Desmond caught up with David as they were coming out of St. Giles, and led him off the path, to an area with long grass, and old, broken tombstones sticking up at all angles like World War II tank traps.

  “We’ve got a couple of minutes, and I want to talk to you, David. I know you spoke to Graham Temple.”

  “I’m sorry … I only wanted to make arrangements for Poppy.”

  “You don’t give up easily.”

  “I thought Mr Temple knew that you and Anita were friends,” David said.

  “Look, you did me a good turn. No, Graham Temple didn’t know about Anita and me. Anita had kept it from him all these years. But the connection of our names was enough to lift the corner of the mat, and his suspicions crawled out. It was undeniable, I suppose. That was the end of twenty years of deceit.”

  David clenched his teeth in dismay at what he had triggered.

  “What about Mr Temple?”

  Desmond sat on a tombstone looking pleased, his black, usually imploring eyes, hooded under his eyelids. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, so that they protruded an inch below the sleeve of his suit, the gold links showing.

  “I’ll tell you, David, because I don’t want you to feel involved or responsible. After Anita had hounded you out of the house – which, by the way, she was very sorry about afterwards, because it wasn’t your fault – I mean, you didn’t know – Graham and Anita naturally had one hell of an argument.”

  Desmond explained how shocked Graham Temple was. The revelation had descended upon him like the smashing of his precious Ming dynasty vase. How could his total ignorance have persisted for so many years? Anita and Graham fought verbally amongst the chips of the vase Anita had thrown at David, and the contents of her shopping bags spilled on the rug. She was concerned that Graham was going to collapse. He was pale, and draped feebly in his chair, like a man about to have a heart attack.

  ‘Talk to me!’ he croaked. ‘Tell me, woman!’

  ‘All right, then. It’s true,’ she said. ‘I’ve been seeing Desmond Marsden ever since…’

  ‘Ever since the randy bastard came sniffing around our marriage decades ago.’

  ‘Yes. Our life together was already dead or dying then, I don’t know why.’

  ‘Because you were a frigid bitch.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about that stuff?’

  ‘I repelled you, did I?’

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t as strong as that. The spark died. It’s no use analysing it now.’

  ‘It died because somebody else was fucking you!’

  ‘No, before that.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why go on?’

  Anita paused, troubled by the hurtful truth. ‘Desmond couldn’t leave his wife.’

  ‘It’s all about Desmond is it? What he could or couldn’t do!’

  ‘No, it’s all about Cathy Marsden. Desmond couldn’t do anything because she couldn’t do anything. She’s dominated our lives, Desmond’s, mine, even yours.’

  ‘So I was the default choice,’ he murmured, putting his hands over his face.

  ‘And I stayed because I thought we might come right. If I was an unsatisfactory partner, why didn’t you leave me?’ Anita asked.

  ‘Because I thought we might come right! What an idiot I was.’ Graham had a bitter smile.

  ‘So we both had hopes that have come to nothing,’ she said, trying to calm him.

  ‘It’s the utter disloyalty, the gross breach of the trust I placed in you. Years and years of lies and deceit. You’ve said you were going to ‘commercial conferences’ as the opticians’ bigwig, and instead you were sodding about with Marsden in a grotty little pension in Toulouse.’

  ‘Don’t hype it up, Graham. You’ve had a nice, cosy life following your own pursuits, your historical societies, your paintings and antiques. You’ve shut me out. I’ve been here to keep house. Look at this place. Look at the furniture, the paintings, the rugs. It’s you, you, you!’

  ‘You’d have to admit that my taste is rather better than yours.’

  ‘Even at a time like this, you can’t resist a jibe, can you, Graham? It’s one of your lovable qualities. I meant you could replace me with a housekeeper tomorrow, and hardly notice it.’

  ‘So you’ve been sustaining Desmond Marsden, as it were, while he looked after his ailing wife, for all these years.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true. And I’ve sustained you in the manner you have chosen, the nominal wife and servant. Never a partner, and never a friend.’

  ‘I see. I owe my nominal marriage to the disabled Catherine Marsden. Her husband can’t leave her and run away with you, so you can’t run away from me. This poor innocent lady is the lynch pin.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘What a nasty little foursome we are!’

  Desmond found the story amusing. “The point, David, is that Anita has been fluffing about for the last few years, agonising over whether to leave Graham and move in with me. She’s a good woman. He is frail, and she really believed she owed him, so she hung on. I don’t think she could ever handle the fact that the deception had become so monstrous. I mean, all those years, and the easiest way was to let it go on. Anyway, Graham made her mind up. So she lives with me now.”

  “What about Mr Temple?”

  David could see that he had unwittingly unlocked the quadrangle, as Desmond had called it once. Now that Cathy had gone, Desmond and Anita were preening themselves, and Graham Temple was pushed to one side.

  “Ah, yes, Graham. Poor old Graham,” Desmond said, “It’s a not-so-merry-go-round, isn’t it? Now, at last, Graham is the loser. That’s the way it is.”

  David had Cathy’s vision of the Anita-Graham creature, always partially blind and crippled, always unable to communicate vital messages from one half of its brain to the other, giving up the struggle for life.

  “Forget your part in it, David. You’re as innocent as Poppy,” Desmond said, getting up and putting his arm around David’s shoulders, and squeezing him warmly. “You’ve been a very good friend, and helpmate to me.”

  “Do you want Poppy back now?”

  “No, no, no. Don’t be ridiculous. Indeed, I’ll send Helmut a cheque that will cover a truckload of dog-food!”

  Afternoon tea and refreshments, including sherry for those non-residents who wanted it, were served in the St. Giles’ church hall, on the other side of Ponsonby Road, after the ceremony, at Desmond’s expense. David was confused at the implications of the service, and unable to accept Desmond’s view that he was free of blame. He lost himself in the crowd, drifting from one knot of people to another. He was pleased that Anita and Desmond were happy, but worried that Mr Temple, obviously, was not.

  Desmond materialised before David, with his hand familiarly on the arm of a bulging-eyed man, in his late twenties. Desmond introduced his son, Mike.

  “I’ve heard of you from Dad,” Mike said abruptly, shaking hands.

  “I’ve heard of you … from Cathy.”

  “Thanks for looking after my step-mother.”

  It sounded very proprietorial, ‘my stepmother.’

  “Why did you come today?” David asked, the words coming out this time, before he had a chance to reflect on their implications.

  “To support my father,” was the quick, almost rehearsed reply.

  David knew that if he asked why Mike hadn’t supported his father by coming to see Cathy occasionally, he would receive a clear, and probably unpalatable answer. Mike, according to Cathy, was the sort of unsentimental person who knew precisely what he was doing, and why. Perhaps that was one clue to how he made his millions. Cathy had been very placid about her relationship with Mike and his sister, Sandra. She said she had never tried to mother them. She wasn’t capable of it. Cathy had reckoned that there was an in-built, almost impersonal, alienation from a stepmother, with stepchildren in their teens – simply, that their father’s choice of a mate, wasn’t their mother.

  Desmond had moved away. Mike and David bared their teeth at each other in attempted grins. Mike, shot his head round quickly, at a variety of angles, to see who was near, and moved away too.

  Soon, Desmond was at David’s shoulder again. “This is Cathy’s sister, Denise.”

  Denise’s features had been smeared by tears, and reddened like a piece of raw meat, set in a black basket of hair. She said how ‘terribly, terribly awful’ it was for everybody.

  David didn’t think it was like that at all. He could see a whole canvas that was supposed to be the colour of Cathy’s life, being unfurled, and daubed by the occupants in the hall around him, in their choice of colours. Cathy was the focal point for memories about themselves. David was no nearer understanding why all these diverse people had come to the service; why they should want to dredge up here, the memories that connected them tenuously to Cathy, when they could do so in their own homes. There was even a comfortably padded Roman Catholic priest from Sao Paulo, who had worked with Cathy when she was in Manaus.

  Paul Prosser was unobtrusively present, a friend and companion of Cathy’s, whom David stood with for a time. Paul was slightly spaced out as usual. His speech had become slower in the last two years, and more hesitant, and his eyes were glassed in dark hollows. His manner hadn’t changed. He was as light-hearted and convivial as always.

  “What do you think of it, David?” he asked.

  “I don’t know … it’s not much about Cathy.”

  “It can’t be, can it? She’s gone. It’s people massaging themselves, a kind of gentle public wanking ceremony, with sherry and scones.”

  “But nice,” David said.

  The din of voices was interrupted by the urgent ringing of a spoon on a glass. David looked in the direction of the sound, and saw John Murdoch, who was prone to use every possible opportunity to make a public speech, holding an arm up for attention. He was on the dais at the end of the hall. John, who had a half-full sherry glass in one hand, had escaped the keen-eyed supervision of Rose and the other carers. He was not permitted to drink alcoholic liquor.

  “Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, your attention please…”

  David could see that Rose, Ian and Keith were alarmed, but also stilled, by the understanding that they were in a gathering with people from ‘out there.’

  “I want to propose a toast to Cathy’s memory…”

  John’s poise and diction were at least as faultless as Desmond’s, and the crowd stilled to hear what was only to be expected, an affectionate toast. Helmut now joined Rose, Keith and Ian and they conferred, quietly and anxiously. It wasn’t a simple matter of easing John down from the platform, as they would have done at Denby Hall. After all, he hadn’t said or done anything wrong – yet.

  “We’re here to celebrate the memory of a very special person… charge your glasses…” John said.

  Under the cover of murmurs of approval from the audience, as they hustled to get their glasses full, David guessed that Helmut would be counselling a pause on the part of the Denby Hall managers. Uppermost in Helmet’s mind would be how unseemly it would look if they moved against John.

  “Let’s remember Cathy for the beautiful person she was a few weeks ago…” John said, raising his glass.

  Keith looked at Helmut, waiting for his signal. Keith was Denby Hall’s doer, he was the one who would act. On command, he would calmly sweep John off the dais, and into the crowd. Helmut’s wrinkled face was held up like a sensitive radar, waiting to receive and translate impulses from John.

  “Let’s not talk about jam sandwiches in the orchard …” John said, dropping his voice, and moving his head to eyeball the whole audience.

  The notion of jam sandwiches sent a pleasurable ripple through the gathering. David thought that John had just about taken his speech to the limit, and that at any moment, for fear of what might come next, Helmut had to give the order. But Helmut, his cheeks quivering, held fire.

  “Let’s remember the real Cathy, who has recently left us, the gentle lady in a wheelchair…”

  “To Cathy!” Barney Colas bawled, with perfect timing, as John’s voice lowered.

  “To Cathy!” the audience responded.

  Everybody drank the toast, and John Murdoch voluntarily left the platform in a muted voicing of approvals, and clapping.

  As they were easing out of the hall, David was close to Helmut, and he saw Simon Hurst claim Helmut’s arm.

  “Who was that man who spoke?” Simon barked, quite loudly.

  “He was…” Helmut shied away from admitting that a resident had spoken.

  “A friend of Cathy’s,” David interjected.

  “Damn cheek of that man!” Simon said. “Who does he think he is? I’m her brother. I was about to propose a toast! I’ll give him jam sandwiches!”

  31

  As David was passing the reception desk on the way upstairs, Kay said, “David, I had a call from a woman a few minutes ago, asking if you were in. She said she was going to call round. When I asked her name, she said she was going to surprise you.”

  Kay grinned flirtatiously. David didn’t really know any girls, or women, as personal friends. Caroline Higgins would never approach him in this way. He thought it could be a previous care assistant who had now left, but he couldn’t think which one. An hour later, he was lying on his bed listening to Simply Red, when Keith looked in.

  “Guess who’s downstairs asking for you?”

  David hoisted himself up, with a feeling of pleasant anticipation.

  “The bitch of Eccleston Street, Lady Temple!”

  David swallowed hard, although her presence didn’t alarm him. “I wonder what she wants?”

  “I can get rid of her if you like,” Keith said.

  David thought of his awful conversation with Mr Temple. “No. It’s something I’d better do.”

  “You’re sure? Call me if you have any problems.”

  “Thanks …” Unnerving thoughts about the police, the girl dog-walker and the broken vase swirled in his head, but he dismissed them.

  “You know who she is?” Keith said, “I found out from Kay. She’s one of the good and the great in the town. Sometime local authority councillor, ex head of the WI, and the Townswomen’s Guild, chair of this committee, head of that tribunal, a Justice of the Peace. You know? Mrs Big.”

  David had to adjust his image of Anita slightly. He had thought of her as a neglected, peripheral figure, at the edges of the lives of her husband and Desmond; a person who was neurotically waiting to live, rather than a career woman in her own right. He went downstairs to meet her in the lobby.

  Anita had an uncertain smile. She did not frighten him. He felt at quite a distance from the concerns of people out there. They became agitated at events that seemed unimportant to him. Her hair was wet, and hung down in strings. She was wearing a belted white raincoat, which was short and showed off her tanned legs.

  “I wanted to see you, David, if I can call you that …”

  “C-come into the sitting room.”

  “Can we go for a walk? … The weather is terrible, but…”

  Very quickly, he fetched an anorak, and Kay let them out. They picked their way along the soft cliff path. Anita Temple’s delicate shoes were soon muddy, but she seemed not to notice. The rain was light, and there was no wind. The seaward side was a misty, pearl space. The roadway side was blotted out by fog. They walked in a capsule of privacy.

  “I called Helmut, and apologised to him,” she said. “All that stupid business about the police. I’m very sorry. But I wanted to see you personally. Desmond thinks you’re terribly worried about the meeting you had with Graham…”

  “I am.”

  “First, can I say I’ve been wrong all along about Justina … Poppy.”

  “It’s OK, now. And thanks for agreeing to hand over Poppy.”

  “Now it’s too late.”

  “No. Cathy never knew. She saw Poppy quite a few times.”

  Anita Temple stopped and looked at David. He couldn’t tell whether the wet on her face was rain or tears. Her eyes were red, with shadows underneath.

  “She never knew about me keeping Poppy away from her?”

  “Nobody told Cathy. All she knew was… she saw Poppy occasionally.”

  Anita seemed to be satisfied with this. “I felt … so angry and frustrated. I can’t tell you how Cathy has dogged us …”

  “Dogged?” David couldn’t help showing a flicker of amusement.

  “I’m not blaming her, poor woman. She couldn’t help herself. Poppy was the final stroke… do you understand, David?”

  David nodded. He did understand. Cathy had described him once as being forgiving, like a priest. Anita needed to be absolved from her pettiness before she could rest. The truth was David didn’t forgive Anita, any more than he forgave Cathy. He merely listened uncritically, and tried to learn.

  “And about the scene at home – well it was home to me, before I left – when I threw the vase at you. I want to apologise to you about that.”

  “I wanted to see you, but Mr Temple tried to help…”

  “Please don’t worry … I was taken completely offbalance. I behaved … crazily.”

  “Desmond told me the vase was worth five thousand pounds.”

  Anita had no thought of vases. “Everything’s changed now. For the better. As a result of that meeting, as Desmond told you…”

  “What about Mr Temple?”

  “Yes, I worry about him. I care for him. It was a terrible shock. Desmond says Graham’s ‘an obsessionally focussed loner’. He may be right, but it doesn’t mean Graham isn’t a good man in many ways. I mean, he may have had a few thoughts that we would part years ago, but …” Anita suddenly stopped her excited charge.

  “I’m talking too much, David. I suppose it’s because you were in my life at an important moment.”

  “What will become of Mr Temple?”

  “Oh, he’s really a completely self-sufficient individual. The bruise to his pride will subside in time. He doesn’t need me personally for anything.”

  David was uneasy at Anita’s summary dismissal of Graham Temple. She had turned her back on him.

  “Some good has come out of it, at least,” David said.

 

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