by Penny Kline
‘Dad?’
He turned quickly, picking up his small leather suitcase, then putting it down again to give me a slightly awkward hug. ‘You’re out of breath.’
‘I had trouble finding a parking space, then I saw all the people coming out and guessed you’d arrived early.’
Now that the greetings were over we were struggling to think of things to say to each other. My father was my one remaining parent, and the hours of time we would have to spend together — although, for heaven’s sake, he was only staying one night — stretched ahead like an onerous job of work. He looked tired, a little older than the last time, but perhaps not. The photo in my bedroom — both my parents standing under a tree in Kew Gardens — had been taken six years ago. That image of my mother was fixed for all time — cheerful, smiling, holding back her hair against the wind — but my father could live another twenty years, become crippled with arthritis. Why had I always assumed he would die first? And how, after all this time, could I still feel so angry that it had been the other way round?
‘Had a good journey?’ I asked, negotiating the car through the narrow exit, then accelerating as the lights turned green and the traffic on Temple Gate gave way to the stream of cars leaving the station.
‘Tiring,’ said my father. ‘Crossing London’s become something of a nightmare. The underground’s far more crowded than it used to be. I was accosted by a group of foreign students, Dutch I think they were, going the wrong way round the Circle Line. D’you visit London much?’
‘Not that often.’ His question had felt like a reproach. If you can go up to London why can’t you continue your journey and come down to Kent for the weekend? But I was being oversensitive. He was only making conversation, trying to ease the tension.
As we passed the supermarket in Coronation Road he began telling me how he had started attending an evening class in oriental cooking.
‘Really?’ When my mother was alive his one contribution to the day-to-day running of the house had been to wash up on Christmas Day.
‘The presentation of the food is very important,’ he said, looking over his shoulder to check that his suitcase was on the back seat. ‘In the sense that if it looks unappetizing, it probably won’t taste that good either.’
‘No, I can see that.’ So even my cooking was going to be under scrutiny. Lucky I had booked us a table in a French restaurant off Cotham Hill — close to where Geena Robson had been abducted.
He was craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the river. ‘Funnily enough, there are more men than women in the class. Of course, most of them are a good deal younger than I am. One of them’s a research assistant at Kent University, and there’s an interesting chap who worked for years in Kenya, or was it Uganda?’
We had reached the place where the road curves sharply, then straightens out again as it approaches the underpass. ‘Sounds like good fun,’ I said, trying to concentrate on three things at once: my father’s evening class, the truck in front of me that appeared to have no brake lights, and the figure on the pavement, crouching down to talk to a baby in a buggy. The baby’s mother came out of the garage shop and joined them. She looked about eighteen or nineteen. She was wearing black shorts and a white bikini top. Her ash-blonde hair was so short it gave the impression her head had been shaved, then the hair had been allowed to grow back until it reached about a quarter of an inch. When the traffic started moving again I glanced in the driving mirror and saw them crossing to the opposite side of the road. The man was pushing the buggy and the girl was hanging on to his arm, laughing, with her white plastic bag of shopping held up high out of his reach. The man was James Luckham.
Chapter Six
Sunday morning, and my father had decided to attend Family Communion. Since he had selected Stephen Bryce’s old church, part of me had been tempted to accompany him, but he would have thought I was humouring him and that would have spoiled things between us.
The previous evening had turned out better than I expected. During dinner, at the French restaurant, specially selected because I knew my father would fall for le patron’s exaggerated charm, I had told him about the Luckham family and my latest phone call from Howard Fry and how enraged I had been.
‘The girl remembered that the car had a dent in the passenger door,’ I said. ‘Apparently this could be important. A man reported seeing someone answering the description of the missing schoolgirl, and said that the car she was in had quite a few scratches and bumps. Anyway, despite the fact that it was me who found out about the dent, Howard started accusing me of giving the girl psychotherapy when all he wanted was a description of the person who had tried to abduct her.’
‘Yes, I see.’ My father was trying to appreciate my disgust.
‘The thing is,’ I explained, ‘if I put any more pressure on her she’ll just clam up and refuse to talk to me at all.’
‘Yes. Tricky.’ He was studying the menu and, just for a moment, his absorbed expression reminded me of Owen. ‘But I suppose it must be a matter of some urgency to obtain an accurate description of who abducted the first girl.’
So he was going to take Howard’s side.
‘Presumed dead, is she?’ he asked. ‘This Howard Fry chap, you’ve known him quite a time as I recall.’
I nodded, then changed the subject and started talking about Owen and how he had sent me a postcard with a picture of some faerie penguins walking up the beach at dusk.
The sudden switch of subject was not lost on my father. ‘Missing him, are you?’ he said. ‘Or is it giving you a bit of a break?’
‘Why d’you say that, Dad?’
‘Oh, no reason. You tell me so little about your affairs of the heart I have to pick up clues here and there and draw my own conclusions. Now, red or white? I prefer white, myself, but I suppose you’re meant to drink red with boeuf en croûte.’
The rest of the evening had gone well. My father told me how he had joined some kind of club and was starting to go out more, although he played down the enjoyment he derived from making new friends, glancing at me every so often in case I felt he was being disloyal to my mother.
‘I’m glad,’ I said, wondering if he was leading up to telling me he had formed a close relationship with someone. ‘I used to worry about the amount of time you spent on your own.’
‘The lonely widower.’ He adjusted the knot in his tie. ‘Apparently we’re quite in demand. Oh, don’t worry, I’ve no plans on that front. You know me, far too rigid to adjust to any change to my nice, orderly way of life.’
In the morning he had been up early, preparing for the ten forty-five service. We had walked together, as far as Queen’s Road, then parted company, waving goodbye as he turned the corner, reassuring each other that we would meet up again around twelve …
It was nearly half past. I could see him coming down the road, walking briskly, and as straight-backed as ever, and as I watched, he turned to look at the floating harbour, shading his eyes with his hand, and the sun caught the bald spot on the back of his head. He had a new suit, dark grey, with a thin chalk stripe, that made him look even slimmer. Had he lost weight? If some incurable illness had been diagnosed would he tell me, or keep up a pretence that everything was fine, right up to the last possible moment? For a time I had thought he was going to join my brother in Australia, but when I asked him he’d looked astonished and insisted it was the last thing he intended to do. Was that the moment I should have invited him to live with me? He was still only sixty-eight, but what would happen in five or ten years time?
He was standing on the kerb, waiting for the cars to pass, tapping his foot impatiently, but looking rather pleased with life. I worried too much. The new clothes were a good sign. In spite of what he had said about being too old to adjust to change, I had a feeling some determined woman, a widow or divorcee, would be able to talk him round. A moment later he crossed over and disappeared from view, and I listened as he climbed the outside steps and knocked discreetly on the door to my
flat.
‘Good service?’ I followed him into the living room and offered him the dry sherry, which I knew he would first turn down, then change his mind and accept.
‘Church was surprisingly full,’ he said. ‘Apparently the vicar left a few months back, some rift with the bishop. They had a locum today, elderly chap come out of retirement to fill in for a month or two. Parish seems divided about what happened, with some believing the vicar had a right to his opinions, even though they were at odds with the teachings of the Church, and the rest convinced he did the right thing to resign.’
‘Stephen Bryce,’ I said.
‘Oh, you know him.’
‘No, not really. It was in the papers for a week or two.’
He looked at me suspiciously. ‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought the general public would have been greatly interested, but I suppose the gutter press hinted at some impropriety, tried to make out the book was just a cover story.’
‘Yes, I expect so, but as far as I can remember there wasn’t a shred of evidence.’
I was wondering if someone in the congregation had said something. Perhaps my father had heard whispering, rumours, although, since it was three months since Bryce’s resignation, this seemed unlikely.
‘They give you a cup of coffee these days.’ He accepted his sherry, took a small sip, then placed the glass on the mantelpiece, next to the china cat he had given me for my tenth birthday. ‘After the service, in the parish hall, that’s why I was late back. All very friendly, but none of that dreadful kissing and hugging, thank the Lord. Quite a coincidence, I met two sisters who used to live in Kent, only a mile or so from the house. And some people called Young. He runs a shop and the wife, I think she said she used to be a health visitor or something. Had a tragedy in the family. Daughter died while she was still at school.’
‘How awful.’ It seemed a little odd that they had chosen such a sensitive subject, when talking to a total stranger, but perhaps they had taken an instant liking to my father. People sometimes did.
‘Reason they mentioned it, this Bryce chap was a great help to them at the time. Mr Young couldn’t praise him enough, seemed outraged at the bishop’s decision.’
‘I thought it was by mutual agreement — Stephen Bryce leaving the Church.’
He stared at me, running his finger round the rim of his glass. ‘That wasn’t the impression I got, Anna. You may be right; I’ve a feeling you know more about the case than you’re letting on, but the people I spoke to — the ones who had wanted Bryce to stay — seemed to feel he’d been treated rather badly.’
*
He caught the early evening train back to London. During the afternoon, while we were walking on the Downs, I had tried to persuade him to stay another night, then discovered he had arranged to see his brother in Hatfield, returning home on Tuesday. His brief visit had been a success, and I should have been feeling pleased, relieved, but for some reason I had no wish to return to my empty flat.
When I reached the flyover I made a split-second decision and swung left towards the Portway. Either I would take a long roundabout route home, collecting my thoughts as I drove, or I would call in on Chris and Bruce. The traffic was thick, people returning from a day in the sun, and I had at least ten minutes to make up my mind, but even before I had passed the turning to the zoo I realized that what I needed was some noisy, undemanding company. Apart from my colleagues at work, Chris was the person I had known the longest since moving to Bristol, and unless she and Bruce were in the middle of one of their big rows, it was the kind of household where you always felt welcome. Chris would be talking her head off and the children — four of them now — would be rushing in and out, quarrelling and complaining. My presence would mean Bruce was detailed to put them all to bed, but he never seemed to mind — why should he, they were his children after all — and if he did object to the way Chris handed out instructions, he would never give away his true feelings, not in front of me.
Every light had been turned on, at least at the front of the house. Jack answered the door, holding an improvised machete that he waved above his head as he preceded me into the kitchen.
Chris had heard my voice. She was crouched by a low cupboard, searching for something, pulling out piles of old supermarket bags. ‘About time!’ she screeched, without looking round. ‘We haven’t seen you for an age and, as you can see, you’ve dropped in at a really good moment, we’re all having such fun.’ She straightened up and nodded in the direction of the machete. ‘Well, what d’you expect in a house where toy guns are banned? Bruce is upstairs helping Rosie to bath Fraser, and Bar-naby and Jack are having a lovely game of guerrilla warfare.’ Her face was contorted in mock agony. ‘God, once you’ve given birth your back’s never the same again.’
‘I should think it’s the pregnancy, isn’t it, rather than the actual giving birth.’
She picked up a newspaper and threatened to swipe me across the head. ‘Why d’you have to be so bloody literal? Of course it’s the pregnancy. Fatso was nine and a half pounds. Would you like to drag round nine and a half pounds for —’ She broke off in mid-sentence. ‘What’s the matter? You only come round if you’re in a bad way. No, don’t deny it.’
‘I’ve just seen my father off at Temple Meads.’
‘He was here for the weekend?’
‘Just one night. Anyway, I’m fine and I’m not expecting anything to eat or drink, just give me something useful to do.’
I expected her to make a sarcastic remark. Instead, she looked at her watch, did some mental arithmetic, and announced that in precisely ten minutes time Barnaby and Fraser would be in bed, the other two would be watching telly, and the three of us — if Bruce insisted on joining in — could sit in the kitchen and drink a bottle of fairly disgusting wine.
In spite of the draining board being covered in unwashed pans and baking trays, and the newspaper scattered over the floor, Chris seemed more organized than usual. Presumably with four kids you had to stick to a fairly strict routine, or maybe Bruce had got tough with her, for once, and come to some agreement about who did what. An hour later, when the two youngest were tucked up in bed and I had been up and down the stairs several times with a variety of bears, rabbits and books, the painful feelings my father’s departure had elicited were starting to recede.
‘Your dad’s retired, hasn’t he?’ said Bruce. ‘Lucky bastard, I’ve another thirty-one years, unless they bring down the retirement age for men.’
‘God, you’re boring.’ Chris had found three smeary glasses and was pouring out the wine. Her hair hung in damp strands and she had dark smudges under her eyes. ‘How was your father, Anna?’ she asked. ‘You should have him to live with you. No, I mean buy a bigger place, with an annexe or something.’
‘He went to church this morning,’ I said, ‘that one where the vicar had to give up his job.’
‘Really?’ Chris put her elbows on the table and leaned forward, hoping for a large helping of scurrilous gossip. ‘What did he do, touch up choirboys in the vestry?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ I began, but Bruce interrupted me.
‘You remember, it was in the paper, even made the nationals. The vicar who doesn’t believe in God. A bloke at work has a friend who’s a lay reader, not at that church, on the other side of the city, but apparently there was more to the story than the press let out. Don’t ask me how the powers that be managed to hush it up.’
‘You never told me,’ Chris was indignant. ‘He never tells me anything interesting, Anna, just endless stuff about the housing department and —’
‘Well, it wasn’t particularly interesting.’ Bruce looked tired, but perhaps no more than usual. ‘Just the same old thing, mucking about with female parishioners. Anyway, it could be a pack of lies, you know how these rumours take on a life of their own.’
‘What did this friend say exactly?’ It was impossible to hide my curiosity.
‘You see,’ said Chris, tipping the remains of th
e wine into her glass, then lifting the bottle up to the light and pulling a face. ‘You love gossip just as much as I do. You pretend to be so serious, so professional, but really —’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Oh, come on.’ She reached across the table and gave me a push. ‘Only joking. Off you go, Bruce, that shop on the corner’s started selling booze, go and buy another bottle.’
Bruce stood up slowly, taking his wallet from an inside pocket and inspecting the contents. ‘I’ll tell you, Anna, if you want to know more about Stephen Bryce you should talk to some of his old parishioners. Apparently some born again bloke, an actor, artist or something, joined the congregation a year or two back and persuaded Bryce to take a more evangelical approach.’
‘How d’you mean? New style services? Pop music to get in some younger people? My father never mentioned anything like that.’
‘No, well according to this bloke I met, the leading light, new convert, whatever you want to call him, went walking on the Mendips last winter and had some kind of accident.’
‘Fatal?’ Chris's voice was breathless with excitement.
Bruce yawned. ‘After that, I suppose things returned to normal. Maybe it had something to do with Bryce leaving the parish.’
‘What did?’ I asked.
Bruce shrugged. ‘Maybe the squalid stories are the kind people always spread if someone in a position of moral authority hands in his resignation. Even better if it’s a bishop, and as for a High Court Judge!’
*
The following day I had lunch with Nick. We sat in our usual corner of our usual haunt and I prepared for his inevitable complaints about the way Heather and I seemed to have it in for Dawn Rivers. But he had something else on his mind. He was wearing new clothes: grey cotton trousers and a black tracksuit top over a gleaming white T-shirt. His hair was different too, shorter, and with something on it that made it glisten slightly, and from the way his face kept breaking into a grin I had a feeling he was going to behave uncharacteristically and let me in on what was going on in his life. Perhaps the Jake he mentioned now and again, but only in passing, had moved in with him. Perhaps he had met someone new.