On Bone Bridge Page 16

  “My father told her not to torment herself with superstitious nonsense, that she had done the right thing by her first child and that Alexander’s death had been a terrible accident and not her fault. I don’t know if she believed him or, as I’ve said, if she was even listening to him. But I do know I stopped hating my mother that night. She had a nervous breakdown shortly after that. It was one of the reasons we sold the house and moved away. And I also know that having to leave this house almost broke my father’s heart.”

  “And did you find out what happened to your sister?”

  “I found out,” said Robbie shortly.

  I was silent for a while but when he didn’t elaborate I said very gently, “Well, I’m glad you stopped hating your mother. That must have been a great relief to you.”

  Robbie nodded. “That was exactly how it felt, Kay, a relief, like an enormous weight being lifted from me. And not long after that night, before I went back to school, my father took me aside and told me very solemnly that one day it would be my job to protect my mother and my sisters and he asked me to promise I would do that to the best of my ability.”

  “And you promised.” It was not a question.

  “And I promised,” said Robbie.

  “And now, you think that Rosemary needs your protection.”

  I thought about the word he had used when she spoke about her: ‘fragile’. I thought about how she had lost her husband and, very soon afterwards, her mother. It was, now I came to think about it, not unlike my own situation – was that why Robbie thought I was the right person to help her? But, in Rosemary’s case, there were two small children to be taken into account. Was that it? Was Rosemary struggling so badly with grief and depression that she was unable to cope? I stole a sidewise glance at Robbie who was leaning against the doorjamb. One hand hung down by his side – the skin was very brown and I could see the short golden hairs glinting.

  Without consciously forming a decision, I asked, “When do you have to leave?”

  “In two days. That’s the first trip and I’ll be away for seven days, as I said. The second trip is shorter, five days in Crete, but it’s likely that for part of it I’ll be out of phone coverage which means it won’t be possible to phone home.”

  “OK,” I said. “And you honestly think I could be of some use while you’re away?”

  “I do, I truly do, Kay.”

  “Then I will,” I said.

  “Do you mean it, Kay?” Robbie’s face lit up.

  “Yes. I’m not going to pretend it won’t be wonderful to have somewhere to live while this place is being pulled asunder and put back together again. But I’ll only go if you’re absolutely sure that Violet-May and Rosemary-June wouldn’t mind. And I’ll be happy to help out with the kids. But you do realise I’ll need to visit my father every day? And then there’s my writing – I prefer to do that in the mornings but it means I won’t be around the whole time – you do realise that, don’t you?”

  “I know all of that, Kay,” said Robbie. “To be honest I’ll be happy just knowing you’ll be there in the house and will spend a little time with Rosemary when you can, and with the children. Do you like children, Kay?”

  “I love children,” I said quietly.

  “I had the feeling you would,” said Robbie.

  He said nothing more and I was grateful once again that he would never be crass enough to enquire any further into my personal life. And then it occurred to me that it was more than probable he just wasn’t interested enough to want to know.

  Robbie came over then and laid his hand on mine.

  “Thank you, Kay,” he said. “And take it from me, we do need you, you have no idea how much.”

  Chapter 18

  I have never really been able to understand how people can say they love autumn better than any other season. Yes, the crisp cool mornings can be stunning and the leaves changing colours is a beautiful thing, but fundamentally all any of that really means is that things are dying. No, autumn has always made me feel just a little bit sad. And that autumn when I half-reluctantly agreed to move into the Duff house was particularly beautiful.

  I arrived on a Saturday in early September and, while I was parking, Robbie came round the side of the house, holding a small girl by the hand. I got out of the car and walked to meet them.

  “Hello!” He was smiling broadly as though he were really glad to see me. “We’ve been in the garden.” He glanced down at the child. “Somebody wanted to give you a present to welcome you.”

  The little girl stuck out her hand and I saw that she was clutching a small bunch of flowers. I dropped to my hunkers and smiled at her. “Hello,” I said, “my name is Kay. Are those for me?”

  She nodded and I took the small bouquet, still warm from her grasp. “They’re beautiful, and so are you. What’s your name?”

  “Caroline,” said the child and smiled at me shyly. She was a frail-looking, beautiful little thing with very pale skin, remarkably blue eyes very much like her mother’s, and a fuzz of blonde hair that looked like a dandelion-puff in the sun.

  I smiled up at Robbie. “She has to be Rosemary’s daughter, she’s the spit of her. Did you say there was a little boy too?”

  Robbie, who had been smiling fondly at his small niece, nodded and the smile flitted away as though a thought had troubled him. It was back almost instantly, however.

  “I presume you have some bags and things?” he said.

  “Just the one,” I said, straightening up once more. I did not add that I had packed lightly as I was not at all sure how long I would actually stay. I was more than curious to see how his sisters would receive me.

  We walked back to the car to fetch my bag, Caroline still holding Robbie’s hand. When she reached up and slipped her free hand into mine I felt a warm feeling spread through my physical being. I smiled down at her but she was looking ahead and seemed entirely unconscious of the effect of her action. I adjusted my expression to what I hoped was one of nonchalance, but I was careful to hold the small hand as gently as I could, terrified lest I crush her fingers.

  “I wasn’t sure where to park,” I said. “Is it alright there?”

  “Sure,” said Robbie. “You can stick it in the second garage later if you like.”

  He took my bag from me and we walked back to the house, accommodating ourselves to the child’s short stride. As we walked up the steps to the open front door, I caught the glint of mica in the granite, picked up by the sunlight, and a memory assailed me of sitting there on the sun-warmed stone with Violet-May on the day that Robbie played his records so loudly he woke his brother, Alexander.

  In the hall I gazed about me. Everything looked almost exactly as I remembered it, even to the paintings on the wall.

  I turned to Robbie and found him watching me.

  “It’s like you never moved out,” I said.

  “I suppose it is,” said Robbie, looking around him. “It’s a protected building of course so the Swedes and the people who came after them weren’t able to change the structure of the house. As I told you, the original furniture has come back with me too – not all – some of it has gone to the girls, some of it I just didn’t like, frankly. But as much as possible I’ve tried to have everything put back where it was.”

  He turned to me suddenly, a troubled look in his eyes.

  “You probably think all this is weird or unhealthy or something, do you, Kay? Like I’m living in the past or trying to recreate something or –”

  “I don’t think anything at all,” I said, “except that this house was supposed to be yours and now you’ve come home and it is.”

  Robbie’s face cleared. “That’s exactly how I feel – like I’ve come home.” He smiled broadly. “You see, you’re already making things better around here. Come on, let’s go find the girls.”

  As I followed him I could not help wondering just why things needed to be made better.

  Violet-May and Rosemary-June were in the drawing room. H
ere too everything seemed the same, only the people had changed somewhat.

  “Look who’s here,” said Robbie, a little too brightly, I thought.

  Violet-May, who had been flicking through the pages of a magazine, gave a small theatrical squeal, dropped the magazine and got up from the sofa where she had been sprawled. She came toward me in a graceful sashaying movement.

  “Kay,” she said, “how lovely to see you. Look, Rosemary-June, it’s Kay.” Her accent sounded English now, but with a slight American drawl.

  She was dressed casually in a sleeveless white top and loose-fitting pale-grey trousers in some silky material – somehow she managed to make them look slinky and glamorous. As she kissed me on both cheeks I caught the floral notes of her perfume. She seemed to me even more beautiful as a woman than I remembered her as a child. The cloud of dark hair was sleeker now and streaked with expensive-looking highlights. She was tall and, to my mind, just a little too thin but that, I told myself, was splitting hairs. We would both turn forty that year but she did not look a day over twenty-eight. Being human, I could not help but sigh a little at all that perfection. I turned to the other woman in the room. “Hello, Rosemary-June,” I said.

  She had been half-sitting, half-lying in a chair by the window, but she got up now with a languorous cat-like stretch and came toward me slowly.

  “It’s just Rosemary these days,” she said. “With Justin’s double-barrelled family name – Palmer-Jones – it was all getting a bit too ridiculous so I dropped the June.”

  Like Violet-May she had acquired a plummy sort of English accent but without the American twang of her sister.

  She kissed me too but on one cheek only. She was taller than Violet-May, considerably taller than me too, and painfully thin – in her scooped-neck top I could see her clavicle bones sharply defined. Her eyes were just as wide and blue as ever, but she had none of her sister’s glamour and in comparison her fair prettiness appeared a little washed-out. I reminded myself what she had been through, the death of her husband followed by that of her mother, and on top of that she was the mother of two young children. It was hardly any wonder she wasn’t exactly glowing.

  “Please sit down, Kay,” said Robbie.

  I crossed to an armchair and perched on its edge. I felt self-conscious and ill at ease and, when nobody spoke for what seemed like an eternity, I rushed into speaking without really thinking.

  “I was very sorry to hear about your husband, Rosemary,” I said.

  Rosemary bowed her head and said nothing and I wished I had just stayed quiet.

  “Your little girl is beautiful,” I said quickly, and I smiled at Caroline who had climbed onto the sofa next to her mother.

  Rosemary turned to the child and brushed aside the frizz of hair that had fallen over her eyes.

  “Yes, isn’t she?” she said.

  “And Robbie said you had a little boy too.”

  “I do,” said Rosemary, her eyes still on Caroline.

  “Where is Oliver?” said Robbie.

  “I put him down for a little nap,” said Violet-May. “He’s so fretful today I thought Rosemary could do with a break.”

  “What she means is he was giving his aunt a headache,” said Rosemary lightly but I sensed an undertone.

  “OK then,” said Robbie. “I’ll go and make us some coffee and then perhaps, Violet-May, you’ll show Kay upstairs and she can get herself settled in.”

  Violet-May, who had gone back to her seat and resumed reading, looked up and gave me a fleeting smile.

  “Anytime you like,” she said languidly then went back to her magazine.

  Robbie left the room and there was silence. Violet-May was engrossed in her magazine. I glanced at Rosemary. The half-smile was back on her lips and she was examining the rings on her left hand. I wondered if I was just imagining an atmosphere and, if not, whether it had something to do with my coming to the house. I decided I would sound Violet-May out as soon as I had an opportunity to speak to her alone.

  The silence was lengthening. In desperation, I addressed a couple of remarks to Caroline, admiring her dress and her shoes. The child answered me with smiles and nods and the odd shy short sentence and then there was silence once again.

  I was flailing about for something else to say when Rosemary suddenly glanced up from her rings and said abruptly, “How long do you plan to stay?”

  Violet-May’s head jerked upwards and the magazine slid from her silken lap.

  “I’m not exactly –” I began.

  “As long as she needs to, I expect,” said Violet May. “Isn’t that right, Kay?”

  “Well, perhaps – I wouldn’t want to put anybody out,” I said.

  “Dry rot,” said Rosemary musingly, her eyes on her rings once more.

  I waited for more – clearly Robbie had explained the situation at my father’s house – but it appeared that was all she had to say on the subject. Was she doubting the story? I glanced at Violet-May who was also looking at her sister, a peculiar expression on her face. She said nothing, however, but bent down and retrieved the magazine from the floor.

  “I’ve finished with this, Kay,” she said. “Would you like to read it?”

  I didn’t but I nodded anyway and she came across and handed me the copy of Vogue, glossy and almost as fat as a phone book. She wandered over to one of the big windows and stood with her back to me and I gave up on any further attempt at conversation, as even Caroline had turned away from me and was snuggled into her mother’s side, her face hidden by a fall of downy hair. So I opened the magazine and turned the pages and then pretended to read while all the time wondering just how much longer it would take Robbie to make that flaming coffee.

  He arrived back carrying a tray.

  “Oliver’s awake,” he said.

  Rosemary looked up from her hand. “You checked on him,” she said, making it sound like an accusation.

  “No, I heard him warbling as I came through the hall,” said Robbie lightly.

  “I’ll go and bring him down, shall I?” said Violet-May, turning away from the window.

  Rosemary glanced at Robbie again, then got to her feet quickly. “No, I’ll do it,” she said.

  Robbie gave his attention to pouring out coffee and pressing biscuits on me. I relaxed a little then and looked about me at the drawing room, which although it had obviously had a facelift was still very much as I remembered it. Glancing at a photograph on the table next to my chair, I recognised a younger Robbie, dressed in his Master’s conferral gown and cap. Behind him I recognised Mr Duff, an older, frailer-looking Mr Duff than the one I remembered. He had the same ferocious eyebrows that had so awed me as a child and his skin looked as rubicund as ever – I smiled as I recalled that I used to think of him as rusty. By his side was Mrs Duff, thinner than I remembered and, despite the occasion, wearing only the merest whisper of a smile. Looking at her, I recognised the signs of suffering in the downward lines of her face but in spite of everything she was still a very good-looking woman, a fact I had not appreciated as a child. Gone was that up-tilted chin, gone I realised too was whatever that quality had been which made her seem at all times so very alive. Life, I thought a little sadly, had certainly done its best to make her humble.

  It was Violet-May who offered to show me to my “rooms”.

  “Rooms?” I repeated. “Surely I don’t have more than one?”

  “You have two: one for sleeping, one for writing,” said Violet-May as she went ahead of me up the staircase. “Robbie said you want to write.” She glanced over her shoulder at me. “Do you really think you’ll get much done here? With the children about and everything, I mean?”

  “Well, I hope so,” I said. “I imagine I’ll be able to write here as well as anywhere else. As Robbie has obviously told you, I’m having to have a lot of work done on the house.” I plunged into a lot of unnecessary detail then about my father’s fall and the need for downstairs plumbing and the dry rot.

  When I was f
inished talking, Violet-May gave me another look over her shoulder, unreadable this time, and neither of us said anything more until she threw open a door off the first landing.

  “This is your bedroom,” she said and stood aside for me to pass.

  The room was large, bright and airy, with cheery yellow walls and twin bay windows letting in the afternoon sunlight. There was an enormous bed, an oak wardrobe with matching dressing table, as well as a desk and easy chair. The period fireplace was still there but it contained a simulated coal fire which I assumed could spring to blazing life at the flick of a switch. I even had a television.

  I could not fault it.

  “It’s great,” I said, but I stood where I was, just inside the door, feeling slightly ill at ease, like a guest being shown to her room in a guesthouse. What was I doing here?

  “There’s a bathroom through that door,” said Violet-May. “You’re right next door to Caroline and Oliver. I don’t know what Robbie was thinking putting you next to them – but, don’t worry, you won’t hear much – these rooms are practically soundproof. Robbie’s had the heating updated too, you’ll be relieved to hear – it’s not such an ice-box as it used to be when we were little.”

  I looked at her and asked another question that had been on my mind.

  “It must be strange being back here, after all these years, Violet-May. How did you feel about Robbie buying the house back?”