Rumours (36 page)

‘Stella. You might think I'm a bastard – but I'm not. Yes, I've brought curry – but the real peace offering I've brought is honesty.' A long pause. ‘Stella?' And another. ‘OK.' Resignedly.

The letter flap went down and all was quiet.

But Stella didn't move. She stayed still for quite a while longer; forbidding herself from wanting to hear the doorbell or for even thinking of turning on her phone. A good quarter of an hour she waited before she padded over to the front door, peeped through the spyhole and saw nothing but the compressed view of the street lamp and the plumber's van that for some annoying reason was always parked right outside her house. She told herself she was relieved but actually she was deflated too. Perhaps that was why she opened the front door. And Xander, who'd been sitting on the front step with his back heavy against the door, almost tipped right over onto the mat. In his lap, shards of pappadam and a foil container with half an onion bhaji left. He looked up and offered it to Stella, as if that alone might be the reason for her opening her door.

‘I didn't know what you might like – so I've brought balti chicken, madras hot, and a few side dishes. Bombay potato. Saag. A mixed vegetable curry – dry. A plain naan. Pilau rice. Kingfisher beer.' He remained where he was, scuffling through the bag just as he shuffled over his words.

Perhaps it had something to do with his obvious nervousness, or something to do with the fact that he remained sitting and she towered over him, something to do with an image of him analysing a menu and trying to phone her and then hoping he'd chosen well. And also it had something to do with the fact that he
was
still there, outside her door, not knowing whether or not she'd open it. Just sitting there, with his thoughts and a smear of mango chutney on his chin. Stella let one butterfly at a time float up through a hole she'd just made in the blanket of self-righteous anger she'd been swamping them with.

‘Can I come in? Please?'

She nodded.

‘Thank you.'

She walked into the house and once Xander had got to his feet and followed, Stella was already bringing plates and cutlery through to the table where Will's Lego space vehicle was still the centrepiece.

‘Eat,' said Xander quietly, watching what she chose and feeling quietly proud that he'd been so right. ‘I ate all the pappadams,' he admitted.

‘Greedy pig,' Stella muttered but when she glanced up Xander was able to catch her eyes and hold them and pass her a tilted smile which she reciprocated, and it gave him a modicum of hope. Taking a swig from the bottle of Kingfisher beer, she pushed her plate to one side. ‘OK,' she said. ‘Shoot.'

‘It's hard,' he said. Then he went quiet. ‘It's like – the people who know, don't talk about it. And people who don't know – aren't told.' He looked up: Stella appeared justifiably confused. Xander felt weighed down by responsibility – to Verity, to Lydia, to what had been entrusted to him since childhood. But he felt a responsibility to Stella too. He left the table and went over to the bookcase, absent-mindedly running his fingertips over the undulation of spines. ‘I haven't even told Caroline the entire story – and she's my best friend. And I never told Laura.'

‘Laura?'

‘My ex.'

‘Oh.'

He turned to face Stella. Though her face had softened, she was sitting rigid with anticipation. And he could hardly blame her.

‘You've probably heard the way gossip and rumours flood the village as if facts trickle down the Longbridge driveway to become a torrent of fiction by the time they reach the shop, or the school playground, or the postbox?'

Stella raised her eyebrow and nodded.

Xander continued. ‘But this is one thing, concerning the Fortescues, that you'll never hear a single rumour about. Because, at the time, ranks closed and protected those concerned.' He was talking quietly. ‘It wasn't so much a secret to be guarded, but something that was simply very, very private – to be shared only by those who were there.' Then Stella watched as he winced at the memories.

‘What is it?' she asked in the soothing voice she employed when Will cried. ‘What happened?' She could see anguish on Xander's face and, just then, she could differentiate between his lovely laughter lines and harsher scratches around his eyes where some long-carried pain was etched into his being the way acid eats into the copper of an engraving plate.

Xander stood with his back to the bookcase. Stella didn't know whether to stay put or go to him. But he returned to the table and sat down. Instinctively, she stretched her arm across to him. He let her take his hand and it helped.

‘Lydia had a son,' he said.

‘Edward,' said Stella.

‘He died at just seven years old. Heir to Longbridge. Love of Lydia's life – she's very honest about that. Really, she wanted another son – desperately – in Edward's honour, to ease the pain, to help the marriage, I'm just guessing. I never really knew Jolyon, Lydia's husband. He was around – but very stern, very self-contained and seemingly not interested in his family or anyone connected with them. So Lydia wanted a son but instead, all she got was Verity.'

Stella frowned.

‘I know,' said Xander. ‘Hard to believe. But Lydia
really
wanted a son, and Verity was everything Edward wasn't – a difficult baby, an awful toddler and a troublesome child, by all accounts. And – a
girl
. Lydia didn't want a girl – she wanted Edward back. But she got Verity – and after that, bizarrely, no other boy would do. Which is why I held my breath when I saw Will that day. Because when Lydia first met me, when I was little – we came to Longbridge when I was four and Verity was nine – well, Lydia was pretty vile. Not monstrous – just withering and cold and rarely spoke to me. My mother was nanny to Verity and I loved Verity.'

Xander looked at Stella straight. ‘I
really
loved her. Even now I can recall the pure wonder I felt. She was so –' It was impossible to put into words. He tried again. ‘
Floaty
,' he said. ‘Like she wasn't wholly human. Like she was part fairy, part bird, like she'd seen so much and yet knew nothing – like she was snowflake or breeze, something you were blessed to have while being acutely aware of its fragility, its transitory nature. She'd take my hand and we'd literally spend all day running around Longbridge – the land, the house, our apartment. All weathers, in and out of years. Laughter, whispering, imagining. That's what filled my childhood – I mean, there was school, and mundanities, but my overriding memories are just of me and Verity
playing
, always in this fantastically detailed make-believe world of hers.' He paused momentarily, reliving a memory happily.

‘My mum's very – nurturing,' he said. ‘ She's actually a bit of a hippy. It was amazing that Lydia employed her at all, really – they'd had nannies in starched uniforms before but they'd all resigned or been booted out. But Verity loved my mum from the start – was always calmer when with her. Anyway, when I was little, Verity was very much like an older sister, pulling me into her games, coaxing me up trees, fussing over me. And then at some point it shifted – I can't quite tell you when. Perhaps I was about nine and suddenly I just knew
I
had to look out for
her
. She was about fourteen, fifteen at the time. She'd been expelled from school and was being tutored at home. My mum still looked after her. Suddenly floaty changed into something
so
light,
so
flimsy it became frighteningly insubstantial, like the faint smear of water in your hand where a snowflake has melted. I guess nowadays they'd happily fix a title on it, call her bipolar or manic depressive. I don't know.' He paused again.

‘But if a dead child was a public tragedy – and I'm told the village rallied for the Fortescues at that time – a mad child brought a level of shame to the family that meant utter privacy was essential. People knew something wasn't right with Verity, but after the tragedy of Edward, they actually tempered any rumour-mongering. I believe it was more whispers – but with sympathy. Which of course, Lydia hated because she's proud and aloof and, whether rightly or wrongly, truly believes herself superior – at the top of the Long Dansbury pyramid. She said to me once – I'll never forget,
It isn't what they say about you, it's what they whisper.
'

Xander went quiet.

‘What happened?' Stella whispered, now taking his hand in both of hers. ‘To Verity?'

‘Twice,' said Xander, looking at Stella as if asking,
what could any of us have done?

Stella gave him some time before she asked. ‘Twice? What happened twice?'

‘The first time when I was ten – on her fifteenth birthday. We were up in the clock tower together. Playing. She was truly excellent at playing, especially up there. We loved the clock tower – you could look out from every side, it had its own air quality, its own on-a-level-with-birds'-nests quiet. We were hidden. We could see everything. We pretended it was the Four Corners of a Distant World. That day it was some convoluted make-believe game of Verity's – typical trapped damsels and dark lords. So – forgive me – but I just didn't realize when it was no longer a game. When she made to jump.'

Stella gasped. ‘Verity
jumped
? From the clock tower? But it's twenty feet high!'

‘She didn't leap,' Xander continued, ‘she sort of slithered off, partway. And time just ground to a halt. She stayed there – gripping on to the parapet. So I tried to hold on to her and raise the alarm and she said, don't shout, don't you dare shout you little shit. But I just held onto her hand as tight as I could. And then Lydia and Art were there and Verity just dropped. A crumple. So still. Knocked herself out. Broke near enough every bone in her foot.' Xander observed Stella, who was visibly shaken.

‘Lydia came to our apartment later. I was ready for bed. I remember being shy about my pyjamas – I don't know why. Lydia was adamant.
Verity fell. She fell from the clock tower because she wasn't looking. An accident. A family matter
. And though I told my mum and dad that I dropped Verity, they said if Lydia says Verity fell, then Verity fell. I remember my mother telling me that the easiest way to keep a secret is without help.'

‘That's a tall order for a ten-year-old boy,' said Stella. ‘But Verity – do you really think –?'

Xander nodded. ‘Because the next time was just a month later. And that was very serious. She cut her wrists. Mrs Biggins found her.'

Stella shuddered, stunned. She thought of the woman she'd met that week – all barefoot in nature, with flowing robes and laissez-faire hair and healthy nut-brown skin. Her poise and self-contentment; her funny, strange sing-songy voice, her childlike and playful demeanour. Heidi Girl. Happy woman.

‘So – she was sent away,' said Xander, as if in conclusion. ‘And she's rarely been back since.'

‘Sent away – where?'

‘Hidden, if you like. To a – you know. Lydia called it “somewhere safe”. So I'll have to respect that and call it “somewhere safe” – not a loony bin, but a wholesome version of one. Whatever you'd call it. And it
was
a place of safety for Verity and it really did help.'

‘Did you still get to see her?'

‘She came back, for short periods. In between times, people would ask Lydia, how's Verity – as if she was simply away in some Swiss finishing school. Of course there were rumours by then – but you'll find people just don't gossip salaciously about something like that, however scant the known details, however much Lydia might rub people up the wrong way. It's a humbling, humiliating thing, isn't it? That title and riches cannot command health and happiness. That tragedy struck the privileged not once, but twice. That Lydia was too proud to accept sympathy or support – and how lonely a place that must be. I suppose, to the village, it's what made Lydia more
human
.'

‘And Verity never came back to Longbridge?'

‘Well, when she was eighteen, it was up to her and luckily she was in a position to finally make her own decisions and sensible ones. I like to think she was never really
deranged
– just delicate. Something chemical was amiss – but she had help and they were able to redress the balance.'

‘With medication?'

‘And the rest,' said Xander. ‘Electroconvulsive therapy.'

‘Jesus, poor kid,' said Stella.

‘But you see, I don't think of Verity as “mad” because she categorically isn't. She's just unusual. Eccentric. Special. To the world, Lydia makes light of it, implies they're almost happily estranged – banters how her daughter “
lives with the Welsh
”. Appears not to worry, not to hurt. Doesn't give the gossip-mongers anything to grab, anything to run with. People haven't forgotten about Verity – but she's so seldom back and when she is, few know about it. So she's simply slipped from the memories of most. Which is how she'd want it and how Lydia likes it.'

‘Verity told me that she doesn't actually live with the Welsh at all – she lives with a French man, who's now Brazilian. Or something,' said Stella. ‘She didn't strike me as mad in the medical sense. She came across as endearingly, colourfully,
potty
. Slightly bonkers but in the
best
sense of the word. I use it as a compliment.'

Xander laughed. ‘She had a French boyfriend for a few years – I'm guessing she's now with a Brazilian bloke.'

‘In Wales?'

‘It's absolutely perfect for her – she lives on a sort of commune. Not yurts and tree hugging and clothes knitted from mung beans – but just a few families living simply, quietly, unmaterialistically. It's home. Longbridge isn't.'