Borrowed Time (11 page)

Gone like a never perfectly recalled air.

C  H  A  P  T  E  R
SIX

T
he Timariot family celebrated Christmas 1990 much as we’d celebrated every Christmas since my parents’ move to Steep. A festive gathering at the home of Adrian and his wife, Wendy, had become customary, if not obligatory. They lived in a large detached house on Sussex Road, overlooking Heath Pond. Large it needed to be, since they shared it with four children—two sons and twin girls—plus an overweight labrador. The rest of us were expected to revel in the resulting chaos. My mother certainly appeared to. As did Uncle Larry. But Jennifer’s impersonation of a doting aunt was never convincing. And Simon, depressed at not spending the day with his daughter, tended to decline into drunken self-pity. Which left me to pretend I enjoyed listening to the wartime reminiscences of Wendy’s father, interrupted as they frequently were by his grandsons’ temper tantrums.

I’d always admired the way Hugh and Bella handled the ordeal. Hugh would inveigle Adrian into an intense shop-talking session, while Bella spent half her time in the garden, wrapped in a fur coat and puffing at a cigarette. Wendy had banned the practice indoors on account of the danger to the children from passive smoking. Which I thought mighty ironic, since I’d never known the horrors to do anything
passive
in their lives.

This year, of course, Hugh was missing. So was Bella, whose links with us continued to grow more tenuous by the day. Superficially at least, it didn’t seem to make much difference. Nor, I recalled, had my father’s absence the first Christmas after his death. A family is more resilient than any of its members. It persists, amoeba-like, in the face of loss and division. It is infinitely adaptable. And therefore prone to change. At its own pace, of course. Which is sometimes too gradual for those it most affects to notice.

A straw in the wind came that afternoon in the form of a conversation I overheard between Wendy and her mother. The Gulf War was imminent and flying was suddenly considered a dangerous way to travel because of the supposed threat of Iraqi terrorism. But Adrian, it appeared, was planning to visit Australia. And Mrs. Johnson was worried about her son-in-law’s safety. If she was worried, I was puzzled. Adrian had said nothing to me about such a trip. Nor would he now, when I tackled him. “Just an idea at the moment, Rob. Rather not elaborate till I’m clearer in my own mind. Sure you understand.” I didn’t, of course. Nor did he intend me to.

By the time the first board meeting of the New Year took place, however, clarity of mind had evidently descended. Adrian wanted to take a close look at Timariot & Small’s marketing arrangements in Australia. He reckoned there was scope for expansion. Maybe we needed to ginger up our agent there. Or find a new one. Either way, he and Simon ought to go out and see for themselves. Simon was all for it, naturally. And even if I suspected it was just an excuse for a holiday, I wasn’t about to object. It was agreed they’d be away for most of February.

In the event, they had to come home early, for the saddest and most unexpected of reasons. It was the coldest winter Petersfield had experienced for several years. But my mother made no concessions to the weather. She took Brillo for a walk every afternoon whatever the conditions. On 7 February it snowed heavily. And out she went, despite a touch of flu which I’d advised her to spend the day nursing by the fire. She took a fall in one of the holloways and limped back to Greenhayes wet and chilled to the marrow. By the following evening, I had to call the doctor out, who diagnosed pneumonia and sent her off to hospital. Some old bronchial trouble and a latent heart condition caught up with her over the next few days. On 12 February, after a gallant struggle, she died.

I could have predicted my reaction exactly. Guilt at all the unkind words I’d ever uttered. Shame at my neglect of her. And a consoling grain of relief that, as exits go, it was swift and merciful. “How she’d have wanted it to be,” as Uncle Larry said at the funeral. Which enabled Mother to infuriate me even from the grave. Charming as some people thought him, Brillo had never seemed worth sacrificing a life for to me. Had he tangled his lead in his mistress’s legs—as so often before—and tripped her up in the snow? Mother had denied this when I’d suggested it and, for her sake, I tried not to believe it. But I wasn’t sorry when Wendy volunteered to add him to her crowded household.

This left me alone at Greenhayes. It was now jointly owned by Jennifer, Simon, Adrian and me. But to sell straightaway, with the property market in such a parlous state, would have been perverse. From their point of view, I made an ideal tenant. Somebody they could rely on to keep the place looking presentable until the time came to cash in. The arrangement suited me too, so I went along with it, forgetting that it would work only so long as all our interests coincided.

I suppose the truth is that I chose to forget. My earlier dislike of the house had diminished as my enthusiasm for Edward Thomas’s poetry had grown. I’d come to relish its proximity to his favourite walks and to follow them myself. After the blandness of the Belgian countryside, I’d returned to the sights and scents of rural England like a reluctant teetotaller to strong drink. All in all, it suited me far better to stay at Greenhayes than I cared to admit.

On the Sunday after the funeral, I was surprised by a visit from Sarah. She’d heard about my mother’s death from Bella and wished to offer her condolences. There was no comparison between the circumstances of our bereavements, of course, but still they drew us briefly together. It was a cool dry cloudy day, with the snow long since washed away. We took a circular stroll up onto Wheatham Hill, passing one of Thomas’s former houses in Cockshott Lane and another in Ashford Chace on the way back. We talked about the poems I’d come to know nearly as well as her. We discussed the bewildering consequences of death—the clothes parcels for Oxfam, the redundant possessions, the remorseless memories. And then, inevitably, we spoke of Rowena and the coming trial.

“Informally, we’ve been told it’ll take place straight after Easter.”

“That’s only another six weeks or so.”

“I know. But it can’t come soon enough for me. Or Daddy. Once it’s over, maybe we’ll be able to start living again. I don’t mean I want to forget Mummy. Or what happened to her. But we’re all worn down by waiting. Especially Rowena.”

“How is she?”

“Better than when you met her. More controlled. More certain about what she has to do. I think she’s going to be all right. In court, I mean.”

“And after?”

“She’ll put it behind her. She has to. And she’s stronger than you might think. Really.”

“Do you want me to see her again—before the trial?”

“Better not, I reckon. She hasn’t said any of those . . . weird things about Mummy since . . .” She shook her head. “Well, for a long time.” How long? I wondered. Had Sarah just stopped short of suggesting I was the cause rather than the cure?

“I’m sorry,” I began, “if I mishandled things . . . when Rowena and I . . .”

“Forget it,” she said, significantly failing to contradict me. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t, anyway. Not once the trial’s out of the way.” Assuming, she didn’t add, that the trial went as smoothly as she hoped. And ended with the verdict she wanted to hear.

Sarah’s information proved to be accurate. The trial of Shaun Andrew Naylor for rape and double murder opened at Birmingham Crown Court on Monday the eighth of April 1991. I was notified that I’d be required as a witness, probably during the second week. Until then, I was left to follow events through newspaper and television reports like any other curious member of the public. I learned, just as they did, that Sir Keith Paxton was in court each day to hear the often harrowing medical evidence of how his wife had died. And I could only wonder, like them, how Naylor hoped to be acquitted when DNA analysis appeared to identify him as the rapist. Pleading not guilty was either a gesture of defiance on his part or there was something we were all missing.

I cut a pretty distracted figure at work during this period, my thoughts dwelling on events in Birmingham when I was supposed to be concentrating on matching cricket bat production to early season demand. As a result, I was a virtual spectator at the board meeting on 11 April, when Adrian unveiled his plans for penetration of the Australian market. An agency wasn’t enough, according to him. Corporate presence was necessary. And Viburna, an ailing Melbourne sportswear manufacturer, was the key. He proposed a takeover, which would give Timariot & Small direct access to Viburna’s customers, creating a perfect springboard for promoting combined cricket bat and accessories sales throughout the continent. Viburna could be ours for little more than a million. So, what were we waiting for? Nothing, apparently. Simon was keen. Jennifer said she’d look at the figures, but agreed we had to expand if we weren’t to contract. And I made the mistake of thinking we could consider it in more detail later. Adrian and Jennifer were to report back after a fact-finding visit to Melbourne in May. Until then, no decision was to be taken. But already the idea had acquired a crucial momentum. It was Adrian’s first big independent project as managing director. With the shares he’d inherited from Mother, he now held the largest single stake in the company. What he wanted, sooner or later, he would have. And so would the rest of us.

I travelled up to Birmingham the following Sunday and booked into the Midland Hotel. Sarah had told me she and her father would be staying there that night with Rowena, who was due to testify immediately before me on Monday morning. We’d agreed to dine together. It was the first time we’d all met since the lunch in Hindhead and I wasn’t sure what to expect. But Sir Keith soon put me at my ease. He looked tired but determined, shielding his daughters as best he could behind a show of imperturbability.

As for Rowena, she’d changed, as Sarah had said. The intensity was still there, but the threat of imminent disintegration had vanished. She was in command of herself, though how certainly I couldn’t tell. Her manner had become distant. I don’t mean she was hostile towards me, or even cool. But she’d retreated behind a mask. And though the performance she gave was convincing, it was also expressionless. As if she’d willed herself to forget whatever was inconvenient or ambiguous in her recollections of 17 July 1990. At the cost of the most appealing part of her personality. She was still fragile. But somehow no longer vulnerable.

“I can’t tell you,” said Sir Keith when the girls had gone off to bed, “what a help your sister-in-law’s been to us these past few months.”

“Bella?” I responded, unable to disguise my surprise.

“She’s a wonderful woman, as I’m sure you’d agree. She’s put Rowena back on her feet in a way I don’t think I’d have been able to.”

“Really?” This was news to me. And news I didn’t much care for.

“I’ve found her company a genuine tonic. We have bereavement in common, I suppose. Her husband. My wife. Only those who’ve suffered in the same way can really understand, you know.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” But I wasn’t at all sure it applied to Bella. She must have given Sir Keith a vastly different impression of her reaction to Hugh’s death from the one I’d received.

“I only wish she could have been in court last week. I’d have been glad of a friendly face. But the prosecuting counsel . . . Well, my solicitor actually . . . Some nonsense about how it would look if . . .” He puffed his cheeks irritably and sipped some brandy. “Still, when this ghastly business is all over . . .” Then he grinned. “Just wanted to put you in the picture, Robin. So it doesn’t come as a shock. Some people can be damned prudish about this sort of thing. But not you, I dare say.”

“No. Of course not.” I smiled cautiously, trying not to show my incredulity. And something worse than incredulity. Disgust? Disapproval? Not quite. What I really felt was a form of jealousy. How dare Bella try to replace Louise Paxton? How dare Sir Keith even think of allowing her to? He should have loved Louise too much for such a thing to be possible. He should have loved her as I would have done in his place. Instead of which—

“I’ve you to thank for meeting Bella, of course. If you hadn’t recommended Sarah to her as a lodger . . . Well, I’m grateful, believe me.”

Oh, I believed him. I’d be earning his gratitude twice over—though he wouldn’t realize it—by what I said in court about his no longer irreplaceable wife. That’s what made it so hard to bear. Sometimes, it’s better to be cursed than to be thanked. And sometimes it’s the same thing.

We went to the courts together next morning. They were housed in a modern city centre building externally similar to the offices of a prosperous insurance company. Inside, three galleried floors were crowded with lawyers, clients, policemen, journalists, witnesses and assorted hangers-on. Anxious consultations were under way in stairwells and corridors. And many of the faces were deadly serious. Some of its chain-smoking victims might think the law a joke. But none of them regarded it as a laughing matter.

Sir Keith and his daughters knew what to expect. They’d been there before. A few press cameras snapped as we entered, capturing Sir Keith impassive in three piece pin-stripe and old school tie, Sarah sombre and black-suited, Rowena pale but composed in a lilac dress. We climbed to the top floor and Sir Keith went into Court Twelve while Rowena and I waited outside with Sarah. Within ten minutes of the start, Rowena was called. I wished her luck, which she barely acknowledged. Then she was shown in by an usher and Sarah followed, leaving me to kick my heels as the morning slowly elapsed.

I’d anticipated a lonely vigil and had brought Adrian’s preliminary report on Viburna Sportswear to study while I waited. I couldn’t concentrate on it, of course, but it gave me something to look at instead of the other hang-dog occupants of the landing. Which explains why the first I knew of Bella’s arrival on the scene was when she sat down beside me.

“Hello, Robin,” she whispered. “What’s happening inside?”

“Bella! I didn’t know you were coming.”