When someone hammered at the big front door of the manor and kept on hammering, calling his name, Jonathon ran along the hall and flung the door open. He drew Rosalind into his arms. ‘Oh, my love! My darling girl, come in!’
He took her into the small parlour and sat down beside her, his arm round her shoulders. This wasn’t a time for large rooms and echoing spaces, but for the cosiness of the womb.
As her grief eased a little, he poured them both a brandy, then they sat together quietly on the couch. When she looked at him, he said gently, ‘No need to talk unless you wish to, my love.’
So she didn’t try to speak at first, not until she had drawn enough solace from his presence. She simply sat there pressed against him, feeling his arm light yet strong round her back and clasping her hands round the brandy goblet as she soaked up the peace of Destan Manor. Nobody could bring Tim back, but friends could share your grief, acknowledge that you had borne and loved a son, and that his passing was momentous enough for them to stop their own busy lives for a moment or two.
She sipped the brandy from time to time and focused on small things to distract herself from the pain – the warmth of the liquid in her mouth and throat, the visual comfort of a wood fire flickering in the grate, the interesting textures in the worn fabric on the arm of the sofa. When at last she’d pulled enough of herself together, she started to tell him what had happened over the past few days – quietly, not weeping, because tears wouldn’t help. What did help was the warmth of this man’s body next to hers and his unspoken offer of anything he could give her. It helped so much.
When she’d finished the tale, they sat on in the quietness of the night, the dog lying nearby, sighing from time to time as if in sympathy. Once Jonathon got up to refill their glasses, later he dozed against her, his head on her shoulder, his fine, thinning hair tickling her cheek. The occasional grey strand filled her with compassion for the way the years marked them all. You couldn’t go through life unscathed.
She didn’t wake him because his presence was all she needed. She was deeply grateful he’d made no attempt to fill the night with meaningless chatter, but she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t sleep. Not yet. This wakeful night was, in some strange way, her special tribute to her son.
Later still, Jonathon raised his head, blinked at her like a thin, nervous owl and said, ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.’
She smiled and stretched out one hand to brush the soft hair from his eyes. ‘What are you sorry for? You were there for me. That’s all I needed.’
He caught that hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Always.’ But he didn’t labour the point. After a few minutes, he yawned. ‘It’s nearly morning. Do you want a coffee? I’ve got your favourite brand.’
‘I’d love one. And a piece of toast, perhaps?’ The thought that he’d bought the plunger and coffee specially for her, since he much preferred tea, made her feel loved. Of such details, she thought dreamily, were lives made. And relationships.
So they walked through the creaking, shifting old house to the kitchen and made coffee and toast, sitting at a scrubbed wooden table just as the first fingers of brightness were tearing the mourning veils from the sky and signalling the end of her darkest night.
Not until it was fully light did she leave. ‘Thank you,’ she told him, kissing his cheek and then fleetingly, impersonally, his lips. ‘I can think better now. I have to go back and – and deal with it all.’
He could not help asking, ‘Are you – do you think you’ll stay with him?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t decide that now.’
‘No. Of course not. But – I do love you, Rosalind. And I want to be with you. Remember that, won’t you?’
A fragile smile flickered briefly on her face. ‘I will. And I love you, too, Jonathon. Very much.’
When Paul woke up, he couldn’t think where he was for a moment. He winced at the stiffness of his body and groaned when he moved his head incautiously. A hangover started to thump behind his forehead, circling his skull with a leaden band and drumming a message of pain whenever he moved. He swallowed and grimaced at the sour taste in his mouth. Hell, what had made him tie one on?
Then he remembered.
Tim was dead.
He stood there, thumping his thighs with his clenched fists, until he had his damned emotions under control, then stumbled up the stairs to the master bedroom, stopping at the door in shock as he found it empty, the bed not even slept in. ‘Ros?’ He peered into the en suite but she wasn’t there. He went pounding back downstairs into the kitchen, the dining room, the conservatory. Not a sign of her.
But there was a youngish man, a complete stranger, sleeping on the floor in the office. He mumbled in his sleep when the door opened, but didn’t wake up.
Who the hell was he? Paul wondered as he closed the door quietly. The stranger looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place him, and he definitely didn’t feel up to accosting the fellow and asking what he was doing there. Not till he’d had a strong coffee and put some food into his rumbling stomach. He never thought well when he was hungry. Now he came to think of it, he hadn’t had any dinner last night. No wonder the drink had gone to his head.
Back upstairs. One room was full of her embroidery. Bloody stuff! He picked up the frame and as he saw what she was doing, he froze and stared down at it. He had never thought her good before, but this – it was clever, there was no denying that. She’d caught him perfectly, shown him as he liked to think of himself, confident, in control of himself.
She’d caught herself, too, with those damned pale colours – he was going to take her to a fashion consultant before they went to the States, smarten her up. His eyes slid over the image of Jenny and that bloody dog of hers, then he saw the sketch of Tim. A wave of anguish took him by surprise. Was that what Tim had become? That thin, haunted creature? He couldn’t bear to look at it, even.
He tossed the frame down on the table, but it wasn’t enough. The sketch of Tim was still there, still looking up at him accusingly. With a growl of anger, he knocked everything on the table flying, then kicked the frame with its stretch of canvas out of the way. It went spinning across the room and he was glad to hear the wood crack.
Where the hell was Rosalind? Tim’s room! he thought suddenly. She’ll be up there, mooning around. But there was no one in the attic. Tim’s things were lying scattered around as if he’d just stepped out and that made Paul gulp and back out. He could feel tears filling his eyes again. Hell, you’d think he could control himself better than this!
He went and opened the front door and saw that his car was missing, which made him feel angry. He concentrated on the anger, which was better than the other emotion. What if she had an accident? Did no one in his family care about the liability of driving a car that wasn’t insured for them? And where had she gone anyway?
He went back upstairs. Perhaps the girls would know.
‘Jenny!’ He shook his elder daughter awake.
She lay staring at him in surprise for a moment, then remembered Tim, sobbed and covered her swollen eyes with her arm.
He shook her again. If he let her cry, she’d start him off, and he wasn’t, he definitely was not, going to parade his emotions like some sodding half-man of a poofter. ‘Where’s your mother gone? I can’t find her anywhere. And she’s taken my car.’
Jenny had no trouble lying to him this time, she who normally blushed and stuttered if she even tried to fudge the truth slightly. ‘She’ll have gone to Harry’s, I expect. They’re good friends.’
‘Harry?’
‘Harriet Destan.’
Ah, he remembered now. Sister of the lord of the manor. ‘Well, she has no right to go out and leave us. No right at all. Fine way of showing her grief that is!’
‘It’s better than getting drunk and snoring!’
‘I do not snore.’
‘You were rotten drunk when Mum came back from identifying Tim yesterday afternoon and you were definitely snoring. Loudly.’ Like a hog, a disgusting hog.
‘Well, that’s neither here nor there. Get up and make me some breakfast.’
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Go and make your own damn breakfast. I’m not Mum, waiting on you hand and foot.’
‘Get up, I said!’ He hauled her out of bed.
After an involuntary squeal of surprise, she resisted him, shouting and yelling.
Then Ned was there, pushing past her father to stand between the two of them. ‘Leave her alone, you bully!’
‘Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house anyway?’
Jenny clutched Ned’s hand. ‘He’s here at my invitation. This is Ned Didburin. We’re engaged.’
‘Well, well. I only had a drink to blur my grief, but you brought someone round here to screw your troubles away.’
Whereupon Ned, peaceful, unaggressive Ned, punched him on the jaw.
And Paul, unprepared for anyone so wimpy-looking to stand up to him, rocketed backwards, crashed into the door frame and overbalanced, to fall sprawling on the landing floor. He lay for a moment, grunting, shaking his head.
Louise, woken by the noise, stepped over him and arranged herself by her sister’s side. ‘What’s caused this?’
‘He wanted Mum. When he couldn’t find her, he ordered me to get up and make his breakfast. I didn’t happen to feel like waiting on him.’ Tears began to trickle out of Jenny’s eyes. ‘I wanted to stay here and pull myself together. So he tried to force me to get up. Then,’ she gulped audibly, ‘Ned came up to see what was happening and Dad accused me of screwing him to – to block out what happened to Tim.’
‘What a nasty sod he is!’
Ned was still standing dumbfounded, gaping down at his fist, then goggling at Paul, who was pulling himself to his feet with an ugly expression on his face.
Louise went to stand between them. ‘Get out of here, Dad. Jenny wants to get dressed.’
‘Oh? And is lover boy going to stay here and help her, then?’
Louise raised her chin and took a step forward, nudging her sister aside and facing not only her father, but the years of fearing him. Staring him in the eyes, she said, ‘What Ned and Jenny do is none of your business.’
Then she took her father by surprise by shoving him back out onto the landing before he realised what she was doing. ‘Leave them alone, Dad. If you need waiting on, I’ll come and make your breakfast for you.’
Rosalind walked in just then and looked up as the door to Jenny’s room opened and Ned peered over the banisters.
‘Good morning, Ned. I’m glad you came over to be with Jenny.’ Rosalind ran lightly up the stairs and went to kiss Jenny, then Louise, who gave her a watery smile.
Still with her arm round Louise, Rosalind turned to stare at her husband who was glaring at her.
‘I’ll just have a quick shower and change my clothes, Paul, then I’ll come and make your breakfast. We’ll leave Jenny and Louise to get up at their own pace.’
He grunted something which might have been agreement and followed her into the master bedroom.
She got out some clean clothes, the darkest garments she could find, though she owned nothing black. Pastels, she thought, looking along the neat row of hangars, they’re nearly all pastels. She had a sudden longing for jewel tones, for shiny fabrics and rich patterns, for clothes with more life to them.
Paul flung himself into the small armchair in the bay window and watched her sourly. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘With friends.’
She walked into the bathroom and locked the door on him, needing a few quiet moments to pull herself together.
Paul sat down on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, rubbing his aching forehead, not sure what to do next.
At a nod from the inspector, Constable Thelma Simpton knocked on the front door. They waited, but no one came.
‘Knock again!’ he ordered.
Paul went to peer out of the window, muttering, ‘Oh, sod it. Can’t the bloody police leave us alone for a minute?’
In the bathroom the water cut off abruptly. Wrapping a towel around herself, Rosalind went into the bedroom and joined Paul at the window. When he didn’t move, she pushed it further open and looked down at the police officers. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’
The inspector cleared his throat. ‘Police here. Sorry to intrude on your grief again, Mrs Stevenson, but could we come in and speak to you?’ He gestured around him. ‘This place is a bit public for a discussion.’
‘The door’s not locked. I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed.’ Rosalind threw on her clothes at top speed and turned in surprise to Paul, who had flopped into the chair again and was sitting with his head in his hands. ‘Aren’t you coming down?’
‘In a minute. And for Christ’s sake, put some coffee on.’
As she went downstairs, she saw the two police officers waiting in the hall.
The inspector nodded. ‘Sorry to intrude.’
‘You have your job to do. Come through here.’ She led the way into the sitting room. ‘Sorry everything is in such a mess. We haven’t had time to clear up yet this morning.’
He brightened. ‘Does that mean no one’s touched your son’s room?’
‘I don’t think they have.’
Behind them Louise said, ‘No one’s been in Tim’s room except me, and I only stood in the doorway for a minute to see if he’d taken any money with him. Oh, and I think Dad went in when he was looking for Mum this morning.’ She went to link an arm in her mother’s.
Rosalind clasped her daughter’s hand as it lay on her arm. Who would have expected Louise to be so steady and dependable in a crisis?
Paul came clattering down the stairs to join them, his tight business expression back on his face, the front of his hair damp. But he was still wearing the same crumpled clothes and his face looked ravaged. That touched Rosalind’s heart a little. She couldn’t have borne it if he’d been unmoved by Tim’s death.
‘Would you mind if we checked your son’s room, Mrs Stevenson? We need to find out if he’s been storing drugs here.’
Paul breathed in deeply. ‘Come upstairs. I’ll want to be there while you search Tim’s room.’
‘I’ll come with you, too,’ Rosalind added quietly. ‘I know more about my son’s possessions than my husband does. He didn’t see Tim this time.’ Alive or dead. And would presumably never see him again. None of them would. She felt the grief solidify in her chest as if ice was still building up. She couldn’t weep out her grief until it melted.
‘Very helpful of you, madam. We’re much obliged. If there’s anything my officers can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask.’
There wasn’t, of course, but you said things like that to offer them comfort, make them feel you were on the ball – well, you said it to the nice ones, anyway.
He sighed as he walked downstairs again. There had been nothing in the room to show that the boy was a junkie, but judging from the condition of his arms, he’d been well into the stuff, though not recently.
Maybe it was time to take that early retirement he’d been offered after all. He’d seen too many grieving, bewildered families, people he’d wanted to help and couldn’t, because the accountants had got into everything and the talk nowadays was all of bottom lines and staying within budgets, instead of service to the public.
When the inspector had left, Rosalind went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. Paul followed her and put his hand across the dialling pad. ‘Who are you calling?’
‘My mother.’
‘Surely that can wait till after breakfast?’
‘I don’t want any breakfast. And I can’t face cooking.’ She pushed his hand aside and began to dial. ‘If you’re hungry, get something.’
‘I don’t know where anything is in this house.’
‘Try opening a few cupboard doors and looking. They’re not locked. Ah, Mum.’ Her voice was quite steady. ‘I have some very sad news, I’m afraid …’
He watched her in disbelief as she told her mother about Tim, not weeping, speaking calmly, doing her best to console the older woman, whose sobbing was quite audible from where he stood.
He looked at her in puzzlement. Ever since it happened, he’d been expecting Ros to collapse, give way to her grief, but she hadn’t done. He didn’t understand how she could be so strong about this when she was so weak about everything else.
As for Tim – Paul stood still and fought yet again to contain his grief – as for Tim, well, that was over and done with. He didn’t have a son any more. You just had to get on with things. But he’d make sure his daughters didn’t go off the rails, by hell he would! And as for that chinless wimp Jenny said she was engaged to, they’d see about that. She was useless at picking men, absolutely useless.
After the phone call, Ros went up to do her hair and calm herself in the en suite with the door locked. By the time she came down again, Paul had made himself some toast and instant coffee, and was crunching an apple. The sound was obscene.
‘The bathroom’s free,’ she told him and felt nothing but relief as he grunted an acknowledgement, took the plate of toast and went upstairs, not running as usual, but walking slowly and heavily.
The phone rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ she called. ‘Yes?’
‘Harry here. I’m so very sorry to hear about Tim. Anything I can do to help, Rosalind?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you if I need you.’ She heard someone else breathing and realised that Paul was listening in, spying on her. Anger filled her for a moment.
‘You won’t hesitate to call on us?’
‘No, of course not. You and Jonathon have been good friends to me.’
‘I told Alice Tuffin you’d ring if you wanted her. She’d be happy to help, too. She says to tell you no charge.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Jonathon sends his love. I’m with him now. You sure you’re managing all right?’
‘Yes. Thank him for me. Bye now.’
Upstairs, Paul frowned. Her voice had grown warm as she spoke to those damned friends of hers. But if this woman had to ring and ask how she was, Ros mustn’t have gone to see her last night. Where had she been, then? He pulled his clothes off, leaving them scattered across the floor, and took a very long shower, emerging in better control of himself, thank goodness.
Downstairs Rosalind brewed some more coffee, taking a cup upstairs to Jenny.
‘Where is he?’
‘Showering.’
Jenny looked towards the master bedroom. ‘We’ll come down now. Can I get Ned something to eat?’
‘Of course you can.’ Rosalind nodded to him. ‘I’m so glad Jenny’s got you, Ned.’ She felt warmed by the sight of their love. The lump of ice inside her cracked just a little at the way they were holding hands.
Louise’s bedroom door opened. ‘All right if I go for a jog?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Don’t want to face Dad yet.’
Louise hesitated, then came across to give her a hug. ‘I love you, Mum.’
Rosalind’s composure slipped for a minute and the ice cracked still further. ‘I love you, too.’ Her voice came out husky and she had to blink away the tears.
‘Tim said I’d been a fool and he was right. I won’t let you down again, Mum. Or him.’
‘Good.’ Rosalind flicked away a tear, but it was followed by another. Funny what set you off. ‘You go for your run, love.’
‘Sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Yes.’ She still had Paul to face about the other thing. But she wasn’t going to have a confrontation about his infidelity with her son lying unburied.
She was nearly sure now that she was going to leave him. But not till all this – this main trouble was over.
It was a big decision to make. She couldn’t rush it, had to be very sure of what she was doing.