Borrowed Time (21 page)

“Meet me tomorrow, Sarah. Please.”

“It really is urgent?”

“Yes. I’ll come to Bristol. Wherever suits you.”

“All right. College Green, twelve thirty sharp. Wait on one of the benches there. I work nearby. But a long lunch is the last thing my schedule needs at the moment, so please don’t be late.”

“I won’t be, I promise.”

I drove up to Bristol early enough the following morning to be absolutely certain of being on time. It was a warm sunny day. When I arrived, the benches on College Green were already occupied by groups of idle youths and weary shoppers in search of a tan. A heat haze blurred the perspective of Park Street and the soaring elegance of the University Tower, while traffic roared by and exhaust fumes swirled in the motionless air. I stood in the centre of College Green’s triangle of grass, studying the ceaseless bustle of the world and reflecting how powerless I was to halt or alter its course in any way. What would be would always be.

She appeared promptly at half past twelve from the mouth of a narrow street between the cathedral and the Royal Hotel. A slight hurrying figure in a grey suit and white blouse. It struck me, watching her approach, that at twenty-five she’d begun to lose some of the youthful traits I’d noticed at our first meeting. Which wasn’t just a measure of her professional cares, but an indicator of how long I’d known her. Her mother had been dead nearly three years. Yet still, in so many ways, she lived.

“I don’t have long, Robin,” Sarah announced, greeting me with a fleeting kiss. “Shall we to go a pub? There’s a decent one just round the corner.” Then she noticed the plastic bag in my hand. “Been shopping?”

“Not exactly.” Her innocent question spared me the task of constructing a painful preamble. I launched straight in. “Did you know there’s to be a programme about your mother’s murder on television tomorrow night?”

“
Benefit of the Doubt?
Yes. Daddy’s solicitor got wind of it.”

“This is a recording.” I held up the bag. “It’s why I’m here.”

“What are you doing with a recording of a programme that’s not yet gone out?”

“It’s a complimentary copy. A gesture of thanks from the presenter. I’m in it, you see. In more ways than one.”

We sat in a cool and shadowy alcove of the Hatchet Inn, privacy guaranteed by the hubbub of fruit machines and bar-rail conversations. Sarah listened patiently to what I had to say, pressure of commitments forgotten now I’d drawn her out of her daily preoccupations to consider once more the doubts and difficulties her mother’s death had bequeathed to her—and which she must have heartily wished could be put behind her for good and all.

“I was a fool to agree to the interview. And a bigger fool to let him set me up the way he did. The Bushranger bid was what did it. But for all that spinning around in my head, I’d never have let my tongue run away with me. I was a bit drunk, a bit resentful, a bit . . . Well, there it is. It’s done. And it can’t be undone. Seymour’s edited the tape to make it sound as if I think your mother tried to pick me up. I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean that. But it’s how it comes out. I’m sorry. Sorry
and
ashamed. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. Or change it. I just wanted you to know . . . beforehand . . . that it wasn’t intentional. God knows what Sophie was thinking of, but I was . . . thinking of all the wrong things. Not concentrating. Not considering the consequences. Not . . . seeing clearly.”

“I don’t understand. No amount of editing could put words in your mouth.”

“It can seem to, believe me. Seymour twists what I say by leaving odd sentences out. It’s subtly done. You might not notice if you didn’t know it had happened.”

“And that’s why you wanted us to meet? So I
would
know?”

“Partly. But I’m also worried about Rowena.”

“You and me both. This couldn’t have come at a worse time. She’s been . . . a bit down lately. Fretting about her exams, Paul reckons. But they’re out of the way now and she hasn’t perked up. They say depression is a recurring illness and I think it may have recurred in her case. Not because of Mummy, though, or this bloody book. I’m not even sure she knows it’s been published.”

“Why, then?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Paul’s her confidant now, not me. Or he should be.”

“The marriage hasn’t run into trouble, has it?”

“No. At least . . . Well,
lack
of trouble may be the problem. Paul loves Rowena. That’s obvious whenever you see them together. But there’s such a thing as too much love, isn’t there? It can become stifling, even oppressive. Rowena’s only twenty-two. No age really. She grew up late. Maybe she’s only just started to grow up. Maybe she’s regretting settling her future so soon. It’s all mapped out for her now. Paul’s wife. The mother of Paul’s children. A fixture in Paul’s life. A part of Paul. Where’s Rowena?”

“If that’s the way she’s thinking . . .”

“A renewal of doubts about Mummy’s death isn’t going to help. Exactly. Fortunately, Rowena hardly watches television from one week’s end to the next. With any luck, she’ll know nothing about
Benefit of the Doubt
. I’m going out to dinner with her and Paul tomorrow night. Just to make sure.”

“Was that your idea?”

“Mine
and
Paul’s.”

“It could look like a conspiracy to Rowena. If she ever finds out. Not mentioning the book to her. Not telling her about the TV programme. You and her husband censoring what she can be allowed to know. It’s a dangerous—”

“You have a better idea, do you?” She was angry. It happened suddenly and only now, too late, did I realize why. I’d crossed the invisible boundary between legitimate concern and unwelcome interference. “What do you suggest? Dig up all those uncertainties again? Start her chasing after that crazy idea about Mummy foreseeing her death?”

“No. Of course not. But—”

“Or is this interview your way of taking the decision out of our hands?”

“You know it isn’t.”

“Do I?”

“Would I have warned you about it if it was?”

“Perhaps not. But . . .”

“Evasion and concealment breed problems, Sarah. Don’t you see that? Oh what a tangled web we weave, etcetera. If you’d been honest with Rowena about the possibility that your mother meant to leave your father, precognition might never have entered her head as an—”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” She stared at me, appalled. “That’s why you’ve done this. I knew I should never have told you about Mummy leaving Daddy. You resented me keeping it from you till after the trial, didn’t you?”

“Why should I have resented it?”

“Because what you said in court might have been different if you’d known about it then. And you think that’s why I held it back. What’s more, you’re right. I only told you when I did because I thought Rowena’s suicide attempt would have made you understand just how damaging complete honesty could be. But you didn’t understand. And you still don’t. As I expect this proves.” She pointed at the bag lying on the table between us. “So now you want to have it both ways. The truth—or your version of it—out in the open. And my generous pardon. Justified by some crap about selective editing.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Sarah. I’m simply trying to—”

“Force your opinion of us down our throats. Well, I’m not going to let you.” She rose abruptly, her chair scraping back across the floor, and grabbed the bag. “I’ll watch the tape, Robin. And I’ll be the judge of what I see. Thanks very much.” She turned on her heel and slipped through the crowd towards the door.

“Sarah, wait! I—” But she was gone. And pursuit now would only make matters worse. A blazing argument in the street to add to our misunderstandings. I sank back in my chair and contemplated the ruins of my strategy. There was a grain of truth in what she’d said. I wanted her approval, even her esteem. Perhaps, buried too deep for confession or recognition, I wanted some part of her that would remind me of her mother. But a greater desire always prevailed in the end. A desire to possess the secret Louise Paxton had taken to her grave.
“Can we really change anything, do you think?”
No. We couldn’t change a single thing. Unless we discovered it first. And then . . . Maybe. Just maybe.

I stayed longer in the pub than I should have, then wandered out, slightly drunk, into the hot afternoon. The visit to Bristol had been a mistake. I knew that only too well. Sarah couldn’t have thought worse of me if I’d kept clear and let her see the programme unprepared. I’d tried to forewarn her of Seymour’s duplicity. But I’d only succeeded in alerting her to mine.

I made my way back to College Green and headed vaguely towards Queen Square, where I’d parked the car. But it was obvious some strong coffee would be needed before I drove anywhere. The warehouses running down the western side of a narrow reach of the harbour just below the Royal Hotel had been converted into a complex of shops, restaurants and art galleries. A couple of
espressos
in a café there cleared my head. I emerged ready to face the journey back to Petersfield.

Only to stop in my tracks when I glanced across the reach to see Rowena walking slowly along the other side. She was wearing a long loose flower-patterned dress. Her hair hung unbraided to her waist, a splash of palest gold in the sunlight, waving slightly with each step she took, as a field of wheat might when stirred by a breeze. She was heading south, bound presumably for home. I knew from Sarah that she and Paul lived in one of the smart dockside town houses that had sprung up in the area since its commercial decay. Convenient for Metropolitan Mutual
and
the university. But she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get back there. She was dragging her feet, fiddling with the strap of her shoulder-bag as she walked, alternately gazing up at the sky and staring down at the cobbles. She looked neither to right nor left, but, even if she’d glanced in my direction, she’d probably not have seen me in the shadows of the colonnade that ran the length of the warehouse block. The reach was narrow, of course. If I’d stepped forward and shouted to her, she would have heard. But something deterred me. Something in her bearing and my shame. Something that told me chance meetings were best avoided.

Nevertheless, I found myself walking in the same direction as her. And at the same pace. Keeping track for as long as our routes ran parallel. Hers down past the Unicorn Hotel to the Arnolfini building at the corner of the quay. Mine to where the colonnade ended and a permanently moored ship got up as a floating pub blocked my view of her. Hurriedly, I went aboard, ordered a drink I didn’t want and took it to the starboard window. But Rowena had stopped at the quayside opposite me, almost as if she’d known I’d need a few moments to catch up. She couldn’t see me, I was certain. Not with the sun in her eyes as it was. She seemed to be looking for something, squinting out across the water. She took a step closer to the edge and for a second I was alarmed. But there was no need. She tossed her head, setting her hair bouncing across her back, then turned and walked away towards the swing-bridge across the harbour.

She’d soon be out of sight. Distance would claim her as one of its own. I watched her cross the bridge, then turn to the left, heading further away from me than ever along the wharves on the far side of the harbour. A pale speck amidst the visual chaos of masts and rooftops, speeding cars and sprawling crowds, glaring sky and sparkling water. A few seconds, as my eyes strained to follow her. A farewell flash of sunlight on her hair. Then she was gone. I waited to be certain. But there was no longer any trace of her. Not so much as a blur.

I left my drink and walked off the ship. There, opposite me, on the quay, she’d stood only a few minutes before. I could have hailed her. I could have urged her to wait while I hurried round to join her. And if she’d still been standing there, I believe I would have done. But belief can so often be self-deception. I’d had the chance. And I’d turned it down. Now there was nothing to do but to walk away.

I heard nothing from Sarah between my return to Petersfield and the
Benefit of the Doubt
broadcast. She’d had ample time by then to play and replay the video until every word of mine Seymour had used was imprinted on her memory. But her only response was silence. Perhaps, I thought, that was to be my punishment. My exclusion, so far as she could engineer it, from Rowena’s life as well as hers. My forfeit of the confidence they’d once invested in me.

I recorded the transmission myself, but I didn’t watch it. I’d seen it too many times already. The awareness that I couldn’t force Seymour to admit he’d deliberately distorted what I’d said any more than I could force Sarah to acknowledge he’d done so dragged my exasperation down into exhaustion. Until a show of indifference was the only riposte I felt capable of.

Adrian had got hold of a couple of tickets for the opening day of the Lord’s Test and had offered them to Simon and me, claiming he was too busy to go himself. Simon and I both realized it was more in the nature of a bribe, with the company’s response to Bushranger’s bid still formally unsettled. But that didn’t stop us accepting. In my case, it was just what I needed: a day’s refuge from any possibility of an irate call from Bella or Paul or Sir Keith about my interview on
Benefit of the Doubt
the night before. Simon gave me his opinion of it, of course. “I said you should never have got mixed up with that in the first place, Rob. You should have listened to your big brother.” All of which was thoroughly predictable. As well as being uncomfortably close to the truth. But as soon as the champagne started to flow, he gave up lecturing me and a moratorium on the subject of Bushranger meant we had an enjoyably light-hearted day. Even if Australia’s dominance of England did seem to point a dismal moral for Timariot & Small.

I got back to Greenhayes late that night, overslept and reached the office nearer ten o’clock than nine the following morning, my hangover made no more bearable by the knowledge that Simon’s was probably worse. A pile of messages had accumulated in my absence and I was sifting aimlessly through them with one hand while trying to prise a Disprin out of its foil wrapper with the other when my secretary put her head round the door to announce she had Nick Seymour on the telephone.