The owner was called Hugo. He tried to tell them his surname as well but his accent was so strong that none of them could understand what he was saying, and when Lizzie tried to repeat it, he looked offended. So, they just called him Hugo. But he was on his third glass of red wine, and it seemed to be numbing the pain.
‘Should we give him more?’ whispered Lizzie, as Marcus topped up his glass.
‘Why not, it’s helping drown his sorrows,’ said Nick. ‘Oops, sorry. Inappropriate turn of phrase.’
He and Marcus snorted with laughter. They were also on their third glass. Hannah and Lizzie looked at each other and Hannah motioned towards the door with her head.
‘How are we going to get rid of him?’ Lizzie whispered once they were outside.
‘God knows, at this rate he’ll be here for the rest of the holiday. The boys aren’t helping, filling him with wine.’
‘We need to stop them drinking, then we can persuade him to go home.’
A roar of laughter came from inside the house.
‘That’s not going to be easy,’ said Hannah.
As they stood together under the tumbling bougainvillea, the men broke into song: it sounded vaguely like The Marseillaise.
‘This is probably the only French song Marcus knows,’ said Lizzie grimly. ‘And it doesn’t sound as if he has a clue about the words, just the tune.’
‘He hasn’t even mastered that,’ pointed out Hannah.
The singing was diabolical: inharmonious and out of time. Hugo’s voice was the only one producing words, Marcus and Nick were humming along. The women looked at each other then began to laugh, softly at first, then loud snorts that shook their bodies.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ said Lizzie.
They ran down the lawn, still laughing, and climbed over the broken fence into the field. The goats and sheep were up near the house this afternoon, clustered together in what little shade was thrown out by the spindly trees; as Hannah and Lizzie approached, they scattered in terror, stumbling over themselves and each other, bleating furiously in a dusty dash to the other side of the field.
They could still hear the singing, muted now but no more tuneful.
‘Poor Mr Hugo,’ said Lizzie. ‘I wonder why they’ve arrested her?’
‘She can’t seriously be responsible for killing someone,’ said Hannah. ‘She’s a little old lady!’
‘Although, as old ladies go, she’s quite a formidable one,’ pointed out Lizzie. ‘Those feet could give you a proper kicking.’
‘Well, she seems to have got Mr Hugo where she wants him.’
They laughed again, wandering across the field, the soles of their feet frequently stabbed by stones or stubbly sticks of dry grass.
‘I’m glad we’re all here like this,’ said Lizzie. ‘I know you weren’t keen on coming, but I think it will be good for us. I guess that’s what Mum wanted, to throw us all together in the hope that we might have a nice time.’
Hannah nodded. ‘It’s not that I didn’t want to come. I just… oh I don’t know. It felt pointless somehow. Just because we’re related doesn’t mean we have to be best friends or live in each other’s pockets.’
‘No, but it doesn’t mean we have to hate being with each other either,’ said Lizzie. ‘I know you get irritated by Marcus, Hannah. I cringe at what he says sometimes, when he comes across as bossy. But he doesn’t mean to offend; he just blunders in and, however hard I try, I can’t change him.’
‘Have you tried?’
‘God yes! You have no idea how hard I’ve tried. We’ve had such rows over the years when he’s said something stupid or upset one of my friends. But for all his faults he’s a kind man, who adores his kids, and he takes very good care of us. He can be really funny; I know you don’t see it, but he makes me laugh.’
They walked for a while in silence, the sun beating down on their bare arms. Hannah’s shoulders were itching: she needed to put on more sunscreen.
‘Do you know the main reason the two of you don’t get on?’ said Lizzie suddenly. ‘It’s because you’re so alike.’
Hannah stopped walking and turned to stare at her. ‘Are you serious? We are nothing alike. I can’t think of anyone I’m less like than Marcus!’
Lizzie grinned. ‘Well, you’re obviously going to say that.’
‘And you’ve just told me how irritating he is, and bossy. And how he blunders in and offends people. I’m not like that, am I?’
Lizzie raised her eyebrows.
‘Well, maybe I am a bit,’ Hannah admitted. ‘I know I put my foot in it every now and then. But I’m not as bad as Marcus.’
Lizzie started walking again and Hannah ran to catch up with her. ‘So how are we alike? In what ways specifically?’
‘Well, you both want to be in charge–’
‘I do not! I’m not bothered if someone else takes control. Well, it depends who it is, but if they do it properly and get things done, then that’s fine. I just don’t like people taking charge if they don’t know what they’re doing.’
‘And you’re both convinced you know best…’
‘That’s rubbish!’ Hannah could hear her voice rising, and took a deep breath before starting to speak again. ‘I honestly don’t think I do.’
‘You probably do know best, most of the time,’ Lizzie continued. ‘Marcus as well. It drives me mad, but you’re both the kind of people who immediately know what to do in a crisis, or where to find help at least. Whereas I’m useless and just panic.’
Hannah remembered her reaction the previous afternoon, when Jimmy had found the body floating in the swimming pool. ‘I panic too,’ she said.
‘That’s why Mum was so fond of Marcus, I think,’ Lizzie continued. ‘He reminded her of you. She valued independence, people who could look after themselves. I wasn’t like that, when I was growing up, I was always needy and wanted her to tell me everything was going to be fine. I remember being very scared when Dad left, and worried we wouldn’t cope without him. But you just got on with life and didn’t seem to need that support. She was so proud of you.’
She carried on walking through the field, her feet scuffing up small spurts of beige dust. Hannah stood staring after her.
‘Lizzie,’ she called eventually. ‘Wait.’ She caught up with her sister and grabbed her by the arm, turning her around. ‘Do you think that’s true?’
‘What?’
‘That she was proud of me.’
‘Of course it’s true. Don’t you know that?’
‘No.’ Hannah stared at the hills, way beyond the treeline, rendered grey and featureless by the afternoon sun. ‘She never said that to me. I always thought I irritated her, by being so independent and wanting to do everything my own way. You were the one she loved; you were the intelligent one who did well at school without having to try, then got into university. Not only that, but you were always so happy about everything…’ She heard bitterness in her voice and tried to explain. ‘You were the perfect daughter, the one she enjoyed being with. I was the bolshy one who reminded her of Dad.’
Lizzie looked confused. ‘You’re right, you’ve always been more like Dad, but I don’t think she disliked that. He wasn’t all bad, Hannah – we just remember some of the horrid stuff that happened, but nothing is ever just one person’s fault. She must have loved him once.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And maybe that’s another reason why she and Marcus got on so well?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s a bit like Dad too. He’s got that confidence and self-belief, just like you, that sense of being in charge. However much she hated Dad when he was gone, she must have missed having someone to look after her and make decisions. I can’t really remember what it was like before Dad left; I was too young. But I know she struggled sometimes, on her own. Marcus was the sort of person who made her feel cared for and safe. She knew he would look after me – and I guess she knew he’d look after her as well.’
They stood and stared at each other.
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that before,’ admitted Hannah. ‘It’s a bit weird though. Maybe we’re reading too much into all this.’
‘Or maybe you just hate being told you’re like the father you resent for walking out on us and the brother-in-law you can’t stand!’
‘It’s not that I can’t stand him…’
Lizzie laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not offended – you can admit you don’t find Marcus easy. It’s bloody obvious to everyone around you. God, listen to us, exchanging home truths in our forties. Maybe this was what Mum wanted, why she made us come away together. I can’t remember the last time we actually talked like this, Hannah.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I’m not expecting to be your best friend, or to live in your pocket, as you put it. But I would like us to get on, whether or not Marcus drives you up the wall. Or if you drive me up the wall for that matter! You’re my sister and I love you. This isn’t really about Marcus, or whether the two of you get on, it’s about you and me, and I’d like us to be friends.’
For the first time in her life, Hannah felt like the younger sibling. She was perceptive, this little sister of hers, although it didn’t feel comfortable to be talking so openly about their relationship. She dragged her eyes away from Lizzie’s and looked down at the bracelet on her left wrist, twisting it so the chain sparkled in the sunlight.
Hannah knew she was too uptight to have conversations like this. They didn’t make her feel unburdened or liberated; just embarrassed and awkward. She liked to think she valued honesty, but when it came to hearing home truths – or imparting them – she was a coward. It was easier to say what someone wanted to hear, than to give an honest opinion, even if she’d been asked for one. In the same way, she found it hard to take criticism, even when it came from Nick, who was good at finding kind words and gentle ways to analyse a situation where they held conflicting views.
‘What makes you think you’re always right?’ she’d snapped at Nick recently, during a discussion about problems Alice was having with a teacher at school.
‘I’m not always right, Hannah,’ he’d said. ‘But you are never wrong.’
Now she smiled back at Lizzie, who was looking at her expectantly, but also slightly nervously. ‘I’d like that too,’ she said. ‘I’d like us to be friends.’
The singing coming from the house had changed now; the men had abandoned La Marseillaise and Hugo was working through a solo repertoire that sounded as though it had been performed countless times, in many different French bars.
Non! Rien. Je ne regrette rien de tout,’ he sang lustily. ‘Non! Rien…’
Hannah winced: Edith Piaf wouldn’t just be turning in her grave, she would be spinning like a top. Thank goodness there were no close neighbours; the splendid isolation of this holiday was turning out to be a bonus after all.