Two Loves (15 page)

‘I don't think you'll be sorry, Mrs Harcourt. At any rate, I'll do my best.'

‘I want you to find my stepdaughter's boyfriend.'

‘Is she pregnant?'

‘No, nothing like that. It was only a chance meeting in the Underground.'

‘Oh, right.'

‘Though she knew him when they were in college together, fifteen years ago. She was to have met him again the next day, but he didn't turn up. Now, my stepdaughter is a wise and mature woman of thirty-five, not one to make foolish mistakes about a person's intentions. She was convinced that he intended to turn up – in fact, that he wanted the meeting as much as she did, but he didn't show up. They hadn't exchanged addresses or telephone numbers. She has no idea how to find him, which is why I've come to you.'

‘Do you have a photograph of your stepdaughter?'

‘I do, as a matter of fact. But why is that useful?'

Caroline didn't answer, only thrust out a small, manicured hand for the snapshot Dora took out of her handbag and stared at it for several moments. ‘Beautiful, but not streetwise,' she said at last.

‘I think she's got her feet firmly on the ground.'

‘And the boyfriend's name? Plus everything you can tell me about him, please. No detail too unimportant.'

‘Daniel Hawkins. Artist. Unsuccessful, I think. I haven't any other details, I'm afraid.'

‘No photograph, of course?'

‘Sorry, no.'

‘Age?'

‘Two years older than Rosamund – so around thirty-seven. Oh, and she described him as thin and very shabby. She could hardly believe it because at college he'd been very self-assured and well-dressed. No –
beautifully
dressed. Not quite the same thing, perhaps.'

‘Did she find out whether he was married?'

‘He'd had a long-term relationship with an American, he told her. But she'd recently gone back to the States so he was on his own. Definitely not married.'

‘Right. I agree with your stepdaughter that he intended to turn up. I feel she's the sort of woman a man would turn up for – at least once.'

‘They were to have met outside the National Gallery, and she waited hours for him. There was no possibility that he mistook the venue – it was mentioned several times.'

‘And this was last week? What day?'

‘Wednesday of last week.'

‘He might have been in a road accident. Excited, possibly a little late, he might have stepped into the road too hurriedly. My first job will be to contact hospital casualty departments.'

‘Rosamund contacted several of the better-known art galleries in case someone had his address.'

Caroline shrugged her shoulders. ‘Unsuccessful, shabby, so unlikely to be selling his pictures to galleries. Unsuccessful and shabby. Unsuccessful and shabby. Why is she so keen to find him? Need one ask!'

‘Her first love, she says.'

‘Unsuccessful artist, thin, shabby, thirty-seven years old, abandoned by American partner some time ago, but yet a man to love and be in love with. I'm getting a picture. I don't think I'll have much luck with hospitals but I'll give it a go – and after that something else might come through to me. Sorry, Mrs Harcourt. So many of my clients seem to want “things to come through to me,” but I think you'd prefer things to occur to me in a logical way.'

‘Logic, intuition, supernatural power – it's all the same to me as long as you track him down.'

‘Give me your telephone number, Mrs Harcourt. I'll telephone each night to report to you. I charge for one day's work at a time, two hundred pounds plus expenses, and you employ me by the day. And I'd like one day's pay in advance, please.'

Dora wrote her a cheque, gave her work and home telephone numbers, took her card and left.

As she went down in the lift, she was surprised once again by the love she felt for Rosamund; she had many friends and social acquaintances, but the people she truly cared about, wanted to help and protect, were very few.

Chapter Fourteen

Joss arrived home just before six on the Tuesday evening, Thomas dropping him off at the gate without a word or a wave.

Watching her son walking up the path, Rosamund thought he looked taller and altogether older. ‘You're getting so big,' she said. ‘I keep forgetting that you're almost ten. You'll soon be a teenager and then, I suppose, you'll be wanting to leave home. Have you had a good time?'

He dodged her as she tried to put her arms round him. ‘No. Everyone was bad-tempered, even Thomas.'

‘You said you were having a great time at the funfair.'

‘The funfair wasn't too bad. The rest was crap.'

‘Crap isn't a very nice word.'

‘Stephen and Martin say it.'

‘You can say it when you're thirteen.'

‘Harry says shit – and he's only ten.'

‘You can say crap and shit if you let me give you a really big hug.'

He gave her a quick, sideways look. ‘OK.'

They hugged, rocking tightly together for a few moments. She suddenly thought of Thomas's boys arriving home to an empty house. She hugged Joss again, even though she could feel him straining to get away from her. He smelt of bananas and crisps and his skin was pale as milk. Why wasn't he healthy and brown like other boys?

‘Stephen says you and Thomas will get married now,' he said, as soon as she released him. ‘Will you?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Why?'

‘Because Thomas and I are good friends, but there's a lot more than that to getting married.'

‘Love and all that stuff. Yes, I know.' He was still looking severely at her. ‘Were you and Eliza good friends? Did you really like her?'

What was all this about? Rosamund suddenly remembered the first time she'd met Eliza; a night before Christmas when Joss was still in nursery school. They'd called for Harry to take him to the carol concert. Stephen had answered the door and led them into their large, warm kitchen where Eliza and the boys were making mincepies. Eliza had looked relaxed and pretty that evening, in a bright red dress with a tea-cloth pinned round her waist. She'd smiled her welcome and poured Rosamund a sherry. Stephen and Martin were putting spoonfuls of mincemeat into some prepared cases, Eliza was making more pastry, while Harry was haphazardly stamping a star-shaped cutter onto the pastry already rolled out and shouting, ‘I'm a star, I'm a star, I'm a star,' which, though not exactly scintillating, got a laugh each time. They'd seemed such a happy family. Rosamund shook away the tears from her eyes. She hadn't thought of that evening for years – for years she'd steadfastly thought of Eliza as a dedicated career woman – why had that memory returned now to torment her?

She'd always sensed that Eliza felt superior to the women who stayed at home, content to be wives and mothers, with perhaps poorly paid part-time jobs in the village; she'd never wondered whether she was just shy, waiting for others to make the first move.

‘Were you and Eliza good friends?' Joss repeated.

‘No, not really. I hardly ever saw Eliza because she worked very long hours. It was always Thomas who came up here, wasn't it, bringing Harry or fetching him. I liked Eliza well enough, but I can't say we were close friends.'

‘Are you sorry she's dead?'

‘Of course I am. Very sorry. What has Stephen been telling you?'

‘Nothing. Can I have my tea now? Granny Woodison says that young people don't have proper food these days, only junk food. And junk food makes your teeth rot and your skin get pimply and after a while you don't grow any more.'

‘So what shall we have tonight?'

He gave the question a moment's serious deliberation. ‘Junk food, I think. Oven chips and pot noodles.'

He was reluctant to go to bed so Rosamund let him stay up until ten. ‘Come on, tell me what's worrying you,' she said at last. ‘Is it the thought of the funeral tomorrow? You and I don't really have to go, you know. Thomas thought Harry would feel a little better if you were with him, but I think he's going to feel pretty rotten whether you're there or not.'

‘He wet the bed last night.'

‘Poor love. He must be taking it very badly.'

‘Stephen and Martin called him a sucky-baby.'

Rosamund sighed. ‘They're unhappy as well, you see, and it's making them cruel. That happens sometimes.'

He shot a quick glance at her. ‘Stephen and Martin say that Thomas gave Eliza pills to make her die.'

‘That's a really wicked thing to say. And of course it's totally, totally, untrue. You do believe me, don't you?
Joss?
'

‘Yes.'

‘Thomas is terribly unhappy because she's dead. You know what a kind man he is. Would Thomas hurt anyone?'

‘He said they'd been watching too much television.'

‘That's probably true as well.'

‘I hate them. I hate them saying things like that.'

‘Everyone is afraid of death, you know. Even grown-ups. Would you like me to read you a very good poem about death?'

‘No, thank you. Tell me about when I was a little boy and I wouldn't let you say that Peter Rabbit's father was put in a pie.'

‘Well, when you were a little boy, I used to have to say that Peter Rabbit's father had gone into Mr McGregor's garden and that Mr McGregor had caught him and put him in a cage.'

‘And then?'

‘And then Mrs McGregor had felt sorry for him and let him out again.'

‘Yes, that's right. And then he went hopping away down the garden. I was silly, wasn't I? I think I'll go to bed now.'

‘Good night, little rabbit.'

‘Good night, little mummy.'

*   *   *

Rosamund and Joss didn't attend the funeral the next day, but spent the morning walking on the hills, talking about rabbits, the death of; lambs, the death of; fox-hunting, duck shooting, abattoirs, child abduction and murder. ‘For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground,' Rosamund said at one point, ‘and tell sad stories of the death of kings.'

‘All right,' Joss said, sitting down obligingly.

Thomas rang during the evening, sounding tired but less miserable, or at least less desperate, than he had on Sunday.

‘Stephen and Martin are incredibly hostile,' he said. ‘If they lived in a war-zone they'd be out with guns, shooting everyone within sight.'

‘How is Harry?'

‘He seemed a little better today. He saw the funeral of some Irish bloke on telly last night and noticed that some of the mourners were even younger than him. And strangely enough that seemed to give him some comfort. How's Joss? I'm afraid he's been dragged into it all, hasn't he?'

‘He was very fond of Eliza. But I think a psychologist might say that he's working through his grief.'

*   *   *

Dora had agreed to drive Erica Underhill to Paddington, but rang later that evening to say she'd managed to get a day off work and had decided to drive her all the way to the schoolhouse, hoping to arrive by about three.

She sounded rather brusque and businesslike on the phone, which left Rosamund feeling uneasy.

Dora had heard that morning from the Enquiry Agency. Caroline had reported that it had taken her only two days to trace Daniel Hawkins. At one of the hospitals where she'd been making routine enquiries, the receptionist had recognised his name; she'd managed to get his latest address and had made contact with him. ‘I hate to say this, but it was what I'd imagined all along,' she said. ‘One minute positive and cooperative, the next, unable to do anything but plan how to get the next fix.'

‘Oh God,' Dora said. ‘Do you mean…? Oh God. So what happened?'

‘I didn't actually talk to him, Mrs Harcourt. He was lying, either asleep or unconscious, on the floor of the sitting room when I got there, but one of the others confirmed that he was Daniel Hawkins and that he was an artist and a musician as well. “A hell of a great guy,” was how he described him. Yes, I've met quite a lot of those in my time.'

For once Dora was speechless.

‘It's pretty terrible, isn't it?' Caroline continued. ‘Yes, I hate to give people bad news and this is the worst sort.'

‘At least he's not dead.'

‘But he may not be too far off it either, if you want my opinion. And I know what I'm talking about because I had a cousin went that way. Lovely bloke he was, just twenty-five. If I were you – and I know it's none of my business, I just had a job to do and I've done it – but if I were you, I wouldn't pass on this news to your stepdaughter. Finding him will bring her nothing but grief, Mrs Harcourt. She looked a lovely woman and you told me she'd got a little lad, too. Isn't it better for her to remember this guy as he used to be than get involved in this no-hope situation? If she tries to help him it will take all her money, all her energy, all her youth. And most probably all for nothing.'

‘Thank you. Thank you for your help,' Dora said, since some response seemed called for.

‘You're offended with me now, aren't you? I spoke out of turn.'

‘No, no, I'm just stunned by the news. I think you're a very kind and caring person. And I'll send you the money I owe you straight away.'

‘Thank you. And if you want to talk some more, or if your stepdaughter would like to contact me, I'll be only too pleased. Here's the address, Mrs Harcourt. There's no telephone number. And if you do decide to tell her and she does decide to contact him, then the sooner the better.'

*   *   *

Dora left work immediately, offering no explanation or excuse. No one questioned her and she drove home in a daze, thanked God that Paul was at a rehearsal, then contacted the Drugs Helpline, who assured her that every case of heroin addiction was different, and that no case was hopeless.