The Dream House (38 page)

‘No!’ Kate breathed. Her head was beginning to whirl.

Dan turned and studied her face, then smiled. ‘I’m glad that it will be yours.’ Then he sighed. ‘I miss Agnes already, you know. It seems to be a week for losing people.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Linda,’ he said simply,‘ and Shelley. They’ve moved out. You know when you came round on Monday? Well, when they got back, after Shelley had gone to bed we had this blazing row. They left in the morning.’ He shook his head sadly. Kate couldn’t see his face.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Poor you. And Linda. And Shelley. Where have they gone?’

‘Back to her mum’s.’

Just at that moment, someone called ‘Kate?’ and Max came into the hall. He took in Dan and Kate at a glance but spoke just to Kate. ‘The vicar is looking for you to say goodbye,’ he said. Kate looked at Dan, who gave a tiny nod and stood back to let her pass. As she walked through the doorway, she felt Max’s hand lightly press her back.

Later, when Max was leaving he said, ‘I can come down for a day next week and we could start going through Aunt’s papers. What do you think? Would Wednesday be all right?’

By the time they had finished clearing up and helped Conrad lock up, it was getting late. Kate hurried off to pick up the children from Debbie’s. When she arrived, the house was in pandemonium.

‘Have they been awful?’ groaned Kate, staring at Debbie’s living room, which had been turned into a big den with half the bedding from upstairs.

‘Let’s just say lively,’ said Debbie, who looked exhausted.‘Getting into the holiday spirit a week too early.’

‘Sorry.’ Kate grimaced. ‘But thanks so much for having them.’

‘How did it go today?’

Kate told her all about the service and the party afterwards, and finished off by explaining just how valuable the contents of the house might be.

‘I know there is going to be a lot to pay in tax, but we’re still talking serious money here. I . . . I can’t think why so much of it’s coming to me.’

‘You’ll need it if you’re going to live there,’ said Debbie. ‘The modernization will be expensive, for a start.’ She was brushing some biscuit crumbs into a pile as she said carefully, ‘How are things with Simon at the moment? Better?’

Kate nodded. ‘I think so, but there’s a way to go. And he’s not convinced we should keep Seddington House.’

Debbie looked at her quizzically so Kate explained quickly about Simon’s unhappiness living in Suffolk.

‘I have to say, I’m gobsmacked, Kate. But he’s really not seeing this woman any more?’

‘No.’

Debbie nodded slowly, then gave Kate a hug. ‘Oh, I so hope everything works out for you, and that you stay. I know how much you want that house, but don’t let it become a matter of choosing between it and your marriage. A house is only a house, after all.’

‘I . . . I know. But I always thought Simon and I wanted the same things. And now it turns out that we don’t at all.’

That evening, after Kate had put the children to bed, she sat in the kitchen sipping a glass of wine while Joyce cooked supper.

‘Have you had any more thoughts about moving, dear?’ Joyce asked.

Kate slumped in her seat. ‘Not really,’ she said gloomily. ‘I definitely don’t want to go back to London. My life is here, especially now I have Seddington House. Whatever happens, we need to move soon – get out of your hair, Joyce. You’ve put up with us for so long.’

‘I can’t say that it’s always been easy, but I’ve loved having you, dear. Though that isn’t why I asked.’ Joyce put a large helping of fish pie in front of Kate and sat down with hers. ‘How are you and Simon going to sort this out? There I go again. Sticking my beak in.’

‘Except we are camping here with you.’

‘Kate, I don’t mind, really. I just want the best for you all. You must take all the time you need.’ Was Kate imagining a certain weariness in her tone?

‘Thank you, Joyce, you’re so kind. It must be so hard for you.

You never have your book club here or your friends round to supper.’

‘Don’t worry, they do understand, though I sometimes feel a bit guilty not returning hospitality. Still, it’s not long before my holiday, and I can treat them all while we’re away.’ Joyce’s reading group was taking a cultural cruise down the coast of Italy in two weeks’ time. They were meeting tonight at Hazel’s house to discuss their reading for the holiday.

‘And when you come back, we’ll have left for France,’ said Kate. ‘I’ve booked that gîte for the four of us, so you’ll have the house to yourself for a few days.’

‘It will be good for you all to be together as a family, and the gîte looks lovely. Simon has earned a rest and you just need some time away, don’t you?’

‘I suppose we do,’ said Kate. Secretly she was dreading the holiday. Who was going to win this argument about where they were to live?

Simon rang from the airport at eight thirty. He sounded tired but on a high. ‘Yeah, the deal’s in the bag. We’ve been celebrating which is why we’re so late. Should be back half eleven if the trains don’t mess me about. Don’t turn out, I’ll call a minicab.’

Who’s this ‘we’? Kate thought crossly. ‘We’ had always been Simon and her.

‘Oh, and I’ve got some news.’

‘What?’

‘Tell you when I get back.’

‘Simon, I can’t take any more surprises.’

‘Oh, right. Well, my promotion’s in the bag. Gillingham told me on the plane.’

‘That’s fantastic!’

‘I know, isn’t it? I’ve got to talk to him more about it next week, but they’ve been impressed with me over this East Europe thing. Kate, all the time I’ve put in, all these trips, have been worth it.’

She put down the phone with mixed feelings. Simon sounded so elated and she had to feel proud of his achievements. He had never succeeded so well in his career before. And yet at what price had this promotion been bought? And, even more to the point, what was there still to pay?

They would have to talk about it while they were in Normandy – which reminded her. She went to check the computer for confirmation of their tickets. The e-mail she’d been hoping for popped into the in-box, followed by one from Claire. She clicked on Claire’s quickly.

Poor Claire, soldiering along. Kate was just clicking on ‘Reply’ when the computer, which had a mind of its own, disconnected itself. Then the phone on the desk rang and she picked up the receiver.

‘Kate?’ It was her father.

‘Dad? I thought you might ring.’

‘How did today go?’

‘Very well, really. Though it’s sad that there were so few people left who knew Agnes. Ninety-odd years on this earth and only a handful of friends at your funeral. It’s very humbling.’

‘Yes.’ Kate’s father sounded distracted.

‘Is there anything the matter?’ she asked.

‘Your mother’s a bit weepy, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, why?’

‘It’s poor Ringo.’ Oh, the wretched dog. Kate sighed, remembering how much attention her mother vested in those dogs. ‘We had to have him put out of his misery today.’

‘Oh Dad, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized he’d got that bad.’

‘He was practically in a coma when we got up this morning, it was the only thing to do. But your mother’s upset. I’ve given her a pill and sent her to bed. I . . . I . . .’

‘Dad, are you all right?’ Her father sounded frail.

‘Yes, just tired, my dear. I’ll be all right after a bit of supper.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Just thought you ought to know about Ringo. The other dog’s not too good either, if you want my opinion.’

‘It’s probably miserable about Ringo. Is Mum all right?’

‘Yes, yes, tucked up nicely. I expect she’ll appreciate a call tomorrow. She’s keen to hear more about the house. She still can’t take it in, that it’s yours now, and this nonsense about Cousin Agnes and a baby. I must say, it all sounds very extraordinary. And bad luck on that other chap, her great-nephew. Anyway, I’m sure she’ll want to hear all the news, it’ll take her mind off Ringo.’

‘I feel awful that I haven’t been down to see you for a while,’ said Kate. ‘It’s just it’s a bit difficult at the moment. There’s so much going on here . . .’ She trailed off. Several times she had thought of explaining to her parents about her problems with Simon. They ought to know. And yet she had never found the right words. It was something else that would upset them deeply: wouldn’t they think she had let them down?

‘Yes, yes, I quite understand,’ Kate’s father said now. ‘We’re managing, though. Don’t worry about us.’ Desmond had recovered his usual bluff manner by the time they said goodbye, but behind the cheeriness Kate heard a quavering note of uncertainty.

At ten o’clock, Joyce arrived home with a long reading list of novels with Italian themes. She said with deliberate tact that she wouldn’t wait up for Simon to return, she was tired and would go to bed. Kate wished her goodnight and sat up, flicking through the channels on the TV. The news featured a Labour minister who looked, she thought, a little like Marion, and, as she zapped the off button, she remembered their conversation at the funeral.

Marion, who had been in touch with Agnes since the younger woman was a child, didn’t know anything about a baby, but had mentioned a suitor, an older man. Surely that didn’t mean Harry? Where on earth was she going to search next for clues? There was the house itself, of course, and it wouldn’t be long before she and Max would be going through Agnes’s papers. But unless there was a date of some sort to go by, it would be pointless trying to seek evidence of the birth in the parish register or at the Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths up in London. Would there be anyone in the village who was old enough to remember anything? She supposed she could try asking some of the elderly inhabitants. There was, of course, the diary upstairs that started with Agnes’s father, Gerald’s, illness. She must read that properly, though when she had flicked through it, there had been no mention of babies. It was Harry, she thought, Agnes’s affair with Harry, that she should try to follow up.

Suddenly she remembered. The letter accompanying the diaries! Now Agnes was dead, surely it would be all right to open the envelope? She hurried up the stairs two at a time, retrieved the sealed envelope from her bedside cabinet, and, sitting on the bed, read the direction:
To my son from his mother, Agnes Lavender Melton
. She carefully tore open the flap and pulled out a single page of yellowing foolscap, handwritten on both sides. It was dated May 1950.

Kate lay back on the bed and squeezed her eyes closed. So Agnes had never even seen the child she gave birth to. Someone had separated mother and child without any concern for the consequences. How cruel.

Suddenly her eyes flew open. Perhaps the baby had, in fact, died, and Agnes had lived under an illusion all these years. Kate had often read of occasions in the past when midwives and doctors had thought they were sparing a mother pain by taking away a stillborn baby before the mother could even acknowledge her child and say farewell. They believed they were being kind, as if the mother would really forget that she had ever nurtured a child within her for so long and given birth, and would just get up the next day as if nothing had happened so long as she wasn’t presented with physical evidence of the tragic end of her hopes and labours. Agnes strongly believed her child to be alive – why was that? Was it a delusion or had somebody told her that her living baby had been taken away – to where?

On impulse Kate reached into the drawer of her bedside table and took out the last diary. She turned to the first page.
1943
. Agnes’s father was dying. Even Agnes was aware that this was the case as he lay coughing, his breath coming in long strangled wheezes, his chest heaving. Lung disease, the doctor had told her, the symptoms exacerbated by weakness following the gas attack in the Kaiser’s war. And Gerald was losing the will to live.
After Vanessa left, his spirits never really recovered. He has been diminished, shut inside himself, though he has taken comfort in the routines of hard work, the rituals of daily life. My mother broke his heart
, Agnes wrote.
Vanessa broke his spirit
.