Rows of cardboard boxes from the supermarket stand around Doody’s front room, but she is finding very little that she wants to pack. A few clothes, the Biggles books, her unfinished novels. Otherwise, she hasn’t kept things. She likes going to the tip, emptying away anything that could be considered unnecessary to her requirements. She doesn’t believe in sentimental value. She has acquired very little in her life that she wants to keep. She picks up the textbook that she rescued from the pile of Harry’s belongings. Techniques in Advanced Neurology. She hesitates, nearly puts it into the box of Biggles first editions, then changes her mind and tucks it into the waiting bin-bag of rubbish.
While she is sorting, her mind is wrestling with the problem of Mandles. She’s written herself into a dead end, and can’t think how to resolve it. He’s tied up, blindfolded, in the back of a plane, about to be thrown into the sea. What are his options? Excitement seemed a good idea, but how does he realistically escape?
She worries away at the problem, a tight, inhospitable knot that doesn’t want to be untied. She contemplates giving up. Another unfinished novel, another failure. No, there must be a way out of this.
She throws a lamp into a box, unsure if she wants to keep it. If it breaks, she’ll throw it away. If not, she’ll keep it. The bulb shatters, and the pieces slip, tinkling attractively, down the side of the kitchen plates.
Doody dials her mother’s number and listens to the phone ringing in the dark, joyless flat. She pictures her sighing, turning Coronation Street down, hesitating before she picks up the phone, which is right by her chair next to the fire, close to the remote control. She’ll be hoping that it will stop ringing. Doody calls on purpose during Coronation Street, wanting her to know that her daughter is more important, more immediate than the soaps. That there is a real life out there, where people have original thoughts and carry out non-fictional actions and do things that affect other people.
‘Hello?’ Her mother’s voice is little and faint, clearly mindful of her potential heart condition.
‘It’s Imogen.’
‘Oh, hello, Imogen.’ Now she tries to inject some warmth and feeling. ‘How are you? It’s Coronation Street, you know.’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Suddenly Doody doesn’t know what to say. She’s unwilling to ask about her mother’s health, because it would lead to a one-sided conversation and she’s forgotten why she phoned. There may not be a reason. It may be her conscience telling her she should try to communicate with her mother more effectively.
‘I’m giving up my job and moving down to Devon.’
‘Oh dear, do you think that’s wise?’
‘Yes. I’ve inherited a cottage, remember. I don’t need to pay rent.’
‘You don’t pay rent now.’
Doody sighs. They’ve had this conversation before. ‘I do pay rent. It’s rent in kind. I have to do things, be available, be around. It’s the price of my free accommodation. That’s why my salary is so low.’
‘As I’m sure I’ve said before, you should have aimed higher.’
Doody knows how hard it has been for her mother, telling friends that her daughter is a school caretaker, when their children are doctors, dentists, vets. Jonathan is the ideal offspring. He’s much more in her conversation than Imogen.
‘I’m sure you were always quite right, then.’
‘Imogen?’ Her voice sharpens. ‘Are you being facetious?’
‘No, Mother.’
There’s a pause while Doody fights down the resentment that is churning up inside her, knowing that her mother is watching the screen to find out what’s going on, who’s hitting whom, or who’s having an affair with whom. You don’t really need dialogue for that. Pictures are sufficient.
‘So what are you going to do instead?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’ Doody wants to give the impression that she’s choosing, that there are twenty job offers out there, and she would like to consider them all before making a decision.
‘You know, you really should try to get some qualifications. I’ve always said you’re wasting that brain of yours. You could have done so well if you’d tried.’
Has she always said that? The only discussions that Doody can ever remember about brains concerned Celia and Jonathan. She wasn’t aware that she was supposed to have been given a generous portion of the genes.
‘Maybe I’ll do a college course and get a degree.’
‘Oh, yes, Imogen. What a lovely idea. You’re not very old. You’ve got plenty of time for a new career.’ There’s an impression of alertness, of her mother sitting up straighter, taking more interest. ‘You could be a teacher.’
A teacher. Doody has a brief picture of herself in front of a class full of Bens and Helens, fighting them off, shouting over their screams, watching in despair as they wreck the classroom for the fifth time. No, thank you. ‘I think I’d prefer to be a doctor,’ she says.
There’s a pause while her mother tries to believe this. ‘Your father always thought you would be a teacher.’
Doody is shocked into silence. Her father? Is her mother talking about her husband, Doody’s father? She has hardly ever mentioned him since he died—she usually behaves as if he’d never existed. ‘Are you feeling all right, Mother?’
‘Well, since you ask, the doctor tells me that I will have to take things a little easy in future…’
Doris the Lion Tamer is working in the garden when Doody goes round to the headmaster’s house. She’s bending over the potato patch, digging up handfuls of weeds. Her feet are firmly planted on the ground in wide-toed leather sandals, sturdy brown legs visible beneath khaki shorts. She’s wearing a baggy red T-shirt and a floppy cloth hat. She likes her garden. You can see that pleasure in the easy movement of her body, bending and pulling, comfortable in its proximity to the earth.
‘Doris!’ calls Doody. ‘Is Philip in?’
Doris straightens up. ‘Hello,’ she says, and Doody watches her pretending to look pleased, slipping automatically into her role as a headmaster’s wife. She has to be nice to everybody—to be on the safe side. ‘How lovely to see you.’
‘I need to speak to Philip. Is he in?’
‘Go and knock on the back window. He’s only reading the paper.’
He might not like Doody knocking on his window, so she goes round to the front and rings the doorbell. She can hear him moving inside and feels his reluctance. He resents being disturbed on a Saturday evening. The door opens. ‘Hello, Doody. What a surprise. It’s not often we see you here at the weekend.’
She smiles happily. ‘No, I’m down in Devon a lot.’
She follows him through the hall and into the lounge. There’s a good view of the garden from here. Doris is visible through the window, still working on the vegetables.
Philip sits down and waves Doody to a seat, but she remains standing. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, Doody,’ he says, ‘do you feel that perhaps you’re absent from the school a little too often?’
‘That’s what I came to see you about.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’m giving up the job. I have to give a month’s notice, so I’ve already written to the LEA.’
She enjoys telling him even more than she relished writing her letter of resignation. No more cheeky boys, no more blocked loos, no more balls on roofs. Freedom. She never wanted to be a caretaker, and she’ll never need to do it again.
‘The cottage, I suppose.’
‘Yes. I’m moving down to Devon.’
‘And you have a new job?’
‘No, but I’ll find one.’ She can do anything. Clean, work in Sainsbury’s, drive a taxi. She won’t have to pay rent or a mortgage. She might sell the field, not work at all. She’s a woman of property now.
‘Well, I admire your courage. Starting a new life at your age.’
‘Which is considerably less than yours.’
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘When are you going?’
‘Two weeks’ time.’
‘That’s a relief. I thought we’d have to start the new term without a caretaker.’
‘I’ve agreed to wait until my replacement can start.’
Doris walks in. ‘Haven’t you given Doody a drink yet, Philip?’
He goes apologetically to his cabinet. It’s wonderful watching him obey Doris. ‘What would you like, Doody?’
‘Nothing for me. I need to get back.’
‘I’ll have a whisky, thank you, darling,’ says Doris. ‘Neat.’
Philip pours her drink and hands it to her. ‘Doody’s leaving us.’
‘I knew something was going on. We’ve hardly seen you this summer. What exciting plans have you made?’
‘I’ve decided to move to Devon.’
‘We’ll miss you, Doody.’
‘Yes.’ She won’t miss them. Well, perhaps Doris—a little. Doody looks out of the window. ‘What’s that bush called, with the little pink flowers?’
Doris joins her. ‘I think it’s Weigela you’re looking at.’ Her tanned face suddenly fills with colour, glows with a new light. ‘Of course, you’ve got a garden. How exciting. Before you go, come round the garden with me. We can take some cuttings, and dig up a few plants that have spread, divide some perennials.’ She starts to wave her hands, making shapes, wild gestures of digging, cutting, moving things from one place to another.
This is all new to Doody. She’s learning about the life of a home-owner.
‘You could have cuttings from the buddleia, the hydrangea, the potentilla, the mahonia—I’m sure the geraniums would take if we dig up a root or two, and the periwinkle, the one with the variegated leaf, although it can get a bit rampant. You’d have to keep an eye on it and cut it back.’ She’s speeding up, the names slipping out effortlessly.
Doody has never seen her so animated. The garden always looks so regimented that it appears to be obeying orders. The lawn is neat and weedless, attended to by Philip, painted with exact stripes from the mower, razor-sharp at the edges. The bushes are never permitted to stray over the lawn, the flowers colour-co-ordinated and organised in precise patterns and shapes. Doody had not understood how much passion it inspired in Doris.
‘Thank you,’ says Doody. ‘I’d like some plants. Any time now, really, because we’ve started to dig the garden.’
She stops, aware that she’s said something wrong. They’re both looking at her with a new alertness. ‘We?’ says Doris, a fraction of a second earlier than Philip. ‘We? My dear, I didn’t realise…’
What is she talking about? ‘What? What didn’t you realise?’
Philip folds his paper, lining up the corners carefully. ‘We didn’t realise someone else was involved.’
‘There isn’t anyone else involved.’ How do they know about Straker? Have they been talking to Jonathan?
‘Oh.’ Doris lets out a short but audible breath. ‘We thought perhaps there might be someone—an attachment.’
An attachment? What’s an attachment?
‘A boyfriend, perhaps?’
Doody’s mind fizzles and sparks with outrage. How dare they make such assumptions? Do they think she’s some young girl who goes around getting crushes on people, making secret assignations in her cottage in the country? She’s never thought of them as the kind of people who would concern themselves with things like that. Why have they formed judgements about something they don’t understand?
‘I can assure you that you’ve completely misunderstood,’ she says, with dignity. ‘My brother Jonathan comes down to help me occasionally.’
Their interest subsides as quickly as it came. ‘So sorry, dear,’ says Doris, but with no sign of guilt. ‘We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, should we?’
‘No,’ says Doody. ‘That’s absolutely right.’
‘Jonathan, eh?’ says Philip and opens his newspaper back up again. They know Jonathan and approve of him. Bettered himself, they think. More socially acceptable than Doody.
‘Hello?’
‘Imogen? It’s Jonathan.’
‘What’s the matter? Have your friends got bored with cooking?’
‘Mother says you’re going to move.’
‘Yes, I thought I’d live in the cottage you so kindly made available to me.’
‘That’s great news.’
‘Maybe.’ Doody feels tired. She still doesn’t trust him.
‘And Mother says you’re going to college.’
So how long had it taken her to tell him? ‘I didn’t say that. She did.’
‘Oh.’ His voice flattens, almost as if he’s disappointed, which doesn’t seem likely.
‘Why does it make any difference to you?’
‘I wasn’t thinking of me, I was thinking of you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Imogen, we’ve had this discussion before. I want you to be happy.’
‘What’s the connection?’
‘You’re clever. You’ve wasted all these years since that disastrous marriage.’
‘It wasn’t disastrous, it made me happy.’ That should please him. She’s lying, of course, but she’s not going to let him know anything about her recent doubts.
He sighs. ‘Whatever. But you need to do something more fulfilling, use your abilities, make some money.’
‘Ah, money. Now I see where you’re heading.’
‘Stop it, Imogen. You’re undermining everything I say. I think college is a good idea.’
‘So does Mother.’
‘Of course. She wants the best for you.’
‘So that she can tell her friends she finally has two educated children. That’s the only reason she’s interested, you know.’
He hesitates. ‘Actually, that’s not true.’
‘How do you know?’
‘We talk about it, of course, and I know she wants you to have a better life.’
‘She’s never said that to me.’
‘You wouldn’t let her, would you?’
Doody stops to think about this. Do they sit there talking about her, cosy together in her mother’s dark little flat? What do they say to each other? Imogen is such a clever girl. Yes, she should be doing something much more fulfilling. How long can the conversation go on when they have so little information, and she’s not there to tell them anything new?
‘She mentioned Father on the phone.’
‘Really?’ He sounds pleasingly amazed. ‘She never mentions him to me.’ His voice drops, sounding small and jealous.
Doody feels an unfamiliar sense of sadness for him. She waits for the usual accompanying irritation, but it doesn’t come. ‘The college was only a joke. I wanted to get her going.’
‘Imogen.’ His voice is solemn and she knows she’s going to get a lecture. ‘You must stop all this. You know we worry about you. Why do you always choose to pretend we don’t care? We’re your family. We feel a connection with you. Don’t you think you could make an effort to make a connection with us? Mother may not be here for much longer—’
‘What does that mean? Is she ill?’
‘You know she is.’
‘She’s always ill. Why should we take this one more seriously?’
He sounds young, vulnerable, worried. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure. But she does seem different…’
Doody is astonished. It has never occurred to her that her mother might be genuinely ill. Logically, it’s not impossible. Some of the symptoms might be real ones. Maybe her doctor is intelligent after all, able to tell the difference. ‘But she didn’t say anything to me.’ At least, she did. But, then, she always does. She was the same as usual.
‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she, because you wouldn’t believe her?’
Doody needs to think about this. ‘I have to go, Jonathan. I have an appointment. I’ll speak to you later.’
She should have told him about the Tiger Moth. He paid for the repairs, and has a right to know it’s finished. But he must know already. He doesn’t need her to tell him. They’ll have sent him the bill.
Straker and Doody are examining the windows again. They’re standing with their backs to the sea and the lighthouse, looking up at the upstairs front windows, which are reflecting the setting sun. They look magnificent, pools of limitless colour, red, fiery, enormous. But even as Doody looks at them, she’s conscious of Straker beside her, aware that she feels safer with him there. With some shock she realises that she missed him. She has never missed anyone before in her entire life.
Except Harry.
How could she miss Harry, when she didn’t even know who he was? Did she miss him coming home, the meals eaten together, the presence of someone else in the flat? She can’t remember. She can’t recall a similar feeling to the one she’s experiencing now, a warmth, a comfortable feeling of being in someone else’s company. Why she should experience this with Straker is a complete mystery. It’s not as if he says very much.
‘Stimulating conversation isn’t exactly your strong point, is it?’
He says nothing for a while. ‘You think I should talk more?’
‘No, of course not. Well—yes, maybe.’
‘I see,’ he says, and falls back into silence.
Doody wonders if she would miss Mandles if she stopped writing about him. He’s still stuck there in that aeroplane, in imminent danger of being thrown out, and every time she tries to solve the problem, her mind drifts away from it. She’s no longer sure that she wants to save him.
The windows will have to be replaced. They have decided this together, and Straker suggests they do it now, before winter sets in. ‘I know about winter storms,’ he says. ‘You’ll really suffer with frames like that. The wind’ll come whistling through, then the rain, then the ice, and before you know where you are, you’ll be freezing to death.’
‘How do you keep warm in the lighthouse?’
‘The windows are in better condition.’
‘I thought it was falling apart.’
He shrugs. ‘Yes. Well—I’m used to it.’
‘So am I.’ Not strictly true. There was central heating in the caretaker’s cottage. Not very efficient central heating, but it was heating of a sort. She’s not experienced real cold since the days with her mother and Jonathan in the council house after her father had died. That was cold.
‘I could pay,’ says Straker.
‘What with?’ she says.
‘I have an allowance. From my father. I don’t use it all. Most of it sits in the bank, waiting to do something useful.’
‘Father? It’s all revelations today. I didn’t know you had a father. What’s he got to do with all this? Do you ever see him?’
Infuriatingly, he stands next to her, looking up at the windows, and says absolutely nothing.
Doody’s mobile rings. She rummages around in her bag, pulls it out and turns it on.
‘Mrs Imogen Doody?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Birmingham Police, Sergeant Bill Waitley.’
‘Yes?’ Doody has contacted the police herself. She knows that if she waits for Stella to pass on any news, she could wait for ever. She’s not convinced that Stella even went to the police station.
‘None of the unidentified bodies from the train crash was Harry Doody.’
‘What?’
He speaks more slowly. ‘None of the unidentified bodies from the train crash was Harry Doody.’
Doody tries to absorb this. She had become almost certain that he was on the train, that this was the rational explanation she’d been expecting for twenty-five years. ‘But he must be.’
‘I’m sorry. We’ve done tests on various items from Harry Doody’s home, and they don’t match up.’
So Stella had contacted them after all. She would be the best person to provide DNA samples, with none of Harry’s belongings touched since he disappeared, nothing cleaned. They must have done a DNA test of Stella herself as well. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely positive. Mrs Doody supplied us with plenty of items from his bedroom and there can be no doubt whatsoever.’
‘I see.’
She turns off the phone and stands looking at it. Straker doesn’t say anything. She keeps thinking about Harry leaving her. He knew what he was doing. It wasn’t a mistake.
‘He wasn’t on the train,’ she says to Straker.
‘Who?’
‘Harry.’
‘Great,’ he says. He sounds unusually cheerful. ‘Then I didn’t kill him.’
‘No.’
‘So he must be still alive.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You don’t sound pleased.’
She’s not. It shouldn’t matter to her now if he’s alive or dead. Their marriage had never been what she thought it was. He means nothing to her. He never did. And yet—
Straker seems very close. She can hear his breathing right by her ear. She should move away, because she dislikes being so close to people, but she doesn’t.
‘So if he didn’t die in the train crash, then he knew exactly what he was doing. He didn’t come back because he didn’t want to.’
‘He might have had another accident.’
‘No. He was running away from me. He hated me.’
There are tears running down her cheeks, pouring out, cascading over her face. She hasn’t cried for Harry for years and years. She thought she had finally reached the stage where she didn’t mind, that it was all a childish dream and she had never really cared for him at all. She tries to wipe the tears away with her hands, but they keep coming.
Straker stands next to her, not moving, but solid and permanent. Like a lamp-post.