CHAPTER SEVEN
Anne half expected the Taylors to be late if they turned up at all. Owen, though, was predictably punctual, entering the lobby of The Orion on the dot of six o’clock. She was pleased to observe that the suit he’d chosen to wear was grey, not black. True, the perfectly knotted silk tie was black, but that only to be expected in the circumstances, and in any case co-ordinated with a grey shirt to such effect that the overall impression was not one of intimidating austerity. People, she knew only too well, were easily intimidated by grief.
They sat in armchairs that were in full view of Reception so they could watch out for the Taylors. “Maybe they won’t come,” commented Owen hopefully.
“Cathy will come if she can.” Anne tried to sound confident.
It’s only Cathy she’s interested in, thought Owen. Heaven help the others. Even so, he knew better than to say so. Anne was not a woman easily roused but there had been occasions when he’d seen her flare and deliver a verbal assault well worthy of a GP’s receptionist. On one such occasion they had been menaced by youths on the promenade and she had seen them off with a flow of abuse that made him blush. She reminded him very much of his mother. He squirmed in his chair. Mother, he recalled, may have had a sharp tongue but a good heart had once beat beneath the silk blouses she always wore, always pastel colours with high necks and frilled sleeves.
“Why, Anne, how nice!”
A voice boomed and broke into his reverie. Owen looked up, startled, to see a large, buxom woman in a multi-coloured caftan that became her very well striding across the lobby towards them. Behind her, a good-looking young man he took to be her son trotted like a bull calf after its mother.
Anne rose. Owen, too, obligingly stood up while she made the introductions.
“You must be the poor man who’s just lost his mother,” Charley Briggs exclaimed sympathetically, “Do accept my condolences. She was a…memorable woman.”
“You knew my mother?” Owen could not disguise his astonishment.
“Not so much knew as recall,” Charley hedged, “I was on my honeymoon here with my first husband, Briggs, while you were waiting to move into your flat. That was years ago, I know. I don’t expect you to remember me. But I remember your mother very well. If my memory serves me right, she made a big impression on everyone.”
Owen permitted himself an approving smile. “It’s very kind of you to say so. I’m sure Mother would have loved to meet you again. Alas…” his voice trailed off.
Anne couldn’t help but notice that Spence looked uncomfortable.
“When is the funeral?” Charley wanted to know.
“It’s on Thursday. There has been a cancellation and the vicar has kindly agreed to fit us in.”
“A cancellation, you say?” Spence assumed an air of innocence that fooled no one. “Someone changed their mind about dying just yet, did they? I can’t say as I blame them.”
“Don’t be facetious, Spence,” Charley scolded, but a wrinkling at the corners of her lips belied her tone. Ann, too, found it hard to suppress a smile.
Only Owen appeared outwardly unmoved. “Apparently, the family decided on a cremation instead,” he explained.
“Don’t mind Spence. He has a sense of humour that’s more often funny peculiar than funny ha-ha,” said Charley. “Me, I put it down to post-traumatic stress. His poor mother went into labour on the loo and nearly dropped him down the pan.”
Spence roared with laughter.
“Would you mind awfully if we came to the funeral?” Charley asked Owen, to his visible consternation. “Spence will behave himself, I’ll see to that. No worries there, I promise. It’s just that…Well, I’d so much like to pay my last respects.”
Anne hoped Owen would agree if only because Charley and Spence would swell the congregation to at least four. Even so, she couldn’t help thinking it was a strange request. Owen was clearly nonplussed. She was none too keen herself, to say the least, to pay any last respects to Alice Shepherd. But Owen was a dear friend. As she saw it, she had no choice. The same could not be said for Charley Briggs. That the likes of this huge, flamboyant woman, of whom she was certain Alice Shepherd would have strongly disapproved, should want to come to the funeral struck Anne as nothing short of farcical.
“Charley has a fetish for funerals,” Spence addressed Anne directly as if reading her thoughts, but in a low, conspiratorial voice that the others gave no sign of having overheard. Anne winced at the young man’s flippancy. At the same time, she could not entirely resist the intimate grin, returning it with a tight smile that she suspected fell way short of the reprimand it was intended to convey.
It was Charley’s turn to burst into peals of laughter. “I have no such thing,” she assured a bemused Owen. “I’d consider it an honour to be there, I truly would.”
“I’m sure Mother would appreciate it,” said Owen stiffly. He did not know what to make of this woman or the young man whom he had begun to suspect was not her son. She has to be in her late forties at least, he mused disapprovingly. A toy boy at her age, it’s monstrous! Wait till I tell mother. She’ll have something to say about it, that’s for sure. He began to reflect further then stopped, flustered and embarrassed, but unable to bring himself to use the past tense. Time enough for that later. Mother will make out she doesn’t give a damn, he felt obliged to admit …if only for the sake of being disagreeable. He considered the unlikely pair with mounting scepticism. Yet, they seemed happy enough.
Owen frowned. His mother had been a great advocate for happiness. Other people’s happiness, never mine, he pondered acidly and immediately took himself to task. She looked after me, he reminded himself and addressed the Briggs woman with a confidence he was far from feeling, “Yes, do come and you’ll be most welcome, both of you,” he said. He felt bound to include the young man, Spence. Besides, it had crossed his mind that they would probably turn up anyway.
“Well, we must fly. Spence is taking me out for an anniversary meal. Isn’t that so sweet?”
“Anniversary…?” Anne was curious.
“We’ve been together six whole months to this very day.” Charley let rip with another of her booming, musical laughs, a sound Anne found at once irritating and delightful.
To Owen’s immense relief, the odd couple said their goodbyes and swept out of the lobby. “A fine pair they make,” he remarked disparagingly and was instantly prevented from continuing in the same vein by the look Anne flung him. Trust you to like them, he thought, abashed. You’re too soft by half, Annie Gates. No,” he hastily corrected himself, not soft, vulnerable. Perhaps it was a good thing, after all, that he had come.
“Oh, look, here they are!” Anne jumped up and went to greet the Taylors. Lynette looked different. It took a moment for her to realize why. Gone were the pigtails. On this occasion, the child wore her hair long and straight. Anne just had time to reflect, disapprovingly, that it made her look much older.
The adults shook hands while Lynette looked on with a bemused expression on her pretty face. “Are you relatives?” the child wanted to know.
“No, darling,” said her mother, “Anne and Owen are just friends. You remember Anne, from yesterday?”
“Daddy doesn’t like you,” the little girl told Anne with the shameless directness of a nine year-old, “Do you, Daddy?”
Steve Taylor had the grace to blush.
“Your Daddy and I just need to get to know each other better that’s all,” said Anne cheerfully, “Don’t you agree?” She gave Steve Taylor a broad smile. He returned it with a surly shrug.
An uncomfortable silence descended on the group.
“Let’s go and eat, shall we, I’m starving?” declared Owen, winking at Lynette who winked back and flashed a bright smile.
Owen, Lynette decided, was cool. Of Anne, she was less sure but would reserve judgement. It wasn’t as if she had any choice. As things stood, she could but hope the meal was worth getting dressed up for. She had wanted to wear jeans and a top but her mother had insisted she wear a dress. Lynette scowled inwardly. She hated having to wear a dress. “Will there be ice-cream for desert?” she asked Owen, who smiled and assured her there would. He has a nice smile, she was thinking as they entered the hotel restaurant, unaware that Owen was thinking the same about her.
Indeed, Owen relaxed considerably over dinner, enjoyed himself far more than he’s expected and was glad he’d let Anne twist his arm to come. He and Lynette bonded quickly, the child laughing and giggling in turn at a string of anecdotes with which he kept her entertained while the others struggled to make conversation.
Anne was both delighted and irrationally annoyed to see Owen and Lynette getting along so well. Sensing that Steve Taylor was none too pleased at the way Owen was monopolizing his daughter, she attempted to make small talk. “So, tell me Steve, what do you do?”
“I’m a truck driver.”
“That must be very…interesting.”
“It can be.”
“I’ve always thought a life on the open road must be fascinating. Not for me, though. I’m far too much of a home bird.” She managed a little laugh but neither Cathy nor Steve reciprocated.
“It’s dead boring most of the time,” Steve growled and tucked into a fillet of plaice while cocking an ear at one of Owen’s tales, something about a cat chasing a dog up a tree, with which he has Lynette captivated. He couldn’t resist a grin, and wondered if he hadn’t perhaps misjudged the older man who had struck him at first glance as something of a dry old stick. The Gates woman, he disliked intensely. He certainly wasn’t happy about the way she and Cathy were chatting away like old friends. Something about the little woman got his back up. The bottom line being, he simply didn’t trust her.
“I love that dress,” Anne was saying, “Lynette’s too. But plum is my favourite colour. Not everyone can carry it off of course.”
“I try,” said Cathy modestly, but pleased. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had expressed approval of anything she wore. Lynette, of course, invariably did. Somehow, though, flattery didn’t carry the same weight on the lips of a child. “I like yours too. Turquoise suits you.”
“I try,” Anne parried with a broad smile. The two women laughed companionably. “Have you been to Brighton before?”
“Oh, yes, lots of times. We love it.” Cathy lowered her voice, “To be honest, Steve and I have been going through a rough patch. You know how it is sometimes, all work and no play. We thought coming here might be just the thing to help smooth over a few cracks, so to speak.”
“And what’s the verdict?”
“So far so good…” Cathy muttered with a sidelong glance at her husband that told Anne a very different story.
More than a few cracks, thought Anne, that’s for sure. Careful, though, not to betray any such concern, she continued to smile pleasantly while struggling to prevent conversation from drying up completely. Inwardly, she railed against Owen. It was all very well that he and Lynette were getting alone like a house on fire but he was meant to be supporting her, not least by distracting Steve. “I love Brighton too,” she told Cathy, taking herself and everyone around the table by surprise. Even Owen stopped in mid-flow. “I suppose I shouldn’t, really, but I do. I can’t help it. I just love it here in spite of…everything…” Her voice trailed off.
It was Cathy who broke the awkward silence. “Life is full of surprises,” she said. Turning to Steve, she went on, “I mean to say, look at you and me darling, we’re still married!” She gave a laugh that rang false and embarrassed everyone.
“I’m ready for ice-cream,” Lynette announced loudly, and a relieved if strained, chuckle spread around the table.
The meal over, Steve got up from the table after Lynette said she wanted to see the garden. Cathy assumed they would all go but Anne caught her by the arm. Owen was already on his feet and Lynette wasted to time seizing his hand as well as her father’s.
Steve glared daggers at everyone.
Owen observed that it was getting late and he was very tired. “It has been lovely to meet you all. Thank you for a delightful evening. Mother wouldn’t have wanted me to sit on my own brooding.” Gently but firmly, he extricated his hand from Lynette’s, bent down to accept her kiss on his cheek and hurried off.
Having suggested to Cathy that they have another cappuccino, Anne indicated as such to a passing waitress without waiting for an answer. Steve opened his mouth to protest, but Lynette was already dragging him away before he could say a word.
“Come on, Daddy. You promised...”
“Don’t let her dirty her dress,” Cathy called out, but the pair were already well on their way and if either heard they gave no sign. The child’s eagerness contrasted with the man’s show of reluctance although Anne guessed Steve Taylor was only too glad to have an excuse to get away. From me or Cathy, she wondered, and decided on the former.
“I don’t think your husband likes me,” said Anne quietly.
“It takes him a while to get used to people, that’s all. It’s nothing personal,” Cathy lied.
“Does he see me as some kind of threat, I wonder? I do hope not. He certainly has no cause to worry on that score. Oh dear, am I being too forward? I mean, it’s quite understandable. What man would take kindly to a complete stranger intruding upon a family holiday, not to mention trying to monopolise his wife.
“It’s my holiday too,” Cathy pointed out, “and you’re not intruding...or monopolising. On the contrary, I’m glad we met.”
“Are you? Are you really?” Anne clapped her hands, her face flushed with pleasure.
“It’s nice to have someone to talk to for a change,” said Cathy without thinking, and only fleetingly considered retracting her words before pressing on. “We don’t talk, you see, Steve and me. That is, we never discuss anything. Or if we try, he can never see anyone’s point of view but his own. So, I ask you, what’s the point?”
“It must be very frustrating for you,” Anne murmured sympathetically, I had the same problem with my ex-husband, especially after Patricia…disappeared. Perhaps I asked too much of him, I don’t know. Tom thought the world of her but there was no strong emotional attachment. I know that’s sounds like a contradiction but…Oh, I don’t know…It’s almost as if she were little more than a doll to dress up and play with and that’s what he missed after she…disappeared. It wasn’t Patricia he missed at all. Oh, dear,” Anne berated herself, “I’m not being fair am I? I can’t explain it. I so needed him to understand how I felt but…” She sighed. “It was as if we became two different people once Patricia was no longer there. I hadn’t realized how much our marriage depended on her. She held it together, held us together. Without her…it’s like I said…we were two completely different people…ships in the night. Don’t get me wrong. Tom wasn’t a bad father or husband. He simply wasn’t…”
“…quite up to being a good one either? I know what you mean. Don’t I just! Steve’s much the same. He adores Lynette, and I think he loves me too in his own way. But it isn’t…”
“Enough.” Anne said gravely. It wasn’t a question. Involuntarily, she let her thoughts drift to her own marriage.
“Not nearly enough,” Cathy agreed with a passion that amazed even her. “Was that it, she wondered? Was her marriage so meaningless now, not worth the saving even for Lynette’s sake? She fought back tears, acknowledging that she hadn’t really needed to come to Brighton to confirm what she already knew.
“Does Steve understand about your lost childhood? It must be so hard for you, not knowing quite who you are…” Anne hauled herself back to the present and forced herself to concentrate.
“There’s not much chance of that I’m afraid. Whenever I want to talk about it, he just tells me to see a shrink. Go privately, he says. I’ll pay, he says. But I don’t need a shrink, I…”
“Need a husband,” murmured Anne.
“You said it. I need a husband, someone I can turn to, someone who will support me and at least try and understand why I get so frustrated, so angry, so…frightened.”
“Frightened?” Anne thought she knew what the other woman meant but was curious all the same.
Cathy merely shrugged. She hadn’t meant to say that and it left her feeling acutely uncomfortable. Even so, she was enjoying this heart to heart with Anne Gates. It felt good to have someone to talk to; someone who genuinely seemed to care; someone who understood if only partly; someone willing to listen. At the same time, she felt suddenly very vulnerable, as if she were standing at the edge of a cliff, peering down, feeling dizzy and vaguely aware that she was in immediate danger of losing her balance. Why had she said that, about being frightened? It wasn’t true…or was it? Of course she was frightened. She was scared stiff. But it wasn’t something she wanted to look at too closely. Not now, and certainly not here. “Listen to me, whinging on as if I were the only person with problems. Poor Anne, you have more than your share, for heaven’s sake. Cathy Taylor, you can be so selfish sometimes. Forgive me, Anne. It’s just that…”
“I know, my dear, I know.” Anne reached across and patted the younger woman’s hand as she might have tried to reassure a disturbed child. “There’s absolutely nothing to forgive. I only hope I haven’t made things worse, between you and Steve. I mean, encouraging you to…”
“Face my demons?” Cathy raised a parody of a smile that had the immediate effect of making Anne feel both wretched and guilty. .
Anne tried to sound reassuring. “We all have to do that at sometime or another,” she said. “I only hope I haven’t raised any new ones for you. It’s good to talk, open up closed doors and let in some fresh air. But opening doors is one thing, what we do about it is something else. Do we stay put or do we go though the door and, if we do, what direction shall we take and where will we end up?” She promptly took herself to task. “But, hark at me, a proper little philosopher I don’t think! I’m the one who should be apologizing. I meant this to be a treat for you. Instead, you’ve had to listen to the meanderings of a bitter old woman.” Anne laughed.
“You’re not old,” Cathy contradicted her immediately then, “Nor do you sound bitter. Are you bitter? God knows you have every reason to be.”
The directness of the question caught Anne off guard. She was momentarily at a loss how to answer. A knee jerk denial on her lips adamantly refused to budge and transform itself into speech. She began to panic. Had it all been for nothing, years of working so hard at not being bitter, trying to salvage as much of her old self as she could? She was sad, yes, even heartbroken. But she had never thought of herself as a bitter woman. So why had she said that? Hadn’t she always taken everything in her stride, made the best of things rather than despairing of the worst all the time?
Owen, Anne recalled, had said his mother was stoic. The description would be more appropriately applied to herself, surely? Alice Shepherd was her own worst enemy who had made her bed and died in it. She, Anne Gates, on the other hand, was…what exactly? A victim of… what, whom? Should she blame fate, God, the monster who abducted her daughter, Tom…or herself?
Anne’s head began to swim. She had never consciously thought of herself as a victim but preferred to see herself as a survivor. There was no surviving bitterness. It was tantamount to pressing a self-destruct button.
“No, my dear,” Anne heard her voice as if from a great distance, “I’m not bitter.” But the words rang hollow. Nor had the earlier feeling of panic completely subsided.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Steve Taylor as he approached the table, Lynnette skipping beside him. “My mother always used to say, bitterness is a slow poison. Better to love and go to an early grave, she’d say, than be a long time buried alive. I used to think she was just playing with words.” He looked directly at Cathy as he spoke but she was too preoccupied with combing out knots in Lynette’s windswept hair to notice.
“And what do you think now?” Anne couldn’t resist asking.
Steve shrugged. “You grow up, don’t you, and discover the truth about all that stuff for yourself.”
Lynette yawned.
To be continued on Monday.
