Guilt Edged (7 page)

‘Sorry to hear that. Is he OK? Good.' Rob scratched again – behind his ear this time. ‘Are you saying that she knew Griff was out of the way and was chancing her arm?'

I must have looked as taken aback as I felt. Then I shook my head. ‘Even I didn't know till the day before that Griff was going to have surgery. And people might assume that I wouldn't make a decision without Griff.'

‘Not people who've seen you in action at fairs or auctions. OK, so you turned this woman down. And you're here because—?'

‘You've got the twin in the window, and I thought you might tell me about it.'

‘Let's start with this,' he said, raising a finger like an umpire, and disappearing into his office. He returned clutching a tatty bit of paper. ‘Original receipt, Lina. And I mean original, not just one from a fair last week. From a shop up in Birmingham. So anyone forking out their hard earned cash for that little fellow knows they're getting the real McCoy.'

My eyebrows shot up. Most antiques at this level didn't come with provenance. And why should they? When Auntie Flo gave her favourite niece a pretty ornament for Christmas, the last thing she'd want her to know was how much the present had cost.

Assuming I'd decoded the label correctly, Rob was selling for under the odds.

I risked a bit of cheek. ‘Can I have a look at the real McCoy?'

Raising his eyes to heaven, he eased himself round the counter. ‘There. Reason I'm not asking the full whack your punter wanted is that,' he said, pointing to a tiny chip on a rear hoof. He gave me a look I wasn't sure I liked. ‘Hey, they say you did that repair job on that vase some idiot knocked over in a museum. Bet you could fix that so that no one'd know.'

As if I was interested, I looked the horse over from nose to tail. There was something about it that, chip and all, felt right. The glaze was just a tiny bit worn – someone had loved it enough to dust it and sometimes even wash it. Eventually, I tapped its nose gently. ‘I wish I could make you better, Dobbin. But with Griff out of action and likely to be for quite a few weeks, I can't take on any more work – I've got a waiting list eight weeks' long, and someone'll buy you long before then.'

‘I hope.'

‘I hope so too, Rob. Times aren't good, are they?'

‘You can say that a-bloody-gain.'

‘Tell you what,' I said. ‘Why don't you put a spotlight on him? Make him stand out a bit?'

‘You'll be telling me how to arrange my window next!'

‘Why not? Griff sent me on a course a couple of years back. And we start with some Windolene …'

‘You cleaned Rob Sampson's window for him? Dear child, the man's a scoundrel – goes round knocking on old ladies' doors and offering to take junk off their hands,' Griff, still in his chair, hissed – but not so loudly that any other patient or visitor might hear.

I almost hung my head. ‘I felt sorry for him.' What a good job I hadn't mentioned Rob's hint that I might do an illicit repair for him – presumably splitting the profit.

‘That's his stock-in-trade, sweet one – making dear old ladies feel they'd better sell him something cheap so he can feed his starving children … Oh, so long as you didn't buy anything – you didn't, did you?' he shot at me.

‘No. But I learned something. About horses.' Taking his hand, I told him all about the visitor we'd had on Tuesday.

‘And you reckon there's a plague of forgeries? You haven't much in the way of evidence, my love.'

‘No. And I don't want any. You can hardly call it a plague, and even if it were it's nothing to do with Tripp and Townend. Not our area. Not our period. I've got better fish to fry. But what do I do if Mrs Thingy comes back?'

‘Easy. Tell her you've spoken to your partner and in these trying financial times we can't help her. Tell her to try an auction house. She might get more than she asked you for – which we certainly wouldn't offer anyway, of course.'

‘Quite.'

A nurse stopped in front of him. ‘Griff, if I've told you once today about not crossing your legs I've told you a dozen times. You. Must. Not. Nor when you get home. OK?' He nodded first at Griff and then at me. I writhed, as if I'd done something wrong myself.

As for Griff, he waited till the man's back was turned and pulled a naughty schoolboy's face. I could have done handsprings – this was the Griff I knew and loved.

After a much more sensible supper than the previous evening's, I had a long silent conversation with Tim the Bear. In the end, I shrugged; yes, I probably ought to phone Morris, oughtn't I? Griff had carefully not remarked on the fact that Morris's name didn't appear on any of the messages accompanying flowers or the get-well cards. All the time, however, the words
sin of omission
thumped oddly but ominously round my head.

I left a cheerful message on Morris's voicemail and texted him for good measure. What about an email? Between us we agreed to give Morris some time to respond. If I'd heard nothing by the morning, then, once I knew Griff was still making good progress, I might just email him.

 

Griff would be freed from more tubes today, he told me with a chuckle over the phone on Friday morning. There was even a rumour that he'd start climbing stairs when the physios were free. I could have sung and danced my way round the cottage. In fact, I did. So there was no reason not to contact Morris straightaway, except for some forty-odd emails popping into the in-box. Most were work, so since it was only a few minutes past seven I could ignore them for another hour. One, however, was from Brian at Baker's Auction House, so simply because I was feeling nosy I opened it.

It was pretty short. Would I care to pop in for a coffee early next week, when there was a nice breathing space before the next sale?

Puzzled, I replied that I'd love to, but it was dependent on when Griff was released from hospital, when I'd be in a sort of purdah for a bit until he was well enough to be left alone.

My palms sweated: how much of an invalid would he be? I'd never nursed anyone and didn't want to get things wrong. Medication! I knew he'd have to take lots of tablets: what if I got them wrong? What if after all he'd been through I let him die on my watch? The bright sun was shut out as this blanket of responsibility fell on me.

This was something no amount of silent sympathy from Tim the Bear could help with.

Griff mustn't know, of course. So when he asked how I was getting on without him, I'd better have a list of things I'd done. And since we tried never to lie to each other, I'd better go and do them. Starting with the washing. That always felt good.

Then those emails. All of them.

I was halfway through when I remembered Morris. I brought up his address – no problem there. But what could I say? Should I be tender and concerned? Or furious? There must be some midway point. I was ready to hit myself in frustration. Ready, but not actually doing it. I sat on my hands to stop myself.

And then, thank goodness, someone rang the front door bell. What if? Oh, what if? Please!

I flew downstairs. I almost opened the door before checking – but then I remembered the very least I should do was check the spyhole.

More flowers. I was beginning to hate the things.

When they were safe in the last of our vases, I returned to the computer, to find a message pinging in, but not from Morris. From Aidan, Griff's long-term lover.

He and I might not like each other but we both loved Griff (which was probably why we didn't like each other, of course). Griff hated to see us at each other's throats, so we had what you might call an armed truce. Ultra-smooth himself, he deplored my streetwise cockiness and wasn't impressed by my pa's ramshackle ways; I found him a pompous old git, whose saving grace was his beautiful Georgian house in Tenterden, filled with exquisite period furniture.

He'd been away from Kent for weeks, watching his New Zealand-based sister die; I'd made Griff brief him about what was happening here, and then I'd taken over myself, making sure he knew Griff had survived the operation and was now on the mend. He'd just arrived back in the UK, he said, and would spare me the trouble of visiting Griff this afternoon.

Would he indeed? I had to delete six or seven emails telling him what I thought of his idea. In the end I gave up and returned to the other tricky one. This took me about ten minutes and fifteen tries (by which time the in-box had got even fuller), and all I came up with was a really stupid message:

Long time no hear. Worried. All well?

XXX

How about that for feeble? I messed around with things like
missing you lots
,
and
can't wait to see you
. Finally, I settled on
Griff's op a success – he's making good progress
, popping it between the question mark and the XXXs.

There was nothing for it but to spend the rest of the morning tackling the rest of the in-box. I tried to ignore the irritating little voice observing that what I
really
wanted was to get any response from Morris as soon as it arrived, telling myself that since so much business was Internet-based, I needed to respond promptly to enquiries and orders. I still found that words required a lot of concentration, so when someone tapped on the office door I jumped out of my skin.

‘Mary thought you'd need a cuppa,' Paul said, setting down a mug of green tea. After a few moments' hesitation, he pulled up the spare chair and coughed.

‘Problem?' I prompted.

‘Tell me to mind my own business if you want,' he said, waiting. But since I said nothing he coughed again and said, ‘Tell me, Lina, does Griff have an accountant? And I'm not touting for business, since I don't practise any more; I'm just asking.'

‘He's got someone he sends all his receipts and bills to every autumn: is that what you mean?'

He nodded, swallowed, and said nothing.

People don't just happen to ask about things like money, do they? Something was obviously worrying him. Had old Mr Westwood done a runner with all our money? I asked cautiously, ‘Is there some problem? Something that can't wait till Griff gets home?'

‘It's something that's been worrying Mary, too.'

Which didn't seem to be an answer to anything. I raised an eyebrow.

‘We maybe should have mentioned it before Griff was taken ill. Before the op. But it seemed a bit … ghoulish. You see, we want to make sure you're financially safe … him being so much older than … Of course, we hope he lives another twenty years. But you share both his business and his cottage. This leaves you very vulnerable, financially.'

I took a deep breath. Half of me wanted to scream at him for his cheek; the other half wanted to hug him and Mary for worrying about me. So I took another breath and said, ‘We've made wills – both of us, actually – so we're protected. Power of Attorney, too.'

‘Wonderful. But the taxman has ways of getting his hands on bequests. And local authorities pounce if anyone needs long term care that even the most loving family can't provide. As I said, I just wonder … hope … but I daren't tread on anyone's professional toes.' He risked a laugh, though it sounded very tight. ‘With your permission I would like to talk to Griff when he's completely better. I wish I could talk to your father, too,' he added with a big grin.

Anyone trying to talk finances with Pa would end up feeling like a guest at the Mad Hatter's tea party. ‘Don't forget I'm what he always calls a bastard, Paul,' I said firmly. ‘And I've got no more claim on him than any of his other children.'

Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘Not according to what Griff says. He says you're the only one that ever goes near the old bugger. Pardon my French.'

‘That's probably the only sexual practice he's never tried,' I quipped – quoting Griff, as it happens. ‘Anyway, about Griff – I really don't know.' The deep breath hurt. ‘I can't think about his dying, Paul, in case it somehow makes it happen.'

‘Doesn't work like that, Lina. And we all have to die: you must know that, or you wouldn't have bothered with a will yourself, would you?'

‘All the same …'

‘I'll choose my moment, don't you worry. And I promise it won't be till the hospital has given him the all-clear. Now, Mary said she'd got enough lunch for the three of us, and since you'll want to dash off to go to see Griff, would you like to join us in the shop for our picnic?'

The words burst out. ‘Griff's friend Aidan's back – he says he doesn't want me at the hospital this afternoon.'

Paul said nothing for so long that I wondered whether he'd heard what I said. Finally, he asked, with almost no expression in his voice, ‘And how do you feel about that?'

Behind my tears, I gave a bark of laughter. ‘That's what my counsellor always used to ask when I was in a mess.'

‘I'm flattered! And you'd say to the counsellor?'

‘Cheeky bastard. Not you: Aidan, of course. I was so mad I didn't reply. Here.' I brought it up on the screen and pointed.

‘He might actually mean it – that you could do with the afternoon off.' He pointed at yet more unread messages. ‘To read those for a start.'

Squashing the thought that maybe he was actually too jet-lagged to phrase things more subtly, I said, ‘He could have asked, not told.'

He nodded. ‘Quite. So zero marks for tact. Has he known Griff long?'

He was nudging me into a kinder stance, wasn't he? ‘For ever. And I know in his position I'd want to see Griff straight away, without an audience. But I … What if the shock kills Griff?' I blurted.

‘Come on, Lina, he'll be on so many drugs at the moment I don't suppose he'll even be able to raise an eyebrow. But you could phone Aidan and tell him you want to go along yourself just to warn Griff – that would make sense. And you know what, after your gallivanting round France and all that stuff happening to you last weekend, I think taking time off from dashing to Ashford wouldn't be a bad idea. Tell Aidan you can alternate. Better than both of you sitting beside Griff's bed competing for his attention – now that wouldn't do him any good at all.'