That is, when he’d sought out relationships at all. He could certainly count them on one hand.
Then Helen had come along and crept under his defences with her dichotomy of guarded independence and raw loneliness. His feelings for her had grown from a desire to help her, not from the selfish needs which had characterised any other relationship he’d had. Once he’d thought Cathy was The One, and when it was over between them, he spent years resenting his father, unfairly perhaps, and pandering to his own hurt, treating it as a demanding and capricious mistress.
Except he’d mistaken a bruised ego for genuine pain. He was looking at the real deal right now, and she was about to open a festering can of worms.
If he asked her to stop, she’d become suspicious and leave him out of it, and if he let her carry on without at least trying to hinder her, she may discover something about his father which was best left alone.
Things were going from bad to worse.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Declan’s account left Helen even more confused than before. She’d wanted to believe Fay was innocent, but Declan had described her as mad enough to kill. He’d also said she’d looked incapable of it, and as Fay said she couldn’t remember, this left Helen exactly nowhere.
‘So,’ said Charlie as they sat on the 207 bus home, ‘what did he see?’
‘Nothing useful, except Fay, but we knew she was there anyway.’
‘Oh.’ Charlie went quiet for a moment, then she leaned forward in her seat, making Lee who sat next to Helen jump. ‘What you going to do, then?’
‘Uhm, hope someone else comes forward?’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all I can do.’ Helen glanced at Jason who sat across the aisle. He sent her a questioning look, sharp even, and she could tell he knew she was holding something back.
But fortunately he didn’t interrogate her when they were alone in her room later, just held her tight and stroked her hair after they had made love. She rested her head on his chest, groggy with conflicting emotions. Happy to be with Jason, concerned for Fay, frustrated she was getting nowhere.
Letitia was waiting for her in the staff room, a rare occurrence because the green velvet curtain which hung between the back rooms and auction hall also doubled as a personification of the socio-economic divide.
‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Aggie is dead.’
Dead? Aggie?
On jelly legs Helen fumbled towards one of the benches which stood against the wall. Letitia noticed. It didn’t matter. For all her pride, Helen didn’t care if Letitia thought of her as weak. What mattered was that Aggie was gone.
Forever.
A large imaginary hand gripped her insides and squeezed hard, making her feel queasy.
‘Oh,’ she said.
Shivering, she drew her knees up and put her arms around them, wishing she’d never come back because it was easier to hate Aggie than to love her. Letitia watched her struggle with an ironic smile. ‘You may take the day off if you like. Although you might prefer to continue working. Keeping the mind occupied keeps the grief at bay.’
Helen stared at her, at a small pink mole beside her mouth which she’d never noticed before. What did Letitia know about grief? Surely it was too mundane for her and reserved for lesser mortals.
Yet everyone had an Achilles heel. As the pressure grew in her chest, Helen realised she knew very little about either of her aunts, least of all Letitia.
‘I’ll leave you to make up your mind,’ said Letitia. ‘I’ll keep you posted about the arrangements.’
Helen squeezed her eyes shut. Aggie was barely cold, and arrangements were being made?
She stayed on the bench for God knew how long, alone, leaning against the cold wall with its peeling plaster, and waiting for the tears to come, just so the pressure inside her could ease up. Nothing happened.
She wanted to scream, shout, stamp her feet like a child. That didn’t happen either. Instead she tasted the bitter-sweet sadness of losing someone she had mixed feelings about. Did her grandmother know she’d forgiven her? She hoped so. Last time she saw Aggie, they’d held hands. Perhaps Aggie understood this was Helen’s way of showing her feelings.
No words, just touching and seeing.
Charlie found her later and pulled her close. Helen dropped her head on Charlie’s shoulder, whose hair gave off the usual oily tang. The familiar smell was comforting.
‘I’ve just heard,’ said Charlie. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Helen shook her head.
‘Bill told me,’ Charlie said. ‘I haven’t said anything to anyone. Neither has he. We thought you’d still want to keep the family connection quiet.’