The Influence (28 page)

“And most of us still are,” Derek responded, and was wondering how to sidle towards the subject they had to discuss when someone gripped his shoulder. “Stag night, is it?” Eddie said.

He put down his tankard and roved not quite steadily around the neighboring tables in search of a chair. “To tell you the truth, Eddie,” Derek called “this is sort of a family conference.”

“Where’s the rest of them, already under the table? I thought you never talked about them, too perfect or something. Don’t worry, I’m going, I won’t show you up in front of your arty gardener, though you were glad enough to know me when your mansion needed decorating.” He picked up his tankard and raised it toward them with exaggerated dignity. “Don’t mind us,” he said to Keith as if each word were a toffee he had to unstick from his teeth. “We’re always going on like this.”

When he’d swayed away Keith said “Are you?”

“It’s news to me.”

“He could join us by all means. Unless you really want a private word, in which case I’ll stop droning.” He frowned encouragingly at Derek and supped a mouthful of beer. “If Edith and I can help in any way, you’ve only to ask.”

“That’s kind of you, Keith. You’re a good friend.” He was also Alison’s father, and how might he react to what Derek had to say? “It’s how we’ve been since things went wrong, how that left us.” He took a gulp of beer to wash away the taste of inadequacy. “Maybe you’ve noticed.”

“There’s always the future, old chap. I think you have the kind of marriage that rebuilds itself, even if your troubles make you think you can’t stand each other sometimes. Is that what you mean? Just last night Edith and I were saying how well we thought you were coping.”

“Yesterday I’d have agreed with you.”

“I see it’s hard for you to talk, old son, but I can’t help unless you tell me.”

Derek almost drained his tankard. He let the blurry warmth of alcohol sail into his brain, then waved Keith down as he made to buy another round. “Wait and I’ll tell you. It’s Alison. I think what happened upset her more than she’s letting on.”

“It might have, don’t you think? After all, she lost her sister and may have thought she’d lost her only child.” His eyes clouded until he blinked away the memory of his bereavement. “But it can’t be good for her not to share her feelings with you. If Edith and I hadn’t helped each other over losing our Hermione I don’t know where we’d be. I’ll have a quiet word with Alison if you think that would serve.”

“We mightn’t want her to know we’ve been talking. She’s got sort of mistrustful. I don’t think she believes Rowan has really come back.”

Disconcertingly, Keith looked relieved. “What makes you say so?”

“Didn’t you see how she was watching her today?”

“I may have now you mention it. Let me replenish your mug. I should tell you now it wouldn’t be the first time with Alison, so cheer up.”

Derek stared after him while he waited at the bar to be served. A large bald man tore mouthfuls out of a turkey sandwich and fed the fruit machine, which chirped like a ravenous bird. Keith returned at last, balancing tankards. “Not the first time,” Derek prompted urgently.

“No. No, I don’t think it is.” Keith set his tankard and then himself down gently. “When Alison was three Hermione had to spend some time in hospital, and her mother stayed with her, of course. You had to make a fuss to do that in those days, and the hospital wouldn’t let Alison go visiting, out of spite, we thought. Anyway, when they came home Alison was very wary of Hermione and not a great deal better with their mother. We found out she thought that when you’d been anaesthetised you could be someone else when you came round. Hermione had to remind her of things the two of them had done together. I’d say it was being separated from her mother and Hermione that made Alison feel that way, and I’m sure the same applies now and she’ll get over it, don’t you think?”

“But she isn’t a child any more.”

“No more than the rest of us, at any rate. Still, can’t you see why she might feel uneasy with Rowan? Rowan’s not the child she was, and I think we can understand why. Perhaps you should let Alison know you sometimes feel the way she does.”

Derek felt as if he had to tear down a wall between himself and Keith without knowing what the wall might be supporting. “But I don’t,” he cried. “She doesn’t just think Rowan’s not herself, she thinks Rowan’s somewhere else. She talks to her when she’s not there, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, but that needn’t mean—”

“I haven’t told you what happened last night. I woke up and she was sitting up in bed, and then she started talking. She said ‘Rowan, it’s you’ to the empty room, do you understand? Then she got up and I sneaked a look at her, and believe me, she was wide awake. She went along to Rowan’s room and I heard her stop outside, and I’m telling you, Keith, if she’d gone in I’d have been there like a shot, the way she looked. Maybe you think I’m exaggerating.” He faltered, feeling cruel to the old man. “Except do you know why Rowan called me upstairs before? She wanted to be sure her grandmother was staying in. She’s afraid to be left alone with her mother.”

He still hadn’t told Keith the worst—that he’d heard Alison say she thought she was going mad. Keith raised his eyebrows and blinked at his knuckles, and then he said “Would you like us to stay longer?”

“I don’t think Rowan’s actually in danger. I can’t believe that.”

“Alison might know we’ve been discussing her if we change our plans, you mean.”

So this was how it felt to be one of the family, sharing thoughts and each other’s distress. He’d gained a relative, but what might he be losing? “Or if Rowan went home with you while I try and sort things out,” he said.

“We’ll have her any time you like, you know that. I only wonder what you have in mind for Alison.”

That was exactly what Derek dreaded putting into words. “Maybe she’d talk to the doctor. I would as well if it helps. He might give her stuff to take, do you reckon?”

“That sounds about right to me, old son,” Keith said, but his obvious relief made him less reassuring. “This must have been building up since that business with poor Hermione. I expect Christmas brought it to a head because Alison will be missing her.”

“You don’t think she’s blaming Rowan for what happened to Hermione?”

“God knows how her mind may be working with all this death and stress. I do wonder if we shouldn’t have Edith talk to her.”

“It ought to be me. I only wanted to check with you.”

“I’m glad you did. I feel I know you better and like what I know. I won’t tell Edith until we’re home or you might never see the last of us. Maybe things will improve once we’re out of the way and Alison can devote more time to Rowan. But any time of day or night you need to get in touch, one of us is bound to be awake.”

Derek drained his tankard and stood up to buy another round. Having someone to confide in seemed to have helped more than he’d dared to hope. “Just look after them both, as if I needed to tell you,” Keith said as if there could be no question of protecting one at the expense of the other. The crowd at the bar pressed around Derek, their smoky breaths massed overhead and dimmed the lights, and he prayed he wouldn’t have to make that choice.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Left alone, the women talked about the family. Edith wished Richard had joined them for Christmas—nobody should be alone at this time of year—but when Alison had called him he’d declined with a calm she’d taken to be sorrow that he wanted to preserve undisturbed. He hadn’t been at Hermione’s funeral. Hermione’s cottage was for sale, the proceeds to be divided equally between her sister and her parents according to her will, and Edith thought they should all spend some of the bequest on a Spanish holiday. “Then at least some good will come of all this grief.” Alison murmured as agreeably as she could without committing herself so far into the future when she didn’t know where the present would lead. She poured large drinks despite her mother’s token protests, and was glad when her mother turned to reminiscing about Alison’s childhood: at least the past was over, no longer threatening. It was a while before she wondered if her mother was avoiding the subject of Rowan.

Was she nursing the doubts she’d had on Christmas Day? She had been afraid for Rowan, though only that the child might harm herself. She’d thought they should take Rowan to the doctor because of the way she had changed, because she seemed too old for her years, too much like Queenie. Alison had done her best to dissuade her mother, but now she hoped she’d failed. She was sure that the longing for reassurance she felt wasn’t hers alone. She was thinking of a way to resurrect the subject when Edith did; at least, she cocked her head towards the door. “Has Rowan come downstairs?”

For a moment Alison thought that the intruder had come to prevent her from speaking to Edith, and then she realised that she didn’t feel at all nervous. “Did you hear something?” she said.

“Not exactly. You can just feel when someone’s there, can’t you?”

“Of course you can,” Alison said, willing her to be receptive. “I expect you were right. Go and see.”

She held her breath as her mother went to the door. Edith touched the handle and bent her head toward the upper panels, then she snatched the door open. Alison glimpsed movement beyond it, and her heart seemed to twist like a knife—but it was the reflection of the door on the silvery wallpaper. Edith glanced both ways along the hall and looked dissatisfied. “I was sure she was here. Let me see if she’s nipped back upstairs.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Edith glanced sharply at her and made for the stairs. Couldn’t she sense the yearning that seemed to fill the whitewashed stairway, the yearning to be noticed? She hesitated in sight of the next floor, then shook her head as if to convince herself the corridor was empty. She tiptoed to Rowan’s room and peered in, and stiffened.

Alison went quickly to her side and saw what she was seeing: Rowan’s body lying face up in the bed, hands folded on its chest, the way it always slept now. “My dear lord,” Edith whispered “she looks just like—”

She was ready for the truth. It was time to show her the diary. Alison steered her away from the door, pretending that the occupant of the bed was unaware of them. She put her finger to her lips and ushered Edith to the stairs, bracing herself to speak once they were in the living-room. But she hadn’t reached the downstairs hall when she realised that she couldn’t tell her mother.

Lance had known something, and he was dead. Hermione had known a great deal, and so was she. How could Alison put anyone, let alone her mother, in such danger? Just now she didn’t want to think what risks she might be taking herself. In the living-room she smiled carefully at Edith as they reached for their drinks, but Edith demanded “Did you see her? Did you see how she was sleeping?”

“She always has, mummy.” Alison felt disloyal, both to Rowan and her mother. “At least, ever since she was a toddler.”

“Well, I’ve never seen it before.” Her mother pursed her lips and put down her glass. “What aren’t you telling me? We’ve never been able to pretend with each other.”

“I’m just trying to stop you worrying when you needn’t, mummy, that’s all. What does it matter how she sleeps so long as she’s able to? She’s back with us, isn’t she? What else could we possibly want?”

Her mother gave her a long look. Eventually she picked up her glass and held it out for a refill, and turned the conversation back to Wales, where Gwen and Elspeth had taken over Hermione’s shop. Now and then she glanced toward the door, and Alison found herself praying that she would think she was only imagining a presence. She was glad when Keith and Derek came back, until she saw how deliberately they were chatting and realised they had been discussing her.

She had to persuade them that nothing was wrong, or they mightn’t leave her alone with the child. She wished they could all confront the intruder, but even as a family they might be too much at risk, though it seemed ludicrous and demeaning to be so wary of a child. “Coffee for two?” she said lightly, and headed for the kitchen. A sense that they were listening to be sure she didn’t sneak up to Rowan’s bedroom made her want to laugh and weep.

She was in bed with Derek, both of them pretending to be asleep, when she realised that he must have heard her last night after all. Perhaps he thought she was going mad. She wanted to hug him tight and talk to him until he believed her, she wanted to recoil from him for thinking that about her, but all she could do for his sake was lie still, cursing the intruder in the next room for separating her from him. Wasn’t she herself as much to blame, for failing to heed her sister? But someone was telling her that it didn’t matter now, someone close to her in the room, closer if she shut her eyes. Someone loved her for what she was, and that soothed her to sleep.

In the morning she was dismayed to think of leaving Rowan in the unwelcoming house with the intruder. “Come with me,” she whispered when there was nobody else to hear. As she drove to the hospital she kept glancing at the passenger seat, hoping to see what she could already feel. Once, as misty sunlight flashed from a side street and through the car, she thought she glimpsed Rowan’s face smiling wistfully at her. It vanished instantly, like a star so distant you couldn’t be sure you had ever seen it.

All the children in the ward wanted to show Alison their presents, and Rowan seemed to merge with the way they were demanding Alison. Throughout the day she found herself distracted from her patients by trying to feel that Rowan was still there, not lost in the corridors that smelled too much like Queenie’s sickroom. It wasn’t fair to the patients or to Rowan. She couldn’t go on like this.