The Legacy (47 page)

“Erica,” she says, and sighs a little. “How long have you been in love with Dinny?”

“What?” I shrug one shoulder to dismiss her, realize too late that it’s a gesture of his that I’ve picked up.

“Don’t deny it. It’s written all over you.”

“You need to sleep. It’s been a rough day.”

“How long?” she presses, catching my hand as I move away. I look at her. In this light her eyes are unreadable. I can’t lie, but I can’t answer.

“I don’t know,” I say shortly. “I don’t know that I am in love with him.” I walk to the door, stiffly, feeling betrayed by every line of my body, every tiny move I make.

“Erica!”

“What?”

“I . . . was pleased, when you said you didn’t remember what had happened. I didn’t want you to remember. You were so young . . .”

“Not
that
young.”

“Young enough. None of it was your fault, I hope you know that. Of course you know. I didn’t want you to remember, because I was so ashamed. Not of throwing a stone back at him, but of running. Of leaving him there, and never telling Mum and Dad. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I did that! I’ve never known!”

“It wasn’t—”

“It was a thing to be decided on the instant. That’s what I’ve come to think, as I’ve got older. A decision made in an instant and once it’s made you can’t go back on it. Do you face up to a mistake, even one so terrible, or do you run away from it? I ran. I failed.”

“You didn’t fail, Beth.”

“Yes, I did. You only ever did what
I
did. I was the leader, the eldest. If I’d spoken up straight away he could have lived.”

“He did live!”

“He could have lived
normally
! Not been so damaged . . .”

“Beth, there’s no point to this. He lived. It can’t be undone now. Please stop torturing yourself. You were a child.”

“When I think of Mary, and Clifford . . .” Tears blur her eyes again, spill over. I can think of nothing to say to this. Clifford and Mary. Their lives were ruined more completely than ours. The thought of them settles like lead around my heart.

I
am awake in the clinging darkness before sunrise, and creep quietly to the kitchen. That odd state, exhausted and electrified at once. I make coffee, drink it strong and too hot. The cold of the floor numbs my feet through my socks. The little clock on the microwave tells me it’s half past seven. Silence in the house but for the creak of the heating as it fights its losing battle. I fetch yesterday’s paper, stare at it blankly and fail to do the crossword. The caffeine bustles my brain awake, but it doesn’t help me think. How can we not tell Henry’s parents that he’s alive? How can we not? We can’t not. But they will want to know what happened. Even placid Mary, so broken, will want to know what happened. And Clifford will want
justice
. Justice as he would see it. He will want charges brought against the Dinsdales for kidnapping, for withholding medical treatment. He will probably want charges brought against Beth and me, although these would be harder to bring. Grievous bodily harm, perhaps. Perverting the course of justice. I have no idea what charges apply to children. But I can see him clearly, with the three of us in his teeth, shaking and shaking. So how can we tell them?

Outside the sky lightens slowly. Beth appears, fully dressed, at ten o’clock. She stands in the doorway with her bag on her shoulder.

“How are you doing?” I ask her.

“I’m . . . OK. I’ve got to go. Maxwell’s dropping Eddie off after lunch tomorrow and nothing’s ready, and . . . and I need to get to a hairdresser before he arrives. I’ve got him until he goes back to school on Wednesday.”

“Oh, right. I thought . . . I thought we were going to talk about it? About Henry?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I’m just not ready to talk about it yet. Not yet. I feel better, though.”

“Good, good. I’m glad, Beth. Really, I am. I want nothing more than for you to be able to put all this behind you.”

“That’s what I want too.” She sounds lighter, almost bright; smiles in readiness to depart, grips her bag convincingly.

“Only . . . I don’t know what we should do about Clifford and Mary. What we should do about telling them . . .” I say. Her face falls. She is on the same train of thought as me, I think, only I am some hours ahead of her. She licks her lips, quickly, nervously.

“Right now I have to go. But honestly, Rick, I don’t think I should have any say in what happens next. I don’t have the right. I don’t want the right. I’ve done enough to him. To them. I don’t think any idea of mine would be a good one.” Little shadows chase across her face again.

“Don’t worry about it, Beth. I’ll sort it out.” So sure of this, I sound. She smiles at me, diaphanous and wonderful as new butterfly wings; comes over and hugs me.

“Thank you, Erica. I owe you so much,” she says.

“You don’t owe me anything.” I shake my head. “You’re my sister.”

She squeezes me with all the strength in her willow-switch body.

It starts to sleet from a flat gray sky as we get into the car, and I have just started the engine when Dinny appears from beneath the trees, knocks on the window.

“I was hoping I’d catch you. I guessed you’d be off this morning,” he says to Beth. Just the faintest hint of a rebuke, but enough to put a line between her brows.

“Beth has to catch the next train,” I say. He flicks his eyes to me and nods.

“Look, Beth, I just wanted to say . . . I just . . . when I said last night that you’d killed him, I didn’t mean that . . . that you’d done it deliberately or anything,” he says. “I used to ask my parents why Henry was such a bastard. Why he was such a bully, such a vicious little git . . . They told me over and over again that when children behave that way it’s because they aren’t happy. For whatever reason they’re full of fear and anger and they take it out on other people. I didn’t believe them then, of course. I thought it was just because he was an evil sod, but I believe it now. It’s true, of course. Henry wasn’t happy then, and, well, he is happy now. He’s the happiest, most peaceful soul I know. I just . . . I just thought you should think about that.” Dinny swallows, tips his chin at us and steps back from the car.

“Thank you,” Beth says. She can’t quite look him in the eye, but she’s trying. “Thank you, for what you did. For never telling anybody.”

“I’d never have done anything to hurt you, Beth,” he says softly. My knuckles on the steering wheel are white. Beth nods, her eyes downcast. “Will you ever come back this way?” he asks.

“Perhaps. I think so. Sometime in the future,” she replies.

“Then I’ll see you around, Beth,” Dinny says, with a sad smile.

“Goodbye, Dinny,” she says quietly. He smacks the roof of the car with the flat of his hand and I pull away obediently. In the rearview mirror I see him standing there, hands in his pockets, dark eyes in a dark face. He stays until we have driven out of sight.

S
aturday the third of January today. Most people will be back at work on Monday. I will call the Calcott family lawyer, a Mr. Dawlish of Marlborough, and tell him he can put Storton Manor on the market. I have decisions to make, now that I can go forward again. There’s nothing missing any more, no cracks, no excuses to stall. I am quiet as I move around the house. I don’t want the radio on, or the TV for company. I don’t hum, I try not to bang; I put my feet down softly. I want to hear the clear bell-tone of the truths I know ringing in my head. I could leave it all—leave the huge tree and all the holly I painted gold. They could stay, gathering dust and cobwebs until the auctioneer has been and gone with all the good stuff, and the house clearance men have been for the rest. Relics of this odd, limbo Christmas of ours. But I can’t bear the thought of it. That shreds of our lives should be left like Meredith’s apple core in the drawing room bin. Discarded and repugnant.

Industry is good. It keeps my thoughts from overwhelming me. Three things only I will keep: Caroline’s writing case and the letters within it, the New York portrait and Flag’s teething ring. The rest can go. I strip the tree of baubles and beads and clear the last of the Christmas leftovers from the fridge and the larder, scattering the lawn with anything the birds or foxes might fancy. I find pliers in a scullery drawer, climb the stairs to where the Christmas tree is fixed to the banisters, and cut the wire. “Timber!” I cry, to the empty hallway. The tree sags slowly to one side, then flops to the floor like an elderly dog. A delicate, muffled crunch tells me I didn’t find every bauble. Dry needles cascade from the branches, carpet the flagstones. With a sigh, I fetch a dustpan and brush and set to chasing them around the floor. I can’t help conjuring a life for myself with Dinny, picturing staying with him. Sleeping on a narrow bunk in the back of his ambulance; cooking breakfast on the tiny stove; perhaps working in each new town. Short contracts, sick-leave cover. Tutoring. As if anybody would hire a supply teacher with no fixed address. Lying close each night, hearing his heartbeat, woken by his touch.

There’s a knock, and Dinny’s voice startles me from my reverie.

“Is this a bad time?” His head appears around the front door.

“No, it’s perfect timing, actually. You can help me drag this tree out.” I smile, climbing to my feet and wincing. “I’ve been on my knees for too long. And not for any of the best reasons,” I tell him.

“Oh? And what are the best reasons?” Dinny asks, with an arch smile that warms me.

“Why, prayer, of course,” I tell him, all sincerity, and he chuckles. He hands me an envelope.

“Here. A card from Honey. For your help the other night, and for the flowers.” He takes an elastic band from his pocket, holding it in his teeth while he gathers up his hair, pulls it back from his face.

“Oh, she didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, after you’d left Mum’s the other day she realized that she hadn’t actually
said
thank you. And now that the hormones are settling down, I think she appreciates how vile she’s been for the past few weeks.”

“She had good reason, I suppose. Not an easy time for her.”

“She didn’t make it easy. But it all seems to be working out now.”

“Here—grab a branch.” I open both sides of the front door wide and we grasp the tree by its lowest branches, tow it across the floor. It bleeds a green wake behind it.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have swept up until after we’d moved the tree?” Dinny observes.

“Could be,” I agree. We abandon the tree on the driveway, brush the needles from our hands. Everything is dripping wet out here, weighed down with water. Dark streaks on the trees, like a fever sweat. The rooks clamor from across the garden. Their disembodied voices hit the house, come back again as metallic echoes; I think I can feel them watching us with their hard little eyes like metal beads. My heart is the quickest thing for miles around. My thoughts the least quiet. I look at Dinny, suddenly shy. I can’t give a name to what’s between us, can’t quite feel the shape of it. “Come for dinner tonight,” I say.

“OK. Thanks,” he replies.

I
’ve made a meal with the last of anything edible from the larder, the fridge, the freezer. This is the last time. I will throw the rest away. Ancient tins of custard powder; dog biscuits; jars of treacle with rusted-on lids; sachets of ready-mix béchamel. The house will go from lived-in to empty, from home to property. Any time now. I said he could bring Harry, if he wanted. It seemed only right. I feel I ought to have some part in looking after him, in supporting him. But Dinny sensed this, and he frowned, and when he arrives at seven he’s alone. A tawny owl shrieks in the trees behind him, heralds him. A still night, cold and dank as a riverbank pebble.

“Beth seemed a bit better when she left,” I say, opening a bottle of wine and pouring two large glasses. “Thank you for saying . . . what you said. About Henry being happy.”

“It’s true,” Dinny says, taking a sip that wets his lower lip, traces it with crimson.

All along, he has known. All this time, all these years. He can’t know, then, how I feel now—looking down and seeing I wasn’t walking on solid ground after all.

“What is this, anyway?” he asks me, turning the food over with his fork.

“Chicken Provençal. And those are cheese dumplings. Mixed bean salad and tinned spinach. Why? Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem,” he smiles, and gamely begins to eat. I take a forkful of dumpling. It has the texture of plasticine.

“It’s horrible. Sorry. I never was much of a cook,” I say.

“The chicken’s not bad,” Dinny says diplomatically. We are so unused to this. To sitting and eating together. Small talk. The idea of us together, in this new world order. The silence hangs.

“My mum told me that you were in love with Beth back then. Is that why you would never say what had really happened? To protect Beth?”

Dinny chews slowly, swallows.

“We were
twelve
, Erica. But I didn’t want to tell on her, no.”

“Do you still love her?” I don’t want to know, but I have to.