playing for Stoke – on a lend,’ she added, explaining to Chrissi. ‘He’s a footballer,’ she said, ‘with the Liverpool Academy. He’s almost fifteen. One of a twin.’ Then she gave Simon a bright look which was meant to put him at his ease because he looked so terribly uncomfortable. ‘You haven’t heard the best. Sukey has decided she wants to become an actress.’
‘Goodness.’ He looked startled. ‘Little Suks? What on earth would Martin have said, I wonder?’
‘He was always one to let his children choose their own path.’
‘Ye-es. But acting.’
The conversation stopped and she felt suddenly cross. What right did Simon have to drag her into this uncomfortable and untenable position? He should sort this out himself with his daughters. Not bring her in as mediator, no doubt to plead this child’s cause.
Chrissi spoke. ‘You were a friend of Simon’s first wife?’ She lifted her eyes to Martha’s, beseeching,
‘Yes,’ Martha said. ‘You haven’t met Armenia and Jocasta yet?’
‘Tomorrow. We’re having lunch together. We hoped -’ she put her hand in Simon’s – ‘that you would come along too. It would make it easier for me.’
‘Of course.’
Martha risked a glance at Simon. He was looking away, frowning and she thought she could read his mind.
This was not going to work. He knew it and she knew it too.
But then Chrissi swallowed a mouthful of salad and gulped. ‘You must be wondering what Evelyn would have thought of this,’ she said, putting her hand in Simon’s.
‘Evelyn isn’t alive,’ Martha said quietly. ‘If she was you wouldn’t be here, would you?’
The blue eyes met hers with some understanding and Martha felt relief that she had spoken what had been in her mind from the beginning of lunch when she had recognized the incongruity of this relationship.
‘I’m dreading tomorrow,’ Chrissi said miserably. ‘I know Simon’s daughters won’t like me.’ Her voice trailed away.
‘They’re grown women,’ Martha said firmly. ‘They must adjust.’
Simon’s arm stole around Chrissi’s thin shoulders. ‘Take heart, my darling,’ he said quietly. ‘Be brave.’
Chrissi was not the only one dreading tomorrow.
The rest of the lunch was equally perfunctory and Martha left the soulless restaurant at three.
Depressed and a little tired she decided to walk back down to the car park, towards the English Bridge, passing Finton Cley’s antiques shop halfway down Wyle Cop. She glanced in the window and had a shock.
It sported a huge sign. ‘Meet Martha Gunn’. Below it was a female Toby jug with the three plumes of the Prince of Wales on her hat.
Finton had mocked her before about her name. For ages she had not understood why. One day she had asked him. ‘Why do you always smirk when you say my name?’
He’d looked smug, a public schoolboy who had a secret. ‘I can’t believe you’ve lived all your life and don’t know the significance of your name? Your parents never told you?’
She’d shaken her head. ‘They might not have known either.’
‘Well that would be a coincidence.’
She’d waited, knowing he would tell her. ‘She was a Brighton bathing attendant,’ he’d said finally, ‘in the early nineteenth century and reputed to have attended the Prince Regent. One version of events has her actually throwing him into the sea. A risky thing. Look.’ He’d shown her the three feathers on her hat.
Martha looked through the window. And now here was the original Martha Gunn herself.
She pushed open the door. Cley was sitting down, reading a book. Although the shop bell jangled he did not look up but continued reading. She cleared her throat. He inserted a bookmark, closed the book and finally turned round. ‘Martha,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Somehow I thought that little jug would tempt even you inside.’ He stood up. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. You?’
He looked at her searchingly. ‘You seem a bit… on edge.’
‘It’s been a difficult day,’ she said. ‘And I expect more of the same tomorrow.’
She smiled and walked across to the window, picking the Martha Gunn jug up. It had a price tag of ?1,800 on it. ‘An expensive lady,’ she said.
‘I can manage a small reduction,’ Cley said smoothly, playing the antiques dealer to perfection.
She turned. ‘How much of a reduction?’
‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether you understand.’
She stared at him. He was a charismatic character, with long, curling hair, too long for current fashion, one pirate earring swinging against his ear lobe. He was in his early thirties and had a very public school accent. He puzzled her, seeming to always have a secret message. She had thought it was simply her name but now she realized there was more to it than just that. Still holding the jug she sat down. ‘Why don’t you stop playing games, Finton,’ she asked softly. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Message for Martha,’ she said.
He eyed her for a moment as though wondering. ‘Why don’t I stop playing games,’ he repeated softly. ‘Why don’t I? Why don’t I tell you the truth, Martha? I’ll tell you why, shall I?’
She waited, starting to see things more clearly now, as though frosted glass had suddenly become clear.
When he spoke again it was both soft and hard. ‘You like stories, Martha Gunn?’
He drew in a deep breath. ‘So why don’t you sit down? Have a cup of tea and listen to the story I have to tell.’
He began. ‘My father’s name was William. William Cley.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. And yet…’ She paused. ‘I have heard it before but I don’t know in what connection.’ She hazarded a guess. ‘Work?’
‘Interesting, isn’t it,’ Cley said. ‘The name means practically nothing to you and yet you virtually destroyed his family.’
‘What?’
‘My father died twelve years ago. Unfortunately he had left a note stating his intention.’ Cley met her eyes without flinching. ‘His life insurance specifically excluded suicide so my mother and sister were left without any money. I had been at public school so of course I had to leave and was bullied fairly mercilessly at state school for my posh accent and eccentric clothes. My mother, you may be interested to know, went to pieces. She’s dead now and my sister became very depressed and an alcoholic. There was no money for me to go to university. I could have become a lawyer or a doctor, just like you, but instead I had to support my family, both financially and mentally. That was what happened to William Cley’s family after you brought in a verdict of suicide, Martha Gunn.’ Then quite suddenly he erupted. ‘Why didn’t you simply say accidental death?’
‘If he left a note,’ she said quietly, ‘I had no choice. Your father would have known what he was doing and the consequence of his actions.’
Cley’s face crumpled. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make me feel any better.’
‘Finton, I’m sorry about your father,’ she said, ‘but I was simply doing my job. You can’t blame me.’
He did not reply but stared ahead of him, his dark eyes sad.
She bought the jug anyway.
TEN
