‘Oh yes,’ she’d said, ‘Danny and I each lie to one another in our different ways. I hide from him just how much I worry about him and his heart, and he lies about his own fears for the future. And look how he was visiting that care home without telling me, and then the mess he got himself into with Suzie Wu.’
Callum could see that she was right, but whatever lies people told in their relationships, and having seen the tragic results of his mother’s feelings for Alastair, he vowed that he would never fall into the same trap with Jenna. He would banish all thoughts he’d ever contemplated about there being the potential for something more than friendship between them. He would not turn himself into a pathetic third wheel admiring Jenna from afar. He would not allow himself to be jealous of the man with whom she chose to spend her life. History would not repeat itself.
He had no idea if Jenna and Blake had established themselves as something more than ‘just friends’, but Blake was here today for the funeral, along with his mother, Laura. In fact the small church was full, mostly with people Callum recognised as local Broadland folk. The vast majority were here because they had been genuinely fond of Alastair.
However, there was one notable absence: Valentina. She had disappeared like a puff of smoke, as though she had never existed. Except she had existed and she had left a trail of devastation behind her. Rachel had sworn that if Valentina did show up for the funeral and made a showy tearful entrance, maybe even with her stepchildren in tow, she would personally bury the three of them in the graveyard. Thankfully there was no sign of the woman. Had she really loved Alastair? It was hard to believe that she had.
To Callum’s left, his father was pressing a handkerchief to his eyes, his head bowed. His other hand, Callum noticed, was wrapped around Mum’s. It gave him hope that his parents might somehow find a way to deal with what had gone wrong between them. He didn’t want them to part. He wanted them to find a reason to stay together. As did Rachel. Was that selfish of them?
His sister was seated next to him on his right, and with her head resting against his shoulder, she was studying the order of service on her lap, the front page of which featured a photo of Alastair smiling happily on boardSwallowtail. Dad had taken the picture a couple of years ago during one of their many days out on the river. Long before any of them had any idea their lives would be so thoroughly disrupted.
Mum and Dad had both lost weight since the accident, each blaming themselves for Alastair’s death. The post-mortem had found traces of alcohol in Alastair’s blood, and consumed much earlier in the day, it put him well under the limit and was not considered to be a contributing factor to his death. The probable cause of death was simply Alastair had fallen asleep at the wheel of his car. Even so, questions had been asked about the state of his mind that day. But just as it had been claimed that Orla had been her usual self the night she drowned, so it was with Alastair. Nobody had wanted to cast him in a poor light – to create a scandal. The truth, it seemed, was best kept to themselves. And maybe that was only right.
But Callum could not help wondering if once again suicide was the real cause of death. Had Alastair deliberately driven off the A11, wanting to bring about an end to his life? Had it all got too much for him?
As it had so many times before, especially so in the last two months, the memory replayed itself in Callum’s head of that night, very nearly a year ago, when he’d overheard the row between Alastair and Orla. He was on his way home in his dinghy after an evening spent at the Wherryman, and thinking he’d call in to let Alastair know he could collectWater Lily, that the engine problem he’d been experiencing had been fixed, he had left his boat in the dyke and approached the house. Lights were on in several rooms, including the conservatory where a door was open, and through which he could hear raised voices.
At first he thought it was something on the television, but then he realised it was Orla and Alastair shouting at each other. He had occasionally heard them argue, much in the same way Mum and Dad did, but this was altogether different, this was real hammer and tongs stuff, with Orla raging hysterically at Alastair, and he in turn retaliating with equal ferocity.
Callum had stood on the lawn transfixed, shamelessly curious to know what they were arguing about. Drawing closer, he heard Orla say, ‘I’ll kill myself if you leave me. I swear it, I’ll kill myself and you’ll have my death on your conscience for the rest of your life. You’ll never be free of me!’
He’d heard what sounded like laughter coming from Alastair – not amused laughter, but taunting laughter – and then the words: ‘Go ahead. Kill yourself and put us both out of our misery!’
Shocked at what he was hearing, and not wanting to hear any more, Callum stole quietly away into the shadows. For all he knew rows like this were a regular occurrence between Alastair and Orla when they were alone, and were not to be taken seriously; they were just part and parcel of Orla’s highly-strung nature.
When the news broke the following day that her body had been found in Linston Broad, and the assumption was instantly made that her death was a tragic accident, Callum waited for Alastair to say something about the argument they’d had the night before, and Orla’s threat to kill herself. But Alastair never said a word, and so Callum kept his counsel. He didn’t tell a soul, probably out of a sense of loyalty to a man he’d always respected and admired. What good would it serve anyway, to say what he knew? It wouldn’t bring Orla back, would it?
His thoughts now strayed to the evening not so long ago, which he had spent with Alastair. When it had been just the two of them enjoying a beer, and when Callum had deliberately steered the conversation towards discussing Orla’s death. He could still recall the sudden change in Alastair’s manner in response to Callum’s questions, and the abrupt darkening of his mood. There had been instant wariness in his expression, and a very obvious refusal to discuss the matter any further. Callum had been stupid to think that Alastair might want to confide in him, and admit that he had lied to the police, as well as in the evidence he had given at the inquest.
But just as he had kept quiet last year about what he knew, Callum would do so now. He saw no reason to stir things up any more than they had been already. Dad and Danny needed to hang on to what was left of their friend’s memory, and Orla’s too. Even if it meant papering over the cracks, or reinventing the past as they wanted it to be. Besides, in view of the extraordinary generosity of Alastair’s will, Callum would feel as if he were betraying the man to divulge what he knew.
The service was now coming to an end and nudging his father, Callum got to his feet. Together with Danny, the three of them were helping to carry Alastair’s coffin out of the church, and to one of his favourite pieces of music by Stan Getz. It was ‘Autumn Leaves’ and could not be more fitting, now that it was early October, and summer was far behind them.
Chapter Sixty-Three
After the last of the guests had left Linston End, having had their fill of wine, canapés and small talk, Simon could still feel the impression of Alastair’s coffin on his shoulder. He never wanted to lose the sensation of carrying his old friend, of doing one last thing for him.
It wasn’t a particularly cold October day, but he had decided, if only for something to do, to light the fire in the sitting room. It was probably where they would all gravitate to, once they’d eaten supper. As he struck a match and watched the flames lick greedily at the balls of newspaper and kindling in the grate, he thought of all the times he, Danny and Alastair had made campfires out in the garden when Aunt Cora had allowed them to sleep in an old army surplus canvas tent she’d had knocking around. At the time they had believed they were blissfully unsupervised, free to do as they liked, but Aunt Cora had been a wily old bird and had, of course, kept a surreptitious eye on them. That was what had always been so great about staying here at Linston End; for them as youngsters, and then for Rachel, Callum and Jenna, it had offered the kind of freedom a child seldom experiences in their own home.
And now the magical house, with its myriad memories, belonged to the children. In a move that had taken them all by surprise, Alastair had written a new will a few weeks before he’d gone travelling last year, leaving the house to the next generation, as he put it. Appreciating that they would never be able to afford the costs involved at their young age, he had also arranged a trust fund for them, which was to be used solely for the upkeep and running of the property. His hope, so hiswill stated, was that in time their own children would one day benefit from spending holidays here, that it would be as transforming for them as it had been for him.
When Simon learned of the contents of Alastair’s will – obviously written before he’d met Valentina and decided to sell up – any last residue of anger he had harboured towards his old friend for his betrayal in sleeping with Sorrel was swept away. He could not remain angry with Alastair. Yes, lines had been crossed, and in the worst possible way, but there was nothing to be gained in dwelling on their mistakes; better to accept they had each played their part.
‘You all right, Dad?’
Still crouching in front of the fire, the box of matches in his hand, Simon glanced over his shoulder to see Rachel. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Well, as fine as can be expected in the circumstances.’
She came and knelt on the hearthrug with him. ‘It’s been a bloody awful day, hasn’t it?’
He sighed. ‘Yep, bloody awful just about covers it.’
‘Danny’s suggesting we have a fish and chip supper, what do you think?’
‘As ever, I think Danny’s right.’
‘He’s also suggested that we look at all those old photos you unearthed from way back when. We never got the chance to see them when we were here in August, did we? It seems a fitting tribute to Orla and Alastair.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it does.’
