Читать книгу Modern Interiors - Andrea Goldsmith - Страница 9

Evelyn Finemore pulled into the curb to consult her street directory. It was bad enough that Philippa had left the home where she belonged and the family who loved her, but how much worse to have chosen this particular area with its rows of identical houses and its network of closed and one-way streets, euphemistically called ‘traffic-controlled’. The family would have come to accept a nice villa unit or a high-rise apartment, but a tiny inner-city Victorian terrace was beyond the pale.

And it was impossible to find! For the past fifteen minutes, Evelyn had been driving towards floral fences and bluestone barriers that, according to her ageing street directory, did not exist. And all the while the Finemores were falling apart and there was Evelyn’s usual appointment at three o’clock with Brother Trevor and she didn’t want to be late for that.

Ever since Philippa’s eccentricities had become too embarrassing to ignore (and over the years plenty had been ignored, including the ridiculous St Kilda pier business with all those smelly old men), Evelyn knew she would be the one to speak with her. The others, Gray, Melanie and Selwyn, were all so furious that when they weren’t biting their anger, which was their preferred approach in Philippa’s company, they were so caustic, so utterly condemnatory that productive discussion was impossible. It would have been far better if, instead of their private ragings, they could have confronted Philippa, but this was not the Finemore way. When in the presence of the offending party, Finemores would, with a polite skirting of the edges and a scatter of smiles and niceties, pretend that nothing was wrong; it was only behind the person’s back that true feelings could be aired. So, not a night would pass without a bitter tirade from Gray: how his mother had deserted her responsibilities, how her actions were an economic disaster and a betrayal of family, how it was unnatural not to want to spend as much time as possible with your grandchildren, how his father would turn in his grave if he knew what she was doing. Every night the same litany of complaint – made to Evelyn, not Philippa where it rightfully belonged. And the days were not much better. It had always been Gray’s practice to telephone Evelyn from work ‘to keep in touch with the home front,’ but now his phonecalls had become just another opportunity to rail against Philippa, and only in closing would he make a perfunctory inquiry about Evelyn’s day. Melanie’s calls had been similarly spoiled; Evelyn, different to her sister-in-law in so many respects, appreciated Melanie for those very qualities she herself lacked; Melanie’s phonecalls, spiced with an enticing blend of chat and gossip, had long been a source of pleasure. But now, because of Philippa’s behaviour, they were filled with hostility and resentment and blame and anger, and if Melanie were still privy to society gossip, her phonecalls to Evelyn gave no indication.

Finemore family life was in tatters and it was Philippa’s fault; her defection (for no matter what she might call it and irrespective of the frequency of her visits, a defection had in fact occurred) had far-reaching repercussions. Worst of all was the effect on the children, who loved their grandmother as she had seemed to love them. Once an exemplary model for impressionable young minds, Philippa now, by example, was promoting values and attitudes that could do the children no good. This appalling neighbourhood for a start. It wasn’t its humble mien that was so worrying, it was the perverts and foreigners and drug addicts who were the real problems; and while Philippa had, since the move, come across town to see the children, that might not always be the case.

If only they could have it out with her or, better still, all of them, Philippa included, swallow their pride and let bygones be bygones. Melanie and Selwyn, Gray and herself wanted Philippa back where she belonged – not back home, it was too late for that, but in the locality, a villa unit, or an apartment, the area was full of suitable places. ‘And at reasonable prices too, what with the current down-turn in the property market,’ Gray had been quick to point out. But they would not beg Philippa to return, Gray had added, for it was not up to them to instruct their mother how to behave.

But it was, Evelyn had decided, because while Philippa’s need for the family might have diminished, the family’s need for her had not. Philippa had always been a point of stability; she was dependable, sensible, and the only person Evelyn really trusted to look after the children. Philippa needed to be reminded of her duty. And it had to happen now, before the situation deteriorated, for while her desertion had made family life difficult, there was worse trouble looming in the executive offices of Finemore’s Fine Wines and Spirits. It was the boys, Gray and Selwyn, nothing new, but without George’s restraining presence, the distrust they had always felt for each other had been left to grow unchecked. Distrust, and, if the truth be known, dislike, but being family, the dislike was carefully put to one side. Poor Gray was exhausted, working twelve-, fourteen-hour days, and spending most weekends at his desk. Selwyn couldn’t be trusted in the office, Gray said, so as long as Selwyn was there, Gray had to be there too. Each evening, usually as a preface to his Philippa tirade, he would recount, or rather assess, Selwyn’s daily movements, and each evening, Evelyn brooded on the image of her husband traipsing after Selwyn from office to office, warehouse to loading bay, listening in to telephone calls, eavesdropping on conversations.

With so much time devoted to Selwyn, it was not surprising Gray’s own work was suffering. His figures were down and two of his best men had joined the main opposition. As for the satisfaction that had been so much a part of Finemore’s in George’s time, it had all but disappeared. These days, Gray pondered his drink, his evening meal, the darkness at the end of the bed with a face pale and heavy as a bull-terrier; these days, Gray was not a happy man. One time, and in all seriousness, he had described the problems between him and Selwyn as ‘an irreducible mathematical concept’ a sort of prime number of commerce; George’s death, he said, had left the managing director’s chair vacant, only one chair, he said between grim lips, and two large men.

One chair and two large men. Was it any wonder that Gray was not himself? He was sleeping badly, switching on the light in the early morning to make notes, and, as he wrote, he sighed and grunted and thanked God that George wasn’t alive to witness the rumblings at Finemore’s. Evelyn did her best to calm him with hot whisky drinks, massage to his tense muscles, even oral sex, but worry followed worry, complaint followed complaint, a veritable avalanche of words that was doing Gray no good. There were inconsistencies too, today’s opinion would contradict yesterday’s; Gray, always so sure, always so predictable, was becoming confused. Evelyn thought it best to let the inconsistencies pass; she would listen silently as was her custom, concentrating her features into various expressions of sympathy, until Gray finished. And it was always at the same point:

‘Selwyn’s not a Finemore,’ he would say, ‘he does not understand liquor.’

But Evelyn feared that might not matter, after all, George Finemore had not understood liquor, or not in the way Gray meant, and it hadn’t stopped him. George always said that the liquor business was about business first and liquor second; after fifty years in the trade, George couldn’t distinguish a Riesling from a Chardonnay, a burgundy from a Shiraz; even with Scotch, and he had been a Scotch drinker all his life, one was much the same as the next. Oenology, or the ‘connoisseur bullshit’ as George was wont to call it, was the buyers’ area, his concern was merchandising which was, George said, the nub of a successful business. And he must have been right, for when he died, George was eulogized in the financial pages as the Leviathan of Liquor; as for Finemore’s Fine Wines and Spirits, it was the nation’s largest, privately-owned, wholesale liquor trader and, with its expansion into the retail market, was variously described as diverse, aggressive, exciting and visionary.

Now all of it was under threat. No, Evelyn was being dramatic, not under threat, for Finemore’s was as sound as a rock, rather the Finemore family lifestyle was under threat, and, having taken more than a decade to adapt to the Finemore way of doing things, Evelyn wanted nothing to change. She wanted Philippa to see sense and the boys to hide their differences, and while her preference would have been for Gray to take the necessary actions, she knew her husband was not the man for the job. Gray was a man of words; he would make nightly proclamations from his side of the bed: ‘Selwyn wouldn’t know a good claret if he were swimming in it,’ or ‘Mother should have more respect for the Finemore name,’ a welter of allegations and declarations that might calm Gray’s offended nerves but did nothing to rectify the situation. In the months since George’s death, although Gray’s tirades had increased both in force and frequency, they had done nothing to keep Philippa at home or Selwyn in his place. While Gray talked, others acted, while Gray accused, others accomplished. Philippa had sold the house, packed her belongings and moved miles away, while in the office, the staff were looking to Selwyn for direction. Selwyn might not be a Finemore but he was, nonetheless, very clever, and his manner, although oozing with thin-blooded sincerity, mobilized the Finemore staff far more than Gray’s sure, steady ways.

Selwyn and Gray, thrown together by George’s death and the clumsy fusions of family, could not have been more different. There was the matter of character: Selwyn was a greyhound while Gray was more draughthorse; and personal manner: Selwyn brash and Gray sombre; and the future direction of Finemore’s: rapid expansion according to Selwyn, selective development at the top end of the market from Gray. The only quality the two men had in common was a thriving ambition, but ambition is a light sleeper and it was clear the men were becoming restless.

Evelyn had raised the problems with her sister-in-law, but while Melanie was happy to elaborate on the value of conflict, happy, too, to advise on how to deal with Gray, she refused to hear any criticism that might reflect badly either on Selwyn or the Finemore name.

‘You don’t understand the Finemores,’ she had said in words that could have been borrowed from Gray. ‘We’re tough, but we’re private, and we don’t like to air our grievances in public.’

‘But I’m not asking for a public airing,’ Evelyn had replied. ‘I only want us to talk among ourselves, talk honestly, resolve the differences between the boys and bring Philippa back home.’

‘I know exactly what you want, but as I said before, we’re very private people, and we prefer not to say things that later we might regret. We go about our business and in time the problems will right themselves. The Finemores have always believed that the essence of good family relations is to forgive and forget.’

She also said she had the utmost confidence in her husband and had no intention of interfering in his business affairs. And with that, had risen from the table where they’d been eating lunch, paid the bill, shepherded Evelyn from the restaurant down the street and into Madelaine’s for Evelyn’s opinion on the dress she was having made for the Jamiesons’ masked ball.

With Selwyn busy, Gray frenzied and Melanie resolutely blinkered, it had been left to Evelyn to restore peace in the family, and the best way to do this, she had decided, was with a direct approach to Philippa. Philippa must return home, she must pull the boys into line, she must return the family to normal.

Evelyn made another left turn and found herself on Philippa’s block. She knew exactly the line to take: she would appeal to Philippa’s seniority, her life-long devotion to family, her skill in matters of relationships. At the same time, she would be sure to make Philippa feel needed.

She parked the car, noticed she was low on petrol – Philippa should foot the bill, after all, it was her fault that Evelyn had been wandering through these ridiculous streets for close on twenty minutes – checked her lipstick and hair in the rear vision mirror and got out. She had dressed carefully in beige skirt and rust-coloured jacket; stylish, she thought, in the Finemore way, and entirely suitable for her appointment with Brother Trevor later on – not that he was concerned about such paltry matters, but years of private sessions with him had taught her to be prepared. The middling brown hair was longer than usual and Evelyn had caught up the sides with hand-painted combs. The beautician’s new course of skin care seemed to be working; her freckles were well-camouflaged and the blood vessels across her cheeks were not getting any worse. Of course the eyes were too small and the nostrils too flared and the lips too thin and the jaw receding, but she made the most of herself. And there was always her figure, perfect, irrespective of what she ate. ‘It’s in the genes,’ Melanie had said enviously, as she struggled to discard a few more pounds of George’s genetic legacy. And Evelyn was sure she was right; both of her utterly ordinary parents possessed lithe, athletic figures in which resided the only elegance in their utterly ordinary lives.

Philippa’s Victorian cottage was at the end of a row of six. Small, so small, and indistinguishable from the rest, Evelyn wondered how much she had paid for such idiocy. Not that she couldn’t afford it, but that wasn’t the point, being well off, as she and Gray tried to impress on the children, was no excuse for throwing money away. She opened the gate and walked the couple of metres to the front door. Even before she rang the bell she heard Peach bark, and a moment later Philippa was in the doorway, kissing Evelyn’s cheek and inviting her in.

Philippa looked better than she had for years. The olive skin, once so sallow, was infused with pink, the cropped hair curled prettily about her face, and the lines around the mouth and down the cheeks, so marked at the time of George’s death, had almost disappeared. Despite her Finemore training and the purpose of her visit, Evelyn couldn’t stop herself:

‘You’re looking extremely well, Philippa.’

‘Feeling well too.’ And led the way down the narrow hallway to the lounge. ‘Coffee? Wine? I’ve prepared a light lunch, cheese, salad, nothing substantial, but enough to keep us going for a while.’

Evelyn mentioned her three o’clock appointment, that she would need to leave by half past two.

Philippa nodded and held up a bottle of wine.

‘Not for me, coffee will be fine.’

While Philippa prepared lunch, Evelyn looked around. How Philippa could prefer this matchbox of a place to the grand old home was beyond her. Despite the renovations, the house was cramped and the front rooms dark, and the decor so – so meagre. Worst of all, the house was an irritating reminder of Evelyn’s own past: the same era, the same cell-like rooms, the same peppery smell.

Not that her childhood had been unhappy or her parents anything less than kind. Rather, that period of her life was over, finished, superceded. And while she maintained regular contact with her mother and father, their being on the south coast of New South Wales, still living in the same house where Evelyn had grown up, meant she saw little of them. Which was, as far as she was concerned, entirely satisfactory. Long before meeting Gray, Evelyn had planned her escape. As a girl, she had watched the businessmen, politicians and academics, who, with their families, moved between holiday homes at the coast and permanent homes in the city, and learned that no one who was born on the south coast and lived there permanently could ever be taken seriously.

Evelyn loved her parents but wanted more from life. Her father had been a science teacher; at the end of his career as at the beginning he worked in the classroom, never wanting promotion out of what he did so well. Evelyn’s mother had been happy as a teacher’s wife; her husband’s was a respectable job, and to be respectable was, in her opinion, the most important of qualities. They had raised three children; Evelyn’s brother, a doctor, now worked in central Australia, and her sister was a social worker in Sydney’s west. Evelyn, the youngest, was to have been a teacher, but against her parents’ advice, gave up her studies when she married Gray. Never had she regretted it. She loved Gray and the children, and she loved running the house; she worked energetically for the Blind Society and the Children’s Hospital, and she loved that too. She had everything she had ever dreamed of. More.

Now, as she walked through Philippa’s house, she was annoyed that a Finemore would actually choose to live this way, annoyed and, she realized, insulted; Philippa’s choices were an insult to her own. The passage from lower middle class, south coast respectability to Finemore family stability had not been easy, but always the goals had made the struggle worthwhile. Some lifestyles are clearly preferable to others, and only a fool would choose the servants’ quarters when the mansion was available.

Foolishness or perhaps deliberate provocation? For the first time it occurred to her that Philippa might be playing some sort of malicious game, although why she would do such a thing defied reason; the family had always been good to her, and she’d never wanted for anything. Of course, George had played around a bit, but he’d always put his family first, had always been the model of discretion. No, malice seemed as unlikely an explanation for Philippa’s behaviour as stupidity. Perhaps it was more simple, perhaps Melanie was right and Philippa was mentally unbalanced, for no one in their right mind would choose this pokey little place over the old Finemore home.

She peered into Philippa’s study. Almost identical to the bedroom Evelyn had shared with her sister, small, dark, never enough space for two growing girls. She opened one of the folders on the desk, leafed through sheets of poetry written in an even cursive script, looked closer, and then, concerned she might be prying, shut the folder and left the room. She walked back along the passage to the bedroom with its double bed and single bedside table, all so spartan, and from there to the bathroom, with its adamant denial of children in the absent bath, and the toilet wedged between shower and basin.

Perhaps incipient madness had nothing to do with it, perhaps something had happened to Philippa that made her desert her old life. Perhaps she was worried about being a burden on the family, about having less to do now the grandchildren were older; perhaps George’s death had reminded her of her own mortality and this had thrown her into some sort of crisis. Whatever had happened, Evelyn’s role was clear: she must discover what was bothering Philippa, put it to rights and move her back to the family as quickly as possible.

She returned to the lounge room. Peach was asleep in a patch of sun, and nearby, spread across a low table, were a crusty loaf, cheese, a variety of dips and some pickled onions which Philippa said she had bought especially for Evelyn knowing how much she liked them. Evelyn felt herself bristle; she had learned long ago that pickled onions were definitely not Finemore food, and had, so she thought, successfully hidden her enjoyment of them. Philippa’s gesture was not appreciated, and Evelyn chose to ignore it. The pickled onions too.

Philippa had opened a bottle of wine and Evelyn decided to join her, it could only relax her for the task ahead.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Philippa asked with a sweep of her hand.

Evelyn chose her words carefully. ‘It’s sweet, rather small of course. Such a change for you.’

‘It certainly is, but that’s what I like about it. All of it so new – a bit like being in a strange country.’ She laughed, sipped her wine. ‘Often these days, I find myself feeling just like a tourist; I walk a lot, exactly as one does when on holiday, take in so many sights, so many impressions. And I never tire, never feel worn down by familiarity; in fact, I can walk the same stretch over and over again and still be aware of its newness, still be surprised by it.’

Evelyn smiled at her mother-in-law. Poor, poor Philippa, so that was it! Her old life and the old house without George had defeated her, and when she could cope no longer, she’d felt compelled to move to a foreign area, one far removed from the pain and the memories and her inability to manage. If only they had realized they would have arranged a proper trip ages ago; Philippa could have had a few months away, a period in which to build a bridge between her old life with George and the same life without him, and on her return she would have felt strong enough to tackle life alone. If only they’d known, this escape across the city might have been averted.

‘—all so new,’ Philippa was saying, ‘and yet providing a certain recognition, a sense of belonging.’

Exactly, thought Evelyn, her life was in pieces with George’s death, and she couldn’t see how she was to fit in.

‘A sense of belonging unlike anything I’ve felt before,’ Philippa continued. ‘Of community.’

‘Now, now, Philippa, you’ve always had community, you’ve always been at the centre of so many lives, and not just the family, but friends as well.’

‘That’s not quite what I mean. Let me give you an example. There’s an Italian coffee shop up the street, I have coffee there quite often—’

‘By yourself?’

Philippa smiled. ‘By myself. I take a newspaper or book, I’m not the only one. Anyway, this morning, as I was passing, I stopped in for coffee and the young man there, Francesco, asked if I wanted “the usual”. I’ve met this man a dozen times and already he knows how I like my coffee; I lived with George for more than forty years, and still he’d add too much milk.’

‘But that was just George. I’ve always known how you have your coffee, so do Gray and Melanie.’ And Jeremy probably did too, but Evelyn would prefer not to mention him.

‘Yes, of course you do dear, but that’s not the point. Francesco knows how I take my coffee; Lucia, his partner, knows the cakes I prefer; I walk past the newsagent and the proprietor smiles at me, so, too, the people in the hardware. The butcher knows the cuts I like, Janet in the bookshop knows what I read.’ Philippa shrugged, ‘I’m very happy.’

‘I’m sure you are. But these people are strangers. We’re your family, we’re not the same as butchers and booksellers; we love you and need you and understand what you’re going through. We know that when you share your life with the one person for forty years there’s bound to be a period of adjustment when he’s no longer around. Philippa, dear, we understand what a difficult time you’re having, and—’

‘But I’m not, or at least, not any more. As I said before, I’m very happy. I’m full of energy, feel very much alive.’

‘But your family needs you, we love you.’ Somehow the words sounded very lame.

Philippa smiled, an expression without humour. ‘yes, I know, but you don’t recognize me.’

‘I think you’re being too harsh. We’ve always appreciated you, always loved you. Of course, if there’s something else you’re wanting, then all you have to do is ask. You know we’d do anything for you. We all need you so much and everyone’s so upset.’

‘But Evelyn dear, I’m here. I haven’t left the country, I see you all several times a week, and if you need me at any other time, I’m at the end of the telephone.’ She leaned forward, face creased with concern. ‘Don’t you understand? You’re all very precious to me. As for the children, I’d be utterly distraught without them.’

Evelyn shook her head, it wasn’t fair, she was doing her best, but Philippa was being deliberately difficult.

‘Philippa, we want what’s best for you, and to be blunt, what’s best for you is not living miles away from the rest of us. Here you are, all by yourself, and in an area that by the looks of it is none too safe. And how do you plan to spend your time? You’ve given up your charity work, you have no friends nearby, and you can’t expect us to drive for miles just so you can see your grandchildren. We want to look after you, and we can’t do it properly while you’re involved with this nonsense. Of course we understand, but you have to help us help you.’

Philippa’s gaze was steady, her face serious, apparently thinking. She refilled her glass, Evelyn had hardly touched hers.

‘I know you mean well, Evelyn, but the fact of the matter is I don’t want to return home, I don’t want to go back, and neither do I need looking after. I’ve plenty to do and much more planned, and I’m happy. Just because I’ve moved house—’

‘It’s not just the house, there was the trip to Japan, you’ve dropped your charities, and you’re seeing none of your old friends.’

‘Just because I’ve made a few changes, doesn’t mean I’ve deserted the family. Far from it. And besides, how could I? How could you think I’d want to? You mention my grandchildren, well, since I moved over here, I’ve seen more of them than ever before, and because I’ve so much more energy, so much more to offer, our time together has been of a much better quality. As for anything else, an unforeseen happening or something extra you want me to do, I’m always available. But I’m not going back; I’m sixty-two, I have a right to this.’

‘I hardly recognize you, Philippa. You’ve always been so unselfish, always put your family first.’

Philippa appeared to have stopped listening, she was offering Peach morsels of food, murmuring fond words of encouragement. To the dog, not Evelyn. And Evelyn realized her approach was all wrong; this was not the time for recriminations, although no one could deny they weren’t warranted, a change of direction, a little sympathy, would be more appropriate.

‘We want you to be happy, Philippa, believe me we do, and we’re pleased for your new interests, after all, you’ve got a lot of life left in you. And despite what you think, we’ve always been supportive of you, and will continue to be as long as your interests aren’t to the detriment of the family.’

‘And they’re not. All I’ve done is increase the dimensions of my life. I don’t love you any less, nor am I any less concerned about you, I’m simply trying to incorporate more in my life. And any honest person would have to admit that mine was a life desperately in need of expansion.’

‘I really don’t think that’s fair, yours was a perfectly good life, a marvellous life. Plenty of people would have been happy to trade places.’ She popped a pickled onion in her mouth without thinking, then quickly followed with some camembert as if the latter could erase the former’s vulgarity. ‘Besides, people are talking.’

Philippa laughed. ‘That’s never bothered me. People talked for years about George and Lorraine Pascoe and I never minded.’

Evelyn was annoyed, certain topics were best left unsaid, and a long-time mistress of your husband’s was one. Although it suddenly occurred to her why Philippa may have wanted to escape her old life. Perhaps she was embarrassed to face her old friends, that, despite her bravado, she really did mind about Lorraine Pascoe. Evelyn certainly would, Evelyn would have found the role of grieving widow impossible if there had been a long-time mistress on the scene. Thank heavens good steady Gray had not taken after his father. And again she found herself feeling sorry for Philippa. She took a sip of wine, leaned forward, an expression of sympathy grafted across her features.

‘Is there something wrong, something you’d like to talk about? Some difficulty perhaps?’

Philippa shook her head.

‘You can confide in me,’ Evelyn persisted. ‘I’m not as easily shocked as you might think. Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?’

There was nothing, Philippa said, and then added with a laugh, except perhaps too many options. She wanted to travel, South America was a possibility, and she was interested in the University of the Third Age, but was yet to decide on her subjects, perhaps she’d even try some part-time work. ‘I really don’t know what I’ll end up doing, but for the moment, it’s quite exhilarating to know that almost anything’s possible.’

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

Philippa looked genuinely surprised.

‘Have you thought about seeing someone?’

‘Someone?’

‘A professional, someone who can help you. I know Gina Ballantyne found a very good therapist for her daughter when she was going through a rough patch.’

Philippa smiled. ‘Are you suggesting I’m going through an adolescent phase? Is that how it appears to you?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. But something has to explain your behaviour.’

‘And so it does. I want a change, it’s as simple as that.’

Evelyn saw she was getting nowhere, and with just under half an hour before she would need to leave, decided to change the topic and clear the air. For there would be a return visit, possibly several, and she did not want to antagonize her mother-in-law at this early stage. So she chatted on about nothing in particular, who had announced their engagement, whose divorce was through, who was pregnant and whose tubes had been tied, and at half past two rose to leave.

At the door Philippa turned to her. ‘You’ll remember what I said Evelyn, I’m here whenever the family needs me. Just ring and I’ll make time. I’ve even bought an answering machine, one of those sophisticated models with a remote retrieval system, so no matter where I am, I can keep in touch.’

They touched cheeks and Evelyn hurried to the car before she exploded. An answering machine! What would Philippa think of next?

The trip across the city was maddeningly slow and by the time she pulled up outside Brother Trevor’s, frustration over Philippa’s intransigence had been inflamed by ineffective road laws, inefficient road repair teams, inflated petrol prices and incompetent drivers. Three hours ago her mission had been clear, her goals readily achievable, now she was returning without a single point won. It was all very well for Philippa to insist on her availability, her willingness to help, but none of the family was the least bit interested in Philippa’s help as long as she persisted in her present nonsense. Mother could only do her job, they all said, if she were back where she belonged.

Which was the way of the Finemores. Conciliation and compromise had never been their approach. Why deprive both parties of what each really wanted? Either you converted the opposition to your way of thinking, or you didn’t bother about convincing them, you just made sure you won. So, as far as the Finemore children were concerned, Philippa had to return home, and that was that. As for the problems between Gray and Selwyn, both men would, for the time being, go about their business, Gray at Selwyn’s heels and Selwyn his gaze fixed firmly ahead, both of them refusing to recognize any view other than their own. And the tension would increase, affecting not only the dynamics at work, but family relations as well. Which had already begun; at the past two or three family dinners, despite the usual talk of parties and children and takeovers and bankruptcies, there had been a competitive edge to the silences, the jokes had been shot with malice, and the compliments very heavy-handed indeed.

All this Evelyn had known, all of it had fuelled her visit to Philippa, all of it made Philippa’s refusal to see reason so unfair. Evelyn’s only relief in the whole fiasco was in not having told Gray of her visit; she had planned to surprise him with results: the triumphant announcement that his mother was returning home.

Well, there would be none of that now, or at least not yet. She got out of the car, Brother Trevor’s gate was, as usual, open, she passed through and walked up the path. Brother Trevor was already at his front door, and at the sight of him her spirits rose; the visit with Philippa might have been a failure, but her appointments with Brother Trevor never were.

Evelyn’s first dalliance with religion had occurred soon after her marriage when she offered her services to the ladies’ auxiliary at the local Anglican church. It had seemed such a Finemore thing to do, but it was also rather unsatisfying. When the church was deconsecrated and sold to an advertising agency, Evelyn took the opportunity to discontinue her association with God. Until three years ago, and then it was Jesus, not God, who caught in her heart, Jesus on the lips of Brother Trevor. Of course Gray and the others had no idea. In Finemore circles, religion was something akin to those white kid gloves packed in tissue at the back of a drawer, ignored until an auspicious occasion required their appearance. As for rousing singing and ecstatic revelations these were, from the Finemore point of view, in very poor taste. But Evelyn didn’t care. Reverend Trevor Potter, ‘Call me Brother,’ had indeed called her and moved her and implanted within the brooding coolness of her body a shudder, a flame, a passion of sorts, that she understood to be belief.

‘You have to believe,’ Brother Trevor said, ‘and our Lord will come to you. I will show him the way.’ And Brother Trevor had shown the way, every Thursday at three o’clock for nearly two years, while Gray thought Evelyn was attending cake decoration classes.

Brother Trevor walked down the path to meet her, and they entered the house together. The air was steeped in the smells of baking; Marion Potter, a flour-streaked apron around her girth, popped her head through the kitchen doorway to say hello, offered a not-entirely-coherent apology for her appearance, and, with a wave of a wire-mesh tray, disappeared. Evelyn followed Brother Trevor into the study, waited until he shut the door, and then sat in her usual chair. Sat and sighed and ran a hand through her hair.

So good to be here, she says, and Brother Trevor, always so sensitive to her mood, suggests they start immediately.

He pulls up a chair, sits in front of her, takes her hands, and begins the thanksgiving prayer. She closes her eyes, sinks into the soothing incantation, focuses on the touch of his skin, how it seems to travel from her hands up her arms, down through her chest to lodge just beneath her breasts where it pumps adrenalin into her blood. It is a quiet and private pleasure that hurts no one.

With the prayer finished and his thumbs stroking, so tenderly stroking, the backs of her hands, he asks about her week. Terrible, she says, and rotates her hands just a fraction so as to feel the tips of his fingers on the soft flesh of her palms. A stronger spurt of adrenalin shoots through her body and pools low in her abdomen. Terrible, she says again. It’s the family, nothing’s changed. Gray hasn’t been home for dinner all week, and Selwyn’s being deliberately obstructionist. Brother Trevor rubs a sympathetic finger across her palm, her thighs involuntarily tense; seeing the movement, he lays a soothing hand on one of her legs, and his touch shoots up the limb to meet the adrenalin sizzling down.

Not that Brother Trevor would suspect she is anything other than composed; she sits straight and still, her face arranged for prayer. She closes her eyes while Brother Trevor recites a prayer for the family, his hand still on her thigh, her body flooding with his energy. And then she tells him of her visit to Philippa. He takes his hand from her thigh and rearranges his cassock. How she loves his cassock for their private sessions, such an arresting ecclesiastical touch that she suspects he does especially for her. He shuffles in his seat, pulls his chair closer so their knees almost touch, and replaces his hand on her thigh.

Their knees touch. Is that his skin she feels through the material of the gown? Might he be without trousers? And the first spasm occurs, a sparkling prod that she has come to identify as part of her Thursday feeling. She tells him about Philippa, how angry she is at her mother-in-law. Brother Trevor is agreeing with everything she says, he is nodding his head, and now his whole body, nodding back and forward, forward and back, and the thrill of his knees nudging her own.

‘I went there with the best of intentions. George’s death was a terrible blow for her, I know that.’

The deep prodding is now a throbbing; she knows this is the difficult stage, the hardest to control. She clenches her torso, moves her attention from her body to the chair, and the throbbing immediately subsides.

‘So I don’t want to be unfairly critical,’ she continues, ‘but it’s been well over six months, and still Philippa’s avoiding her responsibilities. She seems so wrapped up in herself, can’t see that Gray and Selwyn are in trouble. And if they’re in trouble then the whole family’s in trouble.’

Brother Trevor grunts and continues his rocking.

‘Gray loves the business, always has, his commitment to it is 100%. But,’ she smiles at Brother Trevor, ‘I couldn’t say this to anyone but you, Gray seems to lack a certain something.’

A little groan escapes from Brother Trevor. He clears his throat. ‘Perhaps Gray’s just finding his feet, after all, it’s still early days.’

At which point Brother Trevor finds his feet and suggests they move to the prie-dieu. Not a moment too soon, Evelyn is thinking as she crosses the room. They kneel in unison facing each other, their arms resting along the ledge, hands firmly clasped.

‘You may be right about Gray,’ Evelyn says, leaning against the partition. ‘Although I think the main problem is that he cares too much. So different to Selwyn.’

‘Selwyn has never disguised his ambition.’

Brother Trevor also leans against the partition, Evelyn feels his weight through the wood, feels it drain her strength, feels the insistent pounding at the centre of her body. She swallows; it is still too soon. And swallows again.

‘It’s more than that, Selwyn doesn’t have the Finemore commitment to liquor. His heart’s not in it. Selwyn’s too much of a pragmatist.’

‘Always has been,’ Brother Trevor says, giving her hands a sudden squeeze, ‘always been his way.’

Evelyn dares not move. ‘Selwyn wants a period of rapid expansion, he wants to double the number of retail outlets and open a dozen new designer pubs. Can you imagine the cost!’ She is speaking very carefully, any untoward movement could bring the session to a premature end. ‘Gray says such expenditure would be suicide in this climate.’

‘So why does Selwyn want it?’ Brother Trevor leans sideways against the screen, and then returns to an upright position; his eyelids flutter.

‘Something about increasing the public image of the company. “Exposure,” he says, “is everything.” ’

Brother Trevor is swaying now, his grip on Evelyn’s hands is very firm, he begins the prayer of joy. Evelyn joins in. There is a knock at the door and Marion Potter is asking if her husband is ready for tea.

‘Not yet, dear.’ Brother Trevor consults the wall clock. ‘I’ll be finished in about ten minutes.’ Marion’s steps fade down the hallway; he turns to Evelyn, ‘But I’m ready to wind up, are you?’

Evelyn nods, not daring to speak. Brother Trevor returns to the prayer of joy, and now Evelyn, too, is swaying and praying, her breath quickening, breast beating, body rising and rising poised at the precipice, and Jesus comes, she feels him, she feels him. ‘Feel the love of Jesus!’ Cries Brother Trevor. ‘I feel! I feel!’ she says. Feels the thrill the joy the fluids of her faith rushing together and breaking, wave after glorious wave.

Only faith can feel this good.

She offers up thanks: for Brother Trevor, for her belief, and for the surprisingly powerful, and yet still largely private, miracle of her faith. And wonders what Brother Trevor thinks of her. Early in their association, having been quite overwhelmed by his sessions, Evelyn decided to discontinue them; Brother Trevor had worked hard to dissuade her, had been delighted when she succumbed. So she supposed he must like her, must like his time with her. He said it was part of his ministry, and of course it was; but while she always felt so much better for his ministrations, she remained perplexed over the particular manifestations of her faith. And would not want anyone to know, most of all Brother Trevor, upon whom it was so dependent.

Minutes later, both were sitting in their chairs smiling fondly at each other.

‘I don’t know how I’d manage without our sessions,’ Evelyn said.

‘Just doing my job.’

‘I feel so lucky to have you.’

‘Thank you, my dear.’

He stood up and took her hands. She looked up at him expectantly; but no, he said, she must go, his next client was due in half an hour. She, too, stood up.

‘Thank you Brother Trevor, I feel so much better.’

‘Until next Thursday then?’

‘Thursday.’

He walked her to the front door. ‘Marion,’ he called to his wife, ‘Evelyn’s just leaving. Do you want to say goodbye?’

Marion came to the door, her youthful features pressed into a warm smile. Evelyn and the other women of the congregation so admired her; not yet twenty-five, it had been she who had comforted Brother Trevor when his wife Sarah had died from cancer – a double blow, as all were quick to recognize, for Sarah was the second wife to have left him under tragic circumstances. Marion had been his saviour during that awful time, not only had she nursed Sarah, she had moved into the Potter home to be more available in the last difficult months. Now she was leaning forward and giving Evelyn a hug. ‘Perhaps you’ll stay for a cup of tea next Thursday.’

Evelyn accepted the invitation, walked down the path to her car and drove home. The children were not yet back from gym; the house was quiet and peaceful. The Finemore problems were still there, her anger, too, but Evelyn felt so much better, so much more in control. Which was how it always was with Brother Trevor, who somehow softened the difficulties, made them more manageable. She went upstairs to change her clothes and freshen her makeup, then to the kitchen, where she buttered some buns, made a large jug of cordial and waited for the children to come home.