The Mill on the Shore by Ann Cleeves Page A

use.’
    ‘How did it work out with them living so close to you? Was it as bad as you’d expected?’
    She shrugged. ‘I suppose not. Nothing ever is, is it? Nothing ever quite lives up to the fears you create in your imagination. Except losing Hannah and I’d never imagined for a moment that could happen. Meg doesn’t bother with us much. When Jimmy was alive occasionally we’d receive a royal summons to Sunday tea and sit in the flat eating crumpets and making polite conversation.’
    ‘You went then?’ George was surprised.
    ‘I was never keen but Phil liked to go. He could never see what she was up to.’
    ‘What was she up to?’
    ‘She was showing the world how civilized and reasonable she was. As you’ve said, she liked to pretend that we were all close friends …’ She paused. ‘And there was another reason for the invitations too. She wanted to show off her family, her miraculous bloody children. We had to listen to their music, admire their art, hear about their school work. It made me sick because of course it wasn’t them we were supposed to admire, it was Meg for having created such a tribe of geniuses.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘I suppose I’m just jealous. They’re really quite nice kids despite their mother.’
    ‘It was hardly the most tactful way to carry on,’ George said. He was encouraged by Cathy’s openness. The shyness seemed to have gone.
    ‘Oh no,’ Cathy said. ‘ Tact’s never been one of Meg’s virtues. She’s too self-centred for that. Tact requires the appreciation that other people have feelings.’ She smiled at him. ‘ I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘What must you think? I’m getting bitchy in my old age.’
    She leaned across the table to refill his coffee cup. He saw that her hand still shook slightly. She noticed too. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I get so wound up because there’s no one I can moan to. Phil thinks they’re all wonderful.’
    ‘I’ve only spent a day there,’ George said slowly, ‘but I find it hard to imagine Jimmy at the Mill … Tea and crumpets and polite conversation … Not really his thing.’
    She grinned and there was pure delight on her face. He saw the old Cathy of the London dinner party. ‘He hated it,’ she said. ‘ I suppose it’s not charitable but it was a sort of revenge …’
    ‘Did he always hate it?’ George said. ‘How did he stick it for so long?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think he always hated it. In the beginning he was really apathetic. Nothing seemed to matter. More recently I had the feeling that he was prepared to do something about it. I never thought he’d take his own life of course, but I thought he was looking for some way out.’
    ‘When did his mood change?’
    She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘As I told you I didn’t see him very often. The last ritual. Sunday tea was just before Christmas and he was certainly more his old self by then. When we arrived Meg was trying to persuade him to do something domestic and he told her to fuck off. He disappeared off to his study and didn’t emerge until we were about to leave, all charm and apologies because he’d been too busy to talk to us. You know, the old Jimmy.’
    ‘Could his new assertiveness have coincided with the decision to write his autobiography?’
    ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ she said shortly. ‘I wasn’t even aware that he proposed to write one.’
    ‘Didn’t he discuss it with you? Surely you would have featured in the book. It would have been courteous to mention it to you, especially if he intended to include an account of the accident …’
    ‘Courtesy never featured largely in his range of responses,’ she said. ‘You should know that, George.’
    He nodded but did not believe she had known nothing of Jimmy’s book. There must have been talk of the autobiography at Salter’s Cottage. Everyone at the Mill had been aware of it.
    ‘Did you know the autobiography had been