False Charity (13 page)

‘Morning!' said Piers, seated at the table already with a cup of coffee in his hand. He was wearing a white towelling robe over nothing much.

Bea was shocked. ‘You never spent the night here, did you?'

‘Who helped to put you to bed, right? I said I'd better sleep across your door like a squire of old in case you started sleep-walking, but Maggie insisted I took the spare room instead. I'll find somewhere else today. Did you sleep all right?'

What a ridiculous question! Besides, Bea knew very well that it was Maggie who'd talked her into getting undressed and into bed. She ignored Piers, and accepted the mug of coffee Maggie put in her hand.

Oliver popped up with a sheaf of papers in his hand, looking wide awake and bushy-tailed. Bea snarled at him that she didn't want to know about anything.

He treated her to a forgiving smile. ‘Of course. My father's like that in the mornings, too. There's not much been happening, anyway. That cleaner woman's been on the phone again, nearly got arrested at the House of Commons trying to get in to see Max, would you believe! Then there's the usual; a couple of people who've heard you're back and want you to ring them back. Oh, all right. I won't bother you with the details till you feel better.'

‘I feel fine!' Bea spat the words out. ‘Just go away and leave me in peace.'

‘Okey-dokey,' said the irrepressible one, shoving a pen and a letterhead into her hand. ‘Just sign here, and the cheque here, that's right. Maggie or I will take it round to the shop this morning and see if they accept it, right?'

Bea signed, knowing with one part of her mind that she was probably committing a felony because the cheque would bounce though she couldn't see why since it looked all right to her admittedly bleary eyes. Where were her glasses?

The coffee was working. A bit. Caffeine did kick-start a lousy day into touch. Not that the sky looked lousy. It looked pellucid blue, forewarning of another hot day to come. How come it was going to be another beautiful day when Hamilton was not there to see it?

She was going to dissolve into tears again. No, she wasn't. She sought for something else to grumble about. ‘Anyone know what's happened to our cars? Max said something about using Hamilton's, but what about mine?'

‘Further down the street,' said Oliver. ‘We've got residents' parking now and Max applied for a space for you. He's taken Mr Hamilton's car and I suppose he's parked it somewhere near wherever he's staying at the moment. Mrs Max was using yours but she had a puncture a couple of days ago, and I took it round to the garage and had it mended. It meant a new tyre, I'm afraid, so I paid for it with my father's …' His voice faded, and he blushed.

Piers gave a very audible sigh.

Bea still felt disagreeable. ‘Are you old enough to have a licence?'

He swallowed. ‘Provisional. I was taking driving lessons, getting on really well, until … you know.'

‘I sat in the car with him when he drove it to the garage,' said Maggie, polishing glassware till it shone. ‘He's going to be a really good driver.'

Bea shook her head to clear it. ‘So, Maggie, you've got a licence?'

Maggie ducked her head between her shoulders. ‘Well, actually, no. Failed my test three times. But—'

Bea held on to her head. ‘I'm going mad. Get out, all of you. And that means you, too, Piers.'

They whispered their way out of the room. Bea drank her coffee and tried to put her brain back into working order. It was absolutely no use wanting to turn the clock back. Life was never going to be the same as it had been before Hamilton became ill. So why didn't she make a clean break with the past and move out of this house with all its memories of him? Find a flat somewhere, take up bridge, shop at Harrods, have rendezvous with old friends who'd come up from the country for the day?

The house phone rang. There was an extension in the kitchen, so she answered it without thinking. A voice quacked at her but she couldn't make out what they were asking. She cradled the phone.

No sooner had she put the phone down than it rang again. Bea shuddered. She couldn't cope with one more person asking her to do something for them. She was finished, washed up, and put out to grass. If it were urgent, the caller could leave a message. She muted the bell so it didn't disturb her again.

Piers came back into the room, fully dressed and carrying his mobile. ‘I know you only want to be left alone, Bea, but I'm not sure that's the right thing to do. I keep asking myself what Hamilton would have done.'

She turned her shoulder on him, thinking he'd leave her, but instead he sat down at the table. ‘Yes, I'm going in a minute. My agent wants to see me, and then I'll check into a hotel and get back to one or two people who've been trying to get in touch. I'll leave my mobile on in case you want me for something.'

The phone rang again downstairs, and Maggie's high-pitched laugh assaulted the ears. Bea closed her eyes and sank her head into her folded arms on the table. How long before Piers took the hint and went away?

‘Those two young things,' he said. ‘They make me feel like the Ancient of Days. Do you want to tackle Oliver's old man for him? Or shall I?'

Bea shrugged.

A pause. ‘Maggie's dusting everything in sight down there, even under the computers, getting under Oliver's feet. She's threatening to come up here and give the oven a good clean, so be warned.'

Bea half lifted her head. ‘That laugh of hers drives me crazy, and she talks down to me as if I were a small child.'

‘You need her at the moment. I suspect there's a shrinking violet somewhere beneath all that bravado. I'd like to know how her marriage ended. With a bang and not a whimper, I should think. Perhaps her husband knocked her about?'

‘I can hardly help myself, and you're asking me to take those two social misfits on board?'

An exclamation from the doorway, and Bea turned her head long enough to catch sight of a turquoise top disappearing from view. She bit her lip. Oh dear. Now what had she done?

‘Oops,' said Piers. ‘Well, what is it to be? Are you going to sink into a nice, destructive bout of self-pity, or get your skates on and tackle the baddies?' He sighed, got to his feet. ‘Hark at me, playing the wise guru, sorting everyone out while unable to get my own life straight.'

He left the room, humming. Bea heard him shout down the stairs to Maggie that he was leaving now, and that there was some post on the doormat. She heard him drag his suitcase to the front door. It opened and closed.

He'd gone. Bea relaxed, laying her arms on the table before her, stretching them out, resting her head on them. Somewhere in the house, Radio Three announced a change of programme. What would Hamilton have said, if he'd been here?

Well, Hamilton had had a coping mechanism for the times that he felt life was getting too much for him. He'd say, ‘I know I can't do it on my own strength, but I know someone who can. I'd better go and ask Him to take over.'

If it were fine, he'd go out into the garden and sit under the tree, hands on knees, palms facing upwards, head down-bent. And hand everything over to his Lord to deal with. If it were raining, he'd shut his office door on everyone and do the same thing. Then in ten minutes or thirty, he'd come back looking relaxed and cheerful, ready to kick ass or negotiate or console or … whatever was needed.

She'd never tried doing that. Her way was to go on worry, worry, worrying away at things till she was exhausted and hadn't really sorted anything out. Yes, she'd tried prayer every now and then, but had always felt self-conscious about it. She'd been brought up to think that you always had to use the words of the prayer book when you talked to God, and had been scandalized that Hamilton didn't always bother to use words, never mind words that other people had written. Oh, of course he'd liked to repeat certain prayers, but he'd also believed that you could pray without words, not even asking Him to grant a petition, but just opening yourself up to God. This morning she was in such a tizzy that she couldn't remember any ‘proper' prayers all the way through. Perhaps she ought to try it Hamilton's way?

She sat upright, closed her eyes, laid her forearms on the table with the palms uppermost, and tried to relax. Failed. Allowed herself to slump a bit. Said, ‘Please Lord,' over and over in her head, not being at all sure that He would be listening, but hoping against hope that someone was out there and cared enough to help her on the next stage of the journey.

Oliver came into the room with the soft footsteps of someone visiting an invalid. ‘Mrs Abbot?' He'd muted his voice, too.

She opened her eyes, and straightened her back with an effort.

‘Mrs Abbot, would you like us to clear out? We could go to the park or something, the weather's fine. Just say the word and we'll be off and leave you in peace. If that's what you want.'

She shook her head. She didn't think she'd had any direct message from God but she did at least understand what she had to do next. The thought of being left alone in peace and quiet in her house was attractive, but she couldn't throw the children out yet, especially after calling them social misfits.

She tried to sound as if she were back in control. ‘No, of course I don't want you to go yet, Oliver. Now, what have we got on this morning?' She tried to think. ‘Oh yes, we have to get that cheque in, don't we? It's local, shouldn't take long. Then I suppose I might have a go at the hotel where the function's being held on Saturday. What's it called? Green's Hotel. I think I know where it is. Not far away, but just too far to walk.' She couldn't take Oliver, looking like something out of a refugee camp. ‘I'll take Maggie with me, shall I? Maggie, if that's you lurking behind the door, do come in.'

Maggie banged open the door, looking as if she'd rather like to hit someone, preferably Bea. Should Bea apologize? Better not; that would be to make too much of what had been a moment's thoughtlessness. But how to restore harmony?

‘Maggie, you can be my social secretary. I shall say that I'm enquiring about facilities for a party I want to give in the autumn.' She sought for a reason why she would be giving a party. ‘It will be a sixtieth birthday party for my famous ex-husband Piers, the well-known portrait painter. I shall enquire about catering, and drinks and silver service and a band, and you will take notes for me. I shall boast, in a deprecating manner, about the pictures he's had hung in the National Portrait Gallery.'

Maggie's mouth hung open. ‘A social secretary? Me?'

‘I shall drop the information, carelessly, that I'm attending the ball at the hotel on Saturday and will need to compare prices with what is being provided then. I'm sure they'll tell me what I need to know.'

‘Brilliant,' said Maggie, grudgingly. ‘But—'

‘I know what you're going to say,' said Bea. ‘You aren't dressed like a social secretary, except perhaps for the Bubble character in
Ab Fab
, and that's not quite the impression we intend to make, is it? I'll find you something less obvious to wear. Does that pink colour wash out of your hair or is it a dye?'

‘You don't like my hair?' Maggie's arms went akimbo again.

‘Very trendy,' said Bea, realizing that she'd said the wrong thing, yet again.

‘
I
like it,' said Oliver.

Maggie tossed her head, unplacated. ‘Yes, but if
she
doesn't, I don't know what—'

‘No need to make a song and dance about it,' said Bea, losing patience. ‘You're dressing up to play a part to help Coral. I'll find you a longer skirt and …' Bea looked with dismay at the tatty flip-flops the girl was wearing ‘… and perhaps some better shoes.'

‘I've got awkward feet,' said the girl, pointing out the obvious.

Bea could see that. Maggie's feet were long and slender and needed expensive shoes to show them off. ‘We'll buy you a pair before we do anything else.'

The girl went bright red. ‘I've got shoes of my own, if you don't mind!'

‘Of course,' said Bea, telling herself that it was like walking through a minefield, trying to talk to this child. ‘Now if you can help me move some of Max's stuff out of my dressing room, I can get at some clean clothes and we'll be on our way. Oliver, you've got plenty to get on with?'

As she went up the stairs with Maggie, Bea looked across at the mirror over the fireplace in the living room, and clutched at the banister, feeling as if she'd missed a step. There was the silver photograph frame, but there was no picture in it. The photograph of Hamilton was missing.

Bea was spooked. Could a photo disappear when the subject of it died? She couldn't breathe properly. Was she so short of sleep, so swayed by grief, that she saw his likeness one minute and the next, it was gone? She told herself that there must be a rational explanation. She'd think of it later. Perhaps the sun had caught the frame at such an angle that it blanked out the picture.

She followed Maggie up the stairs, feeling unreal. Maggie helped Bea pull various bits and pieces out of the dressing room, till she could edge in far enough to rescue some clean clothes. It had been summertime in the Antipodes, and it was summertime again now back in London. Her clothes, bought in good boutiques and in Harvey Nichols, were mostly subdued in colouring, classic rather than ornate. She picked out a knee-length swishy skirt in a soft grey-green for Maggie, with a darker green top to match. Bea could see that Maggie thought the clothing dull, but in fact on her spare frame they looked well.

‘Fancy dress,' said Bea, making herself smile. ‘You look the part now.'

‘And my hair?' The girl stuck her lower lip out.

‘Drop the dead orchid, and it'll be fine. Find yourself a pad and pen, and the keys to the car. Then we'll be off.'