A Quiet Life(121)

The only person Laura wanted to see now was Sybil, and she was the only one who had not been in touch since the birth. Toby had telephoned, telling Laura he was off to see his mother, who was obviously quite distracted with worry. Laura asked if Sybil would come and visit, and Toby replied, absolutely, very soon. His voice was always so clipped. But Sybil’s silence continued. Laura needed to break through it, she thought, she needed Toby and Sybil; she needed the protection of the group.

So one morning, when she had slept reasonably well, Laura telephoned Sybil and asked if she could come and see her. Sybil’s voice was always flat on the telephone, but she agreed. It was odd, Laura thought, that she did not offer to come to her, but presumably she had heard about the ring of reporters around the door – who would expose themselves to that? She held onto the fact that Mother and Aunt Dee had long been insisting that they could look after Rosa for a few hours now that she was taking a bottle, and Helen had said that she could drive Laura about, since the Caesarean wound still made it impossible for her to drive herself.

Even though Helen drove Laura’s car right up to the door, and Laura rushed out with a scarf over her head, the reporters saw what was happening immediately. There were cars right behind them all the way through the village, disconcerting Helen, who began to drive erratically. Laura wanted to ask her to try some tricks on them: to drive south for a while, perhaps, and then double back, or jump a light to put distance between them. But just as she opened her mouth to speak, she stopped herself. She found Helen more trying than ever these days; there was something too watchful about her manner. So she sank back into the seat, wanting to pretend she was unaware of their followers. It was not hard just now to seem passive. This was the first time since the birth that Laura had been apart from Rosa, and her milky, aching body felt the absence.

Eventually Helen parked in Chester Square, and the reporters’ cars found places next to them. Laura realised there was no avoiding them. She agreed that Helen should remain with the car rather than come in with her, and put on her sunglasses. As she stepped out, the door of Sybil’s house swung open immediately. She must have been watching for her from the window, and there was Ann on the doorstep. Laura tried to ignore the shouts of the reporters. One of them – that long-haired young man – was offering money, absurd sums, just for a few comments. He was trying to get in front of her as she walked, to take a photograph. Laura was sweating by the time she gained the steps, but then she was standing in the hall, pulling off her sunglasses, and Sybil was at the top of the stairs.

‘Every time I come here I remember the night I first met you – and Edward …’ Laura said, walking up to meet Sybil. It was surely a statement that laid claim to a particular intimacy with her, an intimacy that had grown between them over the years, the long years that they had come to know one another little by little, up to that strange moment in the Surrey garden not so long ago when Sybil had been about to tell Laura some confidence.

But as Laura walked up to her, Sybil moved backwards, and Laura followed her heavy body in its starched dress into the living room. Sybil sat on the corner of a sofa, and nodded at Ann, who had followed them up. ‘Do bring tea now,’ she said.

Laura said how much she had wanted to talk to Sybil, feeling that surely Sybil would appreciate this appeal to her judgement. But Sybil said nothing. Laura said that Giles and Alistair had been in touch, hoping that this mention of other members of the group might move them onto common ground. ‘Alistair’s article was quite unforgivable,’ Sybil said. Laura knew that he had covered pages of a Sunday newspaper with his views on Edward’s disappearance and anecdotes about their friendship, but she had not had the stomach to read it. ‘If you haven’t read it, don’t,’ Sybil said.

‘Why did he do it, do you think?’

‘Fame. Edward’s made him famous. He’s everywhere now – the spy I knew, my friend the traitor.’ There was such bitterness in her tone.

‘But he isn’t a traitor – you know that, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Sybil said. But her voice was strange. It was as though she was deliberately echoing the willed blandness of Laura’s voice. Surely that was not possible. Tea came and Laura drank a little. She asked how Toby had found Mrs Last, and how the children were, and Sybil asked about Rosa and the birth. There were pauses between sentences, and gradually Laura had to accept that this went beyond Sybil’s usual stiffness. ‘Toby’s having rather a hard time of it,’ Sybil said at last. ‘He had been hoping to move into the House of Lords soon, you know.’

Laura should have felt resentful, perhaps, that Sybil seemed to be putting her husband’s career above Laura’s husband’s very existence. But she did not feel resentful. She felt ashamed, realising that the horrible mystery that surrounded Edward had made her a blot on Sybil’s world, that her presence now was an embarrassment or worse. She muttered something sympathetic, and was not surprised when Sybil did not respond. Instead, Sybil asked her a question. ‘Did you know Robin Muir?’

‘I remember the name, someone from the embassy. Yes, I met him to ask for Edward’s leave—’

‘That’s right – rather senior chap. His wife’s an old friend of the family. He died two weeks ago.’ Laura tried to voice condolences, but Sybil went on talking. ‘His wife says he had a heart attack when he saw the news about Edward. He died of it. And Lord Inverchapel is very ill. He’s been ill for years, of course, but this has pushed him over. They say he won’t be long for this world.’