scenarios.
‘But you don’t really remember him at all, do you? From the nineteen sixties, I mean. He remembers it all, but you don’t.’
‘I keep trying. You’d think his
eyes
would remind me, wouldn’t you? People’s eyes don’t change.’
‘I suppose not.’ Thea tried to imagine the stretchof time between the two encounters. Over fifty years was a huge span, the idea of accurate recall almost ludicrous. But there were constant proofs that the human memory could bridge it effortlessly. War veterans cheerfully described battle scenes in vivid detail; ancient women talked about nineteen fifties domestic routines as if they were last week. But Fraser had already explained these – repetition created much firmer memories, and the heightened stress of war would sear it deep into the brain. A fleeting romance in a crowded London life might well fall into oblivion. The real question, surely, was why did Fraser seek now to rekindle it? What could he possibly hope to gain from it? And the answer came again – Maureen Johnstone’s house and pension. The man wanted a hearth to call his own and a solicitous partner for his declining years. And yet he had a daughter who was apparently willing to give him a home.
‘Does he get on all right with Mo?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes. But she’s busy – out all day, and most evenings. She hasn’t got much time for him. And she’s just got a new boyfriend, so Fraser feels rather in the way.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Almost fifty. Two months younger than Damien.’
‘Has she got a husband? Presumably not.’
Her mother shook her head. ‘Divorced, seven years ago.’
‘Any children?’
‘Three. All girls, born within four years. The last one finished university this year.’
These responses brought a distinct sense of progress, of a picture coming into focus. Maureen Junior was wanting her freedom, now her daughters were off her hands. The arrival of an ageing father on her doorstep could not have been welcome. Therefore the prospect of a new girlfriend for him must have been thoroughly appealing. ‘I bet she really likes you,’ she said.
‘Why shouldn’t she?’ her mother said, with a grin. ‘What’s not to like?’
It was a reminder of earlier times, when a rare flash of wit would brighten the moment for the whole family. As a mother, she had been no better than adequate, focusing more than necessary on the duller aspects of her role. She complained about scuffs on the furniture, possessions strewn untidily around, coffee mugs in bedrooms and socks adrift from their brothers. She made her husband and her offspring impatient with such trivia. Not one of them ever accepted that it mattered whether or not the cushions were straight and the washing-up done within seconds of the meal being finished. ‘It’s me that’s the normal one,’ she said, more than once. ‘Without me, we’d be living in chaos.’
It was probably true – certainly the bit about being normal was. But Richard Johnstone and his four children all rejected, one way or another, the lure of normality. Even Damien, with his passion forreligion and charitable works, was unusual. Damien could not find a matching pair of socks if his life depended on it, and he had chosen a wife who had a PhD in numerology, which was definitely profoundly abnormal. She told people she had married him for his name, which fitted with a highly significant numerical sequence that made no sense to anybody but her.
What’s not to like?
echoed in Thea’s ears. Not just the sentiment, but the way it had been expressed, made her laugh. ‘Right,’ she said, with an affectionate pat on the mottled hand.
She had more questions, but the sensation of turning into an inquisitor kept her from voicing them. Instead, other queries were becoming increasingly persistent.
Who killed Melissa?
What was her connection with the Meadows family? Why was there a growing sense of careful background planning leading to her, Thea,
‘But you don’t really remember him at all, do you? From the nineteen sixties, I mean. He remembers it all, but you don’t.’
‘I keep trying. You’d think his
eyes
would remind me, wouldn’t you? People’s eyes don’t change.’
‘I suppose not.’ Thea tried to imagine the stretchof time between the two encounters. Over fifty years was a huge span, the idea of accurate recall almost ludicrous. But there were constant proofs that the human memory could bridge it effortlessly. War veterans cheerfully described battle scenes in vivid detail; ancient women talked about nineteen fifties domestic routines as if they were last week. But Fraser had already explained these – repetition created much firmer memories, and the heightened stress of war would sear it deep into the brain. A fleeting romance in a crowded London life might well fall into oblivion. The real question, surely, was why did Fraser seek now to rekindle it? What could he possibly hope to gain from it? And the answer came again – Maureen Johnstone’s house and pension. The man wanted a hearth to call his own and a solicitous partner for his declining years. And yet he had a daughter who was apparently willing to give him a home.
‘Does he get on all right with Mo?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes. But she’s busy – out all day, and most evenings. She hasn’t got much time for him. And she’s just got a new boyfriend, so Fraser feels rather in the way.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Almost fifty. Two months younger than Damien.’
‘Has she got a husband? Presumably not.’
Her mother shook her head. ‘Divorced, seven years ago.’
‘Any children?’
‘Three. All girls, born within four years. The last one finished university this year.’
These responses brought a distinct sense of progress, of a picture coming into focus. Maureen Junior was wanting her freedom, now her daughters were off her hands. The arrival of an ageing father on her doorstep could not have been welcome. Therefore the prospect of a new girlfriend for him must have been thoroughly appealing. ‘I bet she really likes you,’ she said.
‘Why shouldn’t she?’ her mother said, with a grin. ‘What’s not to like?’
It was a reminder of earlier times, when a rare flash of wit would brighten the moment for the whole family. As a mother, she had been no better than adequate, focusing more than necessary on the duller aspects of her role. She complained about scuffs on the furniture, possessions strewn untidily around, coffee mugs in bedrooms and socks adrift from their brothers. She made her husband and her offspring impatient with such trivia. Not one of them ever accepted that it mattered whether or not the cushions were straight and the washing-up done within seconds of the meal being finished. ‘It’s me that’s the normal one,’ she said, more than once. ‘Without me, we’d be living in chaos.’
It was probably true – certainly the bit about being normal was. But Richard Johnstone and his four children all rejected, one way or another, the lure of normality. Even Damien, with his passion forreligion and charitable works, was unusual. Damien could not find a matching pair of socks if his life depended on it, and he had chosen a wife who had a PhD in numerology, which was definitely profoundly abnormal. She told people she had married him for his name, which fitted with a highly significant numerical sequence that made no sense to anybody but her.
What’s not to like?
echoed in Thea’s ears. Not just the sentiment, but the way it had been expressed, made her laugh. ‘Right,’ she said, with an affectionate pat on the mottled hand.
She had more questions, but the sensation of turning into an inquisitor kept her from voicing them. Instead, other queries were becoming increasingly persistent.
Who killed Melissa?
What was her connection with the Meadows family? Why was there a growing sense of careful background planning leading to her, Thea,
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