I’ve tried to give a fair picture of life at Mermaid House, and though Gabriel might not like what I’ve said, I want him to know that he has to forgive everyone he thinks has let him down. He needs to forgive himself and be reconciled with the truth that all any of us can ever do is our very inadequate best.
There were tears in Clara’s eyes as she closed the book. It wasn’t so much the poignancy of the words that touched her but all the blank pages that followed.
She turned out the light and knew that she had no choice but to return the diaries to their owner. And, just as surely, she knew that the task had to be performed in person. There could be no cheating, no sending them anonymously in the post.
She had no idea how she was going to explain to Gabriel why she had ‘borrowed’ them.
It was just as Caspar feared: the bank had pulled the rug out from beneath him. They had turned down his request for another thirty days’ grace. And with no one else to turn to, it was financial meltdown time.
He threw the letter on to the pile of bills on his desk with contempt and directed his anger at those who could have helped.
His accountant for not moving fast enough to save him from bankruptcy.
His vindictive father for being such a tight old buzzard and too stubborn to sell Mermaid House.
The bloodsucking man at the Inland Revenue for hounding him so relentlessly.
The European Commission for insisting that the special relationship between car manufacturers and dealers had to be shaken up, and that forecourt prices had to be cut.
He also blamed the hordes of cheapskate cowboys who were
ruining decent businesses like his by bringing luxury cars into the country by the back door. He supposed it said a lot about the calibre of his customers who were now taking their money to these fly-by night-Johnnies with their low overheads, fast turn-around, cheaper imports and undercut prices. Never mind the after-sales problems they experienced. Never mind the fake documents with which these cars often came. Never mind that men like Caspar Liberty were forced to rob Paul to pay Peter and go to the wall in the process.
Through the glass panel of his office, which looked out on to the showroom, he watched a young man of no more than twenty-five approach a Jaguar XKR. It was late afternoon and sunlight was shining in through the plate-glass window, showing off to perfection the car’s smooth sleek lines and glossy red finish. The man slipped into the driver’s seat, one hand cupping the head of the gear-lever, the other stroking the steering-wheel. With his well-cut suit, open necked shirt, gold watch, ostentatious bracelet, deep tan and collar length hair, he bore all the hallmarks of a vulgar young blood: in other words, a genuine punter. He was probably a professional footballer, or big in the world of popular music. God knows, there were enough of them in Manchester. What he couldn’t be mistaken for was a member of the anorak crowd; pathetic time-wasters who came in to drool over something they could never afford.
Caspar waited for one of his salesmen to materialise. Minutes passed, and no one appeared. He was about to go and deal with the man himself, when the telephone on his desk rang. He hesitated, caught between the two. Then, he thought, What the hell? The business was sunk.
He sat at his desk with his head lowered, and let the phone ring until the caller gave up.
In the staff room at Dick High, Jonah put down the phone. He had never rung his brother at work before but, then, he had never been so worried about their father.
It was four days now since he had witnessed the unimaginable: Gabriel Liberty crying. Since then he had called at Mermaid House every day, intending to carry on where Miss Costello had left off, but his father had had other ideas. ‘I’d rather you didn’t meddle with my things,’ he had said, taking from Jonah the roll of plastic sacks for the bin he had just emptied. ‘And what, I’d like to know, has got into you all of a sudden? Why have you taken it upon yourself to keep pestering me?’
He had wanted to say, ‘Because I’m worried about you,’ but his courage had failed him: showing concern was tantamount to
showing weakness, and that was something no Liberty was ever allowed to do.
His father’s stolid manner and desire to pretend that there had been no breakdown at the kitchen table proved that he was
determined the matter should never be referred to again. But Jonah knew he would never forget the night when he had helped his father upstairs and put him to bed. Gabriel had fallen asleep almost immediately his head had touched the pillow, and not wanting to leave him alone, Jonah had found himself a blanket and passed an uncomfortable night in an armchair beside the bed, imagining that the morning would bring a degree of openness between the two of them. His hope had been misplaced. The next day his fathers had indicated that once more the shutters were down. But his words had been at odds with his actions, for seconds later he had fled the room, locked himself in the bathroom and stayed there for nearly an hour.
Jonah was convinced that his father was depressed, that in his current state he would isolate himself further and his health would suffer. On more than one occasion he had found him standing in the library staring blankly at Anastasia’s portrait. He had tried several times to get him out of the house, suggesting they go for a walk while the weather was warm and dry. But anything he put forward was thrown back at him with the same taciturn reply: ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone?’
Jonah had to face facts. As ever, his presence was adding to his father’s discomfort. Or, more accurately, his presence was the cause of his pain. He had considered getting in touch with Dr Singh, but, again, his courage had failed him.
Yet the concern that was uppermost in Jonah’s mind, and the reason why he had taken the unprecedented step of phoning Caspar at work, was that he felt their father’s mental state might deteriorate to the extent that one day he would go out for a walk with one of his guns and never come back.
Though why he thought Caspar would be of any use, Jonah didn’t know. He would probably offer to load the gun. But perhaps turning to his brother reflected the depth of his concern. In desperation, he even wondered if it would be worth his while to get in touch with Damson.
He sighed deeply. Why was it always he who had to sort things out? It had been the same when Val had died. Everyone had expected him to deal with the funeral arrangements. ‘But you’re so good at these humdrum things,’ Damson had said airily, when he’d hinted that maybe she and Caspar might like to give him a hand. ‘And anyway,’ she’d added, ‘you wouldn’t want me organising a funeral.
I’d feel duty-bound to turn it into a theatrical event.’ Jonah hadn’t doubted it. His sister’s idea of a funeral would probably include a pair of black horses pulling a Victorian glass hearse, with a cortege of professional keeners trailing behind.
In the staff room, standing at the window looking down on to the playground, he saw a familiar figure striding across the Tarmac: a lad wearing a Marilyn Manson T-shirt and hugely baggy jeans hanging off his hips. Talking into a mobile phone, Jase O’Dowd was pushing against the tide of shambolic gangs of jostling home-leavers, one of whom was Sharna Powell. It was early days yet, but since Jonah’s visit to twenty-three Capstone Close, Sharna’s attendance at school had been a hundred per cent.
Checking his watch, Jonah saw that it was four o’clock and time for his eleventh-hour revision lesson for his GCSE history set.
Gathering up his briefcase, pleased that Jase had shown up, he set off for his classroom, thinking how easy it was to motivate his pupils but how impossible it was to do the same with his family.
That evening, to the sound of church bells - it was bell-ringing practice night - Jonah cooked himself supper. After he had eaten, and while it was still light, he went outside to work in the garden. He was in just the right frame of mind to deal with the ancient honeysuckle.
He hacked away at the woody growth, thinking how sad it was that the only person who could lift their father’s spirits was not a member of the family but the redoubtable Miss Costello.
He stood back from what was left of the mutilated bush and decided to have a bonfire. It was almost dark now, very quiet - the bell-ringers had gone home - and there was little wind, so he bundled up the honeysuckle, took it down to the bottom of the garden, and dropped it on to the blackened remains of a previous fire. He fetched some sheets of newspaper and a box of matches from the shed. Twigs were soon snapping and crackling and tiny flames flickering, and before long, small billowing clouds puffed into the still night air. As Jonah stared into the darkness, at the outlines of the distant hills, spotted here and there with glowing lights, he found himself wishing he could track down his father’s fairy godmother. He would drag her back to Deaconsbridge and make her wave her magic wand over Mermaid House once more.
As he absorbed himself in this scenario, he was forced to admit that his altruism was transparently thin. He didn’t want Miss Costello back just for his father’s benefit: since her departure from Mermaid House, he had thought of her frequently. He wanted to figure out what had attracted him to her. Had it been her challenging manner? Or the sharpness of her mind and the way she always seemed to be one step ahead of him? He smiled wryly. Or perhaps it had been nothing more than the pose she had struck that day in the courtyard? Was he merely the same as the next man, aroused simply by the thought of a woman’s body and the potential pleasure and gratification held within?
Disconsolately, he poked the charred end of a long stick into the glowing embers of the fire. What did it matter anyway? She was never coming back.
Yorkshire was behind them now. They had left Haworth early that morning in a blaze of sunshine, taken the A629 to Halifax, then on to Huddersfield and Holmfirth - Last of the Summer Wine country before crossing the boundary into Derbyshire. If they kept up their current speed, Clara reckoned they were less than an hour from Deaconsbridge. She had thought of ringing Mermaid House to announce their arrival, but Ned had begged her not to: he was desperate to surprise Mr Liberty.
Just as she had anticipated, Ned had been overjoyed when she had told him that they would be making a return trip to Mermaid House - though, of course, she hadn’t told him the reason behind their visit.
His eyes wide with excitement, he had burst out that this was what he had wished for when he’d tossed his coin into the mermaid’s pool in the cavern. ‘You see, Mummy,’ he’d said, hopping from one small foot to the other, ‘wishes do come true!’ He had wanted to pack up there and then, but she had insisted that they finish visiting what they had come to see in Haworth and the surrounding area. But now, and much to Ned’s delight, they would shortly be seeing Gabriel Liberty.
His excitement gave him an extra bounce and she wished she had half his vitality. As she concentrated on the winding road, she was aware that a nagging headache was developing and that she felt drained.
The cause was anxiety - and guilt: she was nervous about coming clean with Gabriel over Val’s diaries. She just hoped he could forgive her for what she had done. She didn’t know why but his forgiveness was important to her.
Gabriel pushed his stockinged feet into his walking boots, and after a brief stab at tying the laces with his useless fingers - they were particularly painful that day - he slipped a shotgun over the crook of his arm and shut the door after him. He crossed the courtyard and skirted round the front of the house, across the sloping lawn where the daffodils had long since gone over, and carried on towards the copse. The rhododendrons were in full flower, splashes of vermilion brilliant against the dark green of glossy leaves. He trudged on, his boots sinking into the soft grass. Sheep scattered at his approach, bleating mournfully, and above him, the sun shone on the back of his neck, making him regret putting on the waxed jacket.
His thoughts, never far from his youngest son these days, turned to Jonah and how badly he had treated him - and was continuing to treat him. But it was too late to make amends for the damage he had wreaked. What good would it do to tell Jonah that he was sorry? It wouldn’t change anything, not the words, the gestures, the neglect, or the downright cruel way he had excluded and blamed the boy.
If only he had been a better man - a better father - he would have realised that his younger son had never deserved such rough punishment. It hadn’t been Jonah who had killed Anastasia: fate had done that. But for all these years, ever since Gabriel had come home in the middle of the night and had been told that his wife was dead, he had needed to lay the blame on someone. And he had done it that night when the young nurse had handed Jonah to him. He had turned his back on her and his baby son, and walked out of the room, out of the house. In the darkness, he had stumbled down to the copse and stayed there until dawn had bruised the sky, tearing it apart with harsh streaks of sunlight. Eventually he went back to the house, but didn’t look at that newborn baby, not until after the funeral, and only then for a few seconds. How could he, when he saw him as the cause of his beloved wife’s death? It was years before he was able to lay eyes on the child without wishing he had died instead of Anastasia.
For years, tolerance was the best he could manage. A thin veneer of tolerance that was often stripped back to reveal his bitterness, and to let his child know what it was to suffer. Oh, how callous he had been.
And what had woken him to the truth?
It was the shock of recognising Anastasia’s face so clearly in Jonah’s. Seeing the two of them so inextricably bound together had brought him up short, had made him, for the first time ever, see Jonah for what he really was: his mother’s son. He was not, as Gabriel had made him out to be, a malevolent stranger who had walked into his life and wrecked it.
He was the son of the woman Gabriel had never stopped loving.