Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

Jeanette was more than an assistant. In fact, in the years since Lydia’s death she had become a friend-someone to confide in, if not to love in the way Daphne had loved Lydia.

Turning back from the door, Jeanette said, “Don’t forget I’m going to ferret out that Muriel and send her to you. You’d best be prepared.”

As she watched her go, Daphne noticed that the cardigan she wore over her navy polyester dress sagged in the back, and a sleeve had started to fray. Jeanette had a birthday coming up-perhaps she should buy her a new one. Of course Jeanette might interpret the gesture as criticism, and Daphne would never wish to hurt her feelings. Maybe she should just leave it alone.

Rising, Daphne went to the window. Her office was on the second floor, overlooking the circular drive and the parkland running down to the road. Even in the early evening dimness she could still see the splash of the daffodils in the grass under the spreading trees. They had been late this spring, hesitant to show their faces after a particularly harsh winter.

For a moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of imagining that nothing had changed, that she could spend this April evening as she had spent so many others. She would slip away after dinner in Hall and take out the little Volkswagen she kept parked behind the outbuildings. Down the drive, out into Hills Road, a right on Station Road, a jog into St. Barnabas. Then a precious hour or two with Lydia, curled up on the sofa in the study, drinking sherry, listening to music, talking about their respective days.

She would tell Lydia the latest Muriel anecdote-Lydia would laugh and they would spend a delicious few minutes inventing mythical punishments for the poor girl. Daphne smiled at the thought of Muriel chained to a windy crag, awaiting the arrival of a fire-breathing dragon. A lot of good her busty bossiness would do her then.

Lydia would read Daphne the poem she’d been working on that day and they would discuss it, tweaking it here and there until Lydia pronounced herself satisfied. Although Daphne’s field was history, she had a good ear, and Lydia often said that the mere act of reading a poem aloud let her see what it needed.

Their companionship had been easy, undemanding, yet more satisfying than any Daphne had ever known.

She turned away from the window and straightened her skirt. Enough was enough. Too much nostalgia quickly became a maudlin wallow, and she had business to attend to. A small framed mirror on her bookcase allowed her to pat her hair into place and adjust the collar of the white silk blouse she wore with her suit. She supposed she had better put on the tailored navy coat, the better to intimidate Baines.

How could she possibly have imagined, in those long-ago Cambridge days, when they had defied anything and everything just for the sake of it, that she would become the very thing railed against?

Frowning, Kincaid sidestepped the group of giggling teenagers who had nearly cannoned into him. Hampstead High Street seemed exceptionally busy for a Thursday evening, and as he walked downhill from the Underground station, he negotiated the crowded pavement with less than his usual good humor.

He’d stalled at the office, finishing paperwork that could have been put off till tomorrow, hoping for a word with Gemma, only to discover she’d left for the day without telling him.

Now, as he made his way home in the twilight, he felt both exasperated and unsettled. Accustomed as he was to making professional decisions with ease, he found himself at a loss when it came to dealing with the polite distance Gemma had put between them. Was she waiting for an apology? he wondered as he turned into Carlingford Road. But why should he apologize when he’d done nothing deserving of censure?

Entering his building, he climbed the stairs without bothering to switch on the lights, relying on the faint illumination from the window in the upstairs landing. In the dim silence of the stairwell, he heard the pounding of his heart, and the small voice asking him if he were sure Gemma had no cause to be upset. What did he feel about Vic, seeing her again after all these years?

The question hung unanswered as he let himself into his flat. At the sound of the door opening Sid looked up from his position on the sofa, stretched, blinked, and promptly went back to sleep.

“So you’re not thrilled to see me, either,” Kincaid said, giving the inert cat a scratch behind the ears. He went on through the sitting room and out the French doors to the balcony. The garden lay in deep evening shadow, and the kitchen lights came on in the house opposite as he watched. He felt isolated, and suddenly the prospect of an evening alone in the flat with only the cat for company seemed very uninviting.

He remembered when he’d welcomed such evenings as a much-needed buffer from the demands of work, had even resented all but the occasional social obligation. But it seemed he had changed without realizing it. He missed Gemma, damnit, and to his surprise he found he missed Toby and the usual confusion of their evening routine.

A shadowy movement in the garden below caught his eye, and the shape coalesced into his downstairs neighbor, Major Keith, rising from a kneeling position. Although he and the Major had become friends upon the death of their neighbor, Jasmine Dent, and the Major often looked after Sid for him, Kincaid had seen him little the past few months. “Major! Come up for a drink,” he called on impulse. That omission, at least, was something he could rectify.

The Major waved at him in acknowledgment, and a few minutes later appeared at Kincaid’s door, looking freshly scrubbed and brushed. A short, stocky man, his skin had never lost the tropical sunburn acquired during his years in India, and his thinning, iron-gray hair still bristled with military correctness. Kincaid had found, however, that the man’s gruff and reticent manner concealed a kind heart and a keen perception, and he had come to both like and trust him.

When the Major had settled into Kincaid’s armchair with a generous whisky, he cleared his throat and drew his brows together. “So, Mr. Kincaid, I haven’t seen your young lady about much recently.”

It was as close to a direct question as Kincaid had ever heard the Major ask, and deserved an honest answer. “Um, she’s a bit put out with me, actually. My ex-wife rang me up out of the blue, asking a favor, and the whole business seems to have made Gemma cross.”

“Did you grant the favor, then?” asked the Major.

“As much as I could, yes. It was a professional matter, and I haven’t quite wrapped it up.”

The Major looked at him thoughtfully, and after a moment said, “Could it be that you’re not eager to wrap things up, as it were?”

Kincaid looked away from the Major’s direct gaze. Was he delaying things unnecessarily? In the beginning, he’d been motivated only by curiosity and courtesy, but now a simple phone call telling Vic what he’d learned would have discharged his obligation-had he really needed to arrange to see her again?

He had to admit he was intrigued by the contrast between the woman he’d known and the woman she’d become, and yet at the same time he was drawn by the familiarity of her. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

The Major appeared to give this inadequate answer due consideration while he sipped his drink, then said slowly, “Tempting as it may be, I’ve found it unwise to try to recapture the past.”

Newnham

21 April 1962

Dearest Mummy ,

I’m a bit late with my letter this week, but I’ll write until I can’t keep my eyes open a moment longer .

The day began gray and drippy, a good day for working, so I settled in early at my desk, surrounded by an enormous pile of books, and started the outline for my paper on the English Moralists. This is my opportunity to synthesize all the reading I’ve done the last two terms, as well as to express my own opinions, and I must say I feel enthusiastic about it, daunting as it is .