Chapter Thirteen
Coffins always looked so small, Francesca thought. You could never believe the person you had known could possibly fit into them. What had happened to Duggie, that his six-foot-long, quite solid shape had been somehow shrunk into this politely neat, hexagonal box? She tried not to think of him in there, it was unbearable: silent, white, confined, himself yet not himself, lying eyes closed, hands composed, dressed in some awful white garment, no doubt, instead of his scratchy tweeds or his old-fashioned City suits, lying there beneath the great mass of white and yellow flowers, roses and lilies, shaped in an absurdly oversized cross, that was Teresa’s offering. She thought of him as he had been, as he still was to her, so kind and affectionate and good humoured, and felt saddened, ashamed, that the very last conversation they had had, she had promised to take the children to see him and had never done so. Had considered herself too busy, too distressed, her concerns too important, to give up a day, an afternoon, to give him the kind of easy, affectionate pleasure he had so longed for. Had made the excuse Teresa, Teresa whom she did not like, whom none of them liked, had told herself that Duggie had Teresa, had chosen Teresa, that he was therefore perfectly happy (when the evidence of her own eyes, common sense, told her quite otherwise), and that it was of no importance therefore if they neglected him, ignoring his patent sadness at his estrangement from them all. And that when finally she had found the time, had phoned to arrange it, it had been too late by only perhaps minutes.
She looked over at Teresa; she was sitting on the other side of the memorial chapel, very pale, her blue eyes expressionless, fixed on the coffin, dressed in a black silk suit, a large feathered black hat on her silver-blonde hair; her son Richard was next to her, his face rather grimly set. He was suntanned, handsome in a rather vapid way. The estranged daughter had not come.
Francesca looked then at Bard, whose own face was stern, raw with grief at this loss of his oldest friend, his colleague, with whom he had shared not only much personal pain and joy, but professional concerns too, success and failure, risks taken, ground won, lost and then won again. He had known Duggie before his children had been born, before Marion had died, before Channings had been even dreamed of; it was not only Duggie he was saying goodbye to, but a great multi-emotioned mass of his life. He was singing now loudly, tunelessly, ‘Jesu Lover of My Soul’, determined not to give in, to weaken. Why, Francesca thought irreverently, why, if she was going to have so heavily religious a ceremony, did Teresa have to opt for this plastic chapel; why not a good, honest, and infinitely more beautiful church? He had to make a speech in a minute; she had been anxious earlier that he would not get through it, would break down, but of course he would cope superbly. Bard could get through anything; nothing broke him.
He had been more distant from her still since Duggie’s death; she had expected him to turn to her in his grief, had hoped they would become closer again, that she could comfort him, but it was as if he had decided she could not share the grief, and the effort of trying to make her understand was simply not worthwhile. She had found him the first night in his study, his head buried in his arms, but when she had gone in, put her hand gently on his shoulder, he had shaken her off, quickly, roughly even, said, ‘Don’t, don’t, Francesca, I want to be alone,’ and every day since then had moved further away. She had wanted to talk to him about so many things, about Duggie, about their shared past: but it was all quite impossible. She might almost be a widow herself, she thought, staring at the coffin, for all the companionship, the closeness she experienced these days.
Jess, who was sitting next to her, suddenly patted her hand and smiled at her gently, as if sensing her loneliness and distress. She had been deeply saddened herself by Duggie’s death – ‘another son he was to me, in a way, Francesca’ – had aged in the time since, looked somehow less upright, less sprightly, as if some of her strength had gone with Duggie, as if some of her life too had gone along with the memories.
Teresa she had hardly spoken to, after the first awful, awkward conversation, when she had been calmly, almost briskly, in control; she had phoned, of course, to invite them to the service, to ask Bard to speak and then again to ask him what he thought he might say, and who else she should ask, but there had seemed nothing she could say to her that would not seem either trite or hypocritical. She sent her some flowers, and a letter saying she would be there if Teresa needed company or someone to talk to (knowing that she was the last person who would be chosen for either purpose), and that had been all.
Thank God, thank God, Pattie hadn’t come; she had been invited, but had refused, obviously unable to face them all. She would have admired her for coming, but it would have added to the tensions of the occasion horribly. There were dozens of people there she didn’t know, business colleagues, golfing companions of Duggie’s obviously. And rather surprisingly Graydon Townsend was there: she couldn’t imagine who had invited him. He really was very good looking, she hadn’t really taken it in the other night, and wearing an extraordinarily nice suit. He had the sort of looks she liked best, a slightly hawkish, intelligent face: very attractive. Exactly her type – until she’d met Bard. Patrick had been that type. Gray kept looking at Kirsten, she noticed. Well, most men kept looking at Kirsten. She was hard not to look at.
She supposed Liam would have come under normal circumstances. He had sent some flowers; she had seen them. She had told him about Duggie herself; he had been patently upset.
‘He was so good to me,’ he said, after a long silence. ‘Like another dad. Well, like a dad. When the real one failed me.’ He looked at her and smiled rather feebly. ‘For years and years he was always there. I used to go there in the holidays, he used to come and see me at school. God, it’s a shame. If only I’d – ’
His voice had cracked; he stopped talking. Francesca had been touched by his very real grief.
The hymn ended; Bard stood up, paused, took a great breath that was more a sigh, and walked forward to stand by the coffin.
Well, at least, Rachel thought, she had been invited to sit with the family: she was next to Victoria, in between Kirsten and Barnaby. Francesca had forgiven her thus far. But she was still distant, avoiding her; when Rachel had got back from the convent, she had gone straight to see Francesca, planning to make a little speech, to try to explain. But Francesca had been tearful, distracted over Duggie’s death, and worried too about Barnaby, who was ill; had said, ‘Look, Mummy, not now. Whatever it is you want to say, I’d rather it waited. I really can’t cope with anything else at the moment.’
And she had respected that, with some relief, seeing that whenever she did tell Francesca it had to be the right time, she had to be feeling strong and resilient, if there was to be any hope of her accepting the situation. But she had not been allowed near Francesca in the following week, her offers of caring for Jack, for helping with arrangements – ‘What arrangements, Mummy?’ had been the cool, slightly amused response. ‘I’m not arranging a funeral, I haven’t got anything to do’ – rejected.
And so today was the first time she had seen her, since the first, difficult meeting; and she was worried, frightened at the gulf between them. She had phoned Bard, said how sorry she was, and he had been oddly warm, grateful for her call. ‘Duggie was very fond of you, Rachel,’ he said. ‘He said you were one hell of a woman.’
‘Good gracious,’ said Rachel, accepting this as the compliment it was clearly meant to be, ‘well, I was very fond of him. I just wish – ’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said, ‘we all wish. We all wish it very much. But it’s too late. Bless you for calling, Rachel. You’ll be there on Friday, at the funeral, won’t you? I’d hate it if you weren’t.’
She had been touched by that, very touched; had written a note to Teresa, wishing she liked her more, and was pleased when she received a formal printed card of thanks, inviting her to the funeral.
Rachel had another worry too, apart from her estrangement from her daughter; a bigger, more tangible worry. Bard had still not finalised arrangements for the money, had not signed the forms of association for the charity; time was winging by, there was so much to do, and how could she chase, chivvy him under these circumstances? She supposed she must simply wait, patiently, the thing she found always most difficult.
Bard was beginning to speak now; she glanced briefly round the chapel, at the many faces she did not know, as well as the familiar ones. The Clarke family were only two rows behind. Oliver had positioned his mother’s wheelchair very carefully, so that she could see. He had real charm, that boy, an easy, surprisingly confident charm; Heather Clarke had done a good job under the most appallingly difficult circumstances. He was good looking too, and bright: the sort of son Bard should have had, rather than that layabout Barnaby. Goodness, he was delicious, though, Barnaby: if she were twenty, maybe only ten years younger, she’d be seriously tempted by him. Those marvellous deep blue eyes, the bronzed skin, the corn-coloured hair, blonder than his sister. Far too long, of course, although tied back neatly for the funeral today, and he was wearing a suit which looked rather too big for him; he was terribly thin, no doubt the legacy of India. He was clearly an absolute nightmare, irresponsible, lazy, as much trouble in his own way as Kirsten – but infinitely more agreeable. Which probably made Kirsten worse, she thought. She didn’t like Kirsten, but she was clearly the family scapegoat.
Barnaby saw her looking at him and smiled at her, a wide, glorious smile, then swiftly sobered his face again into an expression more suited to the occasion, and fixed his eyes on his father.
She followed his example, turned her attention back to Bard; his rough, strongly pitched voice, its South London tang still about it, reached clearly and easily to every corner of the building. He spoke affectionately, but not mawkishly, of Duggie; told funny stories, described incidents, smiled as he described his passion for golf as his life-force, took them all back through the years, the long years of their association; paid tribute to his loyalty, his courage, his constancy as a friend, his talent for fun, his passion for good food, his capacity for whisky, ‘and above all, the sheer goodness of the man. There was nothing shabby about Duggie, nothing cheap, nothing frail. He was a rock; we shall have to manage without him somehow, but it will not be easy.’
He stood there in silence for more than a minute, his brilliant eyes fixed on the coffin, and then he rejoined Francesca, sat down without looking at her, at any of them, head bowed. Oh God, thought Rachel, fishing in her bag for a handkerchief, hearing from every part of the chapel the humdrum sounds of sadness, of muted grief, throats cleared, noses blown: Victoria was crying, openly, tears streaming down her face; Kirsten’s eyes were closed, her mouth tightly compressed; Francesca was biting her lip, her eyes welling over; even the terrible Marcia Grainger’s eyes were brilliant with tears. And then rather slowly Teresa Booth got up and took Bard’s place, and surveyed them all for a long time, her blue eyes almost amused, before starting to speak herself.
It was something of a shock, that speech. To all of them. And extremely clever. Without saying anything very much at all, really, she had managed to make them all, all the family at any rate, feel terrible. It was out of order, totally out of order: but they did deserve it, and she knew it, and so did they.
And she had said absolutely nothing untrue.
Only that she knew she was still not seen as quite a part of Duggie’s life, yet, not by most of them, his old friends, his colleagues at Channings, the Channing family – ‘And how could I expect to be?’ (This with a quick smile.) ‘We’d only been married two years, he had been with Suzanne almost thirty, she was still his wife to most of you. I can understand that. But that was not the case, I know, thank God, to him. I was his wife, and I believe I made him happy. I tried to. I tried very hard. Not in the same way as Suzanne had, of course, but in my own way. It wasn’t easy. I had hoped to ease his loneliness and in a way of course I did. We had fun, we did things together he hadn’t done before, things he certainly enjoyed. But I am very aware that my arrival in his life was not all for the good. There were those of you who had known him for so long, who found the changes hard to accept. The base of his life inevitably changed. I did not try to come between him and his golf – good God,’ she said, smiling almost cheerfully, ‘no man and certainly no woman could have done that. What did happen, and only a fool could have not seen it, was that he had to give up quite a lot for me. Old friends, old ways, old haunts. Well, it happens, with every new marriage. It’s just harder when the new one follows a very old one. And it troubled me at times; I thought perhaps I had taken from him more than I had given, and I thought that others might have felt that too. But I stand here now to put the record straight as I see it: to tell you I loved Duggie, and he loved me, and that he did die a happy man. His last words to me were that he loved me. I am proud of that. Very proud. You should be glad for him and glad for me. Thank you.’
She went back to her front-row seat; her son put his arm round her, but she looked at him almost happily, nowhere near tears. There was a long, almost stunned silence; then the priest stood up and announced the last hymn, and people got quickly, gratefully, to their feet.
God only knew why she’d done it, Rachel thought, what kind of crude satisfaction it had given her, to deliver, with consummate skill, a hard slap in the face for all the old guard, the Channings, the erstwhile colleagues – without saying a word against them. Callously destroyed the goodwill and warmth and happy recollection that had been so tangibly present at the end of Bard’s speech: and also cut through the hypocrisy, brought some honesty into the situation, she thought with a sense of near-shock, told them they had not been good friends to Duggie at the end, had stayed away from his home, had not spent time with him, brought their children to see him, had added to any unhappiness he might have been feeling. And told them also that she knew they didn’t like her, and she didn’t give a shit.
And as the coffin slid slowly away, through the ghastly blue curtains, as Duggie left them finally, Rachel felt, through shock and remorse, and genuine grief, something else. A sense of admiration for Teresa Booth.
So quick, so simple, it was, it had been, the moment: the one that Kirsten always thought afterwards had changed her life, when she had stopped saying quite so categorically she didn’t believe in love, had admitted there might be something in it after all, when a drift of an entirely new emotion, gentle, sweet, warm, came across her, into her. And at such a filthy, hideous moment, on such a foul occasion, outside that gross chapel place, why not a church, why, why not? when the awful Booth woman had done her worst, when everyone was feeling wretched and awkward and far worse than they had before, when there was the reception to get through, Francesca being tearful and gracious, and that ghastly mother of hers in that ridiculous hat, flitting about outside the chapel, chatting to everyone and shaking and patting the Booth woman’s hand, as if she hadn’t just delivered what amounted to a bollocking to the entire congregation or whatever it was called, and kissing her father, and even going over to Barnaby, Barnaby, for God’s sake, and kissing him, and taking his arm and walking him away down the path. God, she was a nightmare; a shallow, embarrassing two-faced nightmare, imagine being her daughter – just for a moment Kirsten felt a stab of sympathy for Francesca. And she was vulgar, there was no other word for it, for all her frightful drawly voice, her double-barrelled name. As vulgar as Teresa Booth, in her own way. Not an ounce of genuine feeling in her, she felt quite sure of that.
She tried to distract herself from Rachel; looked at Granny Jess, who was standing in the porch, blowing her long nose rather hard on a very large men’s handkerchief; she was clearly waiting for Bard to fetch her, but he was talking to Heather Clarke, bending over her wheelchair. Why did he have to make such a fuss of her and those two children of hers: she’d noticed Melinda gazing at Barnaby across the chapel, silly cow.
She would go over and talk to Granny Jess, take care of her until a car could be found. Gray was somewhere: gone to get his, perhaps. She’d been surprised he was coming, but he’d said, when he rang her to tell her, that Teresa had specifically invited him, had phoned him. ‘I was going to have lunch with Duggie that day, and she knew, said he’d been fussing about it just after he collasped and before he lost consciousness, said she must be sure to ring me, it was one of the last things he said. Dear old chap,’ he added.
‘Yes,’ said Kirsten, and then, ‘Why were you going to have lunch with him?’
‘Oh, to discuss business, developments in the property scene, that sort of thing,’ he’d said, just slightly too vaguely, she’d thought.
‘Anyway, Mrs B. has asked me to come, so I thought it was the least I could do.’
‘Well, it’ll be nice to have you there,’ said Kirsten, and she’d thought it would be, but actually it felt odd; obviously they couldn’t sit together, and people would think it funny if they were together at the reception or whatever it was called. They’d all got to go back to the Booth house: or ‘residence’, as that silly housekeeper of theirs answered the phone. And she still felt awkward with him, still regretted what she had done, the way she had seduced him, almost entirely to hurt Toby, although she did like him, did find him attractive. He hadn’t been exactly interesting in bed, but it had been all right. Well, better than all right, good even. But it had been bad of her, especially knowing he was unhappy, in turmoil himself. He had told her briefly about his girlfriend, about why they had broken up; it was a sorry little tale. She was surprised at Gray, actually; she would have thought he was quite the new man, doting-father type. Well, you never could tell. Anyway, she shouldn’t have gone to bed with him. God, she was a tart. A self-centred, stupid tart. Still behaving as if she were fifteen; she had to grow up. Only she didn’t want to grow up either; there didn’t seem a lot of benefit in it. Shit, what was the matter with her? Suddenly, sharply, she thought of her mother, who had never really grown up either, whose alcoholism was a desperate lurch back into irresponsibility, a place where she was safe, taken care of, where reality was kept at bay. Was she going to go the same way: only was sex, not alcohol, going to be her refuge?
Panic gripped her, standing there alone, panic and at the same time a perverse longing for her mother, and grief too for Duggie, who had been so much a part of her childhood; tears filled her eyes again, hot, fierce tears, and as she turned to wipe them away, she realised she didn’t have a hanky, she’d given it to Tory at the service. And it was while she was rummaging in her pockets miserably, trying to find one, her nose starting to run, that it happened, that the moment came, while she was actually wiping her nose surreptitiously on her sleeve, praying no-one would notice, and a voice, a very nice voice, with just a touch of amusement in it, said, ‘Here, do you want to borrow mine?’ and she turned and there was Oliver Clarke, holding out his, his eyes genuinely sympathetic.
Her first instinct was to say no thanks, and to hurry off; she really had never liked him, had always thought he was a mealy-mouthed creep, and she was sick of hearing from Granny Jess and her father how wonderful he and his sister were. But that seemed too rude, and it was extraordinarily thoughtful of him to have noticed her dilemma, even if he was a creep, so she smiled, rather reluctantly, took the handkerchief, and then noticed that her hand was shaking violently.
‘Are you all right?’ he said, and there was real concern in his voice. ‘You look very pale.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just – well, you know. Bit shaky.’
‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘So unfair. Such a nice old guy. He was always so kind to me. To us.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, sniffing, blowing her nose again, ‘me too. A second dad to me, really. No, you’re right, it isn’t fair.’
‘Life isn’t though, is it?’ he said. ‘Or death, for that matter.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘no, not at all, I’m afraid,’ and then she found herself looking at him, looking at him properly, giving him her attention, rather than a quick graze of a glance, for the very first time. He was watching his mother, and the expression on his face was very sweet, concerned, anxious that she was being taken care of; it was obviously totally habitual to him, that sweetness, that concern, it touched her in spite of herself. And then he turned back and smiled at her.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I was just checking on Mum.’
It was his mouth she noticed first and most forcefully; it was wide, almost too wide, and his teeth were very even and well spaced. Kirsten did like nice teeth: one of the things she had first noticed about Toby were his teeth, but Toby’s were too perfect, a tribute to the orthodontist’s art; Oliver’s looked as if they had grown obligingly that way. His jaw was wide too, wide and generous looking, and his nose was extremely straight which she liked, she couldn’t stand turned up noses on men (and turned-under ones still less), and then she reached his eyes. She’d always thought of Oliver as fair, and his hair was indeed fair – not blond, but very light golden-brown – but his eyes were dark, not the intense almost-black of her father’s, but a soft, dark brown, with black lashes that might have looked girlish but somehow didn’t. The other thing he had, which she really liked, was freckles: not too many, but a heavy smattering on his nose and forehead, quite large splodgy ones. They suited him. It was a strange thing to think about freckles, she thought confusedly, blowing her nose hard again to disguise the fact she was examining him so closely, but that was what Oliver’s did, they somehow completed his face, made it look less formal, more lived-in. Oh for Christ’s sake, Kirsten, she thought, what is the matter with you, drivelling on, this is Oliver, Oliver the dweeb; but she couldn’t help it, she just went on taking him, drinking him, in, and noticing that he was tall too, taller than her, by about two inches, and nicely dressed in a dark grey suit and blue shirt. And when he said, ‘You OK now?’ she heard his voice as if for the first time too: light, easy, completely accentless, a bit like Gray’s, she thought irrelevantly, only somehow with more warmth in it.
‘Oh – yes,’ she said. God, she must stop this, poor guy must think she was a complete moron. ‘Yes, thank you.’
And now he was studying her, politely, briefly, but nonetheless studying; to break the silence, she said, slightly awkwardly, ‘It was very kind of you to come to my rescue.’
‘Well,’ he said, grinning again, ‘I just noticed you, standing there, and I didn’t have anything else to do at the time.’
‘Oh.’
‘And it is quite bad, not having a hanky and your nose running. It happened to me in an interview last week. I just didn’t know what do do.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Sniffed. Didn’t get the job,’ he added.
‘Why are you going for jobs?’ she said.
‘Oh – to pass the time between dawn and dusk,’ he said lightly, but she could see he was irritated.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. You seem quite settled at Channings.’
‘Not really. I’m only working for Peter Barbour for a bit,’ he said, ‘just to tide me over. Till I can find something else. That’s official,’ he added, clearly anxious she shouldn’t think he was two-timing her father.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes. I really don’t want to work for your father long-term. However kind he is.’
It was clearly important he got both those points over; it interested her.
‘Well, he’s not easy to work for,’ she said. ‘I should know.’
‘Yes.’ There was a silence, then he said, ‘Bit of a strong speech, that, wasn’t it? Mrs Booth’s, I mean.’
‘Yeah. But – well, if she meant to make us feel bad, she certainly succeeded with me. I felt terrible. I felt guilty already anyway, I never went to see him and he was always asking me, and she’s made me feel much worse.’
‘Well,’ he said almost cheerfully, ‘that’s what funerals are about, isn’t it, guilt? I must get back to Mum.’
She was so struck by what he had said she wanted to pursue it, was going to follow him over to Heather’s wheelchair, to say hallo to her, when Gray suddenly appeared at her side.
‘Hallo, Kirsten.’
‘Oh, hi Gray. Gray, this is Oliver Clarke, a – a friend of the family. Oliver, Gray Townsend.’
‘How do you do?’ said Oliver, and then, ‘Excuse me, I’ll maybe see you at the house. Keep the hanky,’ he said as she held it out to him, ‘I’ve got some more.’
‘Nice young man,’ said Gray.
‘Yes,’ she said absently, looking after him, noticing the way he moved, walked, rather quickly but heavily, noticing that he had very long legs, noticing –
‘You OK?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, thank you. I was going to go and get my gran, could we take her – ’
And then Oliver turned, and across the expanse of the car park looked at her, above the heads of most of the people there, and smiled: not as he had before, politely, carefully, but with warmth and generosity, and an extraordinary feeling came over Kirsten, a sense that she had just made a discovery, learned something deeply important, only she had no idea what it was or might be, and she smiled back, and then Gray said, ‘Come on, let’s get it over with,’ and without even thinking what she was doing, how it might be interpreted, she took his hand and kissed him briefly, because he too was so kind, and allowed him to lead her to his car.
‘Graydon dear.’ It was Teresa, smiling at him, across the large hallway of her lush, plush Tudoresque house. ‘Graydon, could you help me with some of these canapés? Passing them round. I’ve slightly undercalculated on the staff, I can see I’m going to have problems. And they’ve all come back, the vultures. Bottoms smacked or not, they want some of Duggie’s best champagne.’
‘Er – yes,’ said Graydon. He smiled at her suddenly; he had actually rather admired her speech. He had thought it very clever and probably well deserved. He knew what these clans could be like, and he was sure Teresa had not fared well at the hands of the Channings. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself, and anyone who could administer the reprimand that she had, and in such a situation, needed no sympathy. And she was hardly the fragile type. But then he looked at her rather more carefully; noticed the shadows under the brilliant blue eyes, the slightly grim set of her smile, the plump, heavily ringed hand shaking as she lit a cigarette, and felt ashamed of himself. She had loved Duggie in her own way, no doubt, and she was hurting much more than she was letting on.
‘Of course I will.’
‘Come into the kitchen, everything’s set out there.’
He followed her in; it was a vast, over-equipped place, the woodwork done in the current mode for distressed colour, in bleached-out pink, the floor elaborately tiled in some kind of mosaic. Heavily ruched blinds hung at the windows, totally out of sympathy with the large green Aga, clearly seldom used; by the Aga was a basket with two snarling poodles in it. Well, she would have poodles; it was inevitable.
‘Horrible little things,’ she said briefly. ‘They’re not mine, they’re my cousin’s, I like real dogs, I’ve just been looking at some Old English Sheepdog puppies.’
‘Oh,’ said Gray.
‘Duggie was against the idea. Said it would wreck the lawn. Over his dead body, he said.’ And then her eyes filled alarmingly with tears and she leant briefly against the wall.
‘Sorry, Graydon. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ he said, kicking the door shut quickly, putting his arm round her, noticing the same over-heady perfume, the same intense warmth that had struck him at the Ritz. ‘You have a cry. You’ve been very brave.’
‘It’s been easy so far,’ she said. ‘Lots to do, plenty of drama. The tough time starts tonight. When everyone’s gone.’
‘Well,’ he said, and was amazed and almost annoyed to hear himself saying it, ‘if you ever want a shoulder to cry one, mine’s here. You have my number.’
‘Thank you, Graydon. That’s very sweet. I have a feeling I’m going to need a few friends. And it’s such a very nice shoulder,’ she added, patting his chest gently, ‘in such a very nice suit. Now, take these two, will you, and I’ll go and find that damn Philippino of mine and wind her up a bit.’
It was quite nice, being able to move around the room, with a licence to talk to everyone. He had a quick word with Sam Illingworth, who had just arrived, and with Peter Barbour who looked terrible, white and exhausted, and who introduced him to Marcia Grainger, ‘without whom we would all be lost, wouldn’t we, Marcia? Marcia, I don’t think you’ve met Graydon Townsend, from the News on Sunday.’
So this was Marcia Grainger, thought Gray, studying her with interest: Bard Channing’s bodyguard, as she was known on the street, tall, stiff backed, shelf bosomed, dressed in a severe brown suit, her salt and pepper hair apparently glued to her head, and dark red lipstick on a full, very firm mouth.
She looked at him with a degree of polite distaste. ‘I have very little to do with the press,’ she said. ‘I find it better that way.’
Gray, assuming (correctly) that this was meant to be a rebuke for his calling, told her she was quite right, asked her to excuse him, and moved away.
He was just trying to locate Francesca Channing, who had spoken to him briefly outside the church, clearly surprised to see him there, when he found himself near Kirsten. She was standing with her brother – don’t like the look of him, Gray thought, over-charming and over-indulged – and a tall gaunt woman in black. Kirsten introduced her to him as Jess Channing – ‘My grandmother, practically brought me up.’
‘Well, I don’t seem to have done a very good job,’ said Jess Channing. Her voice was quite low, Gray noticed, and her London accent strong, but it was a very attractive voice. ‘Now Barnaby, you could make yourself useful, I’d have thought, passed some of those plates round. Poor Mr Townsend’s got his hands very full there.’
‘Oh Gran – ’
‘Barnaby, do what I tell you. How do you know the Booths, then, Mr Townsend?’
‘Oh – I’ve known Duggie from way back. I’m a financial journalist.’
‘Gray, what on earth were you doing, just now, locked in the kitchen with Terri Booth?’ said Kirsten.
‘She was – upset.’
‘Oh really?’ Her voice was sarcastic, heavy; for a moment he disliked her.
‘Kirsten, don’t be so harsh,’ said Jess Channing, ‘it doesn’t suit you. I’m sure Mrs Booth is very upset. And I have to say I thought that speech of hers was well deserved. We have all ostracised her. It was wrong of us. And Douglas was very happy with her, he told me so. Now you must excuse me, I have to speak to my son. Isambard,’ she called across the room, ‘Isambard, I’d like a word, please.’ She moved away from them.
Gray had never heard Bard’s full name before; it sounded very incongruous. He looked down at Kirsten and grinned. ‘Some lady.’
‘Yeah, I told you she was great.’
‘You all right?’
‘Mm. Think so. Bit – well, you know, shaken.’
‘Of course. You on speaking terms with your dad yet?’
‘Not really. I tried to talk to him about Duggie, but – ’ Her eyes filled suddenly with tears; she fumbled for her handkerchief. He could see she was genuinely and slightly surprisingly upset.
‘You really liked him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes I did. And I can’t bear to think he’s gone and I never – never – ’ Her voice wobbled.
‘Oh Kirsten. You are in a bad way. How would you like to have dinner with me tonight? No more than that, just dinner, cheer you up.’ And me, he thought wondering at the same time if it actually would.
She looked at him and smiled suddenly, her oddly sweet smile. ‘Oh – no, I don’t think I should, Gray. Thanks for asking me. But I won’t be good company, and – ’
‘I’m not looking for good company. I just thought it might help.’
She hesitated, clearly tempted. Then she said, ‘Well – yes. That’d be really nice. But – ’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, hoping he meant it, ‘I got the message last time. I understand. Just friends. Don’t worry, Kirsten, I’ll deliver you home to your door and I won’t even kiss you.’
She laughed. ‘I’d hate that. Yeah, OK. Where d’you want to go? Or – tell you what, why don’t I cook for you?’
‘Can you cook?’ he said carefully.
‘No. But I could get some steak, and – ’
‘I’ll cook for you,’ he said. ‘Because I can, and there’s nothing I like doing more. What do you like? Italian, French … ?’
‘English,’ she said, surprising him.
‘OK. Steak kidney and oyster pie. How’d that be?’
‘Great. Only I don’t want you getting any ideas about the oysters,’ she said, laughing.
‘I swear I won’t,’ he said, and went off to the kitchen to recharge his tray.
On his way back, he bumped into Terri; she had clearly had more than one glass of champagne and was looking a lot more cheerful.
‘You’re an angel,’ she said, kissing his cheek briefly, ‘thank you. And before I forget, Gray, give me a call tomorrow, would you. I think we most definitely have some unfinished business to discuss.’
‘We do?’ he said, slightly nervous.
‘We do. Little matter of a story about one Bard Channing …’
‘Good God,’ said Gray. He had not exactly forgotten the puzzlement of Duggie’s invitation to lunch, Terri’s veiled hints about a story, but he had consciously put it out of his mind, had tried not to think about any of it. He came back to it now with a sense of almost physical pleasure, as to a long-delayed drink.
‘You’re on,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you in the morning.’
‘Oliver, please! Please try!’
‘What?’ said Oliver irritably. He was watching Kirsten Channing chatting and laughing to that smooth bastard of a journalist, and wondering why it irritated him. Probably because she was so bloody sure of herself, well, she would be, looking like that, with all her father’s money behind her, that over-privileged upbringing, everything coming her way. Silly girl she was, slinging the family mud all over the newspapers; it merely confirmed what he’d always thought about her, that she was a shallow, spoilt bitch who didn’t know when she was well off. It was just that –
‘Oliver please, you’re not listening to me.’
‘Sorry. What’s the matter, Mel?’
‘I want you to take me over to Barnaby. Think of some excuse – ’
‘Melinda, you’re ridicuous. You don’t want to waste time even talking to that bloke. He’s bad news.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do.’
‘You were talking to his sister. Looking pretty keen about it, as well.’
‘Of course I wasn’t,’ said Oliver wearily. ‘I was just being polite.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. You know perfectly well how I feel about Kirsten. I can’t stand her.’
‘It didn’t look like that to me. Not just now.’
‘This is a stupid conversation,’ said Oliver. ‘Can we drop it?’
‘When you’ve got me talking to Barnaby, we can.’
‘Oh for God’s sake. Look, he’s got two trays of canapés, why don’t you go and offer to help him with one of them.’
‘I couldn’t,’ said Melinda, flushing violently. ‘I really couldn’t.’
‘Well, go and ask him to take a couple over to Mum. She’s talking to his gran, shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Oliver, that’s brilliant. Yes, OK. I will. Wish me luck!’
Poor silly little thing, thought Oliver; it was hard to believe that she was twenty-one, she seemed about sixteen most of the time. He hoped to God Barnaby wouldn’t do or say anything at all that gave her the slightest encouragement. Because if he did, he’d –
‘Oliver! How very nice to see you. How are you, dear?’
‘Oh – hallo, Mrs Booth. Yes, I’m very well, thank you.’ He’d been dreading this moment, had known it had to come.
‘It’s very sweet of you to come. And to bring your mother.’
‘No, really, we wouldn’t – that is – well, I’m so sorry, Mrs Booth. About Mr Booth. He was so – so nice.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, that’s exactly what he was – nice. I shall miss him dreadfully. But – well, life has to go on. Oh dear – ’ She smiled at him. ‘Not a very appropriate remark, that. Sorry.’ She was drunk, he realised; she put out her hand and patted his cheek. He had to concentrate very hard on not brushing the hand away. ‘Now are you all right, Oliver, being looked after?’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you. We’re all fine.’
‘Good. I hope that Barnaby doesn’t start moving in on your pretty little sister. Nasty piece of work, he is, if you ask me.’ God, she was sharp.
‘Well – she thinks he’s terribly good looking. Got a bit of a crush on him.’
‘Silly girl. I suppose he is. Good looking, that is. Not as stunning as his sister, though.’
‘Oh – I don’t know.’
‘She is one gorgeous girl,’ said Terri Booth, studying Kirsten, who was now talking to her grandmother and Heather Clarke. ‘I don’t actually like those sort of looks, I prefer the younger one, but she is a stunner.’
‘Yes, she’s very pretty,’ said Oliver politely.
‘I don’t actually mind her too much,’ said Terri, surprising him. ‘I think she’s honest. Everyone said it was so dreadful, talking to the papers like she did, but I wouldn’t blame her. She’s had a tough time, with that mother of hers. Not too surprising she took to drink, of course, being married to Bard Channing – ’
‘Mrs Booth, I have to – ’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Oliver.’ She smiled at him, patted his arm, removed a hair from his lapel. ‘I shouldn’t be talking to you like this. I’m a bit – overwrought. Is your mother all right, being looked after? Perhaps after all she and I can become friends now.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ said Oliver.
She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You work for Mr Barbour, don’t you? It must be very interesting. All the internal machinations, eh? Fascinating. You never know what you might unearth there, Oliver.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know – ’
‘Oh take no notice of me,’ she said. ‘I’m rambling. Bit too much excitement for an old lady. But let’s just say you should keep your eyes wide open, Oliver. Now then, I must go and say hallo to dear Francesca, I suppose. Before she makes her rather feeble excuses and leaves.’
She was gross, thought Oliver; he felt very sorry for her, but God, she was embarrassing. And always talking in those riddles of hers. He decided that next time – if there was a next time – he was going to come right out and ask her exactly what it was she was always going on about.
‘Oliver! Hallo again.’ It was Kirsten. ‘I’m just leaving. Gray – Gray Townsend, you know – is taking Granny Jess home, and I’m going with him to show him the way.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Why the hell did she think he’d be interested in that? Silly bitch.
‘I just wanted to – well, to thank you again for the hanky. And for being so kind. I really appreciated it.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘I’ll – well, I’ll send it back to you. What’s your address?’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘No, I want to. Really.’ She smiled at him; she looked genuinely friendly. And she smelt gorgeous, some sexy, raw scent she’d just put on: he hadn’t noticed it before. For the benefit of that berk, he supposed. Christ, she was beautiful. He’d never known any really beautiful girls, not known them well. Certainly not in the biblical sense – and then, briefly, piercingly, a vision came to Oliver of knowing Kirsten in the biblical sense, of looking at that body unclothed, of touching those breasts, those full, high breasts, of parting those endless thighs, of – get a grip, Clarke, for God’s sake. He felt himself blushing. He was worse than Melinda. Only unlike her, he had not the slightest desire, not really, to know Kirsten Channing biblically or unbiblically. It was just that she seemed – well, at least a bit nicer than he’d thought. Softer. More vulnerable.
He gave her his address, said goodbye briefly, and went to help Melinda and Barnaby – Barnaby, for Christ’s sake, this whole thing was turning into a nightmare – ease Heather into the car.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Melinda. ‘It is really very kind of you, Barnaby.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said, smiling at her, his teeth very white in his brown face. ‘Nice to see you again. See you around.’
‘Yes,’ said Melinda, ‘yes, see you around, Barnaby.’ She waved to him rather overenthusiastically as the car pulled away. ‘Do you think he meant that, Mum, do you think he really did?’
‘I don’t know, dear,’ said Heather Clarke. She leant back in her seat. She looked very tired. ‘Poor Mrs Booth. She was very upset really, you know. When she said goodbye to me, she looked terribly strained. I feel so sorry for her. It’s the shock, you know, when it’s sudden.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Mum, do you like Barnaby?’
‘Well, he seems very nice, dear. He was certainly most kind to me. Poor Kirsten is a much nicer girl than I’d thought, too. I was talking to her grandmother about her, earlier. She says she’s actually very sweet, just very mixed up, got a bit lost along the way. And Kirsten was charming to me. Told me how good looking she thought you were, Oliver, that she hadn’t really noticed it before, and said you’d been really kind to her, and she’d enjoyed talking to you.’
‘Don’t make me spew,’ said Oliver.
‘That’s a horrible expression, Oliver.’
‘Sorry.’
An absurd, but nonetheless sweet warmth had settled somewhere around his consciousness, a totally ridiculous desire to go on talking about Kirsten.
‘What was she doing talking to you anyway? What did she have to say? Apart from how incredibly cool and fascinating I was?’
‘Oh, not very much. She came over to talk to her grandmother, really. And she promised to come and see me. I don’t suppose she will, but it’s nice she should even think of it.’
‘If Kirsten Channing goes to see you, Mum,’ said Melinda, waking briefly from her reverie about Barnaby, clearly casting her mind for something drastic enough, ‘I’ll enter a convent.’
‘Talking of convents,’ said Oliver, ‘Mr Channing is becoming trustee of some convent in Devon. I saw the papers about it the other day. Getting involved in building some new home for the disabled attached to it. Doesn’t that strike you as pretty surprising?’
‘Not at all. He really is one of the kindest men in the world,’ said Heather.
‘Mum,’ said Melinda, ‘I sometimes think you’re in love with Bard Channing. Or were, anyway.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Heather.
Francesca was walking past Terri’s pink kitchen, on her way to the loo, when she heard one of the poodles yelping. She liked dogs; she went in, bent down to stroke it. ‘Hallo,’ she said, smiling. The poodle bit her: not hard, but enough to make her flinch, draw back.
‘That was horrid,’ she said to it severely. She had never liked poodles anyway; silly little over-dressed things.
‘Francesca, dear, are you all right?’ It was Terri, standing in the doorway, cigarette in one hand, glass of champagne in the other. She didn’t look exactly grief-stricken, more like a pet poodle herself, Francesca thought, and felt perversely irritated.
‘Yes. Thank you. One of your dogs bit me.’
‘Not mine, dear. But I’m sorry. We’d better get it washed. I’m sure the dog’s not rabid, but you never know.’
‘Well, I certainly hope not,’ said Francesca lightly. She moved over to the sink; Terri stood beside her, turned on the tap.
‘Give it a jolly good scrub, I’ll get you some Savlon or something. Here – ’ she rummaged in a drawer, produced a tube.
‘Thank you,’ said Francesca.
‘It doesn’t seem to have drawn blood, anyway.’ The ginny voice was slightly ironic, amused even.
‘No, No, of course not. It was just a bit of a shock. Thank you. Er – Terri – ’ She really felt she must say it, however she might feel, however hostile to Teresa for her outburst in the chapel. ‘I just wanted to say, again, I’m so sorry about Duggie. You must be – ’
‘Must be what?’
‘Well,’ Francesca felt slightly nonplussed, ‘feeling so sad. Lonely. Lost. I – ’
‘Well, I daresay I will be, Francesca,’ said Terri, and the voice was harder now. ‘Right this minute, I just feel numb. Which is probably just as well.’
‘Yes,’ said Francesa, ‘yes, of course. Well, if there’s anything I can do – ’
There was a silence. Then: ‘No, I don’t think there will be,’ said Terri. She drew heavily on her cigarette. ‘I find that quite impossible to imagine. Actually. That you could do anything for me.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Francesca. She had no idea how to cope with this; this strange, almost open hostility.
‘In fact the best thing you can do for me, Francesca, is exactly what you’ve done so far. All along. Ever since I married Duggie. Keep away. Leave me alone. Ignore me. I haven’t liked that, any more than I’ve liked what your husband has done to Duggie. But it’ll suit me just fine now.’
‘Teresa, what are you talking about, what has Bard done – ’
‘Very little,’ said Teresa, draining her champagne glass. ‘That’s the whole point. Or of course if you looked at it another way, rather a lot. Seeing to his own rather well-lined nest. Not giving a bugger about anyone else’s. I’ve got your husband’s measure, Francesca, and I don’t like it. In spite of those very touching words at the service today. Everyone sitting there, gazing up at him, the great Bard Channing, hanging on his every utterance. That’s the way he likes it, isn’t it?’
‘Teresa – ’
‘I think you’d better go,’ said Teresa. ‘Otherwise I’m really going to say too much. And then, I can tell you, neither of us would like it. I think the best thing you can hope for from me, Francesca, is that you never see or hear from me again. But I wouldn’t depend on that if I were you. It’s gloves-off time now, you see, now that I don’t have to worry about Duggie any more …’
‘I’m sorry, Teresa,’ said Francesca, surprised at the cool, the self-control in her voice, when what she was really feeling was the ever more familiar sense of unease, ‘but I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘No,’ said Teresa, looking at her very intently, and there was something like sympathy now in her eyes, sympathy and at the same time scorn. ‘I really don’t think you do.’