Her Frozen Heart Page 4

‘What spoiled rotters you are,’ Tommy observed. ‘Just think of all the poor children in London not able to have delicious fresh pheasant whenever they want.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Antonia mulishly.

  ‘Nor would I,’ declared Harry. ‘I’m sick of it.’

  ‘Careful,’ said Tommy with a warning look, and both of them settled down at their places, suppressing their irritation. ‘Excuse my horrible children, please, Mr Burton Brown.’

  ‘Everyone must call me Fred, I insist.’

  ‘All right, Fred,’ Antonia said at once.

  ‘Fred, Fred, Fred,’ chimed in Harry.

  ‘Children!’ Mrs Whitfield looked scandalised and Tommy sent them another stern look.

  ‘Mr Burton Brown to you, children. For now.’ She smiled at Fred. ‘Until we know you a little better.’

  Fred looked even thinner and more angular now that he had discarded his great coat and was wearing a dark suit that had no doubt once fitted. She noticed his extremely long and slender hands, and the way a lock of dark hair fell over his broad, high forehead. He looked intelligent, she thought. But restrained. He had nothing about him of Alec’s rich sensuality, that dark desire for life that had possessed him. Fred was outwardly serene and appeared to have a calm nature.

  ‘Then I’d better get to know you all quickly,’ he said, ‘or I’ll be Mr Burton Brown for far too long.’ He began to tell them a few things about himself: how before the war he had worked at the BBC in London, which fascinated the children, then how he had joined the army and gone to fight in Africa. ‘But just before the end of it all, I managed to get badly burned in an accident. Not even fighting, I’m afraid. And I got sent back to recover, to a place by the sea. But when I was well enough to go home, I found I had no home to go to. I’d heard my place had been hit in the bombing but I didn’t know it had been obliterated. Octavia kept that from me.’

  ‘Octavia?’ Tommy asked. She’d been listening intently, although the story had been told for the sake of the children. They had all finished eating while listening to Fred and even Gerry had come out of her own little world to attend to him.

  ‘My sister,’ said Fred. ‘She stayed in London right through, working as an air-raid warden. She knew my place was gone but didn’t let on. She said it would only depress me and there was nothing to be done. She scratched about in the rubble for anything that might be saved and picked up a few odds and ends. But most of it was turned to dust.’

  The children stared, trying to picture a world where things could be transformed from solid to dust in an instant.

  Thank God we had this place to come to, and I could spare them that. Tommy looked down at her plate to hide her expression in case she looked too sombre.

  Harry asked, ‘Have you seen it now? Your old house?’

  ‘Yes, I have. It was quite a sight. When something’s been bombed, you imagine it to be wrecked, but somehow the same. But to see the real damage . . . well, it’s just a heap of rubble and timber, and you can see the insides you’d never usually know about – the ends of pipes hanging out, and wires, and the plaster ripped from the battens. Not that there’s even that much of my old place. The whole building and the ones either side have gone, leaving a horrible, ugly gash in the street. It’s a ruin. That’s what London feels like now. It looks like a mouth where half the teeth have been punched out.’

  ‘How awful,’ Tommy exclaimed. ‘To lose everything like that!’

  ‘Luckily I’d sent quite a lot of things down to my parents in Kent beforehand to be on the safe side. That’s why I still have some clothes to stand up in.’

  Tommy thought of everything precious, of all the treasures in their house, vanished in one sudden flash of destruction. Not just the furniture and china and all that – the blessed Gainsborough. Imagine – but the mementoes of the children’s babyhoods, the sentimental jewellery – not expensive but dear to her. It was a horrible thought. But she knew that as long as the children were all right, she wouldn’t mind about the rest.

  ‘Mother, may we go to London and see the bomb holes?’ asked Antonia eagerly.

  ‘Maybe one day we’ll go. When it’s warmer. But I don’t know about inspecting bomb sites. It sounds rather depressing to me. Perhaps they’ll all be gone by the time we get there.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Roger shook his head. ‘It’ll be years. Decades probably. If ever.’

  ‘Then,’ Tommy said, ‘perhaps I’m better off not seeing London again. It can live on in my mind as it used to be.’

  ‘Never go to London again?’ Gerry said. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it. You love London, Tommy.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Well, you used to. You longed and longed to go. You said you’d never live anywhere else.’

  ‘That was then,’ Tommy said, with a shrug. ‘Before everything. The war. And everything else.’

  ‘Gerry, please clear the plates,’ said their mother. ‘Children, you can help her. If you’re careful.’

  Tommy noticed Fred was regarding her with an expression that she couldn’t quite decipher. Was it sympathy? Why should he feel sorry for me? I suppose Roger told him about Alec being killed.

  ‘Is there any pudding?’ asked Harry. ‘That isn’t bottled plums?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ Tommy said, standing up to shake off the feeling of being observed. ‘It’s bottled plums all round. But Ada’s made some sort of custard, so cheer up, Harry. It’ll be delicious, I promise.’

  She was glad to be able to escape to the kitchen, away from Fred’s gaze and the sense that he could see the things that she was trying to hide.

  I don’t want that. That must never happen.

  Chapter Five

  Breaking the news of Patrick’s death to Max had been the hardest thing in Caitlyn’s life. She’d held him as he absorbed it, and began to cry bitterly, hiding his head in her shoulder. Then he had come home with her and Sara, until he felt ready to go back to school.

  The following day, Sara had gone out to see clients and Max had wrapped himself in his duvet and watched hours of cartoons on the downstairs television, as though trying to shut out the fact of Patrick’s death with bright colours and raucous sound.

  Restless, Caitlyn wandered through the house, up the stairs, into rooms, inspecting them. Everywhere was immaculate as usual, just as Patrick liked it. ‘Your perfect world,’ her sister Maura had called it with a laugh. It was true this was a well-feathered nest, quiet and orderly and kept under strict control. Caitlyn had grown so used to the neatness and calm that she now found it difficult to be in her sister’s home for more than a few hours, before she began to feel breathless and anxious to escape.

  The effect of living with Patrick all these years.

  She was in the drawing room now, standing there gazing at the beautiful, calm decor. It had all been Patrick’s design. The colour scheme of the house – deeply serene, cool shades of chalky blue, calm greys and white – was his, and he had even designed the conversion of the basement into a gym, laundry and cinema space, complete with a double-height glass window that stretched from the ground floor kitchen down into the basement, providing a light well. Caitlyn remembered the havoc the delivery of that mammoth window had caused. There had been a vast crane truck to lift it over the roof of their terraced house and drop it into place, with dozens of workmen to guide it. The whole street had been closed off for the day and there had been many deliveries of flowers to the neighbours afterwards. But it had been worth it. The house was beautiful; interior-magazine perfect. From the giant modern chandeliers in milky glass and copper that hung like angular stars from the drawing room ceiling to the perfectly filled bookcases and the designer glass coffee tables next to the antique marble fireplaces, the house was a joy to look at. There were rules to keep it like this: no shoes in the house. No animals or pets. No dirt of any kind allowed to linger. No disorder or toys left out. The house’s calm serenity was the result of constant vigilance, the permanent low-level hum of activ
ity – picking up, putting away, folding out of sight, wiping down, clearing up.

  When Caitlyn’s family visited, Patrick took measures, hiding anything breakable, putting down mats and locking doors. The dog was forbidden or, if absolutely unavoidable, was confined to the garden. Patrick would wear an expression of determined forbearance, a smile glued to his lips no matter what, and even though the family were usually well behaved, the simple fact of so much anarchic presence in the house sent stress levels high.

  Despite the tension they brought with them, Patrick liked Maura and Callum, and would often sit around with his brother-in-law listening to whatever was on Callum’s mind that day. Caitlyn suspected that Callum thought Patrick was the easy-going one, and she was uptight. Last time he’d been here, he’d plonked himself on the sofa and bellowed at her, ‘Come on, Caity! Come and have a bloody large drink. Let it all hang out. Relax a little.’

  She’d grinned and said, ‘In a bit. When I’ve got the potatoes in.’

  But it had deflated her somewhat, making her wonder if he thought she was a controlling perfectionist with all the joylessness that seemed to imply.

  After lunch, Maura had helped her clear up. The children had been sent off to the park with the dog, a football and ice-cream money, Max thrilled to be at home for the weekend with his cousins; the men were watching the England–Ireland rugby match on the big screen, Callum yelling for Ireland over cans of Guinness, Patrick with a glass of Puligny-Montrachet.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Maura had asked, bringing over a pile of gravy-smeared plates and starting to stack them in the dishwasher. ‘I mean, with life.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’ Caitlyn smiled stiffly, watching as Maura loaded the plates. She found it very stressful, having got so used to Patrick’s ways. She was afraid that Maura would do something stupid, like slinging in wooden bowls or razor-sharp Japanese chopping knives or silver cutlery, and Patrick would be furious.

  Maura frowned as her gaze swept over Caitlyn’s form, dressed as usual in slim blue jeans, white shirt and an artfully sloppy grey cashmere jumper. ‘Have you lost weight?’

  ‘No! I don’t think so. I haven’t weighed myself.’ Caitlyn shrugged. ‘I’m pretty much the same, I think. I don’t pay much attention.’

  Which is, of course, a terrible lie.

  She thought about her appearance all the time. She wished she could be more like Maura, who seemed to go through life untouched by the same anxiety. She was well upholstered, almost always bare-faced, her brown hair filled with silver-spun threads that glittered under the kitchen spotlights.

  As though she doesn’t care. What must that be like?

  Maura said, ‘Well, you seem a bit downbeat, that’s all. What’s up?’ She put the plates down and leaned against the counter, watching her sister carefully.

  ‘Nothing. Max is still finding it hard to settle at school . . . Patrick’s so busy, travelling a lot . . .’ She trailed off vaguely, hoping this would satisfy Maura.

  ‘What about your plan to go back to work? Have you gone any further with it?’

  ‘Oh. Well. Yes . . . I’m throwing out some lines of enquiry . . . Something might come of it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t waste that mind of yours. I wish I had your education. You can’t waste an Oxford degree, you know.’

  ‘I do know. You’ve said so before. Often.’ Caitlyn smiled in mock reproof. ‘I just want to be sure Max is happy before I go back.’

  ‘He’s eleven years old and he doesn’t live here during the week,’ Maura observed, heading back to the table.

  Caitlyn flushed and her skin prickled. ‘Actually he’s home for over half the year, and he has an exeat every few weeks. His terms are much shorter than yours, you know that.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Maura had her back to her as she picked up glasses. There was a pregnant pause, full of the remembered discussions about what Maura had thought of the decision to send Max away to prep school. ‘Well, I think going back to work might be good for you. Keep at it, I say.’

  ‘Yes. I will.’

  ‘And Patrick – everything’s all right with him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Maura made a face as if to imply that it was a miracle. ‘You’re good at keeping in line, Caity. Just don’t give in to him all the time, will you? You need a bit of yourself too. I’m worried that he keeps you on a short leash.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. We’re perfectly happy.’

  ‘Well, something’s making you miserable. I wish you could tell me about it.’ Maura shot her another sideways look. ‘It’s not your friend Sara, is it?’

  ‘Sara? No.’ Caitlyn laughed but it sounded forced. ‘I know you don’t approve of her but—’

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ muttered Maura. ‘I certainly don’t think she’s any good for you.’

  Caitlyn hesitated, remembering the last time Sara had been here, drifting about the house, examining it, and asking her if Patrick minded that she’d gone up a dress size. Caitlyn had barely touched a carb – or any food at all, come to that – since then. ‘I like her,’ Caitlyn said firmly. ‘We share a lot of history. She doesn’t do me any harm.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Maura replied. ‘But you know my thoughts on that piece of work.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She knew that Sara always had been rather standoffish when she met Maura. ‘She’s all right when you get to her know her, honestly.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Maura had said. ‘I don’t like the way she’s so hungry for everything you’ve got.’

  Now Caitlyn thought over Maura’s words while she took a bath, hoping that might help some of the cold tension at her core unfreeze. Why would Maura think that Sara was no good for her?

  And hungry for what I’ve got? What does that mean?

  The memory of her last conversation with Patrick swirled mistily through her brain. What did he say? She wished she’d written it down. Words formed in her mind – threatened . . . important . . . tell you . . . – but she couldn’t pull it all together.

  She swirled the warm water around herself, letting the bubbles melt on her skin. Already it felt as though Patrick were far away, out of her reach. How could he vanish so quickly?

  I loved him. I miss him. What am I going to do without him? Then she heard an echo in her mind, and realised that Sara had said almost those exact words the previous afternoon in the layby. We loved him. We’ll miss him, she’d said. What are we going to do without him?

  We?

  She heard Maura’s words again: she’s so hungry for everything you’ve got.

  The water seemed suddenly chilly, and she got out.

  That evening, when Max was asleep and supper was over, Sara opened a bottle of wine and poured them both a glass. They went up to the sitting room and sat down on opposite sofas, facing one another over the large glass coffee table stacked with glossy art books.

  ‘I’m glad Max is home,’ Sara said. She had curled up, her legs tucked underneath her. Her red hair glowed against the muted colours of the drawing room. They complemented her perfectly. ‘You shouldn’t be alone right now.’

  On the opposite sofa, Caitlyn caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace. Next to Sara’s vibrancy, she looked washed out: pallid and stringy haired, the highlights in her light-brown hair dull. Her eyes had a deadness in their hazel and blue depths, and her skin was puffy and grey. It must be what grief does.

  She glanced away quickly so she wouldn’t have to see herself. ‘I’m used to being by myself. I was often alone with Patrick travelling so much.’

  ‘Yes. He was away a lot, wasn’t he?’ Sara sipped her wine. ‘How were things between you . . . at the end?’

  ‘They were fine.’

  Sara stared at her and blinked in that way she had: slow, feline. ‘I’m glad. You’d had your rough patches.’

  ‘Had we?’ Already her marriage was in the past. A thing that used to be. She felt almost panicked at the idea that it wo
uld begin to slip away, out of her memory. Before it was a living thing with a future. Now it only had a past.

  ‘I only know what I saw. Patrick liked to control things. Sometimes . . .’ Sara hesitated and looked pained. ‘I don’t like to say it, with Patrick barely cold. But we can’t pretend it was all sweetness and light, can we?’

  ‘What relationship is?’ Caitlyn replied. ‘Of course we had our problems.’

  ‘I thought you did an amazing job, considering,’ Sara said firmly.

  ‘Considering . . . ?’

  Sara took a long drink and refilled her glass. ‘It’s the wrong time to talk about it. You’re in shock still. I am, too.’

  ‘I want to talk about Patrick,’ Caitlyn said. ‘I don’t want us not to speak about him, as though nothing has happened.’

  ‘Of course. But I don’t know if it’s right, because we can’t sanitise everything even if we want to remember the good stuff.’

  ‘Like what? Sanitise what?’

  Sara paused, then said, ‘Patrick could make you very miserable too, don’t forget. You said yourself that he took every decision, ruled your life. He could be tyrannical. We both know that.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Caitlyn felt ashamed of her disloyalty. Any previous unhappiness seemed like nothing now, the petulance of a spoiled wife. Patrick had given her so much – a life she couldn’t have had without him. He’d loved her too. What more, exactly, had she wanted? ‘I know I complained sometimes.’

  Sara nodded. ‘I saw it. I know what it was like.’ She took a long draught of her wine. ‘To be honest, I don’t know how you stood it. I didn’t like the way he treated you. He could be so . . . inattentive. Couldn’t he?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘He walked all over you,’ Sara said, then smiled sympathetically. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Is that how it looked?’

  ‘It’s how it was. Don’t forget. I saw it. It used to worry me, if I’m honest. Patrick was a handsome man. A sexy man. He must have had offers all the time. Do you think he ever cheated?’

  Caitlyn blinked in surprise. ‘I don’t think so.’ That was one thing she had never suspected. Patrick was many things but she had never thought he might be unfaithful. She remembered a party where one of the women had got drunk and thrown herself at Patrick, who had completely ignored her. He’d danced with Caitlyn instead. And with Sara. Caitlyn had a sudden flash of memory, of Patrick and Sara dancing together at that party, Sara murmuring in his ear while she did that slow, cat-like blink of hers. And they’d laughed together. ‘Do you think he might have cheated?’ Caitlyn asked.