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  It was for that reason that Rona’d made no move to see her again, even to return the scrapbooks containing the schools’ histories that Mrs Bishop had so generously loaned her. Admittedly, she had permission to keep them indefinitely, and she’d postponed writing the article on educational development partly for that reason and partly because of the memories it evoked of her own research on the subject. Magda said you’d solved a murder, and the killer was someone she knew.

  An added problem, Rona thought, staring across the dark garden, was that she’d mentioned none of this to Max. At first, it had been out of loyalty to Pops – though why that phrase had come to mind she couldn’t explain. Then, as time went by, it became increasingly difficult to broach the subject, especially since Max gave no sign of noticing any reserve between her father and herself. So it was only with Lindsey, from whom she had no secrets, that she was able to discuss the matter, and endless talk about it had profited them nothing.

  On the floor above, she heard the front door close, and a minute later Gus’s feet came skittering down the stairs, followed by Max’s heavier tread.

  ‘I thought you’d have gone up to bed,’ he commented, coming up behind her and kissing the back of her neck.

  ‘I’ve been thinking over the evening,’ she said, only half truthfully.

  ‘Wasn’t it enough to go through it once?’

  She laughed and turned to kiss him. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  Sunday morning, and the traditional lazy breakfast in their dressing gowns, with the newspapers divided between them.

  Rona said, ‘You’ve not forgotten we’re due at the parents’ for lunch?’

  ‘Oh God!’ said Max tonelessly, without looking up. ‘Lindsey too?’

  ‘Lindsey too; now Hugh’s not on the scene, she’s no excuse.’ Even as she said it, Rona felt a twinge of guilt. But for months their mother’s attitude had made visits home difficult, and now that there was tension, whether real or imagined, with her father, they’d become almost unbearable.

  Hugh, from whom Lindsey was divorced, had briefly made a comeback in her affections, on the strength of which he’d transferred back to the Marsborough office: only to find that his ex-wife, while enjoying his love-making – always the strongest link between them – on weekend visits, had no intention of letting him move in on a permanent basis.

  ‘Presumably he’s still around, though?’ Max asked, smoothing out his paper.

  ‘Still in Marsborough, yes. At first, Linz expected him to be everywhere she went, but she hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him since that time in Sainsbury’s. Actually,’ she added slowly, ‘I think there’s a new man in her life. Someone from the office.’

  Max made an indeterminate sound, indicative of his opinion of Lindsey’s romantic liaisons. They’d landed her in trouble in the past.

  Rona said defensively, ‘She really does seem to need a man around. Someone to take her out to dinner or the theatre.’

  ‘Or bed,’ said Max baldly.

  Rona flushed and did not reply.

  Tom Parish stood at his dining-room window, staring unseeingly at the street. His daughters were coming to lunch, and he couldn’t believe that he was dreading it. The increasingly infrequent times when they all gathered round the table had always been a source of delight to him, a highlight in the depressing life he led with Avril. Now, he knew sickly, he must pretend not to notice Lindsey’s accusing eyes or Rona’s averted ones.

  She’d seen them, of course; she must have done. What’s more, she’d told Lindsey – and possibly Max, too, though there’d been no appreciable difference in his manner. What did they all make of it – of him? And – oh God! – what did he make of it himself?

  He wiped a hand over his face. It had been pure chance – either good or bad, depending on how you looked at it – that his meeting with Catherine should have occurred just when he was finally accepting that his marriage was, to all intents, over. For months he’d been dreading his retirement, urged on him by the bank following his heart attack that spring. True, he still tired easily, but that was infinitely preferable to being thrown more and more into his wife’s company, without the escape route to the bank when she drove him to the point of distraction. That, he told himself grimly, was far more of a health hazard than the day-to-day routine at the bank.

  Yet God knew he’d tried to keep his marriage alive, tried to rekindle what they’d undoubtedly once had. When had Avril become so irritable, so critical of the girls and himself, so constantly complaining? When, for that matter, had she last taken an interest in her appearance? Make-up was now a rarity, leaving her pale face with its colourless brows and lashes curiously undefined. As for clothes, she seemed simply to reach for what was nearest each morning, invariably an old jumper and skirt. Heaven help him, he was almost ashamed to be seen with her. Comparisons might be odious, but between Avril and Catherine, always so well groomed, they were startling.

  On the day Rona had seen them together – if, indeed, she had – he’d had his first ever row with Avril. That’s to say that instead of shrugging off her barbs, as he’d been doing for years, he had, to the astonishment of them both, lost his temper and lashed back at her. The row had simmered in his mind all day, and after work – knowing she’d be awaiting the apology he was incapable of making – he had driven almost without thought to Catherine’s bungalow, where he sat miserably in the car, trying to work out the least damaging course of action.

  There, Catherine had found him and, sensing his distress, suggested a walk to clear his head. And it was when she urged him to talk to Avril in an attempt to sort things out, that he’d realized, with a sense of shock, it was not that outcome for which he was hoping.

  That had been over two months ago, and though he’d seen Catherine several times since, he’d still not so much as touched her hand. Nevertheless, there was no denying she filled his mind night and day, and he wasn’t sure how long he could maintain the status quo. How, in God’s name, could he attempt to explain this to his daughters?

  ‘Are you going to lay that table, or stand gawping out of the window all day?’ enquired an acid voice from the doorway, and, suppressing a sigh, Tom turned and belatedly applied himself to his task.

  The Parishes lived on the western fringes of the town, in a residential district known as Belmont. It consisted chiefly of solid detached houses, 1930s in style, with gabled fronts and pebble-dash facades, though post-war development had extended its boundaries to incorporate, among other things, an estate of mock-Georgian town houses and an enlarged shopping parade. Rona and Lindsey had attended the neighbourhood primary school and been baptized and married in the local church.

  Maple Drive was a twenty-minute car ride from Lightbourne Avenue, and Rona and Max passed most of it in silence. Since Avril didn’t care for dogs, Gus had, as usual, been left at home.

  As they drew up behind Lindsey’s red sports car, Rona commented wryly, ‘I hope you’ve got a series of topics lined up, in case of awkward silences.’

  ‘Oh, your father will keep things going,’ Max replied. ‘He always does.’

  Rona bit her lip and got out of the car.

  Tom opened the door as they reached it, and she felt a rush of love for him. At first sight he looked the same as always – tall, tanned, iron-grey hair and slightly lined forehead. But the brown eyes that were so like her own had a guarded look, and when he spoke there was a false heartiness in his voice that tugged at her heart.

  ‘Greetings, you two!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good to see you!’

  She smiled, allowed him to kiss her cheek, and went ahead of him into the sitting room. Her mother was perched on an upright chair, an apron round her waist, and Rona dutifully kissed her before turning to her twin, reclining at her ease on the sofa.

  ‘Hi, sis.’

  ‘Hi yourself.’

  Max, following his wife into the room, marvelled as he always did that the twins could be so alike and yet so different. The
y had the same dark hair – though Rona’s flicked up on a level with her chin, while Lindsey’s fell to beneath her shoulders – the same oval faces, the same straight noses and large brown eyes, albeit with differing expressions in them. Yet for all their similarity, while Rona was like a part of himself, his hackles invariably rose in Lindsey’s presence. A state of armed neutrality existed between them, which all Rona’s efforts had been unable to dispel.

  As Tom began to pour the drinks, Avril came to her feet. ‘Well, now you’re all here, I’d better go and dish up.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Tom protested mildly. ‘Let them get their breath back and enjoy their drinks.’

  ‘I did say twelve thirty,’ Avril reminded them sharply, reluctantly sitting down again.

  Rona glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes to one. ‘Sorry, but we’re not pressed for time, are we?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Tom replied emphatically.

  Avril threw him a venomous glance. ‘Then don’t blame me if the beef’s overdone.’

  There was a short silence. Oh God, God, God! Rona thought desperately. They’d not been here five minutes and already there was trouble brewing.

  She addressed herself to Lindsey. ‘What have you been doing since I last saw you?’

  Lindsey sipped her drink with a self-satisfied air. ‘Oh, wining, dining and so on.’

  ‘New fella?’

  ‘New fella.’

  ‘You’ve met someone?’ Tom asked eagerly.

  ‘I told you, Pops. He’s a colleague from work.’

  ‘Married?’ demanded Avril sharply.

  Lindsey shrugged and did not reply. Rona avoided Max’s eye.

  ‘Well, at least it’s not that Hugh,’ Avril continued. ‘Thank goodness you finally saw sense over him.’

  Lindsey’s hand tightened on her glass, and Rona’s heart ached in sympathy. ‘What’s his name, your new man?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘Jonathan Hurst.’

  ‘Are we going to meet him?’

  ‘Probably, in due course.’

  ‘Bring him to supper, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lindsey said gratefully, adding with a grin, ‘When Max is home, of course!’

  ‘That goes without saying!’

  Rona loathed cooking, and on his evenings at home, Max was in sole charge of the cuisine.

  Avril stood up again. ‘Right, you’ve got two minutes to finish your drinks, then lunch will be on the table.’

  She left the room and Rona took a quick sip of her vodka.

  ‘Don’t rush it,’ Tom said quietly. ‘If necessary, you can take it through with you.’

  ‘Thanks, Pops.’ She glanced across at him, unprepared for the lurch her heart gave as their eyes met and held. God, she thought in confusion, he’s really unhappy! Somehow, that aspect hadn’t occurred to her. How long had he been feeling like this? And had Catherine Bishop anything to do with it? For the moment she didn’t care. She simply wanted to jump up and put her arms round him.

  ‘Ready for carving, Tom,’ Avril called, and with a heavy heart Rona went through with the rest of them for Sunday lunch.

  Two

  Rona’s thoughts continued to circle round her father and Catherine Bishop for the rest of the weekend.

  Up in her study on Monday morning, she took out the scrapbooks detailing the schools’ histories, telling herself it was time to stop procrastinating and complete the article on education. Weeks ago, she remembered, Mrs Bishop had left a message about something that might interest her, but, thrown off-balance by the unexpected sighting, Rona had never returned the call. Should she do so now? Would meeting her shed any light on the situation with her father?

  Before her resolve could weaken, she checked the number and lifted the phone.

  ‘Mrs Bishop,’ she said quickly, when the quiet, remembered voice sounded in her ear. ‘It’s Rona Parish. I’m – sorry I’ve taken so long to get back to you. I believe you wanted to speak to me?’

  There was a fractional pause, then: ‘How nice to hear from you, Miss Parish. Yes, I did come across something. It mightn’t be of interest, but I remembered your saying it was the offbeat rather than the factual that you were looking for.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Rona moistened dry lips. Should she suggest—?

  ‘If it’s convenient, perhaps you could call round and have a look at it?’

  How stilted they sounded! Rona thought despairingly, as she accepted the invitation.

  ‘And do bring your delightful dog with you,’ Catherine Bishop added, a smile in her voice.

  Gus had broken the ice last time, Rona remembered. Perhaps he would again.

  It was arranged that she should call at the bungalow the following morning, but the moment she rang off, misgivings swamped her. Suppose Mrs Bishop started talking about Pops? Should she admit to having seen them?

  She pushed back her chair and went to switch on the cafetière. Then, a mug of coffee in her hand, she moved to the window and looked down on the small paved garden behind the house. In the plots on either side, a drift of leaves, brittle after the long, dry summer, had been dislodged by last night’s wind and lay scattered on the grass. In their own, however, it was Rona rather than nature who set the pace, the only signs of the changing seasons the succession of flowers she planted in the tubs.

  With a sigh she turned from the window and went back to her desk.

  In the event, the article was not as onerous as she’d anticipated; she’d made copious notes while up in Buckford, and reading them brought back vivid memories of her visits to the schools, some of which dated from the sixteenth century. Material from Mrs Bishop’s scrapbooks, which she had permission to use, helped to lighten the content, giving a human angle to the progression of education in the town.

  By the time Max phoned that evening, the article was virtually finished. All that remained was to include, if she so wished, whatever Mrs Bishop had to show her.

  ‘And that’s the end of the exercise?’ Max asked, when she reported on her day’s work.

  ‘Not quite; I’ll have to go back with Andy for the last batch of photos. We’ve done the comparison bit – then and now. This time, I want original buildings that have remained virtually unchanged. And when all that’s wrapped up,’ she added, ‘I’ll have to decide what to do next.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Not really, but Barnie has some thoughts. I’ll have another chat with him.’

  Barnie Trent was the features editor at Chiltern Life, a glossy monthly for which Rona occasionally wrote freelance. He and his wife were also personal friends.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Max said. ‘I bumped into him in Guild Street at lunch time. They’re expecting Mel and the children at the weekend.’

  ‘Really? He didn’t mention it last week.’

  ‘It blew up suddenly; Mitch is being sent to the Gulf, and as he’ll be away for a couple of months, it was decided Melissa and the kids should come over here. Also, the shorter distance will make it easier for him to fly back for the odd weekend.’

  ‘Dinah will be ecstatic to have them for so long.’

  ‘No doubt, but Barnie’s anticipating some disturbed nights. The baby’s still not sleeping through.’

  Rona laughed. ‘He’ll survive,’ she said.

  Rona herself didn’t sleep well that night – an unusual occurrence for her. Her mind circled continuously round Mrs Bishop and their coming meeting, dreading an awkwardness between them that hadn’t been present at their first meeting. Any hint of embarrassment on her part would be a clear indication of her suspicions regarding her father, and, as she kept reminding herself, apart from that one glimpse of them together, she had nothing on which to base them. Nothing, that is, except the worsening atmosphere between her parents.

  With an exclamation of impatience she sat up, punched her pillow into shape and, lying down again, firmly closed her eyes. Che sera, sera, she told herself philosophically, and finally went to sleep.
/>   Whether or not Gus remembered his last visit three months earlier, he again went bounding down the path ahead of her, and, when Catherine Bishop opened the door, licked the hand she held out to him. As Rona had hoped, it helped to break the ice, and they were able to greet each other without the reserve she’d been dreading.

  The morning was overcast and a cool wind ruled out sitting on the patio as they had before. Instead, Catherine invited her to take a seat in the room she’d only walked through on her last visit, and, alone for a minute, Rona looked about her. Like Catherine herself, it had an air of understated elegance: the wood of the spindly-legged chairs and bureau glowed warmly, the sofa and easy chairs were deep and comfortable. Two silver-framed photographs stood on the mantelpiece, one a man’s head and shoulders, the other of a bride and groom, and the prints on the walls, cool and shimmering with light, were by some of the lesser-known Impressionists. Beyond the patio doors lay the remembered garden, still a blaze of colour. Rona drew a cautious breath of relief. So far, so good.

  Gus settled himself at her feet as Catherine brought in a tray of coffee. In the intervening months, though she’d been constantly in Rona’s thoughts, precise details of her appearance had become blurred, but seeing her again, Rona once more experienced that feeling of calm – which, she thought with a flash of unwelcome intuition, must be so restful for her father in contrast to her mother’s spikiness.

  Catherine poured the coffee and handed a cup to Rona.

  ‘You’ve had a difficult time since we last met, haven’t you?’ she observed. ‘I’m sorry your Buckford assignment proved so traumatic, but at least you put right a grave injustice.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rona murmured inadequately. Not wanting to pursue that line, she added quickly, ‘I feel very guilty, keeping your scrapbooks for so long.’ She bent to take them out of her briefcase and laid them beside her on the sofa. ‘Thank you so much for lending them to me. They were fascinating.’

  ‘I’m glad they proved useful. I’m really enjoying the articles, by the way; the complete set will be an invaluable collection.’