High Tide Page 22

  She never usually offered an exhibition on the basis of one painting. She liked to put things in the shop first to see if they sold. But something told her to snap Alexa up. Take ownership of her.

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Alexa went pink. ‘An exhibition?’

  ‘I’d need about a dozen pieces. For spring?’

  Alexa looked floored. ‘Well, of course, yes. I mean, that’s amazing. Though I don’t know how I’m going to manage it. It’s not so much time, as space. I’ve got four kids. I have to clear off the dining-room table every morning when they go to school, then clear away my artwork when they come home.’

  Vanessa bit her lip. ‘I can see the problem. These pictures must take – how long?’

  ‘Well, a couple of weeks each, at least. Which would leave me enough time. It will be difficult. But I’ll find a way round it.’ She smiled, and her face lit up. ‘I can’t miss this opportunity. It’s way more than I hoped for.’

  ‘I think you’ve got something really special. I’d love to work with you. And let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I don’t want you to bite off more than you can chew.’

  ‘No! The last thing I want to do is mess up.’

  Vanessa held out her hand and the two women shook on it.

  ‘We’re going to put you on the map,’ said Vanessa. ‘Would you leave this with me? So I can think about how we curate the exhibition?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Alexa, who would, quite frankly, have left her right leg with Vanessa if she’d asked for it.

  Alexa walked back home in a daze. She was part delighted, part terrified. Spending weeks on a painting to get it just right was very different from producing twelve pieces to order. But she was going to do it if it killed her.

  She’d taken a big risk, moving down here with the kids, after her stupid husband had gone and let her down. She’d been terrified that Oscar would go off the rails and start getting into trouble, and that the others would follow suit, inheriting their dad’s irresponsible, rebellious streak. She’d gambled there would be less trouble to get into in Pennfleet and so far she had been proved right. But money was tight. She was on benefits, up to her eyes in them, and that didn’t make her proud. Her art had been her only way out that she could see. With four children it was difficult to go out to work. The minute the smallest had gone to school, she had thrown herself into her painting, which had been on hold for so many years. But it came back to her, the magic.

  And now someone else had seen that magic. She couldn’t believe it. She had no idea how much she would make. An exhibition was only the first step. People still had to buy the paintings. And she would have to invest a lot of money in canvases and paints up front. She didn’t know how she was going to fund that, just yet.

  But it was the most wonderful opportunity. Alexa decided to celebrate and went into the café on the hill to buy the biggest, squidgiest brownie they had.

  ‘And a skinny soy latte.’

  The man behind the counter smiled at her.

  ‘That’s a bit of a contradiction.’

  ‘I wouldn’t usually do the brownie. But I’m celebrating.’

  ‘Won the lottery?’

  ‘Not in so many words. But almost. In fact, better.’ Alexa took the brownie from him, wrapped in a brown paper bag. She’d sit out in her tiny garden and eat it when she got home.

  She waited while he made her coffee. Her eyes fell on an advert on the wall. Puppies, she thought, and her heart contracted at the thought of the kids’ faces if she brought one home. She’d been thinking lately that they needed a dog, something to get them all out.

  A hundred quid would buy an awful lot of paint. But what was paint in comparison to dog joy? She put the contact number into her phone, then took the coffee that was being held out to her.

  ‘I’m tempted too,’ said the man.

  ‘Aren’t they cute?’ said Alexa. But what’s a bitzer?’

  The man grinned. ‘Bitzer this, bitzer that. A Heinz fifty-seven, in other words.’

  Alexa laughed, and handed him her money.

  She left, and Sam watched after her. She’d lit up the café in the few moments she’d been in there. He wondered who she was. Then his next customer arrived, and in a moment she was forgotten.

  Vanessa was going through her price lists, deciding what to mark down over the winter months to make space for new work, when the door tinged and an elderly man walked in. He was typical Pennfleet, with a weather-beaten face and bright-blue eyes and a shock of white hair, wearing blue overalls. Not a typical customer.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He pointed a finger at her.

  ‘I want a word with you,’ he said, ‘if you’re Vanessa Knight.’

  Vanessa frowned. What had she done? Parked somewhere she shouldn’t? Parking was a constant problem round here, and there were often altercations.

  ‘I am.’

  His voice was tight with anger.

  ‘You can’t just go trampling over people. You in your big house, with your big boat. I don’t care if you just buried your husband.’

  Vanessa’s mouth fell open. ‘I’m sorry? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘My grandson lost his job on your account. Not that you’re bothered. You just take what you need and leave him on the scrapheap.’ He looked round the shop. ‘Look at you, with your bloody overpriced paintings. Where’s he supposed to get work from now, eh? In case you don’t know, jobs are like hen’s teeth round here in winter. But I don’t suppose you’re bothered.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Vanessa again, ‘but I don’t know who your grandson is.’

  Though she had a horrible feeling she might be able to guess.

  ‘Nathan Fisher. Although I don’t suppose you even bothered to ask his name.’

  His face was red with fury, and he was trembling. Vanessa thought she could see tears in his eyes. But before she could mollify him, the man turned and stormed out of the shop.

  The two girls looked at Vanessa. She was bright red with embarrassment. And horror. She’d had no idea Nathan had lost his job. She was mortified.

  She went to the back of the shop and got her handbag.

  ‘I’ll be back later,’ she told the girls, who nodded, round-eyed. In all the time they had known her, Vanessa had never caused any scandal.

  She drove as fast as she could, to the industrial estate where the undertaker’s office was. She remembered coming here to sort out the funeral arrangements. It seemed like a lifetime ago. She parked, jumped out of the car, and pushed open the door.

  Malcolm Toogood was at his desk. He stood as she walked in.

  ‘Mrs Knight – how nice to see you.’ He was good with names and faces. You had to be, in his business.

  She didn’t bother with niceties.

  ‘I need to talk to you. About Nathan Fisher.’

  Malcolm Toogood blanched visibly and launched into a grovelling apology.

  ‘Mrs Knight, I am so sorry. He’s been disciplined. I can assure you. It’s absolutely not the sort of behaviour we expect at Toogood’s.’

  Vanessa cut him short.

  ‘I’m not here to complain. Quite the reverse. I put him under rather a lot of pressure and I don’t want him to get into any trouble.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s too late. He was in breach of all our rules. We have a reputation to upkeep. I can’t have my staff running amok all over town.’

  ‘Please. Overlook it just this once. He took very good care of me. Very good care.’

  For a moment she wanted to laugh as she remembered.

  Mr Toogood breathed in through his nose.

  ‘I’m afraid Nathan has already been dismissed, so there’s nothing I can do.’

  She could sense his disapproval not just of Nathan but of her. Sanctimonious fool.

  Vanessa had learned a few tricks from her time with Spencer. She was going to employ one of them now.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Mr Toogood, I thin
k given your considerable bill, which I and my solicitor haven’t yet been through, the least you could do is turn a blind eye. I’m sure Nathan is usually an exemplary employee. Everyone is allowed one mistake.’

  She was behaving in a way she had heard Spencer behave so many times, and she hated doing it. But it seemed to work.

  ‘Is that a threat, Mrs Knight?’

  She paused for a moment. ‘Yes. I think it probably is.’

  There was a long silence as she waited for his reaction. She could see him turning over the options in his mind. Eventually he nodded.

  ‘Very well. I’ll call him. And reinstate him. Assuming he hasn’t found employment elsewhere.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘And thank you again for a lovely funeral. I’ll be sure to recommend you to everyone I know.’

  26

  Elverscott was a couple of miles up the river from Pennfleet, the quaintest of fishing villages, no doubt also peopled by second-homers and incomers. There was a popular walk from Pennfleet to Elverscott along the river, which for most people culminated in lunch at the excellent thatched pub rumoured to be getting a Michelin star.

  Kate drove around until she found the Jessops’ house, a handsome whitewashed cottage with a stunning view of the river that probably doubled its value.

  She parked her car on the road outside and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. There had been no guidebook to consult on how to approach your mother’s possible paramour to tell him she had passed away. But she still felt that to keep it from Robin was wrong, although he may well stumble across the news at some point. She felt it was her duty to her mother to tell him herself. Would he be hostile, or welcoming?

  She walked up the path to the front door. The garden was pretty and rambling, and she could imagine it in summertime, all honeysuckle and roses, smelling sweet, buzzing with fat bumblebees. It was, she told herself, the garden of a good person – it had clearly been cared for.

  She told herself she wasn’t going to hesitate, although her stomach was in a tight knot. Before she could think about it too much, she knocked. Moments later, she heard footsteps and someone inside undoing a chain. It was too late to run off, but she wanted to.

  The door opened.

  Robin Jessop – presumably – was tall, slightly stooped, with kindly eyes and a full grey beard. He wore a fleece, and walker’s trousers with lots of zips and pockets.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I was expecting the postman.’

  ‘Mr Jessop?’ asked Kate, not feeling she could call him Robin.

  ‘Depends who is asking.’ He was teasing her. ‘You’re not from HMRC?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ He looked at her, eyes bright with curiosity. ‘So who are you?’

  ‘Kate,’ said Kate. ‘Jackson.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Joy’s daughter.’

  He paused for a moment, digested the information, then gave a sharp breath. ‘Of course you are. I can see it now. Your mother has shown me lots of photos.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  He stood to one side. ‘Of course.’

  Kate walked past him, straight into the main room, which was large but cosy, with low beams and walls lined with books. By a far window, she could see a chair with a figure in it. A woman.

  Robin came into the room behind her. She spoke in a low voice.

  ‘I’m so sorry to be the one to have to tell you. And I wasn’t sure whether I should. But I found your letter to Mum … in her handbag.’

  Robin flinched. His face seemed to have fallen in on itself. ‘I take it this isn’t going to be good news.’

  ‘I’m afraid … my mother passed away. The funeral was on Friday. I’m sorry I didn’t know about you sooner. I didn’t find the letter until afterwards. I would have told you otherwise.’

  ‘What happened? Was she ill? Oh dear God …’ He put his hands up, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  Kate told him, as sparing of the details as she could be. There was no way to break the news of a death in an uplifting fashion. Robin listened, and nodded, then put his hand on her shoulder. He seemed quite calm, once the news had been broken.

  ‘You poor girl. You must be devastated. I know how close you were. She spoke about you all the time.’ He was trying so hard, but as he spoke his voice broke. ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘This is such a strange situation. And I don’t know what to do to help. And I don’t know what to say.’

  A voice came from the chair in the corner. ‘What’s going on?’ It was a querulous, commanding tone.

  ‘It’s all right, darling. Just a neighbour.’ Robin smiled at Kate, then spoke in an undertone. ‘My wife, Nancy. You understand, of course? She suffers …’

  ‘Dementia. Yes, I understand. Like my father. I guess that’s how you met?’

  ‘The dementia centre.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Not the most glamorous of rendezvous. Not exactly the Ritz.’

  Kate saw that underneath his efforts to remain calm, Robin was shaking.

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘If you want to spend a few minutes alone, I can sit with your wife.’

  Robin considered her reply.

  ‘That would be extraordinarily kind.’ He was struggling with the effort of putting on a brave face. ‘I’ll go and walk in the garden for a few moments.’

  He hurried away, and Kate realised how upset he must be, and how awkward he felt. No one wanted to share fresh grief with a total stranger. She walked across the room and sat in the chair opposite Nancy, who was dressed smartly in a corduroy skirt and striped blouse, and still wore her jewellery and make-up. Kate would have had no idea there was anything wrong.

  ‘If you’re from the library,’ said Nancy, ‘that last one was atrocious.’

  ‘Well,’ said Kate. ‘We’ll have to see if we can do better for you next time.’

  She knew there was no point in denying she had anything to do with the library. She could remember that from her father. Once they fixated on something, they would not be deterred. And maybe being from the library was safer than the truth.

  ‘What do you think you’d like to read next?’

  Outside, she could see Robin walking down to the bottom of the garden; he stood with his hands behind his back and his head bowed. She could see his shoulders shake.

  ‘Not Jane Austen. Bloody tedious,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kate. ‘I quite agree.’

  The whole scenario was completely surreal. She wondered what her mother would think if she knew what she had done. It was the sort of situation Joy would have handled with great aplomb. Nothing rattled Joy: it was why she was so good at her job. So Kate owed it to her to manage it with grace and kindness.

  ‘Would you like me to read to you?’ she asked Nancy, who just stared at her blankly. So she picked up a copy of the Radio Times, and read an interview with James Nesbitt, complete with Northern Irish accent, which seemed to rivet her no end. So much so that at the end, Nancy clapped, just as Robin came back in. He looked a little pink around the eyes, but otherwise composed.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Robin told Kate. ‘And before you go, I do just want to tell you how very proud your mother was of you.’

  ‘I feel so terrible that I wasn’t here to help her with Dad. This has brought it all back, what she must have had to go through.’

  ‘Ours is a very particular kind of purgatory. And there can only be one way for it to end. Which is, frankly, no great comfort.’ He managed a wry smile. ‘But you mustn’t feel guilty. Joy would have hated that.’

  ‘I know. Mum was one of the most selfless people on the planet. Which kind of makes it worse.’

  ‘She was wonderful.’ Robin’s face started to crumple. ‘Oh dear. I had hoped …’

  He couldn’t really voice what he had hoped. He pulled out a large white handkerchief and blew his nose. But Kate knew what he meant. She waited quietly while he gathered himself togethe
r, wiping his eyes and folding the hanky up.

  ‘I feel very privileged to have known her,’ he said. ‘And I am so very grateful to you for coming to see me. It went beyond the call of duty.’

  ‘It was a very beautiful letter that you wrote.’

  Pain flickered across his face. ‘I didn’t write it lightly. But I’m sure you understand. Nancy’s still my wife and there are – occasional – moments of lucidity. It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t fair on Joy. She needed someone unencumbered, who could give her the attention she deserved.’

  Kate could think of nothing to say. All he needed was a hug. So she hugged him, and he cried a little bit more, while Nancy poked at him with the walking stick she kept beside her.

  ‘Don’t think I can’t see what you’re up to,’ she shouted.

  Robin and Kate looked at each other. There was nothing to do but laugh.

  ‘You have to laugh,’ he said. ‘Or else …’

  ‘I’m going back to New York at the end of the week. But I’d very much like to keep in touch.’ She gave him her card. ‘Please. If you ever want to talk, just get in touch.’

  He took it, and slipped it into the pocket of his shirt. He looked at her.

  ‘You are very like her, you know. You’ve left me with the same warm feeling.’

  Kate caught her breath. It was such a wonderful thing to say.

  ‘I can never live up to her,’ she told him. ‘But I’m going to try.’

  27

  Nathan was lying in bed, toying with the idea of getting up – although he couldn’t quite see a reason for it, except the puppies would need sorting out – when his phone rang. He ignored it for a moment. There wasn’t anyone he could think of he wanted to speak to.

  Curiosity got the better of him. He picked up his phone and saw it was Malcolm Toogood.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, cautious.

  ‘Nathan. It’s Malcolm.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look, I’ve had a chance to reflect on things.’ Malcolm liked to use words like ‘reflect’. Why couldn’t he just say ‘think’? ‘I was a bit harsh on you. I possibly overreacted. So, if you haven’t found any other gainful employment …’