Finishing Touches (54 page)

She awoke to find a strange man shaking her shoulder and Nora standing beside him, the bottom half of her dress soaking wet.

Cassie didn’t know where she was. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, blinking against the sunlight. ‘I must have fallen asleep,’ she murmured, trying to drag herself back to
consciousness.

‘I brought your mother home. She was sitting on the sand down by Cockleshell Bay letting the waves flow in around her. I saw her as I was walking the dog,’ the man explained, and
Cassie recognized the accent. It was the Welsh writer, David Williams.

Scrambling up from her chair she said hastily, ‘Thanks very much. I’m terribly sorry you were put to trouble, I must have dozed off for a few minutes. And . . . I’m sorry about
the time Mam accused you of tunnelling under her bed.’

The man smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it at all. These things happen. I had an aunt who accused her next-door neighbour of having an affair with her husband. All of them were in their
eighties at the time!’

Cassie laughed as she put an arm around her mother. ‘I’d better go and get these wet clothes off Mam. Thanks again,’ she said.

‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, calling the cocker spaniel to heel. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Jordan,’ he added politely.

‘Are you the king?’ Nora asked brightly, oblivious of the fact that she was standing there dripping wet.

‘I’m afraid not,’ her neighbour laughed. ‘I’m just a lowly writer.’ He smiled again and walked down the garden path. Cassie urged her mother indoors. Nora was
covered in sand as well as being wet and Cassie reflected that with the way Nora behaved, it was sometimes like having a four-year-old child in the house.

She helped her mother bathe and dry off, hoping she wouldn’t catch a chill or a kidney infection. Then she made her some hot chocolate. When she was tidying up the bathroom, she caught
sight of herself in the mirror and realized that she was still in her bikini top and shorts. What that man thought of her she could not imagine. A fine sight she must have looked, sprawled out on
her deckchair snoring her head off while her mother went rambling around the country. She wasn’t being very effective as a carer, she thought glumly. She’d have to be careful about that
in the future.

It must be nice being a writer, she reflected, as she tried to get rid of the sand in the bath. Imagine being able to come and go as you pleased, write when the mood took you and your creative
juices were flowing. Cassie imagined that it must be like the high you got when you designed the perfect room after spending hours at the drawing-board. This man had the most wonderful voice.
Cockleshell Bay sounded so exotic the way he pronounced it.

She went into the kitchen to find Nora eating the cat’s Whiskas. ‘Oh Mam!’ she groaned, grabbing the dish from her. If that man Williams were a fiction writer, he’d get
plenty of material right here in this house!

David Williams walked back along the sea road, a frown furrowing his brow. He had gone for a walk in the first place because he was suffering a terrible writer’s block
and had written only a half a dozen or so pages that day. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the information he needed – indeed, he had plenty. He had researched Indira Gandhi until he
was blue in the face, travelled to India and spent over two months there, less than six months after her assassination by her trusted Sikh bodyguards. He had been writing the book for over a year,
so at this stage he was quite sick of it.

David had certainly never envisaged that he would become a bestselling biographer. He had been quite happy working in the background as a senior editor with a prestigious publishing house until
one of his authors, Rory Callan, died while writing a biography of Harold Macmillan. Deeply involved with the project, and having done his doctoral thesis on the unfortunate Prime Minister who had
had to resign because of the Profumo scandal, David had been the obvious choice to take over the writing of the book.

At the start of the new decade, the Eighties, a whole new career opened up for him at the age of thirty-six. The biography of Macmillan won critical acclaim. Another publishing company, much
impressed by the fair but incisive way he had tackled his subject, asked him to write a biography of de Gaulle. It had taken him three years, during which time his marriage broke up. His French
wife, Danielle, was unable to cope with the demands made on him by his work. To be sure, she had enjoyed the research trips to Paris and Algiers, and basked in his fame; but she loved socializing
and had
not
been able to endure her husband’s retreat from the world during his writing periods.

David sighed, his brilliant blue eyes clouding over at the memory. It had been a terrible time, and after what Danielle did to him, he knew that he would never trust another woman. Finding his
best friend in bed with his wife was an experience that had turned David into a loner. Oh, he had his relationships. He was a normal healthy man and the existence of a monk did not appeal to him.
But he kept the barriers up and never allowed himself to get close to anybody again. Although he had been able to take advantage of the new divorce law enabling couples to end a marriage after one
year of separation instead of three, and he had been divorced for almost two years now, the wounds were still raw.

After the break-up of his marriage he had to get away, out of London. He went back to Wales, to Fishguard, his home town. But he couldn’t settle. He often thought of driving aboard the
car-ferry for Ireland, but he never got around to it. Life in Fishguard revolved around the arrival of the car-ferries from Rosslare Harbour. As a boy he had watched the
Saint David
and
Saint Andrew
arrive with their cargo of travellers and his father and he would count the cars disembarking.

‘A good haul today, boyo,’ his father would say, puffing contentedly on his pipe. His father had gone to war on the
Andrew.
Despite the fact that she was a hospital ship and
lit from stem to stern, she had been bombed and battered regularly. Her sister-ship, the
Saint David
had been sunk, but his dad’s ship had sailed on. David never tired of his
father’s reminiscences, especially his stirring tales of the Battle for Anzio and Salerno, and his account of the invasion of Sicily.

It was his father who suggested that they both go off on a trip across the Irish Sea. ‘You’ve got to do something about that long face of yours, boyo. This moping around is no good
for you or me. Come on, let’s go across and have a bit of a holiday for ourselves.’

His suggestion had taken David completely by surprise. His father was not one for uprooting himself. But since his mother’s death, his father had been lonely, and David, preoccupied by his
writing and his marital troubles, had not made the trip from London to see him as often as before. Maybe making the three-hour journey to Ireland and doing a bit of touring around would do them
both good. It would be nice to spend some time in his father’s company, just like the old days.

Sailing past the Tuskar Rock lighthouse, the sunset dappling its white-painted exterior with red-gold rays, David and his father leant over the rails of the ferry and watched the emerald fields
and cliffs of Rosslare Harbour come into view. As he inhaled the bracing sea air, David felt his lethargy and depression lighten. He needed a holiday, needed to get his life together and decide
what he was going to do with himself now that his marriage was over and he was awaiting a divorce. Maybe he would sort himself out on holidays with his father.

It was the first of many trips to Ireland, but on that first visit, he never dreamt that after his father’s death he would uproot himself completely and end up living there. He was now
working even harder than before, as his reputation as a biographer grew and he was offered more and more commissions.

When Indira Gandhi was shot dead in 1984, David was once again on holiday in Ireland, recharging his batteries after the de Gaulle biography and trying to come to terms with his divorce. His
publishers had immediately written to him and asked him to do a biography of the late Indian premier and, following that, a biography of Margaret Thatcher. It was a lucrative contract but at the
time David had been reluctant to sign it. He wanted a complete break. He had earned a substantial amount from his first two biographies; he wasn’t ready to face another long slog. He had gone
to New Zealand and Australia to continue his holiday, ignoring the pleas of his English and American publishers, and the outraged howls of his agent, who saw her dream of retiring to Barbados
disappearing down the Swanee. The following March found him in India, researching.

Right now, he was more than sorry he’d ever started the damn thing. It was always like this when he was immersed in a biography. Cabin-fever set in! No matter how hard he had tried today,
he just could not put his mind to it. The sun was shining and he wanted to get out. He had cut the grass and painted his gate and gone in again to try and organize himself to write. Usually he was
very disciplined, but today discipline had gone out the window. He strolled down to Port Mahon with Prince, his cocker spaniel, toyed with the idea of a workout in the gym, decided against it and
had a bite to eat in Tum Tums instead, watching the world go by.

‘On his way home David encountered his unfortunate neighbour sitting at the edge of the beach, letting the tide surge in around her. He was a bit apprehensive about approaching her. Their
last encounter, when she accused him of tunnelling under her bed, had been a bit of a shock. The girl in the bikini top must be the eldest daughter, who had come to take care of her mother. David
was kept abreast of the doings of the denizens of Port Mahon by his daily, Mrs Kelly. He felt sorry for Mrs Jordan’s daughter. It was obvious from the dark circles around her eyes that her
nights were disturbed. No wonder the poor girl had fallen asleep in the sun. Seeing Mrs Jordan really put things in perspective. He was lucky he had only a deadline to worry about.

Mrs Kelly had informed him that Cassie Jordan had given up a very good position in the bank to come home to take care of her mother. He thought it was an admirable thing to do and he could
understand why she did it. If his father had needed him, David would have taken care of him, but God had been kind. He died of a massive heart attack one day while sitting out on top of the cliff,
smoking his pipe and watching the ferry from Rosslare Harbour docking. For his father it was the perfect way to go. He would have coped badly with any long-term illness, his son knew that for sure.
Now David had only himself to look out for. All in all, he had a very good life. He had his cottage in Port Mahon, he had money in the bank, no commitments to anyone – and that was the way he
intended to keep it. Whistling to himself, David opened the gate to Hawthorn Cottage, the framework for a new chapter beginning to present itself to his mind. Maybe he’d just try a few more
pages to see how he got on.

Down the hill he could see the lights being switched on in his neighbour’s bungalow. He hoped Mrs Jordan would suffer no ill-effects from her outing on the beach. Maybe the fresh air would
tire her out and her daughter would get a night’s sleep. A very attractive young woman she was, and she had brains as well as beauty if Mrs Kelly were anything to go by. Not that it mattered
to him; she could be Miss World and he wouldn’t pay the slightest heed. Involvement with a woman was something that was definitely
not
on David Williams’s agenda.

Cassie was like a demon as she cycled into Port Mahon to do a workout in the gym. She was tired, upset about her mother, and she had a strong urge to strangle Barbara.

At about five o’clock that morning, a resounding crash woke her. She got up in panic to discover Nora trying to make porridge in the kitchen. The floor was covered with oatflakes and, even
worse, sugar. Her mother had dropped the sugar-bowl, and as well as broken crockery, there were gritty particles of sugar everywhere.

‘What are you doing?’ Cassie yelled at Nora, who started to cry. She instantly felt a heel. She had raging PMT and was wired to a very short fuse, but that gave her no excuse to take
it out on her mother.

‘It’s all right, I’m sorry. Cassie’s sorry.’ She put her arms around Nora to try to comfort her. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked her mother, who was now
clinging to her like a child. Nora nodded, big tears running down her worn cheeks.

‘Oh Mam, don’t cry, I’m really sorry.’ Cassie started to cry herself. It broke her heart to see Nora just like a child and she was in a bad enough state without Cassie
shouting at her. The two of them stood weeping in the middle of oatflakes and crockery and gritty sugar until Cassie pulled herself together, cleared a pathway for her mother, brought her to the
bathroom and washed her feet. Nora was terrible for walking around in her bare feet unless Cassie was there to insist on slippers.

She cleaned up the mess in the kitchen and made some creamy porridge, toast and tea for the two of them. Now that Nora was awake and up, there wasn’t much chance of getting her back to
bed. Maybe she would sit and listen to some music – she liked that – and Cassie could get some of her correspondence course done. It was at odd hours like these that Cassie managed to
do some studying. There were no terms as such, so she could pace herself as she pleased, but it took her mind off things. It was a course that would be very helpful if she ever pursued a career in
interior design, and at least she felt she was not stagnating.

Just before nine, Barbara phoned. Ian was in hospital having his disc fused and she was wondering would Cassie take Britt for the weekend as she had been invited to a very swanky do in Ashford
Castle, the
crème de la crème
of hotels. It was a two-day event and her regular babysitter couldn’t oblige. This was the third time Barbara had pulled a stunt like
this. As far as Cassie could see, Barbara thought that Cassie sat like a lady doing nothing all day, because she had Mrs Bishop in for a few hours. The last time she was over, she had made a
sarcastic comment about Cassie’s glowing tan and Cassie had to suppress the urge to let fly. She felt fragile enough without having a major row. With Barbara it was always as if she were
treading on eggshells. Still, it never stopped Barbara from asking Cassie to take care of Britt when the need arose.