Read an Excerpt
Deceit
By Clare Francis OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 2001 Clare Francis
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2146-3
CHAPTER 1
The organ booms out its summons, a single ragged chord. The reverberations are quelled by the rustle of people rising, the clearing of throats, the reopening of service sheets. I am late getting to my feet and Josh, who has jumped up with transparent and unashamed haste, turns questioningly, his mouth puckered in a look of mild impatience. Josh, our nine-year-old. Not mine alone, not yet; still ours. Though Harry has been dead almost three months I can't bring myself to think of Josh as fatherless. It seems too final somehow.
The last hymn. I am relieved. I shouldn't be, I suppose, but the service has been rather long, there have been no less than three eulogies, some of which, though well meant, did not seem to have much to do with the Harry I knew. And I am tired, so tired. My legs are leaden, my brain heavy.
At the same time I am aware of the morning having rushed by with bewildering speed. I wish I could rewind it and start again. From the moment I woke the children and we sat down to our silent breakfast, my mind has steadfastly refused to involve itself in the day's proceedings. It is part of my blocking out process. Even after so long I think I am still in a state of disbelief, and the seamless succession of prayers, addresses and hymns have passed in a dream, as if I were watching through a dark screen.
I am acutely aware that I should be making the most of this ceremony, that it provides an unrepeatable chance for me and the children to come to terms with Harry's death; yet for me at least the opportunity has largely been missed. The only sensation I can identify with any certainty is emptiness; that, and a dread tightness in my stomach, which, after all this time, has grown so familiar as to be almost unnoticeable.
We launch into the second verse. Katie, on my left, is standing very close. Her hand holds mine, as it has from the beginning of the service. Her touch, which is cool and firm and permits no wavering, gives me immeasurable support, and I know that she is drawing as much strength, if not more, from mine. Stand or fall, we are together.
Katie is not Harry's daughter, though for much of her young life she would have liked to be. Katie, now fifteen, is the daughter of my early marriage to a musician who faded from her life – and mine – many years ago. He was last heard of living in a beach commune in Mexico. Thus to all intents and purposes Katie has lost not one but two fathers, a double blow that she, with her anxious and fragile nature, isn't well equipped to deal with. She has taken Harry's death badly. For a time I thought she would never come to terms with it. If it hadn't been for our seven weeks in California, I think maybe she never would.
She is stronger now, but not so strong that I dare glance at her in case one or the other of us should betray an emotion that we would rather keep to ourselves. This is not, anyway, an occasion for sadness. It is, I remind myself, a time for thanksgiving. For Harry's life.
The choir bursts into soaring harmony. They are really very good, this choir, some fine voices among them. I find my place on the sheet and mouth the refrain, 'O hear us when we cry to Thee, For those in peril on the sea'. This hymn, like everything else in the service, has been chosen by Harry's sister Anne. The selection was left to her partly because I have not been around to deal with such things, partly because Anne desperately wanted the job of organising the service. She too has taken Harry's death badly.
This hymn was an obvious, not to say inevitable, choice – Harry was lost at sea – but it is such an emotive piece that I find myself wishing it might have been left out. But I mustn't quibble; Anne has taken enormous pains over the arrangements. The flowers, enormous sprays of them, are spectacular, the service sheet beautifully printed, the turn-out strong – Anne has, I know, contacted great numbers of people by phone and letter in case they missed the newspaper announcement.
The final verse at last. A suppressed sob comes from close by. It is Anne, standing on the other side of Josh. She is fumbling with a handkerchief, she buries her nose in it. Beyond the trembling feathers of her hat, her husband Charles blinks uncertainly and, catching my eye, flashes me a glance of mild alarm. I give him a reassuring look. His mouth twitches in a grateful smile which does not quite conceal his discomfort. A product of Eton, hunting fields and Cirencester Agricultural College, Charles is more at ease with farming accounts than emotional crises.
As we sing the final lines something shifts inside me, the darkness moves aside, and I am at last able to focus on Harry, on the image of him that I want to keep, the Harry who gave me many years of contentment, who gave me Josh, who, during Katie's young years, gave her the father-figure she longed for; who was never, despite his inadequacies and inconsistencies, the failure he feared himself to be.
These thoughts, coming so abruptly, threaten to tip me over an emotional drop that I instinctively avoid. Hastily I look down at Josh's shining hair. Taking after me, he is tall for his age, already approaching my shoulder. As he raises his head, I catch his profile, with its ski-jump nose, full mouth and long lashes. Never an ardent singer he has finally dropped all pretence at mouthing the words, and is staring at something high above the altar. His expression is one of duty and resignation that has long worn thin. I feel a stab of love for him, this strange child of mine, so contained, so extraordinarily unconcerned. He has an acceptance of events that baffles and impresses me in turns.
We kneel, the priest incants the commendation and blessing, there is a hush and I say my last prayers for Harry, gripping Katie's hand more tightly as I do so. I was never much of a one for prayer before, but I have prayed regularly since Harry's death. Hypocritical, I suppose, but the need is strong. I pray for the Harry that I loved. For the Harry that I loved and cared for to the best of my ability, that I supported in his many ventures, that I wish so very much were still alive.
We stand up. I risk a glance at Katie. Her mouth is firmly set, her eyes expressionless. Only her nostrils betray a rapid breathing. She catches my stare. Our eyes exchange enquiries and receive reassurances – a glance that says we are both all right this far. I reach for Josh's hand and prepare for the moment I dread, the walk down the wide aisle through the banks of faces.
But as I gather my things, Anne reaches past Josh to touch my arm and indicate that I must wait. I realise: I have forgotten the item that has been tacked onto the end of the programme, the item so dear to Anne's heart.
From the back of the church, a lone bugle rings out. The last post. I tried to persuade Anne to change her mind about this, I tried gently and diplomatically, and now I wish I had tried a little harder. In his days in the Parachute Regiment Harry served in the Falklands War, but he said he never got involved in any real battles, and it certainly wasn't a time he remembered with any great pride or pleasure. This didn't stop him from acquiring a war hero tag, drummed up by his supporters to bolster his election campaign. It was an embellishment that became overplayed to the point of embarrassment, even for Harry. I felt that this service was not the moment to perpetuate the idea, that it would have been a good opportunity to play it down. But it seemed I was the only member of the family to think so, or at least the only one prepared to voice concern about it. Yet I am not good at fighting my corner, not in family matters which risk upset and resentment anyway, and when Anne mounted an emotionally charged defence I gave way.
The bugle call has a reputation for bringing tears to the driest eye. I realise that Katie, having managed reasonably well so far, has finally run into trouble. She has dropped her head, her mouth is skewed, she is frowning fiercely. I give her hand a rough shake. 'Almost there,' I whisper hoarsely. She shows no sign of hearing, and I cajole her. 'Hold on, baby. Hold on.'
The sound of the bugle dies away, the clergy start to progress out of the church. It's over at last.
I look up to see Jack gliding to a halt in front of Katie. Jack used to be Harry's business partner. He is also a godfather to Josh. I realise that he is intending to escort us to the church door. I am reluctant, I hold back. For this particular journey I would prefer that the children and I walked alone.
But Jack isn't someone who is easily deterred and I, as much as anyone, seem incapable of deterring him. Even here in the subdued atmosphere of the church he seems to overwhelm me and with an inevitability that dismays me I let him take my elbow.
We begin to walk. I force myself to meet the numerous eyes, even to smile, and am suddenly glad that I have made the effort, for though people stare – forced by tradition to wait for my departure they have little choice – the stares are warm and kind. There are so many people. And so many I had not expected to see, people from my past, neighbours from Suffolk, parents of Katie and Josh's school friends. I am deeply touched.
In the porch an usher is opening the heavy church doors. The London air flows in, heavy and hot with traffic fumes. I pause just short of the doors and turn, gathering the children on either side, ready for the line-up and ritual handshaking. Before I can stop myself I look questioningly to Jack, as if seeking his approval for this move.
Taking this as his due, he grips my arm lightly and narrows his eyes in a look that contains the appropriate mixture of understanding and solidarity. 'All right?' His voice is rough with sympathy. 'You did so well, Ellen. So well.' I suppose he means that I produced no tears, no embarrassments, no behaviour that could be judged to be anything less than immaculate.
Remembering the children, he adds emphatically, 'You all did well. Your father would have been proud of you.' He throws an avuncular smile at Katie, who, having no time for Jack, doggedly avoids his gaze. Undaunted, Jack runs a hand playfully over Josh's head.
I notice how beautifully dressed Jack is in a lightweight suit that must have come from Savile Row, how beneath the concerned expression he has a barely suppressed exuberance. But then, despite the business interests they still had in common, the recession never seemed to touch Jack as it did Harry. I recognise this inner light as the glow of success. Some new conquest, no doubt. Financial or female, it is hard to tell with Jack. Quietly, as soon as his attention is elsewhere, I disengage my arm.
'I'll give you people's names as they come to you,' Jack says, surveying the advancing line with a glint of relish.
'Thank you.'
'You know Reynolds is here? And Draycott.'
'Reynolds?'
He gives an awkward laugh, as if I have cracked a dubious joke. 'The party chairman,' he says firmly.
I was only checking. And Draycott, I remember, is a junior minister of health. Ever since I let Harry down by confusing a minister of the environment with a Labour back-bencher, thus mixing not only party – a heinous enough crime – but rank too, I have gone to great pains to make sure I have the names and jobs right. Harry, who always felt humiliation keenly, did not let me forget my gaffe for weeks afterwards.
The effort of preparing myself for this final test must show in my face because Jack says in his most soothing voice, 'I'll keep you briefed, don't worry.'
I smile my gratitude, which is real enough.
He squeezes my arm again. 'Sure you're all right?'
'Oh yes. Really.' I give a half-smile to prove it.
He leans close. 'Good girl. Knew you would be,' he says with a glance that is all largesse and pride. The role of family stalwart is one he seems to enjoy.
Anne and Charles approach. Jack, who has the remark for every occasion, says to Anne, 'A beautiful service. Congratulations.'
But Anne has her sights on me. She hisses over Katie's head in a not-so-low whisper, 'What about the children, Ellen? Shouldn't we get them to the hotel? They'll have had enough. Bound to. Haven't you, darlings? Must have had enough. You'll be longing for your lunch, I know you will. They've got meringues at the hotel, Josh. And chocolate cake.' Anne, childless herself, prides herself on her rapport with children, a conviction based on the belief that children are only happy when filled with rich food. Anne herself has perhaps never passed this stage in her own development, for at forty-three she is by any standards large and has never to anyone's knowledge tried to diet.
Aware of the danger of giving offence – always a risk with Anne – I say lightly, 'It's good of you, Anne, but I think they'd really prefer to stay. For the time being anyway.'
Anne gives me a look of irritation and bafflement, as if I am being unreasonable. In fact we have discussed this several times. I have told her from the beginning that it is my intention to keep the children with me at this stage of the proceedings. I have explained how I want them to meet their father's friends and acquaintances, to hear at first hand all the nice things they will say about him, so that they will see him through other people's eyes as well as their own.
Anne gives way, if only because of the crush of people building up behind her. Most of the family are already grouped on the far side of the porch – my father on a rare visit from Cornwall, wearing the expression of abandonment and defencelessness that he acquired long before Mother's death four years ago; my mother-in-law Diana, mother to Harry and Anne, glaring fiercely into the sunlight; and the faithful Margaret, Harry's secretary, keeper of birthdays and anniversaries, organiser of impossible schedules, who, although she is not strictly family, is treated as such by us all.
Jack, expansive and commanding, very much in his element, begins to announce people: an MP who shared a cramped office with Harry during Harry's all too brief spell in Parliament; the health minister, his presence apparently wrenched from the teeth of a busy schedule; business associates of Harry's, many of them unknown to me, courteous men with firm handshakes and evasive smiles who murmur gruff words to the children.
I check on Katie. We agreed that she could change her mind about this right up until the last minute, could go back to the hotel if she wished, but she seems to be doing all right. By way of confirmation she gives a careless glance that drifts past me and over the gathering. Josh, as usual, is taking things in his stride. Fidgeting, pulling impatient faces, impervious as ever.
Suffolk people now. The women kiss and hug me and look on me with worried eyes. They want to know what they can do now that I'm back, how they can help out. They make me swear to call them. They tell the children that their friends have missed them and are looking forward to seeing them again. The men kiss me a little more sedately and echo their wives, a nodding chorus. Anything they can do, anything at all.
Then Molly, who gives me a hug that almost robs me of breath. Molly is my closest friend. Irrepressible – some might say impossible – she works for a half-way house project for young offenders which she bamboozled me into raising money for.
'Oh, Ellen!' she cries, and when she pulls back her eyes are bright and fierce. 'God, you're thin!'
I make a face.
'You're back now?'
'I'm back.'
'Staying put?'
'Oh yes.'
'When am I going to see you?'
'Well ... soon.'
'Soon!' she exclaims, refusing to interpret this as a rebuff. 'How soon? Tomorrow?'
I gesture possible difficulties. 'I don't know yet. I'll have to see ...'
She gives me a look that is both disappointed and questioning. 'Why didn't you call?' she whispers harshly. 'Before you left?'
I shake my head. I can't begin to explain.
'I waited. I would have done anything, anything.'
I touch her hand. 'I know.'
She gives me another all-enveloping hug that drives her sleeve hard into my eye and makes me blink. I hug her back, but a little more hesitantly. The children apart, I love and trust Molly more than anyone else in the world, but just at the moment my equilibrium is too fragile to survive too much tender inspection and unconditional support.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Deceit by Clare Francis. Copyright © 2001 Clare Francis. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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