Robert Goddard - Borrowed Time

“Rowena’s why. I can’t explain over the phone. But it is urgent. She’s… not well. And I thought… But if you can’t make it…”

“No, no. It’s all right. I can rearrange things. What’s wrong with her?”

“I can’t go into it. Not now. But tomorrow…”

“OK. I suppose I could get up there around midday. I’ll need your address.”

“It’s a long way. Wouldn’t it be quicker if you drove to Reading and caught a train from there? Then I could pick you up at the station.”

“Oh there’s really no-”

“I’ve got a timetable for that line. We could fix it up now. It’d be easier this way, Robin. Believe me.” And something almost pleading in her tone stopped me offering any further resistance.

She was waiting for me at Temple Meads as promised, anxiety lending a briskness to her self-controlled manner. There was some other more lasting change at work as well. Her style of dress had altered-black sweater and leggings under a short snappy overcoat-but no more so than the transition from student to professional lawyer could have explained. Her appearance was designed, if anything, to conceal her personality. And perhaps that’s what I noticed. An invisible barrier between us. A layer of caution her mother’s death had temporarily peeled away. Now, it was back in place.

An exchange of platitudes about our careers carried us as far as her car. I didn’t ask-though I wondered-if collecting me from the station was a ploy to give her time to prepare me for what was awaiting us in Clifton. Rowena, presumably. Who wasn’t well. Whatever that meant.

What it meant Sarah swiftly explained as we headed west along the riverside. The day was cold and grey, overnight fog still lingering. Autumn’s consolations were nowhere to be seen-or sensed. “Rowena tried to commit suicide last Monday, Robin. She’s all right now. But it was a serious attempt, according to the doctors. Aspirin, tranquillizers and gin in sufficient quantity to have killed her if I hadn’t popped back to the flat at lunchtime-which I don’t normally do.”

“Good God.”

“Yes. Quite a shock.”

“But surely… I thought your father said… how well she was doing.”

“That’s what he chose to believe. With Bella’s encouragement. Actually, Rowena did put up a pretty convincing show for them. Fooled me too. But that’s all it can have been. A show.”

“Is your father… Well, are they…”

“Coming back? No. Because they don’t know. I honestly don’t think Daddy-far less Bella-would be any help to Rowena at the moment. He’s besotted with Bella, you know. Well, of course you know. She’s your sister-in-law. Sorry. That sounded like an accusation. Bella is what Bella is. Far more than Daddy can resist. I’d think it was laughable if he weren’t my father. As it is, it’s positively embarrassing.”

“But… I understood… They told me you’d given them your support. Quite willingly.”

“There was no point doing anything else, was there? No point letting that scheming bitch-sorry, letting my stepmother-see what I really thought.”

“Is this why Rowena took an overdose?”

“I’m tempted to say yes. It’d suit me quite well to blame Bella for what’s happened to Rowena. But let’s not kid ourselves. She’s not the reason.”

“Then what is?”

She glanced round at me, but didn’t reply directly. I suppose I already knew the answer. Sir Keith hadn’t been told. But I had. Because I might understand. We were crossing the river now. Ahead, I could just make out the blurred lines of the suspension bridge spanning the murk-filled Avon Gorge. We were nearly there. In more ways than one. “That afternoon at Frensham Pond,” said Sarah. “Remember? Nearly a year ago. I thought it was only a question then of putting the trial behind us. I thought Rowena was just in mourning. Like I was. But she wasn’t, was she? It was always more than that. I realized you knew what it was. I told myself it was nothing. I went on pretending it was nothing. But pretending hasn’t got us very far, has it?”

“You’re wrong, Sarah. I didn’t know and I still don’t.”

“But you’ve a faint idea. Haven’t you?”

“Maybe. An inkling, perhaps.”

“About Mummy?”

“Something about her, yes. About how she was… that last day.”

“Which you and Rowena share?”

“In a sense. But… Well, I think so. Yes.”

“Then help her put it to rest, Robin. Please. For all our sakes.”

They lived in a second-floor flat in a graceful Regency terrace on the edge of Clifton Village, decorated in a strange blend of exoticism and formality. Rowena behaved more normally during our awkward lunch party than I’d expected, referring obliquely to her “illness” and talking about resuming her mathematics course as soon as possible. Afterwards, Sarah said she had to go out but would be back for tea. I was left in the lounge while the sisters conducted a strained and whispered conversation at the door. “Just talk to him, Ro,” I heard Sarah say. “It’s all I ask.” Then the door closed. Rowena went from there to the kitchen and showed no sign of joining me. Eventually, I felt forced to join her .

“Is that coffee you’re making?” I asked, seeing the kettle in her hand. She started violently, sending a spout of boiling water sizzling across the hob. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s all right,” she said, leaning against a worktop and closing her eyes for a second. “My nerves. They’re a bit… frayed.”

“Of course. I quite understand.”

“That’s what Sarah thinks, doesn’t she? That you understand, I mean.” Her eyes were open now and trained squarely on me. I’d forgotten how disconcertingly huge they were, as wise it seemed as they were innocent. Then she looked away. “I’m not allowed coffee. But if you-”

“Whatever you’re making.”

“Herbal tea.” She smiled. “Supposed to be calming.”

“Tea it is, then.”

She spooned some of the dustily unappetizing leaves into a mug for me, added water to her own and mine, then led the way back to the lounge. She sat by the window, her mug cradled in her hands, inhaling as she drank. Perhaps the herbs were working. She seemed calm enough. Almost contemplative. As if she’d seen reason. Or given up hope of seeing it.

“I was sorry,” I hesitantly began, “to hear about… your trouble.”

“Were you?”

“Of course.”

“Why? We hardly know each other.”

“No, but-”

“I didn’t plan it, Robin. I didn’t spend weeks building up to it. I’d even forgotten it was Mummy’s birthday. November the eleventh. I just saw it on the calendar in the kitchen. Sarah had already gone to work. And it was so grey. Like today. Mummy’s birthday. And Daddy away on a cruise with a… new wife. Do you think he remembered?”

“I’m sure he did.”

“It’s funny… to have so little control. To see yourself… as if you’re disembodied… weeping and wailing. As if your emotions are just… too powerful to contain.”

“Rowena-”

“They want me to forget her. Daddy. Sarah. And Bella of course. They all want me to forget her. “Put it behind you,” they say. “Accept. Adjust. Go on.” They seem to think it’s so simple. Like the doctors. And the counsellors. And that psychiatrist Daddy found for me last year. They all think the same. That this is just grief. A refusal to come to terms with reality.”

“Your mother is dead, Rowena. Nothing can bring her back.”

“But why is she dead?”

“Because Shaun Naylor murdered her.”

She shook her head slowly, more in sorrow it seemed than disagreement. “I’ve gone over it all so many times. What she said. How she said it. Like I had it on videotape and could replay it over and over again. In slow motion. Frame by frame. Looking for the clue.”