‘This place is wonderful,’ she had said to Julian, grinning in the driving seat. ‘Is the school as pretty as this?’
‘This is the school, honey,’ he had laughed.
Even now, it seemed to Diana that the school had been plonked down on the hill and the rest of the village had simply grown up in the tiny spaces in between. According to Julian, that was a fairly close approximation of its history. The school buildings were everywhere – if the boys had a music lesson, say, they would walk down the high street, past the butcher’s and the florist’s, and in through a narrow doorway marked only by a brass plaque. The whole village was the playground, and on any given day you could see boys hurrying to class, books and folders under their arms, along with the distinctive straw boaters – ‘hats’, Charlie seemed determined to call them – which were part of the navy and grey uniform but were never willingly worn outside. Unusually for most educational establishments in the twenty-first century, it was also a full boarding school, which meant that the opportunities for parents to see their children in term time were limited. But the school had been very supportive and understanding about Julian’s death, and had readily agreed to Diana’s request to take Charlie out for the afternoon.
He was waiting in front of his house as Diana hurried up the high street to meet him. She looked at her son and her heart gave a lurch. She wanted to reach out and smooth down his unruly russet hair, restraining herself when she saw that a group of students were close by and would no doubt mock him mercilessly.
‘All right, Mum?’ He had a teenager’s reticence about physical contact with his parents, but his grin said that he was pleased to see her.
‘So where’s the best place for lunch around here?’ she asked. As she looked at him, she suddenly realised that they were back to where they’d started. Just a single mum and her little boy trying to make their way in the world.
The days of Charlie’s early childhood, when they had lived on benefits in the tiny flat in Tufnell Park, seemed a very long time ago indeed. She didn’t miss the constant worry about money, the anxiety of how to juggle a job with child care, the decisions she had to make on a daily basis – should she put the heating on for the morning with the little pound-coin meter, or should she spend the money on proper nappies for Charlie?
In a strange way, though, life was simpler then. She had come to London with a dream of bettering herself,
and even when she thought they would be stuck in their tiny flat for ever, she had the sense that life was out there in front of them, ready to be lived. She had never shared her sister’s passion for the capital, but could admit that it seemed a place where excitement lurked around every corner. She remembered their bus rides into the West End to meet Auntie Rachel in one of her cheap and cheerful student lunch hangouts. She remembered listening to Rachel’s weird and wonderful stories involving celebrities she met at the bar where she worked. People from the telly, people who seemed so worldly and glamorous it was as if they were from another universe. So many things filled her with a sense of wonder on a daily basis – the sight of Buckingham Palace at the end of the Mall, the black door of 10 Downing Street that winked at you through the iron security gates, the world-class view of the Houses of Parliament and St Paul’s Cathedral as you sat on a red bus crossing the Thames.
Things were different now. Not much made her go wow any more. Money, opportunities, anaesthetised you from that.
‘How hungry are you?’ asked Charlie.
‘Starving,’ she lied.
‘Right. Burger and chips it is. There’s a great place just down here.’
‘So I’m not pulling you out of anything important?’ she asked, nudging him playfully.
‘Just cricket this afternoon. Although the team will obviously be missing out on my ace batsmanship.’
‘Can’t keep you too long, then.’
‘Is everything all right, Mum?’ he asked intuitively.
She put on her most practised brave face. ‘Everything is fine. Auntie Rachel is back from Thailand. She brought you this,’ she said, pulling the teddy bear out of her Vuitton tote.
Charlie took it and just looked at it for a few moments. He had always been conflicted about Rachel’s estrangement from the family. He had only been nine when the story about Julian had appeared in the Sunday Post, too young to really understand it, but old enough to get that his beloved auntie had done something very wrong. Something that had led to terrible teasing and bullying in the school playground. Your daddy doesn’t love your mummy; words that had sent him home from prep school crying each afternoon.
They approached the restaurant that Charlie had recommended and went inside. It was warm and smelt of freshly baked bread. It was also quiet, and a waitress showed them to the best seat in the house, a small booth by the window.
‘I’m fine, you know,’ said Charlie after they had settled down and ordered.
‘I know you’re fine. That’s why I wanted to have this conversation with you.’
‘This sounds as if it is going to be rather grown-up.’
‘It is.’ She smiled, admiring his maturity. ‘I went to Dad’s solicitor this week. He wanted to tell me about the contents of his will.’
‘Money doesn’t matter. It won’t bring him back.’
‘No, it won’t. But there are lots of practical things we have to sort out, much as we’d rather not. And this is one of them.’
‘Did Uncle Adam get the Ferrari collection?’ Charlie asked, peering up at her through his long tawny fringe.
Diana laughed. ‘Yes, he did. Why? Did you want them?’
‘No, but I wouldn’t have minded the motorbikes,’ he smiled.
His mother put her hand over her son’s on the table.