Sheltering Rain, Page 23

  It didn't even look like her daughter. Kate stood and stared, feeling a simultaneous joy at this uninhibited display of affection, and a distant ache that somehow this place, this frozen wasteland of emotion, had succeeded where she had failed in eliciting it.

  Sabine, sensing a presence, turned around, and jumped slightly as she saw her mother on the stairs.

  "Sabine," said Kate impulsively, and thrust out her arms. She had not been prepared for the sheer emotional pull her daughter's presence could have on her. It had been weeks.

  Sabine stood, some kind of indecision flickering across her face.

  "Oh . . . er, hi, Mum," she said, and, with a small step forward, allowed herself to be hugged, and then pulled very gently backward when it felt like it was going on too long.

  "Look at you!" exclaimed Kate, shaking her head. "You look . . . you look . . . well, you look great." You look like you belong here, she wanted to say. But that phrase held so many dangerous implications that it had frozen on her lips.

  "I look like shit," said Sabine, staring down at her muddy jeans, and her oversized jumper, pincushioned with pieces of straw. Her head dipped, and her thin hand ran through her hair, and immediately she had returned to the old Sabine, self-conscious, hypercritical, and desperately wary of any kind of compliment.

  "You've got your glasses on," she said. She made it sound accusatory.

  "I know. In all the commotion, I stupidly forgot my lenses."

  Sabine stared at her face.

  "You should get some new frames," she said, and turned back to the dogs.

  There was a brief silence, as Sabine bent to pick up her boots.

  "So . . . ," said Kate, aware that her voice sounded too high, too eager. "Have you been out riding?"

  Sabine nodded, placing them behind the door.

  "I never thought your granny would have you riding. Do you like it? Has she gotten you a horse?"

  "Yeah. She's borrowed one."

  "Great . . . great. It's nice to rediscover old interests, isn't it? And what else have you been doing?"

  Sabine looked at her, irritably.

  "Not much."

  "What, just riding?" The door of the breakfast room was open. Kate noted with some relief that no one was in there yet.

  "No. Helping out. Doing stuff around here." Sabine paused, to shoo the dogs into the breakfast room, and then with an action seemingly born of long habit, placed one of her socked feet up against one of the oil heaters.

  "And . . . you're happy? Everything's been going okay? I--I've hardly heard from you lately. I was wondering if you were all right."

  "I'm fine."

  There was a prolonged silence, during which Sabine stared determinedly out of the window, eyeing the darkening sky.

  "We don't normally have tea in here," she said, eventually. "We normally have it in the living room. But Julia . . ."--she pronounced it lengthily, and with some scorn--"thinks that the log fire doesn't get the room warm enough. So now we're having it in here."

  Kate sat tentatively in one of the chairs, desperately trying not to show how wounded she felt by Sabine's apparent indifference. "We normally," she had said. "We normally," like she had lived here all her life. Like she felt proprietorial about the place.

  "So," she said, brightly. "Do you want to hear about O'Malley?"

  Sabine, switching feet, looked at her.

  "He's all right, isn't he?"

  "Yes, he's fine. I just thought you might be interested in what he's been up to."

  "He's a cat," said Sabine dismissively. "What is there to tell?"

  My God, thought Kate. Whatever lessons it is they give to teenage girls in how to cut people down to size, Sabine evidently got her share.

  "Don't you want to ask me anything about home? How my work's going? How the house is?"

  Sabine frowned at her mother, trying to work out what exactly it was that she was asking her to say. She seemed desperate to try and provoke some response from her, as if she had expected her to be all over her, bombarding her with demands for news from home, jumping up and down like some television reunion. And perhaps, a week or two earlier, she might have done it. But she felt different about this place now, and seeing her mother so suddenly . . . well, it had put her on edge. That desperate need for her had evaporated with her arrival. It was like boys, when you spent all week thinking about them, desperate to see them, and then when you did you felt all complicated, like you didn't know whether you wanted to see them after all. Like they were somehow better in your imagination than in real life.

  She eyed her mother surreptitiously as she gazed around the room, looking a bit lost and pathetic. For the last two months all she had thought about was the good stuff: Kate being supportive, and kind, and being able to tell her anything. And now--when she looked at her--her overriding emotion was--well, what? Irritation? The faintest feeling of being invaded? Looking at her reminded Sabine of the whole Justin and Geoff thing. Listening to her reminded her that her mother could never just relax and let her be; she was always pushing for more than Sabine felt comfortable giving. Why couldn't you have just been cool? she wanted to say to her. Why couldn't you have just said hi, and let me come to you? Why do you always have to push me so hard that I end up pushing you away? But she just stood, warming her frozen feet against the oil heater, swallowing her emotions.

  "Ahh. Katherine," said Christopher, striding into the room. "Julia said you were here." He placed a hand on her shoulder, and inflicted a distant kiss. "Good journey over, was it? Did you come by ferry in the end?"

  "No. I flew. Couldn't get an earlier flight," said Kate, aware that she was already sounding defensive.

  "Oh. Yes. Yes. I heard. Never mind, looks like the old man's improved a bit."

  No, he hasn't, thought Sabine. I've spent nearly every day with him, and he's not improved at all. But she said nothing.

  "So, how long are you staying?"

  He sat down on her father's chair, and glanced around, as if waiting for Julia or Mrs. H to enter bearing the tea tray. Kate didn't know how to answer. Until he dies, she wanted to say. I thought that's what we were all here for.

  "Not sure yet," she said.

  "We'll probably have to head back tomorrow," Christopher announced. "Work is getting antsy about me returning, and to be honest, now that he's looking better, there doesn't seem to be the same sort of urgency as there was a few days ago."

  While I wasn't there, thought Kate.

  "I'll probably pop down on weekends, though," he continued. "Just to make sure they're doing okay. Keep an eye on them. Make sure they're keeping him warm enough, that sort of thing."

  "He's got his fire going all the time," Sabine interjected. She couldn't help herself.

  Christopher hardly seemed to see her. "Yes, yes, but this old house is terribly damp. Can't be doing him any good. Now, where's Julia? And where's Mother? I thought we were having tea at four-thirty prompt."

  As if in answer, Joy suddenly appeared at the doorway. Her hair, which was rarely compliant, had sprung out of whatever loose arrangement had held it, like an overused scouring pad. Her navy-blue jumper was patched at the elbows, and her socks, visible beneath worn corduroy trousers, were less ill-matched than of polarized origins altogether.

  "Katherine. Yes. How are you?" she moved forward, and then, hesitantly, kissed her daughter's cheek. Kate, reeling from the familiar scents of faded lavender and horse, noted with some shock how far her mother had aged since they had last met. Her skin, previously weather-beaten, now looked like it had been battered and scorched by the elements, sunshine and cold air leaving it pale, thread-veined and leathery, and scored by deep lines. Her hair, once a dark gray, was now pale silver. But it was her eyes that suggested the greatest trials of age; where once they had been steely and focused, they now appeared slightly sunken and distracted. She looked smaller, somehow, less robust. Less frightening.

  "Did you have a good journey? I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here. I was
out in the yard."

  "It's okay," said Kate. "Julia saw me to my room."

  "And you've found Sabine. Good. Good. . . . Sabine, did your grandfather want tea?"

  "No, he's sleeping." Sabine was sitting on the floor, flanked by the dogs. "I might try him again in half an hour."

  "Yes. Good job. Now. Where is Mrs. H with the tea things?" And Joy turned and disappeared from the room. Kate stared at the space where she had stood. That was it? she thought. Ten years we haven't seen each other, my father is dying, and that was it?

  "She's been a bit--well, not all here, since Dad took ill," said Christopher, after she left.

  "Definitely not herself," said Julia, who had come in behind her. "Almost like it's all made her ill herself."

  "She's all right," said Sabine, defensively. "She's just a bit distracted."

  "She's a bit forgetful." Julia shook her head. "I've had to tell her twice that we'll be back on Saturday."

  "I think we should have someone in to look after them. Both of them." Christopher stood, and peered out into the passage, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "I don't think they're managing by themselves."

  "And it's terribly difficult doing anything for them," said Julia. "They are so set in their ways."

  "Mrs. H looks after them. And you got that nurse in. They hate having her around as it is. They wouldn't want anyone else."

  Kate stared at her daughter, astonished at this defense of her grandparents' way of life. Christopher stared at Sabine and then looked over at Kate, as if blaming her for this unforeseen piece of impudence. But Kate, between the two of them, didn't feel qualified even to venture into the argument.

  Sabine's voice was rising. "They don't like people mucking in from outside. Mrs. H does everything, and she's said that she'll do extra when it's needed. I don't see why you can't just let them be."

  "Yes, well, Sabine, that's a lovely thought, but you've known your grandparents all of five minutes. Julia and I have been helping out here for years. I think we know what my parents do and don't need."

  "No, you don't," said Sabine, furiously. "You've never even asked them. You just came in here and took over. You never asked Grandmother if she wanted a nurse--you just stuck her in here. And Grandfather hates her. He makes this groaning noise when she comes in the room."

  "Your grandfather is very ill, Sabine," said Julia, gently. "He needs professional care."

  "He doesn't need someone bossing him about for not going to the loo properly. He doesn't need someone telling him to eat his vegetables like he's a baby and then talking about him like he's not even there."

  Christopher's patience finally drained away.

  "Sabine, you know absolutely nothing of what my parents do and don't need. You and Kate have had virtually nothing to do with this family for years, and you are quite wrong if you think you can just march in here and dictate how this house is run." His face had gone quite pink. "Now, this is a very difficult time for all of us and I'd appreciate it if you kept out of matters that don't concern you."

  "I'll go," said Sabine, loudly, "when they want me to go. Not when you want me to go. And we all know you're only interested in their precious antiques anyway. I've seen you checking the furniture--don't think I haven't." Scrabbling up from the floor, her face flushed and tearful, she ran from the room, shouting, as she slammed the door on the way out: "They're not bloody dead yet, you know."

  Joy, reemerging with the tea tray, jumped at her granddaughter's abrupt exit. "Where's Sabine gone?"

  "Oh, off on some teenage sulk," said Christopher, dismissively. He looked, Kate noted, even more flushed than her daughter had. Whatever Sabine had said about furniture had evidently held some truth.

  "Oh." Joy looked briefly at the door, as if considering whether to follow her, but then glanced around the room and decided reluctantly that her place was probably there in the breakfast room.

  "Perhaps she'll come back," she said hopefully. She leaned over, fussing with the teapot, and setting cups on saucers. "I do like having her around." She glanced up at Kate almost shyly as she said this. Kate, witnessing this unheard-of display of emotion--the Kilcarrion equivalent to a normal person ripping off all their clothes and declaring undying love through a loudspeaker--felt suddenly, and inexplicably, chilled.

  Tea was not a comfortable affair, Sabine's absence leaving an unavoidable hole in the proceedings, like a head hastily cut out of a family photograph. Joy kept fretting about what she was doing, wondering repeatedly whether it was worth saving her some fruitcake, while Christopher sulked, and Julia talked too loudly about nothing of any consequence, trying to maintain the semblance of a happy atmosphere. Kate, who had already decided that this visit constituted a nightmare even worse than she could have envisaged, said almost nothing, responding to tactful queries about her work, and acknowledging the pointed lack of reference to her love life, while fighting a desperate urge to go and see if her daughter was okay. She would have gone, she wanted to, but something told her that Sabine would simply push her away, or tell her that she didn't understand, and she didn't know if she could take that much rejection in one day.

  But it wasn't to be the end of it. When Joy finally left, announcing to her half-drunk cup of tea that she was going to check on Edward, Christopher, apparently still stung from Sabine's previous remarks, had asked Kate pointedly "when she was going to teach her daughter some manners."

  "Chris, please don't," said Kate, wearily. "I'm tired, and I'm not in the mood."

  "Well, she's going to have to learn them from somewhere, isn't she? And she plainly isn't getting them from you."

  "Meaning?"

  "What I say. That you're not exactly bending over backward to make sure she knows how to behave in company."

  Kate stared at him, her blood already ringing in her ears. He had started. She had been here all of two hours and he had started, as if the last sixteen years hadn't even happened, and they were just brother and sister, sitting in the family home, with him picking on her yet again for her inability to behave properly.

  "Oh, for God's sake, Chris. I've just gotten here. Give it a rest."

  "Let's not, darling." Julia, who allegedly came out in hives at the merest hint of a family row, had stood, as if to leave the room.

  "Why should I give it a rest? She's come back here, now that the old man's on his way out. Having made sure that her daughter's wheedled her way around Mother first. I think it's only fair that she hears a few home truths in return."

  "What did you say?" Kate, primed as she was for her brother's crabbiness, could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  "You heard. It's patently obvious what you've been doing, Katherine. And I'm telling you, I think it's despicable."

  "You think I wanted to come back here? You think Sabine wants to be here? My God, I always knew you had a low opinion of me, but this takes the biscuit."

  Her brother thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and turned mulishly away from her, toward the fire.

  "Well, it's a bit convenient for you, isn't it? Not remotely interested in either of them for bloody years, and now that he's on his way out both you and your daughter are over here like carrion crows."

  Kate stood. "How dare you," she said furiously. "How dare you suggest that I give a bloody fig for Mummy and Daddy's money. If you care to look past your own bloody paranoia, you'll remember that I've done pretty well without any of it up to now. Unlike some I could mention."

  "That money was a loan."

  "Yes. A loan that you still haven't paid back, what is it, eleven years later? Even though your own parents are shivering in an uncentrally heated house that looks like it's falling to bits. That's really bloody generous, that is."

  "Oh, please don't," said Julia. "Please . . ." Turning from one to the other, and apparently concluding that no one was going to take any notice of her, she exited the room.

  "And who do you think is paying for what they do have?" Christopher had come closer now, his greater h
eight allowing him to loom over her as he shouted. "Who do you think is paying for the bloody nurse at four hundred pounds a week? Who do you think is paying for her to keep her old horses going, just so she can pretend that her life is what it always was? Who do you think puts money in their account every month and tells them it's from their investments, knowing full well they wouldn't bloody take it otherwise? Look around you, Katherine. Open your eyes. If you'd cared to come back more than once every ten years, you'd have seen our parents are completely bloody broke."

  Kate stared at him.

  "But then you never were particularly interested in anything that went on beyond your own nose, were you? Or should I say beyond your own lower half. I suppose you'll be looking up Alexander Fowler while you're here, now that you've gotten rid of the latest bloke, won't you? I'm sure he'll still be up for a quickie--only riding you ever really liked, if I remember."

  Kate's arm ripped out and she slapped him hard on the side of his face.

  The atmosphere around them seemed to suddenly disappear. She stood, breathing hard, shocked at her own action, staring at her hand as it stung with the violence of the impact. He stared back at her, one hand half raised to his cheek.

  "So," he said, eventually. His voice was low and poisonous. "Does she know, yet? Does your daughter know her esteemed origins?" He paused, scanning her face for a reaction. "Has she met her father? Or perhaps you could arrange for her to sit for him, too. What a lovely family portrait that would be."

  "Rot in hell," said Kate, and pushed past him, out of the door.

  The summerhouse had never been the kind of summerhouse more generally conjured up by those delightful words. It had never looked summery, for a start; its windows had always been grimy and double-glazed with moss, rather than gleaming and radiant in sunshine; its interior was not full of cheerfully painted wrought-iron furniture, but old packing cases, dried-up pots of paint and varnish that had long since welded themselves shut, and creatures that scuttled behind unidentified cuts of wood. It had never held a summer party, or a buffet table, or provided the decorative focus of what stragglingly remained of Kilcarrion's formal gardens. But then that had never been the summerhouse's purpose, as far as Kate had been concerned. In her childhood, it had served as a den, somewhere to escape and dream of the rightful family who would, of course, soon be coming to claim her. In her teenage years, it had provided a safe place to practice smoking, and listen to music on her radio, and dream about the boys who never fancied her because she lived in the big house and never knew the right things to wear. Sometime later, when there had been a boy, it had been a place to meet secretly, away from the appalled eyes of her family.