When You Walked Back Into My Life (14 page)

‘Even at weekends?’

‘Twenty-four-seven. It’s part of the insurance for the building. We get the odd glitch, but mostly it’s on.’

‘And you can access it presumably?’

‘You want me to? Just say the word.’

Flora hesitated. ‘You remember I asked if Miss Heath-Travis’s weekend nurse had asked you for help with the chair on Sundays?’

He nodded.

‘Well, it’s just a bit odd. The nurse says she takes Dorothea to church, but Dorothea says she doesn’t. And I was wondering if you could check for me. See if they went out this last Sunday.’

Keith frowned. ‘Because you think she’s lying, or because you think the old lady’s losing her marbles?’

‘Well, either, I suppose. It’d just be good to know one way or the other.’

‘Odd thing to lie about, taking Miss H-T to church. No one’s making her, are they?’

‘No, of course not. And I agree, it is odd. This is why we need to know. Perhaps Dorothea’s mental state is worse than we think.’

‘Not much you can do about it if it is,’ Keith said gloomily.

‘No. But would you be able to check for us, please?’

‘Sure. No problem. I’ll give you a shout when I’ve found it.’

Dorothea had a quiet day. She seemed lost in her own world much of the time, hardly noticing what went on around her.

‘I’ll put the tea on,’ Flora said, when she’d got her up from her rest and settled her in the armchair with a thin rug over her knees.

‘No cake,’ Dorothea said, her voice suddenly cross.

Flora was taken aback. ‘OK. I haven’t got one today anyway.’

Dorothea stared at her, her brow furrowed. ‘I don’t want cake.’

Puzzled, Flora repeated, ‘There isn’t any cake, Dorothea.’

‘You haven’t made me one?’

‘No.

Her patient looked away, her hands frantically working the edge of the rug. Flora went over to her.

‘There isn’t any cake today.’

The old lady’s eyes blinked up at her.

‘I’m … glad there isn’t.’

Flora was baffled. ‘I thought you liked cake.’

She still gazed at Flora, bewilderment replacing the previous agitation. ‘I expect I do, if you say so.’

Flora waited, but Dorothea seemed to calm down. What was all that about, she wondered, as she nipped outside to see what Keith had found.

He beckoned her round the side of the desk, so she could view the screen. He pointed to the time and date code in the top left-hand corner.

‘See … ten thirteen last Sunday.’

Flora peered at the grainy black and white image. There was the top of Pia’s head, Dorothea in the wheelchair, waiting by the steps leading to the front door. Dorothea was wrapped up in the tartan rug. For a while nothing seemed to happen. Then a man and a woman came into the hall from the lift, and it was clear, as Keith fast-forwarded the image, that the man was helping Pia bump the chair down the steps.

‘Put your mind at rest has it?’

‘Yeah … yeah, I suppose it has. Thanks.’

Mary, when Flora told her about the CCTV that night, looked disconcerted.

‘Well, I suppose I’m glad Pia wasn’t lying.’

‘You don’t sound it,’ Flora said.

Mary laughed. ‘Perhaps I’m not really. I must have worked it up in my mind that’s she’s a bad lot, and now I’d better un-work it.’ She paused. ‘But just because she was telling the truth about church, doesn’t mean she isn’t being mean to Dorothea behind our backs, does it?’

‘No. But we could be exaggerating the problem.’

‘You don’t see her when she’s had a day with that woman. I do. She’s not herself.’

Flora sighed. ‘Well, maybe one day she’ll tell us the truth, if there’s one to be had with her brain deteriorating at this rate.’

She went in to say goodbye to the old lady.

‘I’ll be back in the morning.’

Dorothea smiled, her head resting peacefully against the pillows.

‘Seeing your beau again tonight?’

‘He asked me, but I’m tired.’

‘My mother said I should never make excuses about being tired or ill when a young man asked me out. If I wasn’t well, I just jolly well had to grin and bear it.’

‘Your mother sounds a bit fierce.’

Dorothea stared off into the distance. ‘She was … firm. But then everyone had different standards in those days.’ She looked Flora up and down, taking in the jeans and black boots, her face registering curiosity rather than disapproval. ‘She wouldn’t have let me out of the house dressed like that.’

Flora laughed. ‘No, well, she was probably quite right. Standards have definitely slipped.’

‘In my day, a young man would take you to supper and then dancing.’ She gave Flora an amused smile. ‘But I don’t suppose … you will be dancing in those shoes.’

‘Did you go to clubs?’ Flora asked, trying to imagine Dorothea being swept round the dance floor of a West End club.

‘Oh, yes. We drank champagne and danced, smoked too much. Such fun. The men would be in black tie, the girls in evening frocks …’

‘Bet you looked gorgeous,’ Flora replied, but the old lady’s concentration had gone and her eyelids had begun to droop.

‘Sleep well,’ Flora whispered.

4 October

Fin came round again on Wednesday and they sat for hours, just smiling at each other, talking about nothing. Flora felt almost dizzy with pleasure as she looked into his beautiful grey eyes, unable to believe he was there in front of her again, in the flesh, no longer the tormenting image of loss.

But Thursday night she had been summoned to supper with the family. She dreaded it. What might Bel have said to her parents …? She had a long shower and slowly made her way upstairs.

When she reached the ground floor, the others were already gathered for a kitchen supper around the black marble island. They had obviously been talking about her,
because they stopped when she came in, their faces stiff with guilt.

‘Flora!’ Philip got off his stool and came to embrace her. He had changed out of his work clothes and was padding around the kitchen in bare feet, his blue striped shirt hanging out of his jeans. Prue followed suit, her hug slightly less enthusiastic. Bel looked up, but didn’t move.

‘Hi, Bel,’ Flora said, and went to give her a kiss. ‘Hi,’ the fifteen-year-old muttered, and continued to tear up her bread and dip it in the saucer of olive oil in front of her.

Prue indicated the place laid for Flora and they all sat down. Prue pushed a glass towards her, and Philip poured some red wine into it. There was a small silence before her brother-in-law spoke.

‘How are you? How’s work?’ he asked brightly.

She saw Prue shoot him an irritable glance.

‘Look,’ Flora said. ‘Let’s talk about him.’

Prue pursed her lips. ‘What, in a
We Need to Talk about Kevin
sort of way?’

‘Fin’s hardly a serial killer.’

Flora saw Bel give a small smile.

‘I know I’ve upset Bel,’ she addressed Prue, ‘because Fin came round on Monday night, unannounced, and she thought I’d asked him to come, at the same time as I was promising her we were taking things slowly.’

‘Well, you have a very loyal niece, because she didn’t tell
me
that.’ Prue now turned the glare on her daughter.

‘Bel has a right to be annoyed with me.’ Flora wasn’t finished yet. ‘I intended to take it slowly, but I haven’t. Fin spent the night on Monday and yesterday.’

Philip was keeping his head down, pushing his finger into a drop of wine on the marble.

‘And?’

‘And I intend to get back with him. Make a go of it.’

‘Live with him.’ Her sister’s voice was leaden. ‘Yes, live with him.’

‘Right.’

No one spoke for a moment.

‘I don’t want that bloody man in our house.’

‘Prue!’ Philip’s head shot up. ‘Come on, that’s not very reasonable. Or respectful.’

Prue put her head on one side and gave him a questioning look. ‘And I should be respectful to Fin McCrea, why?’

‘Not to Fin, specifically. To Flora.’

She snorted.

‘You won’t stop her seeing him.’ Philip said. ‘She’ll just move away and we won’t speak to each other for years and years. Is that what you want?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. She isn’t moving anywhere with Fin. He hasn’t a pot to piss in.’

Flora took a large gulp of wine.

‘He has, in fact,’ she said. ‘His father died and left him his house in Inverness. He’s planning to live there anyway, and I’ll go with him.’

Flora was surprised by her own bravado. There had been no talk about going to Scotland together. They hadn’t discussed the future at all, only endlessly made love. But the information took the wind out of her sister’s sails.

‘Inverness?’ Bel asked. ‘Isn’t that Scotland?’

‘The north, yes,’ Philip told her.

Flora was shocked to see Bel’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Please, Flora, don’t go. Don’t go to Scotland. We’ll never see you again, like Dad says.’

‘Darling … sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She got up and went round the island to put her arms round her niece’s shoulders. ‘I’m not going anywhere at the moment, I swear. I have a job, and I won’t leave Dorothea. But Fin can’t live in a city; he’s a mountain climber.’

The atmosphere in the kitchen was thick with unspoken anger and hurt, which hung in the air like a physical weight. Prue got up and went to open the oven door, taking out an earthenware baking dish of roasting chicken quarters, sliced onions and potatoes, dotted with sage and black olives. She laid it on a wooden block beside the stove, prodding one of
the chicken quarters with a knife and peering at the juice running out. It must have been ready, because she switched the oven off.

‘Are you saying you don’t want Fin to even come to the flat?’ Flora asked.

Prue turned, but didn’t meet her eye.

‘You rent the flat. I suppose you’ve the right to have anyone you want down there,’ she answered evenly.

‘Can we stop this?’ Philip’s voice broke the silence that followed. They both looked at him.

‘The last thing I want is for this to cause trouble in the family,’ Flora said.

Prue took longer to speak, and Flora could see her biting back another angry response.

‘Nor me, obviously. So let’s hope I’m wrong about him.’

Flora held her tongue. Fin would have to earn their respect himself, she knew that. Nothing she could say would change Prue’s opinion.

*

Flora called Fin when she got home. It was late, but she knew he would be up, probably watching a movie about derring-do on some lone, ice-bound rock face: men falling to their deaths, suffocated by an avalanche, cutting the rope to save a friend.

‘I’ve told her,’ she said when he answered.

‘That you’re seeing me?’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘Bet she was thrilled.’

‘Over the moon. But it’s my life.’

‘So can I risk meeting her? Or will she run at me with a claw hammer?’

Flora remembered Bel likening her mother to Chucky.

‘I think electrodes are the weapon of choice.’

‘Electrodes?’

‘Never mind.’

She heard him chuckle. ‘I’ve just spent months putting my body back together, only to be burnt to a crisp by your psychotic sister. Great.’

‘No need to meet her yet.’

‘Not planning to … so shall I come over?’ he added softly.

‘It’s a bit late … but yeah, come round, I’d love it.’

*

It had been cold and blustery for days, the wind tearing at the autumn leaves, laying them in drifts across the London pavements. Nevertheless, Flora decided to risk taking Dorothea for a half-hour walk around the block.

Once outside, she turned left, then left again into the quiet residential streets lined with pretty, semi-detached Georgian villas. She walked slowly, thinking of Fin. He’d spent most of the weekend with her. For much of it, they had just sat and talked, on and on, catching up on details
of the missed years. For the rest they had made love. She felt dizzy, almost euphoric with happiness. She was with Fin, they were together again; he loved her.

The only shadow on Flora’s horizon was the fact that Bel stayed away. She hadn’t expected it to be different, but it pained her to think she might lose the precious closeness she’d built up with her niece since coming to live in the basement flat.

‘At fifteen it’s all black or white,’ Fin said, when she told him of her concern.

‘But I hate it that she might not trust me now.’

‘Of course she trusts you. Who wouldn’t? She’s just got caught in the middle of you and her mother.’

‘But that’s not fair.’

He’d stroked the hair back from her face as they both lay against the sofa cushions. ‘It’s not, but it’s as much Prue’s fault as it’s yours.’

Flora had pulled herself upright. ‘I don’t want this to be about blame. We’ve all played a part in what’s gone on, and we can’t go back, but surely Prue won’t turn Bel against me, just because I want to be with you?’

‘Hey … you’re making this up. Bel’s not dropped in this weekend because she knows I’m here. That’s all. When I’m not, ask her down. She’ll come. Don’t be so sensitive.’

Flora had relaxed. ‘OK, yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll do it
one night next week.’ Her thoughts were interrupted by a hearty greeting.

‘Miss Heath-Travis, how splendid to see you.’ It was Reverend Jackson, the vicar of Dorothea’s church. He was large and very bald, around sixty, and his face wore a permanent (and apparently genuine) beam of Christian pleasure above his dog-collar. ‘I’ve been meaning to drop in on you for weeks now, but you know how it is … busy, busy.’ He laughed at nothing in particular.

Dorothea, clearly a bit startled by this onslaught, giggled in sympathy, her eyes blinking furiously as he grabbed her hand and held it between his two big paws.

Now the reverend turned his attention to Flora. ‘And nice to see you too, er … I always want to call you Florence, but that might just be association of ideas.’

Flora smiled. ‘Flora, actually.’

‘Flora, Flora, of course. Well … better get on. Hope to see you both at church soon.’ He patted Dorothea’s hand. ‘Although I know it must be difficult for you to get out much these days.’

‘She comes most Sundays.’ It sounded as if he were implying she hadn’t.