The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  This morning, their presence had proved even more of a trial to Charlotte’s self-esteem. Harry and Rosie, who loved Benedict, had clamoured to spend the day with him instead. Even Tom, who usually ignored what anyone else did, had struggled out of Patrick’s arms in order to follow them all out into the garden. Patrick had thrown Charlotte a rather sheepish look, and said, ‘I’d get out while you can. It might not last.’ Charlotte, feeling unwanted in every direction, decided that for her pride’s sake, she would, indeed, get out.

  Recalling that it was also Ned’s day off was the first bright spot in a dismal couple of days. He was home, and seemed pleased to see her, which prompted Charlotte, who badly needed to let off steam, to drag him to the bedroom and demand he perform in a manner that was both vigorous and urgent. Since then, he had been engaging in rather subtler and more deliberate foreplay, of which Charlotte had not been as mindful as she ought.

  Ned is offering me the welcome distraction of a day filled with energetic sex, Charlotte reminded herself, for which I am supremely grateful. So I’d better stop being rude and start showing it.

  She shifted onto her side and applied her fingers to an area midway on Ned’s body that caused him to draw in a sharp breath.

  ‘And I thought tha were such a nice girl, Charlotte Fforbes,’ he murmured.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Charlotte, as she made his breathing more ragged still, ‘whatever gave you that idea?’

  At around one, Ned prepared lunch for them, for which Charlotte was also grateful. They ate it, sitting in their smalls on his old sofa, looking out over the treetops to the glimpse of the silver-blue coin of lake far below.

  ‘It’s astonishingly beautiful here,’ said Charlotte. ‘I can see why you’ve stayed so long.’

  ‘Can’t stay here forever, though,’ said Ned.

  Charlotte swallowed her bite of very good bread, and wondered briefly if Ned had made it himself.

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘I couldn’t think of a nicer place to grow old in. In my opinion, England treats its elderly abominably. As soon as you’re entitled to a pension, you may as well be dead for all you’re noticed or respected. I truly believe that’s why so many old men and women succumb to wearing beige and grey. They’re nothing but living ghosts, anyway, so why pretend otherwise?’

  ‘That’s fair,’ said Ned. ‘T’ Italians do respect their old folk. And it don’t cost much t’ live well here. Box o’ pasta, tin o’ tomatoes, bit o’ cheese and tha’s a meal — all for no more ’n a couple o’ euros. Back home ’twouldn’t even keep thee in PG Tips.’

  ‘So why would you want to go back?’ said Charlotte.

  Ned set his empty plate on the floor beside the sofa. He shifted around to sit longwise, arm along the back of the sofa, face turned to the window. He was silent for so long, Charlotte thought he must have decided not to answer, and was about to change the subject. But when it became obvious he’d only been mulling over his reply, Charlotte was glad she’d kept quiet. If I’d interrupted him, she thought, that would have been it, and no amount of coaxing on my part would have winkled a confession back out of him.

  ‘I’ve allus felt I didn’t leave so much as run away,’ he said quietly. ‘I ran from ghost of my dead sister, and from my failure t’ live up t’ my responsibilities, and I’ve spent last twenty-plus bloody year avoiding any situation where I might have t’ be responsible for anyone else again. Because I’m only human, I got into a few relationships wi’ women, but I allus, and quickly, found excuses t’ end them. Last few year, it’s got worse. I only pick women here on holiday, who I know won’t stay, and I’ve not asked one o’ them out for months. If tha’d not asked us, I would’ve held tight until tha’d gone. And then I would have dreamed about thee, and regretted.’

  Ned had uttered almost the entire speech while staring out the window. It was only right at the end that he looked at Charlotte, and she saw the expression she was now familiar with — part embarrassed, part aggressive, as if he were inviting you to challenge him.

  ‘I thought you said yes to me because you wanted to know about Patrick,’ she said.

  ‘I told mysen that’s why I said yes,’ he said. ‘But I said yes because when I saw you lying asleep on the grass, I thought tha were t’ loveliest thing I’d seen in years.’

  Charlotte frowned. ‘Then why did you insist on winding me up so much? And why did you refuse to have sex with me when I kissed you that first time?’

  ‘I told you why,’ said Ned. ‘I avoid. I find excuses. I keep people at bay.’

  ‘So if I hadn’t stumbled upon your lair deep in the woods,’ Charlotte said, with a laugh of disbelief, ‘then you would never have said a word?’

  ‘Most likely not.’ Ned shrugged. ‘Who knows? Like I say, I’m only human.’

  Charlotte regarded him for a moment. ‘Patrick’s only human, too,’ she said. ‘You should talk to him.’

  Ned’s face hardened immediately. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Might help lay to rest a few ghosts,’ said Charlotte gently.

  ‘I don’t need help from Patrick King t’ do that,’ he said.

  ‘You were friends once,’ said Charlotte. ‘You were close.’

  Ned shook his head, once and with vehemence. ‘We were never close. We were two lads wi’ more muscle than brain, but that were all we had in common. Patrick didn’t need to be on t’ street. He were there because he wanted t’ be, because he relished it: t’ fighting, t’ law breaking, t’ incessant bloody drinking. I were there because it were either that or my sister and I starved. Patrick King had his family — they were always there for him t’ run to. And he did run, didn’t he?’ Ned spat the words out as though they tasted bad. ‘His family saw him right, set him on his feet. He never had t’ give Julie or us another bloody thought!’

  ‘He went to jail, Ned!’ Charlotte protested. ‘And from what I gather, when he came out, his family refused to help him. Gave him a firm kick in the pants instead!’

  ‘They were still there for him,’ said Ned stubbornly. ‘All Julie had were us, and look where that got her.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Charlotte’s tolerance had snapped. ‘I’m sorry your sister died, Ned, truly I am. But I believe you do her memory more of a disservice when you insist on permanently casting her as the helpless victim!’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Ned’s scowl, thought Charlotte, makes him look less a noble Michelangelo and more like Bernini’s statue of David, intent on seeing Goliath entirely dead. But he needs to hear this. He really does.

  ‘Your sister was young, but she was not much younger than you were,’ said Charlotte. ‘And if you were old enough to make your own choices, then so was she. But you chose not to take drugs, didn’t you?’

  Ned got to his feet and stood over her, accusing finger out-stretched.

  ‘My sister were raped! It damaged her! What else could she have done?’

  ‘Plenty!’ Charlotte refused to be cowed. ‘There were rape crisis centres back then! The Samaritans ran their phone line! Any half-decent GP would have offered her counselling! It was the mid-eighties, for God’s sake, not 1952! Did she ask anyone for help? Or did she simply hightail it to her friendly dealer and start shooting up? Did she run instead of facing up to it, too?’

  Ned’s hand shot out, and Charlotte flinched, anticipating a slap. But it was the wall he punched, the stone wall that must have hurt his fist like — what was Marcus’ phrase? thought Charlotte. Oh yes, like a bastard.

  Without a word, Ned strode through into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  I went too far, thought Charlotte, when her heart had slowed its pounding. I was harsh and unkind. If he had slapped me, I would have deserved it.

  And who was she to lecture him? she thought. She’d avoided people and responsibilities all her life. She’d used sex to gain some bodily warmth and some connection without the attendant responsibilities of emotion. She’d avoided emotion, love in parti
cular, because she’d always assumed it to be a sham, a fantasy. Perhaps also because she had no clue how to love — she’d never learned. Or perhaps most truthfully, thought Charlotte, because she’d been afraid. Afraid that no one would love her back.

  Charlotte realised then that Patrick was the first man who’d made it seem possible for her to love, and be loved in return. It was because he had a huge heart, Charlotte decided, big enough to let her learn and make mistakes. If she ran away in fear, she would always be able to come back. Patrick’s heart would wrap her up and keep her safe.

  Charlotte rested her cheek against the back of the sofa, and imagined its roughened fabric to be the cotton of Patrick’s shirt.

  I’d never be afraid with him, she thought. I could open up and live a full life at last.

  Longing made a tight ball of her stomach and she felt yet another urge to wail out loud. She’d been so close, she thought, but just when she could feel him within reach, his bloody relations had crashed down between them, like a flaming missile flung from a medieval catapult, damn their eyes! And in just six more days the holiday would be over. Once they were all back in London, she would be there, thought Charlotte bitterly, and all his attention would be on her. If Charlotte didn’t plant a seed in his mind now, she decided, she’d be forced to cultivate the forbearance of Cordelia and the staying power of Penelope, so that she could wait it out until such time as he accepted that his efforts to reconcile with Clare were fruitless.

  Six days, thought Charlotte. Nothing for it then, she decided. I will have to be bolder.

  The rush of resolve cheered her, and her thoughts turned again to Ned. How he had punished himself, she thought, and for so long. And she’d stuck another knife right into him and twisted it mercilessly. He may well have needed to hear it, but perhaps not from her. And certainly not in the callous manner in which she’d delivered it.

  She gazed at the bedroom door, still firmly shut. She could hear no sound beyond it. I owe him, Charlotte thought. He’s given me enormous pleasure, and made me feel beautiful and desirable when I was beginning to doubt I was either. I’m not sure what I can do to repay him, or how I can apologise, but I won’t leave here today without trying.

  Ten minutes later, she knocked on the bedroom door. There was no answer, as she’d half-expected, so she opened it anyway. Ned was sitting up on his bed, legs outstretched, arms folded across his chest, back of his head against the wall. The look he gave her was not welcoming.

  ‘I brought you a cup of tea,’ said Charlotte. ‘It may be close to forty degrees in here, but as we all know, tea is the British elixir for testing times. A cup of tea, and an Englishman can conquer anything.’

  She offered him the mug, but his arms stayed folded. So she set it on top of the small chest of drawers, and perched on the corner of the bed, down by his feet.

  Even Ned’s feet are heroic, she thought, the perfect strong shape for a Greek warrior’s sandal. Charlotte reached out and ran her thumb around his ankle. He hooked up his knee to shift his foot away from her, so she tucked her hands back in her lap.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that to you. I had no right to judge.’

  No reply.

  Charlotte suppressed a sigh. She rose and began to gather her dress and sandals, which, having been removed in haste, were now scattered about the floor. I’ll change in the living room, she decided. I’ve done what I can, so best now to leave him be.

  But in the doorway, clothes in hand, she paused.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘if I’d had a brother like you, I would have been proud. You were stronger and braver and more moral as a very young man than most men will ever be at any time in their lives. You still are,’ she added, ‘and I think it’s time to acknowledge that, and to accept that you do deserve to be loved.’ Charlotte patted the edge of the door for emphasis. ‘Time to take off that hair shirt and burn it for good.’

  In the living room, she slipped into her dress and shoes, and, with one last glance at the bedroom door, left the cottage. She felt some regret that the rest of the afternoon would not be spent in bed, but the resolve of earlier — to be bold, to seize the moment — had filled her with new energy, and she took the path down the hill with springing steps, eager to be back in Patrick’s presence, eager to prove to him that he did not need his ungrateful, cold wife.

  I intend to get properly under your skin, Patrick King, she thought, if I have to murder all your relations and feed their bloodied corpses to that damned hairy waste-disposal unit they call a dog.

  30

  ‘You’d better stop him digging,’ said Anselo to Aishe. ‘The gardener here is an ex-crim. Probably got bodies buried under the begonias.’

  ‘Flea!’ Aishe shouted.

  The dog ignored her, and continued to burrow into the softer earth at the foot of the loggia, where the vines were planted.

  ‘Sod him,’ said Aishe. ‘If he gets a bullet between the eyes, it’ll save me hundreds in bloody dog food and vet’s bills.’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be a crack dog trainer?’ Anselo knew his sister had volunteered at an animal shelter when she’d lived in the States.

  ‘Flea by name,’ Aishe said. ‘Flea-sized brain. I might as well try to train a sea monkey.’

  She reached for the jug of iced water they’d brought with them, and refilled her glass. ‘How do you know the gardener’s got form?’

  ‘Old mate of Patrick’s,’ said Anselo, ‘by the name of Ned. Only not so much of the “mate” any more.’

  ‘Bad blood?’ said Aishe, with interest. ‘What did Patrick do? Shag his sister?’

  ‘Got it in one. I heard that second-hand, by the way,’ said Anselo, ‘via the Michelle–Clare grapevine.’

  ‘Which, of late, has been drastically pruned,’ said Aishe. ‘I heard that first-hand. Through the Jenico Herne phone line.’

  ‘Did he send you here, like Patrick suspects?’ said Anselo.

  ‘Jenico knows direct orders never work on me,’ said Aishe. ‘He suggests, and I decide whether I’ll do it or tell him to go fuck himself.’

  Anselo gave his sister a sideways look. ‘Have you ever told Jenico to go fuck himself? To his face, I mean.’

  ‘Once,’ said Aishe. ‘When I was eleven. At Dad’s funeral. Jenico wanted me up the front of the church with Mum and all you lot, and I refused. Couldn’t cope being that close to the coffin. All I wanted to do was beat on the sides of it, and yell at Dad for being such an arsehole and dying.’

  ‘I don’t remember the funeral service at all,’ said Anselo. ‘Did Jenico make you come and sit with us?’

  ‘To his credit, no,’ said Aishe. ‘But he did make me come inside the church. He stood with me at the back, by the door. Held my hand …’

  ‘I wanted to be a pall-bearer,’ said Anselo after a moment. ‘I’d grown heaps that year, but I was still miles too short. With Patrick and Jenico on either corner, I didn’t have a chance.’

  ‘You were twelve,’ said Aishe. ‘Even our beloved, bone-headed older brothers didn’t get a look-in, and they’d both hit six feet by then.’

  A yelp from behind made them turn. Flea the dog was running towards them, tail tucked under. Ned, they saw, was lowering his boot.

  ‘Bloody dog shouldn’t be here,’ said Ned, voice raised to not quite a shout. ‘No dogs allowed!’

  ‘We’re visiting, not staying!’ Aishe raised her voice in return. ‘Keep your hair on!’

  Ned strode over. He had in one hand a garden fork, which he drove into the lawn beside the table.

  ‘That bloody animal,’ he said to Aishe, ‘has dug up whole bed of kale seedlings, and uprooted two rose bushes!’

  ‘Yes, he likes those.’ Aishe bent and fondled the soft ears of the dog that was now cringing under the table.

  ‘He has also chewed up edges o’ three wooden planter boxes and rowing boat oar that he dragged out o’ shed!’

  Aishe tapped Flea lightly on the nose. ‘B
ad dog. You’ve upset the nice Yorkshireman, and now he’s got a face like a fat girl’s fanny.’

  Anselo tried and failed to suppress a grin.

  Ned glanced between the pair of them. ‘You lot,’ he said with quiet venom, ‘you’re all t’ same. Not a decent gene in t’ whole bloody pool.’

  On his feet in an instant, Anselo squared up to Ned.

  ‘What is your problem?’ he said to him.

  Ned drew himself up, and Anselo began to rue his lack of inches. You’d imagine six foot one would be an advantage most times, he thought. But I seem destined to run up against fucking giants.

  Anselo tensed, in anticipation of Ned making a move, but all the bigger man did was look him up and down, with a shrewd amusement that made Anselo’s blood boil.

  ‘If I were you, lad, I’d stay put in t’ bosom of your family,’ said Ned, ‘where it’s nice an’ safe.’

  With a sharp tug, he extracted the fork from the ground.

  ‘Keep that dog out of t’ garden,’ he said to Aishe. ‘Or I’ll chuck it in bloody lake.’

  ‘He can swim!’ Aishe called after him, as he walked back up the lawn. ‘So tough shit!’

  Anselo, who was still on his feet, saw her glance up at him, her expression appraising.