A Friend of the Family (34 page)

An enormous black dog appeared at the other door into the kitchen and the parrot, to David's alarm, began to bark. The dog pricked its ears, wagged its tail languidly and yawned. The parrot growled fiercely.

‘Yes,' said David hastily. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea. If you think Kate won't mind and you think I'll be there in time to catch Polly.'

‘ 'Er's not long gone.' The young woman was scrabbling about by the telephone. ‘ ‘Ang on. ‘Ere ‘tis. ‘Er wus phonin' on'y a minit since.' She looked a little self-conscious. ‘Jew wanna read it, mister?'

With one eye on the huge dog, who was now sitting leaning
against the door jamb with its tongue lolling out, David hastened over to read the name and address in the book that was held out to him. Kate Webster. He wrote the details into a little notebook and smiled at her. ‘It's been delightful to meet you all,' he said courteously. ‘Thank you.'

And with a last look at the parrot and the dog, he went back to his car.

 

POLLY, DRIVING AWAY FROM
Kate's, decided to see if Harriet was in. There had been no reply earlier but she might be there now and Polly simply couldn't keep her good news to herself. She thought about Freddie. He had sounded so relieved that she was, to be absolutely truthful, a tiny bit hurt. Never mind. She took the bend a little wide and narrowly missed a car coming in the opposite direction. The driver, a man in his fifties, looked as though he were unsure of where he was going. Polly drove on. Tim hadn't sounded relieved. The conversation had been so hurried, so muted, that it was difficult to know exactly what he was feeling. Perhaps motherhood would mellow Miranda and they would be happy. Polly hoped so but her own happiness and excitement were so great that she couldn't dwell on Tim for long. She had her own life to look forward to. What an incredible parrot Percy was! And Marcus . . . A huge grin began to creep across Polly's face.

I hope, she thought as she turned on to the open moor and headed for Lower Barton, that he doesn't block up that interior door!

 

Thirty-five

 

KATE FLUNG THE LAST
of the clothes into the washing machine, slammed the door, twiddled the knobs and dashed to answer the front doorbell.

‘Yes?' she asked breathlessly.

David stood looking at her rather anxiously. ‘I'm hoping that you're Kate Webster,' he said, somewhat diffidently. ‘And that Polly is still with you?'

‘Sorry. You've missed her. Can I help?'

‘It was a vain hope.' David shook his head. ‘Thea Lampeter is my son-in-law's cousin.' He grimaced. ‘Bit convoluted, isn't it? I missed Polly at the Old Station House and a rather incredible young woman with improbably red hair, a parrot and a huge dog told me that I might catch up with her here.'

‘That's Maggie,' Kate told him. ‘And Percy and Jessie.' She shrugged. ‘Bad luck. But now you're here, would you like some coffee? I'm just having some. I'm still recovering from the news that Thea's agent is going to make Polly a television star. With Percy, of course. Come in.'

‘Good heavens! How exciting.' David followed her through the hall into the kitchen. ‘Then perhaps my journey wasn't necessary. She's pleased?'

‘Euphoric.' Kate indicated a chair and pushed the kettle on to the hotplate of the Rayburn. ‘Quite beside herself. She was rushing off to tell as many people as possible, I should imagine. You know that feeling? When life's so wonderful you simply can't sit still?'

‘I think I can just remember the hint of such an emotion,' said David cautiously. ‘A very long time ago.'

Oh, dear.' Kate laughed. ‘Bad as that?'

As the silence lengthened, she glanced round from her coffee-making. David was standing quite motionless, his hand still on the back of the chair, staring at a framed watercolour on the wall opposite. Puzzled, Kate glanced at the painting and back at David.

‘May I ask where you got that?' he asked at last.

His voice was strained and his breath came quickly. Kate put the mugs of coffee on the table and sat down.

‘It was left to me when a friend of mine died,' she said. ‘Why?'

David moved the chair back and sat down, his eyes still on the painting. ‘I painted it,' he said simply. ‘I painted it for her.'

‘For Felicity?'

David nodded and looked at Kate. Then he lowered his head and rubbed his face with his fingers. ‘This is so strange,' he said almost in-audibly. ‘I've been thinking of her so much today. And then to come into this room and see that . . .' He rested his elbow on the table and shaded his eyes with his hand.

‘You were the artist,' said Kate gently. ‘You stayed with her that summer.'

David nodded.

‘She told me about you.' Kate put her elbows on the table and cradled her mug in her hands. ‘She loved you so much and you left her without a word.'

David made an involuntary gesture but made no effort to defend himself.

‘Yes, that's how it seemed.' He corrected himself. ‘That's how it was. But it was never intended to be like that. It all started out quite differently and then it changed and I thought she understood. Felt the same. It was like a holiday affair, a shipboard romance, d'you see? Lovely and exciting and tender, but not lasting. And I was a coward. When I realised how she felt, I left her to it. She telephoned and my daughter began to suspect. She told Felicity that I didn't want to talk
to her and by the time 1 came to my senses it was too late. Too late!' He stared at Kate, his face fierce with grief and self-condemnation. ‘She was dead. She killed herself, all alone in that house whilst 1 was in London hiding behind my daughter's skirts.' His mouth twisted uglily and his eyes went to the painting.

‘She didn't kill herself.' Kate's voice was calm. ‘Her GP was quite sure of that. He said that she'd been drinking heavily and then took her headache tablets. Did you know that she suffered terribly from migraine? He said that she would have forgotten how many tablets she'd taken but that it wasn't intentional. He was quite definite.'

‘But why was she drinking so heavily? Because 1 left her. Because I allowed my daughter to tell her to stop bothering me. What difference does it make?'

Kate shook her head and was silent.

‘The sad thing,' said David, after a while, ‘was that 1 don't think we should have been happy. It worked for that moment in time but we were such different characters. I would have driven her mad. Or do I say that to console myself? Well'—he gave a mirthless laugh-'I shall never know.'

‘I'd known Felicity for twenty years,' said Kate thoughtfully, ‘and I'd never seen that side of her. I never knew it existed. She was hard and ruthless and would have certainly wrecked Thea's marriage to get George back and that's how we all knew her. When she came for lunch that day and talked about you, I saw a completely different Felicity. Soft, loving, vulnerable. I think that, with you, she was happy as she had never been before in this life. Perhaps that's something. At least you gave her that.'

‘And took it away from her,' said David grimly. ‘And her life along with it.'

‘At least she had it.' Kate shrugged. ‘She had you. When her life had crumbled and there was nothing left, she had that time with you. What might it have gone on to? Disillusionment? More emptiness and loneliness?'

‘You make it sound as if I had the right to judge. As if I did her a favour by killing her. I can't see it like that.'

‘Felicity wasn't a happy person,' said Kate. ‘Even when she was young, with a successful husband and George dancing attendance, she was never happy. I think you made her happy. You gave her something that stilled and contented her restless grasping soul. I don't think it would have lasted either. But at least she had it. And died before she could wreck it herself.'

‘You are trying to comfort me and in some strange way you have succeeded. Some of the pain has gone.' David looked at her. ‘I'm glad you have the painting.'

‘So am I. Perhaps I should offer it back to you but I'm not going to. I keep it as a memorial to Felicity and to remind me that it is better to cut your bare feet on the glass than never to feel the sand between your toes.'

‘Then keep it.' David had tears in his eyes. ‘I shall never know now whether I missed something wonderful. Perhaps it may prevent some such thing in your life.'

‘I think I had my chance. I had my moment, too, and, like you, I had to make the decision to finish it or go on with terrible difficulties. I felt I made the only decision open to me at that time. Now I wonder. And like you I shall never know.'

‘Where do you find your comfort?'

Kate shook her head. ‘You should know that there is no comfort in knowing that you are existing instead of living. For a short while I lived. It was wonderful and agony. Bliss and pain. But I knew that I was living. I can tell the difference. Perhaps the only really contented people are those who have never lived at all. But I keep the painting to remind me that just once I took off my shoes and felt the sand between my toes.'

David held out his hand across the table and, after a moment, Kate put hers into it.

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘You cannot imagine how much you've helped me.'

‘You've helped me, too,' she said. ‘I'd imagined you very differently.'

‘I can believe that.' David grimaced and released her hand. He stared at the cold coffee. ‘I suppose I must be on my way.'

‘Why did you say that your visit to Polly wasn't necessary?'

David hesitated, looking profoundly uncomfortable. ‘You'll think I'm a fool.'

‘I doubt it.'

‘She and my son-in-law had a bit of a flirtation going and he got carried away and asked her to marry him. Then he discovered that my daughter is pregnant and he told Polly that it was all off. He said that she was quite happy about it but . . . Well, if you must know, I had visions of her lying on the floor with an empty pill bottle in her hand so I thought I'd check. I wanted to be absolutely certain, d'you see? That's why I followed her here.'

Kate laughed. ‘I can promise you that Polly has no intention of taking an overdose. She's out of her mind with joy. What a nice man you are. How glad I am that you came. And I don't even know your name.'

‘It's David. Porteous,' he mumbled as an afterthought.

Kate's eyebrows shot up. ‘Do you tell me that I have a Porteous on my kitchen wall? I'm very honoured. But I'll have to increase my contents insurance. Damn!'

David laughed and got to his feet. ‘I can't thank you enough,' he said. ‘You seem to have taken away the sting. The grief I can live with.'

‘Must you go?' Kate stood up, too. ‘You haven't even drunk your coffee. Let me make you some more.'

David stood deep in thought and then looked at her. ‘Will you understand if I go now? I want to walk on the moor for a time and think about things. Things as they were and as they are now. But I should so like to come back afterwards. May I?'

‘Of course you may. I understand.'

‘Yes.' David heaved a great sigh. ‘I think you do. Thank you.'

‘Come back any time.' Kate escorted him to the door. ‘Turn right out of the gate and you're practically on the moor. I'll see you later.'

‘I don't quite know how long.'

‘You'll need as long as it takes,' said Kate gently. ‘I'll be here.'

‘Definitely “Kate of my consolation,” not “Kate the curst,"‘ said David.

Kate laughed. ‘You've been listening to Thea's parrot,' she said and went back inside and closed the door.

 

DAVID GOT BACK TO
Broadhayes late that evening. When he returned to Kate, she invited him to stay on to supper and he telephoned to tell Miranda that he'd met an old friend and didn't know quite what time he would be back. In a way it was true. Kate's long acquaintance with Felicity made her feel like an old friend. As he walked on the moor and drove across familiar roads, he thought of all that Kate had said. He had no intention of telling her how he had come to be at Felicity's house in the first place but the way that Kate had talked of her seemed to tie together with Tim's information about her affair with George. He, David, had known another side of her, a different Felicity, and, allowing himself to remember that summer, he felt glad and rather humble.

During the evening, Kate told him much more. She painted in the background of their lives as girls and as naval wives and, as she talked, a whole picture grew up in his mind's eye. He saw the tragedy, at last, in its proper proportions, as a result of a whole series of events of which his own part was indeed only a part. Although he knew he must still bear his own guilt, a great burden was lifted from his heart.

He looked up at last across the supper table, into the slaty blue eyes which were still surprisingly young beneath the greying hair.

‘How can I begin to thank you?' he asked. ‘This sort of thing can distort your perception of life, vou know. It twists and creeps into everything you do.'

‘It isn't right that you should bear all the load.' Kate poured herself some more wine. ‘Others, including Felicity herself, must take their part.'

Later, as David stood before his open bedroom window, he felt a great sense of peace. Kate's parting words were still in his ears.

‘She had the opportunity to bring out all the very best of herself, the essence, and then, even better, she was able to give it away. To give it to you. That's real happiness.'

David let a prayer of gratitude float out into the night and then he climbed into bed and fell instantly asleep.

Across the landing Tim and Miranda were preparing for bed.

‘I thought old David seemed a bit more like his old self tonight.' Tim wandered in and out of his adjoining dressing room as he undressed. ‘I wonder who the old friend was that he visited?'

‘I didn't know that he knew anyone down here,' said Miranda as she climbed into bed. ‘But he looked . . . well, I don't quite know, really. I just didn't want to question him somehow.'

‘He had a peaceful look, didn't he? But sort of exalted.' Tim joined her. ‘Maybe it's the baby. I feel a bit like that myself.'

‘Oh, Tim.' Miranda slipped into his arms and burrowed against him. ‘I wasn't going to tell you but I've been trying for years. I haven't been on the pill at all. But nothing ever happened. I thought I'd never have a baby.'

‘My poor darling.' A wave of tenderness washed over Tim and he held her close, caressing the feathery hair.

‘I thought it might be a punishment for something I did. Something I said to . . . to Felicity. I was very cruel. And then she died. And then I couldn't get pregnant and I was afraid I might lose you. As a punishment.'

Such an outburst from the unemotional, reticent Miranda shocked Tim and his arms tightened about her. ‘I don't think it works quite like that,' he said gently. ‘It's more that our unworthy deeds eat into our own minds and corrode our lives. We punish ourselves. You've probably been tense and uptight and all you had to do was relax a bit.'