High Tide (24 page)

‘Will you be quiet? I don’t care how old you are.’

They stared at each other for a moment, smiling, in that
I can’t believe this is really happening
way. Like they had the first night. The magic was still there.

29

In the end, Mary didn’t have to wait as long as she thought for her results, because Dr Webster knew the consultant, and he phoned her as soon as he knew, and she asked him if she could tell Mary herself.

‘You’re all right, Mary,’ she told her. ‘We’ll need to keep an eye on it, but that’s good practice anyway. I’m so pleased. I know it’s a horrible scare.’

Mary could think of nothing to say but thank you. When she’d taken in the good news, she’d go up to the surgery and take Dr Webster a little something to show her appreciation. Not everyone would get that treatment, she suspected, and she was grateful.

She went to find Kenny. He was in his shed, but instead of sitting and staring into space with a roll-up he was sorting out his fishing gear, which had lain in a tangle for months. She couldn’t believe the change in him, even though they were living under the strain of not knowing.

But now they did.

‘I’m OK,’ she told him. She wasn’t one for effusiveness, Mary. Nor was Kenny, much, but the embrace they gave each other said everything they needed to know. Sometimes you didn’t need words.

‘Come into town with me. Now.’

Kenny looked puzzled. ‘What for, love? I got the shopping. We’ve got tea.’

‘There’s something I want to do.’

He could hardly refuse her request. He grabbed his coat, and she got hers, and they walked down the hill into Pennfleet. The high street was fresh and lively after the storm. It was almost as if it hadn’t happened.

Kenny followed Mary up the street into the travel agents, where they sat down in front of a young girl who smiled and asked them where they wanted to go.

‘Australia,’ said Mary, and Kenny looked at her as if she was mad.

‘I’ve been given a chance,’ she told him. ‘I want to breathe the same air that my boys are breathing. I want to put my grandchildren to bed in their own bed. I want to get a taste of their life so I can imagine them when I’m back in Pennfleet.’

‘I totally understand that, but how are we going to pay? I mean, I know I’m working but—’

And she told him about Spencer’s bequest. And how she’d kept it quiet until she knew she was all right, because they might have needed the money to tide them over.

They sat for a moment while the travel agent tapped away at the keyboard. Mary reached out and took Kenny’s hand. She was so proud of him, for getting his job, and standing up to Ruthie, who had agreed to find her own place and had already made arrangements to go and see a couple of flats. Quite good-naturedly, it seemed. It was funny, she thought, how out of bad could come good, sometimes. How people proved their mettle.

‘OK – so, two tickets from Heathrow to Sydney. Fifteenth of December. Returning in four weeks.’

‘First class,’ said Mary.

‘It’s very dear,’ said the agent.

‘I don’t care,’ said Mary, and smiled.

Thank you, Spencer, wherever you are.

On Kate’s last night in Pennfleet, she felt shattered. But Debbie had called round to say goodbye, so she couldn’t just flop. The two of them shared a bottle of wine Debbie had brought round. Kate had to rummage in one of the boxes she had packed up to get out two glasses. Everything was ready to go first thing in the morning, either shipped over to her in New York, or off to Recycling, or the charity shop.

‘So when’s it going on the market?’

Kate realised she’d been so busy she hadn’t filled her friend in on what had happened. She hadn’t told her about spending the night at Southcliffe, either. She didn’t want a post-mortem on what it meant, or what it might mean. Because it meant nothing.

‘I might have a buyer for the cottage already. Rupert Malahide.’

Debbie was staring at her. She looked strained. ‘Oh. So that’s why he asked you out for dinner.’

‘I guess so. But it would save me a fortune in agents’ fees. He’s supposed to be making me a formal offer.’

‘How much?’ Debbie’s voice sounded strangled.

Kate wasn’t sure she wanted to tell her. ‘Well, we haven’t quite agreed on the price.’

Debbie leaned forward. ‘Roughly how much? More than three hundred?’

‘Well …’ Kate felt awkward. ‘Just over.’

Debbie sat back again and digested the information.

‘Oh.’

‘What’s the matter?’

Debbie looked away.

‘Scott and I would have liked your cottage.’

‘Really?.’

‘We worked out we could just afford it. If we sold ours and got an interest-only mortgage. I’d probably have to get another job but now Leanne’s at nursery …’

‘Isn’t it far too small?’

‘We were thinking about a loft conversion.’ Debbie’s voice was small. ‘But there’s no way we could afford over three hundred. We’re just local scum, you see. We don’t get a look in when it comes to buying the pretty houses.’

Kate was shocked at the venom in her voice.

‘Debbie—’

‘We get left up the arse end of town where we belong.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t you worry. No one else does. The likes of Rupert Malahide certainly don’t. He won’t be happy till he’s bought up the whole town and stuffed it full of toffs like him.’

Debbie gulped at her wine, then put her glass back down.

‘Debs – you should have said. You should have told me. We could have worked something out, maybe.’

‘No. It was just a stupid dream. Who was I trying to kid?’

Her voice broke.

‘Sorry. It’s just hard. Four kids. Keeping body and soul together. We’ve got so many plans but we never seem to get anywhere. I didn’t mean to have a go at you. It’s tough, you know. Trying to scratch a living. Picking up the crumbs left by the rich people.’

‘I get it,’ said Kate, putting her hand over hers.

‘I know you haven’t got any choice. Rupert would buy your place anyway. And I’m just jealous, I suppose. My life doesn’t change from day to day and yours seems so … glamorous. We seem so different. But we were the same once.’

‘Don’t be jealous,’ said Kate. ‘I envy you, too. Your lovely husband and your amazing kids.’

‘You’re joking.’ Debbie looked surprised.

‘My life’s ridiculous. It might seem glamorous, but it’s superficial. It has no meaning. Not really.’

‘I wouldn’t mind doing a swap. You can come and look after my lot for a week.’

Kate laughed. ‘I can tell you. I have my fair share of tantrums to deal with.’

Her heart sank slightly as she thought of Carlos. It had been good to be away from him. She’d found time to breathe. But even from here, she could sense his neediness. Her inbox was crammed with agendas, dates for meetings, possible menus, prices, venues to visit. She was going to have to hit the ground running.

‘Come here.’ She wrapped Debbie in a hug. She thought about how many times they’d done this. Not least after the debacle at Rupert’s brother’s twenty-first, when Debbie had hugged away her humiliation.

She didn’t have friends like this in New York. She’d have to get some, she decided. It would be the first thing she worked on when she got back.

After Debbie left, after a lot of hugs and a few tears and some slightly tipsy
I love you
s, Kate sat in the silence of the kitchen. The silence of the emptiness was deafening: even the radio had been packed up to go to the recycling centre in Shoredown.

Part of her wished she could stay to see the sale go through, but there was no point. Her life had to go on. And Robin’s life, and Nancy’s life, and Debbie’s life, would carry on without her. They didn’t need her

Bed, she thought. Just a few ends to tie up tomorrow, and then the drive up to Heathrow. If she stayed up any later, she would get maudlin. Think about all the ghosts in the house. She’d take her last tablet. And boy was she going to need it. All she wanted to do was sleep.

‘I think you children should know,’ said Sam, ‘that you can’t go round messing with people’s lives. It was a terrible thing to do. You lied, for a start. I didn’t bring you up to tell fibs.’

He was doing his very best to keep a straight face. Daisy and Jim were looking mortified. They hated getting into trouble with their dad, because he rarely told them off.

‘But I thought you got on?’ said Daisy. ‘Oscar said his mum thought you were lovely.’

‘That’s not the point,’ said Sam. ‘And you need to understand the implications of what you’ve done.’

Daisy and Jim looked at each other.

‘Wait there,’ said Sam, and walked out of the room.

‘He’s really mad,’ said Daisy.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Jim. ‘It’s just not like him.’

‘Maybe he’s embarrassed. Or feels bad about Mum.’ Daisy sighed. ‘We should have left it alone.’

‘We did it for the best reasons.’

‘And I thought something was going to come of it. I really did.’

Sam walked back into the kitchen with a box.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is your punishment.’

He put the box on the island.

Jim and Daisy opened the lid and peered inside.

‘Oh my God,’ breathed Daisy. ‘A puppy. An actual puppy.’

Jim put his hands in and pulled the little dog out. He was beaming from ear to ear.

‘I love her already,’ he said.

‘So you were joking,’ said Daisy to her dad, who was laughing his socks off. ‘You didn’t mind? About the set-up?’

‘No,’ said Sam. ‘I didn’t mind.’

‘Hang on. Oscar just got a puppy that looks a bit like this.’ Daisy frowned. ‘Is this his sister?’

‘Do you think?’ said Sam, looking innocent.

When Alexa had told him she was getting one of Nathan’s puppies, it was the encouragement he’d needed. He was already imagining a walk along the coast path with the puppies, a stop off in a pub by a roaring log fire …

‘They’ve called him Andy,’ said Daisy. ‘After Andy Warhol. So we should call her Edie. After Edie Sedgwick.’

‘Who?’ said Jim.

‘Let’s just watch her over the next couple of days,’ said Sam. ‘And get to know her. Then we can decide on a name.’

And he sat back and watched his two children take the puppy onto the floor, and fuss over her, laughing with delight, and he felt warm inside and the ache-that-never-left-him seemed to fade, just a little bit.

At Pennfleet House, Vanessa and Nathan were sharing a bottle of wine while she cooked spaghetti bolognese. She was coming to terms with the fact that Frank Cooper had gone and was never coming back.

‘He was such a good companion,’ she told Nathan. ‘He kept me company when Spencer wasn’t here.’

Nathan put his glass down and took her hand.

‘I want to take you to see something.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not telling. You might like it; you might not. But if you do, you can have it.’

Vanessa frowned. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

‘Turn off the pasta. Follow me.’

She did as she was told. She followed him up the high street to his grandfather’s house, and into his yard.

‘Just don’t look round you,’ said Nathan. ‘It’s pretty grim. There’s been no woman’s touch here for over ten years.’

Vanessa just laughed. There was a certain charm to the ramshackle yard. You got the feeling you might find all sorts of treasures. And as Nathan opened the door of a shed and ushered her inside, there was treasure indeed.

There was just one left. A little girl. The smallest, bundled next to her mum.

‘Oh my goodness.’ Vanessa scooped the puppy into her arms and nuzzled her. ‘She is beautiful. What is she?’

‘Well, Monkey’s a border terrier. But no one has a clue about the dad. So she could be anything. She could end up a giant, or not get much bigger than she is now. It’s a risk.’

‘She’s got giant paws.’

‘Yes. Bigger than her mum’s at that age.’

Vanessa held her up and looked at her in delight.

‘I’ve never had a dog.’

‘Dogs are easy,’ Nathan assured her. ‘And I know she’s no replacement for Frank Cooper …’

‘No one would ever replace Frank.’ Yet Vanessa held the puppy even tighter. ‘Can I really have her?’

‘I’d love it if you did.’

‘Poor Monkey, though.’ Vanessa looked down at Monkey.

‘No. She’ll be fine. She’s got me. She can’t wait to have me all to herself.’

Vanessa stroked the puppy’s head. It shut its eyes in appreciation.

‘It’s the nicest present I’ve ever had.’

‘What are you going to call her?’

Vanessa thought of the moon that had hung overhead, that first night, in the Neptune garden.

‘Luna,’ she said, and tucked the little dog inside her coat, where it snuggled up and, moments later, fell asleep against the warmth of her new mistress.

30

If Squirrel had stopped to think about it, if she had tried to plan, or phone ahead, she would never have done it.

She slept like a top on the ferry, woken by the curious strumming of a harp that was the ferry company’s signature wake-up call and always made her feel as if she was being summonsed to heaven.

She was very much still alive, though. She showered and dressed as quickly as she could. She wouldn’t bother with breakfast yet – she would stop for coffee and croissants after she had done a couple of hours’ driving. She had a long journey ahead of her.

She rolled off the ferry, reminded herself to keep on the right, and set off, her AA map of France open on the front seat beside her. The route was pretty simple. She just had to keep going south. She estimated it would take her six hours, as long as she didn’t stop too often. She would be there before nightfall.

She didn’t mind driving. Her car was small but powerful, and she was an excellent driver. And she had plenty to think about on the journey. What this might mean. What she would say. How she might feel.

Just after three o’clock she drove into the little town that was nearest to her destination. It was typical: the square, the mairie, the church, the bars. And a hotel. Large and square, the windows painted dark burgundy, the Lion d’Or looked welcoming. She parked in the square nearby and made her way to the entrance.

Inside the reception was dustily opulent – stone floors, ochre walls, gilt and velvet chairs and strikingly modern paintings. As was so often the way in France, it was a little more chic than its exterior suggested.

Squirrel made a booking for that night in her rusty schoolgirl French.

‘
Une nuit
,’ she said, with more firmness than she felt.

Tomorrow she would leave, perhaps drive south to Montpellier or Carcassonne, where there might still be some sun.

The receptionist appraised her with chilly eyes. Was she a threat to anyone in this town? She was too aloof to question Squirrel on her reasons for being here, but that she was dying to know was apparent.

Squirrel decided to tease her by asking directions to where she was heading. The receptionist drew a sketchy map on a piece of hotel notepaper, complete with arrows and landmarks.

Squirrel went to her room – surprisingly chic, with black and white striped wallpaper and a grey satin bedcover. She took a shower to wash away the residue of travel and wake herself up, then dressed in fresh jeans, a pink silk shirt and pink pumps.

She swept out through Reception, her caramel suede jacket over one shoulder, because the sun meant it was still warm but by dusk she would need it.

She followed the directions, driving down tiny narrow lanes flanked by flat fields, passing crumbling farm buildings and cottages that made her mouth water. She smiled to herself. No middle-class English woman worth her salt was immune to the appeal of a little gîte in the French countryside.

Eventually she turned down a track that wasn’t even Tarmaced. The car bounced over the rough ground until she stopped in a little clearing next to an ancient Peugeot. There, nestled in the shade of a walnut tree, was a tiny pigeonnier with a wriggly tin roof. It was what an estate agent would call unspoiled, and what anyone with common sense would call tumbledown. It was charming, glowing the colour of gingerbread in the late afternoon sun.

She saw him. He looked no different, except the slightly too-long hair with the sweeping side fringe was now streaked with grey, and he was thinner. Dressed in jeans and a navy linen shirt and big boots, he was picking walnuts off the floor and hurling them into a wicker basket.

She felt as if she had come home, although she had never been here before. The familiarity was overwhelming. She could, if she breathed in, smell his warmth, the faint trace of citrus on his skin from his cologne. She could imagine the touch of his long, slender fingers.

How had she lived without him all these years?

She supposed it was all too easy to forget the frustration, the humiliation, the anger and the sadness of living with him. The days when she had no idea where he was, and the worse ones when she did. His inability to handle any responsibility. The overwhelming excitement of his euphoria, followed by the inevitable dark days when he wouldn’t get up, or wash, or eat.

Of course, she knew now, because every time she read an article about it, or saw a documentary on the television, she recognised the symptoms. But back in the day, people just said, ‘Oh, that’s just David.’ ‘Just David’ enabled him to behave exactly as he wished, with no concern for anyone else on the planet.

Had she known it was a sickness, an illness, could she have done anything to help him?

More importantly, had he discovered the truth in the meantime, or was he still subject to the terrifying swings in temperament? Had he shared his life with anyone else, and had they been able to manage?

All these questions and many more flittered through her mind. And then he looked up and saw her. He didn’t miss a beat.

‘Blasted walnuts come crashing down on the roof. Make a hell of a din.’

His voice had always been a little too big for him, gravelly and deep. She could have listened to him recite anything: a shopping list, the shipping forecast, because he imbued every word with nuance and promise. Even with just those few words of introduction, he had told her so much more.

She walked over to him and they looked at each other. Up close, she could see his face was lined, but he wore it well.

‘I was just passing,’ she told him, with an impish grin.

‘Excellent,’ he replied, lifting up the basket. ‘Come on in. You’re just in time for an aperitif.’

She followed him, thinking how it only felt like yesterday since she’d seen him. They would snap back together, like two pieces of Lego. When it was good, she thought, it had been so very good. She watched him sling the basket onto the stone paving outside the front door. He seemed more physical, easier with his body. She was intrigued. He had been such a city person, his life made up of bars and taxis and pavements and night-time.

Inside, the house was cosy, the downstairs an open living area with a wooden staircase rising up. The stone floor was warmed with rugs. At one end there was a long wooden table with mismatched stools. Around it the walls were hung with shelves. On them were bowls made of pottery, enamelware and wood containing deep-red onions, lemons, speckled apples, garlic, loose change, walnuts. There were jars filled with spices, pulses, rice, pasta next to copper saucepans and empty tins stuffed with wooden spoons and implements Squirrel couldn’t identify. There was an ancient sink and an even more ancient cooker, on top of which was perched a metal espresso maker. It was as unfitted a kitchen as you could get. She loved it.

David took down two dumpy glasses from a shelf and sloshed two inches of white wine into each. No change there then. Yet he was still alive and looking in rude health, so she wasn’t going to comment.

‘Just the local plonk,’ he told her. ‘I’ll get out something more special for tonight. Assuming you’re staying … for supper?’

‘I’ll be driving.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll make it something very special. You can have one glass.’

She couldn’t quite look him in the eye. She took the glass from him and sipped. It was surprisingly good. Actually, that wasn’t a surprise. David took his wine very seriously. If only he hadn’t drunk quite so much of it.

He filled a bowl with some fat glistening olives, flecked with fresh herbs. The smell was intoxicating. Squirrel realised that her morning croissant had been a long time ago.

‘So when you say just passing …’ He put his head to one side and smiled at her, his eyes laughing.

‘Actually, I wasn’t just passing. I wanted to see you. Don’t ask me why.’

Squirrel didn’t see any point in dissembling. He wouldn’t fall for it, anyway.

‘I’m really pleased. It’s good to see you. You look … as wonderful as ever.’

Squirrel shrugged, a little embarrassed. She knew she looked good for her age, but she felt awkward under his scrutiny, because suddenly it really mattered what he thought and she hated herself for that.

He leaned forward. ‘How are the girls? Tell me everything.’

She stared at him for a moment. How could she not want to berate this man for walking out on them all those years ago? Surely she should rip him to shreds now she had his attention? Tell him just how hard it had been, being a single mother. The exhaustion, the worry, the loneliness.

Yet she knew he had done the right thing. That worse would have happened had he not left them. He’d had enough self-awareness to know that. She felt desperately sad that it hadn’t been in her power to redress the problem. And now, she felt no anger.

‘They are wonderful,’ she told him. ‘You would be so proud.’

She told him about their older daughter – her jobs, her marriage, her various offspring, her home in Seattle.

‘And Vanessa …’ She paused for a moment. ‘She’s had a difficult time, but I think she’s going to turn the corner. She’s got a few things to work out, but I have faith.’

Knowing Vanessa was on her way to being settled was one of the reasons she had felt able to make this journey. It had taken all this time, but now it was her moment. To lay the ghosts.

‘How about you?’ she asked. ‘What are you up to?’

‘I do a bit of English coaching. Help out on some of the local farms. And I pick things up at the local brocante. My mate comes over with a van once a month and sells it all at his shop in Bath. We split the profit.’

He grinned, and Squirrel grinned, imagining him picking up bits of French tat that the good people of Bath would coo over, and pay over the odds for. He had a good eye, did David.

‘You look amazing,’ he told her. ‘You look the same as the day I left.’

Squirrel winced. She tried not to think about that day, or the dark days afterwards.

She remembered the first Christmas after he had left, when a solemn-eyed Vanessa had asked if ‘her Father Christmas’ was going to come.

‘My daddy, I mean. My Father Christmas.’

It had nearly finished Squirrel, that question.

She’d wept alone in her room that night, then pulled herself together and stuffed their stockings and thought that, if he were still with her, he wouldn’t be there to help with the presents, he would be in some Soho watering hole having made a promise to fetch things from Selfridges, which he would forget. It was hard to convince yourself you were better off without someone when you missed them so very much.

Yet again, she wondered if Vanessa had gone for Spencer because she was looking for the father she had never had. Spencer, for all his faults, had been the polar opposite of David. In control. He never missed a beat, or an opportunity. Had Squirrel forced Vanessa into Spencer’s arms, by driving David away?

She told herself to stop punishing herself. You couldn’t be responsible for people’s choices, in the end.

He put out a wooden board with salami, which he hacked up with a Laguiole knife, and tiny cornichons. And while she nibbled on those, and sipped her golden-white wine, he made a cassoulet. The kitchen was soon filled with the rich scent of garlic and tomatoes.

‘This is my quick version,’ he told her. ‘Made with ready-made confit. It’s cheating, really. I’ll make you a proper one one day.’

‘When did you turn into Raymond Blanc?’ she laughed.

He gave a mock Gallic shrug.

‘When in Rome.’ He chopped up garlic, lemon and flat-leaf parsley and mixed them in with some breadcrumbs.

‘This is the man who couldn’t boil an egg.’ She watched in admiration as he scattered the mixture on top of the cassoulet and slid it into the oven.

‘Yes, but you know I’m an obsessive.’

Yes. It was just a pity he wasn’t obsessive about his family. Squirrel took another sip of wine and reminded herself not to slip back into bitterness. That wasn’t what this trip was about.

He went to fill her glass, an automatic gesture, but she put her hand over it. ‘I mustn’t. I’m driving.’

‘You can stay. With pleasure.’

She thought of the comfort of the hotel room at the Lion d’Or. And imagined the masculine asceticism of his bedroom. Wooden floors. A brass bed. No clutter.

She didn’t have to make an excuse to anyone for sleeping with him. She was, after all, still his wife. She still bore his name. They had never bothered to divorce.

She took her hand away and let him pour more wine that fell golden from the bottle. He filled his own glass, then clinked it gently against hers.

‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ he told her.

As she looked at him in the candlelight, the shadows flickering across the angles of his face, she remembered why she’d never bothered with anyone else. She knew she might well get hurt, she knew that within days she would want to kill him, she knew he would not have changed, not really. But she wanted to feel her skin on his once more.