The Back of Beyond (40 page)

Not having the nerve to say she would prefer if he kept her company, she assured him that she would be fine.

‘Lock the door behind me,' he instructed, as he took his leave, ‘then try to get some sleep, though I know that's easier said than done at a time like this.'

Rising to obey his first order, she thought she may as well go to bed when she was at it, but before she reached the bedroom someone knocked at the outside door. Knowing it couldn't be Roddy, her legs shaking, she turned and shouted, ‘Who's there?'

‘It's Alistair, Lexie.'

‘Go away! I don't want to see you. I'm going to bed.'

‘I've something to tell you.'

‘If it's about Gwen, I know she's left you.'

‘You were right, Lexie. It was her you saw with the soldier. I need somebody to talk to and there's nobody else.'

His last three words were his undoing. ‘Leave me alone. I'm not letting you in!'

She held her breath until she heard his feet going round the side of the house, then she relaxed, but she couldn't help thinking how much things had changed. At one time, she'd have rushed to let him in. She had practically offered herself to him more than once … but that was before she had remembered being raped. If she had let him do what he wanted the night before he went to London, would the awful memory have come back then, or would he have obliterated it for good? And all those other young men she had stopped after egging them on, had it been stirring in her mind then too? Had she been scared, though she didn't know why?

Well, now she knew why … and who … and it was awful, unbearable. Alec Fraser hadn't run off with Nancy Lawrie, or Margaret Birnie, or any other woman, and the only explanation was his shame at raping his daughter.

Having walked for hours trying to think straight, and getting no respite at Lexie's house, Alistair's walk back to Benview was slow and laboured. It was maybe just as well she hadn't let him in, he mused, with a sob in his throat. He was still upset by what Gwen had done; the showdown had taken him by surprise, his heart still felt leaden. Coming to a smooth stretch of grass at the roadside, he sat down to have a breather. Everything was going wrong for him. Every-bloody-thing in his life. He'd been away from his wife and family for five years, two of them spent in a prisoner-of-war camp, and round about the time he was captured, his wife had been consoling herself with another man. Ken Bloody Partridge – it was a name he would never forget.

He fished in his jacket pocket for his packet of Capstan, and couldn't stop his hand from shaking as he snapped his lighter, but the first long draw of the cigarette did help him. The pain in his heart eased a fraction, the obstruction in his throat disappeared – maybe the effects would only last as long as the cigarette itself, but at least he was getting some benefit from it.

Chapter 31

Two weeks on, Alistair was no nearer to forgiving his wife, despite recalling what
he
had almost done while she was giving birth to their daughter sixteen years earlier. There were times when he came close, but he always excused himself on the grounds that the circumstances had been entirely different. His lapse had come of a weakness, weakness born of heightened emotions and pique at Lexie's negative reaction.

The atmosphere at Benview was still distinctly chilly; Leila in particular making it clear that she held him responsible for breaking up the family, which was ridiculous since he had done nothing wrong. Life wasn't fair. It never had been. Not for him.

He was beginning to realize, however, that such self-pity could not continue for ever. His business was suffering because of his lack of concentration and that was bad. He would have to pull himself together and face up to being an unattached man. Not that he wanted to be attached again, but he should at least try to lead a more or less normal life. He wasn't the only one whose wife had borne a child to another man while he was away. The damned war had a lot to answer for, though it was no excuse for being unfaithful … for a woman or for a man, though just as many husbands as wives had done a bit of philandering … more probably.

That evening, as he sat down with his children to their evening meal, Alistair decided that it was time to make them understand how deeply their mother had hurt him. He had never defended himself to them, and they needed to be told. Waiting until David had finished his second helping, he motioned to them to remain where they were.

‘But I'm in a hurry,' David pouted. ‘I'm going out with my pals.'

Leila scowled at her father. ‘I'm meeting Barry, and I don't want to be late.'

Impatient at their self-absorption, he barked, ‘What I'm going to say to you is far more important than pals or lads.'

They glanced at each other, silently apprehensive, yet obviously resentful, so he went straight into the little speech he had planned. ‘I know you both feel I was too hard on your mother, but let me give you my side.' He started by relating his experiences in the war, the deprivations of being part of an invading force in alien territory even before he was caught and put behind the barbed wire of an Italian prison camp. Then had come the transfer to the first of several German Stalags, and the long hazardous treks from one to the next, with only the thought of his loving wife and children to keep him sane when there was no food, no kindness, and seemingly, no hope.

‘I loved your mother,' he told them, ‘and I prayed that it wouldn't be long till I'd be going home to her again. I trusted her to be faithful to me because I stupidly thought she loved me just as much as I loved her.'

‘She did, Dad,' Leila burst out. ‘She did. She just made one silly mistake.'

Alistair shook his head mournfully. ‘Young Nicky was the result of that one silly mistake, and that kind of thing can't be hidden, Leila, though she and her sister did their best.' He looked at each of his listeners in turn now. ‘I don't suppose you know how they managed to pull the wool over everybody's eyes?' Their blank expressions telling him that they didn't, he detailed the plot Marge had hatched, and was pleased to see his daughter's eyes widen, her expression soften a little.

‘I never knew,' she whispered.

‘That's what I can't forgive,' he admitted. ‘If she'd confessed to me at the time, I'd have been hurt, naturally, but I could have coped with it like I learned to cope with all the other things fate threw at me. But learning like I did, years after …' He ran his hand across his perspiring brow. ‘Right from the minute I saw him, I knew Nicky couldn't be Dougal's, but I thought it was Marge who had misbehaved, and your mother let me carry right on believing that.'

‘It was all my fault, wasn't it?' David muttered suddenly. ‘If I hadn't let you see the old snaps, you'd never have …'

‘No, that wasn't what did it. They just proved to me I'd been right about Marge. I never dreamed that …' He swallowed before going on, ‘… that it was your mother.'

‘Auntie Marge was willing to take the blame,' Leila reminded him, ‘and Mum didn't need to tell you the truth. You'd never have found out if she hadn't.'

‘Truth will always come out, and I had the right to know, hadn't I? My heart was ground to dust that day, and I've only been half a man since. It was like a part of me had been taken away, a part I needed to keep me alive.'

‘Dad,' Leila said, gently, ‘I can imagine how badly you feel, but Mum does love you and if you loved her as much as you said, you'd have understood that she didn't mean to do it, it just happened. Ken and her … their feelings, emotions, were all upside down, and their bodies needed each other. Don't you see? I've got to go, but think about it.'

She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair where she had thrown it when she came home and ran out, and David, his face red because of the nature of the conversation, stood up. ‘I'm late, as well, Dad, but I think Leila's right. Not that I know about feelings and emotions,' he added hastily, ‘but it makes sense … doesn't it?'

Left alone, Alistair wondered if he should have resisted the urge to make them see things from his point of view. He had uncovered something else for him to worry about. Had his sixteen-year-old daughter been speaking from experience? Had Barry Mearns been …? It was agony to think that the postman's son's rough paws had touched her, caressed her, knowing it would arouse her passions as well as his own.

‘I'm surprised we haven't heard one word from Gwen.' Marge eyed her husband warily, because she sensed that he didn't like speaking about her older sister now. ‘She's been away for well over a week.'

Dougal drained his teacup and got to his feet. ‘She'll be all right. Don't fuss!'

‘It's not like her, that's all.' But she said no more about it, and kissed him before he left for work, Nicky running out to wave him goodbye as he drove off.

When her son came in again, Marge said, ‘Mummy has to go to the dentist this morning, remember, so be a good boy for Auntie Pam.' The courtesy title was given to Pamela Deans, who lived in the other half of the semi-detached villa. She was a widow who lived alone, but she had brought up a family of three and knew how to amuse little boys, even little boys as active as Nicholas Finnie.

‘Auntie Pam found a box of tin soldiers in her attic,' Nicky observed, fidgeting with impatience to get his hands on them. ‘She says they're her Frank's, but he's in Australia. Her Frank must be a funny man if he played with soldiers, what d'you think, Mummy?'

Marge couldn't help smiling. ‘He'd just have been a boy when he played with them. He was grown up when he went to Australia.'

‘Where's Australia, Mummy?'

‘On the other side of the world, darling – a long, long way from Lee Green.'

‘When I grow up will I go to the other side of the world, Mummy?'

‘I can't tell you that. It depends on a lot of things. Now stop asking questions and put on your jersey.'

It was one of Dougal's busiest days. They'd had a long weekend off because of the Bank Holiday, and there was a mountain of paperwork to catch up on. He had told the girl in the outer office that he didn't want to be disturbed, so he glared at her when she gave a timid knock and walked in. ‘I told you I didn't want …' he began, but stopped, his face paling, when he saw the uniformed man behind her.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Finnie,' the policeman said, ‘but …'

Dougal held his hand up. ‘It's all right, Jane, you may go.' Only one explanation had jumped to his mind, so when the girl shut the door behind her, he said, ‘I suppose this is about my sister-in-law? What has she done?'

The other man turned an embarrassed pink. ‘No, Mr Finnie, it's not about your sister-in-law, it's … about your wife. There has been an accident …'

Dougal could feel the blood draining from his face. ‘An accident? How bad is she? Which hospital did they take …?'

‘I'm afraid … she died on the way to hospital. It seems she was standing at a junction speaking to another lady when an articulated lorry carrying sewage pipes took the corner too quickly, and …' The young policeman licked his dry lips. ‘The load slipped and … it all happened in a matter of seconds, according to witnesses.'

‘Where is she? I have to go …'

‘Look sir,' the uniformed man looked most uncomfortable, ‘I know how anxious you must be, but another ten minutes or so won't make any difference, and I really think you should give yourself a little time … to steady your nerves.'

‘I'm perfectly all right!' He couldn't help being curt.

‘If you say so. Your wife's identity card was in her handbag, that's how we knew where she lived. There was no one in when we called there, but a little boy was playing in the garden next door …'

‘That had been my son,' Dougal managed to croak. ‘Mrs Deans was looking after him to let my wife go to the dentist.'

‘So I believe. Your son said his Mummy had gone to the tooth man, and Mrs Deans gave us your office address. Is there anyone I can contact for you, Mr Finnie, someone to give you some support through this dreadful time?'

‘Will you please notify my sister-in-law? Mrs Pryor.'

‘Would she be the lady you were referring to earlier?'

‘No, there are … were … three sisters. Gwen, the one who went away without leaving any address, Marge, my wife, and Peggy, the youngest, Mrs Pryor.'

As he and Peggy sat by his fireside, Dougal couldn't remember half of what he had done that day. ‘It's been a nightmare,' he groaned, ‘and I kept wishing I'd wake up.'

‘I was the same,' she admitted. ‘I still can't believe it.' She looked at him pensively, noting how grey he looked, how absolutely done in. ‘Do you want me to phone Alistair? You might feel a little bit better with another man to lean on.'

‘I don't know if he'd want to come.'

‘Because of … Nicky, you mean? But surely he'd put all that out of his mind at a time like this? I'll tell him Gwen's not here …' Peggy broke off, her eyes misting. ‘I wish I knew where she was, though. She'd want to know about Marge. She'd want to be here.'

Dougal patted her hand. ‘I'm truly sorry she's not here for you. I've been so wrapped up in myself … but you've lost a sister. You likely think you've lost them both, but I'm sure Gwen'll come back.'

A little of the hopelessness left Peggy's eyes. ‘Do you really think so?'

‘I do, Peg, but are you sure you've no idea where she could be? Marge couldn't think of anybody she'd have gone to, not with dear old Ivy gone, but maybe you can remember somebody else she'd been close to.'

‘I've racked my brains, Dougal, and I just can't think of anybody else.' She stood up wearily. ‘I think I'll go home and phone Alistair from there. He should know … about Gwen, as well as Marge.'

She had to get away for a few minutes. The pain in Dougal's eyes, the change in him from a bright, upright, healthy man to a bowed, haggard wreck with stubble on his chin and upper lip, his hair uncombed since he'd gone to work in the morning, was too much to bear on top of her own grief. She needed a short respite, to charge her batteries.

Once inside her hallway, her hand trembling, she dialled the number and glanced at the clock while she waited for an answer. Good grief! She hadn't dreamt it was half past nine already. Thinking that everyone at Benview must be out, she was on the point of laying down the receiver when a rather weary ‘Hello?' came over the line. ‘Alistair?' she said, huskily, ‘it's Peggy.'

‘What is it? Is something wrong with Gwen?' She was gratified to hear a touch of anxiety in his voice. ‘Nothing's wrong with Gwen as far as I know, but Marge was … killed in an accident … this forenoon.' It wasn't easy for her to say. It turned the prolonged nightmare into stark reality.

‘What?' His gasp was followed by a short silence, then he murmured, ‘No, no, Peg, say that isn't true.'

‘It is true.' Peggy fought down the lump in her throat. She had to keep calm, she couldn't let herself go to pieces on the telephone. ‘I can't talk any more, Alistair, I'm too upset, but Dougal needs you.'

‘Tell him I'll be there as soon as I can. Wait! What did you mean nothing was wrong with Gwen … as far as you know?'

‘We … don't know … where she is.' The tears spilling out, her throat constricting, she put the instrument back on its rest, and sat down to give way to the sorrow she'd had to deny in front of Dougal.

On the early morning train to London, Alistair couldn't help feeling as upset about Gwen being missing as about her sister's death, but he tried to concentrate on what Peggy had said. An accident? She might have explained and not left him wondering? Had it been anything to do with Dougal? Had he fallen out with Marge over young Nicky? Had he finally let out the fury he must have nursed since her deceit was uncovered? Had he lost control … and killed her? Oh God, not that!

The noises in Edinburgh's Waverley Station brought him reluctantly out of the exhausted sleep he had succumbed to. He didn't want to remember, but he couldn't banish the memory of the awful event in Benview he couldn't remember how long ago – sometimes it felt like for ever, at others it was as if it had only just happened. He drew in a ragged breath. The pain Gwen had caused him was still too raw to dwell on. Maybe, like the pain of bereavement, it would ease with time, but he didn't think so; the deception she had played was far worse than any bereavement. He had blamed Marge, as well, at the time, but … oh, Lord, how he wished now that he had made his peace with her.