And her father, clutching her mother’s leather jewellery case. ‘Look, Freddy, you know as well as I do that your sister will let that bloody man get his hands on it. I just couldn’t stand it if your mother’s and grandmother’s jewellery turned up in second-hand shops all over Peterborough.’
Placing the cups on the nearby chest of drawers Diane wiped sweaty palms on the back of her jeans. ‘Stick it up your arse, then,’ she suggested, pleasantly.
Freddy had followed her down, taking her hot hands in both of his. He wore contact lenses, in those days, and his eyes were always pink. ‘You’re the daughter, you should have her jewellery. Dad’s not himself.’
Diane had to find a tissue and blow her nose. ‘He is himself, Freddy. I thwarted him ten years ago and he’s been an unforgiving bastard ever since. Just think of the Christmas when he gave me a mixing bowl and you a gold watch. When he said he’d bought a hundred premium bonds for Bryony – and then “kept them for her”. He very obviously doesn’t want me to have Mum’s stuff so let’s just give it to Sîan. Mum treated your wife more like a daughter than she did me.’
‘You can pass it on to Bryony. I haven’t even got daughters.’
That’s when Diane had hesitated. There was more to be thought of here than her own bloody-mindedness. ‘It can go straight to Bryony,’ she decided, shakily. ‘Will you keep it for Bryony, please, Freddy? Put it in your loft or something until she’s grown up?’
Freddy had sighed, opened the box, worn at the edges, and gazed at the dull glint of gold set out amongst the compartments. ‘I suppose so, if you’re certain.’ And that’s where it had been put and, she presumed, where it still was.
The corridor at the Ackerman wasn’t busy but against the background squeak from a trolley, the hiss of the lift doors and the rustling of occasional feet across thick carpet, a shrill, rapid, grief-stricken voice split the afternoon. ‘You’re making an excuse. Inconvenience! I bet you wouldn’t – ’ The voice was female, young and uncontrolled.
Then a man’s voice came in reasonable, measured counterpoint, his words indistinguishable.
A door burst open and the young woman’s voice hurried closer. ‘It’s just an excuse. Mum will be fine by the time she comes home.’
Diane turned her head.
The man: soothing, calming. ‘It’s nothing to get upset about, I promise. Let’s not worry about it, now. It’ll be a while before she’ll be well enough to come home, anyway.’ The couple came into view. The young woman racing ahead was Tamzin North.
And, prowling behind, James, focused on his daughter.
Tamzin, eyes wild and chest heaving, plunged like a pony to avoid his comforting arm. ‘You should tell me what’s going on. I’m not a baby!’
‘I just told you.’ James was all reason, not displaying anger, not raising his voice. His eyes flicked to Diane then returned to his daughter. ‘It’s just what your mother and I think is best, for now.’
Tamzin’s eyes darted about his face. The pitch of her voice veered a degree nearer to reasonable. ‘It’s just for now?’
James gave a sudden smile. Diane noticed his lips again, too full for a man really, but she liked to watch them as he spoke. ‘We haven’t put a time limit on it. Your mother’s been injured and we have to accept one or two practicalities. That’s all.’
Tamzin’s expression began to clear. The tension that had puckered her face receded and her fists unclenched. For the first time, she acknowledged that they weren’t alone. ‘Oh, Diane, hello.’ She sniffed like a child with a cold.
Diane managed a small smile. ‘Hi.’
‘How’s Uncle Gareth?’ Another sniff.
‘How’s your mother?’ Diane didn’t even want to think about Gareth, let alone transmit progress reports. She fished a clean tissue from her bag and offered it.
Tamzin seemed to wake up to her woeful appearance and grabbed the tissue to wipe her face and blow her nose. ‘Much the same. Won’t be coming home for ages yet.’ She stuffed the tissue into the pocket of aged and shapeless jeans and turned to her father. ‘There’s a little coffee shop on this corridor, perhaps Diane has time for a latte?’ She looked disproportionately pleased at the prospect.
As James murmured easily, ‘Perhaps she has?’ Diane blinked at Tamzin’s transformation from stressy mess to hospitable young woman, recognising the poise from the sort of childhood she’d had herself – private school and lots of socialising at her parents’ house, the scene of almost weekly parties: bridge, dancing, after golf, pre-ball.
She ignored an unexpected twist of nostalgia. She’d long since left her parents’ lifestyle behind and the pleasure of coffee shops was one of the many economies she’d made in her bull-headed determination to make her life with Gareth Jenner.
James’s gaze was fixed on her, as if Diane’s acceptance of the simple invitation was of peculiar importance. She was glad of an excuse not to fight the manic traffic all the way to the green Fen lanes and an empty house, so smiled at Tamzin. ‘Sounds great. Lead the way.’
The coffee shop was small, just ten bentwood tables staffed by a lady in a white top and a red gingham tabard trimmed with rick-rack braid. Once only seen in school needlework lessons rick-rack was currently hot in Diane’s sewing supplies catalogues. There was no accounting for fashion.
Tamzin appointed herself hostess. ‘Would you like something to eat, Diane? No? Just a latte?’
Diane, as suggested, ordered latte, having only ever heard of it and curious as to what all the fuss was about. When the pale, creamy liquid was set before her in a thick pan of a cup she was satisfied. Until she saw James’s cappuccino with cream and chocolate sprinkles.
Cream and chocolate sprinkles would’ve been great.
‘Do I call you Aunt Diane?’ Tamzin glanced at the coffee placed before James and Diane – plus biscuits for James – as she accepted mineral water herself.
