This time it was a heart attack: it had to be. He was the
most terrible colour, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
‘Sit down, Michael,’ she said, ‘sit down here, for heaven’s
sake. Take deep breaths. I’ll fetch you some water. Would
you like me to phone the doctor?’
‘No, of course I don’t want you to phone the bloody
doctor! I don’t need a bloody doctor. You’re not going to
believe this, Betty, you really are not. I can’t believe it myself. Bloody meddling old woman! And why didn’t the
chap from the DOE think of it? God, I feel such a fool
Such a total fool.’
‘Michael, what on earth are you talking about?’
‘Bartles House, Betty, that’s what. I’m afraid they’ve got
us. And there really isn’t anything we can do about it, it
seems. And if that’s the bloody reporter again, tell her I
don’t want to talk to her, all right?’
‘All right, dear,’ said Betty. ‘But at least could you talk to
me about it? I’m really completely baffled.’
Zoe and Romilly arrived home: tanned, glowing, full of
stones about their holiday, about people they had met, parties they had been to, overjoyed to see Marc.
Zoe seemed particularly pleased to be home. ‘It was
good,’ she said in response to Marianne’s rather anxious
questioning. ‘Fine. Rom had a ball.’
‘And - Daddy?’
‘He was okay. Really quite human. Oz seems back on.’
‘You pleased about that?’ said Marianne, sounding
upbeat, dreading a year of her absence.
‘Yeah, really pleased. Oh, yes, and some woman came
down for the middle weekend. It’s obviously quite serious.
I mean they re obviously very much an item.’
‘What — what was she like?’
A slug of alarm hit Marianne suddenly; why, why should
that be, as if she cared?
‘Oh — you know. Very New York. Very thin, very well
dressed, obsessed with charity and culture.’
‘Pretty?’
‘Probably once, yes.’
She smiled. She always forgot how extremely old they all
must seem to the children, how absurd the concept that
anyone over forty could possibly be described as pretty.
‘What was her name?’
‘Marcia. Mum, you seem very interested. You jealous or
something?’
And no, she said, of course not, she was just interested;
and of course she wasn’t jealous. But she was left with an
odd sense of unease: of lonely, getting-older unease.
‘Mum seems a bit down,’ said Zoe to Marc later.
‘Yeah, she is.’
‘Met the new boyfriend? He’s really cool.’
Marc said he hadn’t. ‘Not likely to, either. He’s history.
Like Felix.’
‘Oh, no. What happened? He was really good for her,
Marc. Not a bit like Felix.’
Marc told her. ‘Only we haven’t had this conversation,
Zoe.’
“Course not.’
‘She says she’s got herself checkmated.’
‘What?’
‘As in chess.’
‘Maybe a knight could leap on to the board.’
‘I don’t know what he’d do. It’s a bit of a no-hope
situation. She really loves that old bugger, Zoe, God knows
why. Or she thinks she does, anyway.’
‘Love defies logic,’ said Zoe. ‘I found that out for myself
this summer.’
‘Sounds intriguing. Want to tell me about it?’
‘How long have you got?’ said Zoe.
The night before Diana’s funeral, Octavia went for a walk.
She hadn’t exactly planned it, but she was watching the
news at nine o’clock, watching the crowds, the extraordinary
scenes, and someone said something about a page of
history being turned and she suddenly felt she had to go.
Tom was out, the children were all asleep, there was no
reason for her not to.
It was an extraordinary experience. The flowers by
Kensington Palace, the crowds there, the queue to sign the
book of condolence, she had seen, it was just down the
road; but this was different. She took the Tube to
Westminster, and crossed the road into Parliament Square;
it was already packed, every available bit of grass pavement taken up by people: some under makeshift tent!
or tarpaulins, others with rather impressive structures, some
just wrapped up in sleeping bags and silver foil for warmth,
There were a great many people in wheelchairs, also clearly
there until some time late the following day. All because
they wanted to say goodbye to their princess. The People’s
Princess. The awful phrase had stuck; it was actually, she
thought, strangely apt.
Everyone was quiet, friendly, good humoured. Traffic
waited patiently all round the square for people to cross;
policemen walked about in pairs, relaxed and good
tempered.
She moved along towards the Abbey; the bank of arc
lights there was brilliant, already in place for the next day.
The huge press box was built very high, opposite the main
door, and already it seemed fully staffed. People walked past
her endlessly, carrying flowers; a lot of them young men
holding lilies. She followed them. She had brought a bunch
of her own.
All down the Mall, the camps were set up; two or three
thick, people sitting and lying on the hard pavements,
quietly patient. On almost every lamp-post shrines had been
set up, pictures of Diana surrounded by flowers and
flickering nightlights. All across St James’s Park, she could
see more lights, Diana’s candles, shining in the darkness. For
the hundredth time since it had all begun, Octavia thought
how much Diana would have loved it, would have felt
vindicated in everything she had done; and thought,
absurdly, what a shame it was she couldn’t be there …
She walked on, down to the Palace; the Victoria
monument was covered in shrines. The queue of people
waiting to lay their flowers in what they felt was the proper
place, at the Palace Gates, was still, she was told, two hours
long: orderly, quiet, sober. Police took the flowers from
them, laid them most carefully down, each bunch of the
half million clearly important. She looked up at the Palace,
with the flag now hanging at half mast, looked at the lighted
windows, thought of the two young princes, their adored
mother lost to them, gathering their courage for their ordeal
tomorrow. She felt her eyes fill with tears.
The smell of the flowers was immensely sweet and
strong; Octavia began to feel rather strange. She laid her
own flowers down on the steps of the Victoria monument,
not wishing to queue for two hours, and began to walk very
slowly back. The composition of the crowd fascinated her:
many young people, black people, a lot of families three or
four strong, arms linked, walking soberly alone, many many
young, clearly gay men. A vast, disparate group, all with just
one thought in their heads: Diana. She had their hearts:
everyone’s hearts. In that week, her own dreadfully
sentimental phrase had become reality.
When she got home, Tom was there, in the kitchen. He
looked at her. ‘Where have you been?’
She told him, too tired, too emotional to care what he
thought.
He had been very cynical about the whole thing,
absolutely on Charles’ side, defending him, deploring the
tabloids’ behaviour.
‘Me too,’ he said, astonishing her.
‘What?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t resist it in the end. Extraordinary, wasn’t
it? Very moving. History in the making.’
‘That’s exactly what I thought. In fact I wished I’d taken
the children.’
‘Yes, so did I. We should have done. All gone together.
Well, good night, Octavia.’
He had returned, without discussion, to sleeping alone in
their bedroom; he was clearly waiting for her next move.
She had to make it; she had to tell him.
But she didn’t; she simply went upstairs and fell asleep,
thinking of what he had said, and wishing that they had
indeed all gone to see Diana’s crowds together …
It was the boys’ flowers that did it: the white posy on the coffin, with the card saying simply ‘Mummy’.
Until then she had felt quite brave, quite in control.
She had put white flowers on Juliet’s coffin: with a card
saying, ‘Juliet. From Mummy.’
It was more than she could bear. She switched off the
television, went up to her room and pulled the curtains and
lay there for a long time, weeping, remembering, trying to
forget.
Sandy heard her; knocked on the door. ‘Louise? Can I
help?’
She didn’t answer; he tried the door. She had locked it.
‘Louise. Please let me in.’
‘No. I’m all right. Just go away. Leave me alone.’
Later he brought her some tea and she let him in and
drank it, but refused to talk to him, just sat there, the tears
stopped now, her emotions bled white, exhausted by grief.
Dickon was with a friend for the day, had gone off
excitedly soon after breakfast. She knew he was disappointed
by her return, by her weariness, her short temper.
She didn’t know what to do about that. If only she could
sleep, it would help.
At teatime her father appeared, looking anxious.
‘Darling, you all right? Sandy said Diana’s funeral had
upset you.
‘It did — a bit. But — yes, I’m all right.’
She had her plan to cling to: she mustn’t let that go. That
was going to make her feel better.
Felix Miller had resolved not to watch the funeral; he knew
it would add to his mood of misery and loneliness. But,
glancing at the order of service in the Times, he could see
that the music would be glorious; he might just listen to it
on the radio while he had some coffee and leafed through
his mail.
When Mrs Harrington brought in the coffee, she found
him watching the television intently. She wasn’t sure it was
a good idea, he had been very down that week, and she didn’t think he’d been looking at all well, a bit puffy somehow, and very pale; but maybe it would serve to
distract him from what she supposed must be his business
worries, the takeover bid not happening. And then there
was Octavia, of course, Octavia and her divorce. And
however brave a face he was putting on, he must be missing
Mrs Muirhead terribly.
There wasn’t much Mrs Harrington didn’t know about
Felix Miller.
When the funeral was over, Felix went out for a walk on
the Heath. It was deserted, served to reinforce his sense of
isolation. Octavia had phoned him, of course, to chat, to
make sure he was all right, but he wouldn’t be able to see
her until the following week, she was so preoccupied with
her big charity function tomorrow. She was so clever; so
successful. He smiled with pride, thinking about her, then
frowned as a pain in his left arm suddenly stabbed at him. It
wasn’t the first time; he’d been aware of it several times
over the past few days. He knew what it was; he’d been
doing a lot of lifting, clearing out some boxes in the room
which he’d thought would make a room for the nanny, if
Octavia came to stay. Rooms for the children already
existed, of course, had done ever since the twins had been
born. They weren’t used very often, but they were there.
Ready. Waiting. Although Bernard Moss had told him
there should be no question of them all moving in, that the
wife should never leave the matrimonial home. ‘Unless
there is violence. I don’t know if—’
‘No,’ said Felix, sharply, ‘no violence.’
Although, of course, what Tom had done amounted to
violence. Of its own kind.
The pain stabbed again; more sharply. He might go back take some paracetamol. And then get down to some work He had nothing else to do this weekend. Nothing else at all
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ said Megan. Her large blue eyes were
shining. ‘Just wonderful.’
‘It is. And look, they’ve even got the bit about you in.
Ringing to check with the Department of the Environment.’
‘“bats
to save the belfry,’” said Megan and giggled.
‘What a good headline. Not that there is a belfry at Bartles
House. It’s just so scary, isn’t it, to think that if Nora hadn’t
said about the bats, and then if I hadn’t told Sandy, no one
would ever have known. Listen, it mentions Sandy,
“Successful Gloucestershire businessman”, it calls him. He’ll
like that.’
The phone rang: it was Octavia. ‘I hear the story’s in the
paper. Gabriel just phoned me.’
‘I’ll get Megan to read it to you,’ said Pattie. ‘Here she is.’
‘Octavia? Isn’t it wonderful? Listen, this is what it says.
“Local beauty spot Bartles Wood has almost certainly been
saved from the developers. A chance discovery this week by
little Megan David that bats nested in the roof of Bartles
House, adjacent to the wood, could prove bad news for
builder Michael Carlton. Bats are, of course, an endangered
species and as such any building which shelters them is
automatically protected. Mr Carlton was unavailable for
comment when the Post called him. Mrs Ford, the matron
of Bartles House Nursing Home, said that she had no idea
that bats were in need of protection, although, of course,