Текст книги "Vows of Silence "
Автор книги: Susan Hill
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Vows of Silence
by Susan Hill
(Simon Serrailler crime novels-4)
One
They had climbed for two hours. Then they had come into the low-hanging curtains of cloud. It had started to drizzle.
He opened his mouth to make some sour remark about the promise of a fine day, but, at the same moment, Iain turned his head a fraction to the left. Motioned with his forefinger.
Iain knew the hills and the weather of the hills, the subtle shifts of wind direction. Knew them better than anyone.
They stood, still, not speaking. There was a tension now. It hadn’t been there minutes before.
Something.
The sun broke apart the cloud curtain, leaving it in tatters. The sun shone at first with a watery cast but then, like a man leaping out into view, full and strong. The corners of Iain’s mouth twitched in a smile.
But still they stood. Motionless and silent. Waiting.
Iain lifted his binoculars to his eyes and looked from left to right, slowly, slowly.
And he waited, watching the set of Iain’s head, waiting for the moment.
Their clothes began to steam in the sun.
Iain lowered the glasses and nodded.
They were above the deer, and for another half-mile he saw nothing. But they were there of course. Iain knew. They went care fully, keeping upwind. The ground was stony here, easy to slip.
He felt the old excitement. These were the best moments. When you knew. You were this close to it, this close to having it in your sights, this close to the whole point and purpose and culmination of it all.
This close.
There was the faintest outbreath from Iain’s pursed lips.
He followed the line of sight.
The stag was alone, halfway up the lower slope immediately west of where they were standing. It had sensed nothing—that much was clear for the moment. Keep it that way.
They dropped down and began to crawl, the soaking ground against their bellies, the sun on their backs. The midges came on with a vengeance, to find their way unerringly through chinks in clothing, brushing aside the barrier of citronella, but he was so keyed up now he barely noticed them. Later he would be driven mad.
They crawled for another ten minutes, dropping down slightly until they were level with the stag and a couple of hundred yards away.
Iain stopped. Lifted the glasses. They waited. Watched. Still as the stones.
The sun was hot now. The wind had dropped altogether.
They began to inch maybe thirty yards further and the thirty yards took ten minutes; they barely moved. Just enough.
The stag lifted its head.
“The Old Man,” Iain whispered, so softly he could barely hear.
The oldest stag. Not as huge as those living on the lower ground, and without the vast antlers. But mighty enough. Old. Too old for another winter. He had too much respect for the beast to let that happen.
They were downwind and perhaps a hundred and fifty yards off. But then the stag shook its head, turned side ways, ambled a little way, though never turning its back. They waited.
Waited. The sun blazed. He boiled inside his wax jacket.
Then, casually, it turned and, in a breathtaking second, lifted its head and faced him full on. As if it knew. As if it had been expecting him. It positioned itself perfectly.
He unslipped his rifle. Loaded. Iain was watching intently through the glasses.
He balanced himself with care and then looked down the sights.
The old stag had not moved. Its head was raised higher now and it was looking straight at him.
It knew.
Iain waited, frozen to the glasses.
The world stopped turning.
He aimed for the heart.
Two
Dark blue jacket. Blue-and-white print skirt. Medium heels.
Scarf? Or the beads?
Beads.
Helen Creedy went into the bathroom and fiddled with her hair. Came out and caught sight of herself again in the full-length mirror. God, she looked—frumpish. That was the only word. As if she were going to a job interview.
She took off the skirt, blouse and jacket and started again.
It was very warm. Late September, an Indian summer.
Right. Pale grey linen trousers. Long linen jacket. The fuchsia shirt she hadn’t yet worn.
Better? Yes. Earrings? Just plain studs.
There was a roar outside as Tom gave his motorbike its usual final rev turning into the drive. The roar died. She heard the clunk of the metal rest going down onto the concrete.
Just after six o’clock. She had hours—got dressed far too early.
She sat down on the end of her bed. She had been excited. Keyed up. Nervous, but with something like pleasure, anticipation. Now, it was as if the temperature had dropped. She felt sick. Anxious. Afraid. How absurd. Then she felt nothing but a draining tiredness so that she could not imagine ever having the energy to stand on her feet again.
The kitchen door slammed. She heard Tom drop his helmet and heavy leather gloves onto the floor.
Pale grey linen. New fuchsia shirt. She had even had her hair done. She wanted to lie down on her bed and sleep and sleep.
After another couple of minutes she went downstairs.
“Oh, good choice, Ma.” Elizabeth looked up from her French textbook.
Tom, as always when he got in, was at the toaster. Tom. He had said he was “OK” about it. “Fine” about it. But Helen still wondered.
She had nothing to worry about with Elizabeth, though—it was her daughter who had pushed her into this in the first place. “It’s six years since Dad. You won’t have us here for much longer. You’ve got to get a life, Ma.”
But now she caught a look on Tom’s face which was at odds with what he said. That he was “OK” about it. “Fine.”
“I thought you weren’t meeting this guy till eight.”
“Half seven.”
“All the same.”
Tom scraped what looked like half a pound of butter and a dollop of Marmite across four slices of toast.
The kitchen got the evening sun. It was warm. Elizabeth’s French books. Pens. Markers. Tom’s Marmite pot, lidless on the table. The smell of warm toast. And bike oil.
“I can’t go,” Helen said. “I can’t do this. What am I thinking?”
“Oh God, not again, we’ve been through all this. Tom, tell her, back me up, will you?”
Tom shrugged.
His sister snorted impatiently. Put her pen down on Eugénie Grandet. “Right, let’s start again. Is it just first-night nerves or what?”
First-night nerves? How did that even begin to convey what she was feeling, sitting at the kitchen table in pale grey linen and a fuchsia shirt she had never worn and at least an hour too early?
It was a couple of months ago that Elizabeth had said, as they were walking Mutley, on the Hill, “I don’t think you’re meeting people.”
Helen had not understood. In her job as a pharmacist she met people every day.
“I don’t mean that.” Elizabeth had sat down and leaned her back against the Wern Stone. It was July. Mutley lay panting.
Helen had hesitated, standing, looking at the view over Lafferton so as not to look at her daughter. She sensed that something was important, or that things were about to change but she did not know what or how. It alarmed her.
“Mum, don’t you think you might c well, meet someone—I mean, someone else. After Dad. Sit down, I’m getting a crick in my neck here.”
Helen sat on the dry grass. Elizabeth was looking straight at her. She had always been like this. Helen remembered the night she had been born: Lizzie had looked straight at her in this same, uncompromising way, even though newborn babies were not supposed to focus. She had done it as a small girl when asking a question. That straight, blue-eyed gaze that held you and did not let you off. Here it was now.
“Before you know it I’ll be at Cambridge, fingers crossed. Tom will be off with his weirdos.”
“And I’ll be on my own and I won’t be able to function is what you mean.”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
“I worry that you’re missing out. You should have someone.”
“I don’t want to be married again.”
“How do you know? You may not want to in theory c but if you met someone.”
“Well who’s to say I won’t?”
“Not stuck in a windowless cubbyhole full of pill packets you won’t.”
“I like my job.”
“That’s not the point. Look, I think you should take a more proactive approach to this thing.”
“There is no ‘thing.’ Come on, Mutley’s too hot. So am I.”
She stood. But when Lizzie also stood, there it was, the direct gaze. Not letting her off. Helen had turned and started back down the Hill so fast she almost slipped on the stony track.
She had not wanted to think about it. She wouldn’t think about it. She was perfectly contented. She had met Terry when she was twenty-three, married him a year later, had the children, been happy. When Tom was six she had gone back to work, part-time. Life had been good.
When Terry had been diagnosed with malignant melanoma she was told he would have a couple of years, maybe more. He had had four months. Any sort of relationship with any other man had been—was—unthinkable. She realised as she reached the last few yards of the track that she was angry, angry and in some sort of panic.
“I think—” Elizabeth said, catching up with her.
“Well, I don’t. Leave it. It is not a conversation I am prepared to have.” She had spoken harshly but Elizabeth had simply gazed at her for a long moment without replying.
Two days later, a brochure came through the post.
“ My name is Laura Brooke. I run the Laura Brooke Agency for men and women wishing to meet a partner hand-picked for them. I do not believe people can be matched by computers. I act as a friend. I only take on clients with whom I feel I can succeed and I only introduce clients to one another after extensive interviews and my own personal and careful consideration. I give clients my time and expertise to find them c”
She had stuffed the brochure in the bin.
The following day in the hairdresser’s, she was startled to find herself wondering if people really did meet successfully through agencies or via the Internet, if the whole thing was possibly not the con she had always assumed it to be. Sad people went to dating agencies, sad or sinister people. She could understand why you might join something or other if you were, say, new to a town and had no way of making friends—a club, a sports group, a night class. But friendship was one thing, this was another. She had friends. What she didn’t have was enough time to spend with them.
She was forty-six. By the time she was fifty Tom and Elizabeth would have left home. She would have her job and also more time for her friends. She would have the St Michael’s Singers and she might rejoin the Lafferton Players. She would volunteer for something.
Terry was irreplaceable. His death had devastated her and she still felt like someone who had lost a limb. Nothing would ever change that. Nothing and no one.
“I’m not going,” she said now. “I can’t do this.”
“You are and you can, if I have to push you there.”
“Elizabeth c”
“Once, you said, just once when someone seemed really worth meeting. And he does. We agreed. Tom, didn’t we agree?”
Tom put his hands up. “Leave me out of this, OK?” he said, banging out of the room.
“He doesn’t like it,” Helen said.
“He doesn’t like anything that isn’t about his own peculiar world. Ignore him.”
“Why are you pushing me into something I don’t want?”
“You dowant it. You want to get out of here, you want to open yourself up to something new. You want a fresh start.”
“It’s only one date.”
“Exactly!”
A part of her knew that Elizabeth was right. Helen had thought about it a good deal, once she had allowed the idea house room. She was fearful of being too much alone when her children had left home, she was too young to be in a rut, she needed to open herself to something new. All the same, to her, meeting someone through an agency or a dating website, or by answering an advert, was an admission of failure. And she wasn’t sure she even wanted to succeed. Besides, there was a stigma, when someone of her age did this.
“Rubbish,” Lizzie had said.
Of course it was a stigma. If she did—by remote chance—meet someone through a dating agency, and that someone came to be important, she would never be able to tell anyone how they had got together. She would cut out her tongue rather than admit it.
“I don’t get it.” But that was Elizabeth and she was her daughter.
“I’ll send a text message and say I’m not well.”
“That is absolutely pathetic. For God’s sake, Ma, this is a drink in a pub—”
“A bar.”
“A drink. A chat. You can leave it there. Oh God, we’ve been through all this—if you get the feeling he’s a mass murderer, you send Tom a text and he’ll be there in five.”
“I won’t think he’s a mass murderer. He sounds c”
“Like a nice bloke.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“You must have wanted to go through with it earlier, you got ready hours ago.”
“Is this too dressed up?”
“No, it’s great. That wasn’t my point.”
There was a long silence.
“I do want to go. I want to. But I don’t want to. I just haven’t done anything like it before and it’s so many years since I even had an evening out with a man c”
Elizabeth got up, came round the table and gave her a hug, bending over her as if she were the mother, Helen the child.
“You look great and it’s going to be fine. And if it isn’t—so what? What have you lost? One evening.”
“ EastEnders.”
“Well, that’s crap at the moment so there you are.”
Elizabeth settled down to Eugénie Grandetagain. The room went quiet.
“Lizzie c”
“Mother– go away!”
She had retrieved the agency brochure from the waste-paper bin. But she felt uncertain about being interviewed by someone with the firm intention of matching her with a man on their books, particularly when she didn’t even know if she wanted to meet anyone at all.
Which was how she had come upon the website peoplemeetingpeople.com. Because she would admit to that. Yes. She would agree that she was a person wanting to meet people.
It was quite straightforward. You joined the site for a fee which was not too expensive, not too cheap. She had done that finally one evening when she was on her own. You went step by step. You didn’t have to commit yourself to too much too soon. She felt happy with that.
She put in her name—first name only—and age. The next stage was to narrow down the kind of “people” she wanted to meet. Age group. That was surprisingly easy. Between forty-five and sixty. Marital status. She ticked Widowed. Then Divorced. Not sure about divorced but so many people were now, and the reasons were less—what? Sinister? Worrying? She did not tick Single. Few really eligible men were still single after forty-five.
She entered her geographical area. Narrowed it down a bit.
Occupation. Professional. Media-related. Public services. Administrative. Business. Farming and countryside. Almost any of those. She could probably find something to chat about even to a farmer. She ticked each box.
She had expected there to be more stages, more questions, but she was asked if she would now like to see photographs and brief details of anyone matching her outline.
She went to make a coffee. Somehow, photographs of people, real people, took it one big step away from being a game, made it serious, committed her.
No. It did not commit her. It was just photographs. And oddly enough, she was excited. Who would she see? What kind of men? They would probably all be bald. Or with huge bushy beards. Or small eyes. (‘Never trust a man with small eyes.” Her mother.) Or bad teeth. Or c
She took her coffee to the table, set it down and decisively clicked on the “Yes” button.
It was the first one. How do you tell that you like someone from a photograph? How do you know that you want to meet them?
He was fifty-two. He had brown hair. He had a warm expression. Slightly diffident smile. Nothing especially distinctive. But a good face. Good-looking? Yes, but not overwhelmingly handsome. It was his expression. Warm. Trustworthy. Yes.
She glanced at the others. One was out at once—the bushy beard. Another was too old. Perfectly OK but she couldn’t believe he was sixty or under. The last one was fine. Nothing against him. But when she looked back at the first there was no contest.
“ Click beside any photograph if you would like to know more about this person.”
She clicked.
“ Phil is Head of History at a boys’ school. He has been widowed for five years and has two grown-up sons. His interests include cooking, cricket, books and ornithology. He loves his job and has many friends but since his sons left home he has felt the lack of a special companion in his life.
If you want to send your profile and photograph to Phil, click HERE.
If you would like to leave a voicemail for Phil, click HERE.”
She clicked twice.
Three
“There is not any such word as plam.”
“There is sosuch a word as plam.”
“You’re making it up. Uncle Si, isn’t he making it up?”
“Mummy c”
“Don’t ask me,” Cat Deerbon said, dropping a handful of walnuts into the salad bowl, “you know I can’t do Scrabble.”
“You don’t ‘do’ Scrabble, duh. You play it.”
“Sam, how many times have I told you, ‘duh’—and especially ‘duh’ with that face—is incredibly insulting and you do not do or say it.”
Sam sighed and turned back to the board. “Plam,” he said, “is a word.”
“What does it mean then?”
“It’s c the sort of way Australian emu birds land. They go ‘plam.’”
Simon Serrailler stood up with a shout of laughter. “Brilliant, Sam. I give you ten for Creative Cheating.” He wandered over to the other side of the kitchen and dipped his finger into the salad dressing. “Needs more lemon.”
“I doubt it.”
“And a pinch of sugar.”
“Why not make it yourself?”
“Can’t be arsed.”
“Mummy, Uncle Simon said—”
“I know, and it is a most unattractive expression. Don’t say it again, please.” Cat glared at her brother.
“You’ve got bossier. That’s Australia for you. Loud, bossy women.”
Cat threw a piece of lettuce at him. Simon ducked. The lettuce landed wetly on the floor.
“God, I love it. Love it, love it, love it.” Simon threw himself onto the old kitchen sofa. “I wish you knew what it was like when you weren’t here and those people were and I couldn’t come and—”
“You told us,” Sam said, tipping the Scrabble letters into their green drawstring bag, “how awful it was.”
“Yes, about a million zillion times.”
“So you missed us. That figures.”
“Si, will you open that bottle? Sam, please put the mats on the table. Hannah—”
“I have to go to the loo, I absolutely-scootly have to.”
“Mum, you have to stop her doing that, she’s always doing it, she does it to get out of things, she doesn’t need to go to the loo at all.”
“Stop whingeing.”
Simon rummaged in the drawer for the corkscrew. “You know,” he said to Cat, “it is “absolutely-scootly” typical of Dad. It really is.”
“He can see us when he gets back. Don’t make a thing of it.”
Richard Serrailler, Cat and Simon’s father, had announced that he was taking a holiday just when the Deerbon family returned from Australia.
“But he doesn’t go on holidays. He hates holidays. And what’s he going to do in Madeira for two weeks, for God’s sake?”
“Soak up the sun?”
“He hates sun.”
“He just didn’t want to make a song and dance about us coming home after nine months—he wants to pretend we haven’t been away at all, and by the time he gets back it’ll feel as if we haven’t. Actually,” Cat put the salad bowl on the table, “it feels like that already.”
“God, sis, am I glad you’re home.”
She gave him a brief smile, before bending to take the fish out of the oven. “Give Chris a shout, will you? He’s probably fallen asleep with Felix. Chris does jet lag like nobody else.”
But Chris Deerbon walked into the kitchen as she spoke, rubbing his hand through his hair. “I think I must have gone to sleep.” He looked puzzled.
“So long as Felix has too.”
“Half an hour ago.” He poured the wine into glasses and handed one to Simon.
“Here’s to home.”
“In Australia, we had supper outside nearly all the time. We had barbecues on the beach. We had a barbecue in the garden, it went with the house. Everyone there has barbecues—they call them barbies, like Hannah’s puke dolls.”
“Wish you were still there, Sam?”
“Sort of.”
“I don’t,” Hannah said. “I missed my friends and my pony and my bed and I missed Uncle Simon most of everything.”
Sam made a loud sucking noise.
Simon looked round the table at them all. He felt a burst of pure and extraordinary happiness.
“Do you get a lot more money being a Detective Chief Superintendent?” Sam asked.
“I get a bit more.”
“Do you get to do more interesting things? More important cases?”
“Some. My really important cases are likely to be with SIFT though.”
“Why?”
“We get called in precisely because they’re important—”
“Serious Incident Flying Taskforce. I thought everything a policeman did was serious.”
“It is.”
“Then I don’t see—”
“Eat your fish, Sam.”
“Is it because they’ve had no luck solving them, so you’re their last resort?”
“Not usually. They might need more minds focused on something, if it’s very difficult. They might need a detached point of view and a fresh eye, they might need us because their own resources are becoming overstretched—all sorts of reasons. The best thing for me about SIFT is that we’re out there doing, not sitting behind a desk. The higher you get in rank, the easier it is to get trapped in an office all day.”
“In Australia, the police wear fleeces and baseball caps.”
“Ever seen your uncle in a baseball cap, Sam?”
“He’d be cool.”
“This,” Hannah said, “is blah-blah boring talk.”
“Go to bed, then. You shouldn’t be at grown-up supper if you get bored with grown-up conversation, you should be playing puke pink Barbies.”
Cat sighed. The bickering between her son and daughter had got worse in Australia.
Wondering now if it was to be a permanent and tiresome feature of their relationship, she turned to her own brother. “Did we wind each other up like this?”
“No. Ivo wound me up. I wound Ivo up. Not you.”
Cat had spent two separate periods with their triplet brother, who worked as a flying doctor in Australia, and had come away each time feeling that they might well not be related at all. Ivo seemed to be from a different planet. He was brash, stubborn, opinionated, tough. She had left him both times with relief and some bewilderment.
“Dad,” she said now, her fork to her mouth. “I suppose that’s the answer. It was staring at me. Ivo is like Dad.”
“Could have told you that,” Chris said.
*
After the children had gone to bed, they opened another bottle and Mephisto the cat bumped in through the flap and settled on Simon’s stomach.
“Did this boy take to strangers living in his house?”
“Apparently he was absolutely fine.”
“Traitor,” Simon said, stroking him. Mephisto half closed his eyes. “How have they settled back to school?”
“Hannah strolled in as if she’d never been away. Sam a bit less easily. His class has split into different groups so he’s lost some of his old friends and there are new boys c but he’ll be fine. It’s sport, sport, sport now anyway—he was rarely within four walls all the time we were in Sydney.”
“You?”
“Oh, I was within four walls. Chris and I were working, you know.”
“I mean coming back.”
“Good. Great in fact.”
“OKish,” Chris said. He had been the one to press for them to take the sabbatical in Australia, the one who had extended it from the original six months. The one who had been loath to return. “But at least we’ve come back to find that, at last, the role of the GP is getting more recognition.”
“You mean double the money for half the work. No nights, no weekends, no bank holidays. Jolly nice—I take your point.”
Cat groaned. “Si, this is an area where angels fear to tread. We’ve had so many arguments about it we’ve made a pact: Chris and I don’t discuss the new GP contract.”
Cat had always been bitterly opposed to agencies covering nights and weekends for the practice, other than on a locum basis to give her and Chris an occasional rest. She had come back ready to do battle to retain her right to visit her own patients out of hours, only to discover that not only was Chris against their taking that work back in-house, but so was every other GP in the area. It was impossible for her to do out-of-hours by herself and so, resentfully, she had had to concede defeat.
“For now,” she had muttered. “But I’ll find a way. I hate leaving my patients to the mercy of some doctor flown in from abroad at huge cost to cover a few nights here or even worse, someone on call from fifty miles away. It isn’t safe, it isn’t right, it is also over-stretching the ambulance service and over loading hospital A & E and it is not conducive to patient welfare and peace of mind.”
But the arguments over it had become too angry.
She and Chris had agreed to go back to work and accept the status quo, focusing on catching up with changes and reacquainting themselves with patients, staff and all the routine of a busy surgery.
“Seen a lot of Dad?” Cat asked now.
Simon made a face. “Took him out to a pub lunch a couple of times. Dropped by, but he was often out. I hate going to Hallam House now.”
“I know you do, but with us away and no Mum he needed you a lot more.”
“Not so’s you’d notice. I took flowers up to Martha’s grave on her anniversary. I rang Dad—thought we could meet up. He wasn’t in. He never mentioned it. I don’t think he’s thought about Martha since she died. Or about Mother come to that.”
“That’s unfair, Simon.”
“Is it?”
Simon had been close to Martha, their handicapped sister, close to Meriel, their mother. Their deaths had been two blows from which he knew he had not recovered and probably never would.
It was easier for Cat. She had Chris, she had three children and she had escaped to Australia.
Escaped? He looked at his sister now, curled in the sagging kitchen armchair with her legs under her, holding a glass of wine. She looked well. But to call it an escape—for her—was wrong. He knew that if Chris had not pushed, she would never have left Lafferton. Cat was like him, a home bird. She seemed entirely settled and content to be back in the farmhouse.
Simon closed his eyes, stroking Mephisto until the cat’s purr was like the throbbing of an engine. He realised exactly how miserable his months without the sanctuary of this house and this family had been.
He let out a deep sigh of contentment.
Four
She didn’t have time to look around and take anything in—the people sitting at tables or standing near the bar—because as she went inside he was there, saying, “Helen? Yes, of course you’re Helen. Let’s get out of here, it’s packed, this was a thoroughly bad idea.”
And he took her elbow and guided her through the door. Outside it was a warm September evening. Dark. The Old Shipwas strung with fairy lights.
It had taken ten days. She had sent him her details, received his, sent a voicemail message, got one back. It felt right. She was comfortable.
Phil had suggested they meet at this pub in the centre of Lafferton. She hadn’t known it, but both Elizabeth and Tom had said, “Oh, that place is OK. You’ll be fine there.” So here she was.
“Let’s get right out of Lafferton. Do you know the Croxley Oak? The food is good so it won’t be empty but we should be able to hear ourselves think.”
“Shall I follow you then?”
“What? No, no, I’ll drive us back here, you can pick up your car later.”
It wasn’t the plan but she was swept along by him, across the car park, into a dark-coloured Peugeot, clicking the seat belt and then off, out of town, on the road, heading somewhere else. It had happened before she could disagree. The country road was dark. Once, a car overtook them too fast. Dark road again.
“Helen, I’m sorry c rushing you off like that. What must you think? I just can’t bear overcrowded bars, but more to the point, some of my students were there. I wasn’t going to meet you for the first time in full view of them.”
“No, it’s fine. Fine.”
The car seemed new. Smelled new. She clutched her bag. Her mobile was safely inside it. After a few minutes she glanced at him sideways, very quickly. The photo had been pretty good. He was not as tall as she’d imagined, but he was not a small man either. She had a phobia about small men.
“What have you been doing today?” he asked. “Tell me from the beginning.”
To her surprise, she did. They sped through the darkness, away from town, away from Tom and Elizabeth, away from everything familiar, away from the place she had told them she would be for the evening, and so, to quell the anxiety she felt riding at night in a fast car with a stranger, she talked through every detail of her day.
*
The Croxley Oakhad the tawny atmosphere only some good country pubs acquire, mellow, with the pleasant hum of conversation. Helen drank lime and soda, then a glass of white wine; Phil had a single half of bitter and then went on to ginger beer. And they talked. After almost an hour, they ordered home-baked ham with chips and salad, and the chips came thick and handcut, the ham in chunky slices, sweet and lean.
He was talking about some difficulties with one of his school’s department heads, how everyone had to handle her tactfully, how she upset students. It had arisen because Helen had told him about a colleague who had always been exceptionally conscientious and had recently become slack and careless, worrying everyone because it was so out of character. She told Phil she couldn’t take an interest in cricket, though she had tried hard for Tom’s sake when he had been in the school team; he expressed total ignorance of choral music when he learned she was a member of the St Michael’s Singers.
Now, as he shook his head over a remark the department head had made that day to a pupil, Helen looked across the table at Philip Russell and felt an extraordinary sense of having known him all her life. It was as though he had been there, familiar, trusted, even while she had been married to Terry and bringing up their children, somehow living a parallel life which was interwoven with hers. The feeling startled her and in a second it had gone, to be replaced by the knowledge that she was simply enjoying her evening and his company.
“Would you like a pudding? Coffee?”
“I’d like some tea.”
“Good, so would I. Isn’t it great that you can actually get tea in pubs now and no one thinks it odd?” He made to get up, then said, “Helen, do your family know where you are?”
