I Remember You (38 page)

‘These are the best mosaics we have from Roman Britain,’ Tess had pointed out to him, stamping her feet in the cold, working off some of her aggression.

‘Yup, but I don’t believe in preservation like this,’ said Gerald casually. ‘If this Roman johnny’s place wasn’t meant to survive, it wasn’t meant to survive. Much better to spend the money on widening the road here. Bloody ridiculous an A-road only has one lane on the busiest stretch.’

‘I agree with you about that, Gerald,’ said Lynda. ‘It should never have taken us an hour to get here. It’s ridiculous. Now we’ll be late getting back, too. I don’t know what they’re thinking.’

What who are thinking? Tess wanted desperately to ask, but she didn’t want to get into it and so, regretfully, said nothing, but once again the thought occurred to her: she loved teaching Classics, loved helping these people learn new things, but God, there was no satisfaction in it, compared to how it used to be. When you could interest a bored fourteen-year-old in how the Romans conquered every people around them, from Turkey to the most savage British tribes, or how the Greeks invented the Olympics, or how the general in the first Iraq war used the battle strategies written down by the ancient historian Xenophon because, distressingly, history always repeats itself, then—
then
you felt you were teaching people something. When you were listening to an idiot like Gerald Mottram talk about how there should be more roads built and you were actually having to pay attention to what he said…well, that was a silly job.

‘Penny for them?’ Liz called from the kitchen. Tess sighed.

‘Nothing interesting. Do you want a glass of wine?’

‘Oh, I won’t, thanks,’ said Liz. ‘Want to keep myself fresh, you know.’

Tess carried on staring into space. ‘What’s the date tomorrow?’ she said, suddenly.

‘Er…’ Liz licked some sugar off her fingers. ‘The seventh of December.’

Tess sat up. ‘That’s tomorrow?’

‘Yep,’ said Liz. ‘Christmas nearly here. Why, what’s special about the seventh?’

‘Nothing,’ Tess said. ‘It’s someone’s birthday. That’s all.’

It was a bright, clear afternoon. There was a haze on the fields, a shimmering quality that was deceptively like summer; the grass was golden, and the dark green-black of the yew trees in the churchyard framed the view down across the valley.

St Mary’s was an old church, the oldest building in the town. It sat behind the high street, looking out over the countryside, its small but perfectly proportioned stone walls mellowed over the centuries into a golden-grey hue. On this crisp, cold day, there was no one around, save Tess. She closed the gate behind her and walked briskly up the path; the faint scent of eucalyptus in her nose as she passed the porch which was festooned with boughs of pine for Christmas.

She turned into the churchyard which stretched out behind the building, looking out over the hills, and picked her way through the graves as the rooks called loudly in the trees. The same family names, Taylors, Frobishers, Edwards, repeated over and over again, the lichen-covered stones listing slightly, as if they were slumbering in the frosty, ice-blue grass. The view was beautiful. Here would be a pretty good place, she thought, to spend eternity.

At the edge of the graveyard she stopped, holding in her
hands a little poinsettia plant she’d bought from the flower shop. She had found the grave she was looking for.

Philippa Smith
Beloved mother of Adam
7th December 1943-9th April 1995

Someone had recently cut the grass and a wreath already lay there; Tess looked at it, not giving it much thought, and gently put her plant down on the smooth turf. It was so quiet. She could hear a rook calling, the sound of a car on the road down towards the water meadows, and that was it. The sunlight filtered through the bare trees where the birds had built nests, casting a hazy light over the graves. She took a deep breath.

‘Happy birthday, Philippa,’ she said.

She looked again more closely at the wreath, realizing it was brand new. Philippa had been much loved; it wasn’t that strange, but this wreath was beautiful; lush, glossy ivy leaves and white lilies, shot through with red beads of holly berries and a card resting on top, in handwriting she didn’t recognize.

Always my beloved mum. I miss you every day. Adam xx

Tess stared at the card, suddenly hot even in the chill, but then she realized he must have paid someone to leave the wreath there. It wasn’t Adam’s handwriting, it was a stranger’s, and she should just calm down. She closed her eyes and thought of Philippa. Funny to think she would be sixty-five today—she was older than Tess’s mother, and yet she had always seemed younger, younger than most of her parents’ generation. Perhaps it was her attitude. Where had it come from? Tess breathed in, thinking of how well she still remembered Philippa—her bouncing, curly hair, her ready, wide smile, her penchant for terracotta-coloured clothing, straw bags, wide skirts with deep pockets into which she was continually thrusting her hands enthusiastically, her terrible obsession with tagines, joss sticks, and mangoes. She loved
mangoes—she was always serving them up when they went round for tea, and Tess and Stephanie hated them. She gave a little chuckle. Perhaps she should eat a mango, as a birthday tribute to her and to her son.

‘Tess?’ said a voice right behind her. Tess screamed and jumped half out of her skin, clutching onto the gravestone for support. She turned around.

‘Adam?’ she said. A silhouetted figure, black against the bright sunlight, was standing behind her holding something. She screwed up her eyes. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘Adam! It’s really you, isn’t it? Oh my bloody God.’

‘Not very pious language for a churchyard, Tess,’ the figure said, walking towards her. ‘You’re by my mother’s grave. Do you mind not swearing like a navvy and using her headstone as an armrest?’

It was Adam. He was wearing a long grey coat; he seemed to be taller. His face was weatherbeaten and tanned, laughter lines etched in white at the corners of his eyes. She stood up straight, laughing, and ran towards him.

‘Oh, my God!’ she cried again, hugging him hard. ‘You’re back!’

He hugged her too, squeezing her tight. ‘It’s good to see you, T,’ he said, and the sound of his voice was overwhelming. She realized how much she’d missed him. ‘It’s bloody good to see you.’

She drew back, smiling wide. ‘Adam Smith.’

‘You remembered too,’ he said, looking at her, and then at his mother’s grave. ‘Bless you. You remembered.’

‘Of course I did,’ she replied, hugging him tight once again. ‘Welcome back.’

He was the same old Adam, yet he was different. More grown-up. Distant, perhaps. He was carrying some rosehip stems and holly, wrapped carefully with twine, and a battered flask of coffee.

‘They were the only things growing in the garden at Leda House,’ he said, after he’d laid them gingerly down on the grave and they had stood in silence, lost in their own thoughts, for another moment. ‘And she loved roses.’ They retreated to the low wall at the edge of the churchyard, and Adam poured out a cup of coffee, handing it to Tess, and taking a swig out of the flask himself. They both fell silent once more.

Eventually, Tess said, ‘So. Where have you been?’

He smiled. ‘I was in Morocco.’

‘That much I gathered,’ Tess said.

‘Sorry I wasn’t in touch,’ Adam said frankly. ‘I didn’t really know where I was going. I just knew I needed to…get away. It wasn’t till I was far away I realized how bad it had got. How—bad I felt.’

‘Really?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘The whole thing. Leonora having her stroke. Having to face up to it all so suddenly. Us rowing. I’m sorry.’ Adam spoke softly, staring down at the ground, holding the flask between his legs. ‘Then—her dying. And all of that. Waiting for the damn body to come home.’ He breathed in as if it hurt, and closed his eyes, drawing himself up a little. ‘All at the same time. Man. The funeral—that funeral.’ His eyes lifted, to the Mortmain tombs by the side of the church, and the recently dug grave. ‘And—do you remember how hot it was? Those nights. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t damn well sleep. No matter what I did, no matter how much I tried to tire myself out.’

There was a silence.

‘Have you heard from her?’ he said quietly.

‘Francesca? We’ve spoken a couple of times. I had an email last week. She’s OK.’

‘Have you seen her? Is she—’

‘She’s OK,’ said Tess.

He nodded, as though he understood. ‘I have to talk to her.’ Tess also nodded briefly. ‘I treated her so badly. That last
night, before I left. We totally lost it with each other. Took everything out on each other.’ He closed his eyes again for a moment.

‘What happened?’ Tess said softly.

He looked warily at her. ‘It was all very dramatic, but when I look back on it it was stupid. She hit me.’

‘Did she?’ Tess didn’t entirely blame her. ‘Hard?’

‘Pretty hard.’ He shook his head. ‘She gave me a few home truths. Then I threw your cake stand on the floor,’ he said. ‘I was furious. Sorry, darling. I know how much you loved it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Tess said, the flicker of a smile crossing her lips. ‘She gave me a few home truths too. She was—’

‘—right,’ they both said, in unison.

‘You treated her badly,’ Tess said. It was a statement.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But not because I didn’t like her. And I’ve treated a lot of people badly.’ He took another swig of the coffee. ‘God, this is maudlin. Enough. T, tell me how you’ve been. What’s happened with Peter?’

She stared at him in astonishment. ‘Adam, we’re in a graveyard, it’s your mother’s birthday, you’ve just got back from nearly four months away, we’re allowed to be maudlin. What on earth are you talking about?’

Adam stared back at her, and then gave a shout of laughter. ‘You’re right.’

‘Course I am,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know where you’ve been. Tell me.’

‘I went to Morocco.’

‘Yes, you told me that already,’ she said. ‘More, please.’

‘OK, OK.’ He held up his hands, and shuffled along the wall away from her a little, turning so he was facing her. He said, ‘Well, I didn’t really do anything much. I flew to Spain, got a boat over to North Africa, and then I travelled from town to village, hitch-hiking, you know. I stayed in the Atlas Mountains. In all sorts of different places.’ He stopped, and drew breath. ‘I didn’t know where I was going. It was—great.
Sometimes I’d spend a night with a family in a tiny house, sometimes in some lovely mansion with a courtyard and a fountain. Once I slept in a tent, out on the edge of the desert.’

‘Wow,’ said Tess, looking ruminatively out over the view. ‘That must have been amazing.’

‘You’d love it, I kept thinking that,’ he said. ‘And you know, I kept thinking how much Mum would have loved it, too. She loved the food. Remember those tagines?’

‘That’s weird, I was thinking about all the things she liked when you arrived,’ Tess said. ‘How much she loved tagines. Mangoes, and all of that. I wonder who—’

I wonder who she got that from, she was going to say.

The mood had changed. Adam gave her a sideways glance, and then stared ahead again. ‘Now it’s back to reality, I suppose,’ he said. He drained the rest of the coffee, and then fastened the lid on the flask. He cleared his throat. ‘So—how have you been? What’s been going on here?’

‘Well, guess,’ said Tess, trying to keep her voice light. ‘Not much, really. They’re turning on the Christmas lights tonight.’

‘Oh,’ he said flatly.

‘I’ve got a new flatmate.’

‘Who?’ He turned to her.

‘Liz.’

‘Liz? Oh—oh, Liz.’ A flash of something, a bit of shame, a pretence of looking cool, crossed his face, and then he smiled, shaking his head. ‘Right. She’s nice.’

‘Yep,’ said Tess, not really wanting to say more. ‘She’s very nice.’

‘Bit different from Francesca, I bet.’

‘That’s oh so true. Very—organized.’

‘Hm.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Do you remember when Francesca ordered a case of champagne for my birthday, and shook the bottle up as she was opening it because she wanted to know what it was like to be a Formula One winner? God, it went everywhere.’ He grinned at the memory.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Tess, primly.

‘Oh,’ he said, trying not to smile. ‘Well, you were probably out. Hanging out at the cake shop or chatting to Jan and Diana about sensible socks and where to buy them.’

Tess gasped in outrage. ‘I wasn’t as bad as all that. Was I?’

‘Well, for a bit,’ he said. ‘Till you went to Rome.’

She nodded, a bit too eagerly. ‘Right.’

‘You probably needed a bit of downtime, after leaving London.’

‘What does that mean?’ Tess didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking.

‘You know, growing your eyebrows all bushy. Wearing those thick cardigans,’ said Adam blithely. Tess shook her head in disbelief.

‘You really know how to lay on the charm, don’t you?’

‘It’s you,’ he said, pushing her gently, his tone contrite. ‘I’m only joking. You know—you know I don’t mean it.’

She put her arm round him, and patted his back.

‘How’re you feeling about—about everything?’ she asked.

‘About the Mortmain situation?’ he said, accentuating the words. ‘I don’t know, T. There’s still loads to sort out, I haven’t really got my head round a lot of it.’

She squeezed his shoulder. ‘What do you have to do first?’

‘See people, say hello.’

‘Adam—’ she said. ‘You should know, you’re not the most popular person round here at the moment.’

‘Right,’ he said, flinching a bit. ‘Because of what’s happening with the water meadows.’ He glanced up at the spire of the church, as if to look behind him would be too much. ‘I have to decide what to do.’

‘They’ve already started, you know that,’ she said. Perhaps he didn’t know. Perhaps they’d gone ahead without him. ‘People in the town are—’

Adam’s jaw was rigid. ‘People in the town,’ he said, throwing her arm off his shoulder. ‘All my life it’s been people in the
town who’ve dictated this and that. Who cares what they think?’

‘They live here, Adam,’ Tess said gently. ‘They love it here. It’s going to change everything.’

He put his hands on his hips, and stared ahead. ‘Well, they knew it was happening. And where were they when Mum got here and no one would look her in the eye, because she was unmarried and pregnant and living alone? Where were they when she died? When—’

‘That’s not fair.’ Tess spoke softly, and rose to stand next to him. She said, ‘Remember how Diana helped you clear out the house? How Mick let you stay with him, all those nights when you were too drunk to go back to the cottage? Mum and Dad, they lent you money for the funeral.’ Her throat was thick. ‘And Ron, oh, I know he’s a busybody and a silly old man, but he gave you that bag of clothes, in case you needed stuff. They wanted to help you. You just didn’t want them to help you back.’

‘Now you’re the one who’s not being fair,’ he said, but in a mild voice. His hands dropped to his sides: ‘Oh, T, I don’t want to get into all of this again. That’s why I went away—I just can’t face it…’ He bowed his head, as if his voice would crack. ‘It’s this damn inheritance. It’s all this.’ He jabbed his thumb at the Mortmain tombs. ‘I didn’t ask for it. I never got to talk to Mum about it, I don’t even know how she felt about it. It’s like—it’s like there’s a huge part of her I didn’t know, and I loved her so much and she kept it from me.’

‘She had her reasons,’ said Tess. ‘Your mum was a wise woman. She was wonderful. If she didn’t tell you, there’s a reason. She knew what Leonora was like…’ She trailed off, tactfully.

‘She knew her own mother was a cow, you mean,’ Adam said sombrely. ‘I keep thinking…who was my grandfather? Who was Mum’s father? Because he must have been a wonderful man, to offset her.’

‘Perhaps she changed,’ Tess said. ‘You don’t know.’

‘I don’t know,’ Adam acknowledged. ‘But she made it very hard to like her. And she wouldn’t tell me anything. I can never like her for that, you know.’

‘That’s an awful thing to say.’

His eyes were cold. ‘Perhaps it is, but when both your parents are dead and you haven’t seen your dad’s family for decades, and the only family you’ve got is this—this woman who looks at you with—’ his face contorted, and he spoke in a rush—‘with
hate
, Tess, like she thinks you’re the lowest of the low because she hated your mother, because having her was so shameful to her she couldn’t ever tell anyone she had a family, a daughter and a grandson…and you can’t do anything to change her mind…it’s, yeah, it’s pretty unnerving.’