Second Chance (24 page)

‘Go and put a dress on. I'll drive you to a place I know where I can lie on top of you. Hurry.' His eyes were no longer gentle, but dark and demanding.

When I went upstairs I could hear Annabel getting up. ‘I'm going out for half an hour. I'll be back to make breakfast.'

‘Can I come with you?'

I clattered downstairs, pretending not to hear.

The next day, I phoned Gomer Richards, my mother's solicitor. He sounded very worried and contrite when I gave my name, as though he thought I might be holding him responsible for the terms of her will. To put him at his ease, I had to assure him that it was exactly what I'd expected.

‘Then that's very satisfactory,' he said and I could almost see him rubbing his hands together. I've never had much to do with solicitors. I was imagining a Dickens character, elderly, with black suit and wing collar, when he suddenly said that he remembered me from school: I'd been a prefect when he was in the first form, he still felt a bit nervous of me.

And then I remembered him. Of course. Gomer, a little plump boy with an engaging smile who was always late getting into lines.

‘I'm ringing to ask about the timescale,' I said. ‘How long am I allowed to stay here before I hand it over to Mr Williams?'

‘You've got any amount of time. As much as you want. No hurry at all. You see, probate has still to be granted. Your mother's executor has to apply for probate. And I'm her executor, as a matter of fact, so I could very well delay things for a week or two. And after that it could be a further six to eight weeks before it comes through. Can I take you out to lunch today? Take you through it? There's a new restaurant opened last week in Castell Dyffryn. Very good reports.'

‘I'd really like that, Gomer, but I've got too much on this week.'

‘Well, don't hesitate to get in touch. That's what I'm here for.'

How strange life was. Little Gomer Richards inviting me out to lunch. I could remember his little fat knees in his PE kit.

Annabel had had another bad night, had woken me two or three times. In her dreams, Selena had been calling her. What if she
had
called her after taking the sleeping tablets and she'd been out with Laurie? What if she'd regretted taking them? What if she, Annabel, had been around and able to contact 999? Would they have been in time to pump out her stomach? Would they have been able to save her? What if she'd only meant to make a bid for attention? What if she hadn't meant to die? The questions went on and on. And then started again. ‘Please help me,' she kept saying, her eyes red and swollen.

I was desperately sorry for her, but couldn't help. She was far too intelligent to be fobbed off with comforting lies. All I could do was stay awake with her, trying to share her suffering. She'd slept at last and I hoped she'd wake in a different frame of mind.

When the phone went I thought it would be Rhydian, but it was Laurie Bridgewater. I explained that I couldn't call Annabel because of the troubled night she'd had, but all he wanted was directions to the cottage. He was on his way down, but couldn't find Glanrhyd on the map.

I warned him that Annabel, at the moment, didn't want to see him, but he said he was aware of that. So I told him how to find the house and asked him to pick up some coffee in the village shop as he came past.

On the whole I was glad he was coming. If Annabel was mad at him, and I felt she would be, it would at least rouse her from the hopeless despair of the previous night. I took her a cup of tea and told her he was on his way.

She sprang out of bed shouting at me. ‘But I
told
you I didn't want to see him. Why can't you protect me from people who're harassing me?' Her whole body had stiffened. ‘I'm not going to stay here. You must let me have the car and I'll drive to the sea. I'm not going to stay here to be bullied by Laurie Bridgewater.'

‘What is it, Annabel? Why are you frightened of him? If you don't want anything more to do with him, you should, surely, tell him that. Have it out with him.'

‘Stop trying to understand me. How can you understand me when I don't understand myself? I don't want to see him. That's all I've got to say. And I don't want anything else to do with him ever. It's over. That phase of my life is over.'

I was still standing in the little bedroom, patiently waiting for her to calm down, while she was throwing on her clothes and rushing downstairs. By the time I'd got down she'd finished in the bathroom and was demanding the car keys. ‘I have to go, Kate. Just believe me. I need to be on my own. Laurie and I are finished.
Finished
. But I'm not going to get involved in any fuckin' arguments till after the funeral. Can't you understand that? Please get rid of him. That's all I ask.'

‘He phoned from Crossgates, Annabel – that place where the sheep were on the road. He won't be here for at least an hour. Have some toast and coffee before you go. Take a flask of tea with you.'

She glowered at me, snatching up the keys from the table.

‘At least take my anorak. You know how cold you were yesterday. OK, take my new jacket. It's cashmere.'

With the air of a martyr, she took my new reefer jacket, and strode out to the car. She looked very small and frail. I stood at the window waving to her as she drove away.

‘She's gone out, I'm afraid. I couldn't stop her. No, I've no idea where she was going. And I honestly don't think you should try to look for her. She's in a very disturbed state. I don't think you quite understand what she's going through at the moment.'

‘Of course I do. And she's being over-dramatic as usual.'

Laurie Bridgewater stood – uninvited – in my mother's little living room, six foot tall and glowing with health and vitality.

‘You do? Who have you lost? What do you know about it? What do you know about losing someone who developed with you from the same egg? Who swam about with you in the womb? Who suffered the trauma of birth with you? Who shared the same cot and the same pram and the same bath with you? Who murmured and gurgled and kicked with you before you could talk? Who...'

‘I get the picture. You needn't take me step by step through their entire lives.'

‘Why not?' There was something about the way he was standing that suddenly infuriated me; he was altogether too upper-class, too smug and self-satisfied . ‘All right, I won't. Just as long as you don't dare tell me you understand what she's going through. Not one of us can have more than the vaguest idea of what she's going through. She and Selena were two neglected little girls – they were sent away to school when they were eight years old – who shared everything throughout the whole of their disturbed lives.'

Why had all my grief and anger been directed at Laurie Bridgewater? Francesca and Paul were the guilty parents who hadn't wished to understand how much their daughters had had to depend on each other while they led their own selfish lives. And for my part, I hadn't tried to understand how isolated and lonely they were; I'd been taken in by the act they put on and had ignored them as much as possible. Even I was far more guilty than Laurie Bridgewater.

‘Do you want me to go?' he asked.

I nodded my head. ‘I have to protect Annabel. She doesn't want to see you. Ring again when the funeral's over.'

Laurie looked as though he couldn't believe he was being dismissed. It had obviously never happened to him before. I wanted to ask him about his life, his background, longed to know what had made him so self-assured, so certain of his welcome in the world. If he'd showed any signs of being hurt and miserable, I might have weakened towards him, but he only showed signs of surprise.

‘Can't I even come to the funeral?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘Can you give me Francesca's telephone number?'

‘I'm afraid not. I never ring her.'

By this time I was getting a buzz out of being bitchy. I'd never before found the secret of it. I'd once managed to be icily polite to a critic who only the previous week had rubbished a performance of mine.

‘I hope you'll let Annabel know that I think she's behaving very childishly.'

As I followed him to the door, I suddenly remembered that he'd decided to break off his relationship with Annabel when she'd made the decision not to have the abortion. ‘He didn't want to be held back,' she'd told me, as though that was perfectly understandable and forgiveable.

I wasn't prepared to be understanding or forgiving. ‘You made a decision that your work was more important to you than Annabel,' I said, quietly and rather venomously. ‘And I think you should stick to that. After what she's been through, she deserves a partner who's at least wholehearted about her.'

He avoided my eyes as he got into his car, but drove away, his back straight, his face as composed as ever.

When he'd gone, I phoned Lewis Owen but got no reply, which I told myself might be a good sign. If Annabel had called for him and persuaded him to go with her to Cwmllys, it would show that she wasn't as disturbed as she'd seemed when she left the house. I tried to relax.

When the phone rang at midday, I hoped it would be Annabel, but it was Paul. ‘You sound worried,' he said. ‘What's happened now?'

I told him about the visit from Laurie and how Annabel had refused to stay in to meet him.

‘I'm sorry she's being so difficult,' he said. ‘I hope Laurie wasn't offended. Francesca thinks he's exactly right for poor Annabel. Did she tell you that she was at school with his father's sisters? Is he still there? Could I have a word with him? I suppose I should try to pour oil on troubled waters.'

‘No, he's already gone. I sent him away.'

There was a long silence. ‘You're not yourself, Kate, are you? I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry about everything. I think I ought to come down today to be with Annabel. I can at least do that much to ease the pressure on you. And I'll telephone Laurie to ask him to drive Francesca down on Friday.'

‘That wouldn't be a good idea, Paul. I've told Laurie that he's not to come to the funeral. You may come today, of course, but you'll have to make other arrangements for Francesca.'

Another long silence. ‘I'll see you this evening,' he said then.

For the first time, I felt a spasm of dislike for Paul. He lacked understanding, couldn't make connections. Francesca was welcome to him.

And as I relinquished Paul, I had a moment's intense longing for Rhydian. The thought of his strong, farmer's body, his half-smile and his storm-dark eyes which could become so tender and pleading, left me weak with desire, my breath catching in my throat. But then again the knowledge, even more blinding than before, that I couldn't have him and had no right to disturb his life. I'd leave immediately after the funeral, coming back to sort out the things I needed only a few days before I had to hand over to George Williams.

It then occurred to me that I should contact George Williams to assure him that I bore him no ill-will, and since I didn't know exactly where he lived and didn't have his telephone number, I phoned Maggie Davies to ask her help. ‘Don't call at his sister's whatever you do,' she said, ‘she'd only be abusive and upset you. You leave it to me. George will be out the back. Yes, I can see him hoeing the onions. I'll have a word with him and tell him to meet you at The Gardener's in half an hour. You'll be able to have a nice quiet chat in the lounge bar with his sister none the wiser. I'd get him to come up there to see you only it'll do you good to have the walk. You were looking a bit peaky this morning and no wonder.'

I set out at once, knowing she was right and that the walk would invigorate me.

The valley was already showing signs of autumn, bronze and copper lighting up all the tired shades of green. The tender yellow-green of spring had long gone, but I could still visualise the young green of the beeches, with the red campions in the hedges and the swathes of bluebells in Gelly Woods. I suppose I was fifteen and quivering in my own spring, before I realised how beautiful this place was; before that I'd taken it as much for granted as night and day. I remember standing at this bend in the road reciting pages of ‘Tintern Abbey' very soulfully, ‘And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thought,' and wishing, almost praying, that someone, preferably a handsome young man, would come along and hear me. ‘I came across a young girl in this isolated valley in Wales and she seemed the very spirit of the place. I'll never forget her.'

No, it never happened. The nearest thing was when a workman in a dirty white van stopped and asked if I was all right. ‘Only you looked as though you was in pain,' the driver, middle-aged and paunchy, said. I gave him my disdainful look. It was the time I was doing a Saturday-afternoon drama class and Miss Elvira Morgan – singing and diction – who taught us, was a great advocate of flashing eyes and exaggerated turns of the head. Dear Miss Morgan, small and fluffy as a dormouse, had once had ambitions to be an opera singer, but had given it all up, probably not before time, to come home to nurse her widowed mother and had finished up with a weekday nursery class and seven teenage girls attending elocution classes, fifty pence a week, on a Saturday afternoon.