Death Comes First (8 page)

‘Shouldn’t you be getting the kids’ tea?’ she enquired.

‘We’re ordering in a pizza,’ said Joyce. ‘Molly’s doing it.’

Felicity raised her eyebrows. ‘On a school day?’

‘Yes, on a school day,’ replied Joyce tetchily and without offering any further explanation.

Was she really such a creature of habit that her entire family responded this way to the smallest change in the daily routine? She suspected that the answer was yes. Ever since she’d married Charlie and moved back to Tarrant Park, she’d clung to routine as a means of getting through each day, never deviating from her schedule during term time.

It was as if she’d turned into a sort of Stepford wife, a far cry from the girl she’d once been. Remembering the old Joyce, that determination to be independent, to follow her dreams, she felt the spirit that had been subdued for so long flare up inside her. It was that spirit that had carried her to her mother, with the intention of coming straight to the subject of the letter and quizzing her about what Henry could have done to warrant the accusation.

But the moment she was in Felicity’s presence, her resolve evaporated. What could she possibly hope to glean from her mother? There was no question where her mother’s loyalty lay: firmly with Henry. Felicity’s first instinct would always be to consult her husband, and then defer to him in whatever course of action he saw fit to decide upon. Anything Joyce told her mother would immediately be disclosed in full to her father.

Since she had already eliminated the possibility of discussing the letter with Henry, Joyce was now at a loss how to proceed.

Perching on a kitchen stool, she tried for a breezy, casual tone: ‘Hey, don’t I get a cup of tea?’

‘If you make it yourself,’ responded her mother, lightening
her words with a warm smile. ‘You can see I’m busy, can’t you?’

Joyce stood up, filled the kettle from the sink and switched it on. Perhaps she could instigate a more subtle interrogation than she had originally planned. But the thought of deceiving her mother made her feel uncomfortable, and whenever Joyce felt uncomfortable she was inclined to blush. Already her cheeks were burning. Thankfully she had her back to her mother, and to keep it that way she took her time rummaging in the cupboard for the jar of teabags and selecting a mug.

‘What time are you expecting Dad back?’ she asked.

‘Sixish – same time he always comes home,’ responded her mother, puzzled.

‘Yes. Sorry.’ There was a long silence as Joyce searched for the right thing to say next. ‘I wish I was expecting Charlie home.’

‘Of course you do, sweetheart.’ Her mother’s voice softened. ‘Has it been a bad day? Come and sit down.’

Hoping her hot cheeks had not turned too red, Joyce took the mug of tea to the table, and sat.

‘I’m sorry if I wasn’t as welcoming as I should have been,’ said her mother. ‘You know you can come around here and talk, or just be here, any time you like, don’t you?’

Joyce sipped her tea and said nothing.

‘I do understand how you’re feeling,’ Felicity continued. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get over losing your brother. Not completely. It’s the little things, isn’t it? You find yourself making sure you’ve got the breakfast cereal he likes, remembering how he likes his eggs, planning his favourite dinner. I do know, Joyce.’

Joyce could only stare at her. It was typical of Felicity to empathize, or try to. But losing Charlie was nothing like
losing William. Felicity had no idea what a moody bastard Charlie had been at home. Or at least, Joyce assumed she hadn’t.

She wondered again for a moment if she should summon up all her waning courage, plunge in and tell her mother about the letter and take it from there. Did it matter if Felicity told Henry? Presumably he would have to know sooner or later, if Joyce were ever to solve this mystery.

With one hand she felt the pocket of her cardigan. She had removed the letter from its hiding place beneath the bread bin and slipped it there before leaving The Firs.

Then Felicity spoke again:

‘It’s hard for your father too. After all, he worked with Charlie every day. He doesn’t say much – you know what he’s like. Nobody could ever replace William for your father. That’s why he’s shut the loss out. But I do think he’d come to regard your Charlie as a second son. And there’s no doubt he misses him terribly.’

Joyce grasped the opportunity to steer the conversation toward the concerns raised by the letter, hoping she could find answers without mentioning the letter itself.

‘Yes, they were close, weren’t they,’ she said. ‘Not that Charlie ever talked about it much – or work, come to that. Is Dad still as tight-lipped as ever?’

‘Well, you could put it like that,’ said Felicity. ‘It’s the way your father is, that’s all. He’s the old-fashioned hunter-gatherer, bless him. He doesn’t believe in bringing his work home. The way he sees it, a wife shouldn’t have to worry about finances, work problems, or anything like that.’

‘Wouldn’t want you worrying your pretty little head, eh?’ said Joyce mischievously, managing a grin in spite of the way she was feeling.

‘Now, Joyce, you are terribly naughty,’ scolded her mother, speaking to her the way she had when Joyce was a child. ‘You know perfectly well that your father has never said such a thing to me in the fifty years we’ve been together.’

‘So you say,’ muttered Joyce.

‘And I’m absolutely sure Charlie never said anything like that to you,’ her mother continued, as if Joyce hadn’t spoken. ‘He wouldn’t have dared.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Joyce. ‘I sometimes thought he was on the verge of saying it, though. He would never tell me anything about anything. If I so much as asked him what sort of day he’d had, he’d go all secretive and change the subject.’

She paused, trying to get the right note of playfulness into her voice.

‘Tell you what though, Mum, I bet you know everything about Tanner-Max. In fact, I bet you’re the one who runs the place, only it’s a deep dark secret. It’s all a front, isn’t it? Dad just won’t let on how much he depends on you.’

Her mother leaned over the table and appeared to focus her attention on her pie-making as she answered: ‘I can assure you, I know next to nothing about the business. Why would I want to?’ she asked. ‘That’s your father’s territory.’

Joyce sighed inwardly and changed tack.

‘And he was always a good father, wasn’t he?’ she asked.

Her mother looked up from her pastry, eyes alert. ‘What sort of question is that? You know he was a good father – and still is! What’s got into you today, girl?’

‘And a good father to William, too?’ persisted Joyce, refusing to allow her mother to divert her from her purpose.

‘Of course your father was good to your brother. They adored each other.’ Her mother scrutinized her, puzzled.

‘Yes, but did you ever think maybe they adored each other
too much, that they might have been too close?’ Even as she blurted the question out, Joyce wondered whether she had gone too far. But if it occurred to her mother that Joyce might be implying something untoward in the relationship between father and son, Felicity Tanner gave no sign of it.

‘I do know what you mean,’ she replied, rather to Joyce’s surprise. ‘It was a bit like they were in their own private club. Nobody else could ever get a look in. But I was always glad that they got on so well. It’s a shame more men don’t get on that well with their sons.’

‘True,’ said Joyce. ‘And it was much the same with Charlie, wasn’t it? Being in their own private club, I mean, with their own private agenda. And we wives were kept right out of it.’

Felicity pushed aside the pie and put her hands on her hips. ‘Joyce, you managed to make that sound quite sinister,’ she said. ‘Whatever has brought this on?’

‘Brought what on?’ Joyce responded, her blush deepening. ‘I wonder about Charlie, that’s all. I know he loved me, and I loved him. And he cared for me and was almost always kind. He did have some black moods, though. And there was definitely something missing in our marriage. I think it was honesty. I just wondered if you felt the same.’

‘Joyce, just because a man likes to keep work and home apart, that doesn’t mean he’s hiding something,’ said Felicity, wiping floury hands on her apron. ‘It doesn’t mean he has secrets. Well, not the sort of secrets a wife should worry about anyway.’

‘And what does that mean?’ asked Joyce sharply.

‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ It was Felicity’s turn to blush. Her skin was even paler than her daughter’s. Practically translucent. The flush started around her neck and spread instantly up over her cheeks. ‘Only a figure of speech,’ she said.

‘You’re blushing, Mum.’

‘So are you,’ countered Felicity.

‘No, I’m hot, that’s all,’ lied Joyce.

‘Well, if I am blushing it’s because you’re embarrassing me with all your questions,’ said Felicity.

‘It seems to me we don’t ask enough questions in this family. I mean, Charlie died before his time – in a boating accident, even though he was such a good sailor – and we never did get to the bottom of William’s death.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Joyce!’ her mother snapped. ‘You make it sound as if Charlie was doing nothing more dangerous than messing about in a pedalo on the Serpentine. He was sailing in the Atlantic Ocean. On his own. In November. I know the weather was pretty good, and that it was what he liked to do, but the dangers were obvious, no matter how good a sailor he was. As for your brother: William was knocked down by a motorist who was probably drunk and therefore didn’t stop. It was a tragic accident. They were both tragic accidents. Of course they were.’

‘Maybe. But Charlie’s body wasn’t recovered, so there couldn’t be a post mortem – which might have revealed exactly what did happen to him. And the motorist who killed William was never traced. Yet – and I suspect you remember me telling you at the time – the police manage to track down nine out of ten motorists who are involved in a fatal traffic incident and leave the scene.’

‘Why are you bringing William’s death up now?’ asked Felicity, the pain clear in her voice. ‘That was twenty-four years ago. What can you hope to gain by going over it again? It has nothing to do with Charlie’s death.’

‘Maybe not, but Charlie’s only been dead six months and yet I know bugger all about the manner of his death. And it
suddenly occurred to me today that I know bugger all about his life and his work. All I know about him is the bit he brought home at night, and I’m damned sure that was only the tip of the iceberg.’ Seeing the concern in her mother’s face she took a deep breath and tried to bring her emotions under control. ‘I just thought, Mum, that you might be able to help me. I need to fill in the gaps. And I don’t think I shall be able to move on until I do. Will you help me fill in the gaps, Mum?’

Well, it’s worth a try, thought Joyce. Though she was aware that her softly-softly approach had gone out the kitchen window.

Felicity scrutinized her pie for a moment before answering. Then she looked up and directed a penetrating gaze at her daughter.

‘Something’s happened, Joyce, hasn’t it?’

Damn it, thought Joyce. She had allowed herself to forget how astute her mother could be. Felicity Tanner might give the impression of being the meek little wife, content to live in her husband’s shadow and acquiesce to his every whim, but she was a highly intelligent woman and not to be underestimated.

‘No, of course not. I can’t help fretting about things, that’s all, and that’s why I’m turning to you, to help me sort myself out,’ responded Joyce, suspecting that she did not sound at all convincing.

‘Joyce, I know you too well,’ said her mother. ‘Something’s happened, I’m sure of it. Come on now, tell me what it is and then I can help you.’

Joyce could feel the outline of Charlie’s letter in her cardigan pocket. If she was going to throw caution to the wind, confide in her mother and show her the letter, this was the
moment to do it. And Joyce longed for Felicity to reassure her and put her mind at rest. If she was honest, that had been her real motive for coming here in the first place. Joyce didn’t want to have to deal with the questions the letter had raised. Not on her own. And she certainly didn’t want to uproot herself and her two younger children and take off for a new life. She simply wasn’t capable of doing such a thing. It was perhaps indicative of Charlie’s state of mind that he had overlooked that.

It felt as if the letter was smouldering away in her pocket. She almost expected her mother to drop her gaze to the pocket and demand to see what was in there. But Felicity was still looking her in the eye, a concerned expression on her face.

This was the mother Joyce loved, the mother who had always loved and cherished her. The woman who had been at her side constantly, through good times and bad times. The mother who had been the first person she’d turned to when the news came through that the
Molly May
had been found but Charlie was missing. The mother who had consoled her with all her heart, who had slept on the sofa in her bedroom for a month after Charlie had gone. If there was one person in all the world she could trust, even if she allowed herself to doubt her own father and the memory of her husband, it was surely Felicity Tanner.

Yet Joyce held back. She could not put her trust in Felicity because her mother had always put her trust in Henry – and always would. The letter must remain Joyce’s secret. At least for the time being.

‘Nothing’s happened, Mum, I promise you,’ she said.

She surprised herself with the ease the lie slipped from her lips. She didn’t think she had ever lied to her mother before
this day, not about anything important anyway. She had left an awful lot unsaid, particularly about her marriage and her concern over her husband’s mental state. But that was the Tanner/Mildmay way.

‘Joyce, I really think you should
 . . .
’ Felicity began.

Joyce stopped listening. She realized that her mother was telling her what she should do, but she wasn’t interested. She’d had a lifetime of people telling her what she should do, and she’d gone along with it – until now. It was time she started making her own decisions, in her own best interests. And the first decision was that she would not allow herself to be deterred.