Strange Intimacy. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
everything she had known these past fourteen years, was something of a pipedream. Besides, there was Edward’s mother to consider. She might not like her much but she was Cory’s grandmother.
Promising Clare she would think it over, she had gone back to work with a real feeling of regret. It would have done Cory good to get right away from all the unfavourable influences of London. She was already afraid of what the future might hold.
And then, when she’d arrived home that evening, everything had exploded. She’d come into the flat to find Cory hunched sulkily in a chair, and Mrs Jacobson on the phone, talking agitatedly to whoever it was on the other end of the line.
But, although she’d attempted to get her daughter to tell her what was going on, Cory wouldn’t answer her. And pretty soon Isobel had got the picture. It became obvious from Mrs Jacobson’s speech that she was speaking to the headmaster of the school which Cory attended, and before she could ask what was happening she heard Edward’s mother telling the man that she was withdrawing her granddaughter from the school.
She had tried to take the phone then, but the other woman wouldn’t let her, and short of causing the kind of scene she knew would be reported in the staffroom Isobel could only seethe in silence. But when Mrs Jacobson had eventually put down the receiver and announced that Cory would be attending a private girls’ school in St John’s Wood from now on; that, as they would be moving to Momington Close, it would be more convenient anyway, Isobel had blown her top.
She hadn’t intended mentioning the job in Scotland. During the afternoon, and on the way home, she had decided she would have to rough it out as best she could. But when Mrs Jacobson had informed her that, as Isobel had no control over Cory, she was taking charge of her granddaughter, Isobel had known she had no choice.
The row that followed had been messy, and Isobel would have preferred not to have had it in front of her daughter. The news that Mrs Jacobson’s decision had been precipitated by learning that Cory had been caught sniffing glue behind the bike sheds was worrying enough, without having her own character questioned into the bargain. And then, when Isobel had tried to take the heat out of the situation by mentioning the offer of the job in Invercaldy, Edward’s mother had made that damning statement about Edward’s death. That Isobel had always known Mrs Jacobson blamed her for the accident was bad enough; to be told she’d be better dead was something else.
And so, in spite of Cory’s tears, and Mrs Jacobson’s recriminations, Isobel had phoned Clare at Claridge’s and accepted her offer. Hearing that Mr Webster was more than happy at the prospect of meeting her again was some consolation, and when they boarded the Glasgow train at King’s Cross some three weeks later Isobel had felt confident she had made the right decision. Besides, it wasn’t an irretrievable one, she’d told herself. If things didn’t work out, they could still come back to London. The apartment might be in the hands of an estate agent, but once it was sold their money would be invested, and they could always start again.
And, initially, as the train sped north through rural England, basking in the sunshine of an unseasonably warm September day, Isobel was able to ignore Cory’s sullen face, and enjoy the journey. After all, until her father died, she had spent her life living in different places. Just because she seemed to have put down roots these past fourteen years didn’t mean she couldn’t pull them up again.
And it would be good for Cory, once she stopped feeling sorry for herself. Apart from a couple of holidays in France, she had hardly travelled at all. She knew virtually nothing about England, let alone Scotland, and it was time she stopped thinking that London was the centre of the universe.
It was about the time the train started to run through the Glasgow suburbs that Isobel conceived the fact that, in spite of everything, she wasn’t sure she had done the right thing, and by the time they pulled into Glasgow Central she was convinced she had made a mistake. Cory had scarcely spoken the whole journey, and then only when Isobel had spoken to her first. The tears and tantrums she had indulged in, in an effort to make her mother change her mind, had given way to an aggrieved silence, and with every succeeding minute she had made it plain that she would never accept the moral limitations of living in a small village. She would be a misfit, a rebel, far more conspicuous here than she had ever been in London.
The train was slowing as it pulled into the station, running alongside another high-speed train that was presently moving in the opposite direction. Isobel had a crazy urge to open the offside door, and transfer herself, Cory and their luggage on to the southbound train. Oh, to be back in London, she thought. Why had she ever imagined she could go through with this?
The train stopped, coming to a halt with a grinding screech of brakes. All around them, passengers were gathering their belongings together, ready to depart, and, realising she couldn’t sit there indefinitely—even if Cory seemed indifferent to their arrival—Isobel got to her feet.
‘Are these your cases?’
A middle-aged man, who had been sitting across the aisle from them since the train stopped in Edinburgh, spoke in a soft Lowland accent. Observing Isobel’s efforts to herd herself, two holdalls, a duffel bag and her recalcitrant daughter off the train, he was offering his assistance with the suitcases she had still to deal with.
‘Just these two,’ she agreed, nodding gratefully, as she tried to haul an unwilling Cory out of her seat, without being too obvious about it. ‘Thanks very much. They are rather heavy.’
‘No problem,’ said the man, allowing them to precede him out of the compartment. Isobel did so, pulling Cory along after her, and stepped down on to the platform with a feeling approaching despair.
It was much colder here, she noticed at once. In London, her thin cords and Edward’s old flannel shirt, worn with a thigh-length cardigan, had been enough. Here, the cool breeze invaded the open neckline of her shirt, and whipped strands of streaky brown-blonde hair about her face. She was glad she had confined her hair in one chunky plait for the journey. She had the feeling that anything else would have come adrift.
‘Is someone meeting you?’ the man enquired, as he set her suitcases down beside her, and Isobel turned towards him with a nervous smile.
‘I—no,’ she said, glancing a little bewilderedly about her, alarmed to find that Glasgow was so much busier than she’d imagined. ‘No, I have to change trains,’ she explained, relating Clare’s instructions. ‘We’re going to Fort William, you see. Would you happen to know what platform the train goes from?’
‘Well, I know the train you want, lassie, but I think you’ll find it leaves from Queen Street,’ the man replied with a rueful grimace. ‘That’s about a fifteen-minute walk from here. I think you’ll have to take a cab.’
‘Oh, great!’
Cory uttered the first unsolicited sounds she had made since leaving King’s Cross, and Isobel gave her a warning glare before turning back to their informant. She wasn’t exactly thrilled with the news herself, but she had no intention of showing it.
‘A cab,’ she echoed, nodding, and the man pointed helpfully towards the exit she should take.
‘I’d offer to show you the way myself, but my wife’s waiting for me,’ he added, and it was while Isobel was assuring him that she could manage quite well on her own that she saw, out of the comer of her eye, another man watching them, with a faintly speculative expression on his face.
The platform had virtually cleared now, most of the other passengers having hurried away for buses or cabs, or been greeted by waiting relatives and friends. The few people who were left were, like themselves, stragglers, who were unfamiliar with their surroundings, and were taking a little time to get their bearings.
But the man watching them now was none of these. Indeed, she didn’t think he had disembarked from the train at all. Propped against the wall of the waiting-room, his hair long, and slightly rumpled by the breeze, he looked as if he had been there some time. But his suede jacket, which hung open on broad shoulders, was obviously expensive, and the black shirt and narrow black woollen trousers it exposed did not look like chain-store chic. Low-heeled black boots