Relative Love (26 page)

‘Never mind,’ trilled Pamela. ‘I’ll pop all that back. I’ll give it a wash too – I forgot to do it before I put them in the bowl.’ She swiftly rearranged the fruit, which she had bought along with a mountainous trolley of other supplies for the weekend, and ran the apple under the cold tap. After drying it carefully on a clean tea-towel she handed it back to her granddaughter. ‘Don’t let it spoil lunch, though, will you?’ she said, speaking out of habit more than anything, thoroughly enjoying the feel of the spring sun on her back and the sight of her granddaughter, currently deprived of both front teeth, attempting to chisel a first bite with the side of her mouth. The tooth fairy had forgotten both times, she had been informed gravely, but then made up for it by leaving two two-pound coins. There had been several other interesting anecdotes during the course of the morning relating to departing au pairs, forgotten ballet kits and a dog called Toffee who chewed carpets, all of which had gone some considerable way to explaining the taut expression on Helen’s face when she deposited her children on the doorstep of Ashley House before charging back to London. Life in Barnes was clearly in a state of upheaval, but all Helen had said was that she needed a day to interview girls from the agency and would return the following evening with Peter.

Charlie and Serena were also posting their offspring down ahead of the Easter weekend. John had already set off to Barham to meet the three of them off the train from Victoria. He and Serena wanted a little time to themselves, Charlie said, which was understandable, given what had happened. When the pair of them did arrive the utmost gentleness would be required, Pamela reminded herself, pressing open her cookery book at a recipe for chocolate mousse, which she knew by heart but liked to follow anyway. The pages were faintly sticky from the last time she had used it, and flecked with ancient specks of splattered egg and chocolate. She fetched eggs
and a bar of Bournville from the larder and pulled out the largest of her mixing bowls, humming to herself, her mind half on cooking and half on the now imminent arrival of the family, scanning each one in her mind much as she scanned the familiar list of ingredients on the page in front of her.

Elizabeth, phoning to confirm her arrival with Roland the next day (Colin had some marking to catch up on and would join them in time for dinner), had sounded fraught. But Elizabeth often sounded fraught. Because she
struggled
so. She always had and always would. Even as a toddler she had seemed to find life so much harder than her brothers did, wailing tragically about things that the two boys could dismiss with a snivel or a laugh. And when Cassie had come along … Pamela, on the point of cracking the first of eight eggs, paused. Charlie had been closest in age but Elizabeth had shown the most signs of jealousy.

It all began so young, she reflected wistfully, pressing on with the eggs, expertly using just one hand, draining off the whites and dropping the orange-yellow yolks (each the size of a small fist and thick as treacle) into the mixing bowl. How they were now as adults was pretty much exactly as they had been during the days of nursery teas. Cassie knew what she wanted in life and Elizabeth didn’t. Cassie made the most of herself, and Elizabeth for some reason … Pamela shook herself out of her reverie. She had promised herself not to do this. Not to dwell on things and get maudlin. The truth was that children, by and large (abuse and neglect apart), wrote the books of their personalities themselves and there was little parents or anyone else could do about it. As if to confirm this view Chloë charged back into the kitchen, complaining volubly, Samson dangling in her arms. Theo appeared behind her, crouching like a hunter, the lens of his video camera pressed to his eye.

‘Theo’s
following
me, Granny, and being
really
annoying.’

‘I am not. I’m making a film of the family and you – worse luck – have to be in it.’

‘Now, Theo …’

‘Can I interview
you
, then, Gran?’ He lowered the camera and stood upright, his face a picture of earnest supplication. ‘Please?’

Pamela hesitated, wanting to defuse the argument between her grandchildren but not entirely happy about making herself available to the lens of Theo’s camera either. She had never liked having her photo taken. In both of the developed versions of Sid’s pictures from Christmas her eyes were closed, even though she had concentrated fiercely on not blinking. It had put her off seeing the portrait project through, though Mary Cavendish, who had recommended an artist, said she was sure it wouldn’t matter. ‘Well, I suppose so … if it won’t take long.’ Pamela eyed the camera uncertainly, doing her best to sound interested but understanding why Chloë should have found it so irksome. ‘Shall I take off my apron?’

Theo lowered the camera and frowned, rubbing his free hand over the pimples on his chin. The apron was blue and white like a butcher’s and had stains all over it. But then, when he thought about it, an apron summed up his grandmother and to keep it on might be rather appropriate. ‘No, leaving it on is fine. And could you sit near those flowers? They look really nice – in that chair there, maybe with Samson on your lap …’ It was such fun being in command and issuing instructions that Theo soon forgot about the time or that he was only fourteen years old. Before long Pamela was worrying about her half-finished mousse and Samson, reluctantly cooperative for a few minutes, leapt off her lap in disgust, doing a last-minute dart to avoid Chloë’s ever-eager hands.

‘I don’t want to hear this, Martin. I’ve got the minister breathing down my neck and that’s because the IMO are breathing down his. I know the meeting isn’t until Tuesday but, as you might recall, the entire country breaks for a four-day weekend as of tomorrow, which means we need our ducks in a row by this afternoon. I’ve got a lunch, but will be back by two fifteen. The research has to be in a digestible form by then – if not in hard copy then at least on a disk. You’ve had two months, for God’s sake, we simply can’t build any more time into the schedule.’ Charlie slammed down the phone. He could feel the adrenaline pulsing through his body, making him hot but also energised. In the past he had been too soft on people. It was one of the many reasons life in the Railway Directorate had become so intolerable; everyone always expected him to be lenient and understanding, to stretch deadlines and help in the prickly maze of internal politics and public accountability. Shipping, thank God, was proving a much less stressful posting – no hounding by the media helped enormously, but he still wasn’t going to fall into the trap of letting down his defences and taking unnecessary flak.

Susan Drayling, who had been seeing to the secretarial needs of Charles Harrison since his arrival at his new post three months before, eyed him over the top of her spectacles, wondering what had happened to the gentle giant who had found time to ask her about her cats and who, if she was snowed under, had been known to tap out a letter or two himself, using one finger and saying hilarious things about his incompetence. These days, he barked as much as the rest of them and hassled her till she got all jittery and made silly mistakes. She knew about the terrible business of his little girl, of course. Everyone in the department did. He had taken a week off in compassionate leave and they’d all given him cards of condolence. And she knew about throwing oneself back into work during difficult times. She had done exactly the same thing when her father died; without the routine of work she would have fallen apart completely. So one made allowances. But, still, it was hard to see the kindness of such a man shrivel with unhappiness.

‘Susan, could I have those letters sharpish? I’ve got to leave on time today.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ Her fingers, busy with an e-mail, worked faster. ‘Going anywhere nice? For the bank holiday?’ she pressed, because there was no response.

‘The usual thing. Down to my parents’ place in Sussex. We’ve sent the children on ahead and are joining them tomorrow.’

‘Lovely,’ she murmured, encouraged that she had wheedled three sentences out of him. ‘And I’ll make sure I get those letters done.’ She pressed
Send
for the e-mail and slotted her head-set into place with a sigh.

Cassie looked impatiently at the door of the coffee-house, willing Dan’s lean frame to step through it. She hated waiting for him. Yet it was what she seemed to do all the time: wait for the phone, wait for the chance to meet, wait for him to arrive – usually late and having to rush off again. Afterwards it sometimes felt hardly worth it, but then he would call and be so sweet and the prospect of another meeting would blossom like a flower and she would be all charged up again, planning what to wear and how to make the most of every second.

Outside the sun was shining, the first real kiss of heat that they had had in months. Cassie, strolling along Brompton Road because she was early, had dug out her sunglasses, dusty from lack of use, from the bottom of her handbag, feeling jaunty and full of hope. It was only on arriving at the coffee-house that her mood had turned. Several couples were sitting at tables outside and although there were two spare seats and it was where she, too, longed to sit, she
knew that Dan would rule it out at once because no matter where they met he was paranoid about the risk of them being seen. So she had gone inside instead, where the air was stuffy and where her sunglasses served only to keep her hair off her face. The table wobbled too and one of the chairs had a nasty dark stain on the back.

‘Darling, there you are. Sorry I’m late. Good table – well done. How are you, my love?’ Dan kissed her quickly, glancing over his shoulder as he sat down.

‘Not great, to be honest. I mean, the sun is shining and here we are stuck inside. I don’t like to complain – I know the pressure you’re under, really I do, but I think … ever since little Tina died I …’ A lump the size of a golf ball was blocking her throat. ‘God, sorry … I shouldn’t.’

‘Yes, you should.’ Dan put his hand over hers, glaring at the waitress who had deposited their coffee and was staring at Cassie’s trembling face with unabashed interest. ‘Go on, darling, say what you feel. It’s so important to share all our thoughts, to be honest with each other.’

‘Oh, I do feel that, Dan,’ she burst out eagerly, ‘that honesty is one of the few things we really have between us.’ She wiped her face hurriedly. She hated getting all weepy with him. She wasn’t the weepy sort. She was a fortunate, successful, attractive woman who got on with things, like setting up her own business and actually making a pretty decent wage. In every other relationship in her life she had been the one in control, who had decided when it ended and why, seeing her own needs clearly. But with Dan all of that had gone to pot. With Dan she had discovered that it was impossible to be really in love with someone and remain wholly in control, because love was about losing control, handing over one’s happiness to another person to use or abuse as they chose …

‘You were saying?’ he prompted, keeping his voice calm and confident when, inside, he was quaking because he knew exactly what she was going to say – the gist of it anyway – and because for the first time in the eleven months since they had met he was on the point of not being completely honest himself. He wanted to be. He really did. The rest of his life was thick with deceit; being straight with Cassie was like coming up for air. But now Sally was ill and he couldn’t tell her for fear of it making her despair. Since the night in the restaurant he had thought of little else, sensing all the while that for Cassie, too, the episode had been some sort of turning point.

‘Honesty. Okay, then. Here goes.’ She looked at him, her dark blue eyes wide and trusting. ‘I want more, Dan, and I want it now. I mentioned my niece because – because her dying like that has really given me a jolt about how bloody short life is. I can’t wait for ever, I simply can’t. Especially not if we …’ Cassie had been going to mention starting a family, but couldn’t quite bring herself to say it out loud, not with the waitress hovering and the neighbouring tables so near. ‘I’m
so
fed up of keeping you in the shadows,’ she whispered instead, still loudly enough for Dan to cast nervous looks to his right and left. ‘I’m not a naturally dishonest person for one thing. I hate keeping you a secret. Like seeing you in that restaurant – I just wanted to grab you and introduce you to everyone, to make you a full and proper part of my
real
life. I want to show you off, Dan, get you to meet my parents, to see Ashley House. You would love it, I promise you. And they’d love you … I mean, they’d be regretful, of course, that you were married, but they would understand when they saw how happy you make me and how completely wonderful we are together.’

‘And I want all that too,’ he whispered fiercely, ‘so badly.’

‘But?’

‘But … I’ve spoken again to my lawyer and he says that at the moment financially …’

‘I don’t care about finances. I’ve told you, I’ll live in a mud hut with you if necessary. But it won’t be necessary. I’ve got my flat and enough money for us to live on. And I’ve told you already that when my parents die I’ll be seriously well-off …’

In spite of the gravity of the circumstances Dan couldn’t help chuckling. He loved how breezy and open she was about money, how she saw so easily beyond it, while he was so wretchedly tied to it – or at least to the lack of it.

‘Is it money, Dan? Is it really? Or do you have other … doubts? Please tell me.’ She pressed her lips together to stop them trembling.

It was the moment to tell her of the cells found on Sally’s cervix, the moment to trust her with the truth, no matter how difficult. Dan felt that, yet he couldn’t do it. He told her instead as much of the truth as he could, that he had no doubts, that he loved her more than he had ever loved anyone, that he wanted to share the rest of his life with her, that if she could only be patient for a little longer he would extricate himself from his family, that he needed just a few more months to get everything in order so that when he jumped ship it would be tidy and easy and as clean and painless as possible. Then he kissed her, not a stealthy, snatched, are-we-being-watched kind of kiss but a long sensuous, tender tongue-searching that made her skin tremble and the pit of her stomach contract with achy longing. As she watched him hurry out of the door a few minutes later, checking both ways before diving into the street, Cassie felt a surge of joyous certainty followed by a greater, suffocating wave of despair. He made her so happy and yet so sad. It was unbearable.