Almost a Crime (97 page)

This time it was a heart attack: it had to be. He was the

most terrible colour, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

‘Sit down, Michael,’ she said, ‘sit down here, for heaven’s

sake. Take deep breaths. I’ll fetch you some water. Would

you like me to phone the doctor?’

‘No, of course I don’t want you to phone the bloody

doctor! I don’t need a bloody doctor. You’re not going to

believe this, Betty, you really are not. I can’t believe it myself. Bloody meddling old woman! And why didn’t the

chap from the DOE think of it? God, I feel such a fool

Such a total fool.’

‘Michael, what on earth are you talking about?’

‘Bartles House, Betty, that’s what. I’m afraid they’ve got

us. And there really isn’t anything we can do about it, it

seems. And if that’s the bloody reporter again, tell her I

don’t want to talk to her, all right?’

‘All right, dear,’ said Betty. ‘But at least could you talk to

me about it? I’m really completely baffled.’

Zoe and Romilly arrived home: tanned, glowing, full of

stones about their holiday, about people they had met, parties they had been to, overjoyed to see Marc.

Zoe seemed particularly pleased to be home. ‘It was

good,’ she said in response to Marianne’s rather anxious

questioning. ‘Fine. Rom had a ball.’

‘And - Daddy?’

‘He was okay. Really quite human. Oz seems back on.’

‘You pleased about that?’ said Marianne, sounding

upbeat, dreading a year of her absence.

‘Yeah, really pleased. Oh, yes, and some woman came

down for the middle weekend. It’s obviously quite serious.

I mean they re obviously very much an item.’

‘What — what was she like?’

A slug of alarm hit Marianne suddenly; why, why should

that be, as if she cared?

‘Oh — you know. Very New York. Very thin, very well

dressed, obsessed with charity and culture.’

‘Pretty?’

‘Probably once, yes.’

She smiled. She always forgot how extremely old they all

must seem to the children, how absurd the concept that

anyone over forty could possibly be described as pretty.

‘What was her name?’

‘Marcia. Mum, you seem very interested. You jealous or

something?’

And no, she said, of course not, she was just interested;

and of course she wasn’t jealous. But she was left with an

odd sense of unease: of lonely, getting-older unease.

‘Mum seems a bit down,’ said Zoe to Marc later.

‘Yeah, she is.’

‘Met the new boyfriend? He’s really cool.’

Marc said he hadn’t. ‘Not likely to, either. He’s history.

Like Felix.’

‘Oh, no. What happened? He was really good for her,

Marc. Not a bit like Felix.’

Marc told her. ‘Only we haven’t had this conversation,

Zoe.’

“Course not.’

‘She says she’s got herself checkmated.’

‘What?’

‘As in chess.’

‘Maybe a knight could leap on to the board.’

‘I don’t know what he’d do. It’s a bit of a no-hope

situation. She really loves that old bugger, Zoe, God knows

why. Or she thinks she does, anyway.’

‘Love defies logic,’ said Zoe. ‘I found that out for myself

this summer.’

‘Sounds intriguing. Want to tell me about it?’

‘How long have you got?’ said Zoe.

The night before Diana’s funeral, Octavia went for a walk.

She hadn’t exactly planned it, but she was watching the

news at nine o’clock, watching the crowds, the extraordinary

scenes, and someone said something about a page of

history being turned and she suddenly felt she had to go.

Tom was out, the children were all asleep, there was no

reason for her not to.

It was an extraordinary experience. The flowers by

Kensington Palace, the crowds there, the queue to sign the

book of condolence, she had seen, it was just down the

road; but this was different. She took the Tube to

Westminster, and crossed the road into Parliament Square;

it was already packed, every available bit of grass „„ pavement taken up by people: some under makeshift tent!

or tarpaulins, others with rather impressive structures, some

just wrapped up in sleeping bags and silver foil for warmth,

There were a great many people in wheelchairs, also clearly

there until some time late the following day. All because

they wanted to say goodbye to their princess. The People’s

Princess. The awful phrase had stuck; it was actually, she

thought, strangely apt.

Everyone was quiet, friendly, good humoured. Traffic

waited patiently all round the square for people to cross;

policemen walked about in pairs, relaxed and good

tempered.

She moved along towards the Abbey; the bank of arc

lights there was brilliant, already in place for the next day.

The huge press box was built very high, opposite the main

door, and already it seemed fully staffed. People walked past

her endlessly, carrying flowers; a lot of them young men

holding lilies. She followed them. She had brought a bunch

of her own.

All down the Mall, the camps were set up; two or three

thick, people sitting and lying on the hard pavements,

quietly patient. On almost every lamp-post shrines had been

set up, pictures of Diana surrounded by flowers and

flickering nightlights. All across St James’s Park, she could

see more lights, Diana’s candles, shining in the darkness. For

the hundredth time since it had all begun, Octavia thought

how much Diana would have loved it, would have felt

vindicated in everything she had done; and thought,

absurdly, what a shame it was she couldn’t be there …

She walked on, down to the Palace; the Victoria

monument was covered in shrines. The queue of people

waiting to lay their flowers in what they felt was the proper

place, at the Palace Gates, was still, she was told, two hours

long: orderly, quiet, sober. Police took the flowers from

them, laid them most carefully down, each bunch of the

half million clearly important. She looked up at the Palace,

with the flag now hanging at half mast, looked at the lighted

windows, thought of the two young princes, their adored

mother lost to them, gathering their courage for their ordeal

tomorrow. She felt her eyes fill with tears.

The smell of the flowers was immensely sweet and

strong; Octavia began to feel rather strange. She laid her

own flowers down on the steps of the Victoria monument,

not wishing to queue for two hours, and began to walk very

slowly back. The composition of the crowd fascinated her:

many young people, black people, a lot of families three or

four strong, arms linked, walking soberly alone, many many

young, clearly gay men. A vast, disparate group, all with just

one thought in their heads: Diana. She had their hearts:

everyone’s hearts. In that week, her own dreadfully

sentimental phrase had become reality.

When she got home, Tom was there, in the kitchen. He

looked at her. ‘Where have you been?’

She told him, too tired, too emotional to care what he

thought.

He had been very cynical about the whole thing,

absolutely on Charles’ side, defending him, deploring the

tabloids’ behaviour.

‘Me too,’ he said, astonishing her.

‘What?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t resist it in the end. Extraordinary, wasn’t

it? Very moving. History in the making.’

‘That’s exactly what I thought. In fact I wished I’d taken

the children.’

‘Yes, so did I. We should have done. All gone together.

Well, good night, Octavia.’

He had returned, without discussion, to sleeping alone in

their bedroom; he was clearly waiting for her next move.

She had to make it; she had to tell him.

But she didn’t; she simply went upstairs and fell asleep,

thinking of what he had said, and wishing that they had

indeed all gone to see Diana’s crowds together …

It was the boys’ flowers that did it: the white posy on the coffin, with the card saying simply ‘Mummy’.

Until then she had felt quite brave, quite in control.

She had put white flowers on Juliet’s coffin: with a card

saying, ‘Juliet. From Mummy.’

It was more than she could bear. She switched off the

television, went up to her room and pulled the curtains and

lay there for a long time, weeping, remembering, trying to

forget.

Sandy heard her; knocked on the door. ‘Louise? Can I

help?’

She didn’t answer; he tried the door. She had locked it.

‘Louise. Please let me in.’

‘No. I’m all right. Just go away. Leave me alone.’

Later he brought her some tea and she let him in and

drank it, but refused to talk to him, just sat there, the tears

stopped now, her emotions bled white, exhausted by grief.

Dickon was with a friend for the day, had gone off

excitedly soon after breakfast. She knew he was disappointed

by her return, by her weariness, her short temper.

She didn’t know what to do about that. If only she could

sleep, it would help.

At teatime her father appeared, looking anxious.

‘Darling, you all right? Sandy said Diana’s funeral had

upset you.

‘It did — a bit. But — yes, I’m all right.’

She had her plan to cling to: she mustn’t let that go. That

was going to make her feel better.

Felix Miller had resolved not to watch the funeral; he knew

it would add to his mood of misery and loneliness. But,

glancing at the order of service in the Times, he could see

that the music would be glorious; he might just listen to it

on the radio while he had some coffee and leafed through

his mail.

When Mrs Harrington brought in the coffee, she found

him watching the television intently. She wasn’t sure it was

a good idea, he had been very down that week, and she didn’t think he’d been looking at all well, a bit puffy somehow, and very pale; but maybe it would serve to

distract him from what she supposed must be his business

worries, the takeover bid not happening. And then there

was Octavia, of course, Octavia and her divorce. And

however brave a face he was putting on, he must be missing

Mrs Muirhead terribly.

There wasn’t much Mrs Harrington didn’t know about

Felix Miller.

When the funeral was over, Felix went out for a walk on

the Heath. It was deserted, served to reinforce his sense of

isolation. Octavia had phoned him, of course, to chat, to

make sure he was all right, but he wouldn’t be able to see

her until the following week, she was so preoccupied with

her big charity function tomorrow. She was so clever; so

successful. He smiled with pride, thinking about her, then

frowned as a pain in his left arm suddenly stabbed at him. It

wasn’t the first time; he’d been aware of it several times

over the past few days. He knew what it was; he’d been

doing a lot of lifting, clearing out some boxes in the room

which he’d thought would make a room for the nanny, if

Octavia came to stay. Rooms for the children already

existed, of course, had done ever since the twins had been

born. They weren’t used very often, but they were there.

Ready. Waiting. Although Bernard Moss had told him

there should be no question of them all moving in, that the

wife should never leave the matrimonial home. ‘Unless

there is violence. I don’t know if—’

‘No,’ said Felix, sharply, ‘no violence.’

Although, of course, what Tom had done amounted to

violence. Of its own kind.

The pain stabbed again; more sharply. He might go back take some paracetamol. And then get down to some work He had nothing else to do this weekend. Nothing else at all

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ said Megan. Her large blue eyes were

shining. ‘Just wonderful.’

‘It is. And look, they’ve even got the bit about you in.

Ringing to check with the Department of the Environment.’

‘“bats

to save the belfry,’” said Megan and giggled.

‘What a good headline. Not that there is a belfry at Bartles

House. It’s just so scary, isn’t it, to think that if Nora hadn’t

said about the bats, and then if I hadn’t told Sandy, no one

would ever have known. Listen, it mentions Sandy,

“Successful Gloucestershire businessman”, it calls him. He’ll

like that.’

The phone rang: it was Octavia. ‘I hear the story’s in the

paper. Gabriel just phoned me.’

‘I’ll get Megan to read it to you,’ said Pattie. ‘Here she is.’

‘Octavia? Isn’t it wonderful? Listen, this is what it says.

“Local beauty spot Bartles Wood has almost certainly been

saved from the developers. A chance discovery this week by

little Megan David that bats nested in the roof of Bartles

House, adjacent to the wood, could prove bad news for

builder Michael Carlton. Bats are, of course, an endangered

species and as such any building which shelters them is

automatically protected. Mr Carlton was unavailable for

comment when the Post called him. Mrs Ford, the matron

of Bartles House Nursing Home, said that she had no idea

that bats were in need of protection, although, of course,