As Adam and Leo floated down towards the lovely green demesne of Larks Hill, surrounded though it now was by the dreadful, unimaginative boxes of cheap new-build housing, they saw a familiar battered green Fiat Panda bowling up the long, steep, lime-tree-lined drive.
‘Matilda!’ said Leo. ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘Come to console Granny maybe,’ said Adam. ‘Or be consoled. About you.’
Halfway up, on the bend, the car paused, and pulled in, to let a sleek silver Volvo V60 go past. Adam glimpsed a man at the wheel, heavy set, with thick dark specs, a woman with a dyed-looking blonde bob beside him.
‘Who are they?’ Leo asked.
‘God knows. Some of Patricia’s numerous visitors that she never lets on about. Even as she gives us grief for not visiting enough ourselves.’
Jadwiga stood at the top of the steps up to the beautiful brass-studded oak door. A murderer in a black dress? With that round, pink, smiley face it was hard to credit.
‘Matilda, hello, this is a good time. Your grandmother is down from her rest.’ Jadwiga moved towards her and put both hands on her lower left arm. ‘I’m so sorry… for your loss. For Leo,’ she added, as if a clarification were necessary.
‘Thank you, Jadwiga.’ Matilda looked up at her with her hurried, shy smile. ‘That’s kind of you. It’s all been such a horrid shock.’ She followed the carer through into the familiar hall, with its wooden panelling and worn black-and-white tiles.
‘I imagine,’ Jadwiga went on, ‘so soon after your poor father’s–’
‘Quite,’ said Matilda, cutting her off before she articulated the alleged nature of Adam’s death. ‘Is Granny in the yellow sitting room?’ she asked.
‘Yes. She’s just been talking to some police officers. What they want, I do not know.’
‘Despite listening at the keyhole,’ Adam said, and Leo laughed.
‘They have to report a death like this, don’t they?’ Matilda said. ‘In this country, anyway.’
‘Yes.’ Jadwiga looked visibly relieved. ‘And in Poland, too. That’s it, of course.’
‘But it isn’t,’ Adam said to his son. ‘Because Patricia’s not your immediate next of kin. The police would have gone to Serena.’
‘So what do they want with Patricia?’ Leo asked.
‘Maybe they’re suspicious about your death after all.’
‘Or yours.’
‘I doubt it,’ Adam said. ‘My case has been and gone. Anyway, you said Patricia was adamant that the inquest was right.’
‘So she said. Though you can never entirely trust Granny, can you? She’s always up to something.’
‘Shall I bring you some tea?’ Jadwiga was asking Matilda. ‘Or coffee, would you like?’
‘Actually, Jadwiga, coffee would hit the spot. I imagine Granny will have tea.’
‘Herbal, yes. Madam only has coffee at breakfast time nowadays. It doesn’t agree with her gut.’
‘Was that your doing, Jadwiga, talking her out of it?’
‘Any coffee drunk after two o’clock in the afternoon affects your night-time sleep. So when she keeps complaining to me about her insomnia, not to mention her sore tummy, I tell her that.’
‘As well as offering her the famous “sleepy drink”,’ Leo added. ‘Which gets Granny off nice and early so Jadwiga has time to chill out.’
‘Look through the will, that sort of thing,’ Adam joked (though he wasn’t smiling).
Matilda followed Jadwiga down the hall, turning right at the end into Patricia’s favourite little den, from which the sound of loud classical music rang out. It had always been called ‘the yellow sitting room’ though the sofas and chairs were a mixture of peach and pale blue, and the walls were papered with a pink, green and cream pattern of peonies.
Patricia looked up. ‘Matilda, what a lovely surprise! Alexa, turn… the music… orf… please.’ Funny to hear her accent, Adam thought. It struck him more clearly now that he was no longer there, beside her, in the flesh. His mother was from a previous age, really. If anyone should be dead and gone, it was her, not him. Once again, the sheer injustice of what had happened to him hit him hard. And as for Leo, a young man with his whole life ahead of him, that was beyond unfair.
Patricia shifted in her chair, as if to get up, another piece of old-world courtesy, long since abandoned by even the politest and most-refined of folk.
‘Don’t move, Granny.’
‘You don’t approve?’ she cried, her eyes flashing. ‘I’ve just turned her orf, for goodness’ sake!’
‘I said, “DON’T MOVE, Granny”,’ Matilda repeated loudly.
‘No need to shout.’ Patricia took in that she had misheard, but she certainly wasn’t going to admit that or apologise. ‘I wasn’t going to move,’ she said softly. Now she was shaking her head. Slowly and with dismay. ‘You poor love. Sit down. There, yes, on the chesterfield. You can shift those bits. Sorry, Jadwiga and I have been having a bit of a clear out. What a business, what a business. First your poor father… and now Leo. I’ve just had the police here, asking me questions, though what I’m supposed to say I have no idea. What’s going on?’
‘I wish I knew, Granny.’
‘Did you see Jadwiga?’
‘Yes. She let me in. She’s bringing coffee.’
‘Not for me!’ Patricia cackled. ‘I’m not allowed it after breakfast. Herbal tea all the way. But they have some lovely ones now. There’s one from Waitrose called Digestif that Jadwiga’s found, that I particularly like. It’s got a kind of mint flavour. And rooibos, have you tried that?’
‘Yes, Granny. You introduced me to it.’
‘That was another of the carers that brought that one in. I can’t remember her name. Seth Effrikan.’ Patricia’s mouth twisted downwards as she did a strange version of a South African accent that sounded almost Welsh. ‘She was rather grand, I remember, fallen on hard times. I don’t think she was quite cut out to be a carer. She was always telling me how many servants she’d had, back in Seth Effrika. I used to tell her she was talking to the wrong person. I’ve never had a servant in my life.’
‘Since you were a child anyway.’
‘That was a very long time ago. As I have no need to remind you. Anyway, I was a child. So they weren’t my servants, were they?’
‘And your carers, of course,’ Matilda joked.
‘Matilda, please. They’re not servants.’
‘Jadwiga calls you “madam”.’
‘She’s Polish. They like that sort of thing. All the Eastern Europeans do. No need to make that face, dear, I’m talking from experience. To be honest, I don’t mind it. You know where you stand.’
‘On top, yes.’
‘Do stop being so silly, Matilda. So how’s your poor mother coping?’
‘She’s okay.’
‘Is she?’ Patricia gave her one of her famous beady looks.
‘As okay as she can be,’ Matilda said.
‘You’re all still in shock, I expect,’ said Patricia. ‘As you would be. Idiot boy. I always said he shouldn’t drive those fast cars. There’s a reason they have such high insurance premiums.’
‘It wasn’t fast, Granny. It was an electric Golf, actually quite sensible for Leo.’
‘Electric. Well, there you are. They’ve only just invented them; I expect they’re full of faults. I was reading in The Times about these huge, high-voltage batteries they have. Not safe, in my opinion. Imagine if you went through a deep puddle. Was he actually electrocuted? In the smash?’
‘No, Granny. I don’t think so.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘He ran into a lorry head first. It wouldn’t have mattered what car he was driving.’
Patricia was shaking her head. ‘Why didn’t he see it? He was a good enough driver, wasn’t he?’
‘He was overtaking on a bend or something and he misjudged it.’
‘On a bend!’ Patricia scoffed. ‘Philip was the same. Such a kind, reasonable man on his own two feet, but get him behind the wheel of a car and he was a terror. “Don’t back seat drive, Patricia!” he used to shout. When for a start I was in the front seat, right next to him, and for seconds, it was often a matter of life and death. His terrible driving.’
There was silence, as if they were suddenly struck by the awful reality of what had happened. Neither Adam nor Leo said anything, both agog to hear what either of them would come up with next. Over the noisy birdsong outside the window, they could hear footsteps, clickety click, on the tiles of the corridor floor. The door pushed open and Jadwiga appeared with a tray.
‘Coffee and green tea. You did want it black, you said, Matilda?’
‘A little milk would be amazing if you had it. Actually, Jadwiga, if you could be bothered, could you hot it up, please?’
‘Yes, madam.’
Jadwiga used ‘madam’ as a put down, Adam realised, watching her closely as she addressed her charge’s granddaughter. Away from her mother, and her generation, Matty was more like her granny than perhaps she realised.
Jadwiga gave Patricia her tea and left the cafetière and cup on the tray. When she’d gone, Matty leant forward and pushed the gleaming chrome handle that drove the ring of wire netting down through the swirling dark liquid. She grinned as she filled her white bone china cup.
‘Proper coffee,’ she said.
Patricia was holding out her empty cup with a perky, questioning expression. ‘Might I have a sip?’
‘I thought you weren’t allowed.’
‘Only when she’s watching. A little sip won’t hurt me. The stuff she gives me at breakfast is instant anyway. And decaf. What’s the point of that?’
‘I’m not sure I should, Granny.’
‘Don’t be such a meanie. When you were a child, I kept you well supplied with orange juice. Juice, not squash. That was a treat in those days. There was a restaurant in Tempelsham that had it on the menu as a starter. Orange juice. One pound. You wouldn’t get that now.’
Matilda laughed. ‘Okay, then. Just a little one.’
Patricia took a long greedy gulp and sat back. ‘Ah-h!’ she sighed, savouring it. ‘You can’t beat proper coffee, can you?’
‘No,’ Matilda agreed. But she seemed distracted. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit strange, Granny, that Leo should have an accident now? Barely two months after Daddy “supposedly” killed himself.’
‘One thing you learn when you get to my age, darling, is that accidents happen at the oddest times. Just like that, out of the blue, when you least expect it. I never thought your grandfather would keel over when he did, but there you go, perfectly fit one day, striding around happily, and then, bang, he’s flat on his back, dead as a fish on a slab. Myocardial something or other. Didn’t even have the decency to have an illness first.’
Jadwiga was back, with a little white jug of foaming hot milk.
‘Thank you so much, Jadwiga,’ said Patricia, as the carer put it down on the octagonal occasional table that Adam had known and loved since childhood. She smiled up at her, with a grateful, slightly fearful smile. ‘Lovely herbal tea, by the way.’
She waited for Jadwiga to exit before she spoke again. ‘It’s actually horrid. She leaves the bag in too long. But I don’t want to upset her. We have to get on. Even though she is terribly bossy.’ She made a face and looked back at her granddaughter. ‘I don’t think it’s strange about poor Leo, Matilda. I think it’s life. It’s hard, but that’s what we have to do, as we get older, accept what comes along, however appalling it is. You know, I never really got over your grandfather’s death, it was all so sudden, I never got a chance to say goodbye, but I’ve learned to accept it and you must learn–’
‘Of course I accept it!’ Matilda cut in, impatiently. ‘I’m just saying: what if it wasn’t an accident?’
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’
‘If Leo’s car crash wasn’t an accident and Daddy’s suicide wasn’t a suicide…’
Patricia sighed. ‘There was an inquest, Matilda. Expert professionals looked over all the evidence and agreed that very sadly, your father killed himself. Why, we shall never know, given that his suicide note was really so very vague about reasons…’
‘It wasn’t a note, Granny. It was a poem. Someone used it as a note.’
‘A poem? What are you talking about?’
Matilda explained.
‘Sounds most unlikely to me. Why would Adam write a poem about his own death? Though he did write poems about the oddest things, I have to admit. Don’t know why he bothered, to be honest. They were never very good, in my opinion. You’d think he’d have been happy with his architecture. But he was one of those people, wasn’t he? Like his father. Couldn’t keep his blasted fingers out of every pie going.’
Matilda’s face was a picture. ‘He wasn’t writing about his own death, Granny. That’s the whole point. Oh, never mind. I was talking to Mummy about it and–’
‘Your poor mother,’ Patricia cut in. ‘She won’t have been so upset about your father, because, frankly, he’d already gone, but Leo…’
‘She was upset about Dad. Very upset.’
‘Not in the same way, darling, believe me. Those precious bonds of trust were broken many years ago. Once broken, never replaced.’ Patricia was leaning forward now, wagging a bony finger. ‘It’s like a glass bowl, marriage. You can’t piece it back together again. If and when, Matilda, you finally find the man of your dreams…’
‘It might not be a man, Granny…’
‘I do hope you’re joking. Obviously I’m not one to stand in the way of your happiness, especially these days. I like to think I’m forward-thinking, as you know. But whoever it is, when you do find that special person, I do hope you will value those bonds. It’s never bondage, even though it may feel like that at times. But actually, in a way, it’s the bondage element that makes it all so precious. If you can always remember to look past those tight ropes and see the good intentions of your other half–’
‘May I ask a blunt question?’ Matilda cut in.
Patricia laughed, that ‘very amused’, high-pitched, borderline cackle that was one of her more endearing features. ‘No blunter than usual, I hope, Matilda.’
‘When Daddy died, did you change your will?’
Adam looked over at Leo, who gave him a double thumbs up. ‘She’s on it, finally,’ he whispered; though there was of course no need.
‘Is this what this is all about?’ Patricia said. ‘Serena’s sent you over to check that you haven’t been disinherited?’
‘No,’ Matilda replied. ‘It’s nothing to do with Mummy. I was just–’
‘The answer is yes, naturally I had to adjust my will after Adam died, because he was one of the main beneficiaries. But other than that necessary redistribution, nothing substantial has changed. You can tell your mother that you’ll still get your share, no need to worry about that. And some of Leo’s too, I expect, come to that. As will your aunt Claire. Even if she hardly ever comes to see me, leaves all the hard work to someone from a distant country to whom I’m not even related.’
‘Oo-er!’ said Leo, raising his eyebrows at Adam.
‘Is that fair, Granny?’ Matilda was saying. ‘Aunt Claire does come to visit you. All the time.’
‘Is that what she tells you? Once in a blue moon, darling. And she only lives down the road. Of course that husband of hers has never liked me, but there you are, touché, I’ve never liked him. A charm-free zone, as I told her several times before she married him.’
‘She took you to the garden centre only last week,’ said Matilda.
‘Last week, yes. Nothing this week, even though my poor grandson has been killed in a car crash. I’ve had no more than a brief phone call. Anyway, that trip to the garden centre was two hours, tops. She didn’t even want to stop for tea and cake. When I go with Jadwiga we always stop for tea and cake. They do a particularly nice lemon drizzle–’
‘To be fair, Granny, Jadwiga works for you. She is your carer.’
‘She certainly is. What a dreadful word that is. What a dreadful world, really. When I was young, people didn’t have carers. Your grandfather and I took in his mother in her last years. Seven years she lived here with us. Buffy, I’ve told you about her before, I expect.’
‘You have, Granny.’
‘I’m not saying she didn’t drive me up the wall. She did. With all her little demands. You know Buffy always insisted The Times had to be ironed. Because the newspaper boy stuffed it into the basket of his bike and it came in creased some days. So poor old Mrs MacNamara, you wouldn’t remember her, but she used to help us in those days, used to have to iron the paper every day before it could be taken into Buffy in the conservatory. And then her little peccadillos on food. She couldn’t eat soft eggs, because one of her nannies had forced them on her as a child. She couldn’t eat coconut, for some reason I never quite fathomed. Not that we had much coconut in those days, except after the village fete, when Philip usually managed to knock down a couple. Anyway, we had Buffy here until she moved into St Luke’s right at the end. It wasn’t ideal, but she was family. And that’s how we did things. We didn’t talk about it, or boast about it, or bang on about the caring sector, or our mental health, or any of that claptrap, we just got on with it. All this huff and puff now about whether the government should sort out care or not. It’s the families who should sort out care. The families,’ she repeated, as if that somehow made her opinion truer. ‘I mean,’ she went on, ‘most of those coloured folk we’ve let in to this country look after their elderly better than we do. It’s a thing with them. You know I’m not the hugest fan of everything they do, forcing their young girls to marry–’
‘Granny, stop! You know I don’t want to hear this kind of nonsense.’
‘Why not? It’s the truth.’
‘You can’t use the term “coloured” anymore, anyway.’
‘Why not? How else do I describe them if they’re not white. They’re not all actually black, are they? I doubt I’m allowed to say “brown” these days…’
‘That’s actually less offensive. Correctly, you say “people of colour”.’
‘Do I? “Correctly”. People of colour. Coloured. What in heaven’s name is the difference? Obviously we’re all people.’
‘There was a recent Home Secretary who had to resign for using the word “coloured”.’
‘I thought the Home Secretary was coloured. Last time I looked.’
‘Granny! It was before her. Anyway, the Home Secretary is Asian. Of Asian heritage.’
‘What is she? A clock. Asian heritage, my foot.’
Despite her mock outrage, Patricia was chuckling quietly to herself. She knew more than she let on about this stuff, Adam knew (as she did, really, about everything around her). She read The Times from cover to cover daily: the news, the comment, the leaders, the letters, the register. On Sunday she took both The Sunday Times and The Observer, as she and Philip had done forever. She watched the TV News several times daily, on different channels, including, amazingly, Al-Jazeera.
‘Granny, really,’ Matilda said. ‘None of this is at all funny.’
‘It’s not supposed to be funny. I was actually just trying to make a point about how much more caring those coloured, sorry, Asian heritage folk are about their old people than we are. You see them in Tempelsham sometimes, piling out of minivans. The parents, the children, and Granny. Surely that’s a good thing. It’s us whiteys who’ve got spoilt and cruel, forgotten who we are, who nurtured us, brought us into the world, wiped our bottoms–’
‘Granny!’
‘No, I’m serious now. Your blessed people of colour haven’t forgotten that. Even if they soon will, if they stay over here too long.’ Patricia’s deep sigh was almost a scoff. ‘They wouldn’t be pestering their poor old relatives about who’s leaving what to whom, you can be sure of that.’