Relative Love (40 page)

‘Shall I take that?’

‘Oh, John, darling, thank you.’ Pamela handed him the plate of eggs and bacon. ‘Hang on, you’ve a spot of shaving cream on your ear.’ She dabbed it away tenderly, her heart swelling at the sight of the grooves of tiredness round his eyes and mouth. He hadn’t heard what Elizabeth had said, which was good. And when she had asked him (seizing his last moment of lucidity as he turned out the light) if he thought she had been harder on Elizabeth than the others, he had murmured, possibly, but that was because Elizabeth had always been the hardest to deal with. Which had helped for a time. Until, alone in the dark, the demons had closed in.

Elizabeth ventured downstairs, blinking and sheepish, just after the plates had been cleared away. Theo and Ed, assigned to wash up by their grandmother, were standing side by side at the sink, tracking the progress of a woodlouse along the window-sill. Pamela was sitting on the kitchen sofa, stroking Samson, with Chloë on one side of her and Roland on the other. At her appearance they all chorused greetings, Roland adding, with a frown, ‘You’ve slept for a long time, Mummy, but Daddy said not to wake you.’

‘Did he? That was nice of him.’ Elizabeth kissed the top of his head.

‘And now he’s gone home.’

‘Has he?’ Elizabeth looked to her mother for further explanation, her headache exploding with fresh vengeance at the thought of having to postpone her apologies to her husband.

‘He said not to worry,’ said Pamela smoothly, her palm sliding back and forth over the cat’s soft head. ‘Wanted to catch up on some marking, he said. Sid drove him to the station. There’s coffee, darling, if you’d like some.’ Her daughter, she couldn’t help noting, looked terrible, which had the immediate effect of making her feel better. She lifted Samson off her lap and went to fetch the coffee-pot.

Half-way across the room Elizabeth awkwardly slipped an arm round her waist. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, ‘if I … last night.’

‘Darling, don’t be silly. We all had a lovely time, didn’t we? There, now.’ Pamela patted Elizabeth’s back, aware of the children watching with some curiosity. ‘And you boys better get a move on – it’ll be tea-time before you know it.’

Theo, who was in charge of washing, plunged his hands back into the sink, grimacing with distaste at the slimy feel of congealed egg in the bottom of the saucepan. Ed flicked his tea-towel at his cousin’s head, then neatly ducked out of the way as Theo attempted a return blow with the washing-up brush. Water and soap suds flew everywhere. Ed let out a hoot of triumph, forgetting for a few lovely moments that school started the next day and that in precisely sixty-eight hours (he had counted) he would be locked in the school gym yet again with exam papers and the fog of panic in his brain. The whole of half-term had been ruined by the prospect. Even the nicest things, like swigging warm champagne from abandoned glasses with Theo the night before, or kicking a ball with his dad that morning, were hard to enjoy. It was like this huge shadow hanging over everything. Swamped again by the thought of it, he flicked his cloth, viciously this time, at Theo’s neck, suddenly feeling that his boffin of a cousin deserved it.

Theo spun round from the sink, yelling in genuine pain and clutching his neck where a small red welt showed the efficacy of Ed’s strike. ‘You pig-face!’ Baffled and enraged, he dug the washing-up brush into the younger boy’s ribs. A moment later they were on the kitchen floor, pummelling each other.

‘Children, children, stop this at once.’ Pamela, horrified, shielded the coffee-pot as she tried to step round the furious bundle of flailing arms and legs. ‘Really, Elizabeth, can’t you …?’ She cast a helpless look at her daughter, who was leaning against the wall looking equally horrified but doing nothing. They were saved by Peter, who strode into the kitchen and seized his son by the back of his shirt, lifting him to his feet. ‘Theobald, what sort of behaviour do you call this?’

Theo, puffing with upset and indignation, his face crimson, hung his head, saying nothing. Ed, playing for time and sympathy, remained on the floor, groaning and clutching his chest.

‘Apologise this instant,’ bellowed Peter.

‘But it was Ed’s fault,’ piped Chloë, leaping to the defence of her sibling. ‘Wasn’t it, Roland?’ The latter shrank into the sofa, his own sense of justice dwarfed by both timidity and a desire to
be loyal to Ed, who had said just that morning Roland could play with his gun whenever he wanted.

‘I don’t care whose fault it was,’ Peter thundered. Chloë lowered her head, her bottom lip trembling. ‘Theobald, apologise this minute, then go to your room until you have remastered the wherewithal to behave like a civilised human being.’

Theo muttered sorry and fled, still clutching his neck.

‘You all right, Ed?’ Peter helped him to his feet.

‘Yup. I’m sorry too.’

‘Good man. Now, no more nonsense, okay?’ Tacit family rules dictated that telling off nephews and nieces simply wasn’t on the cards. Ed was for Charlie or Serena to deal with.

‘We’re all tired,’ murmured Pamela, handing Elizabeth her coffee and moving to the sink to finish the washing-up herself.

‘I think I’m going to head home,’ ventured Elizabeth, once the fracas had died down and she and her mother were alone.

‘But you said you were staying till tea-time,’ exclaimed Pamela, complaint creeping into her tone. ‘I’ve got lots of cold meat and salad for lunch and all sorts of lovely cakes for tea …’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I know I said we’d stay the whole day, but I really think it would be best if we set off now. What with it being the end of half-term and everything, the traffic will be terrible and there’s … so much to do,’ she concluded lamely, unable to admit that all she really wanted was to scuttle home where she could nurse her hangover in peace and put things right with her husband. Colin might have told the family he had marking to do, but it was perfectly clear to Elizabeth that annoyance with her had driven him away. And right now, in her weakened state, her system brittle with pain and exhaustion, she wanted more than anything to get them back on the right track. Peace was what she wanted. Now and for ever. No more difficult thoughts, no more trying to assert herself, no more creating waves.

‘Well, obviously, my dear, I can’t stop you.’ Pamela tipped out the dirty washing-up water and turned to her daughter, smiling in a continuing bid to conceal her true frame of mind. ‘It’s a shame, but if you need to go you need to go. I could make you some sandwiches for the journey if you like. That way I could use at least some of the food in the fridge.’

‘Great … Thanks, that would be great.’ Elizabeth tipped her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes.

‘Good, I’ll do that, then,’ replied Pamela briskly, reaching for the breadknife and gripping the handle hard, thinking, This is Elizabeth, this is how she is and nothing will ever change.

‘Theo and Ed had a big row.’

‘I know, I heard.’ Maisie plucked a tuft of grass from the lawn, then dropped it on top of a daisy. ‘Stupid boys, always bloody fighting.’

‘Uncle Peter lost it and sent Theo upstairs.’ Clem, sitting beside her sister, rolled over on to her tummy, aware of her hipbones pressing into the soft grass. It was a good feeling, and the grass smelt good too, all mossy and full of rain; good enough to eat, like a delicious vegetable or fruit that no one had discovered yet. She put her face right into it and breathed deeply, enjoying the tickle of the little shoots, trimmed by Sid to a quarter of an inch for the party, on her nose and cheeks. She had that feeling she got when she hadn’t eaten for a while, airy-headed but powerful. During breakfast she had sat next to Maisie and slid all three of her bacon rashers on to her sister’s plate, then smeared the egg round her own until it looked convincingly sparse. Maisie
had demolished the bacon without a word; neither did she bat an eyelid when Clem put half a piece of toast on to her lap. This was their new pact, not discussed or analysed, which had emerged wordlessly, effortlessly, from the events of the night before. Clem – and this was the real source of her new and completely lovely sense of power – had saved her twin sister.
From a fate worse than death
, a novel might have said. But it hadn’t been a novel, it had been real life and she, Clem, would never, as long as she lived, forget the sight of her sister buried, wrestling, sobbing under the thrusting, half-naked man. A doll under a monster. It was the vilest, most terrifying thing she had ever seen. And terror had made her brave.

Sprinting back to Ashley House afterwards, with the puddles spurting up their ankles, it was she who had kept Maisie going, whispering that it would be all right, soothing her fears at what the grown-ups would say, assuring her that no one need ever know, that she would sort things out somehow. And she had, with a thunderbolt of a brainwave that had occurred to her just as they reached the bend in the lane. Maisie, of course, had cigarettes. A packet of ten Marlboro Lights. As they ran up the drive Clem, her voice breathless, had explained the plan, how they would be caught smoking and how it would put everyone off thinking anything else. And it had worked like a charm. She had played her part with aplomb, puffing hard even though the hateful smoke stung her eyes, and emitting a loud giggle so that Serena, hovering by the front gate, would peer round the garage and see them. It had been odd to act the part of Bad Girl deliberately: it had made Clem recognise that rather than being more grown-up than her Maisie had simply taken to playing a different role, being bad for the pair of them, which, if she thought about it, sort of kept her off the hook.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yup.’

‘Sure? I mean, if you’re worried that – that is, if he actually … He didn’t
do
anything, did he?’

Maisie shook her head fiercely, glancing over her shoulder to check that no one was within earshot. Peter and Helen were sitting with cups of coffee on one of the cloisters benches. Nearby Pamela dozed in a deckchair, her tapestry untended on her lap. Chloë, bored without Roland who had been dragged, amid much protesting, back to Guildford, was playing a sort of hopscotch in and out of the side entrance to the marquee. Maisie didn’t know where their parents were – asleep too, probably, worn out with telling them all off. Even with so much else to worry about – and be grateful for – she had burned with shame at the public castigation they had received on the doorstep of the house, with guests milling around them and with Ed and Theo, clearly pissed, smirking in the shrubbery.

‘I mean,’ continued Clem importantly, ‘if you felt we should tell someone …’

‘No way. No bloody way.’ Maisie pulled the head off a daisy and began to pluck off its frill of petals.

Clem rolled on to her back, relieved. Any other response would have involved huge trauma and unpleasantness, and jeopardised the pact. Each had a secret, kept safe by the other. It was mutually beneficial, perfect.

‘But I do plan to get revenge.’

Clem sat up in alarm, chiding herself inwardly for imagining Maisie would ever co-operate in keeping the situation simple. ‘And how on earth are you going to do that?’

Maisie frowned. ‘Not sure yet … but I’m working on it. I’ll think of something. He practically – you know, you
saw
, for Christ’s sake – and I’m not going to let that go, I’m just not —’

‘Oh, hi, Granddad,’ Clem almost shrieked, aware that her sister hadn’t noticed John’s approach.

‘Hello, girls.’ John had been shuffling ineffectually round the estate, attempting to take his mind off his hangover, and had stopped by his granddaughters, dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead with a handkerchief. In spite of his headache he was in excellent spirits, riding high on a general sense of triumph about the party. ‘All shipshape, are we?’

‘Yes, Granddad.’

‘Butter wouldn’t melt, I suppose,’ he added, chuckling as he recalled Pamela’s report on the recent misdemeanours of the twins and thinking how innocent the pair looked, sprawled in jeans and T-shirts on the grass, the scatter of freckles on their noses, their hair glossy in the afternoon sun. It didn’t seem very long ago that he’d had one on each knee, thumbs in their mouths, rapt in front of a storybook. ‘You mind how you go, eh, young scallywags?’

‘Yes, Granddad,’ they chimed, exchanging if-only-he-knew looks, but each in truth a little soothed by the timeless nonsense that could be counted on from his lips.

Charlie jogged slowly, the sweat in his eyes misting the arch of trees overhead to a green blur. His body felt uncomfortably separate from his skeleton, like a heavy, ill-fitting suit. The sun had dried most of what remained of the puddles, leaving shallow potholes in the road, which he avoided carefully, wary of losing his balance and twisting an ankle or worse. At forty-three one had to think of such things. At forty-three life got complicated in all manner of ways, he had discovered, particularly if one had been robbed of a child, and one’s wife appeared to be sliding, inexorably, into a state of steely hostility and indifference. Increasingly he felt he loved the memory of Serena more than the reality of her. Watching her screech at the girls, eyes wild, voice close to hysteria, it had taken all his self-discipline not to leap to their defence. Of course they sneaked off for cigarettes. He had done the same at their age, down this very lane, ducking behind the trees with Peter at the sound of an approaching car. The girls were fourteen. Breaking rules went with the territory. And the trick, when dealing with it, was not to overreact, but to lay down the law gently, so they knew that somewhere beyond the reprimands you were on their side. That you would die with love for them, given half a chance. Serena knew all this too, of course. Once upon a time, a few months and an eternity before, Serena had been the master of such parental tactics, cajoling and loving, steering their offspring in the right direction much as a collie might guide its flock.

And then there was Ed. Charlie increased his pace, his heart aching at the thought of his son, visibly knotted with worry about Common Entrance, but now beyond the age where a hug or a quiet word could make him feel better. He shrank from physical contact, these days, unless it was taking place in the rough, easy context of kicking a ball. Charlie had wanted to defend him, too, when Serena let rip that morning. From what he had seen, Ed had worked hard. As well as revising he had put an awful lot into his hurricanes project, solemnly informing Charlie on the day after his return from Paris that although he would value his help he realised it would probably be better if he battled with the thing alone, since it was going to be considered alongside the marks he managed in the exams. Oh, God, the agony of being a child – and of parenthood: having to watch their trials and tribulations, unable to step in and make any of it one iota easier. There were simply no short-cuts, not for Ed, not for any of them.