5

Timothy’s legs felt weak as he moved down the galleried landing and entered his own bedroom. Crossing to the window, he stood to look over the vast expanse of The Manor House gardens, where, in failing light, the ancient hardwoods showed their first flush of new season’s growth. Clumps of daffodils nodded their bold yellow trumpets, catkins hung on the walnut tree and a prowling cat (or was it a fox?) slithered furtively into the rhododendrons. In the gloaming, the lampposts that edged the long, curving drive were already lit, casting wide arcs of bright light over the lawn. His father always called them the sentries, stationed to stand guard over the Proudfoots, but now Timothy stood gripped with fear. He shut his eyes. The bliss of hot June sunshine. The gentle lap-lap of the water. Roger’s gaze and Gioconda smile. Loud, happy laughter. The boat’s lurch. The muffled sound of a splash. Then silence. A child’s arm held erect, as if waving. Waving, not drowning.

Turning slowly, he stared at two photographs on his bedside table. One of Lord Justice Proudfoot, studio posed in classic monochrome, his pickled-walnut face sombre beneath the curly sheep’s ears of his wig. A wild Irish Celt of a man. A funny, talkative, extravagantly affectionate man, with a phlegmy cigar-smoker’s voice and raucous laugh. The other, in faded Kodak colour, was a full-length shot of his parents on their wedding day in the early autumn of 1965, gazing besottedly at each other. His beautiful mother, then only a girl of twenty but a joyful bride on the arm of her bearded, paunchy groom, already approaching fifty. Her tailored Chanel suit and pillbox hat reflected sophistication, but her face shone with youthful vitality. How strange she looked with auburn hair and a short, pixie-like style of the times. So different from her familiar golden-blonde waterfall. Timothy lifted the photograph and ran his forefinger over his mother’s sleek pencil skirt. There was no sign of swelling, but he knew the kicking foetus of Timothy Tobias Proudfoot lay within; a proud parading of his parents’ love and passion for each other. Timothy bit his knuckles. How much he’d been a part of their unity. One third of the perfect triangle; one strand of the perfect plait. And how apt that she’d chosen ‘Twilight Time’ to be her exit music. As a child, when he’d snuggled down in bed, and she’d turned out the light, she would kiss him goodnight one last time and move slowly out of the room, singing the familiar words, ‘Heavenly shades of night are falling, it’s Twilight Time.’

Driven by an unknown force, he fell on his knees. ‘Dear God, please make sure Mumma goes to Heaven. She was perfect, God. A truly perfect person, without flaw or sin of any kind. You must know of my own sins, God. I accept all my guilt, and I deserve your punishment, but I beg your forgiveness.’

He had no idea how long he’d knelt in contemplation, but he was alerted by the slam of Sally’s car door, followed shortly by the slow crunch of Andrew Gibson’s heavy frame on the gravelled drive. He picked up his phone. ‘Time to come, Rog. Please hurry.’

He then crossed himself and made another call. ‘Father Ewan…’