Seascape

CHAPTER ONE

THE next morning, after telephoning the coronary care unit and being told her employer was sleeping, Kate set out for London.

The object of her journey was to find Miss Walcott’s grandson and appeal to his better nature—if he had one!—to come and make peace with the old lady.

Why they were not on speaking terms wasn’t entirely clear to her. But, from what she knew of the situation, Kate felt the rift must be his fault, not his grandmother’s.

Although still in his early thirties, Alexander Walcott had already made a name for himself as a painter, traveller and lover of beautiful women. Miss Walcott paid a London agency to supply her with Press cuttings about his exhibitions and other exploits. She had several large albums full of reports of his doings, both artistic and social.

His girlfriends had ranged from a British TV presenter to an American lawyer, a beautiful Japanese violinist and the polo-playing daughter of an Australian millionaire. None had held his interest for more than a few months and there seemed to be no shortage of replacements for the girls he discarded.

An illustrated weekly magazine had included him in a feature on a hundred of the world’s most eligible men, describing him as ‘one of the most elusive of Europe’s charmers, whose combination of rugged looks, suave manners, wit and talent compensate for his lack of serious money.’

Not that Alexander Walcott was strapped for cash by most people’s standards, Kate thought drily, as she drove away from the village which had been her base for the past six months.

Xan, pronounced Zan, as his grandmother and his intimates called him, made enough from his paintings to pay for a spacious flat in London which had also appeared in the glossies, and to finance his frequent journeys to exotic locations from which he returned with a fresh batch of vividly evocative paintings and all manner of covetable souvenirs to enhance either the flat or his barn-cum-studio in the country.

His grandmother, also a talented painter, made her living by taking groups of amateur artists to picturesque places in Britain and around the Mediterranean and helping them improve their skill with pen, pastel and brush..

Xan travelled alone, or accompanied by his current playmate. His income was probably ten times as much as Miss Walcott’s, and earned with far less hassle.

Indeed, it was half a century of hassle—including the distressing estrangement from her grandson—which, in Kate’s opinion, had caused Miss Walcott to have a heart attack after supper the previous evening.

The journey to central London took over an hour.

Having lived there for some years herself, Kate had no difficulty in driving to the elegant Georgian square not far from Kensington Gardens where Xan lived.

It was harder to find somewhere to leave the car but eventually she saw a space, parked and put a coin in the meter.

While she was living in London she had had to be smartly dressed with expensive accessories and her hair and nails perfectly groomed. She had had an image to maintain.

Now that she was what Miss Walcott called ‘my amanuensis’ and Kate herself defined as ‘a dogsbody’, it didn’t matter how she dressed. Jeans and a shirt, with a sweatshirt or padded gilet when the weather was chilly, was the ‘look’ appropriate to her new role.

And these days a light skin cream, lip gloss and colourless mascara on her naturally dark eyelashes were the only cosmetics she used regularly. It was months since she had dressed up. Most of her London clothes were still in a suitcase, relics of a life to which she would not return even in the unlikely event of being asked to resume her previous job.

Like many of her contemporaries, she had been through the trauma of redundancy, survived it and in so doing discovered that none of the things she had lost had made her happy.

What she needed—had needed all her life and never had—was a family, a sense of belonging somewhere. Which was why she hadn’t much time for a man like Xan Walcott who had nothing to do with his closest relation, the old lady now fighting to recover from the destruction of an area of heart muscle.

If she pulled through—and the extent of the damage hadn’t yet been established—it would be Miss Walcott’s own iron will-power as much as the ministrations in the coronary care unit which would save her. She was as gutsy as they came. A bit set in her ways and opinions, but that was to be expected of someone of her age, born in an era very different from today’s world, Kate thought tolerantly.

In the six months they had been together she had become extremely fond of Nerina Walcott and would have been delighted to have her as a grandmother. Why Xan Walcott wasn’t—why he never so much as telephoned—was incomprehensible.

As she walked from the car to the house where he lived, Kate knew there was a chance he was not in England at present. She had attempted to telephone him from the hospital last night, only to find that his number was ex-directory. The only reason she could think of for anyone other than a major celebrity’s wanting to keep their number out of the telephone book was to avoid recriminatory calls from ex-spouses, partners or lovers. Which tied in with what she knew of Xan’s love-’em-and-leave-’ em lifestyle.

As she pressed the bell marked ‘Walcott’, she prepared to mask her instinctive dislike of the man she had come to see. It was no good showing hostility towards someone when you needed their co-operation. But if he refused to play ball—and she wouldn’t put it past him—then she might allow her true feelings to show.

‘Who is it?’

The question came from an entryphone panel. ‘My name is Kate Poole, Mr Walcott. I work for your grandmother. She’s in hospital ... seriously ill. May I see you for a few minutes, please?’

There was a pause, then a somewhat curt, ‘All right ... come in. Top floor.’ A moment later she heard the click of the mechanism controlling the street door.

Making sure it had latched behind her, Kate entered the long narrow hall common to most terraced houses of this size and period. She had shown dozens of similar houses to prospective buyers during her time as an estate agent on the staff of one of London’s most prestigious property agencies.

Casting a professional eye over the fixtures and fittings as she mounted the staircase, she concluded that all the flats in this building were owner-occupied rather than rented to transients.

The staircase and landings had the well-kept appearance of a communal area shared by people who wanted this part of the house to match the standard of their apartments. In buildings where the flats were rented to short-term tenants, there were often signs of neglect.

On the third and last flight the staircase wall was hung with framed drawings. One of them, a pen and ink study of a couple in a four-poster bed, she recognised. It was by Charles Keene, a Victorian artist. She had seen the original in exhibition at the Royal Academy the day before losing her job. The copy here reminded her what a disaster being sacked had seemed at the time.

Eventually her dismissal had proved the truth of the old saying that when one door closed another door opened. Now, unfortunately, it looked as if the new door which had opened for her would itself close before long. Even if Miss Walcott recovered from the heart attack, she would almost certainly have to retire. Kate would be out of a job again.

Perhaps Xan Walcott knew how long it usually took his visitors to climb the stairs, or perhaps one of the carpeted treads of the final flight was fitted with a warning bell. As she was lifting her arm to use the knocker, the door opened.

The photographs she had seen of him in his grandmother’s albums had not prepared her for his size. He was every inch of six foot two and a recent trip to somewhere tropical had given him a deep tan which emphasised the steel-grey coldness of his eyes.

Evidently it was not part of his technique to favour the women he met with a friendly smile. Or perhaps it was her connection with his grandmother that made his expression decidedly unwelcoming.

‘I can give you ten minutes,’ he said, standing back for her to enter. ‘After that I shall have to leave for an important appointment.’

‘If your number had been in the book, it would have saved my time,’ she answered. ‘I have plenty to do without driving to London, Mr Walcott. Will you be free later today? As Miss Walcott’s next of kin, I think you should be on hand if her condition deteriorates. A heart attack at any age is serious; at seventy, it’s very serious.’

Having closed the outer door, he led the way through another into the large, light living-room Kate recognised from a feature about it in House & Garden.

‘You say you work for my grandmother. In what capacity?’

‘As her general assistant. I answered an advertisement she put in The Lady last winter.’ In case the name meant nothing to him, she added, ‘The magazine’s small ads columns are a well-known marketplace for nannies, housekeepers and helpers. Miss Walcott was beginning to find she had too much on her plate. I’ve taken over the admin side of the business and I go on the trips as her courier.’

‘When did you start working for her?’ The question was accompanied by a gestured invitation to sit down.

‘Six months ago... at the beginning of April.’ Kate seated herself in a cane-backed antique library chair and watched him lower his long frame on to a loose-covered sofa piled with an interesting collection of cushions.

Xan said, "Long enough, I’d have thought, to be aware that my grandmother and I don’t have a close relationship. In fact we have nothing to do with each other.’

‘I realise there’s been an estrangement, but surely in the circumstances...’

‘Has she asked for me?’

‘She’s still under sedation. She hasn’t asked for you yet, but I’m sure she will.’

‘What makes you think so?’

Kate told him about the Press cutting albums. ‘She’s obviously proud of your achievements.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Do you have the hospital’s number?’

She unzipped her shoulder-bag and took out a small spiral notebook. Seeing him reach for the telephone on the table at his elbow, she read out the number.

When he had dialled and was waiting to get through, he gave her a swift top-to-toe appraisal and then met and held her eyes as if by staring intently he could also inspect her mind. Kate found his scrutiny disturbing. She hoped when the switchboard answered he would turn his grey stare elsewhere.

‘Good morning. My name is Alexander Walcott. I’m related to Miss Nerina Walcott who was admitted yesterday. May I speak to someone who can tell me how she is, please?’

He was still looking intently at Kate, who would have liked to outstare him but found that she couldn’t.

Instead she looked round the room, taking in the crowded bookshelves, the equally crowded walls hung with drawings and paintings by other hands than his own, the antique apothecary’s chest with its many shallow drawers in which, presumably, he stored his working equipment, and the profusion of interesting old and new objects.

It was—if she were honest—a room which appealed to her far more than the austere simplicity of Miss Walcott’s cottage. Kate could see the beauty of those bare white-washed rooms with their simple furniture and absence of all non-essentials. But it was the orderly clutter of this room which drew a stronger response from her; partly, perhaps, because of growing up in a well-run children’s home where the staff had been kind, even affectionate, but there had been little chance to acquire and display personal treasures.

She flicked a quick look at Xan, who now was repeating the nature of his enquiry to someone else. To her vexation he was still scrutinising her but with a less austere expression on his face. His appraisal was no longer critical. It had changed to the candid assessment of a connoisseur of women evaluating a candidate for his interest.

Kate didn’t like the way he was watching her now any better than his previous appraisal. She had always resented X-ray looks from the opposite sex and for some reason Xan’s expression made her especially uncomfortable.

He said to someone at the hospital, ‘I’m Miss Walcott’s grandson. She has no next of kin other than myself.’ A long pause. ‘Yes... yes, I see. Has she asked for me, do you know? She hasn’t. Thank you. I’ll call again later. In the meantime, if she should ask, you can contact me at this number.’

He dictated a central London number, repeated it and, with a crisp thank-you and goodbye, rang off.

To Kate, he said, ‘The usual hospital jargon. Holding her own ... stable but still on the critical list.’

She stood up. ‘If your grandmother doesn’t ask for you, it won’t mean she doesn’t want to see you. She may not ask because she thinks you wouldn’t, come. But seeing you could make the difference between her living and dying.’

‘I would have thought my reappearance at this stage was more likely to kill her than cure her.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘It’s fifteen years ... more... since Nerina and I last locked horns. Our relationship was a running battle from the time I was old enough to think for myself. If your family background is a happy one, it’s probably hard for you to accept that many people with blood-ties can’t stand the sight of each other.’

She wondered how he would react if she answered, My family background is non-existent. I was left on the floor of a changing-room in a department store when I was six weeks old. My parents were never traced.

But she wasn’t about to disclose the facts of her life to this hard, self-sufficient man who clearly was a loner by choice.

‘I’m aware of that,’ she said stiffly. ‘But there is the expression blood is thicker than water. I wouldn’t have thought the differences between you in your teens and Miss Walcott in her middle age had much bearing on this present situation. She’s old and ill and her life has been full of grief. I know losing your parents must have hurt you as well. But children get over such things. Miss Walcott has lost everyone she ever loved. Is it really too much to ask that you find time make your peace with her? It’s not far to go.’

‘I’ll think about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me...’

Instead of seeing her to the door and delaying his own departure until she had left the building, he followed her down the stairs. Judging by the way he was dressed, in a well-cut tropic-weight suit with a formal shirt and silk tie, she concluded his appointment was a lunch date at one of the glitzy hotels or perhaps some important event in the art world such as the opening of a major exhibition.

In the hall, he moved past her to unlock the front door. ‘Did you drive or come by train?’ he asked.

‘I drove in Miss Walcott’s car. It’s on a meter round the corner.’ Before turning in that direction, she held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Walcott. I hope, when you’ve thought it over, you’ll decide to do the humane thing. I happen to know that you are your grandmother’s sole beneficiary. If she doesn’t pull through, I think you’d feel very uncomfortable inheriting the cottage knowing that you hadn’t at least tried to put things right between you.’

As she spoke, she was aware of the latent strength in the long fingers clasping hers. She had noticed his hands earlier, while he was telephoning, and had been reminded of a pair of imitation marble hands, an exact copy of the hands of Michelangelo’s famous statue of David, which had been photographed in the colour supplement of her Sunday paper recently.

To her surprise, instead of releasing her