its design of blue wisteria and green ivy? This elegant walnut Empire bed? She ran her fingers lightly across the cool linen pillowcase. Its edges were monogrammed, ‘I A’, in pearly silken thread. Was it a wedding gift?
She opened the drawer of the bedside table; it shuddered slightly in protest. Two neatly folded cotton handkerchiefs, a tube of E45 eczema cream, half empty, a few stray buttons, a receipt from Peter Jones in Sloane Square for wool, dated 1989.
Cate closed it and picked up a well-worn volume from the top of a pile of books, The Poems of Thomas Moore, and opened it. On the flyleaf, in a bold flamboyant hand, was written ‘Benedict Blythe, Tir Non Og, Ireland’. It fell open to a page marked by a frayed crimson silk ribbon.
‘Sail On, Sail On’
Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark –
Where’er blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,
‘Though death beneath our smile may be,
Less cold we are, less false than they,
Whose smiling wreck’d thy hopes and thee.’
Sail on, sail on – through endless space –
Through calm – through tempest – stop no more.
The stormiest sea’s a resting-place
To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or – if some desert land we meet,
Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world, that else were sweet –
Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.’
It was a strange, desolate poem – an unsettling choice for an elderly woman, living out her final days, alone, by the sea.
Putting the book back with the others, Cate peered into the wardrobe. A clutch of naked wire hangers swung in the draught. Apart from a few extra blankets piled on the shelves, it was empty. The same was true of the chest of drawers. Faded flowered lining paper and a few yellowed sachets of potpourri were all that was left.
She turned to the dressing table. A silver brush and comb, a porcelain dish of wiry brown hairpins, a dusty box of Yardley’s lily of the valley talcum powder. And an old black-and-white photograph, presumably of Irene with her husband. She picked it up. They were both in their seventies, standing bolt upright, close but not touching. Irene was thin to the point of physical frailty, wearing a trim straw hat and a dark, neatly tailored suit. Her husband was proudly wearing the full dress uniform of his regiment, a silver-headed walking stick in his right hand; hat tucked under his arm. She was smiling, chin slightly raised, her eyes a distinctive clear blue. It was a bright day, yet the photo was flawed. There was a dark patch, a shadow falling across the right-hand side of the Colonel’s head. It must’ve been taken at a veterans’ event. Irene was holding a plaque of some kind, but the writing on it was too small for Cate to make out.
She wondered where the plaque was now; where all the accolades were that marked Irene Avondale’s lifetime of charitable service to the Empire.
It was a room of order, pleasant and curiously unrevealing, like a stage set. It had a numbing effect as if everything ambiguous had been smoothed over by a large, firm hand. Was Irene’s existence really so tidy and presentable? Or had someone removed any intimate traces of its owner?
Walking out and down the hallway, Cate opened doors, exploring the upper regions of the house. There were equally large bedroom suites both with sea and garden views, bathrooms, dressing rooms, some with floral themes, others with nautical designs…She moved quietly, aware that Jack was resting. She wanted to get a sense of the place on her own, like an animal finding its bearings. Turning in the opposite direction on the landing, she headed down the long hallway that separated the two wings of the house. Dappled sunlight danced in patterns across the faded oriental runners, worn from decades of use. There were two more guest rooms, a large family bathroom and then, at the very end of the hall, a closed door. She turned the knob. It was locked. Jack must have the key.
Cate bent down and examined the old lock. It wasn’t very sophisticated. In fact, it would be easy.
As she headed back to her room, digging out a nail file and credit card from her bag, she knew it would be simpler to wait for him – that it wasn’t really normal to pick the lock. But there was a swell of perversity in her; a childish stubbornness to do what she wanted, when she wanted. The idea of asking for help was inhibiting. And she felt a thrill of defiance as she walked quickly back to the locked door and, in one swift movement, jemmied the latch open.
It was a skill she’d learned from her father when she was eleven – part of an ongoing education that he liked to refer to as ‘life’s little talents’. They included such gems as how to roll a cigarette, the construction of the perfect bacon sandwich, and how to charm virtually anyone with a view to establishing a running tab without any credit at all. After his divorce from her mother, he’d lived in a small Peabody flat near the back of Bond Street Station. A promising guitarist in his youth, his career as a session musician floundered, an unwelcome by-product of his drinking. His once striking good looks faded, worn away by years of self-neglect. His sandy hair and grey-green eyes seemed to lose colour each time she saw him, and his swaggering self-confidence and physical ease were eroded by countless hangovers. She would visit him, and when he was sober, he’d take her for an all-day breakfast and then on to a half-price matinee at the Odeon Cinema in Marble Arch. On a good day, he would seem genuinely pleased to see her; chain-smoking, talking ten to the dozen about the things they would do, the jobs he had in the pipeline, the trips they would take after he next got paid. Maybe Brighton, Europe, perhaps even Africa on safari. Each plan was more magical and ambitious than the next; each promise heartfelt and genuine. When he smiled, he was the most handsome man in the room. ‘This job is different,’ he’d say. ‘This time it’s all coming together.’ And she would believe him.
Then around three o’clock, he would grow inexplicably agitated and irritable. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many amusing stories she told, she couldn’t keep his attention. And before she knew it, they’d be sitting in a pub. One drink would turn into five, then seven. His face would go hard, his speech began to slur and his whole character would change. He’d lose his keys, misplace his wallet; start a fight with a stranger about some insult only he could hear. And then ‘life’s little talents’ would come in handy as she struggled to get him home without him falling over or getting punched or seducing some ridiculous old barmaid he’d been poking fun of only two hours earlier.
They never did go to Africa or even to Brighton. He spent his life making promises he never kept. Yet she loved him with that stubborn, painful, magical love that children have for their parents. A kind of willing suspension of disbelief that in spite of all of the years of evidence to the contrary, he would somehow, at the very final hour, manage to keep his word. When he died, she felt as if she’d spent her whole life on a train platform, checking her watch in anticipation, waiting for him to arrive. Only he’d been diverted; headed in
