. But his misgivings had been unfounded, and the week had been magic. Mother had adored Gabe. Gabe was always charming even without trying, and he’d made a special effort to be captivating that week. Even Dad, who had rarely said anything, had been drawn out by his easy manner into actual conversation, day after day.
And night after night . . . they’d been together in this room. Mother had never been one for having people to stay, and there was no spare room for that purpose. So David had given up his room to Gabe, and had moved into the attic. There, night after night, Gabe, loving him, wanting him, had crept silently up the stairs, in spite of David’s initial frantic protests. There under his parents’ roof, in the house of his childhood, though he was approaching thirty he felt like a naughty schoolboy, terrified of being caught.
But they hadn’t been caught, and the joy was all the sweeter for the fear. It was in the early days of their love, when everything was new and each discovery brought a fresh sense of wonder.
Candlelight. Gabe, boyish, sprawling on the bed. Laughing up at him, his eyes in shadow, his soft lips curved, his hair glinting on the pillow. The arms, outstretched, inviting . . .
Their behaviour, during those enchanted candlelit nights, had been reckless, certainly; possibly even irresponsible and unwise. But an older and wiser David could not regret the most complete happiness he’d ever known. He could only regret that it had ended.