A Place for Us (29 page)

“What—what happened with us, Cat—” Joe turned to her. “I don’t do that kind of thing normally.”

“Normally! What does that mean?”

He closed his eyes and shrugged. “I shouldn’t have. It was wrong.”

“You knew she was pregnant when we kissed.”

“Yes.”

“Exactly.” He opened his mouth but she cut him off. “How’s Karen doing?”

“She’s doing well. She’s tired, quite heavy. Still a way to go, but already she’s slowing down. She finds it hard.”

“Right.”

“She’s living with me.”

“Yes, I know.”

Cat thought of Lucy’s voice, when she’d rung her to break the news.

“She just moved in with him, upped sticks and walked out, right after New Year! The brass neck! Apparently they’re thinking of renovating Barb Fletcher’s old cottage together.”

More than ever, Cat had been glad no one else knew she’d kissed him. “No. The one with the old hearth and the massive garden? It’s got an outside loo, right?”

“Well, Joe can afford it. He’ll be rolling in it soon. I can’t believe I got him that restaurant review. I cannot believe it.”

“He deserves it, though,” she’d said, trying to be fair. “He’s really good.”

“Well, yes.” Lucy had said. “But I still can’t believe the way he’s behaved. To think I fancied him! Oh, my God. All that time he was shagging Karen. All that time . . .”

All that time
.

Standing there in the wide open air with him, everything out in front of them, Cat knew it was time to leave. “I’d better get back to Gran,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Cat. Really sorry. I wish it hadn’t happened like that.”

Cat leaned forward; he’d spoken so quietly she wasn’t sure she’d heard right at first. Luke was running around Jamie in a circle with a couple of bay leaves stuffed in his hands, shouting out pieces of information he thought Jamie would want to know: “I’m a fish in the play at school. . . . I had a beef burger with Gabriel. . . . We are reading a book about cars.”

“Right, thank you.” She sounded like a prim schoolmarm.

He looked down at the bag of supplies he’d been carrying, then up at her. “Screw it. Can I just say one thing?”

“What?”

“Cat, listen. I keep thinking . . .”

Often, afterward, she wondered how he’d meant to finish that sentence, but he just stopped. No yelling children, no interruptions, no
random acts of God, as in a rom-com. He just stopped and said, “You know, I think it’s time we went.”

“What’s in your bag?” she asked him suddenly.

“Oh.” He peered into the blue plastic. “We’ve been foraging. On our walk. Dock leaves, wild arugula, some rosemary . . . and some roots. We’re going to try a few things back at the pub.”

“You know where the wild garlic grows? Up over the hill, past Iford? Miles of the stuff. Not long now. And there’s Bath asparagus everywhere in the hedgerows in May too.”

“I didn’t know that. Any of it. Thank you.”

“Yes. I used to pick it, with—never mind. Luke! Come on! We need to get home.”

“Home?” Luke stood still, looking stricken. “You said we were here for the weekend.”

“I mean to Gran’s,” she corrected herself. “We need to walk back and see Gran and make lunch.”

“Okay!” Luke shouted.

“See you, then,” she said to Joe, wanting to part on a friendly note. “Good luck with everything.”

Joe nodded. “You too. Thanks.” Jamie ran over to him and buried his head in his dad’s stomach. Joe pulled him toward him, and covered him with his coat.

Jamie stayed perfectly still for a few seconds, then opened the coat, looked up at his father, and shouted, “Boo, Dad!”

As Joe threw his head back and laughed, Cat realized she’d never really seen him grin before. Properly, like his face was made for it. He picked his son up and gave him a big kiss, then turned, to see Cat and Luke still standing there, watching like children waiting to be picked up at school.

Cat set off down the field toward the north exit. She walked briskly, a harsh spring wind on her cheeks. Luke scrambled to keep up with her. “We see Joe later?” he kept asking.

“No,” Cat told him. “We’re going back home. Tomorrow.”

Back home.

•   •   •

The train the following day was crowded. Luke had to sit on her knee for most of the way, squashed up against a Moroccan lady who gave him pita bread and pieces of apricot. Cat thought about her grandmother. How being with her was almost worse than leaving her, because it was clear they couldn’t help her, no one could, and she didn’t know what would happen.

They’d all, all of them, mocked Lucy gently over the years for being so sentimental about Winterfold: the awards ceremonies at Christmas, her lists of favorite things about the holidays that she had pinned up on her walls. But they were no better, any of them, were they? Lucy was the most straightforward member of the family. She told the truth, at least, always had.

They went into the Tunnel, the sudden dark rushing past them, and Luke settled his head against the window, watching the single lamps that lit up their route. Cat made her plans. She would keep ringing up Lucy and Gran, and writing and e-mailing, even if Gran didn’t want to hear from anyone. She’d go back to Winterfold twice a year at least, even if Gran didn’t want to see anyone. And she would remember Southpaw, and try to remember her mother’s life, and the mistakes she, Cat, had made before and mustn’t make again. She told herself summer would come soon, and then things would be different.

But in the following weeks Cat was almost glad when it became cold again and the rain started. She had the excuse she wanted to feel as miserable as she liked.

Martha

N
ATALIE, THE LAWYER,
was a dark-eyed, brisk sort of person, Karen’s friend. She reminded Martha of Karen, in fact.

“We have good news,” Natalie said, spreading out the paperwork on the dining table. “So, to explain briefly—”

“Could I open the curtains before you start?” Bill stood up. “It’s rather close in here.”

“It’s fine,” Martha said. “Leave it.”

“It’s very dark, Ma.”

“Bill, she said leave it. If she wants it like that, she can have it like that.” Florence drummed her fingers on the table.

Natalie looked at Martha, unsure how to react, and Bill came back to his seat, jaw set. The sun was shining brilliantly outside, the first splash of spring. It flooded through the curtains into the lamplit room. Birds sang in the eaves of the house.

Martha knew what the daisy bank should look like by now, on a day like this. But after nearly six months she had still done nothing about resowing the grass and daisies. She thought she would leave it for when he came back. They could do it together, perhaps, remember Daisy together. She liked to think up little things like that for them to do. When he was here.

“Ma!”

Martha realized someone was talking to her. “Yes?” she said. “Sorry, Natalie. Go on.”

“We’ve been lucky,” Natalie said. She took a sip of water. “We’ve got the court date through. I think in other counties or under different circumstances we’d be looking at a trial or at least some kind of arrest, but
here I’m pretty sure you’ll merely be summoned to the magistrates’ court and given a conditional discharge.”

“That doesn’t sound very mere to me,” said Bill, looking carefully at his mother.

Florence sounded incredulous. “Nothing else? After what . . . happened?”

“No.” Natalie looked from mother to daughter. “You sound surprised, Florence. Is there a reason for that?”

“No. None at all.” Florence crossed her arms.

Martha didn’t know what to say to Florence. Her eyelids were still red, as though she had eczema. She’d had it when she was little; so had Bill. Not Daisy. David had eczema when he was worried or overworked. She had bought him special cream from the old pharmacist in Bath, the one that Jane Austen had used. It had always worked. She wondered if there was any left, and made a note to check upstairs. He’d need some more soon.

“There’ll be a small fine and, Mrs. Winter, you’ll probably have to pay the court costs too, but that’s all.” Martha nodded, staring into space, thoughts swirling in confusion around in her mind. She heard Bill muttering something to Natalie, who turned to him and said, “Foul play can’t be proven either way, and there’s no case to answer. Plus we have enough evidence that suicide was the likely cause of death to satisfy the police. More importantly, we have testimony from several witnesses—which I’m sure you’d back up—that Mrs. Winter was under a great deal of psychological stress in the weeks leading up to her elder daughter’s death, and much of that was due to the behavior of her daughter. The balance of her mind was disturbed.”

“
Daisy’s
mind was disturbed,” Florence said, kicking her legs out under the table. “She was crazy.”

“No, Florence.” Martha rapped her fist smartly on the polished wood. “She wasn’t.”

Natalie cleared her throat. “With respect, it’s Mrs. Winter’s state of mind that is relevant here. And we are able to suggest that it played an important part with regard to her uncharacteristic behavior.”

Bill’s arms were crossed. He leaned forward, trying to move things along. “So—that’s it?” Karen was a friend of Natalie’s; it occurred to Martha that perhaps she should have asked someone else. This business
with Karen, and all of that. But Bill was being so strange lately, bossing everyone around, butting in where he wasn’t wanted, acting as though he owned the place. The trouble with Bill was that he’d always been convinced he was a disappointment. That he wasn’t enough like David. And it made his mother want to laugh. No one could be like David, absolutely no one in the heavens above or on the earth beneath, or whatever it was the bit from the church service always said.

“That’s what?” Florence said sharply.

Bill glanced at his sister. “I suppose—this whole business. It’s over?”

“You really think that’s it?” Florence laughed. She leaned forward and tapped on the table close to Natalie. “Natalie, is that really all there is to discuss? Nothing else you want to bring up?”

“Florence, whatever axe you have to grind—” Bill said sharply, and Florence whipped round, glaring at him.

“Shut up,” she said fiercely. “Just—just shut the hell up, Bill. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I do actually, I’m the one who—”

Florence hissed, as though it were just the two of them, “I said shut up. For God’s sake, Bill, you pathetic little man. You don’t even know, do you?” She turned to her mother. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

Martha didn’t know how to reply to this. This poem she kept thinking of, they had been made to learn it at school and that was a long time ago, a very long time. It was in her mind all the time now. The first line made her think of the way up to the house.

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

But she couldn’t remember the rest of it. She stared at Bill and Florence, who looked back at her, and it was as if they were all three of them strangers, meeting in this room for the first time.
They hate each other, don’t they?
she found herself thinking.
This pulled-in, tight-lipped man; this unhinged, wild woman—they’re supposed to be my children. Supposed to be
: isn’t that funny?

She stood up. Her hips ached; her knees clicked. She felt old lately. Old and fragile, made of bones, not flesh. She nodded at Natalie.

“Thank you so much, my dear. Will you stay for lunch?”

Natalie was tucking the papers into her plastic folder, and she didn’t meet her eyes. “That’s very kind of you, but no. I have to get back. I’ll be in touch when I’ve spoken to the CPS again.”

“The CPS?”

“Crown Prosecution Service.” Natalie picked up her coat.

“Oh, of course.” Martha twisted her fingers together. She said flatly, “A biscuit? Some more tea?”

Natalie shook her head. “You’re always so hospitable, Mrs. Winter. I wish I could, but I won’t, thank you again. As I say, I’ll be in touch.” She looked at her watch. “I am hopeful we’ll have a satisfactory conclusion soon.”

“What about the body?” Florence said. Martha jumped; her voice was loud. “What happens with that?”

Natalie looked quizzical. “Daisy’s, you mean?”

“Of course. Unless there’s someone else in the garden we don’t know about.”

Bill thumped his palm on the table. “For goodness’ sake, Flo, why on earth are you being such a b-b-bitch today?”

The stuttering word fell into the heavy atmosphere of the room, and Florence, for the first time that day, looked taken aback, vulnerable. “I—suppose I wish we’d all been honest with each other.” She turned to Martha. “I’ll ask you again. Is there anything else you want to say to me? Anything?”

“Like what?” Martha said, shaking her head in bemusement. She knew that, whatever idea Florence had got into her head, she had to act the part. This, this was the real secret she couldn’t ever give away, because she knew by now if she did, then something would alter forever. David was adamant about it, and he would be very cross. Florence must never find out. The door of the study would remain locked. She just had to stick to their story. “What is it, my darling?”

Florence glared at her, and then her expression softened, and she said sadly, “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

The younger Florence had delighted Martha, because in so many ways she was not her creation; she was like an exotic creature come to stay in the house, to be cared for, looked after. And in all other ways she was a mini-David, with her lanky limbs, her big smile, her sweetness, her earnestness. She knew the names of Persian queens and obscure butterflies, of symphonies on the radio and the different types of Greek columns. And here she was now, a stranger.

Martha’s mind, starved of sleep, of emotion, was blank. She couldn’t
seem to see things clearly anymore. The thought she kept hold of was:
I have to carry on like this.

Florence rolled the edges of her folder over and over again, eyes fixed to the table. Martha wondered why she had a folder—what was in it?—and suddenly, without warning, Florence pushed her chair out and stood up.

“I have to go now,” she said. “I’m needed in London. I don’t know when I’ll be back here. If that’s all. Natalie, will you need me again?”

“No.” Natalie clasped her files to her body, obviously uncomfortable. “That’s all. Thank you all.”

“I have to fetch something upstairs before I go,” Florence said loudly. “Something I want. I won’t be long. I’ll say my good-byes now.”

“Are you going into the bathroom?” Martha asked, perfectly politely.

“What?”

“The bathroom. Can you check in the cabinet and see if there’s another tube of your father’s eczema cream? I might buy some more if not.”

Florence shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Ma. Honestly I don’t. Thank you, Natalie. Good-bye, Bill.”

Bill didn’t even look up as Florence stalked out of the room. Less than a minute later they heard her feet on the upstairs corridor, heard her rummaging around in the bathroom, opening cabinet doors, shutting them again.

“What the hell is she looking for?” Bill muttered. “I’m so sorry,” he said, turning to Natalie. “She’s—upset. We all are. I shouldn’t have been so unkind to her, but she . . . oh, never mind.” He sat down again, his hands covering his face.

“Of course,” Natalie replied awkwardly, as Florence thundered downstairs. Martha waited in silence. Surely she would come in, tell her? But the door slammed shut without another word. A minute later the car roared off down the drive.

A hazy, fuzzy sort of buzzing sounded in Martha’s head. As though the edges of some soundproofing were coming unstuck and the sound was leaking out of them. She clasped her hands over her ears, trying to shut it out.

“Right, then,” Natalie said after a brief pause. “Florence asked about the body. I’ll be in touch with the coroner’s office. We will have
to apply for a burial order and permission for your daughter’s reburial or—or cremation, whichever you choose.”

The buzzing grew louder. If they all knew about Daisy, then it had happened. He was gone, and she would never hear him chuckling over the TV, or listen to his soft, kind voice talking to someone on the phone, or look up from a book to see his soft brown eyes resting on her, late in the evening when the two of them sat up alone in the cozy drawing room. She would never turn to him as evening fell and smile and say, “Another day, David darling.”

She would never take his still-warm pen in her hand and do his work for him, never have him lean on her, never ever walk into a room and know he was there waiting for her. Never hold him close in her arms at night when the dreams seized him and he screamed and cried aloud in his sleep, calling out hoarsely, waking up sobbing, sweating so much his pajamas were soaked, when only she could tell him it was all right. Her boy, her man, her darling husband.

The sound was really loud now. Like the wasps in Florence’s room. Martha could feel a ball pushing against her throat, pain welling up in her heart. She imagined the curtains weren’t closed, and pictured the garden. She counted the blossoms that would be on the trees behind Natalie’s head.

“Ah—they may say no—given the circumstances. But once we have cleared that up and you’ve completed the procedure, that’ll be that.”

“That’ll be what?” Bill asked.

“Well, she’ll be reburied or the ashes interred, and the case will be closed,” Natalie said, moving toward the door as if she felt the poison in the air of this house, didn’t want to stay here another minute. “You can all get on with your lives.”

Bill and Martha looked around the empty table, then at each other, and nodded. “Fine,” said Bill. Martha watched him, wishing she could see. But suddenly all she could see was blackness. She sat still, hoping it would pass.