Authors: Tilly Bagshawe
‘Good evening, Vicar. Marvellous turnout. You must be thrilled.’
Dylan Pritchard Jones, looking dapper in a new, expensively cut three-piece suit, sidled up to the Reverend Slaughter, flashing a mouthful of expensive white veneers. In the pew behind him sat his exhausted wife, Maisie, with their newest daughter, baby Ava, asleep in her arms, and a toddler slumped, bored, across her lap. Everyone, even the vicar, knew about Dylan’s regular extramarital exploits. Rumour had it that he had a new, very young mistress, the third wife of one of the richest fathers at Lancings, the exclusive boys’ prep school where he was now deputy head. Naturally the vicar disapproved, but as Dylan was chairman of the parish fundraising committee, and a damned efficient one at that, he kept his opinions to himself.
‘Hullo Dylan. Yes, it’s standing room only. You see the television people are here?’
‘Are they?’ Dylan feigned surprise. Ridiculously vain and attention-seeking, he’d dragged his family to church a full forty-five minutes early to ensure a pew that the TV cameras would cover. ‘I hadn’t noticed. I suspect they’re here for Lady Muck, are they?’ he nodded in Tatiana’s direction, scowling disapprovingly. ‘Some people have no shame.’
‘Indeed,’ Reverend Slaughter said archly.
The organist, Frank Bannister, struck up the opening chord of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’.
‘I believe that’s my cue,’ said the vicar, scuttling up the pulpit stairs like an excited, bright red beetle. ‘Merry Christmas, Dylan.’
‘Merry Christmas, Vicar. Good luck.’
Every year at Live Crib, either an animal or a local child usually provided some sort of amusing distraction. Last year the baby Jesus had opened her lungs and howled piteously for the entire one-hour service. The year before that, an angel had fallen asleep in the rafters, falling twelve feet onto the stone church floor and breaking his arm, just as the three wise men were depositing their gifts. This year, brilliantly, dear old Wilbur the donkey had completely stolen the show, first by farting loudly immediately after the line ‘And lo! An Angel of the Lord appeared’, and then by lifting his tail and emptying his bowels dramatically during ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’, thereby eliciting a string of deeply unholy turns of phrase from both Mary and Joseph, not to mention howls of laughter from the congregation.
‘That was priceless,’ said Tati, wiping away tears of mirth as she and Jason filed out into the churchyard after the service. ‘I do so hope it makes the BBC South East news.’
‘If it doesn’t we should send it in to
You’ve Been Framed!
,’ said Tom. ‘That’s got to be worth two hundred and fifty quid. What the hell were they
feeding
that animal, that’s what I’d like to know. Prunes?’
‘Poor Reverend Slaughter,’ said Angela. ‘He looked mortified. We shouldn’t laugh.’
‘Oh, Mummy,’ Logan poked her in the ribs affectionately. ‘You were laughing as hard as the rest of us.’
‘No I wasn’t,’ lied Angela.
‘Then why has your mascara run all over your cheeks?’
‘Oh, God. It hasn’t, has it?’ said Angela, stifling another giggle and hunting through her bag for a tissue.
Tatiana was already outside, standing at the bottom of the steps where a pool of parishioners had started to gather. It was a stunning evening. The sky glowed Christmas-card blue beneath a full moon, and a light shower of snow was beginning to fall, heavy, fat flakes floating gently down onto ground already thickly blanketed with white.
She recognized almost all of the families filing out of the church, and waited for people to come up to her and say hello, or Merry Christmas, but nobody did. One or two of them spoke to Jason, and acknowledged her curtly with nods or smiles. But there was no warmth, no recognition, no ‘Congratulations on all your success, Tatiana,’ or ‘How have you been, Tatiana?’ or ‘Welcome home, Tatiana.’
Trying not to feel hurt, she slipped away from Jason and his family and wandered alone into the churchyard. She hadn’t intended to do so, but she found herself walking towards her father’s grave. Set about forty feet from the church walls, up a small hill, the Flint-Hamilton family plot consisted of a simple, unostentatious row of stone slabs lying flat to the ground. Rory lay next to his parents, Edmund and Hilda, on one side, and his wife Vicky, Tatiana’s mother, who had died when Tati was just eight, on the other. His grave was only seven years old, but it was as worn and lichened as the others already. Behind her parents and grandparents, a string of Tatiana’s more distant ancestors were buried, with Flint-Hamilton stones dating back to the early 1720s. It was a peaceful place to be buried, particularly tonight, in the snow, and with the Christmas bells of the church pealing above them through the smoky night air.
‘Tatiana.’
Max Bingley’s voice made her jump.
‘Merry Christmas.’
He smiled, that same warm, crinkly-eyed smile Tatiana remembered from her St Hilda’s Primary School days. Ridiculously, she found herself welling up, and had to bite her lower lip hard to stop the tears from coming.
‘Thank you. And to you.’
‘I understand you and Jason might be buying a place down here. Missing the cut and thrust of Fittlescombe life, are you?’ Max teased her gently.
‘I do miss it,’ said Tati. ‘Terribly. Although I’m not sure many people around here miss me.’
Too honest to correct her, Max said simply ‘Well, I do. I miss you at the school, for one thing. Now that you have an empire to run, I imagine you’re far too busy to teach yourself. But you were very good at it, you know.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tati, touched. It was a sincere compliment, which meant a lot coming from a man like Max Bingley.
‘Your father would have been very proud of you I’m sure,’ added Max, nodding down at Rory’s grave.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ Tati gave a short, brittle laugh. ‘Pride in me was not something my father was known for.’
‘You were very young when he died, Tatiana,’ Max said kindly. ‘You’ve achieved so much since then. A booming business, a glittering career, a happy marriage.’
Tati felt each word echo emptily inside her. Her life didn’t feel glittering or happy. Looking at Max Bingley, newly engaged, completely content in his work and his life in his modest cottage in Fittlescombe, the truth was that she felt wildly envious. She’d have traded places in a heartbeat. And yet, when she’d lived here herself and taught at the school, she’d felt like a failure, miserable and trapped. She’d built Furlings up over the years as some sort of talisman, the missing piece of the puzzle in her life – if she could just get that house back, she’d be happy. Standing here tonight at her father’s graveside, the crisp night air biting at her face and hands, she realized what nonsense that was. Happiness wasn’t made of bricks and mortar. It must come from within, or not at all.
‘I do miss teaching,’ she told Max, stamping her feet against the cold. ‘I miss the children.’
‘Well,’ he put a paternal arm around her shoulders. ‘I expect you and Jason will have your own one day. Believe me, Tatiana, no matter what you achieve in life, there’s no sense of purpose quite like being a parent. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it,’ he kissed her on the cheeks. ‘I just wanted to say hello and congratulations on everything. Oh … and welcome home!’
He walked off with a cheery wave. Tati watched him rejoin his fiancée and some other villagers outside the church, then head off to his car. He’d been so kind, but their encounter had left her feeling awful, a deep, crushing sadness weighing on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
‘There you are.’ Jason caught up with her. ‘You disappeared on me. Everyone’s waiting in the car. Shall we go?’
‘You go on ahead,’ Tati forced a smile. ‘I’ll stay here for a while and walk back.’
‘Walk?’ Jason frowned. ‘It’s freezing. And pitch-dark.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Tati.
‘You don’t even have a torch.’
‘I know the way. Anyway, I’ve got my phone, I can use that if I need to.’
Jason hesitated. ‘I’ll walk with you. I’ll just go and tell Mum we’re not coming …’
‘No,’ Tati said, more firmly than she’d intended. ‘Thank you, darling, really. But I prefer to be alone. I’ll see you back at the house in half an hour.’
Reluctantly, Jason left. Tati stood and listened as the last of the cars from Live Crib pulled out of the church car park. She watched as the beams of the headlights melted into the night. At last she was alone in the churchyard. Only the moon and the distant lights of the village remained to guide her, but her eyes soon adjusted to her surroundings. An owl hooted twice, then fell silent. Tatiana listened to the crunch of her own feet on the snow as she paced back and forth, examining each of her family graves in turn. She ran her fingertips slowly over each rough stone, like a blind woman trying to read Braille. As if she could somehow find meaning in the dead, in the past.
A terrible emptiness threatened to overwhelm her, numbing her senses, making it hard for her to move or think or do anything. Tears would have been a relief, but they refused to come.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been crouching there, trance like, when the cold suddenly hit her. Her limbs ached, and it was hard to stand up. Glancing at the screen on her phone, she saw that it was past ten o’clock. She’d better get home.
Walking quickly up the lane towards Furlings, it took her less than ten minutes to reach the entrance to the drive. Once there she did have to be careful, as the trees arched above her, blocking out what little moonlight had been guiding her thus far, and making it hard to pick her way along the rough, icy track. Her phone made an inadequate torch as she picked her way over the potholes, and it took another ten minutes before she rounded the corner and the lights of the house hove into view.
Slipping her phone back into her coat pocket, Tati had started to walk faster towards the lawn when something made her stop and slink back into the shadows. It was a figure, a man, heavyset and silent, his black coat and hat silhouetted in the moonlight. He was standing about twenty feet back from the drawing room, stock still in the darkness, watching the figures within. Not like a burglar, casing the joint. More like a friend or a visitor. It was as if he were considering going inside, but was afraid to.
For a brief moment, Tati wondered whether he might be a ghost. It seemed the right sort of night for it somehow. She wasn’t afraid, just curious, half expecting him to walk a few steps forward then evaporate into the winter air like a wisp of smoke. But instead he moved his arm slightly and shifted position, triggering one of the garden lights to switch on and glare up at him. There must be some sort of motion sensor. In that instant, Tati knew that this was no spirit. This was a man, as human and alive as she was, and just as lost and sad on this snowy Christmas Eve.
The light only fell across his face for a moment before switching off, plunging him back into darkness. But it was long enough for Tatiana to see the abject misery in Brett Cranley’s eyes.
Tatiana smoothed down her skirt and checked her make-up in the mirrored doors of the lift.
Perfect.
She was heading up to the eighteenth floor of Number One Angel Court in the City of London, to Hamilton Hall’s new business offices, for an important board meeting, and she felt terrific.
The morning had begun well, with a negative pregnancy test. Sitting on the loo in her master bathroom, with Jason still asleep next door, it was all she could do not to weep with relief when the single blue line appeared in the little plastic window. She knew she wasn’t handling the whole baby thing well. She ought to sit down with Jason and tell him she’d changed her mind; that she categorically wasn’t ready for motherhood. But some sixth sense told her that such a declaration would mark the beginning of a conversation about their marriage that neither of them had the strength for. Too guilty to go back on the pill in secret, Tati spent each month playing a ridiculous game of Russian roulette. Each time the test was negative, she experienced a wave of euphoria and renewed energy, like a condemned prisoner awarded a last-minute reprieve.
Today’s result couldn’t have come at a better time. This morning’s board meeting was going to be a battle of wills. Tatiana’s key opponent on the board, the infuriating Lady Arabella Boscombe, was implacably opposed to opening a New York school, and was spitting teeth that Tati had already verbally agreed a deal on a prime piece of Manhattan real estate without board approval. Lady Arabella used to be deputy editor of the
Times Educational Supplement
, and considered herself to be a grandee of the educational establishment. Her sense of entitlement wasn’t hindered by the fact that her family owned half of Chelsea, with property holdings second only to the Duke of Westminster A little bird told Tati that Lady Arabella had been ringing round her fellow board members, trying to whip up support for a vote of no confidence in their CEO and foundress.
Tati, however, felt invincible. Not only was she not pregnant, but the figures had come in late last night for the new Clapham School. They were already at full headcount and running at a thumping profit. Meanwhile, the original Sloane Square School had just been nominated Private Co-Ed Prep of the Year by the
Times Educational Supplement
. Hamilton Hall Ltd’s coffers were awash with cash like never before. Even the exchange rate was in Tati’s favour. No one, not even that old battle-axe Lady Arabella, could argue that this wasn’t an auspicious time for British companies to be buying up US assets. Expansion was the future and the key to Tatiana’s next fortune. She wasn’t about to let her lily-livered board of directors hold her back.
The lift doors opened and Tatiana strutted down the corridor to the Hamilton Hall reception.
‘Good morning, Mrs Cranley.’
The receptionist looked nervous. Clearly the tension surrounding this morning’s meeting was contagious.
‘Good morning Tracy,’ Tatiana smiled. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’
The views from the seventeenth floor were spectacular. You could see the famed dome of St Paul’s in the foreground, overshadowed by the phallic glass monstrosity known as ‘the gherkin’. Beyond these were the river, and a panoramic view of East London stretching to the horizon. In the distance, the impressive towers of Canary Wharf punctured a bright blue summer sky, as rare in England these days as a UFO sighting. The offices had cost Tati – cost Hamilton Hall – a fortune. But they were impressive, the sort of space that both reassured and enticed investors. Tatiana was a firm believer in the mantra that money beget money; that one had to spend in order to earn. The problem with dinosaurs like Arabella Boscombe was that they had no vision. No vision and no balls.