Second Chances (33 page)

'Son
père
est
mort,
'
she
thought
she
heard
him
plead
with
someone.
'Juste
cinque
minutes?'

He
hadn't
been
able
to
come
with
her
back
to
England.
One
of
his
children
had
a
music
exam.
His
wife
was
still
nursing
flu.
Alice
hardly
registered.
The
guilt
of
knowing
how
treacherous
she'd
been
about
a
man
who'd
given
her
every
chance
in
life,
threatened
to
engulf
her.
'Three
days.
That's
all.
I'll
be
with
you,'
Claude
had
promised.
'Please
stay
strong.
For
us.'

She
thought
she
had
nodded,
though
maybe
she
imagined
it,
because
she
couldn't
really
remember,
the
anxiety
in
his
dark
eyes,
his
black
hair
a
tousled
mess,
but
she
couldn't
be
sure
because
she
had
been
robbed
of
any
ability
to
think,
and
then
the
train
pulled
away,
and
it
was
only
as
it
sped
through
the
uninspiring
flatness
of
Northern
France
towards
the
coast,
that
she
remembered
she
hadn't
turned
or
waved
at
the
forlorn
figure
stranded
on
the
wrong
side
of
the
departure
gate,
crumpled
torn
jeans
hastily
dragged
on,
a
white
T-shirt,
and
canvas
loafers
on
his
bare,
brown
feet,
as
she
boarded
the
train
that
hurtled
her
towards
the
unimaginable
waiting
for
her
at
the
other
end.

Now,
here
they
were,
all
desperate
to
shield
Molly
from
any
more
pain,
to
take
her
sorrow
onto
their
shoulders.
Her
mother
wanted
silence
and
solitude
but
now
–
so
unlike
such
a
gentle,
warm
woman
–
fierce
anger
when
she
didn’t
get
it.

'Anger
is
normal,'
Molly's
doctor
John
Allingham,
had
told
them
gently,
when
she
had
left
the
room,
furious
that
her
children
had
summoned
him.
'She's
angry
with
him
for
dying
on
her.
Quite,
quite
normal.
And
then
there
might
be
denial.
There's
no
pattern,
but
eventually
there
will
be
recovery.
Give
her
time.'

Alice
wasn't
like
Victoria
surviving
on
hugs
and
tears.
Or
James,
retreating
into
comforting
bottles
of
scotch.
She
envied
them.
They
didn’t
have
her
burden
to
carry.
Not
just
grief,
but
dreadful
guilt
and
remorse
as
well.
There
was,
however,
at
least
one
certainty
in
a
world
that
had
seen
their
lives
tilt
in
such
a
bleak
direction.
For
as
long
as
Alice
could
remember,
her
mother
-
as
a
result
of
her
father's
brilliance
-
had
been
a
rich
woman.
Even
richer
now.
So
too
were
James
and
Victoria.
A
fact,
that
had
once
convinced
Alice,
had
made
them
strangers
to
real
life.
But
not
her.
She
wasn't
rich
at
all.
Nor
was
she
going
to
be.

'Alice?
Might
I
have
a
word,'
Edward
Pelham
had
said
the
day
after
Harry's
death.

Alice
had
stared
almost
blankly
at
him.
'Me?
Yes
of
course.'

Edward
had
taken
her
arm
and
led
her
gently
out
of
earshot
into
the
small
morning
room
that
overlooked
the
drive
where
they
could
be
private.
'Your
father's
will,'
he
began.

'His
will?'
Alice
had
repeated.

Edward
was
a
good
lawyer.
He
liked
Alice
better
than
the
other
two.
She
would
have
made
better
use
of
Harry's
money
than
either
James
or
Victoria,
but
that
was
not
his
concern.
Not
right
then.
'Your
father
made
some
alterations
to
it.'

He
watched
her
carefully.
Alice
stared
at
him.
She
didn't
blink
or
cry
out
or
protest.
She
knew,
in
that
moment,
she
knew.
It
almost
comforted
her.
She
deserved
nothing.
'Thank
you
Edward,'
she
had
said.
'No,
you
don't
have
to
tell
me.
I
understand.
Thank
you.'

‘Give
her
time,’
Esther
urged
into
the
silence
of
the
room
where
they
waited
for
Molly
to
re-join
them.
Victoria's
head
was
leaning
on
Esther's
shoulder,
the
older
woman
stroking
her
hair
as
though
she
were
a
small
child.
‘She
needs
all
of
you.
All
of
us.
But
she
has
to
find
her
own
path
now.’

Alice
thought
she
would
scream.
Time,
time
bloody
time.
Could
no-one
think
of
any
other
solution?
She
had
her
back
to
the
room,
staring
out
of
the
window,
over
the
length
of
perfectly
sculpted
lawn
where
on
that
awful
day
it
had
been
filled
with
people
enjoying
her
father's
hospitality.
All
she
could
now
think
was
how
on
earth
their
mother
would
navigate
this
unchartered
territory
ahead
of
her
and
come
back
to
them.
And
how
would
she,
Alice,
learn
to
live
with
such
guilt?
It
hung
heavily
between
them.
That
last
row.
The
elephant
in
the
room.
Alice
was
very
conscious
that
while
no-one
had
accused
her
of
anything,
nor
had
they
tried
to
reassure
her
either.
She
didn’t
deserve
comfort
from
any
of
them,
she
knew
that.
But
her
mother?
She’d
thought
maybe
she
would
say
something.
But
then
no-one
had
prepared
them
for
the
woman
their
mother
had
become,
this
new
person,
this
stone
faced
woman.
A
widow.