The Real Katie Lavender (46 page)

A wasted morning, Pen thought now as she tactfully withdrew, having also been roped into helping in the kitchen afterwards to wash up. It was very nearly one o’clock, and she felt cross and snappy for being cheated out of what she’d come here for. During the long reaches of the interminable service, her irritation had grown and her patience had been tested. Every time the children had rattled their shakers or hit a piercing note on their recorders, another layer of angry disappointment had compounded her frustration. It’s not the children’s fault, she had told herself. Then whose fault is it? she had wanted to know, her hands itching to take those wretched instruments of musical torture and smash them to smithereens.

To the sound of Andy Wilson – the organist, who exerted more zeal than actual skill – thumping out something she didn’t recognize on the organ, Pen shook open her umbrella in the porch and braved the rain. There was only one way to salvage the time lost and maybe sooth her jagged mood, and that was to go and talk to Neil for a few minutes. The thought that he would have felt the same about the service as she did comforted her.

Just as Cecily had remarked, Pen knew very well that Neil wasn’t there in the churchyard. Not the real Neil. He was no more present amongst the tombstones than God had been inside St Oswald’s that morning. No, if God had any sense, he was on holiday in Normandy with Roger Batley, drinking Calvados and eating delicious crêpes. But talking to Neil was a euphemism for remembering the Neil she had known, certainly not the Neil she hadn’t known. She didn’t want to know anything about the man he had been when he was with Simone Montrose. Simone was welcome to that man. She just wanted to remember the Neil who had been her husband and best friend. The man she still missed with all her heart.

The rain coming down even harder, she hurried through the churchyard. As the sound of the organ grew fainter, not only with distance, but drowned out by the pitter-patter of rain against the taut fabric of her umbrella, she caught the sound of boisterous voices. And laughing. It was an ugly, jeering kind of laughter. And quite out of place.

When she came upon the source of the noise, she stood stock-still. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It went beyond any form of decency that she knew. And she would not stand for it. She absolutely would not let these young louts get away with desecrating a grave. She opened her mouth and screamed at them. She screamed and screamed. Unleashing God knew what, she rent the air with all her might. They just stood there, slack-jawed and eyes popping, staring at her as if she were quite mad. Then they took to their heels and were gone.

And in that moment, with the rain hammering down on her – for some strange reason for which she couldn’t account, her umbrella was no longer in her hand – Pen knew that she
was
mad.

She was mad with grief.

She was mad with anger.

She was mad with an indescribable fury that these mindless savages could so wantonly defile a child’s grave. It was more than she could take.

Simone had promised herself she wouldn’t do it. She had sworn she would stay away.

But she had broken that promise.

It was Stirling’s fault. He was entirely to blame. He shouldn’t have fobbed her off with a lie about ringing. She had waited and waited and he hadn’t called. She had tried ringing him, but he must have switched off his mobile. He was avoiding her. Ignoring her. And it was unfair and wrong of him to do that. She had expected better of him. If he’d wanted to end things, why not simply say so? Why be so needlessly cruel?

Because he was a coward! That was why. He’d had his fun, he’d used her and now he wanted nothing more to do with her. But he had to know that he couldn’t get away with that. She deserved to be treated with respect.

Her plan had been to come here and speak to him face to face. It was a plan that was fast disintegrating. She had found Sandiford without any difficulty, having been here for Neil’s funeral, but it was beginning to dawn on her that driving round in the pouring rain looking for a house for which she didn’t have an address was the behaviour of a very foolish woman, who, if she wasn’t careful, ran the risk of tipping over into the realms of insanity. What had she imagined? That his house would be helpfully signposted with the words
Stirling the Adulterous Coward Lives Here
?

And what precisely had she planned to do when she did find his house? Make an embarrassing spectacle of herself?

When it came down to it, all she’d wanted, and still wanted, was an explanation and an apology. She could accept it was over, that whatever it was they had experienced wasn’t sustainable; it wasn’t ever meant to go on indefinitely. She knew that. But he couldn’t just shrug her off as if she counted for nothing. That was what hurt, knowing that he cared so little about her feelings. She had thought he understood, that they’d shared something that had mattered, that they were helping each other. When all along he’d only been helping himself. ‘You’re not half the man Neil was!’ she wanted to yell at him. ‘Neil wouldn’t have treated me so shabbily! Neil would have had had the guts to end it properly.’

Realizing what she’d just said, and that she’d said it aloud, she brought the car to a stop.

Neil hadn’t had the guts to end it properly, had he? He had abandoned her, just as Stirling had done. No word of explanation. No apology.

The windscreen wipers swished slowly and rhythmically from side to side in a now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t fashion. The truth, she now saw, was that unable to take out her feelings on Neil, she had come here today to do so with Stirling. Retribution by proxy.

She laid her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. How had she got into this mess? She was an intelligent woman. She had a satisfying and successful career, was even respected for the work she did. She had a lovely home. She had money in the bank. What was the matter with her that she attracted the wrong man every time? Her husband had been an alcoholic and a gambler. Her lover had committed fraud and killed himself. Now her substitute lover – how else could she describe Stirling? – had dumped her.

She banged her fists on the steering wheel and cried out, ‘Why do I attract these men? What’s wrong with me?’

She forced herself not to cry. The degrading self-pity had to stop. Be glad that you did nothing silly, she thought, as she pulled back out on to the road and drove on. Be glad that you can go home and face yourself in the mirror.

Ahead of her was a T-junction and a church. It was, she remembered, the church where Neil’s funeral had taken place: St Oswald’s.

Another moment of clarity struck her. It would be a final goodbye. A way for her to start living again.

She parked on the verge opposite the church, found an umbrella in the boot and crossed the road. She hadn’t been back since the day of the funeral. How could she come back? How could she do that when there was the risk of bumping into Neil’s wife?

But now it felt right. And on such an awful day, who else would be mad enough to be in the churchyard?

She pushed open the lychgate and walked up the path, her shoes grinding the gravel underfoot, the rain drumming on her umbrella overhead. She turned right, just as she remembered doing before, and followed the path round to the side and almost to the back of the church. She could hear the sound of an organ playing.

Her heart began to beat faster at the thought of seeing Neil’s grave. A great weight of sadness and remorse surged through her. Oh Neil, forgive me for what I’ve done since you died. Forgive me, please. Forgive me for everything I . . . She broke off. What was that noise? She slowed her step, suddenly unsure whether to go any further.

Don’t be a coward, she told herself. Somebody’s hurt. They need help. She walked on, but stopped abruptly.

An opened umbrella lay discarded on the ground, and sitting in a crumpled heap between two graves was Pen Nightingale. She was sobbing, her shoulders heaving, and on her lap was a collection of broken toys. Strangest of all, she was cradling a small furry donkey that looked like someone had tried to rip off its tail and legs; white stuffing oozed from the broken seams. Simone thought it was the saddest sight she had ever seen, and nothing in the world would have allowed her to leave Pen in this dreadful state.

Knowing that she was oblivious to her presence, Simone approached with care. She didn’t want to alarm the poor woman – no more than her appearance was bound to anyway. ‘Pen,’ she said softly. It sounded wrong to call her by her Christian name, but what other term of address could she use? The formality of ‘Mrs Nightingale’ seemed even more inappropriate. ‘Pen,’ she repeated, crouching on the sodden ground next to her and holding her umbrella over their heads. It was then that she noticed that the grave the other side of Pen was Neil’s. She swallowed. Help me, Neil, she implored. Help me to help your wife.

She put a hand out to the other woman. Pen started and looked up, rain dripping off her face, her hair plastered to her scalp. She clutched the bedraggled donkey to her chest as though frightened Simone would snatch it away from her. Recognition slowly flickered through her expression. ‘You,’ she murmured.

Simone nodded. ‘Yes, it’s me.’

The bleak wretchedness with which Pen stared back at her made Simone’s own sadness shrivel to insignificance. She was ashamed of her own petty feelings; Pen’s anguish was so much greater. Guilt and regret shivered through her.

Pen finally glanced away, her gaze coming to rest on the other grave. Not Neil’s, but the one on her left. ‘The children,’ she murmured. ‘They were . . . I found them destroying these toys . . . The family left them there for their little boy . . . He died of leukaemia . . . How could they be so wicked?’

Simone’s heart cleaved. She had no answer. All she could do was put her umbrella to one side and offer physical comfort to this shattered woman. She put her arms around her and held her in the same way that Pen was cradling the mangled and sopping-wet donkey.

With everyone gathered around the table and with Laura at his side, Rosco felt more cheerful and positive than he had in a long while. He took a long, appreciative sip of his wine – a particularly excellent Amarone that was big and bold and full of complex character – and allowed himself a metaphorical pat on the back, for in some small measure he was partly responsible for making today happen. If he hadn’t stepped in when he had, Dad may well have continued down the path he’d been on and made the worst decision of his life, a decision that would have made today – and future days like it – impossible.

He turned to glance at Laura and found that she was looking at him. She was, he’d decided, a vast improvement on any of his previous girlfriends. She was intelligent, easy-going and fun, and he liked being around her. Dark-eyed and dark-haired, and with a great body, she also just happened to be one of the most beautiful girls he’d dated. Scarlet had commented on this earlier, whispering to him, ‘She’s gorgeous, Rosco. Bet you any money you like you can’t hang on to her.’

Not prepared to put a price on Laura, he had whispered back to his sister, ‘I bet I can.’

‘Ooh,’ she’d said with a laugh. ‘That must be because you really like her.’

It was true, he did. And after their somewhat shaky start, with him cancelling one dinner and forgetting all about another, he wanted her to see him – and his family – in a good light.

‘You OK?’ he asked her, his voice low. Beneath the table, he linked hands with her and laced his fingers through hers.

She smiled. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Not too awful being thrown in at the deep end with my family, then?’

‘Not at all. I’m really enjoying myself. Your family’s great, your mum and dad are lovely.’

He looked down at the other end of the table, where his father had got to his feet and was going round refilling wine glasses. Mum had told him in the kitchen before lunch that she was still worried about Dad, and Rosco thought she was right to be concerned. Dad didn’t look himself at all. He hadn’t looked this bad since the days following Uncle Neil’s suicide.

Whilst Rosco was glad that his intervention the other night had brought Dad to his senses, he hated to think back to what he had reduced him to. That had never been his intention. He was ashamed now of his reaction to his father’s breakdown; he should never have walked away as he had. He had tried to reason with himself that no son wanted to see his father fall apart; that he had acted out of a combination of anger, vengeance and confusion, but he couldn’t really justify his behaviour that night. What if he’d pushed Dad too far and he’d had a heart attack?

But as brutal as the exchange had been, it had brought about today. It had made Dad get his priorities in order. As of yesterday, Katie Lavender had been dispatched to where she belonged, which was outside the walls of the Nightingale family. How could Dad have thought it could be any other way? He had to see from this gathering today to celebrate Louisa-May’s arrival that Katie could have no place in it. Apart from anything else, it simply wasn’t fair to Mum.

‘More wine, Rosco?’

Dad had worked his way round the table and now stood at Rosco’s shoulder. He let go of Laura’s hand under the table and shifted his glass to an easier spot for his father to reach. When the glass was full, he looked directly up into his father’s face. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ he said. His father stared back at him, and noticing that Laura’s attention had been diverted by something Gina was saying to her, Rosco lowered his voice and added, ‘Perhaps we could talk later, just the two of us?’

His father blinked. ‘Of course.’ He then moved on to Charlie’s mother’s wine glass.

It was the nearest they’d got to a private conversation since that dreadful night, which meant it was the nearest they’d got to referring to the deal Rosco had struck with him – get rid of Katie and he wouldn’t tell Mum about Simone Montrose. Hopefully, later in the afternoon, when everyone was once again focusing their attention on Louisa-May, he would be able to have a quiet word with his father, to reassure him that he would uphold his end of the bargain, that he wouldn’t breathe a word of his affair. Providing it was well and truly over and that it really had been a moment’s madness as his father had claimed.