The Legacy (2 page)

‘I'm impressed,' he said. ‘Are you the senior partner?'

‘No, that's my brother. He put up the money. He doesn't like me being late; so goodbye, and I hope the holiday gets better.'

‘I doubt it,' he answered. ‘Look, we don't sail until tomorrow. I've enjoyed meeting you so much. Would you have dinner with me tonight? Please say yes.'

There was no Jan to claim her that evening. ‘Why not? Thank you—I finish work at six.'

‘Do you like the Hotel Diplomat—it's supposed to be very good food?'

‘I've never been there—too expensive. It sounds great.'

‘I'll pick you up at six then.' He took off his hat to her, then walked away.

They had dinner that night in Stockholm and he never rejoined the cruise. When he did go back to England, she came with him as his wife.

It had been a strange courtship. Again, past and present overlapped in her mind, the solemn music in the church seemed to fade with its sad implications; a popular Swedish song hummed in her memory. Dinners, lunches, where they lingered too long and she had had to run back to her office. Trips to the countryside, long walks at weekends. And all the time they talked. Englishmen were supposed to be silent and reserved; Englishmen of his age and social class, at least. This one certainly wasn't. At dinner that first night, he had looked at her quite solemnly and said, ‘As I told you, I'm a widower and I'm quite lonely. It's sweet of you to come out this evening; I'll try not to bore you to death.' And Christina had said simply, ‘I don't think you could ever be boring. When did your wife die?'

‘Three months ago.' He ordered champagne. ‘If that suits you …?'

I love it; I only get to drink it when someone gets married … Was she ill for a long time?'

‘She wasn't ill. At least I couldn't accept that drug addiction was an illness. She didn't have to take heroin—she chose to, in the first place. I can't see something like that in the same terms as someone getting cancer … You don't agree, I can see that.'

Christina shook her head. ‘No, I don't, but then I've never had to cope with it. I'm sorry, I've no right to make judgements.'

He smiled briefly. ‘Everybody else did. She'd come back from the latest clinic … there was always some new miracle cure on offer, and I really thought it might have worked. She was normal and well; I saw flashes of her old self.' He paused and half finished the glass of champagne.

‘Don't go on,' she said quickly, ‘it's upsetting you; I shouldn't have asked. Tell me about it another time.'

‘No,' Richard Farrington said firmly, ‘I want to tell you about it now. It's best to be honest. When I came home that evening, I knew at once. She had that look in her eye. I accused her and she denied it; she always denied it. Lying had become like breathing. I'd lived for twenty years without trust and, for a long time, without hope. We have two sons, you see, and I suppose I was going on for their sake. That night we had a row; I said I'd get a divorce and she could dope herself to death if she liked. I'd had enough. I meant it, Christina.' He had used her name for the first time. ‘Alan and James were nearly grown up … I couldn't take any more. She got up, I can see her doing it, and poured herself half a glass of neat gin. She knew that it drove me crazy when she got drunk as well. “If you leave me,” she said, “I'll make you sell the house.”'

He paused. Christina didn't know what to say. She sipped her champagne; it tasted sour.

‘I walked out,' he said. ‘I was so angry, I wanted to hit her. I went upstairs and the next morning she was found in our swimming-pool. She'd gone for a swim, lost consciousness and drowned.' There was silence between them. Christina remembered that silence, remembered a couple passing their table, recognizing her and smiling. Suddenly he had said, ‘I've wrecked the evening, haven't I? I don't know what the hell came over me to pour all that out to you. You poor thing, I'm so sorry. Would you like me to take you home?'

He looked so vulnerable suddenly that she reached over and held his hand. She had loved her father and brother, and she had no inhibitions about showing any man affection. He had looked down at their hands in surprise and, for a moment, gripped hers hard and then let go.

‘Thank you for telling me, Richard.' She hadn't used his name before either. ‘I don't want to go home. I'm hungry and I want dinner.'

He told her afterwards that he hadn't known whether to laugh or cry at that moment. ‘You had this marvellous smile,' he said. ‘Full of warmth. I'm sure that's when I fell in love with you …'

They hadn't talked about it again. Not until he asked her to marry him three weeks later. He had suggested they meet at Hagaparken, to celebrate that first meeting.

Christina had taken him home one weekend; her mother liked him; her brother was more wary. ‘Look, if he's helping you to get over Jan, that's fine, but don't get too involved, Christa … You pick him up in the park, he takes you out a few times and you go to bed. OK, but don't fool yourself it's love …' But it was, and she knew it. It was very sexual between them, but it was more. They had a bond of tenderness which was quite new to her; they took care of each other in little ways. There had been three serious lovers in her life before Richard Farrington. Young men; lusty and self-centred, the first two, then the last one: sensitive, demanding and completely unreliable, Jan. Jan had made her miserable, while insisting that all he wanted in the world was to make her happy. She had told Richard about him with her usual honesty.

‘He was a pig to me,' she said, ‘an egotistical pig. We had just broken up when I met you. Thank God I went to eat apples in the park that day!'

They sat on a different bench; the original one was occupied by two Japanese tourists studying a map of the city.

‘You look very happy,' she told him.

‘I am,' he said. ‘I'm always happy when I'm with you. And I've had a very good morning!' He did look happy, but also excited.

‘What have you been doing?'

‘Two things; let me tell you about the unimportant one first. I collect old manuscripts and I found a real treasure in a dealer's shop today. I just passed by and went in, and there it was, with a lot of quite inferior stuff. I couldn't believe my luck, darling.'

‘What sort of manuscript was it?' she asked.

He grinned at her. ‘Would you understand if I told you?'

She laughed. ‘No, of course I wouldn't. Was it very expensive?'

‘Why do you worry about me spending money? I've told you. I'm not poor.'

‘Maybe, but I'm not rich and I have to earn what I spend. So what else did you do? What's the important thing, then?'

‘Our picnic,' he announced. ‘I wanted it to be special. After all, we've known each other three whole weeks. And because I know how much you like them, let's start with some apples.' He opened the bag; it came from Lundgren's, one of the best delicatessen stores in the Old City. ‘If you look among the apples, you might find something else.'

‘A present? I love presents.' She had scrabbled among the fruit like an excited child. She knew it was a ring by the box. ‘Richard?' She had looked up at him, ‘What have you been doing? You've been spending money again!' She opened the box.

‘Oh, darling … It's lovely … Where did you find it?' It was an apple made of rubies set into a plain gold band. Then she had paused before trying it on. ‘It's not a farewell present, is it?' It was only a few weeks since Jan had left her with only a brief note as a memento.

‘No,' Richard Farrington had said gently. ‘Unless you say you won't marry me. Third finger left hand … that's the British custom.'

She had looked directly at him then and slowly fitted the ring on her finger. ‘It's too big,' she said, ‘but we can get it altered.'

They didn't go out to celebrate that night; they spent the evening in her flat. He had often said how much he liked it; simple furnishings, big windows, a light easy place to live.

‘There are two big disadvantages, apart from me,' he said. Christina wriggled closer and nuzzled his neck. She wanted to make love; she felt voluptuous and light-headed with happiness.

‘What could be bigger than you?' she whispered and giggled.

‘Your new home. Darling, if you don't stop doing that, I won't show you the photograph.'

She sat up. ‘Show me then.' He passed a Polaroid to her. She stared at it.

‘Oh my God,' she said. ‘You live there?'

‘Yes, I live there. Is it a terrible shock to you?'

‘It's nearly as big as Drottningholm,' which was the King of Sweden's palace. ‘Richard, you really live there—it's not one of your silly jokes?'

‘No, no joke. My family have lived there for more than four hundred years. Are you going to give back the ring?'

‘Am I hell!' Christina had grabbed him round the neck and nipped his ear. ‘So what's the second of your very big disadvantages?'

‘My eldest son, Alan.' He moved her away from him. ‘He loved his mother. He'll be very difficult with you, darling. He is very difficult, anyway. I should have mentioned this before but, to be honest, I haven't even thought about him; I've just been too happy.'

‘I'll make friends with him,' she had promised. ‘I'll do my best to make him like me.' Twelve years later he sat behind her in the church, and she could feel his hatred burning like a torch.

The music changed to the anthem, and they stood up and turned as the coffin came up the nave. The girl holding her hand was as dark as Christina was fair; a tall slight child with her mother's bright-blue eyes. Tears were spilling down her cheeks.

‘It's Daddy,' she whispered. ‘Mum, I can't bear it …'

Christina slipped an arm around her shoulders. ‘It's all right, darling. This isn't him any more. He's in God's hands; he's happy and watching over us.' She wasn't religious herself, but she had brought up her daughter in the Catholic faith. She was a Farrington, and they had stayed true to their Church for over four centuries. It gave Belinda comfort to believe that her father was in heaven. Christina only wished she could have believed it, too. They had been so close, the father and daughter. He had adored her as a baby, doted on her through childhood, and become her mentor and friend. And she had worshipped him. Christina had tried to persuade her not to come to the funeral, but to say goodbye to him lying peacefully in his bed at home, and so remember him, but Belinda had insisted that she wanted to be there, to be close to him up to the last moment. Christina put her arm around her as the service began. They had each other now and the memory of his love to strengthen them.

His son, Alan, had refused to join them in the pew. He and his wife sat immediately behind, bringing their animosity into public view. The younger son, James, was with them. He wasn't an enemy but a weak neutral, unable to withstand the powerful personality of his elder brother. There would be no help from him. He lived and worked in America and had only come to RussMore a dozen times in as many years. He had always seemed ill at ease and glad to get away. Duty visits, Richard used to call them bitterly.

‘I wonder why he bothers …' There had been a lot of pain as well as happiness, and the author of it raised his voice loudly in the final hymn. The priest gave the blessing. The coffin was carried slowly down the aisle and out towards the graveyard. The church itself was Anglican, but there had been shared services between the two faiths for some years. Christina moved slowly forward with Belinda beside her. She gestured towards her stepsons. ‘Alan, James …' They walked ahead of her without a word. She was surprised to see that James had been crying. For a moment Alan Farrington had stared her in the eye, and it conveyed as much insult as if he had filled his mouth and spat. Hatred, contempt and a horrible gleam of triumph; it was all in that charged look, before he swung away and strode on out of the church. At the graveside they stood well apart. Christina had a sudden sense of isolation. Nobody liked to intrude; she was left with her child and her enemies.

There was a whisper and she started; it was Alan's wife, Fay. ‘How could you bring a child to a funeral like this … It's just ghoulish. Poor little thing!'

‘Lindy wanted to come,' Christina said. ‘She loved him. Which is more than any of you did.' She turned her back. Fay Farrington then stepped back beside her husband. She had struck her blow and she was satisfied; she hoped it had hurt. If anything could touch that calculating bitch … The way up to the house was a short walk between an avenue of massive oak trees. Mother and daughter went on alone. Tea was laid out for their friends and the representatives of the country organizations. Richard had been a magistrate and president of various associations and charities; they would be entertained and joined by the family after the will had been read.

‘We'll go upstairs first, darling,' Christina said. ‘You wash your poor face and we'll tidy ourselves; then we'll go down to the library.'

‘Do I have to go, Mum? I hate Alan and he'll be there …'

‘Daddy specially asked for you,' her mother said gently. ‘He wanted you to know how much he loved you. It won't take more than a few minutes, and Alan won't be here for very long.' Belinda looked up at her mother.

‘You hate him too, don't you? Daddy did.'

‘Hating doesn't do any good. He'll be out of our lives soon and we can forget about him.'

Christina brushed her hair; she hadn't worn a hat and Richard had insisted she mustn't wear black. Her face looked pale and strained, with lines under the eyes. She had cried herself dry after he died; grief had left its mark on her. Her only concern now was for her daughter, and to get the ordeal over. She had made it sound simple. ‘Alan won't be here long … He'll be out of our lives soon …' If only she could believe that.