One Secret Summer (54 page)

Maddy’s mind was still claimed by the nightingale’s song. ‘What’re we doing?’ she asked, forcing herself to concentrate.

‘Going for lunch tomorrow. Just the three of us. We could go to l’Amandine. It’s up the hill, just by the Mairie. Aaron and
I went the last time we were here – it’s lovely.’

‘Sounds good,’ Maddy said absently. She looked over again at Rafe. The tension between them hadn’t quite dissipated. She was
aware of a thin crust of resignation in her that kept the resentment at bay. Of the four women in the Keeler family, only
she had no role other than that of wife and mother … she was nobody’s friend. She felt the crust break; the resentment flooded
in. She drained the last of her wine quickly and turned to go. She needed the toilet. She needed to escape.

Mougins, June 2000

The restaurant spread itself under pretty yellow and white striped awnings across a stone patio, tumbling in a series of smaller
terraces to the road. Blood-red geraniums in terracotta pots stood sentinel at the edges; the table to which the waiter led
them was a
leafy shelf of sunlight dappling through the potted olives. ‘
C’est bon?
’ he asked, anxious to please the three young women whose entrance had caused heads to turn.

‘
Oui
,’ Niela said, looking at the others for confirmation. ‘
Merci
.’

‘Oh, I wish I could speak another language,’ Maddy said enviously as they sat down. ‘I can speak about ten words of Spanish
and that’s it.’

‘How many languages do you speak?’ Julia asked Niela curiously.

‘A couple,’ Niela said, embarrassed.

‘A couple? That’s not what I’ve heard.’ Julia smiled. ‘Josh said you spoke about six.’ She coloured immediately. It was one
of the things he’d said in passing in Johannesburg. How was she to explain that? But Niela didn’t appear to notice and the
moment passed. The waiter appeared again and there was a flurry of explanations and orders, and yet again the opportunity
to say something – anything – floated away.

The food was simple but delicious – long, thick red tongues of chargrilled sweet peppers, still hot to the touch and drizzled
with olive oil; artichoke hearts the size of small cabbages in a tangy brine; plump, glossy black olives and thick slices
of wonderfully crusty bread that they dipped into tiny bowls of peppery olive oil and sweet balsamic vinegar. The conversation
flowed with the aid of a bottle of crisp white wine. On the terrace immediately below them, the sun marked out the advance
of the afternoon in stripes of sunlight. Waiters moved around in a slow dance; Niela felt the wonderfully slow, heavy lassitude
of the afternoon steal over her. They talked about everything and nothing; every so often a burst of laughter would cause
the people around them to turn and look, smiling in indulgent conspiracy with whatever had been said.

They were on their second bottle of wine when someone at the table next to them suddenly leaned over, putting out a wrinkled,
tanned hand. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt,’ she said
apologetically and in an almost absurdly posh English voice. ‘But I couldn’t help overhearing … did you just say the name
Rafe?’

Maddy looked at her, slightly taken aback. ‘Yes, Rafe Keeler. I’m his wife. Why?’

‘You’re married to Rafe Keeler?’ The woman’s voice rose in surprised delight. She was in her early seventies, an English-woman
in every sense of the word, dressed in a summer frock that belonged on someone twenty years younger but with a chiffon scarf
and gloves that gave her the air of a bygone era. ‘Goodness me, George! Did you hear that?’ She turned to the man sitting
in companionable silence beside her. ‘She’s married to Rafe Keeler! What a lovely, lovely surprise! How are they all?’

‘They’re fine,’ Maddy said, smiling tentatively.

‘Oh, we used to be
such
dear friends. It’s been thirty years, hasn’t it, George? We used to live at the bottom of the hill, a few houses down. We
spent the summers here back then, like everyone. How
are
they? Aaron? And the little one … Joshua?’

‘Ask them,’ Maddy said, laughing and pointing to Niela and Julia. ‘They’re married to them. We’re all sisters-in-law.’

‘Well I
never
! Did you hear that, George? They’re married to the Keeler boys! All three of them! How
utterly
marvellous! D’you know, we haven’t been back in almost thirty years, and to think we just bump into you, just like that!
Who’s married to whom? No, no, don’t tell me. Let me guess!’ She said it with an air of delight. She pointed at Julia, pursing
her lips and tilting her head to one side as she considered her. ‘Aaron, am I right?’ She beamed as Julia nodded. ‘I
thought
so, don’t ask me why. You just seem like his type. From what I remember, he was always a serious little one. And that only
leaves you,’ she said, looking at Niela. ‘You must be Joshua’s wife. How marvellous!’ she repeated. ‘Isn’t it, George?’ George
grunted.

‘Josh
ua
?’ Maddy smiled. ‘We only know him as Josh.’

‘Oh, well, it’s been thirty-odd years, you know. I only saw him the once, must’ve been a few months after he was born. Dark-haired,
I seem to remember. Not blond, like the other
two. More like Diana, I suppose. How
is
she? And Harvey? Thirty years! After all that unpleasant business with the gardener, it rather ruined things for us, I’m
afraid. We must tell the children, mustn’t we, George?’

George grunted again. He seemed more interested in polishing off the contents of his glass than reminiscing about the Keelers.

‘What business?’ Julia couldn’t help herself.

‘Oh, it was terrible.’ The woman’s voice dropped an octave immediately. ‘A
terrible
affair. Quite ruined the place for a lot of us ex-pats, I don’t mind telling you.’

‘Leonora, I’m sure they don’t want to hear about all of that,’ George protested mildly, signalling to the waiter for another
bottle almost simultaneously.

‘Oh,
George
… why ever not? It was dreadful.
Dreadful
. Diana was the only one to defend him, you know. She was like a bulldog, wouldn’t let go. And then he just disappeared, just
like that. They never caught him.’

‘Who?’ All three of them stared at her.

Leonora looked at them, then quickly glanced around the terrace. There was only one other couple present; young and in love,
they were looking into each other’s eyes, certainly not at them. ‘The gardener. Mohammed. It was pretty obvious.
I
think he killed her, if you ask me. What other explanation could there be? How could both of them just disappear? Mother
and
baby? It didn’t make sense. He kept saying they’d gone back to Algeria, or wherever it was he came from, but the police didn’t
believe him. There’d been a spate of them, you see. What do they call them? Honour killings? Though quite where the honour
is in killing your own daughters is beyond me. D’you remember, George? That terrible affair in Valbonne? So they were on to
him, you see. And when he disappeared it was all the proof they needed. Except they never found him, did they?’

‘Leonora,’ George said again, more forcefully this time. ‘I do think that’s enough.’

‘When did all this happen?’

‘Thirty years ago, almost to the month.’ Leonora said it almost triumphantly. ‘It was the summer of ’69. That was it, wasn’t
it, George? That was the last year we were here.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ George said with the weary tone of one who’s heard the story too many times to count. ‘A
very
long time ago.’

‘Well, it was good of Diana to defend him,’ Julia said faintly.

‘Oh, that’s not what some of the ex-pats said,’ Leonora chuckled. The four of them looked at her. Niela was aware of something
else having entered her voice. From somewhere long ago and buried in the memories of their first few months in Vienna, a hackle
of disquiet rose in her. She’d heard the tone before. Leonora leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘There were even some who said—’

‘That’s quite enough, Leonora.’ George had suddenly risen from his stupor. ‘That’s quite enough.’

Niela stood up abruptly. The others looked at her. ‘I … I’d better go,’ she stammered. ‘I’ve just remembered I left something
back at the house …’ She pushed back her chair, grabbed her bag and quickly threaded her way through the chairs and tables
until she reached the exit. She was breathing fast – she could hear the blood pumping steadily through her veins. The woman’s
talk – and her tone – had triggered something in her. She needed somewhere quiet to be able to think. A shiver ran through
her again. Something wasn’t right.

The house was deserted; she pushed open the front door cautiously, half expecting to see Diana in front of her, but there
was no one. Just the hum of the refrigerator coming through the half-open kitchen door and the faint but steady background
chatter of birds that never seemed to stop. She stood for a moment in the hallway. After the heat and the buzz of the restaurant
terrace, the farmhouse was cool and silent. It was a welcome respite. She put a hand up to her face. It was hot, and her fingers
trembled a little. Something had come over her, hollowing her out, all through her body, her limbs and hands. It
was like waking from a bad dream. Sometimes, putting out a hand as if to catch it or ward it off, all she grasped was the
empty air. There’d been a part of her that was shocked by what Josh had told her, but equally, she’d understood it before
the words were even out. She thought of Josh, aged ten, sitting crouched above an act that he should never have seen, and
her heart almost broke. She knew, even without him saying it, that he’d learned about power from that moment on. It was there
in the way he and Diana skirted around each other; Diana flattering him a little, he resisting … the deadly game of push-and-pull
between two people who have a secret to keep. Niela too had a secret – her marriage and her flight from it; that was why and
how she recognised it. But there was something else. Another feeling had come over her in the restaurant; the sort that took
her straight back to childhood, into her grandmother’s house just outside Mogadishu. She had few memories of her father’s
mother. She was her grandfather’s second wife, who, after bearing him three children, had divorced him for reasons no one
ever spoke about. She lived alone in her own house on the outskirts of the city with half a dozen servants and retainers who
attended to her every whim. She was a difficult woman; Niela had grown up hearing all about Umm Hassan, as she was known to
everyone, and her ‘ways’. It was claimed she spoke to the dead, Niela remembered her own mother saying, touching the amulet
she wore around her neck as if to protect her from the very words. Umm Hassan believed in the
djinn
, those otherworldly creatures who lived in a parallel world to their own. Niela was too young to understand the significance
of the stories, and by the time she was twelve, Umm Hassan was dead. She remembered very little about her – all that remained
was a faint memory of the scent of her home, that mixture of cardamom and coffee and the perfumed incense of the rooms surrounding
the courtyard, and occasionally, like now, a sudden fearful tremor would run through her that brought Umm Hassan to mind.
There was an English expression,
someone’s walking over my grave
… it wasn’t quite that – her feeling wasn’t as strong as
a premonition, but rather the sense that she was in a place or space where something that shouldn’t have happened, had. In
fact, she thought to herself wonderingly, the last time she’d felt it had been in Diana’s presence, the afternoon they’d first
met. She shook her head, both puzzled and unnerved. Whatever it was she’d sensed, Diana’s shadow was upon it.

RUFUS

London, June 2000

He pulled up outside the white house on Northumberland Park Road and killed the engine. The house was in darkness. He opened
the car door and got out, stretching his arms above his head. It had been a very long journey – LA to New York on Thursday
night; a day and a night in New York and then a morning flight from JFK that put him on the ground at Heathrow at 9 p.m. He’d
toyed with the idea of the hotel room that his PA had booked, but on the spur of the moment he’d decided against it. It was
Harvey’s birthday on Saturday; it would be a nice surprise for him. Not quite as nice for Diana, perhaps – his presence always
upset her – but Harvey was his brother, regardless of everything else.

He took his case out of the trunk and walked up the steps. He rang the bell, just in case, but when there was no answer, he
selected the right key on his bunch and opened the door. He switched off the alarm and stood for a moment in the dark hallway,
his nostrils taking in the strangely familiar scent of his brother’s home. It had been a while since he’d been there – a couple
of years, at least. Not since Rafe’s wedding. He put down his bag and groped for the light. He switched it on and the hallway
was flooded with light. There was a small, neat pile of
mail on the console; he picked up a couple of letters … they were dated from earlier in the week. The housekeeper must have
put them there. Clearly, they were away. He made a small sound of impatience – he hadn’t anticipated that. In Mougins, in
all likelihood. He walked downstairs to the kitchen, pondering what to do next. As always, the fridge was full of food – wine,
some good cheese, sliced meats, home-made chutney. He found an unopened packet of oatcake biscuits in the pantry and made
himself a small plate. He turned on the radio – it was set to the classical music station Diana liked. He walked over to the
table and pulled out a chair, Handel’s
Messiah
washing over him. He ate quickly and decided against calling Mougins. He would ring Diana’s office in the morning. It was
Thursday – if he was lucky, his PA could get him on an afternoon flight to Cannes on Saturday morning and from there he’d
pick up a rental car. It was only an hour’s drive from the airport … with any luck, he’d make it in plenty of time for the
party. He wondered if any of his nephews would be there. Rafe, Aaron, perhaps even Josh? He was married. Harvey had written
to tell him. To some young Somalian or Sudanese refugee, Harvey had written to him, ages ago. He’d chuckled when he read it.
A refugee. It would doubtless have irked Diana no end. She hated being upstaged.