‘I’d thought sheepdog,’ she joked, gently, to disguise the compassion she felt for him as he tried his damndest for his child. ‘It must be horrible for her, to feel like that. And your wife must be out of her mind with worry about her, too.’
James’s eyes shifted to the wall behind Diane’s head. ‘Most mothers would be.’
His silence made Diane feel awkward. She wished Tamzin would come back. It seemed time for a change of conversational direction but none of the subjects they held in common were particularly cheerful – the accident, Gareth’s deceit and now Tamzin’s difficulties. She opted for the accident as the best of a bad bunch.
‘Have the authorities given you any indication of what the problem was with the helicopter? Why it came down, I mean?’
His eyes flicked sharply back to her face. He checked over his shoulder and saw that Tamzin was walking towards them. Words rat-a-tatted out of him like bullets. ‘Oh, I have a good idea what the problem was. Valerie forgot that alcohol and flying don’t mix.’
Chapter Six
‘That took ages. There are only two and they were both busy.’ Tamzin was slipping back into her chair before Diane could react to James’s shocking statement. ‘Diane, we’re going to see Pops. Why don’t you come?’
Diane tore her gaze away from the anger in James’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, slowly, trying to process information and invitation simultaneously. ‘Yes, I think I’d like to. It’s not as if there’s anything spoiling at home.’
From the car park, the dreaded rush hour looked every bit as ferocious as Diane had feared, but she tucked her car in bravely behind James’s Mercedes. She was getting less nervous about busy roads and her hands only sweated a little bit. And James was either considerate of her modest progress or he always drove like an old woman on a sunny Sunday.
Harold lived in Castor, a village to the west of Peterborough shown on maps as Castor and Ailsworth, it being so difficult to see where Castor ended and Ailsworth began. Castor was beautifully kept, from the neat green umbrellas outside the pub to the village hall ornamented with Village of the Year awards. Harold’s home stood back from the road, an impressive thatched-roof house with fish-eye dormers over several sparkling bow windows, and a porch supported by massive oak posts twisted and split with the seasons. The garden was a small park of exemplary grass and architectural trees. James pulled up on the turning circle of gravel outside the front door and Diane crunched to a halt beside him.
Harold, dressed casually – still a shirt and tie but an olive buttoned-up cardigan instead of a jacket, and leather carpet slippers – seemed delighted with his extra visitor. ‘Diane! Come in, come in.’ His white hair was thin and looked incredibly soft, like a baby’s. He ushered them into a sitting room with tapestry upholstery, a carved sideboard and oil paintings in gilded and decorated frames.
As she sank into a vast high-backed sofa, Diane breathed in the scent of furniture wax with the slightest accents of age and dust, complemented by warm grass and rose petals from the windows open to the spacious front windows. The fragrance of childhood.
Either the unbelievably comfortable sofa or the day’s confrontation made her feel almost as if she could go to sleep. The others discussed Valerie’s condition and treatment, but she just let the words drift past: plaster, pins, pelvis ... external fixation device.
Presently, Harold disturbed her reverie. ‘James and Tamzin already have plans but would you stay and dine with me? Just a casserole – Mrs Munns usually makes twice what I eat and it will save you cooking.’
Diane beamed, nestling still deeper into the cushions. ‘That would belovely.’
James offered Diane a business card, having added his private numbers to it in pen.Furness Durwent, Printed Circuits. Production Director – James North. Stiff white card with a discreet logo. ‘It makes sense if we swap contact details.’
Digging out an old shopping list from her jacket pocket Diane wrote her home phone number on the back. ‘I haven’t a card.’
‘Mobile?’ he suggested.
She flushed. ‘I haven’t got one of those, either.’
He paused. ‘I think there’s a pay-and-talk one at home somewhere if you’d like to use it. It might be useful, whilst Gareth’s in hospital.’
She smiled gratefully but – as usual – didn’t feel the need for his help. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine.’
After James and Tamzin had gone, Harold made a fresh jug of coffee and Diane kicked off her shoes and curled her legs up on the sofa. ‘This house reminds me of my parents’ home. They liked the same type of furniture.’
Harold added a spoonful of brown sugar crystals to her cup, fine porcelain with a tiny handle and the gilding worn off the rim with use. ‘I understand from Gareth that your parents were not cordial towards him.’
She threw him a glance. She didn’t – couldn’t – discuss her parents with many people. With Gareth his antipathy always got in the way and with Freddy it was the money. ‘My parents gave me a lovely childhood full of holidays and activities and love. They sent Freddy and me to decent schools. The house was always full of people; there was a boat on the River Nene, summers in France, winter skiing in Switzerland. And always love. Lots and lots of love.’
‘Sounds idyllic.’ His emphasis on the first word made his comment a question.
She nodded, stroking the delicacy of the old cup in her hands. ‘So long as I was a good daughter, it was. Mum was accommodating about friends staying or cheering me at hockey matches and swimming galas and running me to music lessons. She was content to be the person who made things possible for everybody else, while Dad ruled the roost.’
The fragrant coffee took her attention and she paused to sip. She did like coffee. Much more expensive than the loose-leaf tea that she generally drank at home. She was so used to economy that she rarely yearned after luxuries she didn’t have but she had always envied people who could afford rich, dark coffee.
She fixed her eyes dreamily on the brick-and-stone hearth, the fire basket cloaked for the summer with a brass peacock-tail screen. ‘I had a strong-willed father.’ She smiled. ‘But I grew up strong-willed, too, and I began to fight him.’
‘One needs a bit of backbone.’
She sighed. ‘It could all have been different. If Dad hadn’t taken one look at Gareth and ordered me to dump him. If he’d discussed his worries and explained where he saw trouble for us instead of wagging his finger in my face and roaring, “He isn’t our kind.”’
