Night Music

  'What have you got to be so cheerful about?' Charlotte would ask, as if his happiness somehow caused her offence.

  Twelve energy-renewable homes with solar panels and thermal heating, he wanted to answer. Five executive houses with an acre of grounds each. A top-of-the-range apartment block, each high-spec unit with glass frontage, offering spectacular views of the lake. So many possibilities, so much potential, all dependent on one thing: persuading the widow to sell.

  I used to have the gift of the gab, Nicholas reminded himself, slowing down as he saw the sign for Little Barton. Once I could have sold ice cubes to Eskimos. There's no reason why I shouldn't pull this off. I just have to pitch it right. Ask someone too eagerly and they became convinced they had a potential goldmine on their hands. Offer too low and they'd be so offended they wouldn't sell to you at any price.

  There was no point in pinning all his hopes on one property, he thought, no matter how good an opportunity it represented. Better than anyone, he knew that that was the way to ruin. He pulled up in the village, arguing with himself, trying to put a brake on his own enthusiasm. He wouldn't visit the house today. He'd try to find out a little more about it, perhaps drive around, look in a few agents' windows. It was an up-and-coming area, after all. Rackety old barns were being knocked into habitable shape, workmen's cottages reconfigured to meet rising demand. He would investigate all the other possibilities, and not let his heart rule his head. He didn't want to raise his hopes, then cope with the aftermath when they were dashed.

  But it was so hard.

  Nicholas Trent sat in the quiet street for a few minutes. Finally he climbed out of his car.

  'What that man is doing is immoral.'

  'You can't say that, Asad. You have no proof.'

  'Proof.' Asad snorted as he stacked peppers on the vegetable display. Red, yellow, green, in meticulous order. 'It is plain to see that he is pulling that house apart from the inside. You only have to mention his work to Mrs McCarthy for her to turn the colour of this.' He held aloft a red pepper. 'She is well aware of what he is doing. This is probably something they have cooked up between them.'

  'Mrs McCarthy being embarrassed is no proof of anything. She may still feel awkward about the house because of all the hard work she put in with the old gentleman for no reward.' Henry shook his head. 'In fact, there are all sorts of reasons Laura McCarthy might feel awkward when she talks to people about her husband, and you know as well as I do what those might be.'

  'I know what I know. And you know it too. That man is as good as stealing from Mrs Delancey. And he is doing it with a smile on his face, pretending to be a good Samaritan.'

  The sun streamed through the windows of the little shop, lighting up the buckets of flowers, which swayed cheerfully in the breeze, harbingers of warmer months ahead. But the peonies and freesias, visible through the pristine glass, and the pots of hyacinths that decorated the windowsills were at odds with the air of foreboding inside. Henry watched Asad as he straightened, listening for wheezing. The hay-fever season was approaching, and Asad's asthma always took a downturn at this time of year. 'I think,' he said, 'it would be a good idea if you didn't get yourself too worked up about this.'

  'I think,' said Asad, pointedly, 'that it is about time someone stood up to Matt McCarthy.'

  The door opened, and a man entered the shop to the tinkling of the bell. Middle-aged, middle class, good suit, thought Henry. A traveller on a through route. 'Can I help you?' he said.

  'Er . . . not just yet, thank you.' He went to the delicatessen counter. 'I wanted some lunch.'

  'We can certainly help you there,' Henry assured him. 'Let me know when you're ready.' He left the man and went back to Asad who, having perfected the vegetable display, was now rearranging the shelves.

  'The canned fish,' whispered Henry, 'really doesn't need to be in alphabetical order.'

  Asad made sure his voice was low when he spoke. 'This troubles me, Henry. It really troubles me.'

  'It's none of our business. And white crabmeat should be next to sardines.'

  'Kitty comes in here every day saying he has knocked down this wall or that ceiling has collapsed. Mrs Delancey comes in white with worry about her finances.'

  'Anyone who's had building work knows it's disruptive and expensive. You remember what it was like when we had our kitchen done.'

  'That house existed for fifty years with no work at all.'

  'Exactly,' muttered Henry. 'That's why it probably needs knocking around now.'

  'She knows nothing about building. She knows nothing about anything except music. She is still preoccupied with her dead husband. He is taking advantage.' His voice had lifted with frustration.

  'But we don't know anything about what's wrong with the house. As you said, nobody's looked at it for fifty years. Who's to say what Matt McCarthy's found?'

  Asad gritted his teeth. 'Any other builder, Henry, anybody but that man, and I would be content to believe that the house needed so much work.' He put a can of pilchards on the shelf.

  The customer was examining the bread basket.

  'But you tell me something from your heart. Tell me you don't think Matt McCarthy is doing this so that he can have the house. You tell me this is not some kind of revenge.'

  Henry stared at his feet.

  'Well?'

  'I can't say that. I don't trust him any more than you do, but it's none of our business. And getting involved will only lead to grief.'

  They stopped talking abruptly as the customer appeared at Asad's elbow. He gave them a courteous smile. 'I'm so sorry to interrupt, but could I possibly have one of the wholemeal rolls with some of that goat's cheese?'

  Henry scooted back behind the counter. 'Certainly. Shall I throw in a couple of the vine tomatoes? They're ever so good at the moment.'

  Nicholas Trent walked out of the little shop with a brown-paper bag. Despite his earlier appetite he was no longer hungry. He threw the bag on to the passenger seat and headed off down the road, brain humming, stomach taut with excitement, searching for the overgrown lane beside the piggery that marked the way to the Spanish House.

  'A Spring Chorus.' An attractive mixture of freesias, narcissi and hyacinths, available in white, mauve or pale blue. Available as a bouquet, a hand-tied arrangement or, for a little extra, arranged in a glass vase. Prices started at a little over thirty pounds, not including delivery. Laura had looked it up on the Internet. Flowers to gladden your heart in late spring. Flowers to say thank you. Or I'm thinking of you. Or even I love you.

  Flowers she had not received.

  Flowers that had been charged to Matt's credit card the previous month.

  Of course, she hadn't seen the statement - Matt had long been too canny to leave credit-card statements around, and she knew he used his work card for anything he didn't want her to see. But she had been going through his pockets before she washed his work jeans, and the crumpled receipt had fallen out with some self-tapping screws and a handful of loose change. She knew it was his card number, just as she knew everything there was to know about him.

  What she did not know was who had received the flowers.

  Laura McCarthy walked up the lane, the dog running in front of her, and let the tears fall down her cheeks. She couldn't believe he had done it again. After everything he had said to her, after everything he had promised. She had thought they were past this. She had lost the anxious, nervy feeling that she was not quite enough for him, that her lack of something indefinable meant she should always be on her guard. She had stopped viewing any woman she came across as a potential threat.

  Fool.

  Laura blew her nose, failing to notice the glory of the budding hedgerows, the narcissi and bluebells pushing through the earth. Her stomach was a mass of knots, her head a whirling din of rage and accusation. She could see only Matt's face, leering into that of some other woman's . . . No! She had long known that was the way to madness. She could hear her mother warning her when she had made suc
h an 'unsuitable' match that she would have only herself to blame when it went wrong. She could see herself, politely turning a blind eye to her husband's infidelities until he was too old to commit them. 'Bugger you, Matt,' she yelled into the breeze, feeling faintly stupid that her upbringing and manners forbade the use of earthier language.

  What should she do? What could she do, when he knew he held all the cards? How could he do this to her when she loved him so much, had done nothing but love him their whole life together?

  In her heart she had guessed something was up. He had been too cheerful, too removed from her. He had not wanted to make love for almost three weeks, and with Matt there was little doubt as to what that meant, despite his protestations of exhaustion, or his staying up at night to watch 'unmissable' films.

  'Oh, God . . .' Laura sat down on a tree stump and let the sobs rack her. She was made of stern stuff, but today she was beaten into submission by that tiny scrap of paper. Her marriage was a sham. It didn't matter what he said - that it was nothing to do with her, that it was just the way he was made. It didn't matter that he denied it. She loved him, and it was no use.

  'I'm sorry. Are you all right?'

  Laura's head shot up. A man in a suit stood fifty yards away, his car some distance back, the engine idling and the driver's door open. He leaned sideways, as if to see her better, without coming too near. Bernie, her dog, was sitting at his feet as if Laura was nothing to do with him.

  Laura, mortified, wiped frantically at her face with her hands. 'Oh. Goodness.' She got up quickly, cheeks flooding with colour. 'I'll get out of your way.' She was appalled that someone had seen her in this state. So few people came into the woods that she had never considered she might not be alone.

  As she rummaged in her pockets, she heard him approaching. He held out a handkerchief to her. 'Here,' he said. 'Please take this.'

  She reached out reluctantly, and pressed it to her face. Nobody used linen handkerchiefs any more, she thought absently. She felt vaguely reassured, as if there could be no malice in someone who kept one on his person. 'I'm so sorry,' she said, trying to stop shuddering. 'You've caught me at a bad moment.'

  'Is there . . . anything I can do?'

  She half laughed. The idea of it, as if there were anything that could help this now. 'Oh . . . No,' she said.

  He waited while she dried her face. Crying was so alien to her.

  'I wasn't sure if you could hear me. I didn't know if you were wearing one of those things . . .' He mimed earphones. 'Dog-walkers often do, you know.'

  'No . . .' She glanced around for Bernie, then made to give back the handkerchief, and realised how wet it was. 'I'm sorry. I don't think you're going to want it like this.'

  'Oh, that . . .' He waved a hand, as if it were of no importance.

  She got the dog by the collar and stood for a moment, head bowed, not knowing what to say.

  'I'll leave you in peace, then,' he said, seemingly unwilling to move, 'if you're sure you're okay.'

  'I'm fine. Thank you.'

  Suddenly she remembered where they were. 'You do know this is a private road? Were you looking for somebody?'

  It was his turn to look awkward.

  'Ah,' he said. 'A private road. I must have taken a wrong turning. Surprisingly easy to get lost in woods.'

  'This is a dead end. Where are you after?'

  He seemed reticent. He pointed to his car. 'Just somewhere nice to eat my lunch, I suppose. I live in the city, so anywhere seems pretty to me.' His smile was so apologetic, so genuine, that Laura relaxed.

  She took in the good, if tired suit, the sad, kind eyes. A kind of quiet recklessness overtook her. Why should she care? What did any of it matter, given Matt's behaviour?

  'I know somewhere nice you can eat it on the other side of the lake,' she said. 'If you pull your car on to the verge, I'll show you. It's only a few minutes' walk through the trees.'

  A short distance away, in the stultifying confines of her history lesson, Kitty was mulling over her discovery. She had tried to be fair, as Mary had taught her, but however she looked at it, the message came with only one explanation.

  'Hello, Mrs Delancey. It's Mr Cartwright here. I wondered if you'd thought any more about our discussion. I've had another call from Mr Frobisher, who is still interested in seeing your Ge-Guar- your instrument. I don't know if you got my previous messages, but I do think it's worth considering. As we discussed, the amount he's suggesting would change your financial situation considerably. It's more than double what your husband paid for it . . .'

  Change your financial situation considerably. Kitty remembered Cartwright, with his big shiny briefcase, and his embarrassment at the laundry pile teetering beside him. Mum had sent her away, even though she couldn't cope with what the man was saying. And now Kitty had an idea why. She hadn't wanted Kitty to know that there had been a choice. In spite of everything, that stupid violin was more important to her even than her family's happiness.

  Thierry was no help.

  'Did you hear any of these messages?' she had said to him in his room the previous evening, as he sat in front of his computer game, his thumbs beating out some apocalyptic tattoo. 'Did you know Mum could have sold her violin?'

  He had gazed at the screen blankly as if he didn't want to know anything.

  'Don't you get it? If she knew she could have sold the violin, Thierry, we didn't have to move to this hole. We might have been able to keep our house.'

  Thierry stared fixedly in front of him.

  'Do you hear me? Doesn't it even bother you that Mum lied to us?'

  He had shut his eyes then, as if he were determined not to even look at her while she was talking. So she had told him he was a freak, an attention-seeking idiot, and gone off to her room to brood.

  Mum had known something was up. She had kept asking Kitty questions over dinner, whether school was all right, whether she was okay. Kitty was so mad she could hardly look at her. All she could think was, we could still be in our Maida Vale house. We could be in our old road, with the neighbours we knew, and our old school and maybe even Mary, if the violin was worth enough.

  Her mother had gone on about how she had decided to do some teaching to bring in more money. She had put a notice in the Cousins' shop. She said, 'It won't be so bad,' so many times that Kitty knew she was dreading it. But still she couldn't feel grateful or sympathetic. Because her mum talking about lessons made her think about violins again.

  'Do you love us?' she had said pointedly.

  Her mother had been shocked. 'How can you ask that? Of course I love you!' Even Kitty had felt guilty about how upset she had been. 'Why?' Isabel had asked. 'Why are you even asking?'

  'More than anything?'

  'More than anything you can imagine,' her mother said, all fierce and emotional. She had hugged her after they had eaten, as if to reassure her, but Kitty could not hug her back, as she normally would. Because they were just words, weren't they? It was obvious what she loved most. If that stupid violin hadn't been their only hope of anything, Kitty would have thrown it out of the upstairs window.

  That afternoon she walked home with Anthony. She had missed the school bus, and Anthony had too, and it was only when she got home that she realised he might have done so deliberately. They walked together quite a lot now, and Kitty was definitely less shy with him. He was quite nice to talk to, and she felt safe walking through the wooded bit if he was there. When she was by herself she was always imagining someone watching her from behind the trees.

  'What would you do if your parents lied to you?' she said, as they kicked their way down the path. They walked quite slowly in the afternoons, as if neither was in a hurry to get home.

  'About what?' Anthony held out a stick of chewing-gum. She took it and unwrapped it as they walked.

  Kitty wasn't sure she wanted to tell him. 'Something big,' she said eventually. 'Something that affected the whole family.'

  Anthony snorted. 'My dad lies the whole ti
me.'

  'Don't you ever say anything?'

  He tutted. 'The thing about parents,' he said, 'is that there's one rule for you and another for them.'

  'My dad wasn't like that,' said Kitty. She stepped on to a fallen tree-trunk and walked its length. 'He talked to me like I was the same as him. Even if he told you off it felt like . . . like he was just explaining something.' She couldn't say any more about him, or tears would well in her eyes.

  They moved back as a car came up the lane, slowing almost to a halt as it edged past them. The driver, a man in a suit, lifted a hand as he passed.

  Anthony watched him go, then moved back into the middle, shrugging his schoolbag on to his shoulder. 'My dad lies to everyone, and he always gets away with it,' he said bitterly. Then he changed the subject. 'Saturday,' he said. 'Me and a few others are going to the pictures. You can come if you want. If you fancy it.'

  The violin was briefly forgotten.

  Kitty glanced at him from under her fringe.

  He was looking straight down the lane, as if there was something really important down there that he had to focus on. 'It's nothing special. Just a few of us having a laugh.'

  The lump had disappeared from Kitty's throat. 'All right,' she said.

  Nicholas Trent blinked in the bright sunlight as he left the wood, drove to the top of the lane, and signalled right to head back on to the main road. Given the amount of time it had taken to get there, and his unexpectedly long lunch break, he should have headed off to the estate agents', as planned. But, distracted, he drove back towards the motorway. His head was too full, his mind spinning too hard for clarity.

  And this time it was nothing to do with houses.

  Twelve

  The boy lay on his back, giggling as the puppies crawled over him, their fat stomachs and oversized paws scrabbling for purchase on his sweater. Boys that age were like puppies themselves, Byron thought, taping round another cardboard box. The child had spent much of the morning tearing round the small garden, racing the terrier, who yapped excitedly at his heels. He was different here, away from his mother. He was keen to learn - how to mend fencing, how to rear the young pheasants, which mushrooms were safe to eat, and unleashing such a torrent of affection on the dogs that both bitches had expanded their previously exclusive loyalties to include him as well. It was not as if he'd said much - it was hard enough to get a simple 'yes' or 'no' out of him - but he'd let his guard down a little.