Cruel Legacy (14 page)

Neville shook his head.

"They're all well over the overdraft limits, I'm afraid, Philippa.'

The overdraft limits. She swallowed, swamped by shock and despair.

'I truly am sorry about all this,' Neville commiserated with her.

It was a far more common situation than many people realised. He could name half a dozen small business sole traders whose partners were living in blissful ignorance of the fact that the bank now owned their homes and that all that stood between them and repossession was the size of the current month's or in some cases the week's takings.

Philippa stood up, the room felt so claustrophobic she could hardly breathe.

'I'll be in touch with you just as soon as I've heard from head office,' Neville was saying, adding awkwardly, 'In the meantime, try not to worry too much. At least the boys' school fees are paid until the end of the year. The local Citizens Advice Bureau run a debt counselling service, Philippa. Why don't you go along and see them?'

What for? Philippa wanted to ask him. Are they going to give me the two million pounds to repay Andrew's debts? But she was so close to tears she dared not risk saying anything. It wasn't Neville's fault that Andrew had behaved so recklessly... so... so dangerously.

Had Robert known about any of this? she wondered as she stumbled into the fresh air. Was that why he had been so anxious to dissociate himself from things? And her parents? How would they react once they learned that she was going to be homeless?

She could feel the hot, weak tears of panic and self pity buried in the back of her eyes as she hurried towards her car, head bent not so much against the sharp buffeting wind as against the potentially curious and pitying glances of any passers-by.

She had parked her car in the town square, empty on a Monday of its market stalls. The square was dominated by the commanding fagade of the town hall, built at the height of the Victorian age and far too large and domineering for its surroundings.

As she unlocked her car and removed her ticket, Philippa suddenly realised that the pound coin she had used to buy parking time had been virtually all the change she had got from paying for her petrol, and those note with which she had paid for it had been all the money she had had.

The panic that hit her as she stood clinging on to the half-open door of her car was like nothing she had ever experienced in her life. It rolled over her, swamping her, reducing her to such a shocked and humiliated state that she could feel the shame of what had happened as though it were a fire that physically scorched her body.

For how long had they virtually been living on credit... owing money to the bank? For how long had she been spending the bank's, other people's money, totally unaware...? Why hadn't she realised... questioned... guessed... ?

But no matter how hard she tried to lash herself into a self-anger strong enough to obliterate her fear, it just wouldn't go away.

Somehow she managed to get herself into her car and get the engine started, her body trembling violently as she tried to come to terms with what she had learned.

When she got home and saw her brother Robert's car parked outside the house and Robert himself standing beside it looking anxiously down the drive, her relief was almost as strong as her earlier panic. Robert would know what she ought to do, she comforted herself as she got out of the car. She was his sister, her sons his nephews; they were a family and he was far more experienced and knowledgeable about financial affairs than she was.

'What is it?' he asked her as soon as he saw her face. 'What's wrong?'

Philippa shook her head. 'Let's go inside,' she told him, and then she realised that he wasn't on his own and that his wife was in the car.

She got out and gave Philippa a cool look. 'Duty' was a word she was frequently heard to utter and, looking at her, Philippa could see that it was 'duty' which had brought her here now.

'You've seen the bank?' was Robert's first question once they were inside.

'Yes,' Philippa confirmed. She swallowed hard as she told him, 'The bank has called in a firm of accountants to act as liquidators, and...'

'Never mind the company—what about Andrew's personal assets?' Robert asked her.

Philippa led them both into the sitting-room before turning round and saying quietly, 'What assets? Apparently this house and all Andrew's other assets, including his insurance policies, have been signed over to the bank as security for the money Andrew borrowed.'

It shocked her to realise that this did not surprise Robert as much as it had done her, and she could see from the way Lydia's mouth thinned what she thought of her announcement.

'Neville is going to let me know what will happen once he has heard from his head office,' she told Robert numbly, like a child repeating a carefully learned lesson.

Lydia gave a small snort of derision. 'There is only one thing that can happen. They'll put the house on the market and sell it. You really should have refused to allow Andrew to take such a risk, Philippa...'

'Not now, Lydia,' she heard Robert saying uncomfortably before he turned to her and suggested with false cheerfulness, 'It's a cold day, Philippa... How about a cup of tea?'

'Yes, of course; I'll go and make one.'

It was only when she was in the kitchen that she realised that she had run out of teabags and that in all the shock of Andrew's suicide she had forgotten to buy any more.

She went back to the sitting-room, to ask if they would have coffee instead, and stopped outside the door as she heard her sister-in-law's voice raised in sharp exasperation.

'Oh, really, Robert,' she was saying. 'You must admit that Philippa's brought this whole thing on herself. She ought to have had a far tighter grip on things. If she'd spent a bit more time watching Andrew and a little less spoiling those wretched boys, she probably wouldn't be in this mess now. How could she be stupid enough to allow him to sign away the house? I know she isn't exactly the most intelligent of women.. .but quite honestly I don't think we should be here... or getting involved. It won't do you any good at all to be connected with such an appalling mess. I respect the fact that she's your sister but really, what can we do?'

'If she loses the house ' she heard Robert saying

uncomfortably.

'If
she loses it?' Philippa could hear the derision in Lydia's voice. 'Of course she'll lose it, and as to what she'll do, then I expect she'll have to go and live with your parents. We can't have her living with us. Think of how embarrassing it would be, a constant reminder to people of what's happened, and that is the last thing you need. And it's not just her but those two boys as well. We'd probably end up having to pay their school fees as well as Sebastian's.

'And that's another thing. I can't pretend to approve of the way those boys are being brought up. They'd only be a bad influence on Sebastian and of course there would be other difficulties. Obviously Sebastian will ultimately have a very different adult life, and much better prospects than they will be able to expect. Daddy was saying the other day, by the way, that this year we really must consider letting Sebastian go out with the guns. Daddy first went out with them when he was seven and Sebastian is coming up for ten now.'

'Where is that tea?'

Shaking with anger, Philippa went back to the kitchen, rebelliously making the coffee in the thickest pottery mugs she could find, knowing how Lydia would react to them.

She wasn't disappointed. After one look at the tray she was carrying her sister-in-law gave her the briefest of chilly smiles and shook her head.

'Coffee? Oh, no, I never touch it. Not at this time of the day. Silly of me, but I still think of it as something one only drinks after a dinner party.

'Robert and I were just saying, Philippa, that perhaps the only fortunate aspect of this whole sorry affair is that at least your parents will be able to offer you a home. Although I must say,' she added disapprovingly when Philippa remained silent, 'I still cannot understand how you could have allowed Andrew to behave so foolishly. You must have realised what was happening.'

'Must I?' She turned away from her sister-in-law and looked directly at her brother, asking him, 'When did you realise, Robert?'

He cleared his throat and flushed uncomfortably, but before he could say anything Lydia was answering for him, her voice ice-cold with disdain as she informed Philippa, 'Well, of course we knew something must be wrong when Andrew came to see us and asked Robert to lend him some money. I mean, one simply doesn't do that sort of thing. It was all extremely embarrassing. I was very cross with him for putting Robert in such an awkward position. No family member should ever ask to borrow money from another. It always leads to problems.'

'Yes, I'm sure you're right,' Philippa agreed, somehow | overcoming her shock to find her voice. Turning her back on Lydia, she looked at her brother and told him frankly, I 'Well, you can rest assured that I shall never ask you to lend me money, Robert—and as for my sons,' she added, turning back to Lydia and giving her a fierce, betraying bright-eyed look, 'Sebastian is the one I feel sorry for, not them.'

She barely registered Lydia's outraged, 'Well, really!' as her sister-in-law stood up, her face flushed as she bridled at Philippa's comment. 'I think it's time we left, Robert. Your sister is obviously overwrought,' she announced.

Philippa went with them to the front door, waiting until Lydia had passed through it before touching Robert lightly on the arm and saying with quiet irony, 'Thank you for your help and support, Robert.'

She watched him flush without feeling the slightest bit of remorse, still so angry about Lydia's criticism of her sons that she didn't care how recklessly she was behaving.

Joel
could feel the tension the moment he walked in through the factory gates; smell it on the air almost like an animal scenting death.

As a child he had often heard his father boast that he was descended from Romany folk; tinkers more like, Joel had heard others sneer behind his back when he made his claim, but there were occasions when he was aware of this inheritance, felt it in the odd prickle of his skin, the unfamiliar intensity of his awareness of the emotions of others, felt it in the certainty of the way he knew odd things, even while he struggled to deny the experience.

He hung back slightly, watching the other men; some of them, the older ones, walked with their shoulders hunched and their heads down, showing their defeat, avoiding looking at anyone else or speaking to them, while the younger ones adopted a much more aggressive and don't-care swagger, hard, bright eyes challenging anyone who looked their way; but all of them shared the same emotion that was gutting him.

Fear. He could taste it in his mouth, dull, flat and metallic.

As he crossed the visitors' car park—just one of the many fancy and very expensive changes Andrew had made to the place when he'd taken it over—he paused to study the small group of business-suited men and women huddled together^ by one of the cars.

They were ail that was left of the company's management team; the ones who had not been able to scramble off the sinking ship in time, he reflected bitterly as he watched them, the ones who had been either too stupid or too scared to recognise what was happening and leave before it was too late.

As he watched them Joel felt all the anger and fear he had been feeling since Andrew's suicide boiling up inside him.

It was because of them, because of their greed and mismanagement, that he was in the position he was today, but what did they care about what he felt, about his life, his fears, his needs? All they cared about was having a flash office and fancy company car. His face darkened as he recalled the problems his buying a new car had caused.

He clocked on automatically and then went to hang up his jacket. When he came back he saw that instead of working most of the other men were hanging about in small groups talking. The meeting with the management was scheduled for one o'clock.

Only one of the young apprentices was making any attempt to work, and Joel frowned as he heard Jim Gibbons, one of the older men, telling him to stop.

'What's the point?' he challenged Joel when Joel went over to tell him to leave the lad alone. 'None of us will be in work by the end of the week—not the way things are looking.'

'We don't know that,' Joel told him.

'Oh, come off it. Why the hell else did Ryecart top himself if it wasn't because he was going bust? This place is finished and we'll be lucky if we come out of it with our last week's wages, never mind our redundancy money. It's always the same: the bank will get some fancy firm of accountants in to make sure they get their pound of flesh, but when it comes to us getting what's rightfully ours.. .who the hell gives a toss about us? Course, it's all right for you. You've got your missus in work. A nurse, isn't she, down at the hospital? Smart pieces, those nurses, and not behind the door in bed either, if you know what I mean, or so they say... Does she keep her uniform on in bed for you, Joel?'

Joel forced himself to ignore the others' laughter. It was just their way of letting off steam, of coping with their fear; there was nothing personal or malicious in it.

'I hate it when Mum isn't here in the morning,' Cathy had grumbled earlier as she'd played with her cereal, and Joel had immediately felt both guilty and irritated as he heard the resentment in her voice; guilty because of his inability as a husband, a father and a provider to earn enough to support them all and irritated because of the way his children distanced themselves from him. It was Sally they wanted, not him, Sally they always turned to, her more than him.

Right from being a toddler of no more than two, his son had fiercely rejected any attempt Joel made to touch or hold him.

'He's a real mummy's boy,' Sally had said then, laughing softly as she'd taken over and held him. And, watching the way his son had clung to her, it hadn't just been the pain of rejection Joel had felt, but an actual physical jealousy as well.

Sally claimed that he was far harder on Paul than he was on Cathy.

'He's a boy,' he had told her in mitigation of his own behaviour.

Sally had just shaken her head, pursing her mouth in that way she had of showing her disapproval of what he said and did.

Sometimes these days it was hard to remember that that same mouth had once curved with joy and love for him... had softened into helpless passion beneath his, had widened in shared laughter with his.

Yes, things had changed. She hadn't even cared enough to wake him this morning before she'd left to wish him luck, to tell him that she understood how he felt; to tell him that, in work or out of it, he was still the man she loved; it made no difference to her.

He put down the mug of coffee the apprentice had brought him, its contents untasted.

The boy was only sixteen, red-haired and pale-skinned, tall and gangly with a prominent Adam's apple and a voice which had still not broken properly.