Wish You Were Here (29 page)

‘Nine years!' She covered her face with her hands. ‘Nine years!' she sobbed. I rushed to comfort her, horrified. Then I looked up and saw Sally, white-faced, in the doorway.'

Rachel swallowed. Blinked rapidly into the dark night. ‘After that, we went back to Brechallis, and Daddy's other sister, Belinda, came over from Ireland.'

‘The spinster.'

‘That's right. The teacher. She took over. Became our carer, I suppose. And we all went to boarding school. Just came home in the holidays, when Belinda would appear from Ireland. And, again, it was never mentioned.'

‘Not even between the three of you? In the holidays?'

‘Never. Because that would have given credence to the truth. It would have made it real, and Daddy didn't want
that. The weird thing is … we almost came to believe it, I think. In our minds. Again, we didn't discuss it, but I think we all believed Daddy had killed Mummy by accident. That was definitely what had happened. Once, at school, someone in my dorm said, “Golly, poor you. And your poor father. What a dreadful thing to have to live with.” I remember having to go to the san. Spending the night in there.' Rachel shut her eyes. I sat by quietly, shocked.

‘Anyway' – she composed herself – ‘we would go and visit Daddy at Dartmoor and, as you can imagine, he was always on good form. Always made light of it. Showed us his tapestry, or whatever he'd been doing, said the food was tremendous, that sort of thing. He was in charge of the vegetable garden eventually, had a team working for him. Said it was just like the army – well, you've heard him.' I had. Often. ‘And time – years – just sort of drifted by. We got on with our lives. What else could we do? As we got older, I'm sure we all realized that Sally wouldn't have gone to prison, but … would she have been taken into care? Would we all have been taken into care? What would have happened? She would surely have been all over the papers, revealed as the girl who shot her mother, how would that have affected her? As it was, she was growing up OK. Or so it seemed. She never … formed any real attachment to anybody, though. No schoolfriends, nothing. But then I didn't really, either. James was better. Brought friends home, went to stay with them – but you were the only girl he brought back.'

‘But not the only girlfriend.' I knew that.

‘No, but the only one we met.'

My breathing became quite rapid. I tried not to think
about my poor darling James. To concentrate on what she was saying.

‘Anyway. Daddy did form a close friendship. Inside.'

‘With Donaldson.'

‘Yes. Who'd also been in the army. As a private. And they formed this sort of officer–orderly bond, which suited them. And when they were released at much the same time – Donaldson was a lifer, too – as you know, he came to live on the farm.'

‘Yes.' He was a surly, rather scarily brooding man, but quite good-looking in a dark, rough sort of way.

‘What we didn't know, until much later, was that Daddy had broken the pact. The sacred, unshakable rule that the rest of us had kept.'

I stared at her, mute. Found my voice. ‘He'd told him.'

She nodded. ‘And what James and I also didn't know – in fact, I'm not sure James even knows now; I only found out by accident – was that Donaldson used it. With Sally. Let her know he knew. Turned the screw. Taunted her with it. Sally had always been the most panicky and nervous of the three of us, but I'd thought that was only natural. Had thought she'd be better when Daddy got out. So I'd stayed at the farm, thinking – all will be well when he's back. I can go. Have a life. But, if anything, it got worse, and I didn't know why. Couldn't work it out. She was even more teary, more fluttery – hysterical, at times. He bullied her, you see, and I think … blackmailed her. Certainly, she has no jewellery left. I think Sally realized she could never escape her past. And she got fatter and fatter, as if in defence. Ballooned to – well, you know.'

‘Yes.' I inhaled sharply, remembering her cramming the
food in: standing right inside the pantry, taking it straight from the shelves to her mouth – pork pies, cold potatoes – so scared and unhappy. ‘Oh God, Rachel, you couldn't leave her.'

‘No. And she couldn't tell our father. He adored Donaldson. It would destroy him. Break his heart. Daddy had done so much for Sally, anyway.'

‘And then, finally, Donaldson died.'

‘Yes. Six months ago. And Sally escaped. Up to a point. In a manner of speaking. She lost all the weight, anyway – that was miraculous – and she worked further away from the glen. She made a few friends, too, proper ones, not just boasting about people she worked for. And then she met Max. But I knew she'd never form a proper relationship. She was too damaged for that, a psychologist would no doubt say. Which I think suited Max, too.'

‘Yes,' I agreed. ‘Although not in such a complicated way.' God, Max was a simple creature compared to this.

‘No. No, of course not.'

‘And James?' I asked, with a lump in my throat. ‘D'you think … I mean … is he damaged, too?'

‘You mean, enough to ever properly connect?'

‘Yes!' I whispered, scared.

She covered my hand with hers. ‘Oh, come on, Flora. Do you even have to ask? Of
course
not. Why are you even saying that? You know that's not true.'

I felt relief flood through me. ‘Yes. I know that's not true. It was – well, it was that nightmarish tale you've just told me still speaking, I suppose. I was still in it.'

Still with that little twelve-year-old boy, frigid and terrified on the stairs. Keeping the real story of what had
happened that night to himself, all his life. What
must
that be like? Terrible, but not as terrible as it had been for Sally. Of course not. But still. A ghastly secret. And secrets have to be kept. It's imperative. Because, look what happened when Drummond told only one person? Donaldson? It spiralled out of control. They
have
to be kept. So that if a bit of me was even remotely hurt that he hadn't told me – which it wasn't – I knew why.

Rachel and I sat together in the heavy, warm air, the fireflies playing in the tree lights which twinkled in the distance. I thought about what true love really meant. It meant sacrifice. As Drummond had done for Sally. And as Rachel had for Sally, too, never leaving her. It was something visceral, unspoken and profound that could never be put in Valentine cards or whispered in ears, because it was so completely silent and unutterable.

After a while I turned to her. ‘Are you going to tell James you've told me?'

She barely missed a beat. ‘Yes.'

I was so grateful. I told her so. ‘I – don't think I'd be able to hide it, you see. The fact that I know. We're so in tune with each other. So tight. I'd find it impossible not to say. It's so huge, and I am so transparent. It would be all over my face.'

‘I know. And the thing is, I always thought it would come out one day. That you'd know the truth. Even though James and I never discussed it. Because you two are so strong. I didn't think he'd be able to keep it inside for ever.'

‘Except he did. You told me, Rachel.'

She turned to me properly in the darkness. ‘But the
thing is, Flora' – she gave a small smile – ‘he asked me to tell you.'

I felt my eyes widen. ‘James did?'

‘Yes. Said he wasn't sure he'd be capable of doing it. Without breaking down. And don't see that as a sign of weakness, Flora, that he asked me.'

‘I don't.' I was so relieved. James had wanted me to know. Just hadn't been able to tell me himself. My eyes filled with tears.

‘When did he ask you?' I whispered.

‘Tonight. Before supper. He came and found me in my room. He said he owed it to you.' I inhaled sharply. She went on. ‘I wanted to give myself some time to compose myself, think how to put it. He'd said at some point would I talk to you; he didn't mean tonight. In the next few months I think he meant, maybe when you came to Scotland. But you stopped me in the kitchen and there was no escape. I could see it in your eyes. I knew you wanted it now. And perhaps it's better this way. That it's over. Done.'

We sat very still. There was no sound, apart from the odd cicada chattering in the long grass, but I sensed something, or someone, close by. Slowly, I turned my head towards the sea. There, in the darkness, just below us in the olive grove, a small candle in a jar in his hand, was James. Waiting. He'd known I couldn't wait, too.

Rachel got to her feet. She reached out for both my hands in a swift movement and took them in hers. We held on to each other for a moment. Held each other's eyes, too. Then she turned and slipped away, into the night.

I made my way towards him, through the rough, spiky grass in the orchard, which prickled my bare ankles, picking my way in the dark around the hassocks which would suddenly rear up in clumps. As I approached, he put the candle on the ground and held out his arms. I walked into them, and we held on tight. For a moment I was transported back twenty years: to when our love was new and he was a junior doctor at St Thomas's and I was a budding young journalist on the
Evening Standard
. It was that same intense, enveloping embrace of those early days. We held each other fiercely. After a while, our grip loosened and I lay my head on his chest. I could hear his heart beating. His voice, when it came, was a bit thick. Muffled.

‘I'm not sure I'll be able to talk about it, Flora.'

‘There's nothing to talk about. I know everything. There's nothing that needs to be discussed.'

I knew he wouldn't want me to say, God, James, how
awful
! Poor you. Poor Sally! How have you kept it hidden all these years? So I didn't. Waited for his cue, if there was to be one.

‘There is one thing I do have to say, though,' he went on, more calmly, having cleared his throat. ‘And that's that you must never tell a soul. Not the girls, not anyone.'

‘James, that goes without saying.'

‘Yes, but it needs saying. Because I believe by law – I
don't know, but I have a fair idea – the three of us, me Sally and Rachel, and you too, now, might be complicit.'

I raised my head.

‘What d'you mean?'

‘There's something called an accessory after the fact, which, as I understand it, makes it a positive duty to report a crime.'

‘Oh, James, that's absurd! Your father's already served a life sentence. And Sally was eleven!'

‘Yes, you may be right. I don't know. I've never asked and have never even trawled the internet for information. Because I don't want to know.'

‘No.' I was scared suddenly.

‘But, as you say, she was eleven, so perhaps not.'

‘I agree, though,' I said quickly. ‘About never telling a soul. Especially not the girls,' I added fiercely, protectively. I lay my head on his chest again.

A silence flooded between us.

‘That's the thing about secrets,' I said, breaking it eventually. ‘I was thinking it earlier. They're better kept.'

‘Yes, but once you'd asked me, I knew you'd be hurt if I didn't tell you. I didn't want it smouldering away in the background of our marriage.'

‘And it would have done.' I lifted my head: we'd given ourselves enough time now. Could look at each other properly in the faint moonlight. I took a step back and searched his eyes. They were hurt and pensive. Like a small boy's. As I gazed, I realized that, actually, there were some things I would like to ask him. Like whether he thought that not being involved that night was what had saved him? Emotionally? The rest of his family – Rachel, delivering
the shocking news to her siblings about their mother's infidelity; Drummond, leaving the gun out and loaded at the foot of the stairs; Sally using it – had made huge mistakes, were all, in different respects, responsible, something they'd never recover from. They'd carry it to their graves. But James had been an innocent bystander. A spectator. Was that how he'd escaped? Been the only one able to lead a normal life? I didn't ask. And never would.

What I did know, though, was that the two of us had changed. That in the wake of these revelations we'd be subtly different for ever. Perhaps more gentle with one another. More understanding. Perhaps not, in time. Perhaps things would just return to normal and it would all disappear into the ether again.

‘D'you want to walk down to the headland?' he asked.

‘What headland?'

‘The one further down the hill, with the best view of the sea. Haven't you been?'

I knew he was teasing me. Was pleased. I became jocular, too. ‘No! Who have you been with? Something else you're not telling me?'

I might have chosen better banter. Nerves, I suppose, but James smiled, knowing I meant well, that I was rallying. Joining him in lightening the mood. Being stoic about it.

‘Amelia, actually. She was taking pictures down there. With her proper camera, not that stupid one on her phone.'

‘Oh, good.'

‘She showed me some. They're not bad.'

I smiled. ‘Try telling her that.'

‘Well, at least she's finally decided to go to art college.'

‘I
know, she told me. Northumbria, apparently.'

‘Which will no doubt change.'

Normal humdrum conversation, which helped. We walked on together, using the candle to light our way to the other side of the orchard. Through the gate we went, shutting it on the donkey, who'd followed, and then down a little lane in the dark, a couple of pilgrims with their juddering candle. We needed some time, you see. Couldn't go straight back to the others, not just yet. The change of scene, the walk, clinging to motion, helped us to get our breath back. Helped distance us from any nightmarish scenes, to return from the past to the present. When we'd found the headland he meant, just a flat rock really, which we climbed up on to, it did indeed have a bird's-eye view of the sea, lights twinkling from boats. In fact, it was so beautiful, it was almost impossible to be anywhere else except the here and now. It would do the trick. We sat with our arms around each other, facing the view, soft breeze on our faces.

‘It's funny,' I mused at length. ‘In no time at all we'll be back home. Getting on with life. And these things, which neither of us knew anything about before we left, will be there with us, in the house. Around us in our daily lives.'

‘Yes, except in a way, they'll be smaller for each of us. Certainly not bigger. Because they'll be shared.'

‘Yes.' I turned to him, pleased. ‘You're right. I hadn't thought about it like that. We've diminished them.'

‘Waved our swords at them.' He smiled.

‘Chopped their heads off!'

‘Exactly.'

We squeezed each other. Turned back to the view.

‘It's
funny to think of being back in Clapham at all,' he said, after a while, with unusual despondency.

‘Yes, isn't it?' I turned back to look at him. Couldn't gauge his expression. But then it was dark. ‘James … you're not thinking …'

‘What?'

‘Well – I'd stay here in a heartbeat!'

‘Oh, Flora.' He laughed. ‘How could we? I've told you, that's just holiday talk.'

‘No, but think about it, James. We could. I have no reason to go back now –'

‘Yes, but I do!'

‘But you hate it.'

‘Well, of course I hate it. It's work. Lots of people hate work. But that's life, my darling. That's the deal. You work hard, you keep your head down, and if you're lucky – you make it through to the other side. To your retirement package.'

‘Which is tiny. And also, a good fifteen years away.'

‘Fourteen.'

‘And it won't be much, James. We know that. They've whittled away at your job – taken away all the good stuff, the stuff you like, the interesting operations – and now they're hacking away at your pension. And they'll probably change the rules again before we get our hands on it. You'll probably have to work another five years, till you're sixty-five or something, before you even get a sniff of it. Do millions more toenails and corns, bugger on till then.'

‘Yes. Thank you for reminding me. I know what my job description is. But what's the alternative?'

‘Well, there
is
an alternative, don't you see?' I turned to
him eagerly on the rock. Took a deep breath. ‘There is always an alternative.'

He gave a hollow laugh. Dropped his arm from around my shoulders and drew up his knees. Hugged them. ‘You're just intoxicated by this holiday, Flora, that's all. It's been too much for you. Too much for all of us. Too spoiling. We should have had a week in Bognor,' he said gloomily.

‘But so many things have happened out here.'

‘Yes, quite enough, if you ask me. Just drop it.'

He meant that. Had said it quite tersely. Changed the tone. And we'd been so close a moment ago. I knew I was ruining the moment. Nevertheless, I wouldn't drop it, because something told me that this
was
the moment. Something told me this was the night. When souls, already laid bare, emotions, already running high, were open and receptive. I had to seize my chance.

‘So many life-changing, perspective-altering things have happened,' I went on in a low voice, trying to keep it steady. ‘Don't you see? It's made
us
different. Made
me
feel differently about –'

‘Life?' he offered sarcastically.

‘Yes, OK, if you like,' I said defiantly. ‘Life. About needing to grab it.'

‘With two hands?' he offered, eyebrows raised.

‘James, listen, please!'

He sighed. Removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. Replaced them again. ‘OK. So what do you suggest? Buy a vineyard? Make our own wine and try to sell it? Flog it to derisive Jean-Pierres, like every other idiotic, idealistic English couple who've ever read
A Year in Provence
?'

‘No,
not a vineyard. A restaurant.'

‘Ha!' He threw his head back and barked out a laugh to the stars. ‘A restaurant!' His face, when it came back, was delighted. ‘In France!
Les ros-bifs anglais?
Les Feesh and Cheeps? You must be mad!'

‘Except we're not
les ros-bifs anglais
, are we, James? Cuisine-wise, we're as sophisticated as they are. Both of us. And, anyway, we'd have a French chef.'

‘Who?'

I paused. ‘Jean-Claude. He's brilliant. And I should know, it's my job to know. Trust me, he's out of this world. First class. He cooked for us the other night. It blew me away. It's what he did before the antiques.'

‘Yes, I know, but –'

‘In Paris, James. Rue Saint-Honoré. La Terrasse.'

‘Off the Tuileries?'

‘Right there. And then in the Jardin des Plantes.'

‘He didn't say.'

‘He wouldn't, to you. He's modest. And broken, too, by the experience. I had to prise it out of him. But you know me.'

‘I do.'

‘He was screwed over by the staff, who had their fingers in the till, and then by his ex-wife. He lost all his money. Took his eye off the ball. He's never got back in. He had two Michelin stars.'

James gazed at me. I licked my lips, knowing I had his attention.

‘He has no business acumen whatsoever. None at all. You have loads.'

‘Well, I –'

‘Yes,
you have. You know you have. You run your private practice yourself –'

‘Such as it is.'

‘Exactly, such as it is. Vanishing daily. But no other surgeon does that. They all have help. You could run that entire hospital if you felt like it – you've often said it's the side you should have gone into. A restaurant would be a piece of cake. And I know people in Paris, James. Influential people on the best magazines, newspapers, who'd write it up for us.'

‘You want to do it in Paris!' he cried.

‘No, down here, in Provence. But Paris is where the reviews will come from. I can get it on the map.'

‘And where will the money come from, eh? To run this exclusive, Michelin-starred eatery? I presume that's what you're going for? Fine dining? Top end? How are you going to pay the staff, the waiters?'

‘We'd have to sell Clapham, obviously.'

‘Right!' he yelped, rocking back on his haunches.

‘Probably for about two million pounds.'

He barked out another laugh. ‘Oh, don't be absurd!'

‘I promise you, James, you have no idea. That is what four-bedroomed houses south of the river like ours go for, even though we bought it for diddly squat twenty years ago. But we wouldn't spend it all on the restaurant, we'd buy a house, too, with some of the money. There'd be enough – it's cheaper out here. Mum would help with the restaurant.' My mother could do that. She'd been left a healthy inheritance by Philippe. Not as much as his wife, but a substantial amount. Some of which she'd used to buy Fulham, some of which she still had.

‘How
d'you know she'd want to?' he asked defiantly, but there was less conviction in his voice. Mum had to be constantly restrained from spending her money, from giving it all to us, which James found emasculating. She'd wanted to pay the school fees, but he hadn't let her. She'd clasp her hands with glee at this, sink in all of it, not that we'd let her. We'd have to rein her in. Somewhere small, I was thinking, in a bustling market town. Not remote. Passing trade was crucial. I'd even wondered about Jean-Claude's current premises, in the middle of a busy town, Mum had said. We'd walk to the market for the produce. I would. With Mum. Baskets over our arms. Meat and game, we'd source from local farmers. Just twenty covers, perhaps. And a few outside on a terrace. A small menu. Three choices for lunch, four for supper. But with the menu changing daily, according to what was bought. And I'd buy the best. Had spent twenty years training for it. Tasting for it. Moving, unknowingly, towards this day.