Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

The little group in the churchyard watched as he caught up to Eugenia and Kit and helped them into the car, and still no one spoke as the car pulled out into the High and disappeared round the bend.

Then Kincaid said quietly, “His name really is Bob, you know. He told me once. Just plain Bob, but she insists on calling him Robert.”

“God, what a farce,” said Rosemary Kincaid, glancing at her son’s composed face as she lowered herself into the sling of the canvas deck chair. “That sort of thing is distressing enough without any added pyrotechnics.” She had insisted on taking Duncan and Gemma to tea at the Orchard, on the grounds that they all needed fortification after their ordeal, and that she had no intention of setting off for her sister’s in Bedford without a much anticipated visit with Duncan.

After a quick glance at the menu, she said, “Let’s go the whole hog, why don’t we? Pots of tea and sandwiches and scones and cake.”

“Comfort food?” said Duncan with a smile. “Or has Dad been nagging you to eat again?”

“I’d say a good dose of comfort with a dollop of nostalgia would fit the bill nicely. ‘Yet stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?’” she quoted.

“There is,” said Gemma. “Honestly. I saw it on the menu.”

“Then I’ll go and put the order in at the window, honey included,” said Duncan, and scrambled up out of the chair.

Rosemary watched his long-limbed stride as he walked away, then focused on the young woman across from her with frank curiosity. Beautiful? Well, perhaps not in the strictly classical sense, she thought, but certainly very attractive, with the sun glinting from her burnished copper hair and her open, friendly face alight with intelligence.

They worked together, Rosemary knew, but Duncan had mentioned her more and more frequently in the past year, and when he’d come home at Christmas she’d sensed a definite change in the status of the relationship. “You’ve been good for him, you know,” she said, and saw Gemma color slightly. “These last few months he’s seemed more relaxed than I’ve seen him in-well, I suppose since he was a child.”

“You were going to say, ‘Since he was married to Vic,’ weren’t you?” asked Gemma.

“Yes. But I realized it’s not true.” Rosemary glanced at Duncan, standing in the tea queue, hands in trouser pockets. “He was very intense about work then-he’d just made inspector, and there was a lot of pressure to perform. I think the marriage pulled him apart-he could never give enough of himself to either. And in the end the job won out.”

Frowning, Gemma said slowly, “Do you blame him for what happened with Vic?”

Rosemary shrugged. “Not really. It was a difficult situation. Vic responded to living with her mother by learning not to express her emotions. Duncan grew up in a family that voiced their grievances, and so he equated her lack of complaint with contentment. By the time either of them worked out the truth, the damage was irreparable.” She smiled at Gemma’s intense expression. “So the moral is, my dear, if something he does gets on your wick, you’d better bloody well tell him.”

“Oh.” Looking surprised by the off-color expression, Gemma laughed, as Rosemary had intended.

“Men aren’t very good at working things out for themselves, you know,” Rosemary added affectionately. “Sometimes you have to give them a prod. I understand you have a son.”

“Toby. He’s three, and a devil with it,” said Gemma, with obvious pride in his precocity. “Would you like to see a photo?”

Rosemary took the snapshot and gazed at the small blond boy with the impish grin. And as if he weren’t enough to contend with, she thought, their lives were about to become infinitely more complicated. Would Gemma be willing to stick with Duncan if it meant compromising the security of her own child? “He’s lovely,” she said. “Absolutely lovely. And I’m sure he runs you ragged.”

“Who, me?” asked Duncan, returning at last with the tea tray. “I know I’m lovely, but I do try not to take advantage. Sorry about the delay, by the way, but it was chockablock with people wanting tea in the garden. Can you imagine?”

“The wasps seem enthusiastic about the idea, as well,” said Rosemary as she swatted at the one exploring her sandwich. “So you’d best prepare for battle.”

They all tucked in with newly discovered appetites, and as they ate Duncan gave them encapsulated sketches of the cast of characters at the funeral.

“You mean Vic was having an affair… or a relationship-whatever you want to call it-with Nathan?” said Gemma, scattering a few scone crumbs in the process. “That rather puts things in new light.”

“Why? Did you fancy him yourself?” asked Duncan lightly, but Rosemary wondered if he’d felt a prick of jealousy over the engagement of Vic’s affections.

“I thought he looked rather ill today,” said Gemma as she spread strawberry jam on the last half of her scone. “Under other circumstances, though…” She smiled mischievously. “But I’m temporarily unavailable. I’ve lost my heart to a young man named Rupert, and they’ve some lovely postcards and things up at the front. So if you don’t mind…”

“Of course not,” said Rosemary as Gemma popped the last bit of scone in her mouth and finished her tea. “Would you choose the best one for me? I’ll add it to my collection.”

“You’re going to say motherly things, aren’t you?” said Duncan when Gemma had disappeared round the kiosk. “And tell me she’s a nice girl.”

“She is a nice girl, though she’d probably resent both of the epithets. I would say that she’s an attractive and sensible woman , and I hope that you appreciate her.” Rosemary’s tone was half teasing, but she watched him with concern. He was too bright and brittle-she feared what would happen when the coping mechanism failed. And as much as she hated to add to his burdens, she saw no choice. Quietly, she added, “And I did want to talk to you, darling.”

Still determinedly playful, Duncan answered, “That’s the second time someone’s said that to me today, and I fear it bodes no good.”

“I don’t know that good or ill have much bearing here. It’s more a matter of dealing with the truth.”

“Truth?” Duncan frowned with evident unease. “What are you talking about, Mother?”

“Tell me what you see when you look at Kit, love.”

“I see a nice kid who’s been dealt a bloody awful hand of it, and it’s bloody unfair,” he said with vehemence, but she saw no flicker of comprehension.

Rosemary took a last sip of her tea, then said slowly, “Let me tell you what I see, darling. When Kit came out of the church today, between his grandparents, I thought for a moment I was hallucinating.” She reached out and laid her fingers briefly on his hand. “I saw you. Duncan at twelve years old. Not in his coloring, of course-that came from his mother-but in the shape of his head, the way his hair grows, the way he moves, even his smile.”

“What?” His face drained of color.

“What I’m trying to tell you is that Kit is your child. The genetic stamp is as unmistakable as a brand.”

He closed his mouth, made an effort to swallow. “But that’s impossible…”

“The consequences of sex are usually all too possible, darling,” said Rosemary with a smile. “Don’t I remember giving you the birds and the bees lecture-”

“But what about Ian? Surely he’s-”

“Duncan, do some simple arithmetic, for heaven’s sake. The boy is eleven-you and Vic split up almost twelve years ago. I’m sure you’ll find his birthday falls within six to eight months of the time you separated.” Rosemary looked at his glazed expression and sighed. “I’d guess Vic didn’t know she was pregnant when she moved out-I don’t suppose you know when she started seeing what’s-his-name?”