Almost a Crime (13 page)

motion along a deserted beach, passionate embraces against

a storm-tossed sky. Sex to her only worked in the context

of such things — as a pleasure in itself it was a devalued

currency. And Sandy, when she met him, came from that

segment of society that was — on the surface at least courteous

and considerate to women and well behaved, in a

rather old-style way: totally different from most of the men

she met in her coolly fashionable world. His dark loofa

were best described by that old-fashioned adjective ‘handsome’,

he was flamboyantly well mannered, rode superbly,

played polo for his regiment, had been mentioned several

times for his courage and resourcefulness during an horrific

tour of duty in Bosnia; but he was a man’s man, not quite at

ease with women, at once protective and very slightly

patronising. Louise had been charmed by the protectiveness and did not discover the tendency to patronise until it was too late.

He had dined and wined her, insisted on paying for

everything, told her repeatedly she was the most beautiful

girl in the world, sent her a great many bunches of flowers

and didn’t even suggest they went to bed together for quite

a long time. For Louise, moving in a world where sex was

seriously devalued except as a rather transient pleasure, as

much taken for granted in the briefest relationship as food

and drink, this was in itself rather romantic. When they

finally did go to bed, it was in a country house hotel that

Sandy had booked; the bed was a four poster, there were

white roses on the dressing table, and champagne on ice

beside the bed. Louise was so overwhelmed by all this that

she managed to ignore the fact that the sex itself was rather

run-of-the-mill; the fact that after it Sandy had toasted her

in what was left of the champagne, told, her he was in love

with her and had never before felt quite as he did, had been

to her ineffably more important.

Sandy had left the army a year after they were married and

set himself up with a fellow officer in the wine business. A

small local chain, it ran a wine club for its customers,

offering tastings, masterclasses in wine and even trips to

vineyards. Having developed a strong brand loyalty, Sandy

intended to move it from its purely Cotswold base to

London and the home counties.

Louise, released at least from the crippling boredom (as

she had found it) of being an army wife, had found herself

happily pregnant; Dickon was born, and two and a half

years later, a little girl, Juliet. She threw herself wholeheartedly

into motherhood and being a good wife to Sandy.

Octavia had seen very little of her at this time. Their

husbands had not been greatly impressed with one another:

the fact that Sandy was an Old Etonian with an extremely

patrician background did nothing to endear him to Tom,

and Tom’s ceaseless pursuit of success and money seemed to

Sandy a rather severe case of bad form. Meetings between

the two families were awkward, and after a few attempts, both Octavia and Louise agreed they should be avoided.

And then one day, nine months after the birth of Juliet,

Octavia’s phone rang. It was Louise, her voice leaden,

strange, panic underlying it.

‘Octavia,’ she had said. ‘Octavia, Juliet’s dead. Please

come.

It had been a cot death; she had gone in to pick the baby up

for her morning feed and found her. ‘White, cold, quite

quite still. And dead.’

Octavia had gone at once. Louise was calm, deathly calm,

enduring the dreadful ritual demanded by the law, the

police visit, the registration of the death, the taking of her

baby to hospital for an autopsy, the planning of the funeral.

Louise’s mother, Anna Madison, was there, gently, sweetly

efficient; Sandy was there, ghastly pale, pacing the house.

Octavia had felt like an intruder. But she had found a role

for herself, caring for Dickon, who was stumbling about,

terrified and lost. She had taken him out for much of the

day, brought him back when the worst of it was over,

suggested he came to stay with her for a couple of days.

Louise had accepted the offer, in her new flat, still voice.

‘It would be such a help. He loves the twins. And you will

come to the funeral, won’t you? It would help me so much

if you were there.’

Octavia had promised she would, shrinking from the

very thought of witnessing such pain; she drove Dickon

back to London, where the twins, only half-comprehending

what had happened, drew him into their rather rough

kindliness; he finally fell asleep that first night in Poppy’s

plump little arms.

He woke in the night, screaming from a nightmare; and

then said he wanted to phone his mother.

‘Dickon, darling, it’s three in the morning.’

‘She might be dead, though,’ he said. ‘She might! Please

ring, please …”

Octavia had given in and phoned, and a clearly wide awake Louise had answered the phone, reassured him, fetched Sandy to do the same. Dickon had spent the rest of

the night in her bed, tossing and turning restlessly; after a

second, identical night she had been deeply grateful when

Anna Madison phoned and said she thought it would be

better if Dickon came home, Louise was missing him, and

she drove him down to Cheltenham with some relief.

Louise had greeted her strangely, almost detachedly, still

with the same deathly calm.

‘Louise, are you sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m fine. Really. Sandy isn’t too good,’ she added,

almost matter-of-factly. ‘He was in tears last night. I told

him he had to be brave, for Dickon and me.’

It had seemed a curiously harsh reaction, but Octavia

supposed she could hardly expect rational behaviour from

her.

Later, as she walked to the car, Anna Madison had come

running out of the house. ‘Thank you for everything,

Octavia. I’m so pleased you’re coming on Friday.’

‘Of course I’m coming,’ Octavia had said, and then

added, ‘Louise seems — odd.’

‘Yes, she’s in shock. God knows when it will break. But

actually, it’s getting her through this dreadful time. Things

like choosing a coffin, the flowers …” Her large blue eyes,

so like Louise’s, had filled with tears.

Octavia put her arms round her; she adored Anna.

“Thank goodness she’s got you. Look, I have to go. Please

ring if there’s anything else I can do.’

‘I will, Octavia darling. Thank you.’

Louise had still seemed in shock at the funeral, icy calm and

composed, watching Sandy carry the tiny coffin into the

church, with dull, expressionless eyes; she had sung a hymn,

listened to the agonisingly touching address with courteous

attention. Even at the graveside, she had not broken down,

had knelt and placed a note and a flower on top of the

coffin, had then gone back to the house with her family and

Octavia and Tom - the only non-family present - and,

although quiet, had managed to offer them tea, and thank them politely for coming.

‘I’ll come and see you soon,’ she had said, kissing Octavia

goodbye. Octavia had put her arms’ round her, tried to hug

her, but she was rigid, unyielding. The last they saw of

Louise was her waving them off down the road, holding

Dickon’s hand, Sandy standing behind her.

‘How brave,’ said Tom, ‘how terribly brave she is.’

‘Too brave, I think,’ said Octavia.

That night Louise had cracked, had cried for three days and

nights, had finally been heavily sedated — and when she

came round, began her slow and painful journey out of

grief and back to normality.

‘I worry about them all so much,’ Anna had told Octavia

one night when she phoned to see how Louise was. ‘It’s

dreadful for Louise, of course, so dreadful, and she is quite

fragile, you know, emotionally, and little Dickon is terribly

upset, but Sandy has had a terrible time too, and Louise

doesn’t seem to recognise it.’

Octavia had gone down to see them quite frequently

during that time; she felt helpless and useless, and Louise

had been strange with her, oddly distant and almost hostile,

but she always thanked her effusively for coming, told her

she felt better afterwards, and Sandy was always deeply

grateful too and told her so. He had changed visibly, more

than Louise, through the experience, looked older, seemed

less confident.

‘Oh, doesn’t matter about me,’ he had said one night as

Octavia was leaving and she had managed to ask him if he

was all right, ‘it’s Lulu we have to worry about.’

‘Well, she was your baby too,’ Octavia had said quietly,

and he had said, yes, of course, but he hadn’t given birth to

her, it was different for men. He sounded as if he had

rehearsed the small speech; in a way no doubt he had, she

thought, he must have made it dozens of times, poor man.

There was a time after that, over much of the following

eighteen months in fact, when they hardly saw one another.

Louise withdrew further into herself, discouraged visits, was

almost taciturn on the phone. Octavia had several worried

conversations with Anna Madison, who had been equally

ostracised from her daughter’s life, and a few with Sandy

who clearly felt quite out of his depth and embarrassed by

any attempt to discuss the matter. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he’d say,

determinedly cheerful, ‘just a matter of time.’

To her shame, Octavia had given up. She was, in any

case, pregnant — unbearably poignant, she felt, for Louise.

And then, struggling to cope with the new baby and her

professional life it seemed easier, better indeed, to stay

away. She hoped she wasn’t making excuses for herself,

opting out; she was rather afraid she was. She had written of

course to let Louise know about Minty’s birth, had been

almost shocked — while telling herself that of course she

understood — to receive only a card in return.

Then, at Christmastime, she had felt things were getting

out of hand. She missed Louise, she was concerned for her;

she herself was strong, her own life so good, how could she

possibly not present broad and loving shoulders to her

friend? She had written a long letter, saying how much she

missed her, and inviting her and Sandy to the Christmas

party, which Louise had always loved: ‘So many glamorous

people, you’re so clever, Octavia.’

Louise had phoned, full of fun and charm, and said how

marvellous, they’d adore to come to the party, and she was

buying a new frock. She had turned up looking luminously

beautiful. ‘I’m quite quite all right now,’ she had said,

hugging Octavia, ‘and I’m sorry I was — difficult. Now

where is darling Tom? I want to give him the biggest

Christmas kiss. And to meet dear little Minty — I have a

present for her. Don’t look at me like that, Octavia, I’m

quite all right. Honestly.’

Octavia had felt a huge sense of relief — not only on

Louise’s behalf, but from her own guilt.

After Christmas, the Trelawnys had visited them in

Somerset, although only for a day. It had been, as always,

difficult, the men uneasy together; after lunch Octavia had

proposed a walk, hoping that Tom and Sandy would

decline, but they had both said it was exactly what they

needed. She had found herself, rather than having a long,

healing conversation with Louise, chatting over-brightly to

Sandy while Louise walked ahead with Tom. Afterwards,

when they had gone, she had asked Tom what they had

talked about.

‘Nothing much,’ he had said. ‘She just prattled. As she

does.’

‘She didn’t mention the baby?’ she had said.

‘No, rather the reverse. When I told her I was - sorry,

you know, she just said she hated talking about it.’

‘She ought to talk about it,’ Octavia had said. ‘It would

do her good.’

‘Octavia,’ said Tom rather shortly, ‘everyone’s different.

You can’t make rules about these things.’

He had been in a difficult mood altogether: Sandy always

affected him like that. Octavia had changed the subject.

They had met a couple of times since then, talked on the

phone a lot; as far as Octavia could tell Louise was much

better. She was very cheerful, and apart from being thinner

than she had ever been, and rather restless, she was as much

herself as could be reasonably expected. But she refused to

talk about Juliet’s death. ‘I know it’s meant to be

therapeutic, but it just hurts me,’ she had said, and was wary

of any suggestion that she might have another baby. ‘People

keep suggesting I do that, as if-Juliet—’ she hesitated over

the word - ‘could be replaced. I don’t want to. Ever. She’s

gone and it’s quite over. That’s what I want. Now let’s talk

about other things. I’m just so glad we’re together again.’

Octavia, still faintly concerned, had telephoned Anna

Madison to ask her if Louise was really as recovered as she

insisted, but she had been airily cheerful, rather like Louise herself, and had said she was very proud of her and the way she had coped.