Some Old Lover's Ghost (53 page)

The grease on the side of the pan had caught light. Melissa shrieked as the thin orange flame curved around the cast iron. Tilda seized a jug of water and hurled it over the pan, the stove and Josh. Max, striding forward, dropped a damp tea cloth over the stove and the flames sizzled and went out. Josh, his clothes soaked, was standing in a puddle of water. ‘My
pancake.’
Tilda began to giggle helplessly.

Later, after supper, Max walked her home. It was dark, the silence of the countryside absolute and resounding. She remembered walking along this road on her first night in France, and knew that since then things had changed between herself and Max. The icy politeness had thawed: he too had laughed at Josh, and for a moment they had been a family again.

They walked for a while in silence, both, she suspected, unwilling to break the fragile truce. But Max said at last: ‘You’ll have to tell them about your father some time, you know. They’re of an age to ask questions.’

She said angrily, ‘Max, how can I?’

The stars picked out the pale, curving road and the beginnings of the village. ‘They’ll find out somehow,’ said Max eventually. ‘You did, Tilda.’

She remembered the day Aunt Sarah had told her that Edward de Paveley was her father. How she had run from Southam; the clip of the scissors as she cut her hair in the third-class carriage.

‘I can’t, Max,’ she said flatly. ‘How can I possibly tell my children that my father raped my mother and put her in the madhouse? How can I explain that to them? And Caitlin—’ Her voice shook.

They had reached the village. The lime trees in the square surrounded them, ghostly grey in the darkness. Tilda thought of the anger and hatred that lingered in Caitlin’s eyes. She was Caitlin’s aunt and she had made love to Caitlin’s father. She hated herself for both those things.

She felt Max take her elbow and steer her to the little café at the side of the square. The metal chairs were piled on the tables on the pavement. He took down a chair and held it out for her, and she sat down. He sat beside her. ‘Here,’ he said, and gave her his handkerchief. She had not realized she was crying. She blew her nose and the sound echoed against the still, silent buildings.

‘Cigarette?’

She hardly ever smoked, but she did so now. She said, her voice still trembling, ‘Max, I resent that the past should go on hurting
me. I can’t escape from it. Everything I do, all that I’ve done – I feel that it is there, manipulating me. It just isn’t fair.’

‘We’re all caught up to some extent in what our families have made of us, Tilda. That’s how it is.’

She rubbed her eyes with the tip of her fingers. ‘When Aunt Sarah told me who my father was, she cursed the de Paveleys.’ She looked up at him. ‘I’ve never forgotten that, Max. She cursed them. But she forgot, didn’t she, that I was one of them.’

He frowned. ‘What do you mean, Tilda?’

Elbows on the cold metal table, she voiced the fear that had haunted her for years. ‘She cursed
me
, Max, don’t you see? And everything that has since happened reminds me of that.’

‘Tilda, you’re not saying that you believe that nonsense, are you? I know that Sarah could be pretty terrifying, but some of the things she believed in were quite cracked. You know that they were just rural superstitions, the sort of thing that lingers in isolated country places.’

‘But Jossy,’ she whispered. ‘Think of what happened to Jossy. And the land … the house … Caitlin has nothing, Max, nothing. And even Daragh—’

She stopped. For the first time since Max had left her, she had spoken Daragh’s name. She saw his eyes narrow, yet he turned to her and touched her hand, and said: ‘Tilda, you’re just tired. You wouldn’t be thinking like this if you weren’t exhausted. It’s late; you should be in bed.’ He dropped his cigarette stub onto the cobbles, and ground it with his heel. ‘That colonel obviously works you too hard. You shouldn’t have to do that sort of thing.’

She was going to be angry with him, as she had been with Archie, but she saw, suddenly, the concern in his eyes. She thought, Max cares. Max still cares about me. She bit her lip, and heard him add: ‘I can see how difficult it must be for you to talk about the past. But I think that you must give the children some sort of explanation. These things have a way of coming out at the worst possible time.’ He glanced at her. ‘Don’t you agree, Tilda?’ He touched her hand again. ‘You’re cold – I’m sorry – these spring nights—’

‘I’m fine.’ She tried to smile.

‘Have my jacket.’ He stood up, slipped off his jacket, and slung it round her shoulders. She wanted to hug his lapels to her face, but she did not dare.

She said slowly, ‘The trouble is, Max, that I remember how I felt when Sarah explained everything to me. How
tainted
I felt.’

He snorted. ‘Sarah didn’t exactly choose the right time, did she? She was never a believer in softening blows. She herself was as tough as old boots and she expected everyone else to be the same.’ He frowned. ‘Perhaps you could explain things in the context of the times. Perhaps you could point out that though Edward de Paveley was an evil old buffer in some respects, he had his better side. He was a damned good soldier, for instance.’

‘He fought at Ypres and at the Somme,’ said Tilda. Kit had told her that, when she had invited him for tea. ‘He was awarded medals for gallantry.’

‘Quite. So he was a mixture, as most people are. Just more extreme than most.’ Max glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost midnight. They’ll lock you out, if we’re not careful.’ He rose from the table and helped Tilda out of her chair, and they walked across the square. ‘I’ll talk to Melissa, if you like.’

‘Would you, Max?’

They had reached the hotel. He pressed the bell. She took off his jacket, gave it back to him. Soon, Tilda thought, he would shake her hand and say a polite goodnight and tomorrow she would leave France and would not see him again for months …

The door opened. Max said, ‘Goodnight, Tilda.’ Then he bent and kissed her.

She stepped inside the hallway. He had already turned, was walking away from her, his back to her. The concierge had retreated, grumbling, into her little room. Tilda leaned against the wall of the hallway and closed her eyes, unable to move. She still felt the imprint of his lips on her face, and her own overwhelming and unexpected rush of desire.

‘I’ll have to stay and look after Daddy,’ said Melissa.

‘I know, darling.’ Tilda, Josh and Melissa were sitting in the small patch of garden behind the garage, in the shade of the mulberry tree. Max was out, returning the Rolls to its owner.

‘He doesn’t look after himself, you see. He eats bread and cheese for every meal.’

Tilda smiled. ‘Your father never notices his food. I used to think that he’d eat a bowl of nuts and bolts if I put it in front of him.’ She leaned back against the tree, drowsy with warmth, and with an optimism she had not felt for years.

‘And his shirt collars had worn away on both sides.’

Max’s shirts, bought by his mother years ago in Jermyn Street. Tilda herself had turned the collars to make them last through the war. Tilda took Melissa’s hand. ‘Melissa, I know that you have to stay. But you’ll come and visit me very soon, won’t you, for a nice long holiday?’

‘In the summer. For weeks and weeks and weeks.’

‘I’ll teach you to shoot pigeons with the air rifle,’ said Josh.

‘No thank you,’ said Melissa primly. ‘I like pigeons.’

‘There’s a car.’ Josh scrambled to his feet. ‘I’ll go and help Gaston.’ He ran to the forecourt.

Melissa snuggled against Tilda. ‘I can share your room when I come home, can’t I, Mummy?’

Tilda stroked Melissa’s fine, straight hair. ‘Don’t you want to share with Caitlin?’

She couldn’t see Melissa’s face, which was buried in her lap, only the shake of her head. Melissa’s voice was muffled.

‘I used to think Kate was nice because she was pretty and had lovely dresses and things, but I’ve thought and thought about it and I don’t think she was nice at all.’

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

Another shake of the head. ‘No. Not now. When I’m very old and married, then I will, because it won’t matter any more.’

Tilda glanced at her watch. Max had said that he would be home by midday, yet it was already a quarter past twelve. He was to drive them to the railway station at two o’clock. She
thought, for the thousandth time that day,
He kissed me
. Just a peck on the cheek, but a kiss nevertheless. The sun filtered through the heavy canopy of leaves, making thin rails of light, and she closed her eyes.

The children tied them together, a tie that not even Max, who had sought solitude, had been able to break. Max and Melissa would return to England in July to attend Rosi’s wedding, and Melissa would remain in Woodcott St Martin for most of the school holidays. Perhaps Max would stay for a week or two. And perhaps if Max became her friend again, then maybe, just maybe, love could grow out of friendship. It had done so before.

The sun reached its highest point in the sky. Tilda’s back was against the trunk of the mulberry tree, and Melissa’s head cradled on her lap. Tilda dozed.

There was a clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Tilda opened her eyes and looked up, expecting to see Max.

A girl’s voice called through the open window, ‘Max, darling – I’m home! Annette is well now, and her mother-in-law came to stay, and she is such a dragon! So I thought I would come and cook you your favourite dinner.’

Melissa sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘Cécile,’ she said.

The owner of the Rolls-Royce, contrary to their arrangement, was out when Max arrived. He had to wait, parked in the heat, for more than an hour. More than once he thought of giving up and going home, but he had been counting on the money, so, glancing furiously at his watch every ten minutes or so, he forced himself to wait.

He leaned against the car’s gleaming bonnet, now covered with a thin film of dust, and lit himself a cigarette. Standing there, he decided that, before she went back to England, he would find a few minutes alone with Tilda and tell her that he loved her. Just that. Her response would dictate what happened next. When they had parted in Southam, she had told him that she loved him. He had disbelieved her then, but now her words came back to him, instilling in him a measure of hope. He had not been able to tell,
these past ten days, how she felt about him. Edgily, he glanced at his watch again. He would give the wretched fellow another ten minutes.

The ten minutes were almost up when he saw the pale dust clouding from the road as a tractor crested the brow of the hill. The owner of the Rolls leapt from the tractor seat, and caressed his beloved car. Then he shook Max’s hand and insisted they drink a glass of wine in the kitchen of the farmhouse. The money was counted out with agonizing slowness, a bundle of greasy ten-franc notes. Then Max took his bicycle out of the boot of the Rolls and pedalled furiously home.

And somehow, it all went wrong. Gaston grabbed Max the moment he rode into the forecourt; the pump had jammed again, and an irate motorist was waiting with an empty tank. By the time Max had freed the blockage, Tilda and Josh and Melissa were sitting on the bench outside the door, ready to leave for the station. Tilda had already put her cases in the back of the motor car.

Max tapped his watch. ‘We’ve another twenty minutes before we need to go.’

‘I’d like to get there early, Max.’

‘But I’ve booked seats.’

Tilda didn’t look at him. ‘I’d like to buy a magazine, and Josh will want sweets.’

He said abruptly, ‘Have you dined?’ and she shook her head.

‘I wasn’t hungry. The children have eaten.’

It was as if, he thought, she could hardly bear to be near him any longer. Angrily he washed and changed and started up the car and drove to Saintes. She neither spoke to him nor looked at him; they travelled in almost complete silence. On the station, waiting for the train, Max recollected himself and said a proper goodbye to Josh, and gave him some of the farmer’s francs. ‘You helped with the car. It’s your wages,’ he said, and was touched to see Josh’s face brighten.

With a heavy heart, Max watched the train draw out of the station. He gave Melissa his handkerchief because she was crying,
but would have liked to have been able to howl himself. He realized, as he took Melissa’s hand and walked back with her to the car, that he had waited too long, that he had left it too late, that he had lost her for ever.

When Caitlin ran up the lane that led to the Memorial Hall, she saw Julian waiting outside. The tip of his cigarette was a small orange spark in the dusk.

‘Do you mind if we rehearse at my place tonight? Only I’m expecting a telephone call.’

Caitlin said, ‘But Mrs Pascoe—’

Julian interrupted her. ‘Margaret had to go to Eastbourne. Her mother’s ill.’ He threw his cigarette stub to the ground. Caitlin followed him down the path, her heart pounding rapidly. There hadn’t been a rehearsal last week because Julian had had flu, and in the course of the fortnight that had passed since their last extraordinary meeting she had found herself questioning her recollections. Sometimes she was convinced that Julian loved her, that he thought she was special. He had told her that she was pretty and, most important, he had kissed her. Yet all the women in the drama group, with the possible exception of Mrs Cavell, were in love with him; and the kisses, perhaps, had been just the kisses of a friend. More pleasant, but less passionate, than Martin Devereux’s kisses, for instance.

They walked along the path that led from the lane to the small estate of houses behind the post office. The houses were large and undistinguished, built between the wars. Julian opened the gate of one. Caitlin felt vaguely disappointed. The ordinariness of the house seemed to diminish him.

Then he looked back at her and said, ‘Ghastly place, don’t you think? Margaret’s father gave the house to us as a wedding present. Along with a set of fish knives and a cocktail cabinet of such perfect vileness that I’ve put it in the garage and keep wax polish in it.’

Caitlin giggled. Julian fitted his key to the lock, and opened the front door. Inside, he took her coat and led her into a large
room with three squashy sofas, a picture window overlooking the back lawn, and a baby grand piano.