It was apparent, even to those sitting in the courtroom at the time, that this was the pivotal moment of the trial. Proceedings dragged on for several more days, but it came as no surprise to anybody when the children were acquitted. The crowds who stood outside the courtroom as the Fanshawes left raised a weak cheer, but there were those who muttered, then and later, that money talked and that the Fanshawe children had got away with murder.
William Fanshawe never again spoke, or permitted anybody else to speak, of James’s death in his presence.
Bad luck continued to dog the family. Isobel, whose health had never been good, did not long survive her son. Robert was killed on the first day of the Somme. One of his brother officers wrote to William Fanshawe saying that he had seen Robert’s body impaled on the uncut German wire surrounded by unexploded British shells.
Muriel Fanshawe never married. On William’s death, Fleete House and the armaments factories, the bulk of his estate, passed to his nephew.
Robert’s last letter to Muriel, written on the eve of his death, survives. In it, he describes the columns of marching men winding along the summer lanes, singing as they went; and of how, as they passed the huge pits that had been dug in the fields on either side of the road, ready to receive the dead, the singing would falter, and for a few hundred yards there would be silence except for the tramp of feet, and then, gradually, the singing would start again. He goes on to write of the universal hope that a decisive breakthrough might be achieved, and, with a frankness unusual in such letters, of his fears that the losses would prove extremely heavy. For himself, he says, he would not mind so very much, ‘if it wasn’t for the thought of leaving you with Father and the memory of James’. The next sentence is underlined so deeply that the pen has cut through the paper:
Remember how young we were
.
Muriel, by contrast, always insisted on her innocence. After her father’s death she returned to Lob’s Hill. No attempt had been made to sell the house and it was never let, but kept exactly as it had been when James was alive. Like Mary Ann Cotton, Muriel was used as a bogey-woman to frighten naughty children into obedience. The neighbours avoided her. When asked why she insisted on living in a place where she was regarded with so much suspicion, she replied that she would not be forced out. On the contrary, she intended to remain in Lob’s Hill until the truth about ‘that dreadful murder’ was revealed.
It is always tempting to believe that a person who persistently maintains their innocence must indeed be innocent, but the reader may care to remember that, in the condemned cell at Durham gaol, Mary Ann Cotton wept bitterly because her mother could not visit her, though her failure to do so was entirely due to Mary Ann’s having murdered her some years before.
We do not, and cannot, know what went on in the mind of the increasingly eccentric old lady who lived alone in the house that had once been her childhood home. People passing Lob’s Hill along the lane behind the house would often see a light burning in the room with barred windows, the room that had been James’s nursery: Muriel Fanshawe’s apparently guilt-free memorial to a little boy who had always been afraid of the dark and whose first word had been ‘sadda’.
The car-park’s filled up since they arrived that morning. Rows and rows of cars, their windscreens and bumpers flashing in the sun, so many Nick feels disorientated, standing in the sparse blue shade of a pine tree, trying to remember where he’s parked.
At last he sees the Volvo, in full sun now, though he’d left it in shade. Be like a microwave. Walking towards it, his shadow ravelling round his feet, he wonders whether he should tell Fran about the Fanshawe murder. Not to tell her seems patronizing, it goes against the whole grain of their relationship, but then he remembers the flood of tears that morning. She’s exhausted, has been ever since the move, it would take very little more to push her over the edge. And he doesn’t know how she’d react. This isn’t just a sad old story; it happened in the rooms where they live and sleep and eat. The fact is nobody would knowingly buy a house in which a murder has been committed. You can tell yourself it doesn’t matter, it’s the past, it’s over, but the fact is you wouldn’t choose to do it. And Fran’s pregnant. Now more than ever she needs to feel safe. It’s not as if any useful purpose would be served by telling her… Later perhaps, when they’ve succeeded in stamping their own identity on the house. At the moment it still feels like a house-swap, with the actual owners expected back at any moment.
He opens the car boot, throws in the book, and, after a moment’s thought, pulls a plastic bin bag over it. Right, that’s settled, then.
People crowd round the circus tent, waiting for the next performance. No sign of Fran or the children. He walks towards the house and there, directly ahead of him, is Fran, strolling along towards the restaurant. He runs to catch up with her, and slips his arm around her waist. ‘Where are the children?’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘I went for a drink. Where are they?’
‘I gave them some money for ice-creams. Did you get a guide?’
‘No, they hadn’t got any.’
Nick’s looking at the ice-cream van. There’s a short queue, but the children aren’t in it.
‘Are we going to eat here?’ Fran asks.
‘No, let’s go to the coast, shall we? There might be a bit more of a breeze.’
The children aren’t anywhere near the ice-cream van. ‘I’ll just see where they are,’ he says casually, but then breaks into a run. Fran calls something after him, but he can’t hear. He’s panicking, telling himself not to be so bloody stupid, but there are so many streams and lakes round here, it’s no place for a toddler to be on his own. But he’s not on his own, he’s with Gareth and Miranda. Nick’s mind skitters away from the real source of his fears. He asks the man in the ice-cream van whether he’s seen three children, a fair-haired toddler with an older boy and girl. A woman standing near by, swirling her tongue round an ice-cream cone, points to a path that leads down to the largest lake.
Nick careers down the hill, jumping on to the verge to avoid an elderly couple. The path’s uneven, shelving down steeply between the roots of trees. A hundred feet below there’s a stream, its water blackish brown, flowing over black rocks. Sometimes it flashes white over miniature waterfalls, or opens into deep pools with pebble promontories. Every hundred yards or so wooden bridges span the stream. There’s a path on the other side too, narrower than this, bordered by glistening ferns that are almost as wet as the rocks. Nick crosses over and thinks he sees them, two taller figures holding a small boy by the hand. He opens his mouth to call their names, then realizes it’s a couple with their child. His children are nowhere to be seen.
The fir trees tower over him. Even the roots are above his head. Only by craning his head back can he see glints of sunlight on the uppermost branches. A warm, dark, wet, enclosed place. It reminds him of the garden at Lob’s Hill. All the trees and bushes are evergreens, their dead leaves forming a weed-killing mulch that kills everything else as well.
And then he sees them. Comes round a corner of the twisting path, and sees them, Jasper with his trainers and socks off, paddling; Miranda sitting on a rock sucking out the last drop of ice-cream from the bottom of the cone; Gareth standing on a rock in the middle of the stream, the turbulent water chafing round him.
Nick calls out, and all three children turn towards him, their faces pale in the gloom of the rhododendron bushes. They say nothing and he wonders what they see, what they make of him, this sweaty anxious adult who stands on the bridge above them, looking down.
NINE
After supper that evening, Fran and the kids settle down to watch
Terminator 2:Judgement Day
. It’s Gareth’s favourite, he must’ve seen it twenty times, but he never gets tired of it. Nick watches the opening scenes, and then, as pieces of dead children begin to blow across the screen, like leaves, in the nuclear wind, he retreats to the living room and starts covering up the wall painting.
White paint. No time to worry about colour schemes, he just wants the portrait covered. With a roller he draws huge swathes of emulsion across the wall; the figures disappear into a blizzard. Apple white, it says on the tin. Alzheimer white.
Nick’s shadow mimics his actions as he works. He’s the second person to do this. Fanshawe would never have entrusted the cover-up to anybody else, his pride wouldn’t have let him. Now, for the second time, the faces sink into the wall. He tries not to look at them, not to meet their gaze. According to
Notable Northern Murders
, Muriel always maintained that she knew nothing about how James had died, but who, looking at this picture, would have believed her? And, judging from the age of the children, this must have been painted within weeks, or months, of his death.
He leaves James till last, then kneels down and applies the paint, with a small brush, in little dabs and darts. It’s like washing Jasper’s face, he half expects James to pull away. Now the eyes. He paints over them quickly, and then, still kneeling, feeling a complete fool, says, ‘Night night.’
The rest of the wall can wait. He’s just finished cleaning the roller and brush when the phone rings. ‘I’ll get it,’ he shouts, not wanting the video watchers to be disturbed.
It’s Auntie Frieda, shrieking into the phone – she’s never really got the hang of them – saying she’s been trying to get him all day.
‘How is he?’ Nick asks, expecting the worst.
‘Home.’
‘
Home?
He can’t be.’
‘He is.’ She sounds elated and frightened. ‘You know the consultant said he could come home next week, but I never thought they’d send him out on a Sunday. Need the beds, I suppose.’
‘How did you get him back?’
‘Oh, the ambulance took us.’
‘How is he?’
‘Tired. Look, he wants a word. Hang on a sec.’
A long pause. Sounds of shuffling steps and laboured breathing coming closer. I should have taken them home by car, Nick thinks, torn again. If this drags on into October and the start of term there’ll be no way he can cope.
A bump and a click as the phone’s picked up.
‘How do you feel?’ Nick asks, speaking loudly, not because there’s any doubt about Grandad’s ability to hear, but because the telly’s going full blast. He sticks a finger in one ear, and crouches over the phone.
‘Fine. A lot better.’
‘Does it hurt much?’
‘Nips a bit. It’ll settle down.’
‘Have they given you anything for the pain?’
‘I think the pink pills are for that.’
‘Do they work?’
‘Nah. I don’t know where I am with them.’
Perhaps the dose is too high? Nobody knows what the right dose is for a man of 101. Geordie’s walked off the end of the graph.
‘Still, if they help the pain…’
‘Nah, hot-water bottle’s as good as anything.’
‘Have you got one?’
‘Frieda’s bringing one up now.’
‘Must be nice being in your own bed.’
‘Champion.’ He sounds exhausted. ‘Look, I’m a bit bushed, son. I’ll hand you back to Frieda, if you don’t mind.’
Frieda shouts, ‘Hello?’
‘Is he really all right?’
‘Oh, I think so.’ Doubtfully.
‘Do you want me to come over?’
‘No, we’re fine. Tell you what, why don’t you come over for tea tomorrow? Bring Miranda. It’ll do him good to have a bit of young company.’
‘All right. You’re sure you can manage tonight?’
‘Why aye, man.’
He puts the phone down and goes to find Fran.
‘Was that Frieda?’
‘Yes, he’s back home.’
‘Already?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you going across?’
‘No, not tonight. She’s asked me to go for tea tomorrow.’ He doesn’t know how to say that only he and Miranda are invited.
Gareth says, ‘Ssh.’ And for once Nick’s glad of the interruption.
‘Will you be taking Miranda?’ Fran asks.
It’s slipped in casually, one of those quietly lethal questions Barbara used to specialize in. Since no two women could be less alike, he’s forced to conclude he’s the type of man who inspires lethal questions. ‘Yes.’
She nods.
‘What’ll you do?’
‘Take Gareth shopping. He needs school shoes.’
She comes out on to the drive to say goodbye, a surprisingly fond farewell for so short a separation. Because the family’s splitting into its constituent parts, they need to be gentle with each other. As she bends into the car to kiss him, he grasps her hand and she winces as the wedding ring bites. ‘Don’t wear yourself out,’ he says.
Once they’re on the road, Miranda stares out of the window at the passing fields, and Nick’s grateful for the silence. He needs to prepare himself. The morning call from Frieda hadn’t been reassuring. She was going to try to get some sleep, she said, while Grandad was watching cricket. ‘How was the night?’ Nick asked. A second’s hesitation. ‘A bit lively.’
Nick stops outside the house and sees, with a jolt of fear, that the curtains are drawn. Well, she’s asleep, it means nothing. All the same he tells Miranda to stay in the car and tries the door. Locked. He rings the bell and a pink face blurred behind frosted glass surfaces to meet him. Frieda’s voice: ‘Who is it?’
‘Me.’
She unlocks the door. Doesn’t need to say anything, for there, framed in the open door of the living room, is Geordie, wrapped in a dressing-gown, watching television. Not dead, not yet, though Nick can see, even in the dim light reflected from the screen, that it won’t be long. He’s aged twenty years in the past week. Not in the sense of being more wrinkled or stooped, he’s simply thinner. When he reaches up to receive Nick’s hug his dressing-gown falls open and beneath the skin Nick sees, not merely ribs, but the beating of his heart. He’s become a skeleton leaf. The merest breath of wind would blow him away, and yet he’s still upright. Still the sunken eyes are clear.
‘How’s it going, Grandad?’
‘Bloody awful. There’s only Atherton in double figures.’
No way of telling whether the misunderstanding’s genuine or whether he’s simply determined not to talk.
‘I meant, how are you feeling?’
‘Not so bad. Got the stitches out.’
Almost boastfully, he pushes down his pyjama trousers to show the wound, wounds rather. Beside the bayonet wound, Shepherd’s handiwork looks almost prissily neat. A surgical incision: nothing like this ancient scar, this relic of an attempt at gutting a human being. ‘It’s going on well, isn’t it? Does it hurt?’
‘A bit.’ But it’s the bayonet wound he’s cradling in his hand.
‘I’ve brought Miranda to see you.’
‘Oh, good.’
Is it Nick’s imagination, or is there a fractional hesitation, a shadow of doubt, as to who Miranda is?
‘She must be nigh on fourteen, isn’t she?’
It
is
Nick’s imagination. Geordie knows exactly who she is.
‘Where is she?’ says Frieda. ‘You’ve surely never left her in the car?’
He can’t explain about the drawn curtains. ‘I’ll get her.’
Miranda comes in shyly, standing self-consciously by the china cabinet while they exclaim over her height. She’s going to be a tall girl. Nick sees it more clearly now he’s looking at her through their eyes, and for a moment he feels almost dizzy, wanting to slow the pace. He seems to be living in one of those speeded-up sequences beloved of wildlife photographers. Fran’s stomach swelling, the children growing, the house rose blooming and decaying, Geordie dwindling into death before his eyes. Time must move at a constant pace, he supposes, but that’s not how we experience it.
He waits until Miranda and Grandad are chatting, then goes into the kitchen to help with the tea.
‘What pills is he taking?’
She gets them down from the shelf. ‘Mr Shepherd says if the pain gets very bad he’ll have to go back into hospital, but as long as he’s OK he can stay at home.’
‘Does he think it’ll get bad?’
‘No, he says quite often they just slip away.’
‘Doesn’t sound much like Geordie, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ She stands twisting a pink striped tea towel round in hands that are as creased as tissue paper. ‘I don’t like to think about it.’
You’ll have your life back, Nick thinks, but he can’t say that. There’s too much he doesn’t understand in this relationship. He knows that sometimes – no, often – Geordie and Frieda behave more like husband and wife than father and daughter. Not that he’s suggesting – or thinking – anything wrong, but, emotionally, that’s the truth. Just as when she forgets and refers to Grandad as ‘your dad’ that’s also the truth. ‘I’ll carry the tray,’ he says, and she holds open the door.
In the hospital Geordie had a beaker, but here he’s reverted to his usual method of drinking tea, pouring a small amount into a saucer, blowing on it assiduously for several minutes, then raising the saucer to his lips. One of the recurring sights of Nick’s childhood: an orange sea with the gale of grandfather’s breath blowing across it. It had been a source of tension at home; Nick’s father thought the habit utterly disgusting.
The saucer, precariously balanced, makes it all the way to Grandad’s lips. He sips delicately, repeats the performance, and then he’s had enough.
‘I can’t seem to keep tea on my stomach,’ he explains apologetically, passing the saucer back. ‘Fills me full of wind.’
Every twinge of pain – and in spite of all his disavowals it’s quite clear from his braced position, his restlessness, that he
is
in pain – is firmly dismissed as ‘wind’. An innocuous problem uniting the two ends of life.
The talk revolves round him, small circular talk about family events, past and present, Miranda’s school, what she wants to be when she grows up. On the screen men in white run up and down, or – more often – walk on and off, but silently. England are all out for a total that seems incredible. Geordie’s eyes are closed, he doesn’t notice or comment on the disaster. Abruptly he opens them and quotes with approval a tombstone he once read:
Let your wind go free
Where ere ye may be.
For ’twas the wind that killed me.
Never one to proffer advice he’d be afraid to follow, Geordie accompanies the quotation with an immensely long rumbling fart. Then he needs the toilet, urgently.
‘It’s like this,’ Frieda explains to Miranda. ‘He either can’t go at all or he’s got the runs. Never anything in between.’
As Geordie struggles to stand up, the front of his pyjama trousers gapes open, revealing a shrivelled cock, a dangling and wrinkled scrotum. Miranda blinks, but only once, and then she’s helping Frieda wrap the dressing-gown round him, and offering her shoulder for him to lean on. But he prefers Nick’s shoulder, he’s tottery on his feet, needs more support than an old woman or a young girl can give. ‘Bloody rations are late again,’ he mutters, as they limp out of the room together. Or does he? A second later Nick isn’t sure that this is what he heard. Probably not, since a second later Geordie makes, through the half-closed door of the lavatory, a disparaging comment on the England middle-order collapse.
The sight of Geordie’s genitals disturbs him. It’s not merely awkwardness about Miranda’s presence, it’s the speculation he doesn’t want to have to entertain about what form sexuality might take in that inconceivably frail, and dauntless, body. How do you reconcile yourself to that loss? Sophocles was relieved. ‘Like freedom after a life spent in bondage to a cruel master.’ Sophocles was seventy. At seventy-eight Geordie had started an affair with Norah Atkinson, the widow of an insurance agent, a woman whose opulent bosom was frequently sheathed in Bri-nylon leopard skin. At home she’d gone down every bit as well as tea in saucers. Nick feels obscurely cheered by the thought of Grandad’s 78-year-old cavortings. He starts to think how much longer his grandfather has had than his father, how much longer he’s had than he might have had. Lucky to survive the bayonet wound. But even without that – Loos, the Somme, Passchendaele – the odds must always have been stacked high against his reaching twenty.
So Nick helps Geordie back into the living room feeling rather cheerful about the prospect of mortality, at least as it affected somebody else. Geordie too seems cheerful, doesn’t talk much, perhaps, but the few comments he does make show he’s following the conversation. As it grows dusk he remarks that the nights are drawing in. Part of him likes winter evenings, he likes coming in to a good fire. All the same he’ll be glad when next summer comes. He dreads the ice and frost of January and February, and his tone of voice reveals no doubt that these are difficulties he expects to contend with. It’s impossible to tell what he believes. They don’t mention how ill he is. Perhaps he takes his cue from them and thinks he isn’t? Equally likely he colludes with them for their sakes, the last dreadful courtesy the dying extend to the living. He can’t last a month, Nick thinks, but he’s no idea, really, how long a man of Geordie’s formidable willpower might survive. At any rate it pleases him to see the old man with Miranda. He strokes her forearm, as if marvelling at the smooth flesh, and seems to take comfort from the contact. This is his great-granddaughter. He won’t live to see her grow up, but he’s lived long enough already to see the woman she will become clearly visible in the child.
After tea’s cleared away and washed up, Nick takes Frieda to one side and asks if she wants him to come back that night. She hesitates, but he can see she’s tired. ‘I’ll just take Miranda home,’ he says. ‘And then I’ll be back.’