Guilt Edged (11 page)

I stood over him, arms akimbo. ‘You didn't go out at all, did you? Oh, Griff. And it was a nice day, too. Never mind, let's wrap you up and walk you as far as the main road and back.'

‘I was about to offer a pre-dinner sherry,' Aidan declared. ‘Don't you realize, my dear girl, he's had major surgery? He's a sick man.'

‘These days it's almost routine surgery,' I retorted heartlessly, not caring that Aidan was probably still jet-lagged and in need of careful handling. ‘And in any case, he'll be even sicker if he doesn't walk. Every day. Every single day. Once today, but twice tomorrow. And three times on Thursday. It's as important as wearing those socks and taking his pills. Didn't that night nurse of yours tell you?' I asked, over my shoulder, as I helped Griff up. Why we'd talked about him as if he wasn't there I didn't know.

There was a silence I couldn't understand.

I didn't press Griff for an explanation, any more than he'd nagged me about Morris. Instead, we made stately progress as far as the end of the road, talking about my Worcester repair job and how long it would take.

‘No sign of Morris?' he asked.

‘Just a text. But I don't want to see him again, ever. I feel so bad about ditching him,' I added in a whisper.

‘With all due respect, my love, I don't feel you should.'

‘You think he ditched me!'

‘I didn't say that. And I didn't mean it. That lovely Archbishop John Sentamu once said, I believe, that there are two types of people in the world, and I'm going to particularize what he said to lovers. There are radiators, who give off warmth, and drains, people who take it. I see you as the former, and Morris as the latter. And I don't blame him, but his job, which has to be put first at all times. Not to mention his unusual domestic circumstances. Leda is a charming baby, but she is demanding, it must be said. And there are only so many hours in the day, my love, for him as for you.' He allowed himself a sigh, but I compelled him to walk another twenty yards. ‘And I simply fail to see why looking after some other woman's child should be part of your remit.' He paused, taking a deep breath.

‘I wonder what became of that other young policeman who was interested in you. Will.'

I wondered too. But I didn't think there was any point in speculating. ‘Probably married with a couple of kids. And someone said he'd left the police.'

I turned us gently back to Aidan's. ‘So now you know you can get this far and still keep talking, you must go further tomorrow morning. And tomorrow afternoon. Promise me. Because if you won't, I shall have to take you away from all this luxury.'

‘Home,' he added – wistfully, I'd swear.

G
riff knew I was leaving really early next morning and would try not to wake anyone in the process. I did peep into his room, but he was fast asleep, and that was the way I wanted to keep it, so I didn't put on even my trainers till I'd fought my way through Aidan's security system and got outside.

I'd already put a couple of hours' work in on the Barr, Flight and Barr vase before my usual breakfast time, leaving the adhesive to start drying while I dealt with the overnight emails. At last I headed off for some toast. Except the bread was mouldy. At least there were a couple of poor Leda's croissants lurking sadly in the bottom of the bin, squashed and dry but at least edible: they must have been stuffed to the brim with preservatives. Beginning a list of other things I was running out of, I wished I could do what Griff would have done: bake a couple of loaves. But I really had no time. Especially when the rumble of a huge truck down the street reminded me that today was bin day. Bins were usually Griff's preserve, but they'd be mine for several weeks yet.

Another near squeak. The wheelie bin reached the pavement just as the refuse truck arrived outside the cottage. I waved as the men, who seemed to run everywhere, jeered at me.

Dragging the emptied bin back into the yard, I realized at long last how interdependent Griff and I had become. Symbiotic was the word he'd taught me. Gradually, as I'd taken on more and more of the physical jobs as his health had deteriorated, he'd quietly made my life easier in other ways, by nipping off to the village whenever supplies ran short, and sometimes doing a supermarket run if I was really pressed for time. Now I was trying to dash up a down escalator, or so it seemed. Thank God once more for Mary and Paul, whose car was just drawing up. I let them in through the yard gates, locking up securely behind them.

Paul emerged looking particularly smug, retrieving a large jiffy bag from the rear footwell. ‘Neigh!' he greeted me.

Mary smiled apologetically. ‘Yes – another white horse. Though actually I think it's a red herring.'

‘She thinks it's the wrong size,' he explained, over the cup of tea I made for us all, as Mary ran an experienced eye over my shopping list, crossing out from time to time and adding other items.

‘I'm afraid she's right,' I said with a smile as she scribbled
loo rolls
. ‘It's not as big as the controversial gee gees. But this might be controversial too.' I turned it over and over. ‘Where did you get it?'

‘Junk shop in Folkestone. My golf partner needed a lift to pick up his car, so I parked up and browsed round. He was lurking right at the back of the shop – in fact there wasn't even a price on him. We settled on twenty pounds. Can't argue with that.' He patted the little horse. Colt? Foal?

‘'Course you can't,' I agreed, stroking the glaze. Immaculate. Apart from—

Paul didn't miss much. ‘What have you found?'

I pointed. ‘What does that look like? Under the glaze, here?'

‘A bit of a fingerprint. Quality items don't usually come with faults like that, do they?'

‘Absolutely not. Not unless they're stamped
seconds
or someone scratches out the trademark. Weird.'

He laughed. ‘I can almost see your brain working, Lina.'

‘I can feel it. But it's missing a gear at the moment.' I stared at the wretched thing. And at the fingerprint. ‘I'd like to look at it under the UV light,' I said. ‘Do you want to see?'

‘Don't be too long,' Mary told him. ‘You've a spot of shopping to do. If you want to eat lunch, that is.'

And lunch was on Tristam's mind too. Before Paul and I had got as far as the stairs, the office phone was ringing.

‘Just a sarnie?' he urged, when I turned him down flat.

‘I've got a rush job on,' I said. ‘Any other week – but I'm practically fed and watered by intravenous drip at the moment.'

‘Tomorrow, then?'

Hadn't he heard what I said? But a thought struck me: Griff was safe at Aidan's – dare I take one evening off? ‘How about after work tonight? Nine-ish?'

But he was busy with his bar job, of course. So that was that.

Back to Paul's horse.

He operated the UV lamp with a flourish, as if allowed to participate in some weird ritual. But twist and turn the horse as we might, it showed up no signs of repair. And when we checked on the office computer, we found it wasn't particularly rare anyway.

Paul peered over my shoulder: ‘Seems I paid the right price too. That'll teach me to think I'm an expert!' He looked at me sideways. ‘Any idea what I can do with it? Get Mary to sell it in the shop? You know she could sell transistors in Silicon Valley.'

I almost nodded. But then I said, ‘Actually, don't. Something's wrong, I feel it in my water. And that fingerprint's part of it.'

There we were, the three of us, gathered at Aidan's, but happy families it was not.

We managed to keep something of a conversation going over dinner, which was not good. Aidan was the sort of man who needed not just a cleaning lady and a gardener, but a cook-housekeeper, probably complete with mob cap and chatelaine. How he could kill grilled salmon and vegetables was beyond me, but I gave him brownie points for the oily fish at least. While Aidan slipped out to get the dessert, I asked Griff if he'd kept his promise to walk.

‘I did indeed,' he said proudly, pointing to his feet. To my delight he'd abandoned the old man's slippers for a pair of new slip-on shoes. OK, they fastened with Velcro, but they were a start. ‘I went out twice. And went further than last night. But I didn't venture on to the High Street. To tell you the truth I was terrified someone would jostle me.' His shudder looked genuine. As did another when Aidan produced a decanter of red wine, with three of his exquisite eighteenth century glasses. He explained, in a whisper as Aidan went off to bring cheese and biscuits, which I suspected were very low down the list of things Griff should be eating, ‘It must be the tablets, or perhaps the anaesthetic. But alcohol seems to have lost its charm.'

‘It had better find it again soon,' I said cheerfully. ‘Red's really good for hearts, according to the Internet. Now, this here exercise – you haven't forgotten that you're walking Mary down the aisle in six weeks' time? They were talking about postponing the wedding.'

‘Heaven forbid! My child, you have put steel in my spine. Three walks a day? It shall be four!'

‘They can't possibly hold Griff to his promise in the circumstances,' Aidan declared, coming in at the wrong moment. ‘Surely they can find someone else.'

‘I'm sure they could,' Griff agreed. ‘But in no circumstances will they have to. I shall be well enough. I shall.' He paused, looked at Aidan, and changed tone. ‘Now, Lina, do grapes have to be turned into wine before they are good for one? Because I really do fancy some of those on Aidan's delicious-looking cheeseboard …'

Although he had every TV channel available, some not even in English, Aidan declared there was nothing worth watching, upsetting Griff, who'd spotted some Test cricket in Australia. I fancied a loud comedy, but clearly that was off the cards. So I did what the men did: I settled down with a book, in my case the one about miniatures, and a notebook and pencil. I wanted to squeak with pleasure and exclaim out loud, but didn't dare until Aidan left the room to take a phone call.

‘Look! It says that
miniature
didn't always mean
small
! It's to do with colouring with red lead. And what's this about
painting
being called
limning
?'

‘I think you'll find, loved one, that the
n
isn't pronounced.
Limming
. As in Port Lympne,' he added with a chuckle.

‘Do you remember when I thought
misled
was pronounced
mizled
?'

Aidan, returning, clearly didn't think my ignorance amusing. Or perhaps he resented an intimacy that excluded him. He seemed even less amused when I mentioned I'd met a handsome young expert on miniatures. Really not amused at all. With a glance at Griff, I shut up. I continued to make the odd note – fancy Nicholas Hilliard being trained not as an artist but as a goldsmith! And imagine women becoming not just amateur miniaturists, but professionals, working at Henry the Eighth's court, in an age when I'd never imagined women leaving the home. Take Levina Teerlinc: even I couldn't consider her in the same league as Holbein, for instance, but I did feel a little glow, especially as I detected a tiny connection between our first names.

I must have exclaimed out loud. Aidan snorted, and Griff looked apprehensive. I put my head down and jotted fast. But another silly grin must have spread across my face when I learned that one of the first artists, possibly
the
first, to paint on ivory, as opposed to vellum, was a woman, Rosalba Carriera.

The temperature in the room fell to zero. I checked my watch – quite needlessly. But it gave me some reason to excuse myself, saying I'd got a couple of calls to make. The book and the notepad went with me. That was me for the evening. I gave a general, polite goodnight.

Why I should feel twelve again, with yet another bad mark against my name, I had no idea. I was weepy and angry and everything in between. Eventually, I unpacked my laptop and checked our emails, just to see if there was anything interesting, or if I'd missed anything while I was stressed out. Maybe a bit of disciplined calm would improve my mood. Or something to look forward to.

As I cleaned my teeth, it dawned on me that the problem might not involve me at all, except that Aidan really wasn't happy I even existed. Aidan was probably still jet-lagged. And grieving, of course, for his sister. And worried about Griff, whom he thought I was forcing to do things he shouldn't. And Griff had had major – if routine! – surgery, and probably felt tetchy too. Perhaps the trouble lay between them and was nothing to do with me.

‘That's all very well,' I told myself, reaching for Tim, ‘but I'd rather not be here at all. Bloody great mausoleum. I want to go home. Now.'

Tim stared. Firstly, I'd always coveted the elegant house. Secondly, if I went home this evening there'd be a row, and that wouldn't do Griff any good at all. Head down, early night. Invent something to do tomorrow. Maybe organize the coffee Brian suggested. Allow yourself lunch with Tristam and tell Griff you've got to work late. Anything. I emailed Brian. Coffee at eleven thirty would be good.

Because I was slow to take things in, even though I'd made notes to help, I was rereading the book when Griff came up to bed. I'd nicked the radio and earphones that were supposed to be for his use, and retreated to my own world. I might even have dropped off. But I came to with a jolt when I realized I hadn't kissed Griff goodnight.

I found him sitting up in bed with his electronic book. There was a vaguely smug air about him, but he was clearly too engaged with the book to want to do more than bid me his usual fond goodnight, until I told him that I'd again be going back to Bredeham very early.

‘You know, I might just try out my new mattress tomorrow night,' I said. ‘I'm so behind with my restoration work, I could do with the extra time. And,' I added, because I knew it would be unanswerable, ‘there's just the sniff of a date. That guy Tristam who's working for Brian Baker. For free,' I reminded him.