“Perhaps. I think so. Sometime in the future,” she replies.
“Then I’ll see you around, Beth,” Dinny says, with a sad smile.
“Goodbye, Dinny,” she says quietly. He smacks the roof of the car with the flat of his hand and I pull away obediently. In the rearview mirror I see him standing there, hands in his pockets, dark eyes in a dark face. He stays until we have driven out of sight.
Saturday the third of January today. Most people will be back at work on Monday. I will call the Calcott family lawyer, a Mr. Dawlish of Marlborough, and tell him he can put Storton Manor on the market. I have decisions to make, now that I can go forward again. There’s nothing missing any more, no cracks, no excuses to stall. I am quiet as I move around the house. I don’t want the radio on, or the TV for company. I don’t hum, I try not to bang; I put my feet down softly. I want to hear the clear bell-tone of the truths I know ringing in my head. I could leave it all-leave the huge tree and all the holly I painted gold. They could stay, gathering dust and cobwebs until the auctioneer has been and gone with all the good stuff, and the house clearance men have been for the rest. Relics of this odd, limbo Christmas of ours. But I can’t bear the thought of it. That shreds of our lives should be left like Meredith’s apple core in the drawing room bin. Discarded and repugnant.
Industry is good. It keeps my thoughts from overwhelming me. Three things only I will keep: Caroline’s writing case and the letters within it, the New York portrait and Flag’s teething ring. The rest can go. I strip the tree of baubles and beads and clear the last of the Christmas leftovers from the fridge and the larder, scattering the lawn with anything the birds or foxes might fancy. I find pliers in a scullery drawer, climb the stairs to where the Christmas tree is fixed to the banisters, and cut the wire. “Timber!” I cry, to the empty hallway. The tree sags slowly to one side, then flops to the floor like an elderly dog. A delicate, muffled crunch tells me I didn’t find every bauble. Dry needles cascade from the branches, carpet the flagstones. With a sigh, I fetch a dustpan and brush and set to chasing them around the floor. I can’t help conjuring a life for myself with Dinny, picturing staying with him. Sleeping on a narrow bunk in the back of his ambulance; cooking breakfast on the tiny stove; perhaps working in each new town. Short contracts, sick-leave cover. Tutoring. As if anybody would hire a supply teacher with no fixed address. Lying close each night, hearing his heartbeat, woken by his touch.
There’s a knock, and Dinny’s voice startles me from my reverie.
“Is this a bad time?” His head appears around the front door.
“No, it’s perfect timing, actually. You can help me drag this tree out.” I smile, climbing to my feet and wincing. “I’ve been on my knees for too long. And not for any of the best reasons,” I tell him.
“Oh? And what are the best reasons?” Dinny asks, with an arch smile that warms me.
“Why, prayer, of course,” I tell him, all sincerity, and he chuckles. He hands me an envelope.
“Here. A card from Honey. For your help the other night, and for the flowers.” He takes an elastic band from his pocket, holding it in his teeth while he gathers up his hair, pulls it back from his face.
“Oh, she didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, after you’d left Mum’s the other day she realized that she hadn’t actually said thank you. And now that the hormones are settling down, I think she appreciates how vile she’s been for the past few weeks.”
“She had good reason, I suppose. Not an easy time for her.”
“She didn’t make it easy. But it all seems to be working out now.”
“Here-grab a branch.” I open both sides of the front door wide and we grasp the tree by its lowest branches, tow it across the floor. It bleeds a green wake behind it.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have swept up until after we’d moved the tree?” Dinny observes.
“Could be,” I agree. We abandon the tree on the driveway, brush the needles from our hands. Everything is dripping wet out here, weighed down with water. Dark streaks on the trees, like a fever sweat. The rooks clamor from across the garden. Their disembodied voices hit the house, come back again as metallic echoes; I think I can feel them watching us with their hard little eyes like metal beads. My heart is the quickest thing for miles around. My thoughts the least quiet. I look at Dinny, suddenly shy. I can’t give a name to what’s between us, can’t quite feel the shape of it. “Come for dinner tonight,” I say.
“OK. Thanks,” he replies.
I’ve made a meal with the last of anything edible from the larder, the fridge, the freezer. This is the last time. I will throw the rest away. Ancient tins of custard powder; dog biscuits; jars of treacle with rusted-on lids; sachets of ready-mix béchamel. The house will go from lived-in to empty, from home to property. Any time now. I said he could bring Harry, if he wanted. It seemed only right. I feel I ought to have some part in looking after him, in supporting him. But Dinny sensed this, and he frowned, and when he arrives at seven he’s alone. A tawny owl shrieks in the trees behind him, heralds him. A still night, cold and dank as a riverbank pebble.
“Beth seemed a bit better when she left,” I say, opening a bottle of wine and pouring two large glasses. “Thank you for saying… what you said. About Henry being happy.”
“It’s true,” Dinny says, taking a sip that wets his lower lip, traces it with crimson.
All along, he has known. All this time, all these years. He can’t know, then, how I feel now-looking down and seeing I wasn’t walking on solid ground after all.
“What is this, anyway?” he asks me, turning the food over with his fork.
“Chicken Provençal. And those are cheese dumplings. Mixed bean salad and tinned spinach. Why? Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem,” he smiles, and gamely begins to eat. I take a forkful of dumpling. It has the texture of plasticine.
“It’s horrible. Sorry. I never was much of a cook,” I say.
“The chicken’s not bad,” Dinny says diplomatically. We are so unused to this. To sitting and eating together. Small talk. The idea of us together, in this new world order. The silence hangs.
“My mum told me that you were in love with Beth back then. Is that why you would never say what had really happened? To protect Beth?”
Dinny chews slowly, swallows.
“We were twelve, Erica. But I didn’t want to tell on her, no.”
“Do you still love her?” I don’t want to know, but I have to.
“She’s not the same person now.” He looks down, frowns.
“And me? Am I the same?”
“Pretty much,” Dinny smiles. “As tenacious as ever.”
“I don’t mean to be,” I say. “I just want to do the right thing. I just want… I want everything to be all right.”
“You always did. But life’s not that simple.”
“No.”
“Are you going back to London?”
“I don’t think so. No, I’m not. I’m not sure where I’m going.” I look at him when I say this and I can’t keep the question from my eyes. He looks at me, steadily but without an answer.
“Clifford will make trouble,” I say at length. “If we tell them. I know he will. But I’m not sure if I could live with myself, knowing what I know and letting him and Mary think Henry’s dead,” I say.
“They wouldn’t know him now, Erica,” Dinny says seriously. “He’s not their son any more.”
“Of course he’s their son! What else is he?”
“He’s been with me for so long now. I’ve grown up with him. I’ve seen myself change… but Harry just stayed the same. Like he was frozen in time the day that rock hit him. If anything, he’s my brother. He’s part of my family now.”