Connections Page 11

  On her return she found Sophia and Zoe seated on either side of the fireplace and Fiona Jones on a sofa by the wall. Fleur sat down opposite the fire between her stepmother and Zoe, who peered across at her and said, in no very pleasant way, “So – what do you make of us?”

  “As Chairman Mao said about the French Revolution, ‘too soon to say’,” Fleur said, smartly.

  “Hah!” said Zoe, her eyes snapping.

  “Dickie has got me tickets for La Scala two weeks from now,” Sophia told her mother. “Why don’t you stay a little longer and come with us?”

  “I’d love to, but George has business in Washington next week and I don’t know how long we’ll be there,” Zoe said. “I must go with him. As he gets older, he gets busier and only I stand between George and the eighteen-hour days he loves so much.” She turned to Fleur. “Have you any marriage plans, Fleur?”

  “Not at the moment,” Fleur replied.

  “Is there anyone special?”

  She shook her head, “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’m sure that won’t go on forever,” Fiona Jones reassured her kindly.

  Fortunately the men arrived at this point. Fleur’s father, Henry Jones and George Andriades stopped to discuss something, while Val Keith plonked himself down on the floor beside her chair, holding his brandy. Looking up at her he said, “You know, I think you’ve got Dickie’s ears. A more feminine version, obviously. Far more charming. It’s the lobes. What do you think, Sophia?”

  Sophia gazed at him calmly. “I really don’t know,” she said.

  “You must know what your husband’s ears look like,” Zoe said. “Val, do get off the floor and sit in a chair.”

  “Only if Fleur comes with me,” he said and stood, tugging her up and leading her to a small sofa beneath the window. There he sat close and, taking her hand, said in a low voice, “Have they been grilling you?”

  Fleur, easing her hand from his grip, said, “A bit.”

  “I urged the gents out so I could come and rescue you from the tortures of the harem,” he claimed.

  “Thanks,” said Fleur.

  From across the room Sophia said clearly to him, “I’m so sorry Diana couldn’t come. Give her my love, won’t you, Val?”

  “I will,” he said.

  “She’s still at Chorton?” Sophia asked.

  “For the foreseeable,” he said. “Violet’s been sent home from the girls’ Borstal with measles.”

  “Such a pretty house,” Zoe chipped in. “With a little river at the foot of the garden. Small, but perfect.”

  “You must visit us again,” Valentine said.

  “You must come to us” she said. “It’s been far too long. Barbados.”

  Meanwhile, by the door, the other men had continued to talk and a message had been brought in for Jethro by the manservant.

  “Fleur, come and sit here,” commanded Sophia. She patted a large square stool next to her. Fleur went over. As she sat down Sophia said, “I thought I’d better get you away from Val before his hands began to stray.”

  Fleur laughed.

  Jethro was bending over Fiona’s chair. “Fiona – darling – I’m afraid I’ll have to keep Henry here until late. Will you forgive me? And take my car home if you want to leave earlier.”

  “Business, always business,” Zoe said to Fiona. “I wish I could employ a gentleman to take me about and entertain me, only George would object. Someone who looked like you, Val,” she said to Valentine, who had got up and come over, following Fleur, “would be absolutely perfect. Youngish, suave, well dressed and so smooth. Would you like a ‘walker’, Fiona?” she enquired.

  “My dear, I’m generally too tired,” Fiona told her. “In fact, if you don’t mind I’ll accept your kind offer of a car straight away.” To Zoe she said, “My daughter’s just had a baby.”

  Sophia stood up and went to the drawing-room door, opening it and apparently giving orders for the car to someone standing outside.

  When she returned Fleur decided to move. She said, “I must go, too, I’m afraid. I have a job interview tomorrow.”

  “What a pity,” Sophia said.

  Val said, “I must also go. Even in opposition there are things to read.”

  “You’re so conscientious, Val,” Sophia said drily.

  She took Fleur’s hand. “Let us see you very soon,” she said. “Mother will invite you to Barbados. I do hope you’ll come.”

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” Fleur responded.

  George Andriades came up. “Leaving so soon? What a pity. It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” he added, looking almost as if he meant it.

  “I hope we’ll meet again,” Zoe said. “You must come to Barbados with us.”

  In the hall Fleur’s father embraced her. “Well,” he said, “it’s been very nice – very nice. Now, promise you won’t disappear again. We mustn’t let another gap develop.”

  Fleur, who had not been responsible for the last gap, which had lasted since her birth, politely agreed.

  All in all it had been a disturbing evening, coming face to face with her father, her life’s greatest enigma, and finding the reality of it so strange in some ways and so ordinary in others. And she’d liked him. It was scary, though, to think half her genes were the same as Dickie Jethro’s. But only, she supposed, if you thought your DNA made a lot of difference.

  It happened, it’s over, that’s it, she thought. She liked her father, and Sophia, too, from what she’d seen of them. But it was a different world. She wouldn’t see any of them again.

  Twelve

  The morning after the dinner party at her father’s Fleur decided to send a hostile thank-you note to her stepmother with the idea of putting the family off her for good. This letter began, chillingly: “Dear Lady Jethro,” and went on, “Thank you for the dinner party which was very interesting. Would you tell your mother I will be unable to come on a visit to Barbados as I prefer to spend my holidays with my family.” She almost put “my real family”, but thought that might be going too far. She signed the letter with her full name, Fleur Carew-Stockley, and decided that she wouldn’t get invited back after her little missive hit the mat. Less a bread-and-butter letter, more a poison-pen letter, she thought. It looked as if she’d chosen the computer course over the sun-drenched holiday, like some virtuous Victorian seamstress turning down a wicked lord bent on ruining her and buying her expensive clothes and jewels.

  Fleur didn’t mind what she did because that afternoon Vanessa was being buried. She, who had never been to anyone’s funeral before, was going to have to watch someone younger than herself interred.

  At lunchtime she went next door to ask Dominic what the arrangements were. He wasn’t in but as she turned away she saw him and Joe coming to the top of the steps each carrying a large toolbox.

  It was Joe who told her, “We’ll leave at two. OK? Dom and me are just going in to get changed.”

  Fleur went back inside and put on a dark skirt and sweater. She rang the doorbell at two and she, Joe and Dominic, who were both in black suits, walked to the Yarborough. They entered the estate and walked across the stretch of grass between the groups of tower blocks. Seven floors up they entered the hall of Ellen Whitcombe’s flat, which was painted in pale colours and had Japanese prints on the walls. There were two men in the living-room in dark suits, one small and wizened, uncomfortable in what looked like brand-new clothes, his face collapsed like a wrinkling balloon, the other bulky and assured. It was he, Ellen’s boss, who introduced the smaller man as Tom Whitcombe, Vanessa’s father.

  Fleur sat down. Joe asked if anyone wanted a cup of tea. Dominic went into the kitchen, which led from the sitting-room, and put his arms round Ellen, who was in there with another woman in a black dress preparing food.

  In the living-room no one said anything. Two girls in short black skirts, white blouses and jackets came in, then a young man. One of the girls said to Joe, “This is Melanie. Tell him, Mel.”

 
“Jack told my brother to tell you Brendan’s out of hospital.”

  “What a pity,” Joe said, unmoved. “Had to happen sooner or later, I suppose.”

  “Only his dad’s told the police you did it,” she told him.

  “Why would he think a thing like that?” Joe said mildly.

  “What’s all this about?” asked Tom Whitcombe.

  “Some local toe-rag had a bit of an accident,” Joe reported.

  “I didn’t want to drag it up at a time like this,” Melanie said, “only Jack told my brother you’d want to know.”

  “It’s always nice to know what’s going on,” Joe told her. “Are you sure you couldn’t handle a drink, Tom?”

  “Well, maybe just a small one,” Tom conceded.

  The young man said, “Anybody mind if I turn on the TV?” and did so.

  Melanie, a minute figure with long blonde hair spreading over the shoulders of her jacket, said loudly, “Mark!” She went over and switched it off.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  A middle-aged black woman in a black hat with a short veil came in with a bunch of flowers and a basket. She went to Tom Whitcombe and said, “She was a lovely girl, your daughter. We’re all so upset about what happened. Such a big, happy smile when she was a kid.” Then she went into the kitchen and kissed Ellen. She began to unpack the basket, bringing out foil-wrapped packs.

  “It’s funny how it all turns out,” Tom Whitcombe said in a flat, despairing voice, not looking up from the carpet.

  “It’s a mystery,” said Ellen’s boss.

  The young woman with Melanie began to cry. “Don’t cry, Julie. Van’s at peace now,” Melanie counselled.

  “I’ll just see if there’s anything I can do,” Fleur said and went to the kitchen, chiefly because she couldn’t bear sitting there with the others any longer. The small kitchen was crowded. Ellen’s friends were putting things on plates while Ellen furiously spread clingfilm over plates of chicken drumsticks and ham and bowls of salad. Then she started wiping down the surfaces with a cloth. Moments later she put this down and began fumblingly to tie a knot in a black rubbish bag.

  Dominic took it from her and secured the bag. “I’ll take it to the chute,” he said and went out.

  Fleur picked up the abandoned cloth and finished wiping the counter. “Anything I can do?” she asked.

  “You could polish the glasses,” Ellen Whitcombe said in a calm voice. “They’re in that cupboard up there.” Her actions belied the voice. She began to turn round helplessly looking for something.

  One of the women opened a drawer and handed Fleur a tea towel. “Use this,” she advised Fleur. “It’s OK, Ellen. I found it. Shall we carry some of this in and put it on the sideboard? The fridge is too full.” She and Ellen left the room with covered plates.

  The other woman turned to Fleur. “There’s far too much,” she said. “She’s been racing round like a maniac. She was up cleaning at two in the morning.”

  A buzz of lifeless talk came from the sitting-room. The toilet flushed. The doorbell rang, letting in more people.

  Dominic returned and put on the kettle. “Some of them want tea,” he said levelly. “How was the posh party?”

  “Awful,” Fleur replied. “The soap and the towels in the bathroom would pay your rent for a week. The bathroom’s as big as your flat.”

  “So for the time being you won’t be swapping your present lifestyle.”

  “What lifestyle?” Fleur asked. “I haven’t got one.”

  “I suppose we can’t all afford one,” he commiserated.

  “How’s that house you’re doing up?” she asked him.

  “It’s over. The man refused to pay; Joe and me have come out of it as bad as we went in. But another of the guys, an electrician we bumped into over there, also asking for his money, put us on to a big job in the City. Now we’re building a big new bank. I’m sure we need another one of those.”

  Ellen came back with the other woman, then Joe entered, looking angry. “Bloody Brendan’s cousin Chas is here,” he told Dominic in a low voice. “Says he’s come to pay his respects.”

  The both turned towards the wall of the small kitchen to be less easily heard.

  “Shall I tell him to go?” Joe asked.

  “There’ll only be a row. Let him stay and make his little demonstration.”

  “I’ll go and tell him he can’t come back – after,” Joe told him. He left the room.

  “Who can’t come back?” Ellen asked.

  “Just somebody I don’t think has any place here,” Dominic said.

  “Surely that’s for me to say,” Ellen said. “I want all Van’s friends, people who knew her – oh, that reminds me, Dominic, will you go to Tesco’s for some kitchen roll? We’re right out.”

  “It’s too late, Ellen,” he said gently. “The cars will be here soon.”

  “But we’re right out—”

  Dominic moved towards her and put his arms round her. “We’ll get some later,” he told her. She slumped against him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “I know it doesn’t,” she said in a low voice. “Oh Dominic, this is so awful.”

  “I know. Just get through it. We’re all here to help you.”

  The doorbell rang. “The cars are here,” said someone outside the kitchen door. Dominic took Ellen’s arm and walked her to the front door.

  There weren’t enough cars for everyone so Joe and Fleur volunteered to take the bus and found themselves at the bus stop with Chas, a handsome young man in a good dark coat. Joe ignored him.

  “Looks like rain. Pity my motor’s in the dock,” Chas remarked imperturbably.

  “Pity you’re not,” Joe said.

  “Come on, Joe. Sad occasion and all that. We all loved Van. I knew her from knee high.”

  Joe said nothing.

  “This wasn’t down to me,” Chas said.

  “Chas,” Joe told him, “shut up. You shouldn’t be here and everybody knows it, but you are, and none of us wants any trouble for Ellen’s sake, which is lucky for you. You’re making your point. So shut up.”

  Chas said no more and they stood in silence until the bus came up. At the cemetery gates, Chas said, “Better get a move on; they don’t hang about in these places.” He left them at a rapid pace.

  It was cold. It began to rain and the bare trees stood stark in the vast graveyard like sentries. The priest at the head of the grave said the words of the burial service. Women sobbed. Tom Whitcombe, too, stood at the grave’s edge weeping, while Ellen was tearless and rigid between Dominic and her boss. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, she moaned. Dominic said something to her.

  Fleur and Joe, without discussing it, had stopped beneath a tree ten metres from the grave and the other mourners. Fleur felt him beside her, tense and breathing hard.

  “You going back to Ellen’s after?” he said to her.

  “No. I’m not a friend or anything.”

  “Come out for a drink later?” he offered.

  She accepted, said goodbye to Ellen, shook hands with Tom Whitcombe and went back to Adelaide House.

  Numb and upset, she drifted to her phone and checked her answering machine mechanically. Jess had rung, probably to find out what had happened at the Jethros’ the previous night. The silent caller had made another silent call. She sat down and looked into space, then, without planning it, opened one of the boxes in her bedroom. She took out a rug, a lamp and a small watercolour of a cow in a field that she’d bought on holiday with Ben in the West Country one snowy day, when the flakes of white had been swirling over the small cobbled street leading down to the sea. She found this memory did not upset her now. She put up the pictures and arranged the rug and lamp in her front room. Then the phone rang and, thinking it must be Jess again, keen for details of life among the great and good – and rich – she picked it up.

  “Did you get the flowers?” Valentine Keith enquired. Fleur, thinking of Vanessa’s flowers and wreat
hs making a splash of colour on the ground in the overcast cemetery amid the crowd of black-coated mourners, said, “What flowers?”

  Then the doorbell rang and she went to the door and opened it. A man stood there holding a pretty countrified arrangement of flowers, leaves and berries. “Thanks, Val,” she said into the phone, taking them, “they’re here.” She decided, unfairly, not to tip the delivery man. She didn’t want Val’s floral tributes – and she was too broke, anyway.

  “Flowers all right?” he enquired.

  “Lovely,” she replied meekly, hating herself because she sensed there was probably a sting in the tail – as there always would be where Val Keith was involved.

  He went on, “Listen – I’ve got a couple of theatre tickets for tonight.”

  “Sorry, Val. I’m going out with friends,” she told him.

  “Oh,” he said. “Disappointment. I feel a little tear come creeping – never mind. A bit unrealistic to think you might be free at such short notice. Say I could change them for a night next week?”

  “No, Valentine,” she said. “No hard feelings, but I wasn’t keen on my father. Which means I don’t want to get too close to anybody close to him.”

  He took this calmly, responding straight away, “I can see the whole thing must have come as a bit of a shock. Would you mind if I rang in a week or two, just to talk?”

  It wasn’t worth arguing about. “All right,” she said, looking at the bunch of flowers lying glamorously on her formica kitchen table, next to the letter giving her the computer course date and a red bill for the electricity.

  “Good,” he said. “That’s what I’ll do.”

  “Thanks for the flowers,” she said. And byebye, smoothie chops, she said silently to the purring receiver.

  She turned on the television and saw that the German Chancellor, the British Prime Minister, the French, the Dutch and the Russians were assembling to discuss the Middle Eastern threat. Which was what? she wondered. The transport unions were staging a day of action and the Christmas lights had been turned on in Oxford Street. The new East-West railway line was to go ahead.

  Jess rang.