I Remember You (34 page)

She vowed that would never happen to her.

And then she fell pregnant.

She told everyone it was an accident, but that was not strictly true. She was in her mid-thirties now, and inside her was a deep longing for a baby. Tony—the sweet, kind, Irish lecturer in Early English with whom she had been having an affair these past few months—was appalled at the news, but man enough to hide it when she told him. The relief on his face when she explained she wanted to bring up the baby by herself was almost comical. Philippa remembered, again, why she preferred being alone.

But that was before she lost her job—employment law in the mid-seventies not being what it was later to become. Tony had happily fled to take up a teaching post in America. Many of her other friends had either lost their jobs or been drawn back to the UK, since this was during the height of the Troubles and even Dublin was affected by the mood. Everyone was on strike, inflation had never been highter: it felt as though the world which to her had seemed so full of golden possibilities was going to hell in a handcart. The Crabtrees, her adoptive parents, had scented the wind of change early and migrated to Australia several years previously—presumably hoping, Philippa wryly thought, to put as much distance between themselves and their disappointing daughter as possible.

Suddenly, free-wheeling, happy-go-lucky Philippa realized
she was pregnant, broke, with rent due in three days, no savings, absolutely no plans, and almost totally alone. It was then, like a miracle, that she was contacted one day by a solicitor from a small town called Langford.

‘Miss Crabtree?’

She had almost not answered the phone; it was in the hallway, too far for her to walk when she was lying prone on the grubby corduroy sofa, silently weeping and patting her stomach.

‘Miss Crabtree, my name is Edward Tey. I am contacting you on behalf of a client of mine. We have been aware of your whereabouts for some time now. I wonder, could I interest you in a trip back to England? We have a proposal for you.’

And that was how Philippa found out who her mother was. Two days later, she was back in England for the first time in over a decade, walking across a typical English lawn at the height of summer, feeling like a fish out of water, wishing with all her heart she were back in Dublin. But it was too late for that now. It wasn’t just her any more. She wasn’t alone any more, nor would she ever be again.

So Philippa stood there awkwardly, pushing her thick hair away from her perspiring face and waiting for this woman to turn around, hoping more than anything else that she would let her sit down.

When she stood up and turned around, Philippa squinted. She was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, which kept most of her face in the shade, and huge sunglasses. Her large hands were folded together, and she wore a blue silk jersey tunic—obviously expensive, even Philippa could see that. She said nothing.

‘Hello,’ Philippa said, slowly. ‘It’s nice to—’

‘Here are the deeds to the house,’ Leonora Mortmain said, picking up an envelope of papers from the iron table beside
her. A trickle of condensation ran down the jug of water next to it. Philippa watched its progress longingly. ‘It has been painted, only last year for the previous tenants. There is furniture in there, again from the old tenants. You will find an envelope in this pack. It has five hundred pounds in it. That is for clothing, et cetera, for the baby, and for the two of you for the first few months, until you are able to get another teaching post. Yes?’

Philippa squinted, as if she were a bit drunk, to try and make out some of her mother’s features. ‘It’s nice to meet you at last,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much for—’

‘Please listen to me,’ said Leonora Mortmain, and her voice was awful, horrible to hear. ‘I have always monitored your movements, first through the Crabtrees, then through private means. We know you are desperate, that you have no options, and that you and that child, which will be born a bastard, are basically alone in the world. That is why I have said I will help you.’ She cleared her throat, a small, precise gesture. ‘Yes, you are my child, and the child of someone else too, and that is why I will help you. But we are not to be in each other’s lives. I do not want to hear from you again. I do not want anyone to know, most of all that child in there, where you came from. Do not tell him. Do not tell
anyone
that you are a Mortmain. You will have to change your surname, to be totally sure no one can make the connection. These are my only conditions. Is that understood?’

The baby inside Philippa—the reason she was there, rooted to the ground in this small town, forced to settle for something when it was really the last thing she wanted—suddenly kicked. She put her hand on her stomach, feeling the smooth, taut skin of her rounded belly underneath the cotton of her dress.

‘Don’t call my baby a bastard,’ she said softly. ‘I won’t take the house, thank you very much. I don’t want anything from you.’

There was a silence.

‘You have to take it,’ Leonora Mortmain said flatly. ‘You think you’re quite the bohemian, don’t you? Living a life of Reilly, no cares or responsibilities, but you’re not quite so selfish as to turn this down, are you? I know you really have nothing.’ She took her sunglasses off, folded them neatly and put them on the table. The baby kicked again, and the vice-like grip around Philippa’s head, from the sun and fatigue, tightened a little more as she looked into her mother’s dark eyes for the first time since she had been a new born.

‘Don’t you care?’ she said wonderingly, blinking back sharp tears. ‘Didn’t you care at all about me? Did you think of me, ever, when I was growing up?’

‘Not really,’ said Leonora Mortmain. Her eyes were impossible to read. She stared impassively at her daughter. ‘You were a mistake, you see.’

‘You can’t be this horrible,’ Philippa said. She reached forward, and took the envelope. ‘You just can’t. I’m going to let you know when the baby’s born, what it is, how he or she is. Don’t worry—’ as Leonora held up her hand to speak—‘I’ll make sure no one finds out, I won’t say a word. Thank you. Thank you for the house, and the money. It is kind of you, though apparently you don’t want me to think so.’

She desperately wanted to pee, to sit down, to cry. She had to go.

‘I have already explained,’ Leonora Mortmain said. ‘I don’t think I need to explain any further. I have a duty to you, in as much as I cannot let you become destitute. You are clearly the sort of person who needs control in her life. Perhaps that is what I can give you.’

Philippa could feel sweat pooling between her breasts. ‘Can you tell me who my father was?’ she asked quietly.

The older woman put her hand up to her eyes, as if she were shading them from the sun, and when she spoke her voice was wavery. ‘No. I cannot. I’ve said all I’m going to say
to you. Take this envelope, please, and consider this entire matter closed.’

And Leonora Mortmain simply walked away, walked into the house, shutting the door behind her, leaving her daughter on the lawn in the midday sunshine, tears in her eyes. Philippa clutched the envelope. This was like a bad dream. This baby was a terrible mistake, she knew it now.

Perhaps she should give it away, get out of this town, start all over again.

Then she realized with cold, calm certainty that she stood on a precipice. That she would be in terrible danger of repeating what had happened to her. That would not happen to her baby, never, ever!

She was still crying a little as she walked through the silent house, down the corridor and out of the front door. No one said goodbye, but she felt as if there were eyes watch ing her the whole time. Philippa stood on the high street and looked around her, as if trying to remember where she was. It was a whole new world. There, opposite, was a pub called the Feathers. Philippa wiped her nose and walked in.

There was a man behind the bar, polishing some glasses and whistling. He looked up as she came in, giving her a curious glance, and then he smiled.

‘You all right, my dear?’

‘Um—not sure,’ said Philippa, stroking her stomach again as the kicking intensified. ‘I’ve just moved here, actually.’

She didn’t know why she said this.

‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ said the man behind the bar, ‘you look as if you could do with a nice sit-down and a cup of tea.’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Philippa. ‘But I need the loo first.’

‘Well, let me point you in the right direction and I’ll get you your tea.’ He leaned across the bar. ‘Welcome to the
Feathers. I’m Mick. Nice to have a new face in Langford. You’re very welcome, my dear.’ And he grinned, kindly.

Philippa shook his hand and gave him a watery smile and, as she took in her new surroundings, blinking back tears, for the first time in a long while felt that she might not be entirely alone.

‘I know some people have been put off by what happened back in the summer,’ said Beth Kennett, her fingers drumming the admissions lists in front of her. ‘But what can I do?
We
didn’t kill her.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Andrea Marsh, stacking a group of papers smartly together; the paper made a loud, sharp sound on the old wooden desk. She glanced up at her boss. ‘But numbers are down, and there has to be a reason. And I’m telling you, if we don’t sort it out soon—’ she tapped a folder in her in-tray significantly—‘you’ll be in real trouble.’

Beth sighed. ‘I know I will.’ She scratched her head and breathed in heavily. ‘Oh, dear. You’d think it’d make a difference, having this connection with the Mortmains, but no. Bookings are down nearly thirty per cent on last year. It’s the live-in people doing the music lessons and the cookery courses and all that, they’re the ones who bring in the revenue. And they’re down—’

‘Nearly forty per cent,’ Andrea said briskly. ‘I’m afraid, Miss Kennett, when times are hard people don’t want to learn about some emperor and some civilization that happened two thousand years ago. What’s the point?’ she finished, as if she was the last person in the world to have recently enjoyed a
free Roman civilization course that was a perk of the job, and even less likely to have spent early June wandering round Rome hand in hand with someone gazing at statues.

‘There is a point, Andrea. Of course there’s a point.’ Beth gazed out of the leaded window, down the driveway, at the setting sky. It was a beautiful autumn evening, with a real chill in the air. Halloween was the following day, and the leaves in the park were at their most beautiful: terracotta red, citrus yellow, orange and green. Autumn had arrived gradually, the long summer’s nights had lasted well into September. They had sat outside to eat their sandwiches on the long grass until only a couple of weeks ago and it had seemed, after the long, hot summer, as if winter would never come. Tonight, she felt suddenly, it was just around the corner, and it was going to be long. She shivered.

‘Goose walk over your grave?’ Andrea said, standing up. ‘I’d better be off, you know. I’m meeting the committee at the Feathers in a bit. Don’t want to be late.’

She zipped up her salmon-pink quilted jacket, and pulled her grey-streaked dark hair out of the collar. Beth watched her.

‘You’ve a committee meeting? I thought it was all over with the water meadows, now Leonora’s er—gone.’

‘
Au contraire
,’ Andrea said grimly. ‘We don’t know where that Adam Smith is—Adam
Mortmain
, I suppose I should call him,’ she said, heavy disdain in her voice. ‘And as far as anyone knows, they’re still going ahead with the plan. They’re scheduled to start draining the land and building the foundations in January.’

‘But I thought—’ Beth looked surprised. ‘Wouldn’t he have pulled out of the whole thing?’

‘He’s getting two million off them,’ Andrea said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘That’s the problem.’

Beth said thoughtfully, ‘That’s such a shame. I always liked him so much.’

‘“Like” has nothing to do with it,’ Andrea said. ‘I used to
like him too, we all did. Thought he’d had a rotten time of it, what with his mum, even before that when he was little, no dad, such a wiry, clever little thing he was. Always laughing, used to run around town like a puppy, he would.’ She gathered up some files and hugged them to her body. ‘Don’t mean he’s a decent person.’

‘So—where is he?’ Beth said, ignoring this. ‘Can you tell him what’s going on?’

‘Could if anyone knew where he was,’ Andrea said. ‘He’s vanished, and that Francesca vanished the same day. Most peculiar.’

‘The two of them?’

‘That’s right, and there’s Tess Tennant left all on her own in that house. I wonder what she makes of it all. If she knows where Adam is.’ She cleared her throat and wound her scarf around her neck. ‘She’ll be lonely now, you mark my words. I always thought she took that Francesca in too quickly. I never trusted her, you know? Little bit sly, I thought.’

‘Francesca helped you with the committee, didn’t she? She nearly got them to delay, till Mrs Mortmain steam-rollered it through.’ said Beth staunchly. ‘And Tess is a sensible girl.’

Andrea was in an unsentimental mood. She raised her eyebrows. ‘You think? I like her, don’t get me wrong, but she’s a bit…well, I wouldn’t have said anything before that trip to Rome, but she’s a bit flighty.’

Beth cleared her throat. ‘She handled the whole thing very well, I thought.’

‘Did you? Well, that’s good,’ Andrea said, in a voice that showed she didn’t mean it. ‘If you ask me, it’s a good thing Adam whatever-we’re-calling-him showed up when he did. We’d all still be there if it wasn’t for him lighting a fire under her to sort it all out. Going off with that Italian man—and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of
him
since, have we?’

‘I think she did very well,’ Beth said firmly. ‘You lot are a tricky bunch to control, especially when you’ve known her
since she was born. It was very hard for her. See you tomorrow. Goodnight, Andrea.’

‘Anyway, goodnight,’ Andrea finished casually, as if Beth had not spoken. She paused in the doorway of the study. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Left alone in the darkening room, Beth gazed into space, thinking about nothing in particular, listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood by the door. There was a faint whirring sound in the distance, and she realized she’d been hearing it all day. She had the beginnings of a headache, she thought, rubbing her temples. She glanced over at the clock and began to shut down her laptop. Her eye wandered as she waited, idly wondering what the noise was. She stared at the Victorian portrait of Ivo Mortmain, which hung up over the fireplace. It was almost lifesize, the rugged-looking Ivo dressed in a ceremonial suit of armour, his expression remote and rather grand. Beth flipped the lid of the laptop down and stood up, clutching it in her arms. She looked up at the portrait again, and nearly cried out with recognition.

‘Of course,’ she said to herself, smiling at the Mortmain forebear. ‘You’re the spitting image of him. How can none of us have noticed before?’ She opened the office door. ‘Where are you?’ she said quietly. ‘I wonder where you are?’

‘Where who is?’ a voice behind her came.

Beth actually jumped into the air with shock, practically dropping her laptop. She gave a little scream and then turned around. ‘Tess!’ she cried with relief, for the corridor was dark, and Langford Hall had always been a bit Gothic, even in broad daylight with the lights on.

‘Sorry,’ said Tess, laughing, partly with shock, partly with anything else. ‘I left my glasses here—came back to pick them up. I’m sorry! Did I give you a fright?’

‘Something like that,’ Beth said.

‘Have you got everything?’ Tess asked, looking behind her. ‘Who were you just talking to?’

‘Oh…no one,’ Beth admitted. She looked at Tess’s face; she thought she was rather pale. ‘Did you get the glasses? Shall we go?’

‘Great,’ said Tess. ‘How nice, running into you like this.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Beth as they reached the great vestibule of the hall, a circular room in black and white with two vast staircases leading up each side. The residential students slept in a separate wing, and so the building was deserted. Beth fished around in her pocket for the keys; there was a housekeeper on the premises, but in the separate wing. At night, the old part of the house was locked up.

‘Funny to think she grew up here,’ Tess said, hugging herself as Beth unlocked the door.

‘Who?’

‘Leonora Mortmain,’ Tess said. ‘That she was a little girl, who grew up here. Weird, isn’t it. She probably played in the gardens—I can’t picture it, myself.’

‘She was never the kind of person you could imagine as a child,’ Beth said. They stared around them, at the empty hall. She pushed the front door open and the evening sunset hit their eyes. The whirring noise she’d heard before grew louder. Beth blinked. ‘Yes, it’s strange to think she lived here. Overlooking the water meadows, too—you’d think they’d have meant something to her.’

Tess said quietly, ‘I know.’

‘What’s that noise, do you know?’ said Beth. Tess looked surprised.

‘What noise?’

Beth shushed her, and they walked down the drive in silence, under the gathering dusk.

‘Don’t know,’ said Tess eventually. ‘How weird.’

‘How’s the course going, then?’ Beth asked, after a pause. ‘Roman Civilization—you’ve taught it twice now, I think?’

‘Nearly,’ Tess said, smiling. She pulled a navy blue beret over her hair. ‘It’s cold, isn’t it? Tomorrow’s Friday, so it’s
Catullus, then I’ll have done it twice. It’s been good. It’s a bit quiet—’ She trailed off.

‘How many in this class?’

‘Ten,’ Tess said. Beth sighed, and Tess shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know, though. Perhaps it’s just not as popular as it was. I don’t think it’s the school, Beth. All the cookery classes seem to be quite full, and that really random stuff I never understand why anyone would want to do a course in, like shrubs and potting, or Victorian architecture—well, they’re full to bursting.’

‘You get to play with things, that’s the difference,’ Beth said, smiling.

‘You know what I mean, though?’ Tess said anxiously.

‘Sort of. All the numbers are down across the board, trust me. Perhaps it’s just—’ She trailed off. ‘Oh.’

‘Perhaps it’s just me? Or perhaps it’s just no one wants to do Classics any more?’ Tess said lightly. ‘Or perhaps it’s a combination of the two.’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ Beth said uncomfortably. ‘I’m very glad we hired you.’ Tess put her hand on Beth’s arm.

‘Hey, it’s OK,’ she said. She gave a mock grimace, but her heart-shaped face was pale in the gloom.

‘Have you found a new flatmate?’ Beth said, changing the subject.

‘No, not yet,’ Tess said, her voice uneasy. ‘I need to though—Francesca paid nearly two months’ rent but even so it’s already run out. I haven’t—’ She trailed off. ‘Yep, I definitely need to. Seems like a long time ago.’

‘What does?’

‘Her leaving, I mean. The summer—’ Tess stopped, and fiddled with the buckle of her boot. ‘It all seems a long time ago.’ They were under one of the spreading beech trees and Beth could not see her expression in the darkness. ‘All of it.’

‘Are you missing that Italian chap?’ Beth said, kindly. ‘What was his name?’

That Italian chap. ‘Peter,’ Tess said. ‘He’s—only half Italian. Yes, I am, rather.’

Beth peered at her. ‘Wasn’t it just a summer thing? Holiday romance?’

‘Er—’ Tess didn’t know what to say. ‘No, it was—’ Was she right? Probably she was…it hadn’t occurred to her while she was there that it was a holiday romance, born out of a time and place. Here in the damp English autumn chill, she wasn’t so sure.

Beth bit her lip. ‘Sorry, am I being really tactless? I am, aren’t I.’

‘No, no,’ Tess hastened to assure her. ‘I’ve been thinking all along it’s something with a future, and perhaps I have to accept it’s not.’ She didn’t quite believe she was saying it, though.

Beth stared at her, clearly at a loss. ‘Oh, I see.’ Tess wondered if Beth was thinking she was over-doing it a bit, and an awkward silence fell, only broken when Beth said,

‘Good grief, what’s that?’

A car was screeching up the driveway, the headlights flashing. Someone jumped out.

‘Who on earth is that?’ Beth said. ‘Andrea? Andrea, is that you?’

Out of a battered white Golf flew Andrea Marsh, waving her arms at the two girls. ‘Look!’ she cried, running towards the wall at the edge of the house that divided the formal garden from the side of the valley. ‘Look! It’s started! It’s bloody started!’

‘What has?’ Tess cried, following her.

Andrea’s eyes were wild, she pulled her hand rapidly over her shoulder, as if swatting a fly. ‘Come!’ she called out. ‘Look!’

They followed her to the low wall, and looked out. It was getting dark and, down at the bottom of the valley, it was darker still. But they could still make out a swarm of vehicles on the grass amongst the yellow and orange trees.

‘What are they?’ breathed Beth, over Tess’s shoulder.

‘Diggers,’ said Andrea grimly. ‘Look.’

The whirring sound that had been bothering Beth all day now revealed itself to be the churning of a tractor, cutting up the earth on one side of the thin footbridge. Beth shook her head grimly. ‘My God, that’s what it was.’

‘You heard it?’ Tess said. She was deathly pale.

‘Yep, all day.’ Beth nodded. ‘Did you know—’

‘No,’ said Tess, staring down at the water meadows. ‘No idea. I haven’t heard from him…since he left.’

‘The little tinker,’ Andrea said, her voice dripping with venom. ‘That bloody little bastard. It’s dishonest, that’s what it is. Greedy.’

‘There must be a reason for it,’ Tess said quietly.

‘Name me one,’ said Andrea flatly, looking over into the valley again. High up in the trees at the edge of the estate, the rooks called, bleakly. Andrea jangled her car keys in her hand. ‘I have to get back,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to tell Ron…And the others.’ She turned to Tess. ‘You give me one reason why he’d do this.’

‘I can’t,’ said Tess, and Beth looked at her face, miserable in the gathering gloom. ‘Oh, dear. It’s awful.’ Beth patted her on the arm.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go home.’