Second Chances Part 8

'Aha!' I exclaimed. 'I've come across him, then.' As I described the scene with the red sports car, a fond smile tugged at the corner of Pamela's mouth.

'Yep, sounds like Tama. He's running Glengarry-four hundred hectares, sheep and beef-entirely from the saddle. It's less common nowadays but it makes sense because there's some steep country at the back of his land.'

I looked at the hills that reared to the north. They could almost have been Scottish highlands. 'What's he like?'

'Tama? n.o.body's fool. His grandfather was a Scots immigrant who married into one of the local Maori families. Tama never saw eye to eye with his father-I knew old man Pardoe well, stubborn brute-so he left home at fifteen. He took a job as a shepherd on one of those immense stations way up in the hills. Thousands of hectares. He'd be on horseback twelve hours a day, seven days a week, training his own dogs and horses. Fifteen years old.'

Kit whistled. 'Younger than Sacha.'

'Didn't come home for years, not until his father was safely dead. He carried the coffin in the morning, got on with docking the same afternoon.'

'Is there a Mrs Pardoe?' I asked.

Again, that indulgent smile. 'Tama's had no shortage of applicants for the post, and women have moved in from time to time. But I think he prefers horses to people.'

When Pamela insisted on seeing Kit's new studio-a crumbling black-and-white-tiled conservatory that had just the right light-Jean and I set out for a stroll. My neighbour's command of English was impeccable; quite a lot better than mine, in fact. His delivery was deliberate and measured. I wondered about trying out my schoolgirl French on him, but thought better of it.

'So you are English, and Kit is from Ireland?' he asked as we followed the drive along the edge of the bush. 'How did you meet?'

'At a funeral, of all places.'

'But he was not an artist then?'

'Yes and no. He's been in advertising all his adult life-successfully, until the latest recession.' I made a throat-cutting sign, and Jean's eyebrows bobbed in sympathy. 'But a s.h.i.+ny advertising executive-that wasn't how he truly saw himself. All Kit McNamara wants to do, all he's ever really wanted to do, is paint. His arty friends reckon he's the bee's knees.'

We'd strolled a couple of hundred yards when Jean halted. 'Ah,' he said, peering at a ramshackle structure half-hidden in foliage to the right of the path. 'The shearers' quarters.'

There were several decaying sheds on the land, and I hadn't yet been into all of them. This one looked like the cottage in a fairy story. It had two windows and a door-eyes and nose-and a chimney at one end.

Jean pushed at the door. 'Something is making this stick . . . one big shove . . . there! I have got it open. It was this dead bird, you see, jammed underneath.'

I looked at the lump of black feathers. 'Charming.'

Jean was edging it out of the doorway with his foot. 'Oh, long dead and dried up. Doesn't smell any more. It will have got trapped in here, poor creature. Nasty way to go.'

He held the door for me, and I stepped past him into gloom. The hut smelled of abandonment, of rotting wood and heated plastic. Jura.s.sic cobwebs clung to the cracked gla.s.s of windows opaque with dust. There were tattered greyish curtains. Giant ferns pushed their way through the cracks between the timbers, robbing the place of light and tinting it with an ethereal green.

A bulb hung from the ceiling. I pressed the switch, and it glowed half-heartedly.

'Still connected up to the power,' I said, surprised.

'Of course. Shearers were quartered in here originally.' Jean turned a circle on his heel, looking around. 'More recently, forestry workers used it for their smoko hut.'

'Their what?'

'You don't know about smoko, Martha? But it's a national inst.i.tution! Tea break, to you Poms.'

I explored the room. It was about twelve feet square, with an unlit lean-to at the back housing a toilet and basin. There was a pot-bellied wood burner, a table, wooden chairs and a rusty gas ring. There was also plenty of bird mess, especially on the windowsills. I guessed the creature had been imprisoned in here for a while before it died. At the far end I found sacks of fertiliser and sheep dip, which explained the plastic smell.

'Perhaps Sacha might like this as a bolt hole,' I wondered. 'She can bring her friends-if she makes any.' I held up two crossed fingers.

'Yes! I can already imagine a sofa and a stereo. And when your boys are older they will smuggle in their girlfriends.'

'Not until I've vetted them,' I said primly.

As we left I stooped to look at the dead bird beside the door. It was completely desiccated. I could see an empty eye socket.

Jean picked up the sad bundle between finger and thumb and tossed it deep into the undergrowth. 'A mynah, I think. Excellent mimics. Maybe flew in the chimney. See, the doors of the stove are open? And once he came down, there was no way out.'

'A mynah?'

'They're vermin, really. Not native birds.' Jean seemed to think this made the death less sad.

'I'm not a native bird either.' I pictured the frantic creature hurling itself against the mildewed windows. I wondered how long it had suffered. 'I'll put a net over that chimney,' I said firmly. 'No more death traps.'

Nine.

It was no way to behave at a funeral.

I blame the gleefully grieving mourners, with their hand-clasping and plat.i.tudes. They packed the pews. They swamped the graveyard with black umbrellas, a flock of dour ravens. Sacha stood close beside me in a black dress I'd found in Oxfam, staring with fascinated eyes at the awful, polished shape of Grandma's coffin. She was six years old, and she'd scarcely known my mother.

Poor old Vincent Vale had put on a grand spread for the love of his life, and held the after-burial do-what is it, a party? a wake? Rabbit's Big Bash?-in the function room of his historic pub. It smelled of old velvet and canapes. Good venue for a wedding. I was wearing a funereal smile, peddling sandwiches from a tray. It was a s.h.i.+eld, because if anyone else grabbed my hands, wrinkled their eyes and told me I shouldn't blame myself, I'd knee them where it hurt. In that particular context, the words 'don't blame yourself' translated very precisely as 'this is all your fault, you sp.a.w.n of the devil'.

Mum's younger sister was holding court, her neat figure set off by a polka-dot dress, flour-white hair caught in a black ribbon. This was mildly unsettling, because Patricia was the spitting image of my mother-right down to the patent court shoes and tea-rose-scented skin. She looked indecently composed; no hint of a rent garment.

'I'm a murderer,' I sighed, sinking into a chair beside her.

Patricia took a sandwich from my tray. 'She wouldn't blame you, would she?'

'Oh, of course she would, Aunt Trish. She's always blamed me for everything! She wasn't at death's door. It wasn't cancer that did for her, it was my tonsillitis.'

'Hmm. Never big on forgiveness, my sister. She changed her will more times than she did her knickers.'

'It was supposed to be our big reconciliation,' I complained. 'I dropped everything to get to the hospital for her birthday. How was I to know it'd kill her?'

'Think she'll haunt you?'

'Well, she always has. I don't see why being dead should change anything.'

The words weren't out of my mouth before Mum took a pot shot. Her sarcasm blasted right through my head; she might have been hovering above the chair.

Trust you!

'Mum,' I argued silently. 'Be fair. You could have gone anytime.'

Stupid girl. You and your Judas kiss.

I was about to defend myself when Flora-garden centre-touched my shoulder.

'Your dad wants to go home now,' she said, and I nodded. Dad had never stopped adoring his ex-wife with a quiet pa.s.sion. It was the one bit of irrationality he'd ever displayed. 'I'll go with him,' said Flora. 'Could Sacha stop at his house tonight? She's asked to, and she'll be a tonic. Smiley girl.'

I looked at Dad's old friend, with her wispy hair and the faintest suggestion of a widow's hump. She was a widow, in fact. 'Yes, please. She's got a toothbrush in his bathroom cupboard.'

As soon as Flora moved away, a pair of my parents' ex-neighbours accosted me. The wife clawed at my arm while her husband regarded me with drooping bloodhound eyes. Ex-neighbours, from before Mum and Dad became ex-spouses. I couldn't remember their name. Bromham? Brigham?

'So sorry. So sorry,' whispered Mrs Ex. 'Cynthia was one of the best. Such glamour. Such poise. Razor-sharp mind.'

'I'm glad you're here,' I lied. 'Sandwich?'

'You mustn't blame yourself,' murmured Mr Ex.

'Life goes on, Martha,' said Mrs Ex. And then she added four utterly chilling words. And I do mean chilling. 'She lives in you.'

The horrifying image of my mother living in me froze the blood in my veins. Abandoning politeness, I reeled past them and into the hall. The door swung shut behind me, deadening the hubbub. I stood for a moment, clutching my tray and breathing hard. There was a payphone in the narrow hall, and an old-fas.h.i.+oned smell of painted radiators and slightly mouldy telephone books. Hardly any natural light, just feeble, dusty stuff creeping through the stained gla.s.s of an outside door.

I wanted refuge from that sombre crowd, all looking sideways at me and idly wondering whether I'd killed her on purpose. They'd go back to their own lives, soon. They could watch telly, feed the cat, talk about the lovely funeral and how dignified Vincent had been. But I wasn't alone. A sprawling male figure slumped on a chair by the phone, invading the s.p.a.ce, spoiling the sanctuary; I had a vague impression of dark, rampaging hair. He raised his head, and I found myself staring into a pair of uncannily vivid eyes-cobalt blue, under heavy brows. They weren't quite focused, but they were mesmeric.

'No,' he said loudly. The voice was unmistakeably slurred, but I didn't mind. Helpless inebriation was much more fitting than wordless hand clasping. 'I don't want a focking sandwich.'

And those were Kit's first words to me. Our eyes met over a focking sandwich.

I lowered my tray to the floor. 'Go on, take a couple. Mop up the alcohol.'

'Disgraceful behaviour. I'm drunk at a funeral, and it isn't even my own.' He looked thirty or so, just a little older than me. The striking eyes were s.p.a.ced wide apart in a pale, s.h.i.+eld-shaped face. An overcoat and scarf hung over one arm. 'Did you know her?' he asked.

'No. No, I'm just a waitress.' I closed my own eyes for a moment. Couldn't shut it out, though. Death isn't shut-outable.

He hiccupped. 'Waitress.' Dimly, I wondered about the engaging lilt of his accent. It wasn't strong, but I've an ear for these things. Ireland. West coast, maybe. 'Me neither. I've spoken to Mrs Cynthia Vale . . . actually, I could count the number of times on this hand. I don't think she liked me.'

'So are you one of these funeral junkies? Did you come for the free booze?'

'You're a funny kind of waitress,' he said mildly. 'No, not a funeral junkie. I'm flying the flag. My uncle is great mates with Vinnie, but he's in Madeira.'

'Well. You're the only one who's bothered to get drunk for her.'

He smiled. 'You know, I saw you and your little girl in church. You were following the coffin with your sister. The three of you look very alike, but none of you resemble Mrs Vale very much at all.' His eyes were alight with humour, and I found myself smiling back.

'Thank you,' I said fervently. 'That's the most comforting thing anyone's said to me all day. Where are you from?'

'Shepherd's Bush.'

'No you're not. Sorry, but you just aren't.'

'Okay, Sherlock. County Kerry.'

'Hmm.' I sat down on the floor beside my tray, stretching my legs across the corridor. 'So what brought you to Shepherd's Bush?'

'Long story.'

'Go on. I've got oodles of time. I'm never going back into that bar.'

He glanced at his watch, then slid off the chair and leaned his back against the opposite wall to mine. We pressed our four feet companionably together, like a pair of schoolkids at break time. He was wearing a dark suit and a sober silk tie, slightly loosened. His shoes were posh, black and polished; mine were cheap, grey and scuffed.

'Okay then,' he said. 'Since you've asked.' His family had existed on the west coast of Ireland forever, it seemed, farming in the ancient hills. He was eighteen when his father died of a heart attack during a bracing dip in the Atlantic. As he was the only son, his mother and five sisters-he called them 'the coven'-expected him to run the farm and save the family fortunes. But my new friend didn't want to be a farmer. He dreaded living and dying in that community, the latest in a perennial stream, known only as his father's son. So he ran away to art college in Dublin-where he picked up a wife- and then to London, where she promptly left him.

'And in London I stayed,' he finished. 'And here I am.'

'What happened to the farm?'

'Coven made a go of it. They keep goats. They make cheese.'

'Cheese?'

'Organic goats' cheese. Wins awards, you can buy it in Harrods. So there you go-diversify to survive. I've been gone nearly half my life, but whenever I visit they blather on at me. They can't believe I'll not come home in the end.'

I felt his shoes pressing against mine; I was intensely aware of the contact, as though my whole nervous system was centred in the soles of my feet.

'I'm off in five minutes,' he said, and I felt a tug of regret.

'Not driving, I hope?'

'No. I left my phone somewhere, so I called a taxi on this old-fas.h.i.+oned tellingbone. They'll be here at half past.'

'Oh.'

He didn't move. 'Coming with me?'

I felt my eyes p.r.i.c.kling. 'I can't. I've got to stay here and do this . . . do this . . . all this funeral thing.'

With surprising swiftness, he was at my side. 'But will you be all right?'

There was more caring in those six words than all the tragic clawing and don't-know-what-to-say and your-mother-was-a-wonderful-woman-who-frigging-well-lives-in-you. I was so grateful. It tipped me over the edge.

'I've got no mother,' I sobbed in panic. 'She was a b.i.t.c.h. Or maybe she wasn't. Maybe I am. Not sure.'

'I expect you both were.'

I pressed my nose into a tissue, gulping, dimly aware that my cheeks must be traffic-light red. 'We started fighting when I was about . . . I dunno, a day old? She said she couldn't believe I was hers. I disappointed her every step of the way. Everything was a battlefield. Piano-I didn't practise; friends-she banned them; meals-I wouldn't eat them. But none of it was for me. It was all about her status as an icon of b.l.o.o.d.y womanhood. I ditched my law degree and she didn't speak to me for a year. When I was twenty-one I got pregnant.'

'Did you marry the father?'