Had any observant stranger seen three elderly sisters get out of a car? Active women for their age, used to walking the pier in all weather.
Had they heard one say: ‘Stop it, just stop it.’
And the reply come: ‘Stop what?’
And the rejoinder: ‘That face.’
They would have seen two set off before the third was quite ready. Seen the two talk to each other with exactitude and a properness that was at the expense of their disgraced sister. Would have seen them take to the pier at a pace, leaving the third to follow.
Would have seen the two steam ahead into the light morning mist, greet an acquaintance with a forced heartiness, a person who on any other occasion would have received the slightest nod; a heartiness they knew would not be matched by their sister, trailing behind.
Yes, it was indeed a beautiful morning, but there was something more required than the simple application of a set of rules, their punishing pace suggested. That bracing fresh air fuelling their progress was thickening in the lungs of their sister. Perseverance proved nothing. Didn’t they all persevere? Hobble all you like. We’re not looking. Shame retarded the guilty.
The observant stranger would have seen those two elderly women reach the end of the pier, turn around without stopping to gaze across the bay, and begin the return journey at the same impressive pace.
They would have seen them pass their sister without acknowledgement, and her still on her way to the end. Would have seen the disgraced sister belatedly reach the end of the pier and turn on her heels as the others had done, her goal to maintain a constant distance.
That distance would close. It was a temporary rift, a spat between sisters. One had said something to another about neglectful behaviour towards her recently deceased husband.
Stella had won Edwin from Charlotte all those years ago. She had had him for such a long time, and had made such a bad job of it. Ask their sister, Maureen, about the matter, and she would tell you Charlotte had been scorched by Stella. Ask Charlotte, and she would pass it off as girlish stuff. She would pretend to be dreamy – which was difficult for a woman of her age. Ask Stella, and she would deny any competition, and be inexplicably cutting about most of her married life with Edwin. She would lend these remarks an air of tragedy by suggesting that the courtship was truly spontaneous and romantic – which, she would claim, is a feat for any architect. It was this that had given rise to the spat prior to the walk on the pier.
What would that stranger think, had they known that the elderly woman trailing behind had, in one mad, despairing moment, tried to poison her sibling out of love for her brother-in-law?
Magnus didn’t tell his mother, because he wanted to protect Charlotte. That was what Edwin wanted. In this regard, Magnus was carrying out his father’s wishes. The doubting had been stripped out. Stella had it wrong. In this knowledge, Magnus could indulge her or rebuke her for her unreasonable behaviour, while letting her believe what she believed.
How easily this secret privilege was obliterated by a newfound clarity. Stella told Magnus that Charlotte had confessed to her and Maureen shortly after she had told him what she had done.
‘You were going to keep it to yourself, Magnus?’
‘It’s what Edwin wanted, isn’t it, Stella?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I see that.’
‘We all see that. Now you say nothing about Charlotte?’
Stella gave a sentimental smile, let her eyes water, offered no reply. The facts had been accommodated. The deed was being assimilated. Collectively, the three sisters were making a drama of it. They pointed to the impossibility of any such extraordinary event being repeated. Acknowledgement was key, not forgiveness. Forgiveness was forever located between too early and too late. That was good enough.
In future, Aunt Charlotte will keep in touch with her nephew as never before. If he and Florence are ever to have another child, and she is still alive, she will tell the child her story of two good men. One, who couldn’t type without stamping his feet. The other, who kept his love secret.