Second Chance (14 page)

The second box. This one had family photographs and accounts of weddings and christenings. I looked out for a photograph of Rhydian and Grace's wedding and found it. Two good-looking, happy, loving people. I made myself study it. A wedding. A religious sacrament. Whom God hath joined together.

Empty, empty words. Rhydian and Grace got married because they were neighbours, because the time was right; Rhydian wanted help and comfort, Grace wanted children. They got married because it was suitable. Not because they were oceans deep in love. As I am now.

If I had stayed home and become a teacher, as I was meant to, perhaps I would have re-met my cousin-once-removed and married him. Perhaps I could have become a farmer's wife, perhaps I could have endured all the back-breaking work, the bitter cold and the mud and even the draughty old farmhouse if I was brimming over with love. As I am now.

I make myself look at other photographs. A haughty young girl in cap and gown. Was that me? I'm afraid so. I was insufferably conceited at twenty-one. Life has taught me something if not everything. By this time, I don't think I'm better – or worse – than anyone else.

I catch my breath again: a photograph of the three brothers together. Bleddyn is the one who hasn't changed, he's scowling as he used to, taller than the others, hair still unruly. Iestyn has a fuller face and a gentle smile. And Rhydian, lean and dark, deified by my love.

Iestyn's first wedding, another pretty, round-faced bride, now superseded by the self-regarding Madeleine. Bleddyn with his long-term partner, a rather stern-faced woman, and a four -year-old child, Siwan Grace. An old sepia photograph, slightly creased and curling at the edges: Auntie Jane's wedding. She and Uncle Ted and a tribe of relatives, a great deal of lace and hats, my mother a buxom bridesmaid, about fourteen years old, shy and very pretty.

I didn't want to carry on, but I had time to kill. And I still hadn't come across a photograph or even a snapshot of my father. I went through the entire collection, at least fifty old-fashioned studio photographs of members of my extended family, dressed in their best, hair combed and tidied, smiling at the camera. It was a sad experience, but it suited my mood. The only missing photograph seemed the one I'd been searching for; my mother and father's wedding.

At last I had a phone call from Paul who seemed much more cheerful. His solicitor had been optimistic from the beginning, but on visiting Annabel and seeing her and Selena together, was certain that he could release her from the charge. For how could any of their acquaintances be at all certain that it was Annabel and not Selena who had supplied the dead girl with the fatal tablets? There was a complete lack of evidence. As a matter of fact, Selena hadn't been at the rave, but no one else need know that. He had been able to assure them that their nightmare was over.

I didn't feel quite as optimistic about the outcome as Paul. I felt certain that Annabel would finally be acquitted of the charge, but it seemed too much to hope that the police would drop it at this stage. After all, they needed to charge someone. Of course I kept my doubts to myself.

Paul repeated that he'd be at the funeral and would be happy to pick me up first. He said the girls and Francesca were sending a wreath and that he'd also sent one from me. ‘I knew you wouldn't have time to think of it,' he said, ‘so I ordered white chrysanthemums from the girls and me, and a large heart-shaped wreath of white roses and freesias from you. “To my dearest mother. With love from Kate.”'

‘Thank you,' I said. No, I hadn't remembered a wreath – I don't set any store on flowers for the dead – but I felt hurt and annoyed that he'd taken it upon himself to act for me. And if I were sending flowers, I'd want to write my own message. In Welsh. How was it that he knew so little about me?

Of course I felt glad of the better news about Annabel, but on the whole I felt worse after his phone call than before. And I wasn't looking forward to seeing him again. I was certainly in a bad way.

Almost nine o'clock. Another phone call. This time from Rhydian. ‘How are you feeling now? We've finished supper and Bleddyn and I are coming over to see you. Just a short visit. No, Grace doesn't mind. She's got Edwina here with her husband. And Bleddyn's daughter is here as well. Grace will be fine. Fifteen minutes then.'

It was what I'd been hoping for all along. That he wouldn't be able to keep away. Fifteen minutes. Fourteen minutes. Thirteen.

‘This is Bleddyn. I suppose you'd recognise him.'

‘Yes, I've been looking through old photographs.'

We talked about the old days, Rhydian and I, but our eyes spoke a different language.

Bleddyn didn't help much. Perhaps he understood too much and didn't approve, perhaps he was always the strong, silent one.

‘Whisky?' I asked. ‘There's still half a bottle left. Or would you prefer white wine?'

‘We mustn't stay long,' Bleddyn said.

‘Why not? This girl's on her own with her mother being buried tomorrow. I think we should stay. And I think we could all do with a whisky, too.'

I got up and went out to the kitchen and Rhydian followed me. As I'd expected. ‘When can I see you?' he asked. His voice an urgent whisper.

‘I don't know. I've got to go back tomorrow.' My heart beating wildly.

‘No you haven't. Stay on for a few days. I've got to talk to you. Promise me you'll stay.'

‘I'll come back as soon as I can.'

He took my hands in his, crushing them so that I almost cried out. Then he picked up the tray with the whisky and glasses and followed me to the living room.

We drank to family ties. We relaxed a little. I tried not to look at Rhydian.

‘My earliest memory is of your mother's wedding,' Bleddyn said. ‘I had a white shirt and long black trousers and I was supposed to give her a silver horseshoe as she came out of the chapel, and I cried because I wanted to keep it.'

No one had ever been willing to tell me anything about my mother and father's wedding. I was fascinated. ‘How old were you?' I asked him.

‘About five. Rhydian was a pageboy, but they only gave me a minor role.'

‘And you didn't do that very well,' Rhydian said. ‘I remember Dad slapping you about that horseshoe.'

‘You were a pageboy? I've never even seen a photograph of my parents' wedding.'

‘ I'll get Grace to look through ours. We may have some. Give me your address, in case she doesn't find them for tomorrow.'

He passed me his diary and I wrote in it. My address and telephone number. And Love Kate.

‘Are you married?' Bleddyn asked, his voice chilly again.

‘I've got a partner, Paul, who'll be here tomorrow.'

‘Actor?'

‘No. Photographer.'

‘Rhydian, I really think we'd better go now. We told Grace we wouldn't be long. Thanks for the drink, Kate. I saw you, by the way, in the Arthur Miller play at the Hampstead Theatre last year. Good performance, I thought.'

‘Thank you.' Briefly, I met his eyes.

He knew how it was between his brother and me and couldn't wait to separate us.

When we got outside, the stars were white and the moon was rising. Rhydian put his arm round me and held me for a moment before getting into the car so that I could feel the warmth of his body and his heart beating. ‘I'll see you tomorrow,' he said, giving me one swift, voluptuous kiss. As he broke away from me, a white owl flew from the rowan tree by the gate, slicing the darkness. And I found I'd clung to him again.

There didn't seem much chance of keeping our secret from Bleddyn. ‘Good night,' he said from the car, his voice cold and worried.

But Rhydian wound down his window and touched my face again. ‘I love you,' he whispered.

It seemed a small miracle. He felt as I did. I went back to the house, but couldn't stop thinking of his kiss. And the owl flying like a medieval omen above us.

The myths are very close, in moonlight, in the countryside, in the heart of Wales.

He felt as I did. A truth only guessed at for the last two days had now been spoken. ‘When can I see you? I have to talk to you. Please don't leave tomorrow.' And finally, ‘I love you.' In all my misery and worry, I'm suddenly so happy, so triumphant. There's no future in it. This man can't be mine. But I'm shaken with love again so that I know my future can't lie with Paul, who may be decent and safe as an old tweed jacket, but is ultimately arid, all his passion already spent on Francesca, Annabel and Selena. How could I have stayed ten years with a man who never once made me feel young and reckless and dangerously, indecently aroused? As I feel now.

Ten-fifteen. Still too early for bed. A walk in the dark? Another whisky? A cup of tea? How should I get calm? But did I want to lose this raw sexual excitement?

Anyway, it was obvious that I was far too excited to sleep. And tomorrow was going to be long and difficult. Perhaps I should wash my hair and iron my grey suit and white blouse... Or should I make some excuse to phone Gorsgoch, hoping Rhydian would answer?

I shouldn't be feeling like this on the eve of my mother's funeral. I should be thinking of her, of her sweet nature and her blighted life... I
am
thinking of her blighted life, determined that mine is going to be different. I'm not going to be sweet and long-suffering.

Leaving the back door open to give me some light, I walk out into the garden, a sloping patch of rough grass, with the valley falling away beyond it. The air is balmy and smells of flowering currant, the only shrub that flourishes here. The flowers come early in April, brave little pale pink clusters shaking in the wind from the sea, but to my surprise the leaves have the same pungent smell. The smell of home.

Paul was always offended that I referred to this place as home. ‘I think I'll go home for a few days.' ‘I thought this was your home.' ‘No, this is my London home.'

This is my home. I should have come here more often. I love this patch of ground.

I always had the vague feeling that there was something artificial and pretentious about our Mediterranean garden in Camberwell; blue walls and white pots and strange, spiky plants. I prefer grass. Why do I discover so many self-evident truths when it's too late?
Is
it too late, or can I decide to make a new start? Of course I can.

Perhaps all this self-assessment, self-doubt, is due to my being in love, but it must still be of value. I'm mature enough to realise that my life can't lie with Rhydian, but to arrive, in spite of that, at the conclusion that my life can no longer lie with Paul must surely be liberating and good.

I don't want to go back to London. I know I shall have to return to Cambridge with Paul until Annabel's trouble is sorted out, then I shall come back here, soldiering on through winter and hard weather like a middle-aged Rosalind.

The night closed round me, not many stars visible, the half-grown moon swathed in a long transparent cloud. ‘Slowly, silently now the moon, Walks the night in her silver shoon.' I remember how disappointed I was, as a small child, to discover that ‘shoon' was simply an old word for shoes. I'd imagined something far more romantic – a glow, a shimmering, a dazzle. And the child is mother of the woman. I was still wanting the dazzle, still wanting to be Rosalind, even a middle-aged one. Couldn't I settle for spending a season or two in this small, not-much-renovated cottage without any dazzle or any role-playing?

I was beginning to feel cold. There was a smell of mist. I could see the mist, rising white from the valley. I could hear an owl in the distance.

As I was about to turn back into the house, I almost screamed as I felt something wet and cold rub itself against me. ‘Arthur! Oh Arthur, I'm so glad you've come back. Oh Arthur, shall we go in now?'

He followed me in and purred as I shut the door. He circled round my ankles as I opened a tin of food and put some in his dish. He ate, not ravenously, but politely, looking up at me from time to time, and when he had quite finished, followed me into the living room, stretching out on the rug in front of the fire to give himself a thorough all-over wash.

Life was short and he seemed through with grieving. He was, after all, an indoor cat.

Half-past eleven. I'd got undressed for bed, but came hurriedly back downstairs, realising that I hadn't opened the third cardboard box. There could still be a photograph of my parents' wedding in that, perhaps one of Rhydian as a six-year-old pageboy.

I got the box down from the cupboard and sat on the armchair before opening it, having a sudden intimation that I could be in for a shock. I raised the lid as though something might explode in my face.

The box was crammed full of tiny scraps of paper which I took to be packing material. It took me some seconds to realise that every minute shred was part of some precious momento which had been thoroughly and systematically destroyed. The greyish scraps were perhaps torn newspaper cuttings, the cream, writing paper, possibly love letters, the shiny bits old, torn photographs, but nothing remained large enough to be further examined or deciphered in any way.