Valentina let out a small laugh. ‘How very un-English of you to talk about money, Frankie. I would not have expected that of you.’
I bet you wouldn’t, thought Frankie with a fixed smile. ‘Are you one of those lucky people, then?’ she pressed.
‘I would say that is my business, wouldn’t you?’
Frankie widened her smile, and taking up a pair of sharp pointed scissors, she snipped off a length of cotton thread, while at the end of the garden a fleet of motor cruisers passed by, engines chugging, happy voices carrying across the water.
‘You do know, don’t you,’ said Valentina when the riverwas quiet again, ‘that Alastair had decided to sell Linston End before he met me?’
‘Really?’ said Frankie.
‘It’s true,’ said Valentina, sipping her wine. ‘He told me that when we met. He said he was bored with his old life, tired especially of living in a house that constantly reminded him of Orla. You can understand that, can’t you?’
‘Of course. But we all thought that with time Orla’s shadow would pass.’
‘Obviously I never knew the woman, but I know enough about her to know that her shadow will never pass from here. She haunts poor Alastair, torments him at night by keeping him awake with terrifying nightmares. I’m surprised you haven’t heard him crying out in the night.’
Frankie glanced at Danny. She could tell from his expression that this was news to him, as it was to her. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said.
‘When we were together in Sri Lanka, and then Kenya,’ Valentina continued, ‘he did not have nightmares; it’s only here it happens. That is why he must leave. You see that, don’t you? It’s for his sanity he has to move away and leave Orla behind. I will make him whole again.’
So where is Alastair now? thought Frankie. Why has he gone off on his own? Why isn’t he here, being made whole by this woman who sees herself as his saviour?
Chapter Fifty-Five
A hundred yards from the ancient church of St Peter, Alastair leftWater Lilyand set off on foot along the overgrown path that led directly to where Orla was buried.
It had surprised him that she hadn’t wanted to be cremated, her ashes scattered at a meaningful landmark, or if not that, her body laid to rest in the heart of a forest in a biodegradable coffin made of willow, or even disposed of in a cardboard box. Certainly she had flirted with those options, but then out of the blue she had declared her wish that, when the day came, she was to be buried with all the bells and whistles of a traditional ceremony. She wanted a lavish casket lined with crimson silk and ivory lace, the sort seen in old horror movies, and from which Christopher Lee would rear up, fangs bared – her words – and a burial plot of her choosing at St Peter’s.
‘A room with a view,’ she had said of where she wanted to be laid to rest, ‘I want a view I can enjoy for eternity, not shoved at the back of the graveyard with only a crumbling wall to look at.’
He hadn’t really taken her seriously, but on her death he discovered she had secretly arranged everything and selected a prime spot.
Location, location, location, even in death, Alastair thought grimly as he stood looking down at where Orla now lay, her feet pointing towards the river. There was an empty space next to her, which, he’d also discovered on her death, was meant for him. A companion plot … bound to each other even in death.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Orla,’ he murmured, crouching down on the wet grass, the smell of damp earth rising up to him, ‘but I have no intention of ending my days here. Not now.’
This was his first visit to her grave since the funeral. He had expected there to be more weeds encroaching, but there were very few – perhaps only the bravest had had the audacity to take root amongst the stone chippings within the raised granite plinth. He began picking at one, tossing it aside, then wondered why he was bothering; the weeds would only return and he wouldn’t be here to halt their advance.
But then for that matter, why was he here at all? Was it to taunt Orla with his plans for the future?To hell with your bloody companion plot, I’m off to pastures new with a beautiful woman who doesn’t have a neurotic bone in her beautiful body! A woman who is giving me the chance to live a life of freedom and endless new possibilities!
Or was it a subliminal need to ask for Orla’s forgiveness?
All he really knew was that he’d come here because he needed to be alone, or more precisely away from everybody at Linston End. He’d never felt so claustrophobic there before, but the last twenty-four hours had closed in on him.
The irony was not lost on him that, of all the places to which he could have escaped, he’d ended up crouched over Orla’s grave. It was as if she had lured him here, tugged on that invisible thread between them and forced him – as good as on his knees – to be with her.
His hands once again pulling absently at a weed, he tried to shake off the feeling that he was here to confront his sins, that Orla was demanding it of him.Why else have you come?he imagined her saying.
‘Because I want to be free of you, once and for all,’ was his answer.
You’ll never be free of me,came back her reply, quick as a flash in his head.Not after what you drove me to!
There it was, the stark ugly truth of his conscience, the recognition that this was his punishment: he was to be permanently shackled to Orla, and the past.
You can run all you like,he heard Orla say,but you can’t hide.
He clenched his hands into tight angry balls. Hecouldrun! He could run and run! Wasn’t it the case that when he left Linston and he was travelling, he was free of the burden Orla had placed on him? That’s why he had to get away, he had to leave all this behind him. He had to be free!
