Silvermeadow (44 page)

‘I’m really sorry I missed it, Suzanne,’ he said.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ She patted his hand.

‘Yes it does,’ he said, and meant it. The chance wouldn’t come again. He took hold of her fingers and gave them a squeeze. ‘I was really looking forward to it, the atmosphere, the children’s faces. Was Captain Hook good?’

‘Terrifying. And the crocodile. The kids were absolutely captivated. Do you know, it was the first time they’d seen live theatre? I’m just worried I might have got them stage-struck and blighted their little lives for ever.’

‘Would that be so bad? Miranda’s got stage presence, I reckon. Tragedy, though, not pantomime. Lady Macbeth rather than Cinderella.’

‘She can be rather intense, can’t she? Coming back on the train she asked if you were very lonely, living on your own.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said she should ask you, if she could catch you in.’

Brock laughed. ‘Tomorrow, I promise. Where are we going?’

‘The zoo, but don’t make promises, David. Sergeant Kolla may ferret out another lead. Now she
does
sound intense.’

‘Determined, certainly. But I thought she was becoming a bit more relaxed recently.’

‘Does she have a man?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Don’t you know? Don’t you discuss such things with your colleagues?’

‘No. And I’m not sure in the sense that I thought I’d detected some mutual interest between her and someone, but now I don’t know.’

‘Another copper?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘Probably, yes. Why not?’

‘I just thought life might get a bit in-bred, you know. Anyway, how can I say? I’ve never even met Sergeant Kolla.’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Yes, I think I do. Then I can stop being jealous of her.’

‘Eh?’ Brock lowered his fork to his plate in surprise.

‘Yes, of course. You obviously have a lot of, well, respect for each other.’

‘I should think so.’

‘Don’t get huffy, David. Tell you what, why don’t you invite her and this possible mutual admirer over for a meal, and I’ll tell you whether they’re made for each other or not. Make it tomorrow evening. I’ll cook something nice.’

‘Are you sure?’ Brock looked doubtful.

‘Why not? Unless you’re trying to keep me a secret?’

‘No, no . . .’ He frowned at his plate. ‘Why would I do that?’ But it was true, he realised. He didn’t want . . . what? To have to define their relationship to people who had nothing to do with it? Was that it? Or to have to explain when, or if, it came to nothing.

Suzanne burst out laughing. ‘Oh, David. I hope you lie better than that to your villains.’

He grinned back. ‘They’re not usually as perceptive as you.’

They held each other’s eyes, smiling, then leant towards one another across the corner of the table and shared a gentle kiss.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ Suzanne suggested, and they got to their feet and carried dishes through to the kitchen. Brock watched her at the sink, rinsing plates, and was filled with a sense of gratitude. He took hold of her again, and again they kissed, longer and deeper.

They were disturbed by a small shuffling sound at the door, and looked over to see Miranda there, face puffy with sleep, staring fixedly at them.

‘Are you all right, darling?’ Suzanne said, going to her.

‘I had a bad dream,’ the little girl muttered, and rubbed at her eyes. ‘I saw a monster.’

‘Don’t worry, my darling.’ Suzanne gathered her up in her arms. ‘There are no monsters here. Uncle David would never allow it.’

Miranda stared across at Brock with the same uncertain look he’d seen on her face before.

Suzanne stroked her hair and said, ‘Probably it was the crocodile in the pantomime that gave you the dreams, darling.’

The little girl pressed her face against Suzanne’s cheek and whispered something.

‘What, darling?’

‘The monster turns people into dwarfs, and eats them for his dinner,’ Miranda whispered, and again stared at Brock, then at the dinner plates on the kitchen table.

18

K
athy was at Euston in plenty of time the following evening, Thursday the twenty-third of December. The train was late and her feet were frozen by the time it arrived. She felt her heart give a lurch when she saw him, and she thought, That’s how you know, isn’t it?

He walked steadily towards her through the milling people, the slamming doors and baggage trolleys, his eyes on her, the barest smile, and they embraced and kissed each other on the cheek.

‘You’re cold,’ he said.

‘Freezing. How was your trip?’

‘Pretty good.’

‘Tell me all about it in the car.’ She turned towards the exit.

‘Kathy, wait. I’m not going back to the flat.’

‘What?’ She thought she’d misheard him in the noise of the station.

‘I’m getting a taxi to my parents’ house. I’ve arranged to spend Christmas with them.’

The roar of people and banging doors seemed to fade to a buzz in Kathy’s head. She stared at him.

‘I’m sorry. I just decided this afternoon.’

‘What then?’ she asked.

‘Then?’

‘After Christmas.’

‘Oh. Well, we’ll see, I suppose.’

He took a step towards her, and brushed his mouth against her cheek again. ‘Sorry. Best this way.’

She stood immobilised as he walked past her and away.

Later, when she got into her car, she remembered Brock’s unprecedented invitation to them both to dinner that evening, and swore under her breath. She didn’t want to call it off. She wanted to meet the mysterious Suzanne, and her children.
His
children?

As some kind of compensation, she had bought not one but two ridiculously expensive bottles of wine. She stood clutching them on Brock’s doorstep, the wind whistling round her upturned coat collar, turning her nose red, and listened to the heavy footsteps coming down the stairs inside.

‘Kathy! Hello. Come in out of the cold.’ Brock looked over her shoulder. ‘Did you come separately?’

‘Leon’s not coming, Brock. Sorry.’

‘Oh dear. Everything all right?’

‘Not really, no. Bit of a misunderstanding.’

‘You sound glum,’ he said, closing the front door behind her and taking the bottles so that she could take off her coat. He looked concerned, but then a thought seemed to strike him and his expression changed to a little smile.

Kathy regarded this with surprise and some irritation. She didn’t enjoy the idea of him finding her and Leon a joke.

‘These are very good,’ he said, examining the labels on the bottles, and the little smile broke out again.

Kathy wasn’t in the mood for private jokes she didn’t understand, especially if, as seemed likely, they were at her expense. ‘What’s funny?’

‘Oh . . . just that I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you and Leon that I’m on my own too.’

‘You are?’

‘Yes. Suzanne and the children have gone, I’m afraid. Sorry. As you say, a bit of a misunderstanding.’

‘Oh dear . . .’

Kathy didn’t know what to say. Neither of them did. They stood there in the small hallway looking uncomfortable. The more she thought about it, the more awkward it became. They saw each other continually at work but rarely outside, and here they were forced into a social intimacy that probably neither of them welcomed, because of partners who had now abandoned them.

‘They weren’t ill, were they?’ she asked, for the sake of something to say.

‘No, nothing like that. Leon?’

‘No, no. Actually I never even had the chance to tell him you’d invited him. It’s not his fault. I’m sure he would, er, want me to apologise . . . for him.’

‘Fine, fine.’

She was beginning to understand his smile. What else could you do? She grinned back.

He led the way up the stairs and into the kitchen where he uncorked and poured the wine. She couldn’t see any signs of food preparation.

‘Absent friends,’ Brock said. ‘Mmm, this is good. Bad luck on them. Here, let me show you something.’

He picked up the bottle and led her up the next half flight to the living room. It was exactly as Kathy remembered it, except that in the centre of the room, on the rug in front of the hissing gas fire and surrounded by the sofa and armchairs, on the very spot where she had once stabbed a man to death, was a small pile of garden rubbish. She shuddered and turned away.

‘Ah,’ she heard him say. She realised he must have noticed her reaction. ‘The spot, yes. I’d almost forgotten. You haven’t been back since, have you? Are you all right? Sit down.’

She wasn’t all right, she discovered. She could feel the blood draining from her head, and sat down firmly on one of the armchairs, willing herself not to pass out in front of him. She was startled by the force of her reaction to seeing the place again.

She forced herself to speak, the blood buzzing in her ears. ‘Don’t you mind? I really thought you’d have sold this house after it happened.’ She was glad now that the others weren’t here. She wouldn’t have wanted to have to explain.

‘No need. The blood didn’t stain the polished floorboards. I only had to buy a new rug.’

He was being deliberately prosaic because he had seen now that she was having trouble, and this was his way of helping her. She grimaced in acknowledgement. She had killed the man, but in self-defence, when she disturbed him after he’d half-killed Brock. He’d had a blade—she pictured it now, glittering in his hand—and she’d been unarmed. The only weapon available had been the long fork with which Brock toasted bread and crumpets on the gas fire, and with which she had finally, unavoidably, stabbed the man in the throat.

Her eyes turned to the mantelpiece above the fire, and it was hanging there.

‘Christ, Brock,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve still got the bloody toasting fork.’

She took a gulp of her wine, the glass trembling wildly in her hand.

‘You didn’t tell the children, did you?’

‘No. Are you sure you’re all right, Kathy? Maybe a brandy would be better?’

She shook her head, trying to find words of conversation. She wanted him to talk, about anything else. ‘So, what’s with the compost heap?’

‘Ah yes, I’ve been sitting here for much of the day contemplating that’—he waved a hand at the debris— ‘trying to learn the appropriate lessons.’

Kathy noticed a half-empty bottle of whisky and an empty glass on a side table, and wondered just how much help he’d had in his contemplation.

‘What is it?’

‘It is, or was, my prize bonsai.
Juniperus chinensis
, Chinese juniper. It was started from advanced stock on VJ Day, nineteen forty-five, by my father. About the only thing of his that I still possessed, that and the bonsai tools. He was an enthusiast, a great admirer of Japanese culture.’

‘So what happened to it?’

‘Two children by the name of Stewart and Miranda. They thought I was getting a bit too pally with their grandmother—’

‘Suzanne is their grandmother?’

‘Yes, of course. You didn’t think they were ours, did you? Anyway, they decided to terminate their visit by doing something so unspeakable that I’d be forced to kick them all out. Quite smart really, for eight and five years old respectively.’

‘And did you? Kick them out?’

‘No, of course not. But the plan worked anyway. Suzanne was so mortified that she insisted on taking them away. I told her not to be so daft, but she wouldn’t stay. I think it was the cold-blooded way they did it that bothered her most. I’d told them about the tree, and they knew it meant something to me. They got up very early this morning and went out to the yard, uprooted it, brought it in here and systematically chopped it up with the bonsai tools. Quite an effort. They owned up to it straight away. Wanted me to see how incorrigible they would be.’

He reached over with the bottle and refilled Kathy’s glass.

‘I wish they hadn’t chosen that spot to do it,’ she said. ‘But why were they so upset at the idea of you and their gran?’

‘Their father ran away with some woman a couple of years ago, and then their mother went off the rails a bit. You know, feelings of rejection, depression, guilt . . .’

‘Yes . . .’ Kathy sipped her wine.

‘Then some rich bloke came along. Offered her a great time on some Greek island, but kids not welcome. So she got her mum to take them, just for a week or two. That was a year ago.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. So men are very bad news. They break up the family. Destroy their security. It had happened twice, and they weren’t going to let it happen again. They were going to hang on to their gran at all costs. Can’t really blame them, can you? Poor Suzanne. She tries so hard to do the right thing.’

‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’ Kathy said, surprising herself with the force of her question.

‘Give up? No. But I’d better let things calm down. Be patient.’

‘Maybe you can be too patient . . .’ she said, then stopped herself. ‘Anyway, that’s sad. And you’ve been sitting here working this out.’

‘Oh, it didn’t take long to work it out. No, mostly I’ve been sitting here wondering what else it can tell me.’

‘What else?’

‘Well, their story is Naomi’s story, isn’t it? Parents don’t cope, grandparents have to take over. It’s not uncommon. There’s a lot of it about these days.’

Kathy said nothing. In a way it was her story too.

‘But it brought it home to me what it does to the kids. They took quite a risk, after all. They could have alienated their grandmother and made her side with me. But they had to trust that they weren’t too late. They were prepared to do almost anything to hang onto her, what was left of their family.’

‘And Naomi?’

‘Yes, Naomi . . . A very determined young woman, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Tough, her grandparents called her.’

‘Tougher than them, certainly. They’re quite frail, aren’t they? While Naomi goes out to work to buy them lottery tickets, to keep alive their impossible dream of getting out of that estate and living in a cottage by the sea.’

‘I’m not sure . . .’ Kathy said tentatively. The wine and the shock on an empty stomach were making her feel dizzy, and she was becoming increasingly uncertain that she was following Brock’s train of logic, or even that there was one.