‘I won’t do that either.’
Her smile broadened. I felt myself stir. She reached up to me.
‘Come here.’
10
Tuesday 16 March 1999, Wyvis
The old man watched Clémence shutting the book.
‘What are you smiling at?’ she demanded.
‘It turns out I’m a war hero,’ the old man said. ‘I had absolutely no idea. One of those great British escapees who would run away from anywhere for their country.’
‘Do you remember Capri at all?’
The old man nodded. ‘I do. I can almost see Nathan. And Tony. And I know what the Villa Damecuta looked like.’
‘And the Villa Fersen? Do you remember Sophie in the Villa Fersen?’
‘I do,’ said the old man. He smiled again. That was an evening worth remembering.
‘You know that was my grandpa’s wife you were shagging?’
Anger blazed in Clémence’s big eyes. The pleasure evaporated. If she was angry about that, how much angrier would she be when she discovered that he had killed Sophie in the boathouse? The memory that had struck him as he walked by it the day before had been frighteningly vivid. It must be real. And it must be recorded in a book with the title Death At Wyvis.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It must be difficult for you to learn all this.’
‘It is,’ said Clémence. She glanced at the book closed on her lap. ‘But I’m glad we are reading it. These are things about my family that I want to know, that they should have told me.’
‘Does the next chapter take place at Wyvis?’
Clémence opened the book and flicked forward a couple of pages from where she had saved her place. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’re getting near the end.’
The old man nodded.
‘Do you remember what happens next?’ she asked.
‘We’ll see,’ he said, with a sigh. She was staring hard at him, those large blue eyes painfully focused. Despite her anger, the old man liked Clémence. Perhaps it was because she looked a bit like Sophie — those four little freckles on the end of her nose — perhaps it was her youth, her kindness in helping him. He didn’t want to hurt her. To anger her more. But that was unavoidable if she was to read the rest of the book to him. And that was something they both needed to do.
He was alone in the world. She was the only person in his new life whom he knew, or whom he could remember knowing. He didn’t want to lose her.
A memory struck him. ‘I took you for a ride on a camel.’
‘A camel?’ Clémence frowned. ‘I remember that. I was only little.’
‘Very little,’ said the old man. ‘It was in Morocco, wasn’t it? By a beach.’
‘Essaouira,’ said Clémence. ‘We used to go there sometimes when we lived in Marrakech. You came with us once. We played on the beach. I remember that.’
‘And a man came with a camel. You wanted a ride. So we rode on it together. It was very high up for such a little girl. You were very brave.’
‘There were a lot of camel rides in Morocco, not surprisingly,’ Clémence said. ‘I remember we dug a big long ditch together, to channel the water when the tide came in. Or went out.’
‘Your father was there,’ said the old man. ‘Rupert. And maybe your mother, but I can’t remember her.’
‘Tall. Very long dark hair, down to her bum. I loved my mother’s hair,’ said Clémence. ‘But she cut it off three years ago. When Patrick moved in. Now she looks like a banker’s wife.’
‘You can’t be a hippie all your life.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Clémence. ‘It’s good you are remembering things that are not in the book.’
‘Yes. But I can’t remember why I was there. On holiday, I suppose?’
‘I would have been about five,’ Clémence said. ‘So that’s 1984.’
‘When I was living in Australia. I still have no memory of that, apart from the eagles and the Mundaring library. Do I know your parents? I must do, if I went out to see them.’
‘I rang my dad earlier this morning, but he didn’t want to talk to you,’ said Clémence. ‘Or about you. Neither did my grandpa.’
Her words hurt the old man. Just when he was fumbling towards some sort of normal past life, more signs popped up that his old friends didn’t like him. Didn’t want to have anything to do with him. And that they had good reason.
He was alone.
A thought flitted at the edge of his consciousness, like a bat glimpsed at dusk. ‘I have something to discuss with your grandfather. Something important, something I need to show him.’ He frowned and then struck his forehead three times. This was so frustrating! ‘Madeleine will be here this afternoon, you say?’
‘Yes. I don’t know when. She’ll know more about your life than you and me combined.’
‘Yes,’ said the old man.
‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’ said Clémence. There was still anger in her voice, but it was tempered with kindness.
‘I’m scared of the unknown. Or rather, I know there are bad things still to uncover in my life, I just don’t know exactly what they are.’
Clémence stood up and peered out of the window. ‘I’m going for a walk before Aunt Madeleine gets here. I need the fresh air. I’ll make us some lunch when I get back.’
The old man considered asking whether he could join her, but he had the feeling that part of what she wanted to do was to escape him. Besides which, he would slow her down. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘See you later.’
Clémence strode down the track through the woods to the loch. There was no sign of the sun that morning, and the waters of the loch were shades of grey — slate under the rock face of Meall Mòr, mercury in the middle, and near black under the trees by the shore. On the far side of the loch, clouds heavy with moisture, or perhaps snow, clustered around the screes on the upper slopes of the hills. A cold, damp breeze bit at her cheeks, but that felt good after the stuffy sitting room in the cottage. She had found the description of Angus seducing her grandmother, a woman she had never known, unsettling. Even more unsettling when she admitted to herself that it was Sophie who had seduced Angus. Or Alastair. And that her grandfather was hardly a paragon of marital fidelity either.
Her earlier enthusiasm for Madeleine’s arrival was tinged with apprehension. Madeleine would no doubt bring explanations, but also more secrets. She hoped Madeleine was strong enough to take care of the old man herself. An awful thought dawned on her: maybe she would have to take care of both of them.
She wanted someone to take care of her! Or at least show some interest in her. She had thought after her years at boarding school she had become independent, self-reliant. But then she had believed she had a home to go back to, parents who loved her. Turned out that was crap. She didn’t. They didn’t. Welcome to adulthood.
The loneliness made her feel sick, unsteady, as if the ground she was standing on was slowly crumbling away and she was about to pitch into an abyss that was so deep she couldn’t see the bottom.
God she missed Callum! She would have another go at persuading him to come; the old man had said he would be happy to have him staying in the cottage. Of course, they would have to finesse the sleeping arrangements.
She wished she didn’t have to hang around waiting for Madeleine; she felt like driving into a village and buying a pint of milk, just for someone to speak to. Or going into a café. The old man must have gone barmy living all alone up here.
As she reached the shore of the loch, Sheila MacInnes’s white Suzuki approached her coming the other way. Sheila slowed and wound down her window. ‘Hi. What’s the crack today?’ Sheila said.