to do? What to say to the children? There would be a funeral to arrange, callers to deal with, George’s business affairs to sort out. How was she going to cope with it all? And the children… Oh, God, her poor, dear children.
Forcing herself to be practical she got out her car and fetched them home. They cried, they cried a lot, and who could blame them? They had loved their father and to have him suddenly snatched away had devastated them. They clung together, all four, until she broke away to get them some tea. No one ate anything. No one wanted to talk. Alison was trying to be grown-up and not cry, but every now and again a huge sob escaped her. Nick was white-faced and feeling guilty: he blamed himself for telling everybody about Zita Younger. Jay-Jay sobbed. He had loved George in the uncomplicated way of a small child. That night she heard him crying in bed and got up to go to him. She sat on the edge of the bed, stroking his beautiful red-gold hair from his face. It was then she wept too, scalding tears that would not stop.
‘It was nobody’s fault,’ she told Alison and Nick next evening as they sat in the drawing room, nursing cups of cocoa with uneaten sandwiches beside them. The day had been taken up with practicalities, informing people who had to be told, fielding telephone calls of condolence, taking in flowers and messages, talking to the undertaker and the rector, deciding on the hymns and the order of the funeral service. Not until now, with Jay-Jay safely in bed, had they had a chance to talk. ‘It was an accident. The council doesn’t want a scandal any more than we do. It would sully all the work your father did for the town and ruin the jubilee celebrations. They are going to issue a statement that he was in the flats on council business. The tenants put in a complaint about the dangerous state of the banister and he had gone to see for himself.’
‘Who’s going to swallow that?’ Nick asked.
‘Everyone, if we believe it ourselves. Mrs Younger will say the same.’
‘Course she will,’ Alison said. ‘She’d want to protect her daughter.’
‘Yes, just as I want to protect you and Nick and Jay-Jay.’
‘You didn’t think about that before.’ Alison hadn’t meant to bring that up, but it had just come out. ‘When… You know…’
‘I did, you know. You children have always been my first concern, ever since you were born. I shut my eyes to a lot of things to keep you all safe. You don’t know the half of it and God forbid you ever do. But I’ve never been more hurt and miserable than I have since Christmas. I didn’t invite Mr Barcliffe…’
‘But you didn’t turn him away.’
‘I had no reason to. Nothing happened between us, but it was what I did, or rather what I allowed to happen, that triggered off the upset, though what your father did was—’ She stopped, unwilling to hurt them any more than she had already. She put out a hand and laid it on her daughter’s. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I should have sent Mr Barcliffe away, but he is Aunt Penny’s brother. A friend, that’s all.’
‘Are you…are you going to see him again? I mean…’
‘He is Penny’s brother, Alison, I am bound to see him, but if you mean will I seek him out, then no, I won’t. My regret, and it’s a profound one, is that you were hurt. Can you forgive me?’
‘I s’pose so.’
It was as much as Barbara had any right to expect and she forced a smile. ‘We’ve got a long week ahead of us and we need to stick together. No doubt, there’ll be rumours, but we’ll just ignore them. The public image your father set so much store by will follow him to his grave and I wouldn’t have it any different.’
George’s funeral service, held on a day of cold, blustery rain, was attended by everyone of importance in the town, including Gordon Sydney, the new mayor, who had taken over the mantle of office a couple of months earlier than expected. There was a eulogy from Tony Bartram, who spoke of George’s selfless devotion to serving the community and how the new fountain would be a fitting memorial to him. Barbara, flanked by her children, listened with black-veiled head bowed. She could hardly take it in. The last week had