Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

Nodding, Kit kicked hard at a stone in the path, then spit out the words with the same violence. “Miss Pope said you worked all the time, and that Dad wouldn’t have left if you’d paid more attention to him. She said you weren’t a proper wife.”

Bitch , thought Vic, holding her breath and counting to ten. She’d have a few choice words to say to the nosy Miss Pope, but she would not take her anger out on Kit. And where had Elizabeth Pope got her nasty ideas, anyway? Pillow talk?

“Darling,” she said when she thought she could control her voice, “it was very wrong of Miss Pope to be talking about things that are none of her business. You do know that, don’t you?”

Kit made a slight movement with his shoulders, but kept his head down.

Vic sighed. How could she explain to him what she didn’t understand herself? “In the first place, no one can ever really know what goes on between two people except the people themselves. And things are never as simple in a relationship as Miss Pope made it sound.” She couldn’t blame Ian-tempting as it was, she knew that trying to enlist Kit on her side could damage him even further. “Sometimes people just grow in different directions, develop different needs and interests, and one day they wake up and discover there’s no reason to be together anymore.”

“Except me,” said Kit, taking her generalization personally. “Wasn’t I a good enough reason?”

There it was, thought Vic, the crux of the matter, and she had no excuses to offer for Ian. And the truth, even if it were possible to tell Kit, would still not suffice. Haltingly, she said, “Sometimes grownups decide they’re not ready to be grown-ups, and they do things without thinking about other people’s feelings. It may not be right, but it happens, and we just have to make the best of it.” She couldn’t bring herself to reassure Kit that Ian loved him, for she was not at all sure that he did, and she knew Kit would sense any falsity on her part.

They had walked almost to the outskirts of Cambridge. She could see the goalposts of Pembroke’s Sports Grounds in the distance, a thin, black vertical frame against the poplars. The daylight was fading by imperceptible degrees, for the heavy cloud cover hid any hint of sunset, and a chill little wind had sprung up in the dusk. Putting her arm lightly round Kit’s shoulders, she said, “Come on, love. Let’s turn back. It’s getting cold.”

They turned their backs to the wind and started homeward. Glancing at her son’s still averted face, Vic sensed that she hadn’t yet reached the heart of his distress. What mattered to him so much that he couldn’t say it?

Slowly, she asked, “Did Miss Pope make you angry because you feel I’m not paying you enough attention?”

Kit jerked his head in a nod. His lips were pinched so tightly together that they’d turned white, an effort, Vic guessed, to keep them from trembling. Damn Miss Pope, she thought, and damn Ian, damn them all. But she knew she was shifting blame, that Kit’s security was her responsibility alone, and she had fallen down on the job.

She’d been a fool to get involved with Nathan. Aware of Kit’s vulnerability, she’d still put her own needs first, and now she wasn’t sure she could bear the thought of giving Nathan up.

And Lydia? Was her obsession with Lydia Brooke worth hurting Kit more than Ian had hurt him already? Perhaps Duncan had been right, and she should let it go, but she knew that was impossible even as she thought it. But she would have to tread more carefully, making sure it no longer took first place in her life.

“I’m sorry, Kit,” she said, giving his shoulders a squeeze. “I’ll just have to do better, won’t I?”

He nodded and gave her a swift upwards glance before his face relaxed into a ghost of a smile.

Vic hugged him again. “What do you say we start with a fire, and some hot chocolate, and a serious game of Monopoly?”

The hall clock chimed six as Margery Lester fastened the pearl stud in her ear. Her dress was new and rather successful, she thought, silver with the faintest hint of green, a high collar, and a row of tiny pearl buttons down the back. She’d had to ask Grace to do up the buttons-that was one disadvantage to having outlived one’s husbands; they were occasionally useful.

Yes, the dress would do, she thought as she gave it one last survey in her dressing table mirror. She avoided pinks and blues and lavenders-old-lady colors, she called them, although she certainly couldn’t deny that she had crossed the threshold of that category. But there were still occasions when she caught a fleeting and unexpected glimpse of herself in a mirror and thought, Who is that old woman? Surely not little Margery!

Margery was lithe and brown from tennis in the summer sun, Margery drove open cars a bit too fast, Margery laughed and took lovers… But the boundaries between life and fiction had blurred with the years, and she wondered now if she had ever been that girl, or if she had constructed her in memory as she would a character in a book.

She heard Grace’s heavy footsteps in the hall, then a moment later her face appeared, reflected in the dressing table mirror.

“Madam, the guests will be arriving any time now and you should be down to greet them,” fretted Grace as she crossed the room to flick imaginary particles of dust from Margery’s shoulders. A frown added extra creases to her already furrowed face.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” sighed Margery. “You’re such a tyrant, Grace,” she added, and gave the hand on her shoulder an affectionate pat. “I promise I’ll be down before the bell rings.” She’d given up years ago trying to stop Grace from calling her Madam, for Grace was getting on as well, and seemed more determined with each passing year to turn herself into a parody of an old English family retainer.

Grace met her eyes in the mirror. “You know these parties are too much, you’ll be exhausted tomorrow. Did you remember to take your tablets?”

“Oh, don’t fuss so, Grace,” said Margery, splashing a bit of scent on her throat and wrists. “I’ll be perfectly fine.” In truth, it was Grace who would be exhausted tomorrow, even though Margery had insisted she get help with the cooking and serving. But Margery had had a little weak spell recently, and Grace had been hovering like a mother hen ever since. Margery stood and gave herself a final once-over in the three-way glass, then followed Grace obediently down the stairs.

Her dinner parties, and Grace’s cooking, were renowned, but although she would never admit it to Grace, she was beginning to find them a bit wearing. Perhaps it was just people in general-it took more and more effort to leave her writing long enough to keep up the most basic of social connections. Fictional characters, after all, usually behaved in the ways one intended, though there were no guarantees even there.

Or perhaps it wasn’t people at all, but only that she was growing more jealous of her time-she sensed the grains speeding through the hourglass, and she had so much still to say.

The doorbell chimed as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “See, I told you so,” she said to Grace with a smile.

It was Darcy, early as always, so that he could help with the coats and the drinks. “Mother, dear,” he paused to kiss her, “you look divine.”