The Day She Came Back(62)

‘Good. Now, I am sure you just want to get back to the house, but you need a good breakfast to set you up for the day and you need to take a moment to make a plan.’

She took a deep breath, knowing he was probably right.

‘Did you call Bernard about the door?’ he asked casually.

‘I did. And I told him how sorry I was. I took my hurt out on him and that wasn’t fair. It didn’t feel good, not when I thought about it, but I was so mad!’

‘Yes, he might have called me.’ Gerald turned and smiled at her.

‘Thank you for what you did last night, Gerald. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do and you had said to call, day or night, if ever . . .’ Victoria knew she would forever be grateful to this kindly man who had stepped in when she’d needed him the most and had simply bundled her up and driven her to a safe, warm place without anger and, seemingly, without judgement, and she thanked God he was still in her life.

‘And I meant it. I must say, I hadn’t banked on quite such an emergency and so soon, but there we go.’ He poured hot water on to the tea leaves in the pot and set it aside to steep while he took his place at the table and tucked a napkin into his shirt collar before reaching for a slice of toast. ‘Tuck in!’ He waved a butter knife in her direction.

She began buttering a triangle of toast, which was cool to the touch. ‘I can’t believe you turned up with a gun.’ She smiled at him and reached for the jam.

‘Not just any gun, a standard issue Webley and Scott no less – my father’s from the Second World War. An ornament, no more.’ He winked at her.

‘Does it not work?’ she asked with no small measure of relief.

‘Oh, it did at one point, and of course my father had many, many tales of derring-do, most, I suspect, fabricated for my benefit, and nearly all involving his faithful sidearm, but it was decommissioned over fifty years ago, doesn’t work at all. My mother couldn’t bear to part with it.’

‘But Flynn didn’t know that.’

‘No.’ Gerald made a disapproving tsk sound. ‘Flynn did not know that. The little turd.’

She could not contain the bubble of laughter that escaped her lips. ‘Did you just call him a little turd?’ She had heard perfectly but relished the joy of repeating the unexpected insult. It made her feel a little better.

‘I did. I disliked the chap on sight – with good reason, it seems.’

‘I trusted him. I liked him. I still do a bit; I can’t help it. He made my life feel slightly better, but last night it felt a whole lot worse.’ She thought of the things Flynn had said to her: ‘I wouldn’t ever want to be the reason you cried.’ The little turd. She felt angry at herself, not only for how she had fallen for his shtick, but also how she had let him into Prim’s home, into her bed . . . I’m sorry, Prim. She bit her toast and licked the strawberry jam from her top lip.

‘Then you, my dear, are not half as smart as I thought you were.’

His words caused the crumbs to stick in her throat. ‘I think you might be right.’ She pictured Courtney’s long hair shivering down her back.

‘Well, the important thing is that you learn from this. It’s one thing to be na?ve and trust someone like Flynn, but quite another to be downright stupid and agree to have a party at Rosebank and to let a stranger invite more strangers into Prim’s home.’

She hated the shameful self-consciousness that cloaked her. He was right, of course. Not that his words could make her feel any worse than she already did.

‘I know, Gerald. I know you’re right and I am so mad at myself and sorry to Prim; she’d be horrified, and I know we’ve been joking, but you’re not young and you had to come out in the middle of the night and sort it all out, and you could have got into real trouble for having a gun.’ She felt the tears slip down the back of her throat and any appetite she might have had for breakfast faded.

‘I’m glad you’re sorry. I also know you won’t do it again, even though, of course, you are an adult and at liberty to do exactly as you see fit, but to take that route’ – he sipped his orange juice – ‘to take that route would, I think, be the biggest waste of all your wonderful potential.’ He reached across and patted her hand.

‘Thank you, Gerald, for caring about me,’ she offered sincerely. It felt nice to know that she was not alone, that there was someone like Gerald looking out for her. And someone like Daksha . . . Oh Daks, I miss you, my lovely friend! I need you to forgive me . . .

‘I do care about you. And I cared about Prim and I know she would have wanted me to say something. Plus,’ he said as he went to retrieve the teapot, ‘don’t tell a soul, but it was one of the best evenings I have had in an age! One minute I am in my pyjamas with an Agatha Christie in my palms, and the next I am toting a pistol at a rave! How many members of the bowls club can say the same thing?’

‘Not many, Gerald.’ She smiled at the man. ‘Not many.’

He brushed his hands over his plate and wiped his mouth with the napkin. Victoria liked the neatness of his house, the calm predictability of his routine; she figured being old wasn’t so bad.

‘Now, how about you have a soak in the bath while I clear the breakfast things away and then we go tackle whatever awaits us at Rosebank?’