‘What time are you expecting Dad back?’ she asked.
‘Sixish — same time he always comes home,’ responded her mother, puzzled.
‘Yes. Sorry.’ There was a long silence as Joyce searched for the right thing to say next. ‘I wish I was expecting Charlie home.’
‘Of course you do, sweetheart.’ Her mother’s voice softened. ‘Has it been a bad day? Come and sit down.’
Hoping her hot cheeks had not turned too red, Joyce took the mug of tea to the table, and sat.
‘I’m sorry if I wasn’t as welcoming as I should have been,’ said her mother. ‘You know you can come around here and talk, or just be here, any time you like, don’t you?’
Joyce sipped her tea and said nothing.
‘I do understand how you’re feeling,’ Felicity continued. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get over losing your brother. Not completely. It’s the little things, isn’t it? You find yourself making sure you’ve got the breakfast cereal he likes, remembering how he likes his eggs, planning his favourite dinner. I do know, Joyce.’
Joyce could only stare at her. It was typical of Felicity to empathize, or try to. But losing Charlie was nothing like losing William. Felicity had no idea what a moody bastard Charlie had been at home. Or at least, Joyce assumed she hadn’t.
She wondered again for a moment if she should summon up all her waning courage, plunge in and tell her mother about the letter and take it from there. Did it matter if Felicity told Henry? Presumably he would have to know sooner or later, if Joyce were ever to solve this mystery.
With one hand she felt the pocket of her cardigan. She had removed the letter from its hiding place beneath the bread bin and slipped it there before leaving The Firs.
Then Felicity spoke again:
‘It’s hard for your father too. After all, he worked with Charlie every day. He doesn’t say much — you know what he’s like. Nobody could ever replace William for your father. That’s why he’s shut the loss out. But I do think he’d come to regard your Charlie as a second son. And there’s no doubt he misses him terribly.’
Joyce grasped the opportunity to steer the conversation toward the concerns raised by the letter, hoping she could find answers without mentioning the letter itself.
‘Yes, they were close, weren’t they,’ she said. ‘Not that Charlie ever talked about it much — or work, come to that. Is Dad still as tight-lipped as ever?’
‘Well, you could put it like that,’ said Felicity. ‘It’s the way your father is, that’s all. He’s the old-fashioned hunter-gatherer, bless him. He doesn’t believe in bringing his work home. The way he sees it, a wife shouldn’t have to worry about finances, work problems, or anything like that.’
‘Wouldn’t want you worrying your pretty little head, eh?’ said Joyce mischievously, managing a grin in spite of the way she was feeling.
‘Now, Joyce, you are terribly naughty,’ scolded her mother, speaking to her the way she had when Joyce was a child. ‘You know perfectly well that your father has never said such a thing to me in the fifty years we’ve been together.’
‘So you say,’ muttered Joyce.
‘And I’m absolutely sure Charlie never said anything like that to you,’ her mother continued, as if Joyce hadn’t spoken. ‘He wouldn’t have dared.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Joyce. ‘I sometimes thought he was on the verge of saying it, though. He would never tell me anything about anything. If I so much as asked him what sort of day he’d had, he’d go all secretive and change the subject.’
She paused, trying to get the right note of playfulness into her voice.
‘Tell you what though, Mum, I bet you know everything about Tanner-Max. In fact, I bet you’re the one who runs the place, only it’s a deep dark secret. It’s all a front, isn’t it? Dad just won’t let on how much he depends on you.’
Her mother leaned over the table and appeared to focus her attention on her pie-making as she answered: ‘I can assure you, I know next to nothing about the business. Why would I want to?’ she asked. ‘That’s your father’s territory.’
Joyce sighed inwardly and changed tack.
‘And he was always a good father, wasn’t he?’ she asked.
Her mother looked up from her pastry, eyes alert. ‘What sort of question is that? You know he was a good father — and still is! What’s got into you today, girl?’
‘And a good father to William, too?’ persisted Joyce, refusing to allow her mother to divert her from her purpose.
‘Of course your father was good to your brother. They adored each other.’ Her mother scrutinized her, puzzled.
‘Yes, but did you ever think maybe they adored each other too much, that they might have been too close?’ Even as she blurted the question out, Joyce wondered whether she had gone too far. But if it occurred to her mother that Joyce might be implying something untoward in the relationship between father and son, Felicity Tanner gave no sign of it.
‘I do know what you mean,’ she replied, rather to Joyce’s surprise. ‘It was a bit like they were in their own private club. Nobody else could ever get a look in. But I was always glad that they got on so well. It’s a shame more men don’t get on that well with their sons.’
‘True,’ said Joyce. ‘And it was much the same with Charlie, wasn’t it? Being in their own private club, I mean, with their own private agenda. And we wives were kept right out of it.’
Felicity pushed aside the pie and put her hands on her hips. ‘Joyce, you managed to make that sound quite sinister,’ she said. ‘Whatever has brought this on?’
‘Brought what on?’ Joyce responded, her blush deepening. ‘I wonder about Charlie, that’s all. I know he loved me, and I loved him. And he cared for me and was almost always kind. He did have some black moods, though. And there was definitely something missing in our marriage. I think it was honesty. I just wondered if you felt the same.’
‘Joyce, just because a man likes to keep work and home apart, that doesn’t mean he’s hiding something,’ said Felicity, wiping floury hands on her apron. ‘It doesn’t mean he has secrets. Well, not the sort of secrets a wife should worry about anyway.’
‘And what does that mean?’ asked Joyce sharply.
‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ It was Felicity’s turn to blush. Her skin was even paler than her daughter’s. Practically translucent. The flush started around her neck and spread instantly up over her cheeks. ‘Only a figure of speech,’ she said.
‘You’re blushing, Mum.’
‘So are you,’ countered Felicity.
‘No, I’m hot, that’s all,’ lied Joyce.
‘Well, if I am blushing it’s because you’re embarrassing me with all your questions,’ said Felicity.
‘It seems to me we don’t ask enough questions in this family. I mean, Charlie died before his time — in a boating accident, even though he was such a good sailor — and we never did get to the bottom of William’s death.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Joyce!’ her mother snapped. ‘You make it sound as if Charlie was doing nothing more dangerous than messing about in a pedalo on the Serpentine. He was sailing in the Atlantic Ocean. On his own. In November. I know the weather was pretty good, and that it was what he liked to do, but the dangers were obvious, no matter how good a sailor he was. As for your brother: William was knocked down by a motorist who was probably drunk and therefore didn’t stop. It was a tragic accident. They were both tragic accidents. Of course they were.’
‘Maybe. But Charlie’s body wasn’t recovered, so there couldn’t be a post mortem — which might have revealed exactly what did happen to him. And the motorist who killed William was never traced. Yet — and I suspect you remember me telling you at the time — the police manage to track down nine out of ten motorists who are involved in a fatal traffic incident and leave the scene.’