Love in a Mist Page 14

  At first I thought there was no-one in the chapel. Where had the others gone? Then Ormsby appeared, back in mufti with his surplice over his arm. He wished me goodbye.

  ‘I think your father and the other gentleman are in the lobby.’

  He left by the cloister door and now I could see two figures on the other side of the glass. The implications of this weren’t lost on me: they wanted privacy. I hovered in the aisle, assuming my father would be back before long – after all, he knew where I was.

  The decision was made for us because now there were all the signs of the other funeral arriving – more figures in the lobby, a woman opening the lid of the keyboard, and another in a dog collar giving me a hard stare. The glass doors were pushed wide again and my father came through, looking flustered, hectic and upset – for the first time that day his cheeks had colour in them. There was another man, much older, and smaller, at his shoulder. I was sure it was the man he’d been talking to. But there was no suggestion from my father that this man should come with him, and I just had time to catch his eye before he turned to leave, moving sideways in between those now arriving in numbers. I caught a glimpse of a hard-bitten face, a high complexion, the merest bristle of hair, rheumy, questing eyes – a fierce and disconcerting presence.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked as my father stalked past me and out of the door.

  I caught up with him in the garden and we went out through the archway and along the path to the car park.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I needed to get away.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But who was it?’

  ‘Oh!’ The exclamation was both unhappy and impatient. ‘That was my father.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My bloody father. Can we find a pub?’

  I didn’t speak – I couldn’t – until we were sitting in the glum lounge bar of the Peahen, a pub which had clearly benefited from its proximity to the crematorium, and whose decor was rather less cheerful.

  I was both stunned and incredulous.

  ‘You never mentioned him – never!’

  ‘Yes. Well. I don’t suppose he mentions me a lot, either. We’ve been estranged for years.’

  ‘But why was he there? Did you expect him to be?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. It was a shock, I can tell you, and a very unwelcome one.’

  ‘So why was he?’

  ‘I told you, I put it in the paper. He must have seen and decided to come.’

  ‘Did he know Jessie?’

  ‘After a fashion.’

  What was that supposed to mean? On the heels of the numb disbelief came a positive wildfire of curiosity.

  ‘He’s my grandfather!’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Yes he is! And you didn’t even let me meet him!’

  ‘Voice down, Floss.’

  I said more quietly, ‘Surely he should be here with us, now. Where is he? Where does he live?’

  ‘God alone knows. I don’t care! Scotland I think. I don’t know.’

  ‘You must have some idea.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’ve made it my business not to. We’ve had nothing to do with each other for most of our lives. Since I was eighteen.’

  I shook my head, not in denial, but because there seemed to be a swarm of bees inside it. ‘But he’s my grandfather …’

  ‘Don’t call him that!’ Now it was my father’s voice that rose startlingly, making my hair stir. He controlled himself with an effort, downing what remained of his drink. ‘Please, just don’t. He was no father to me, and no grandfather to you. He ran out on us when we were young and made sure he hasn’t been seen since. Insofar as I think about him at all, I loathe and despise him. He’s less than nothing to me, and even less to you, so don’t use that word again.’

  Without asking, he picked up both our glasses and went to the bar. I was shaking, my face and hands were cold and I was fighting tears. My father must have undergone a similar shift in mood, because when he came back he leaned forward as he pushed my gin and tonic towards me, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Floss. Truly sorry. For everything, this awful day, him turning up … You don’t need it.’

  All my energy went into not crying. My throat strained; I put a hand over my mouth. He reached for my other hand but I withdrew, which I knew was cruel.

  He went on brokenly. ‘And I’m so grateful to you for coming; I honestly don’t know how I’d have got through it without you.’ I shook my head, dumbly. ‘It’s over now, Floss.’

  I couldn’t make him understand that for me, something had only just begun.

  We said goodbye in the dull, workaday surroundings of the superstore car park. After two large shots of strong drink neither of us should have been driving, but the booze seemed hardly to have touched us, as if all the trapped emotion churning and fizzing round our systems had neutralized the alcohol. We put our arms around each other cautiously – you could hardly have called it a hug.

  ‘Thanks again, Floss,’ said my father. ‘Safe journey.’

  In my confused, exhausted state that sounded like advice not just for the next couple of hours but for life.

  ‘I’ll give your love to Zinny.’

  ‘Yes.’ I’d almost forgotten about Zinny. ‘Do.’

  ‘And don’t be a stranger.’

  Such an odd saying, that. Particularly for me, particularly now, when I felt more than ever like a stranger in my own life. We turned away from one another wretched but relieved, each with our own preoccupations, unable to receive or offer comfort.

  I drove home on autopilot, changing lanes, overtaking, negotiating slip roads, junctions and roundabouts without conscious decision or much care and almost certainly too fast. When I got home I walked into my flat and sat down, without turning the light on and with my coat still on. Some words of my father’s pricked at me like a stone in a shoe.

  He ran out on us when we were young …

  Who, I wondered, was ‘us’?

  THIRTEEN

  That day cast a long shadow. I didn’t hear anything more from my father, and nor did I contact him. I was shocked, and bruised, and was pleased to be back at work, where I felt increasingly at home. In my flat, and even more so at my parents’ house, there were all those unanswered questions crowding round like silent, uninvited guests. I had to shrink into myself to ignore their importunings. In Edwin’s house I could set them aside; expand, and breathe – be myself.

  Only one more week and he would be back. I was looking forward to seeing him, to hearing his stories of the trip, which I knew he would tell amusingly, and to showing him how smoothly everything had run in his absence. Over our celebration lunch he’d expressed the hope that I wouldn’t leave any time soon. I absolutely didn’t want to – not soon, and not for the foreseeable future. I was happy here.

  Other than man the phone and deal with correspondence there was very little to do in the last week that he was away, but I liked being in the house. And in the garden – I even did a little therapeutic weeding, and cutting back of dead stuff. It was while I was out there one afternoon, unravelling great tangles of bindweed from the hedge beyond the shed, that I saw someone at the kitchen window. A woman was looking out at me, and raised a hand in a wave. I dropped the bindweed and headed in the direction of the house, but she beat me to it, and we met on the patio.

  ‘I’m so sorry, did I give you a fright?’

  ‘Well … I suppose …’

  ‘Oh!’ She pulled a humorously apologetic grimace. ‘I should have left a note or something. You must be Flora. I’m Rachel Ayre – Fergal’s mother? He’s laid low, so I’m filling in.’

  ‘Poor Fergal,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘A fluey thing, but they’re a bit worried in case it’s glandular fever, so I’m indulging him.’

  ‘Do give him my best.’

  ‘Of course I will, he said he’d met you. Anyway, it falls to me at the moment to see to that monster cat!’

  She was wearing faded jean
s, well-worn plimsolls and a soft oversized grey jumper. Her hair was well-cut just above shoulder-length, but whether intentionally or not it was tousled, her wispy fringe stopped just short of her unusual pale hazel eyes, and she seemed to be wearing no make-up.

  Rachel Ayre was beautiful and charming, and dismayingly free of vanity.

  I agreed that Percy was a bit of a monster.

  ‘I prefer dogs anyway,’ she confided. ‘But I can see cats are easy.’ She looked over my shoulder. ‘Gosh, you have been working hard. I bet heavy horticultural duties aren’t in your job description.’

  ‘No, but I don’t have a garden, and weeding’s surprisingly therapeutic.’

  ‘That is so true.’ She made my trite observation seem dazzlingly perceptive. ‘But good for you, anyway. You’ve clearly made yourself absolutely indispensable round here. Tell you what, fancy a cuppa?’

  I murmured ‘why not’, and followed in her slipstream into the kitchen, where she whisked out mugs, teabags and milk and put the kettle on – she’d done this before.

  ‘I wonder if he’s got any biscuits …?’

  I was about to confirm that he had, but didn’t need to because she’d got the Royal Wedding tin off the shelf and had prised the lid off.

  ‘Hooray, knobbly ones. Go on.’

  I took one. In every way possible I was on the back foot, or I might not have resorted to one of the lamest of all conversational gambits.

  ‘How do you know Edwin?’

  ‘Gosh, good question, I’ve known him for ever …’ Rachel leaned back on the work top with her arms folded. ‘Since before I was married. He and Mark, who I have to get used to calling my ex, were good friends, they used to go off on adventurous weekends together.’ She laughed. ‘Sounds slightly dodgy, doesn’t it, but nothing like that I assure you; rock-climbing and real-ale pubs were the main things.’

  ‘There are photos around the place …’

  ‘That’s right, Mark’s in a few of those. Ah …’ The kettle reached a crescendo and she poured tea. ‘Help yourself to the other things. What do you think, warm enough to go back out?’

  I followed her into the garden. The table and chairs had been stashed away, but there was a wooden park bench at the side of the lawn and we sat on that, which meant we were a squeak closer together than I would have liked. She sipped, and sighed.

  ‘This is nice, I do like a walled garden. In fact everything about this house is lovely, don’t you think?’

  I agreed. An awful sadness was seeping through me like dirty water sinking into a lawn.

  She put her elbow on the back of the bench, her head resting on her hand, fingers pushed into her hair. Her eyes rested on me.

  ‘He thinks the world of you, do you know that?’

  For some reason, this didn’t help. I hoped that it was true, and if so it was certainly mutual, but the fact of her saying it meant that she and Edwin had discussed me. I made a gauche demurring noise.

  ‘Oh yes. And—’ she reached over and tapped my leg with her free hand – ‘not even his greatest fans, of which I’m one, would call Edwin easy.’

  That surprised me. ‘Really?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s been on his own his whole life, and been very good at it. Been pretty good at everything, actually. He’s always suited himself. I don’t know whether you realize what a quick turnover of PAs there was till you came on the scene.’

  ‘He did mention something of the sort.’

  ‘Did he?’ She tipped her head back and laughed. ‘There you are then. You’re definitely doing something right.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said primly, ‘I find him very nice to work for. I thought he would be intimidating, but he isn’t at all.’

  ‘Not—’ she was teasing me – ‘a bit vague? Difficult to get a straight answer?’

  ‘Not really. I only have to ask a straight question.’

  ‘Oh, Flora!’ Again, the laugh. ‘You are such good news!’

  We sat there for another five minutes, finishing our tea and talking about the E.J. Clay books. Then we took the cups back to the kitchen and Rachel went to the front door. With the door open, she paused and looked me in the eye.

  ‘It was lovely to meet you.’

  ‘And you.’

  ‘I expect Fergal to rise from his bed of pain tomorrow and be back on duty, so I may not bump into you. But I have enjoyed it, and I just want to say that I’m enormously fond of Edwin. He doesn’t have many real friends but Mark was certainly one. When Mark and I sadly … went our ways, it would have been perfectly understandable if Edwin had decided to be in Mark’s camp … But amazingly he didn’t.’

  Not so amazing, I thought.

  ‘I suppose,’ she went on, ‘I’m simply trying to say that he’s an absolute sweetie, but not everyone sees that. You know?’ She nodded enthusiastically, eliciting my agreement.

  ‘I believe you.’ I felt anything but cool, but cool was what I sounded.

  ‘Good.’ Another tap on the arm. ‘Onwards.’

  Under any other circumstances, this encounter would have buoyed me up. Rachel was warm, amusing, delightful, and most of all interested. But she had emerged from the hinterland of Edwin’s life to ambush me at a vulnerable moment. She must have liked me, or she wouldn’t have confided in me, but the effect was to make me feel once again like an outsider. Everything about her had suggested a prior and unshakeable claim on Edwin’s affections. I had to remind myself quite forcibly that I was his secretary, and only his friend within that limited context.

  I went to bed that night more determined than ever to stop being an idiot, and to manage my expectations. I was everywhere alone.

  I saw Rachel again, though not to speak to. The day before Edwin’s return I went over to the cathedral to one of their free lunchtime concerts – a local orchestra was playing the music of George Butterworth. I wasn’t knowledgeable but I liked the English composers, especially here in this most English of settings, and Butterworth’s own story, which I’d learned while at Holland House, was a moving one. I wasn’t religious either, but since that Easter in Paris I shared the impulse to get one’s mind on to higher things.

  As I walked across the close there was that end-of-summer feeling in the air. I didn’t mind. I liked the long, slow turning of the seasons, the changes in the light, the amber-splashed trees and the drifting sky. Edwin had yet to tell me about the concept of the pathetic fallacy, but I just knew that they suited my elegiac mood. There were a lot of people already there, both seated for the concert and drifting respectfully around the aisles, gazing upward, scrutinizing plaques, consulting leaflets. The players were taking their places in the spinney of music stands just below the chancel steps. They were mostly my age or younger, and I wondered what it was like to be embarking on a career like that – something you’d always been good at, and aspired to. I wasn’t exactly jealous, but a little wistful.

  I sat in a chair in the front row of the back section, on the north–south aisle, from where I had a good view of the orchestra and could slip away if I needed to. The cathedral in all its breathtaking, heedless beauty soared up on all sides. It was calming to have my preoccupations put so emphatically, gloriously, in perspective.

  When the first long, sweet, yearning notes of A Shropshire Lad unfurled and rose into the air like wood smoke, my spirits unfurled and rose with them and for some minutes I let myself drift. I may even have closed my eyes. I’d never been sure how people prayed, but this felt close – a submitting to the moment, a release.

  When I opened my eyes, Rachel was the first thing I saw. She had probably been there all the time, because she was sitting in the south aisle near the book stall, and was wearing glasses, and a pale blue steward’s sash over her Guernsey. Like me, she was spellbound by the music. Her legs in black tights were crossed, and she was leaning forward with her chin propped on her hand. She must have sensed my eyes on her because she glanced directly at me. Embarrassed to be caught staring, I lifted my ch
in in ‘hello’. She sent back a smile, briefly closing her eyes and opening her hands as if to say, ‘Bliss!’

  I left after three-quarters of an hour, during a break in the music, not looking at her as I did so. So much for the release, the letting-go of bad feelings. The truth, of which I was far from proud, was that Rachel’s presence had spoiled things for me.

  I didn’t go back to Edwin’s house. I was done for the day and also I thought that Rachel, having seen me, might decide to come over. Instead I did something I hadn’t done for ages, and called my friend Elsa.

  ‘Hello, stranger!’ There was the usual domestic hum in the background; hers was a full life in every sense. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. I wondered if I could come round?’

  ‘Fantastic idea!’

  ‘Are you sure? I know how busy you are.’

  ‘Never too busy for you, girl. Hang on, let me turn this off … And anyway you’ve struck lucky, the kids have gone to a party at the leisure centre, and are even being dropped off later, so get your arse over here and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Elsa and I had met in a supermarket queue, she with a toddler on her full trolley, me with my more modest load. The woman ahead of us at the check-out was one of those with an amusing explanation for every purchase, and an elusive purse … Our eyes met in mutual infuriation, which turned to uncontrollable mirth once we were both through – Elsa had waited for me.

  ‘Don’t know about you, but I need intravenous caffeine after that – want to join me?’

  Different as we were, we were kindred spirits, and firm friends from that moment.