High Tide (7 page)

Which was the real Kate? This one, natural and unmade-up, or the pimped-up version who had swept into town. Both of them, maybe. You could be more than one person, couldn’t you?

Either way, the Kate in the mirror was the one she wanted to be today. The one who had come home to say goodbye.

There was a discreet knock on the front door. She shut her eyes. It would be the undertaker. She knew if she looked out of her window, the hearse would be pulled up outside Belle Vue, her mother’s wicker coffin inside. People would gather outside the shops and houses and bow their heads. Pennfleet still respected tradition. Was she ready? She felt tears well up. She prayed she wouldn’t break down as soon as she opened the front door.

‘Buck up, love,’ she imagined her mother saying. ‘Crying won’t bring me back.’

She pressed her fingertips underneath her eyes, as if to push the tears back in. She took in a deep breath. She shook out her hair and pushed back her shoulders, walked down the stairs and opened the front door with the bravest smile she could muster.

‘Miss Jackson,’ said Malcolm Toogood, the undertaker, holding out his hand, and she took it, and felt strong. Strong enough, at least.

In the end, the funeral was rather wonderful. Or ‘Joy-full’, as the vicar had joked. It truly was a celebration of her mother’s life, and Kate felt uplifted rather than sad as she came out into the churchyard afterwards, to shake hands with mourners and read the heartfelt messages on the bouquets of flowers.

‘Kate.’ The voice of the next person in line was familiar. She looked up into a pair of light-green eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. Your mother was a legend.’

Rupert Malahide. She was startled to see him. She hadn’t given him a thought for years. She took his proffered hand. What on earth was he doing at her mother’s funeral? Surely he lived in London? The Malahides only came down in the summer, to Southcliffe, the mad rambling tumbledown house they had further downriver.

‘I brought Granny. She wanted to pay her respects.’ Rupert was the sort of man who somehow managed to get away with saying ‘Granny’ without sounding ridiculous. ‘She thought the world of your mother.’

Rupert’s grandmother Irene was the most redoubtable of matriarchs – his father’s mother, who ruled a roost of her unruly grandchildren over the summer while their parents did goodness knows what. The Malahide brood had mixed in with the locals when it suited them, for sport and entertainment, but they were a law unto themselves. Rich and beautiful and wild. Rupert, especially, had considered the local girls to belong in his own personal toy box.

Including her. Kate shut out the memory for the time being. There were enough emotions swirling round inside her; she didn’t need another one. It was hard, though, for here he was, looking like a pillar of society in a dark-grey suit, the hair that had once been matted and bleached with salt now swept back. But still those fine features that could only come from the most patrician gene pool. And those devil’s eyes that could undo a button at fifty paces.

‘It’s very good of you to bring her,’ she said. She could see Irene, standing in the church doorway. She was wearing dark glasses and carrying a stick – Kate remembered Joy telling her Irene was losing her sight. ‘How is she?’

‘You can imagine. Absolutely refuses to believe there is anything wrong or that she needs to change her lifestyle one iota. She drives me nuts.’

His smile contradicted him with its fondness.

‘It must be awful for her,’ said Kate.

‘I promise you, it doesn’t stop her doing anything she wants.’

Kate watched Irene head down the steps. She could sense her determination. A woman who wasn’t going to let anything get her down. Rather like her own mother. They were poles apart on the social scale, but Irene and Joy were made from the same mould. Kate hoped she’d inherited her mother’s doughtiness.

‘Are you here for long?’ Rupert’s question broke her reverie.

‘I need to get back to New York as quickly as I can.’ Kate felt a surge of pride at being able to tell him this. She felt so much stronger and more colourful than the girl she had once been. ‘But obviously there’s a mountain of things to sort out. Probate. The house …’

‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’ She was taken aback by his solicitousness. ‘I’ve got an office at Southcliffe if you need any photocopying done, or a fax machine. Probate in this country is still out of the ark.’

‘That’s very kind.’

‘Honestly. Just give me a ring.’ He handed her a card, and she put it into her bag without looking at it. ‘And if you’re at a loose end, maybe we could have dinner?’

Now Kate really was startled.

‘I thought you were married?’ The words came out before she could stop herself. She didn’t think, she
knew
, because her mother had told her. Hadn’t she? She tried to remember the details.

He gave a wry grin. ‘
Were
being the operative word.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s fine. We were both too young. And we’re still the best of friends.’ He grinned. ‘The Townhouse by the Sea has a great restaurant. Maybe not by New York standards, but if you’ve had enough of Cornish pasties …’

Kate hated herself for wanting to say yes on the spot. She felt so much more comfortable in his presence than she had done when she was young. She was a successful businesswoman now, socially confident and self-aware, not a naive, unsophisticated ingénue. Yet he still had the power to make her stomach swirl. He was standing inches from her, and she could feel his body heat, smell the sandalwood undertones of his cologne and she felt her blood warm. No one had done that to her for years. She’d had boyfriends, dates, flings, but none of them made her feel this primal—

Dear God, what was she thinking? This was her mother’s funeral, not a speed date. How inappropriate could you get? She wasn’t going to miss the chance, though.

‘I’d love that,’ she said impulsively. It was true. She was a match for him now, and she wanted the opportunity to spar with him. She wanted him to know exactly what he’d missed out on.

‘Great.’ If he was surprised by her response, he didn’t show it. ‘Shall we say Tuesday? Eight o’clock?’

‘Tuesday at eight,’ she said, and turned to greet his mother. ‘Oh, Mrs Malahide. I do appreciate you coming.’

Irene reached out with the hand that wasn’t holding her stick and squeezed Kate’s. ‘My dear, your grandmother was an example to us all.’

‘I know. I’ll never live up to her.’

‘Well, she was very proud of you. You should know that.’

‘Thank you.’ Again, Kate felt overwhelmed by the goodwill towards her mother. She felt proud. And sad. So many emotions … She faltered for a moment.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to find it was Rupert’s. He had a look of compassion on his face that surprised her. She could feel the heat of his fingers burn through her dress.

‘Excuse me … I must … There are so many people …’ She moved away from the Malahides. She could still feel his touch. For a moment, she wanted to laugh, pull Debbie to one side, have a whispered exchange just as they had done as teenagers. ‘Oh my God, he’s asked me for dinner …’ But now was neither the time nor the place. The churchyard was emptying, as people headed to the hall for tea. She should head there herself, make sure everything was in order.

As she left, she saw another hearse heading up the high street, a fleet of cars behind it. She wasn’t the only person in the world mourning, it seemed. She wasn’t sure whether that was a comfort or not.

6

The last time Vanessa had walked up the aisle to the front of St Mary’s was the day she had married Spencer. The little church had been as full then as it was today. A lot of the people were the same, too. There was just one notable difference. None of her family was here.

Her father wasn’t, of course, because she hadn’t seen him since she was four years old. Nor was her mother. She and Squirrel had agreed to differ on Spencer a long time ago.

‘I’ll come if you want me to, of course, darling,’ said Squirrel.

But Vanessa couldn’t face the extra tension. Even though Spencer was dead, it would still be there. Far better to have a stress-free send-off and spend some time with Squirrel afterwards.

So here she was, outnumbered by Spencer’s family. She slid her way into the front pew that had been reserved for her. Mary Mac was already there, the only other person she wanted with her. She was in a smart navy jacket and skirt with lipstick on. Vanessa didn’t think she’d ever seen Mary in anything but a sweatshirt and jeans, make-up free.

Mary took her hand. Her warm sausagey fingers were a reassurance. Vanessa smiled her thanks. She knew everyone was looking at her but trying to pretend they weren’t.

Karina, Daniella and Aiden were in the right-hand pew: Karina in a sleek black suit which she would have spent hours on Net A Porter choosing; Daniella pale and red-eyed in a too-tight, too-short dress and Aiden awkward in a suit, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world. Vanessa thought he was probably wondering where his next spliff would come from. She’d caught him smoking more than a few times when he’d been to stay. Her silence hadn’t bought Aiden’s respect or affection, though – he still treated her with utter indifference, although she had never blown the whistle on him. Daniella was equally hostile, as if it was somehow Vanessa’s fault that their mother had left their father, three years before she’d even appeared on the scene. They had bought into the gold-digging myth perpetuated by their mother.

Vanessa had been as kind as she possibly could to them – why wouldn’t she be? – but they still treated her with suspicion and disdain. In the end, she came to the conclusion that they were so spoiled they treated everyone like that. She never heard Spencer reprimand them for their manners or discuss their schoolwork or give them any guidance whatsoever. He just gave them whatever they asked for. At best this was guilt; at worst, indifference and laziness.

If they’d had children, she thought …

The vicar came to the front and looked out over the congregation with a benign smile. Vanessa looked down at her order of service, at the picture of Spencer at the helm of
Poseidon
. Mary squeezed her fingers again. A bubble started in her tummy and wormed its way up to her throat. She swallowed it down in panic. She couldn’t lose it. Not in church. Not here. Not now.

With a huge effort of will, she fought down the terrible, overwhelming schoolgirl desire to laugh.

7

Joy’s funeral tea was held in the church hall, a draughty old building round the back of the graveyard. Courtesy of the fundraising committee, it had recently been painted a rather jolly yellow inside, and so felt more welcoming than it had last time Kate had ventured in. Probably, she thought, for the Christmas bazaar her mother had run for years: endless trestle tables filled with festive crafts that nobody really wanted but bought anyway, because it was all in a good cause and that’s what you were supposed to do.

Today, those same trestle tables had been laid out with a spread that on any other occasion Kate would have forced herself to resist. Almost every single item was off her list. An array of fresh sandwiches cut into triangles: cucumber, roast beef, salmon. Tiny bridge rolls filled with egg mayonnaise. Next to them, sausage rolls and mushroom vol au vents. And on the next table, fruit loaf and Victoria sponge and flapjacks. All the sorts of things her mother used to make.

It made her feel nostalgic and homesick and above all moved by the generosity of her mother’s friends, who had all pitched in and brought something.

Someone was pouring tea from the urn.

The cup that cheers but does not inebriate, thought Kate, accepting a cup and saucer gratefully. It was just what she needed. That time-honoured cure for all ills. There was no worry that her mother couldn’t chase away with a cup of tea.

Kate never drank tea in New York.

She helped herself to a cucumber sandwich and was immediately transported back to the summer of her childhood. It was amazing how taste could hold so many memories. If she shut her eyes, she would be there on the beach, sheltered from the wind by a gaily coloured wind-break, her hair whipping round her head.

A woman touched her on the arm.

‘You won’t know me,’ she said, ‘but your mother was so kind to me. When I lost my husband, she forced me out of the house and made me join the choir. It was the best thing I ever did.’

Kate smiled. Her mother had taken the choir very seriously, even though she wasn’t religious.

‘Were you singing today?’ she asked.

The woman nodded. ‘I like to think Joy would have appreciated it.’

‘The singing was beautiful. And she absolutely would have.’

‘I was so grateful to her. She was very special.’

Kate ventured another smile, but she could feel her chin wobble slightly. She lifted the cup to her lips to hide her lack of composure and turned away. She stood for a moment, but she could feel the tears coming. She put her cup down and walked into the kitchen, hoping no one would notice.

The kitchen hadn’t changed an iota. It even smelled the same, of bleach and beef consommé. How many times had she helped her mum with functions in here, plating up ploughmans for the harvest supper, or scooping out mulled wine into plastic cups for the Christmas bazaar? She could remember her sixteenth birthday party, serving up hot dogs at nine o’clock because her mum (quite rightly) said everyone’s stomach needed lining. Even now she could see the disco lights swirling round the ceiling, yellow and red and green, faster and faster because someone had tipped a half-bottle of rum into the punch.

She stood in the corner of the kitchen, behind the door of the cupboard that held the mops and buckets, and wept. She didn’t think she was ever going to stop.

‘Hey.’ It was Debbie. Debbie, who unlike most of Pennfleet had done herself up to the nines in a shiny tight black dress and four-inch heels and her hair pulled back in a bun high on her head. ‘Come here.’

She pulled Kate into her and held her tight, rocking her back and forth and shushing her, as she would her own children. ‘You cry, my lovely. You cry.’

Gradually Kate’s sobs died down. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘This place brings so many memories of her, that’s all.’

Debbie ignored her apology.

‘I remember when I threw up all over your parents’ couch after your party,’ she said. ‘We’d been drinking that punch all night and it was lethal. Your mum made me clear it up. But then she put me to bed and she was really kind.’

‘Yeah – put you into
my
bed,’ remembered Kate. ‘I had to sleep on the floor.’

‘You always had a better head for drink than me.’

‘Not now,’ said Kate. ‘I’m a real lightweight.’

‘Me too. With four kids. I fall over after one glass of wine.’

The two of them laughed. For a moment it was as if they were back in the school canteen, planning their next escapade.

‘What are you doing tonight?’ asked Debbie.

‘I don’t know. Just going home, I suppose.’

‘You don’t want to be on your own, surely?’

Kate didn’t know what she wanted. She didn’t want to go back to her parents’ empty house, but at the same time she didn’t want to be with people, putting on a brave face. Or worse, a not very brave face. Home seemed the easiest option.

‘I don’t mind. I need an early night. I’ve got to start clearing the house out tomorrow. I’ve got to get back to work as soon as I can.’

‘I can give you a hand if you want.’

‘I might need advice on where to get rid of some of the stuff.’

‘No problem. And if you want to come over to mine tonight, I can do you some dinner. It won’t be anything fancy. And it’s mayhem. But it might take your mind off things.’

‘That’s really sweet of you. But I’ll probably just go to bed.’

‘Course.’ Debbie put a hand on her arm. ‘But the offer’s there.’

Kate looked at the woman she’d spent so many crazy days and nights with all those years ago. They’d been best mates then, but they were worlds apart now. Their lives could not be more different. Yet there was still a strong connection. She felt genuine warmth and concern coming from Debbie, and she was grateful for it.

‘You’re really kind,’ she said, and her voice broke a little bit.

Debbie looked at her in surprise. ‘You’d do it for me.’

Would I, though? thought Kate. Would I even have the time to stop and worry about someone else? In theory, yes, of course. But would she take the time out to invest in someone just because they had once been friends, long ago?

‘Just come and bang on the door if you want company,’ said Debbie. ‘Number four. Carlyon Terrace.’ She grinned ruefully. Carlyon Terrace was where all the tearaways used to live. The problem families. ‘It’s not as rough as it was in our day.’

‘Thanks again.’ As she watched Debbie go, Kate gathered herself together. She really should get back out there and not stay snivelling in the broom cupboard. She wiped her eyes and made her way back into the hall.

People were starting to clear away cups and plates. Someone was putting cling film over the few remaining sandwiches. As the last of the mourners drifted away, Kate felt a gloom descend. She had felt so supported and uplifted by everyone’s kindness, but now she realised she was on her own. She expected to see her mother any moment, wielding a broom.

She pulled on her coat and left. She couldn’t bear to say goodbye to anyone, for she knew she would cry again, even though she wanted to thank them all. She felt bone-tired and lightheaded. She thought they would probably understand.