Guilt Edged Page 8

  Today.

  Without me. Without a bed to sleep in. I think I groaned aloud.

  Then came a series from Aidan. Yes, to summarize, Griff was out and safely installed at Aidan’s house in Tenterden; would I kindly join them for supper and possibly – in the absence, he understood, of a mattress on my bed – stay the night with them? Then I could assess for myself the level of Griff’s care.

  There were times – quite a lot, actually – when I wished Aidan spoke English. What on earth did he mean by assessing the level of care?

  Only one way to find out. I texted back that I’d join them as soon as I’d touched base and picked up nightclothes. I wanted to scream, believe me. I wanted to shout. I wanted to swear. But the important thing was that Griff was safe. And that the guy who was waiting to let me out of the car park was getting dead impatient.

  Tim, fluffy and at last sweet-smelling, needed a good brushing, but once I’d retied his ribbon into a nice bow he accepted with good grace that there were other priorities. He reminded me that Griff kept changes of clothing at Aidan’s, where there were also toiletries aplenty, so there was no need to pack anything for Griff; I, on the other hand, might itch to get out of the sober suit in which I’d bearded the police (who always seem more respectful towards me if I’m dressed formally) but should remember that Aidan had a dress code for meals that excluded the jeans I had ready in my hands. And it might be nice to take over some of the many bouquets and pot-plants. Tim would travel in the top of my overnight bag, but didn’t fancy being zipped in and squashed, thank you very much. I suspect that this was so he could make what I was fairly sure was a highly inappropriate gesture to the bear I’d still not got round to moving from the living room. As we drove, he transformed it into a truly regal wave to the rocking zebra currently residing on the roof of High Halden’s famous rocking horse factory.

  It was a good job that Aidan lived in a whopping great house because it seemed that the night nurse he’d employed – so much for that nice nurse’s opinion, but I tended to side with Aidan on this one – had demanded her own bedroom. This seemed to me, and even, I suspect, to Aidan, a contradiction in terms. Shouldn’t she have been flitting round Griff, keeping an eye on his every move, taking his pulse and generally nursing him? It seemed she regarded the baby alarm with which she connected the two adjoining rooms as quite sufficient. Aidan was most apologetic about relegating me to a room without an en suite bathroom, a little way down the corridor. I smiled and declared that so long as it came with a mattress on the bed I’d be happy.

  You’d think that having the responsibility for Griff’s welfare spirited away from me by a combination of Aidan’s ego and wealth, in whichever order, and the Northern Irish nurse who managed somehow to speak without ever moving her upper lip, I’d sleep the sleep of the just. But – probably as a result of the day’s questioning – I was suddenly getting flashbacks to the events the police were interested in. What if they cluttered up my dreams and I woke up screaming? It was best to find some way of clearing my brain before I let myself doze off. The thing that I was most interested in was dodgy china and pottery. White horses and Ruskin. If it really was all dodgy. Who would run a scam like that? Assuming it was a scam. Someone who knew his (or her) stuff, with technical ability, proper equipment and a working knowledge of the market.

  I checked my watch. Was it too late to contact Titus? Not that I suspected him or Pa of involvement, not for one moment. They forged old maps, mainly, or the odd frontispiece allegedly from an historic book. But there was very little that other people got up to that Titus didn’t know about, as much, I suspected, to protect his back as anything else. He knew the police were interested him: what better way to fend them off than to offer them a bigger scam run by a big operator, maybe with other criminal sidelines? To me this seemed no better than grassing someone up, but, as he virtuously pointed out, major crime often involved drugs and/or people trafficking. I still found Titus on his high horse almost a contradiction in terms, but never managed to out-argue him.

  Whatever the hour, there was no reason not to text him anyway. Not quite to my surprise I got an immediate response. No Ruskin he knew of. But did I know why someone should be making little gold picture frames?

  Of course I didn’t: with the price of gold these days, it made more sense to be selling the gold for scrap.

  It really was time to sleep. But before I did so I made a last visit to the bathroom, which took me past Griff’s door. Wanting more than anything else just to see him, I pushed at the door, left slightly ajar. And there he was, trying in vain to reach his painkillers and the glass of water.

  ‘Are you allowed any more of these?’ I whispered.

  ‘Took the last one after supper,’ he assured me.

  ‘Promise?’ I checked the bubble-pack anyway. And then the printed sheet the hospital had sent him away with.

  ‘Another half hour, I reckon,’ I said firmly. ‘You seem to have tipped over a bit – can I have a go at those pillows for you?’ Feeling very professional, I linked arms with him as I’d seen the nurses do, and took his weight. ‘There. Fancy some music?’ Aidan had laid on a radio with earphones. ‘Or shall I help you to the loo?’

  ‘As far as the loo door. I may be an old man but I do have some dignity.’

  His bed tidy, the lower sheet so taut you could have bounced pennies on it, I helped him settle down again, before perching on the side of the bed and holding his hand. He was in discomfort, I figured, not actual pain, so if he was distracted he might forget he needed medication until it was time to take it. So I asked him about the miniatures of Aidan’s ancestors that covered one of the walls. Rows and rows of them in pretty frames: some gilt, some silver gilt, some padded velvet. I have to say there was little family resemblance, or that might have been because the artists were so weak at catching a likeness – or anything else, for that matter.

  ‘As you can see,’ he said with an apologetic smile, ‘most of them are painted by amateurs. In the pejorative sense, I have to say.’

  ‘Which is why they’re not downstairs with the big boys’ paintings,’ I observed cynically.

  ‘Quite. But you put your finger on an interesting fact, my love. At the time those ladies over there painted, circa 1800, miniatures were considered pretty well the only respectable art form for a young lady, apart from a few wishy-washy watercolours and their fans. At one point it was almost de rigueur for young ladies to paint them – and I’m sure you’ll recall references to the small pieces of ivory they were painted on in two of the books we read together.’

  He exaggerated, of course: in those days I could scarcely read, let alone read aloud. So Griff had spent evening upon evening reading the classics to me, making them, with all his actorly skills, come to vivid life. He’d also devised little memory games for me, since most of my life had been spent trying to block things out, not remember them.

  I shook my head. ‘I know you read Jane Eyre to me, and at one point she talked about making a miniature portrait of some evil society cow. There was something about having a piece of ivory ready prepared in her paintbox. But I think you only told me about the other one, which you said every Jane Austen scholar referred to when people complained she only wrote about villages – the piece of ivory two inches wide. By the way …’ I told him about Tristam and his not-Isaac Oliver and how, thanks to Ashford Library, I was hoping to mug up all I could about the genre.

  ‘You’re a credit to me, Lina – a real credit. Especially using and pronouncing the word correctly.’

  I squeezed his hand. I could scarcely keep my own eyes open. He caught me out in a yawn.

  ‘It’s time you caught up on your beauty sleep, dear one.’ He accepted the tablet I gave him, and we worked out he could have the next one at about breakfast time. Just to make sure he didn’t take an extra, either because he was a little dozy or because the night-nurse thought it was time, I took the packet with me. And slept like the dead.

  Raised voice
s woke me next morning. Griff and Aidan’s. I wouldn’t have wanted Griff overhearing any row I might have had with Morris, so I pulled the pillow over my ears and checked my mobile. Some work stuff; one text from Tristam suggesting another drink. One from Brian reminding me about coffee. And one from Morris, pleading, imploring me to see him.

  I was just about to reply when I saw the time. It was after eight! I knew Mary was quite capable of opening the shop (Tuesdays were Paul’s golf days), but I didn’t like to leave her on the premises entirely on her own, particularly as the new mattresses were due for delivery today, so I threw my clothes on and yelled to Griff that I had to fly. At least that shut them up. Of course, I wouldn’t have gone without kissing him goodbye, so I dived into his room, to find Griff sitting on the edge of the bed with one long white sock on. Aidan, red in the face, heaved himself off his knees as I came in. The other sock drooped from his hand.

  I managed not to gasp at the scar running from Griff’s knee to his ankle. I’d known that was where they’d taken some of the replacement artery from, but seeing the site was quite different. Should I offer to take Aidan’s place? My head told me not to, and the reason it gave was that I didn’t want to stir up the trouble between them. But truly, I didn’t wish to risk hurting Griff by touching the poor sore flesh. In any case a text told me the mattress men would deliver within the next hour, so I had to scoot. Really scoot.

  I didn’t bother trying to look calm and serene as I greeted the driver and his mate: they knew I’d pulled up in front of the house a mere half minute before they did. I was just making them tea when I had a text from a valued museum client: if they couriered an item down could I prioritize it? Like do it today?

  I texted back. What was the item?

  Only a Worcester Barr, Flight and Barr vase!

  Forget texts – it was time to speak to the curator in person. Since the vase wouldn’t arrive till the afternoon, and I preferred to work in natural light, I couldn’t do much today, I pointed out. But I’d devote the whole of Wednesday to it, and any of Thursday that was called for. Friday too – sometimes glues and colours needed more time. The call over, I found myself rubbing my hands with pleasure. At last I could return to a nice secure world that I was in charge of.

  Though I made up the beds, I wouldn’t press Griff to return, not until he was ready. Whatever the nice nurse had told me, surely it really was better to have some skilled caring for him. And only then did it dawn on me that showering him and putting those dratted stockings on were surely part of the night nurse’s job. I’d have to grit my teeth and talk about it to Aidan when I joined them for supper tonight. Yes, I’d have to go back to Tenterden. In my haste this morning I’d left Tim in Aidan’s guest room and there was no way he was spending a night there without me.

  ‘So how far did you walk today?’ I asked Griff, hunched in one of Aidan’s overlarge wing chairs. ‘And uncross your legs while you tell me.’

  Furtive or what? I might have caught him nicking Aidan’s better miniatures.

  I stood over him, arms akimbo. ‘You didn’t go out at all, did you? Oh, Griff. And it was a nice day, too. Never mind, let’s wrap you up and walk you as far as the main road and back.’

  ‘I was about to offer a pre-dinner sherry,’ Aidan declared. ‘Don’t you realize, my dear girl, he’s had major surgery? He’s a sick man.’

  ‘These days it’s almost routine surgery,’ I retorted heartlessly, not caring that Aidan was probably still jet-lagged and in need of careful handling. ‘And in any case, he’ll be even sicker if he doesn’t walk. Every day. Every single day. Once today, but twice tomorrow. And three times on Thursday. It’s as important as wearing those socks and taking his pills. Didn’t that night nurse of yours tell you?’ I asked, over my shoulder, as I helped Griff up. Why we’d talked about him as if he wasn’t there I didn’t know.

  There was a silence I couldn’t understand.

  I didn’t press Griff for an explanation, any more than he’d nagged me about Morris. Instead, we made stately progress as far as the end of the road, talking about my Worcester repair job and how long it would take.

  ‘No sign of Morris?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a text. But I don’t want to see him again, ever. I feel so bad about ditching him,’ I added in a whisper.

  ‘With all due respect, my love, I don’t feel you should.’

  ‘You think he ditched me!’

  ‘I didn’t say that. And I didn’t mean it. That lovely Archbishop John Sentamu once said, I believe, that there are two types of people in the world, and I’m going to particularize what he said to lovers. There are radiators, who give off warmth, and drains, people who take it. I see you as the former, and Morris as the latter. And I don’t blame him, but his job, which has to be put first at all times. Not to mention his unusual domestic circumstances. Leda is a charming baby, but she is demanding, it must be said. And there are only so many hours in the day, my love, for him as for you.’ He allowed himself a sigh, but I compelled him to walk another twenty yards. ‘And I simply fail to see why looking after some other woman’s child should be part of your remit.’ He paused, taking a deep breath.

  ‘I wonder what became of that other young policeman who was interested in you. Will.’

  I wondered too. But I didn’t think there was any point in speculating. ‘Probably married with a couple of kids. And someone said he’d left the police.’

  I turned us gently back to Aidan’s. ‘So now you know you can get this far and still keep talking, you must go further tomorrow morning. And tomorrow afternoon. Promise me. Because if you won’t, I shall have to take you away from all this luxury.’

  ‘Home,’ he added – wistfully, I’d swear.

  NINE

  Griff knew I was leaving really early next morning and would try not to wake anyone in the process. I did peep into his room, but he was fast asleep, and that was the way I wanted to keep it, so I didn’t put on even my trainers till I’d fought my way through Aidan’s security system and got outside.

  I’d already put a couple of hours’ work in on the Barr, Flight and Barr vase before my usual breakfast time, leaving the adhesive to start drying while I dealt with the overnight emails. At last I headed off for some toast. Except the bread was mouldy. At least there were a couple of poor Leda’s croissants lurking sadly in the bottom of the bin, squashed and dry but at least edible: they must have been stuffed to the brim with preservatives. Beginning a list of other things I was running out of, I wished I could do what Griff would have done: bake a couple of loaves. But I really had no time. Especially when the rumble of a huge truck down the street reminded me that today was bin day. Bins were usually Griff’s preserve, but they’d be mine for several weeks yet.

  Another near squeak. The wheelie bin reached the pavement just as the refuse truck arrived outside the cottage. I waved as the men, who seemed to run everywhere, jeered at me.

  Dragging the emptied bin back into the yard, I realized at long last how interdependent Griff and I had become. Symbiotic was the word he’d taught me. Gradually, as I’d taken on more and more of the physical jobs as his health had deteriorated, he’d quietly made my life easier in other ways, by nipping off to the village whenever supplies ran short, and sometimes doing a supermarket run if I was really pressed for time. Now I was trying to dash up a down escalator, or so it seemed. Thank God once more for Mary and Paul, whose car was just drawing up. I let them in through the yard gates, locking up securely behind them.

  Paul emerged looking particularly smug, retrieving a large jiffy bag from the rear footwell. ‘Neigh!’ he greeted me.

  Mary smiled apologetically. ‘Yes – another white horse. Though actually I think it’s a red herring.’

  ‘She thinks it’s the wrong size,’ he explained, over the cup of tea I made for us all, as Mary ran an experienced eye over my shopping list, crossing out from time to time and adding other items.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s right,’ I said with a smile
as she scribbled loo rolls. ‘It’s not as big as the controversial gee gees. But this might be controversial too.’ I turned it over and over. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Junk shop in Folkestone. My golf partner needed a lift to pick up his car, so I parked up and browsed round. He was lurking right at the back of the shop – in fact there wasn’t even a price on him. We settled on twenty pounds. Can’t argue with that.’ He patted the little horse. Colt? Foal?

  ‘’Course you can’t,’ I agreed, stroking the glaze. Immaculate. Apart from—

  Paul didn’t miss much. ‘What have you found?’

  I pointed. ‘What does that look like? Under the glaze, here?’

  ‘A bit of a fingerprint. Quality items don’t usually come with faults like that, do they?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Not unless they’re stamped seconds or someone scratches out the trademark. Weird.’

  He laughed. ‘I can almost see your brain working, Lina.’

  ‘I can feel it. But it’s missing a gear at the moment.’ I stared at the wretched thing. And at the fingerprint. ‘I’d like to look at it under the UV light,’ I said. ‘Do you want to see?’

  ‘Don’t be too long,’ Mary told him. ‘You’ve a spot of shopping to do. If you want to eat lunch, that is.’

  And lunch was on Tristam’s mind too. Before Paul and I had got as far as the stairs, the office phone was ringing.

  ‘Just a sarnie?’ he urged, when I turned him down flat.

  ‘I’ve got a rush job on,’ I said. ‘Any other week – but I’m practically fed and watered by intravenous drip at the moment.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then?’

  Hadn’t he heard what I said? But a thought struck me: Griff was safe at Aidan’s – dare I take one evening off? ‘How about after work tonight? Nine-ish?’