In the bathroom, treating the cuts to her hands and arms with shaky efficiency, Isabel could only feel enormous relief that the blood on her mother’s forehead was not blood she had drawn. She trembled in the aftermath of that temptation.
In the morning, long before Serena awoke, Isabel found the chest in the cellar. Inside, there were two large teddy bears, plus three small parcels, tied in polythene with a dozen elastic bands each, making them difficult to open. One contained earrings, the second her father’s cufflinks and the third a ring from a cracker. Otherwise, there was nothing inside but paper.
‘Thank God the snow’s melted,’ Andrew observed to his father. ‘Fickle stuff.’
‘It’s just getting ready for the real thing, shouldn’t wonder. Been playing about for a week. Wish I was God. In command of the weather.’
Doc Reilly nodded. On a morning like this they allowed themselves a little sherry, poured into smeared glasses taken from the display cabinet that flanked the rostrum in the chapel. An electric fire alleviated the cold of that part of the room. The rest of it was fairly empty. Buyers had collected their goods; compensation offered and accepted for breakages. There was little left except a few rugs: the place almost homely. In the town centre, Christmas decorations had appeared on lamp posts. The lights did not extend as far as this, although John had entered into the spirit of the thing by pinning tinsel round the rostrum. For the last auction before Christmas he might wear a Santa Claus hat, if they did not have to cancel, which seemed likely.
‘How are you going to manage, John? You’ve got no one to hump the stuff.’
‘Nope. Bob’s worse than ever, I doubt he’ll come back at all, his brother’s pretty useless and Derek had that … accident. There’s only my son and heir, and although he’s wonderboy, he can’t carry a wardrobe all on his own. Besides, he’s got other things on his mind, haven’t you, Andrew? Still, it’s not the end of the world. We never take much, this time of year. They’re all out there buying in crap as if there were no tomorrow.’
‘Derek getting better, is he?’ Doc Reilly asked.
‘Far as I know. He isn’t getting worse and he isn’t dead, so he must be. Not saying much at the moment. That won’t last. Silly bugger.’
‘Very apposite, I must say, calling him that.’ Doc Reilly’s shoulders heaved with gentle mirth. Yes, they are a pair of conspirators, Andrew thought with affection. The liking was tinged with a healthy suspicion. They have a common cynicism: they know exactly what they’re talking about, so much so that they keep what they know from one another and admit it at the same time. The best form of communication was hints, winks and silences. Canny rather than crooked.
‘Well,’ said Doc Reilly, heaving himself upright and looking at Andrew expectantly, ‘as the elder statesmen of this parish, what are we going to do about it? I mean, do you want us to tell Isabel?’
‘Tell her what?’
‘Oh Christ, she don’t know the half of it. I bet she doesn’t know whose act to follow now. She’s got her aunty’s common sense, her mother’s looks and her father’s sensitivity. They all loved her, after their fashion, but it was Mab who was the control-freak. Ruled that bloody household whether she was in it or not. I don’t know what happened before they came to live here, I can’t guess, but she’d already done a good job undermining Serena’s authority. Edward Burley would always listen to her first. She even dictated where everything went. No wonder Serena enjoyed having the place to herself these last years.’
‘Is that so?’ Andrew murmured. He felt vaguely uncomfortable talking about it, although he wanted them to go on.
‘I can see Mabel, now,’ his father said, dreamily. ‘She knew she was dying a long time before she let on to anyone else. You told me that, didn’t you, Doc? She knew for more than a year. She was well capable of doing a bit of dividing and conquering before she went. A great letter-writer. She could have made sure her niece didn’t marry too young, she always disapproved of that. Also made sure she got out from under by giving her money. Mab was good at arranging lives she couldn’t own. Only she would never do it by a direct route.’
‘This could be nonsense,’ Andrew said.
‘Of course it could be. It’s nothing more than pure, bloody-minded speculation,’ Doc Reilly replied. ‘It comes from me, John here, my wife and a couple of patients. But that’s the best we’ve got.’
‘None of this helps the present,’ Andrew remarked.
‘Nope,’ the doctor agreed. ‘Nothing does.’
‘What’s happened to that poor bastard George?’ John Cornell asked.
‘No one knows. He didn’t return to the nick as ordered. They’re looking for him.’
‘And will those burglars really go back?’ Andrew wondered.
‘There’s no telling.’ John was looking at his feet. ‘Well, two of them might. Not in this weather. And if they do, they’ll trip over an alarm.’
They would not trip over an alarm. Not even a man trap. The alarm was an exercise in uselessness, unless the house was empty. Robert’s promise of security, augmented by the mobile phone in Isabel’s room. There was no point turning it on at night unless Serena was locked in her room, and that was impossible to contemplate. Because there was a connection between switching the switch and the arrival of two policemen after ten minutes, she was, intermittently, fascinated by it, although it was something which faded in and out.
‘Come away from there, Mummy. See what I’ve got.’
Isabel was sure that what she had would please, she was learning fast. The teddy bears had been greeted with pleasure, the Christmas decorations seemed to have the effect of making Serena imagine there was going to be another party. They spilled out on the kitchen table, dusty and dated and varied, the nicer rubbish from the cellar. Would there were more of them, since Serena clearly found them both curious and delightful. Dust did not bother her. Tinsel could furnish a room. The decorations made her tranquil and had taken hours out of the day since their discovery. Serena chose one golden foil device to hang against a window frame, took it to the living room, placed it with enormous care, changed her mind, tried another, with all the consultative care of an interior designer. Isabel was similarly tranquil; it could even be said they were cheerful together: there was an element of both resignation and courtesy about them both. Isabel had taken her behaviour right back to the beginning. Or near the beginning, when she had first begun to comprehend the need for alternative language. She cooed at Mother as she might at any frustrated child. She cajoled rather than ordered. She reversed the flow of Serena’s chatter by chattering herself, not incessantly, but frequently. Serena kept touching her arm.
‘Now look, Mummy. I did tell you about that switch, didn’t l? Naughty switch. I know it brings out the fellas, but they won’t be pleased to see you. And there’s another reason. I’ve got the feeling Georgie is out there looking for you. If he wants to come in, even though those nice policemen say he mustn’t, that’s OK by you, isn’t it? We don’t want to set bells ringing, do we now?’
She must have repeated the words a dozen times. Some of them might sink in, especially in this mood; most of the words were true. Mother could somehow tell when she was being told a lie. Whatever she received by way of wisdom was filtered through an imperceptible net. The whole difference in approach came from the release of the need to be loved by this childlike lady who only happened to be her mother. If she treated her like a robust but delicate stranger who needed care, it was all so much easier. She was not a daughter any more: she was simply someone with a fierce sense of responsibility for someone who was helpless. There were two of them in need, after all. Who loves you, darling, if not me? One needed to give, the other to take. It was a neat, workable equation.
Isabel was not entirely sure how this conclusion had come into mind. It had percolated for a while, she supposed. Solidified when she remembered herself standing in the chill of the cellar fumbling round in the dark with that dictaphone. George knew about love
and how simple it should be: he had even recorded it.
‘I love you, Serena B. Whatever happens to me, I’ll always be that way. I hope you find this. It’s for remembering words with.’
A few weeks before Isabel would have been insanely jealous of George, indeed had been. For knowing her mother better than she ever would and meaning so much more. It did not matter where he came from and what he might have done. He had the password to her mother’s affection and that was all that mattered. He was a good man in his own way, capable of mistakes, possibly violence. That gave him and Isabel something in common, she thought wryly. And if Mother was going to screw up her life, had done, would continue to, she did not see why George should be put on the same bonfire.
‘I like this green tinsel best, don’t you, Mummy? But I like the glass balls best of all.’
‘Balls! Oh very funny,’ Serena giggled like a girl who has just discovered how funny the word bottom is.
‘Not those kind of balls, Mummy. Honestly not.’
Glass baubles, light as air, turquoise, silver and blue, to be dusted and handled with care. Isabel’s mind went blank at the prospect of Christmas, apart from a calm conviction that she would still be here, but not for much longer afterwards. She would do what she could, but nothing was definite.
‘What did you do with these, Mummy darling? Hang them on a tree?’
Serena was not able to tell her how the house had once been decorated. Isabel, who had avoided Christmas like the plague, could scarcely remember. The day itself had always featured Mab, she recalled; Mab had also starred in the preparations, doing the boring bits Mother loathed.
The radio played softly, not bothering either of them. Twigs painted white, that was what Mab did, she had whitened or silvered winter twigs, fixed them in chicken-wire inside a huge silver vase, hung the turquoise, silver and blue baubles from them and placed them above the fireplace. Serena had always wanted more colour than this conservative arrangement, but Mab’s taste prevailed. The thought filled Isabel with curious unease, and yet the idea appealed. Mother’s preference now was a series of fat little Santa Clauses, highly coloured plastic, suspended on frayed scarlet ribbon. Things from the market, plastic flowers, bright and artificial. Who cared about taste?
The sky was the pink of optimism when she went out into the garden on one of the most peaceful afternoons of her life. She was not a daughter any more, she had no allegiances, no rights, but there were aspects of the place she loved. The colours of it, the determined grandeur that stood proud over the desecrations of time and neglect. There were ghosts on the tennis court, cavorting among the moss. The lumpy lawns, which she had earlier regarded as a shame, retained the right to be a lawn, but only just, while the kitchen garden had long since relinquished identity. The orchard where she had walked with her nephew. She was not really out here to collect twigs; she was walking in a widening circle with open eyes. Wondering where poor, daft George was and how cold he must be. He might have lived for her mother; she did not want him to die for her. The dog went ahead, found the car in the last outhouse, scarce big enough for a car and certainly not designed for anything better than pigs. He must have pulled the rotten door across, leaving enough space to enter and exit. There was a residual warmth about the place, a smell of exhaust fumes, but of himself no sign. Isabel found a clean tissue in her pocket along with a Biro, and wrote, ‘Come in the house, G, Serena needs you. Love, Petal.’
Words were everything, they were all a person needed to get on in life. He might not come because he was cold: he would come if he were needed. He must have watched them long enough to know all other visitors were temporary. He might be watching now. Watching her usher the dog away home, the dog taking two steps forward and one back, yelping the way it did so rarely and only then for those worth affection. The pink sky had turned grey. No red sky at night, to be shepherds’ delight. There had been red in the morning, shepherds’ warning. The day had begun as it died, ominously cheerful.
She wanted to tell Andrew all this, because her clarity of vision now cast him on the side of the allies, and, even if he were not, then in all likelihood he would do as she asked. It was not much to ask. Since he was likely to arrive anyway, on one of those carefully contrived errands that so often coincided with early evening, Isabel felt she did not have much choice. Depending on which of them arrived first. There was no master plan about any of this: she was not a planner. It seemed important to follow instinct, like the dog did a scent. That was the only thing the dog was good for.
Inside, it was warm again. Colourful with the tinsel, while Serena tinkered and one of them waited.
Do what you like with my life for now, Ma, Isabel said. Not with George. She was hanging more tinsel over the drawing-room window where the snow had drifted in and Isabel had done her best with damaged hands and cardboard. They were somehow, waiting on those damn fish and chips.
Isabel noted, with some satisfaction, the dog nuzzling round the cellar door. Seven o’clock, dark as midnight, and the snow had begun to fall again. Serena came back into the kitchen, took up a knife, looked at it quizzically, and began to peel a potato.
‘Too cold,’ she said. Isabel laughed. ‘Yes, and when it’s cooked it’ll be too hot.’
‘Who else is coming? People?’
‘I don’t know.’
Serena’s face puckered.
‘Now, now, sweetheart. No feet stamping, please. Be a good girl.’
Serena wandered away into the pantry, looking for something more interesting than the potato. It had all been sweetness and light and now she was bored. Isabel’s thoughts drifted, hung between anxiety and a strange contentment. She hardly noticed her mother sidling out of the kitchen, back to her fireside, did not mind. Serena in the vicinity of the kitchen sink was more hindrance than help. The dog at the cellar door grew more agitated, looked at Isabel in dumb appeal, pacing around her legs, telling her something.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know, yes. In a minute. These things take time.’
She went to the pantry for the frozen fish, wishing there was more than frozen vegetables. Maybe a cheese sauce would do something for tasteless cauliflower.
Serena appeared at her elbow, giggling. She had moved so quietly all day, the result of slippers rather than boots.
‘You know what I’ve done?’
‘Stabbed a spud?’
‘No. I turned on that thing. People coming. Soon, I think.’ Serena grinned with enormous satisfaction. For a moment Isabel was back to wanting to hit her, then she shook her head in furious amazement at what this wandering, wavering, determined intelligence could achieve. Serena was in search of a party, therefore switch the alarm on and call the police, simple. It took ten minutes, driving at speed. They were already looking for George; they would be here any time now. She opened the back door and heard, sure enough, the distant whine of an engine.
‘Mother, you’re an idiot. Go and put your hat on.’
If there had not been the question of that poor simple-minded fugitive down in the cellar, Isabel might have seen how farcical it was. There was time to wonder if the coalhouse fire, which had been the spur for her coming here, had been merely the result of Mother’s desire to attract large men to the premises. Lights appeared in the backyard. Serena was tidying her hair with busy fingers, watching though the window.
Isabel stepped quickly to the cellar door, the dog getting in the way. She called down urgently. ‘George! Stay where you are, for God’s sake. Don’t go out. They’ll go round the side. Stay where you are.’
As the first burly officer blinked in the light of the kitchen, Isabel was in the act of closing the cellar door behind her.
‘Good heavens,’ she said gaily. ‘What are you doing here?’
Andrew appeared behind the third officer. He saw her raised eyebrows and shrugged.
‘Coincidence,’ he said. ‘They overtook me. What goes on?’
They might have been less patient about the whole débâcle and
their wasted time and the hazard to their vehicles bumping up this track if Isabel had not been such a pretty sight. Hand over mouth, fluttering eyelashes, enormous eyes wide with worry to have caused so much trouble.
Andrew watched what he could see was a performance. He wondered why it was she would not step away from the cellar door. Amazing to see a police officer simper. They searched the house anyway, just to be obliging. One walked around the outside of the building quickly, hugging himself against the snow which began again in earnest. They might have stayed longer but for the twittering of Serena as she followed them about, the obvious, delicately protested mistake and the fact there was, by now, a man in the house with a proprietorial gleam in his eye. They lingered in the kitchen long enough to warn the young lady that if George Craske should by any remote chance appear, she was not to let him in on any account.
She said, of course not. Wicked George Craske. Sorry about my mother’s busy fingers.
George sat shrouded in the painting clothes, conscious of the smell cutting across the more unpleasant smell of his own body, bathed in the hot flush of sweat that had turned to ice on his skin. This was prison without the crowds; this was humiliation and despair; he had never felt weaker, or more profoundly ashamed. Tears dripped down his face; no sobbing, simply tears, turning to icicles on his chin. He could hear the reverberations of noise in the house: the sound of many feet, voices which he could not distinguish. He waited in misery for the light to shine on him, to discover him like a rat in a trap. Men to bundle him upstairs, banging his head against the crusted walls as they went, himself unable to fight, limp like a corpse.
When the silence fell, it covered him. There was nothing to do but wait and hope.
‘What was all that about, Isabel?’ Andrew asked.
She turned to him, put her arms around his waist and buried her head in his neck. Was this a performance too? Let it not be. He squeezed her gently; it was the body of a greyhound, slender and deceptively strong, the flesh warm. If she kissed him, he would know she was acting, but he would let himself be fooled. He was disappointed as well as relieved when she did not, simply remained closed against him until she sighed an enormous sigh into his shoulder.
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