A Sculptor's Gift (part 8)

Concetta the Italian girl looks dazzling in her black and gold top. The heavy bangles click on her slender wrist as she touches my arm, no words needed as she looks at me with large brown eyes that are - at a rough guess - saying 'Your sculpture is wonderful, you are being wonderful and no, I don't need another drink yet, so relax'.

0is the grand opening and we are standing in the central well of the completed shopping centre with around two hundred other people, probably the first and last time a black tie event will be held next to KFC, MacDonald’s and Gothic Gifts, the fruits of an enterprising if somewhat optimistic local with a solid faith in rubber bats, coffin-shaped handbags and metal body-piercings for places that only a doctor knows the proper names of.

My – sorry, our - sculpture is over a fountain in the centre of the main court and I find Brendan under it with a few admiring mates. One of them is casting aspersions on his craftsmanship and is not swayed by Brendan's assertion that 'it's bleedin' s'posed to be like that, you twat! It's part of it. That's texture that is, it's like drawing with me welding rod." His Eastern European pal is not convinced, though.

"Is more like draw with an dick. Yes, is rough and having uneven part on it!"

Brendan nods to me and smiles, adding "You see, surrounded by Philistines, that I am." He nods even more briefly to Concetta and says to me - unabashed and within her earshot - "I see you're cementing multinational European relations, then? You've done alright for yourself. Still, she's a mosaic artist so she's used to handling fiddly little pieces... Uses those tweezers of hers, does she?" Concetta manages a creditable look of puzzlement but her blush gives away the fact that she understands more than she wants to.

Then she breaks into a smile and giggles, having to tacitly admit that she finds even these comments amusing. But that's Brendan - he would, in another life, be the deligate most likely to laugh, insult and smut his way through a session at the United Nations and, at the end of it, also be the one to establish world peace.

In the distance is a little huddle of John and Valerie Flanders, Hettie, the Mayor and the architect. The man from the Health and Safety department is not far from them in his dinner jacket, bow tie and yellow reflective waistcoat and he is looking around intently as he speaks into a radio. It is then that I hear a voice behind me.

"Hello".

I know that voice. It is a voice I have heard interspersed with sobs, laughter and silence. It is a voice that has shouted profanities, that has been close in grief and is now the voice of hesitant greeting as I turn to see a woman standing in a shopping centre next to a man with dreadlocks and an African print shirt under a dinner jacket.

Sarah is sporting a tattoo. It is an Art Deco motif and I would hazard a guess at its being a compromise, namely Sarah's reluctance to the idea in general but choosing one in a style she loves. It is small and covered up by a transparent chiffon shawl which makes me want to examine it all the more closely. A tattoo seems a little mainstream for her but then who am I to say that something 'isn't Sarah'? I thought I knew her once, but Nomad will have found out things I never did. Does that bother me? No, of course not.

But her white gown does bother me because it's a copy of the one worn by Charlotte on the evening she died. Sarah knows why I am staring.

"Sorry, I should have thought... I realised on the way here... "

"Oh no, it suits you. I can see why you.... It looks great." 'Suits you'? 'Looks great'? So damn weedy - I should be saying 'looks gorgeous' but, there again, perhaps it's just as well I don't. Sarah tries to dispel our awkwardness by asking me about the beautiful girl on my arm.

"Sorry, yes, this is Concetta. She is one of the artists who worked on the mosaics. Concetta, this is Sarah, a patron of mine who helped me when I was going through a rather strange time". Now there's a raised aristocratic eyebrow at the word 'patron' - Sarah probably thinks it a little cold, ungrateful.

Oh hell.

"Ah," smiles Concetta, “Your patron?” She looks at Sarah, forces a smile and then turns to me again, still grimacing. “You mean your mad sculpture?"

"Yes, my mad sculpture. Sarah gave me somewhere to live for a while." Concetta stiffens, puts a proprietorial arm through mine and pulls me close to her as she smiles and flashes her ultra-white teeth at my friend.

"I hope he did not get under your feet too much." Now she is sounding like my mother, as if she is responsible for me. "Sometimes he is hard to get away from in the flat, but at least he cannot cook so I have the kitchen to myself!" For all her wide-eyed innocence, Concetta is certainly managing to establish territorial rights and I have never seen another woman warned off with so much warmth, so many smiles.

Actually, to be brutally honest, nobody has ever fought for me before and I have to admit I quite like it.

Yes, it's nice to be wanted but I have also been feeling a tad stifled lately. I never felt stifled at Burnleigh Hall, but then the place is big enough for whole regiments of tanks to avoid each other without too much trouble. Prising myself free from Concetta, I steer her gently towards Nomad in the hope that he will entertain her for a couple of minutes while I talk to Sarah. Nomad seems to take a shine to her and is looking to me in a way I have seen men look at each other before. It is as if he is calling a truce, as if he admits that he has lost some kind of bagging-the-sexiest-woman contest. He grins sheepishly and gives the side of his nose a conspiratorial tap.

"I have to give it to you -" and, although smiling, I raise my hand and stop him dead. I don't want to hear 'you've got a real cracker there', or some such throw as I still feel protective towards Sarah, which, let’s face it, is natural if two people have been through what we have. I go to her as she stands looking up at my sculpture and she turns to watch me approach… All this as I spot Nomad guide Concetta towards a table with drinks. His hand is lower on her back than is necessary; in fact it is practically on her bottom and, if Sarah sees his palm brush the back of Concetta's trousers, she reveals nothing.

"So, young man, this opus magnum is based on the old factory and it isn't all your own handiwork." And how does Sarah know? "Oh, it's obvious. It just isn't your handwriting, your... Well, shall we simply say there are bits of it that just aren't you?" Sarah looks at me as if she has uttered a casual observation, as if such profound understanding of someone is nothing unusual.

"One of the guys on the site. Some of the sculpture's his - he was brilliant. Actually, we're both really pleased with it." As soon as I utter the words, I realise how defensive they sound.

"Oh, don't get me wrong - I love it. On one level it's a beautiful composition, a piece of sensitive art, and on another it's a couple of lads having fun with a welding torch. It has an accessible, human touch that's all too missing in this cultural burial chamber." She waves her glass at it and continues.

"You see... That sculpture in the square, it hit me as soon as I saw it. I now know that the double spiral, badly made as it was, had your DNA in it - I refuse to say 'soul', because I try to avoid all that stuff. Your sculpture contained your Curriculum Vitae, your life, your… Your… Everything. What’s more, people saw their own existence in it as well." Sarah tugs lightly at my 'crooked' bow tie, pats my lapel with a wry, apologetic smile and looks around the vast atrium. "There, lecture over. I take it your little welding chum is here?" I point to Brendan who has buttonholed the Mayor, the diminutive man wearing a nervous expression as he looks round for Security so they can rid him of my colleague. I grab Sarah's arm and we go over to smooth things out.

"Ah, Brendan, there you are!" My air of joviality does little to soothe the Mayor, who now looks even more nervous than he did before. "This, Mr Mayor, is my Partner In Fine Art. We collaborated on the sculpture." The Mayor looks Brendan up and down.

"So he's an artist?" I look cautiously at Brendan who nods enthusiastically.

"Yes," interjects Brendan. "That I am, your worshipfulness. In fact, I am due to start at the local Art College in September. I shall be going there as a -" I kick Brendan surreptitiously.

"Oh, yes," I add emphatically, staring hard at my co-worker. "Brendan is an artist with many years experience in metal.” This isn’t a lie, as he does indeed have a lot of metalworking under his belt – it’s just the Art bit he’s a bit light on, but the Mayor doesn’t need to know that. “Students will learn a great deal from him because his expertise in that medium is immense. He has indeed been invaluable in a project of this magnitude."

The Mayor smiles cautiously and tries to look with fresh eyes at the large construction of scrap, scrap that has lost its mustiness and evocative smell, scrap that has been sanitised for the Public's consumption by gilding it and lacquering it to such an extent that it might as well have been made from plastic, scrap that I bent down to and peered at closely in a private place while breathing in its old, mysterious secret life known only to me and it and which is now crucified high for parents to point out to children in pushchairs while intoning – hopefully - to their partners a blissful "Ooh, isn't that lovely!"

Sarah smiles at the Mayor and manoeuvres me back to the sculpture. "Well," she announces, "His Holiness likes it."

"You sure?"

"Oh, yes. As I said, 'Accessible'. Perfect for a place like this. Do you think we ought to find the others? There again, it might be too late as they have probably eloped." Sarah looks on as they disappear completely and I notice the slightest shift of her shawl as if, for a split second, a shrug has been considered. Taking a sip of wine, she cocks her head on one side. "So, what on earth do you see in her? Stunningly beautiful, gorgeous figure, breasts the size of small planets -"

"No, that's a trick of the light; my chest is actually quite flat." Sarah looks at me over the rim of her glass and chokes as she laughs. It's still there, that click.

"And why are you with him?"

"Look chummy, I asked first." Sarah looks down at her black suede stilettos and slides a toe slowly over a mosaic landscape in the floor. "The voluptuous swirl in this cloud... One of hers? I never thought a Cumulus Nimbus could be so sexy." She looks past the layers of shopping centre and into the night sky beyond the distant heights of the steel and glass dome. "So, why not bring Concetta to the hall?" I am non-committal.

"Uh..."

"Come on Tuesday; Nomad is off on one of his jaunts then. He's very secretive about his activities but I'm not one to stifle a chap's hobbies. It's probably the night he goes to the local model-making club to work on a faithful scale model of the Hall he's creating for me out of matchsticks, the one he's going to dedicate to me out of pure, undying love." Sarah draws breath for what seems forever and drops a heavy 'Hmm'.

"And of course, you and he are an-"

"Good gracious, no, but he keeps dropping hints that his 'gorgeous' body is mine for the asking. A small towel and a smug grin is still the preferred dress code, even after I had the heating turned down a couple of notches.” Sarah sighs again and looks round the shopping centre, only to be confronted with a shop window full of trainers. Wincing momentarily, she then casts a withering gaze at my own footwear.

“On top of that the man's a scrounger... Something you never were." Making a supreme effort, Sarah manages an exaggerated impression of a smile and taps my arm. "But, hey, you seem to be doing alright!" Sarah also attempts a lascivious, 'Lads Together' kind of wink but her forced jollity has a poignancy that I find painful.

So I tell her one big massive lie.

"Strict Catholic. Comes round after work occasionally and cooks for me, but is home by nine at which point she has to phone her mother from the flat she shares with a colleague who as often as not comes with her, is pally with her family and would let them know if Concetta farted in public let alone spent the night with me. 'Concetta' does mean 'pure', after all. No, the only thing I get on a plate is food; it's pretty good, mind." If anyone’s going to execute a withering, sarcastic ‘yeah, right’ grimace skilfully it’s Sarah so, blushing, I am desperate to change the subject and examine the Art Deco motif on Sarah's arm in a theatrical manner and ask about it, not only because I am desperate to change the subject but also to suss out her sudden shift towards the conventional. "And that?"

"It's not real and it'll be gone in a week or so... I just wondered whether I'd like it. You are the only one to mention it apart from Nicky, who feels free to comment on most things - but then I'd be worried if she didn't."

This isn’t Sarah: this is Sarah being bullied into some conventional kind of mould she doesn’t fit. Being conventional isn’t a problem (goodness knows, I’ve been trying to join that club all my life) but this is Sarah giving up, and she needs to know it.

"I bet you've started watching X Factor too, with a couple of soaps thrown in for good measure?" Sarah looks startled, the same kind of startled as if, on borrowing her laptop, I’d unearthed porn or (even worse) online bingo in her history.

"Is that a problem, young man? For goodness’ sake, I just want to be normal! It's hard, but I'm getting there."

"No it isn't, no you don't, yes it is and no you're not. How many people do you think have the clasp of a favourite handbag tattooed on their arm?"

"So you recognise it, then?"

"Recognise it? I love that bag and I know you love it. I love your clothes, your idiosyncratic ways, your refusal to conform."

"Oh, really? Well, I'm fed up with being a freak. I'm not just here as some kind of amusement."

"No, that's my job." Sarah turns and yanks her arm out from mine.

"Okay, Sarah. Sorry... Bang out of order."

"No, I'm sorry, I’m sorry that's your take on what I thought was a friendship. I'm not angry - just sad."

"No, I didn't mean it. I was way out of line, especially as it isn't true." Sarah pushes her toe over the mosaic again, this time grinding it as if trying to eradicate the voluptuous shapes beneath our feet.

"And Tuesday?"

"I'll let you know." Sarah drops the hand holding her glass and starts to walk away again; why couldn't I just have said 'yes'? I grab her arm. "Sarah, I'd love to come. I'll ask Concetta if she wants to come too."

"Sure, if you can take more than one drama queen at a time." Sarah looks at me anxiously. "That was a joke - not a very good one, I'll admit."

"See you Tuesday, then."

"Bye."

My mobile vibrates and it's a text from Concetta telling me that she is going back to the bed-and-breakfast with the other Italians, so she won't be seeing me tonight. Pulling my collar up round my ears, I go outside and wait in the rain for the bus home.

I have a motorbike. I got it the day after the opening and I have spent the last couple of days doing it up. It's only second-hand but I'm now mobile and, if I don't drink, I can come home tonight and not have to stay at the Hall. This means that I am beholden for neither a ride nor a bed. Concetta is going to need a lift as well and I don’t have a spare helmet yet, but we can cross that one as and when.

I'm just putting the spanners back in the toolbox when the back window flies up, Concetta's head appears and there's an embarrassingly loud shout.

"I want to talk!" I point at the remaining tools on the garden path.

"NOW!"

"Okay, okay. Keep your wig on!"

"You are wrong - my hair it is my own, but my man - he is not my own, I am thinking! How old this picture? Is recent, no?" The framed photograph of Sarah and me, hidden until the last few minutes beside the wardrobe, flies down and smashes on the crazy paving.

There is no fight; I am too upset by the smashed picture to have a row. Concetta lays into me for a couple of minutes and then she stomps around the bedroom and shrieks, while I sit in the living room and cry. I take refuge in the garden to phone Sarah to say I won't be coming and she in turn makes a quip about me being under Concetta's thumb.

"No, it's more complicated than that. She found the picture of you and me on the hill, the one you so kindly framed for me."

"'So kindly'? I'm thinking that something has happened to it, perchance? And what do you mean 'found'?"

"I hid it before she came round for her first meal. I didn't want her to think... Er... Well, you know..." There is a very audible sigh on the other end of the phone and an even more deafening pause. "And now she's a bit upset." Concetta is in the kitchen and, judging by the crashing, she has already demolished my meagre supply of crockery.

"If that's her, then I'm not sure 'a bit upset' covers all bases. Mind, she has no cause to have a go at you, especially after she -." Sarah stops abruptly. There is another silence on the phone and then the posh, tinny voice utters those fateful words "I don't quite know how to put this, but..." and I hear about how Nomad didn't go home after the opening of the shopping centre, of how he admitted he had spent the night with Concetta.

"But she's going psycho up there!"

"Best form of defence, I'm afraid." Another sigh. "Poor boy, you are so naive. I found a Holiday Inn receipt in my dad's tuxedo after Nomad borrowed it. Careless chap, but I'd have found out anyway because he used one of my cards; it seems that even a spiritual and 'unworldly' hippy can run up a quite hefty minibar tab. If you find you want some company, then just pitch up. I'll be in the flat."

"Okay. Thanks. And sorry."

“What for? Nomad and I were hardly an item.” I hear a door slam.

"Look, I'd better go."

After shouting "Concetta, I know all about you and Nomad!" I give it a few minutes before going upstairs: I've never liked confrontation and it's a relief to find she has gone. It is, as solutions go, a little dramatic but at least it helps get over the ‘second helmet on the motorbike’ problem. Kicking the debris in the kitchen into a pile, I hear my mobile. It's Sarah again.

"Look, I'm really sorry about the Nomad and Concetta thing."

"No, someone was going to usurp me at some point. Anyway, she's legged it now." I look down to my shiny new wheels standing on the garden path. "I'll be coming on my motorbike."

That’ll impress her.

"The saints preserve us! Have you ever ridden one before?"

"It can't be that hard. The guy who I bought it off it told me how to make it go. I've got some 'L' plates, a helmet and everything."

"One, it's going to be dark and two, you've just had a really traumatic experience. And... And… Ha, yes, if I send Adlington he can bring you some more crockery.” A triumphant whoop down the phone. “There, gotcha!"

"You win."

"But of course - that's a given.”

The old Lady Pinke-Burnleigh is, it seems, back and I smile into the phone. Sarah carries on talking, the animated monologue accompanied by the sound of her footsteps on stone, on wood and then on stone again. This is soon followed by the rattle of a bunch of keys, the ‘clunk’ of a heavy iron latch and the unmistakable echo of the bare, plain room containing the dinner services and the silverware. “Now… I've got some of that eighteenth century Sévres porcelain you like: there's enough here for a small town and I think the turquoise will set off your baked beans rather nicely." Beans off Sévres? That's like using a Ferrari to shift manure. I then hear a 'thwack' in the earpiece which is the unmistakable noise of a cardboard box landing on a table and this is followed by random chinking and breathy counting. Sarah is now cranking up to ‘I’m-On-A-Mission’, a scary setting at any time and best just left to run its course.

"Now, there are no decent-sized cups but I do have a random selection of coronation mugs - we used to give them to the staff. Let's make it a couple from each reign and that'll be ten in total." The scrape of the box on the table and the manic ripping of tape from a roll is then followed by smashing glass, a brief pause and "Oh, shit!" This itself preludes the announcement that there are now five crystal tumblers wending their way to me, not six.

"Blimey, thank -"

"Think nothing of it, dear boy. See you in a few hours?" Sarah is not convinced by my dutiful mumbling. "Definitely?"

"I'll be here. I promise."

Half an hour later, I get another call from Sarah.

"Actually, change of plan - Adlington will be somewhat busy. I'll pick you up myself."

"So that's Charlotte? That's all that's left of someone?" I sit down on a stone bench and cradle the cold urn as Sarah and I look out over the parkland of Burnleigh Hall and watch it settle to sleep for the night. We are kitted out with warm black coats and lanterns, Sarah deciding that flashlights are too pedestrian for this solemn occasion.

"Yes… What's left after the rest has either evaporated or gone up the chimney." Sarah leans over me and gently takes the white alabaster urn from my grasp. I am in the presence of the same perfume I smelt in the taxi, the same fine hair brushing up against my face. It is not an erotic tingle I get but, after my disastrous episode with Concetta, more of a strange reassurance, a comfort. It is dusk and the distant trees are a black silhouette against the old parchment of the evening sky; if anywhere is the place to be tonight, I now realise it is here. Picking up my lantern, I follow Sarah as she crunches along the gravel drive to a dark figure in a top hat.

Adlington takes the urn solemnly and walks towards the stables. It is only a couple of minutes later and we hear the jingle of harness, the iron-rimmed wheels on cobbles and the snorts of two black horses as their evening-dark ostrich feather plumes nod low and quiver in the breeze. The velvet drapes at the cut-glass panels of the Victorian hearse throw a frame around a wreath of white lilies and the precious cargo of Charlotte's remains. As we walk silently behind the huge crystal and black contraption that is rolling and creaking along the drive, I become contemplative and remember the young woman who taught me - taught us - so much in the little time we were allotted to spend in each others' company.

When we reach the entrance to the copse, the horses stop and stamp their feet as if announcing their presence to Colin the gardener who is waiting at the gate. He unlocks it for us and bows his head as Charlotte, Lady Pinke-Burnleigh and I pass through, the snapping of twigs echoing hollow as we proceed slowly into the quiet darkness of the wood. Sarah and I carry the urn between us. It is slung in a black cloth and we lower it to the ground where it glows in the moonlight. There are two empty niches and, after we place the urn in the lower one, Sarah opens a leather-bound prayer book and reads the psalm about walking through the Valley of Death and fearing no evil.

She and I walk back alone, the harness of the horses ringing in the distance as if little bells played by spirits of the dead to comfort us and let us know that, once we depart from this mortal earth, we enter another more beautiful realm. One of our lanterns goes out and, shortly, the other and it is then that we see the deer that watched us when we walked to the copse, that stood in the distance as Sarah read the psalm, that now stares and lowers its head as I raise my hand in solemn salutation. Sarah looks at the deer and then me as she slips her arm through mine.

"That doe. Do you think -” Then Sarah shakes her head and I see a faint smile as she relights a lantern. “No, forget I even spoke; that would be too insane. A beautiful thought though, and one that will comfort me as I lay my head on my pillow." She gives my arm a squeeze. "Thank you for coming here tonight."

"No, thank you for this. It was perfect."

As I lie once more in the large bed of 'my' room and look at the stone castle and the Chinese pagodas, my eyes rest on a golden deer by one of the archers. The bowman doesn't point his weapon at the graceful doe but into the pattern beyond the trees and it is to that - and the memory of Sarah's softened voice reading the psalm - that I drift into sleep.

It's about half past two when I wake up - rather, I am woken by the scrunching of the gravel below. Perhaps that’s why they put it round these big houses - a burglar couldn't fart without it disturbing the tiny chippings underfoot. It could be the deer of course, except that a deer doesn't whisper 'Oh, fucking hell!" when it drops something heavy - not that a deer carries much in the first place.

I then remember (and am grateful for) the security at the Hall - the intricate alarm system, the huge front door with the multitudinous bolts, the hotline to the local police station; but I am not so grateful for the flimsy lock on the conservatory door and the kitchen window that Mrs. Henderson the cook habitually leaves open and forgets to shut at night.

If it really is a burglar and there’s a scuffle, am I the one who suddenly becomes a surrogate man of the house and has to wade in? I'm not too clear on country house protocol, less clear on my legal rights should I grab a Highland sword from the wall of the Billiard Room and wave it around menacingly, and I’m totally, totally clueless as to how long I would get for running someone through with it.

Not naturally brave, I leave it a couple of minutes before pressing my face up against the window. What makes me braver, however, is the fact that the footsteps have gone and that a solitary torchlight is making its way away from the house and across the lawn to the door of the garden. Most people can be recognised by their back view (as a teenager I could have named most of the females I knew from just a picture of the back of their trousers), but this person can be recognised by the rhythmic, no-nonsense swing of the torch and the pace of the near-military stride, even if uncharacteristically wavering in its progress across the grass.

It takes me another couple of minutes to get my clothes on, a rather haphazard operation as I grope round in the dark for various items without taking my eyes from the window in case I lose the light in the distance. Another problem is that you don't just take a bunch of keys with you in this place, you have to deal with the front door as that is currently the only access without an alarm and that means taking the key with you, a lump of metal the size of a handbrake. When I get there, the front door is fortunately unlocked, confirming that either I am right and it is an occupant of the house who has gone walkabouts or, alternatively, a burglar who has very considerately let himself out quietly without waking the household; either way, it's a darned sight better than the scenario I had in my head a few minutes ago.

On reaching the copse the deer is nowhere to be seen, but then it is probably asleep. I do, however, see - and hear - a woman a little unsteady on her feet, a woman slugging the earth with a spade, a woman who is unphased at unexpected visitors to her mausoleum in the middle of the night.

"Here, be good chap... Wrap that urn... 'N’is bag!" Sarah throws me a bin liner and then grabs it back, giving me the spade instead. "Actually, you carry on... You... Digging."

"Why?"

"Charlotte's urn... 'F happened to it... Be fucking bad news..."

"So we're burying it? And were you going to tell me you had buried it?" There is more edge in my voice than I mean and I sound callous.

"Maybe. Wass t' you? 'Snot 'sif you come down here anymore."

"Come down here? This is my favourite place. I have cycled down here three times since I moved out - I'm one of your most prolific trespassers!" There is a pause. A long pause.

"You mean y' come all this way... Bike... Never come up to th' house?"

"I've never been sure I'd be welcome."

"Oh, you dear, dear, dear, dear, dear boy!" Sarah drops the urn and leans towards me, embracing me. "What sor' 'f ogre d' you think I am?" She pushes her face into my collar and I can feel hot tears on my neck. "You, yes... You n' only friend I have." Now it is my turn to cry. Being so close to her I smell whiskey on her breath; no wonder it's all coming out so slurred.

"Sarah, are you pissed?"

"None yer business; you my mother? No of course not, she dead 'n' in chapel. So's my dad. He didn't want to be parted from her." Sarah collapses on the ground and sobs as she grips the urn and rolls with it on the ground. "I LOVED HER!"

"Your mother?"

"No… Yes…No, didn't mean her... Charlotte. Fuck... Told you." I gently take the urn, wrap it in the plastic bag and place it in the hole. Then, pushing the earth in with my foot, I tread it down. Pulling Sarah to her feet, I hold her steady and steer her towards the gate as she fumbles in her coat pockets. "Key... Gate..."

The walk back to the house takes for ever, so I pick Sarah up, carry her into the library and put her down, glad at last to get my breath. The fire is still glowing and I sit by her, stroke her hair and support her head as it lolls to one side. Even as I gently brush the dirt from Sarah's face and pick the leaves from her hair she has a dignity that, despite her best efforts this evening, she has not eradicated.

"Sarah, I loved her too."

"You 'loved' her too? Fuck, yeah, right... Course you did..." I wince at this slight and take it on the chin; in truth, I don't really have time to dwell on it as, a moment later, Sarah sits bolt upright, all wide-eyed and sober, aware at last of how much she has revealed, aware that I am hurt. "Oh shit... Sorry." I hold her to me and kiss her head. Then I look at her face in the glow as she slowly closes her eyes and sinks back into the settee in front of the log fire.

"There... Shh, Sarah... It's okay..." Pulling my coat around us, I contemplate the embers in the fire and drift off to sleep for a second time.

"So, what do you think? Could you do it?" Sarah is surprisingly perky for someone who downed half a bottle of whiskey the previous night and slept on an Edwardian sofa filled with horsehair, a sofa so lumpy and hard it felt like the rest of the horse was in there as well.

"Yes, of course I could do it." And, yes, I could. I'd watched Brendan enough to make a good fist of welding, and making a cage to protect Charlotte's remains would be nothing but a labour of love. I don't mention the 'L' word, though, as that seemed to touch a bit of a raw nerve last night.

"And that copse," announces Sarah as if imparting a groundbreaking revelation, "that wood MUST be saved! NOTHING must happen to the mausoleum. In fact, we're going to see the Mayor RIGHT NOW!" Sarah may have brushed her teeth and showered but the booze is still finding an exit via her skin and it isn't just the odour, either - she may also have dressed to the nines, but she is still talking with traces of drunken abandon and I'm relieved when, having stared intently at a bunch of car keys for a few ominous seconds, she calls Adlington to drive us into town.

Burnleigh Hall to the town square is a trip that normally takes half an hour, but we go via the road by the wood to see what progress is being made with the Mayor's industrial units. Adlington parks up next to a dormant vanand we get out to speak to a couple of men in reflective waistcoats and hard hats who are lounging next to a theodolite and smoking roll-ups.

The men's boots are caked in mud and their recent sprawling on the ground is at bizarre odds with the grey uniformed Adlington solemnly taking a folding canvas chair out of the boot of the Bentley and pushing it discreetly up to Sarah who then sits, her legs elegantly crossed, with the knife-edge crease in her trousers revealed by the break in her mohair coat. She bids the risen workmen sit down again, draws on her Sobrani in its jewelled cigarette holder and chats to them as they try to pretend there is nothing unusual about sitting in a field with a woman decked out in suit, monocle and pearls.

I want to ask them why they need hard hats in the middle of an open rural space and whether it's because pheasants falling out of the sky are a particular problem this time of year, but I decide it is best to let Sarah do the talking.

Poor Sarah. A cousin getting married without one knowing is unusual enough, but to then find out in the same conversation that he has got divorced as well is something of a stunner, especially when it comes from these complete strangers. Sarah is, despite the recent storming of her bloodstream by a formidable invasion of alcohol, not slow in adding two and two. She gets up, takes a note from her pocket and walks over to me.

"This was dropped through the door the other day - it's a user name and password. When I had a look on the 'net it was a paper by a certain Doctor Hettie Castleford, botanist of this parish. Look, there's a mobile number as well.

"And?"

"And said paper reveals there's a plant here, a certain Burnlia Vulgara, very rare and made a protected species back in the 'nineties. It was discovered, apparently, by the Second Marquis who was, by all accounts, a bit of an avid amateur botanist.” Sarah looks around the field and back up the hill at Burnleigh Hall. “And it looks like he may have done me a hugely massive, posthumous favour."

"Oh, that Hettie?" Sarah nods and ignores my sarcasm, this itself a sign that the matter is big and way beyond the reach of mere flippancy.

So I put on what I hope comes across as my serious face.

“And why didn't she publish it?"

"Oh, she was quite candid about that. She was hanging on to the information for such an occasion as this so she could blackmail any developers of this land or, at least, make their lives very difficult. In this case, revenge is very sweet for Hettie because the poor stymied developer is her ex, your mayor and mine."

"Scheming cow." I curse, kicking a clod of mud. "Always on the make."

"Maybe, but she's our scheming cow, now. We had quite a chat, she and I. The revenge? That's a prime case of a woman scorned, young man, a woman scorned. Never cheat on a bitch with brains." Sarah removes her cigarette holder and screws up her immaculately applied lipstick. "Yuck - the things I’ve learnt about my cousin! Apparently he's been bestowing his Mayoral favours on half the women in the Town Hall. He tried it on with Magenta as well but she squealed on him and now he's up for sexual harassment. All this seems to have offended our Doctor Hettie Castleford's delicate moral sensibilities and she’s left him." Sarah looks at me and notices I am very quiet, that I’m thinking about something.

Despite - or because of - everything going on, my work has become somewhat of a preoccupation... The preoccupation being that I I'm feeling guilty because I haven’t done any work recently.

"I shouldn't have come. I've already bombed out on the Christmas range and now I'm being hassled for Easter Chicks and patterns involving eggs, bunnies and goodness knows what else."

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about that. Who's your boss?"

"Mr. Berkley."

"And who's his?"

"Don't know."

"I do, it's Susan Draper and her boss is Frank Bloxham and his boss is -"

"You?"

"Damn right, Buster. Now, get your drawing book out and do a quick sketch of what Charlotte's urn cover could look like... And do it now!" I scribble a few lines on a page. Sarah nods.

"Okay, that will do." I look at her, not a little puzzled.

"It's because I hate lying and now I won't have to... ish." Sarah picks up the car phone and, putting on her best Lady Pinke-Burnleigh, speaks into the Bakelite mouthpiece. "Viv darling, put Berkley on, would you? Head of Design. Yes, Petal, that's the one." There are giggles on the other end. Sarah reminds her personal assistant that respect for colleagues is paramount. This is soon followed by a tinny yet deferential “Sorry, ma’am” as Sarah clears her throat and does her best to keep a deadpan expression in her voice.

But that doesn’t last long…

…And there are soon guffaws of laughter on both ends of the phone. Sarah puts her hand over the phone and whispers. "Brown-Nose Berkley, they call him... So cruel... But rather funny, I'm ashamed to say."

There is a very audible sigh as Sarah sits up straight and assumes a dignified air. "Mr. Berkley?" She listens patiently as he witters on nervously. "Yes, very nice to speak to you too." Sarah holds the receiver away from her ear and waits for the tide of grovelling titters to recede. "Now, that talented young man designing stockings for you... Well, he's been very busy working on some designs for me at Burnleigh Hall. I assume this will not have caused too much of a problem with his schedule?" More wittering. "Good. Splendid. Thank you for your time, Mr. Berkley."

Sarah settles back in the seat as we pass the suburbs of the town. We pass a row of shops which gives way to a run of railings a quarter of a mile long behind which is a massive Art Deco complex, the nerve centre of the Pinke-Burnleigh empire.

"I was going to relocate to London, but that would mean getting up earlier. Anyway, Art Deco is so me." Sarah turns back to me and she is looking scarily serious now. "Berkley is a brilliant Head of Design and I know he’ll be tearing his hair out for those drawings. I also know - with the Christmas schedule and all - you've got a fortnight, tops.” I smell the perfume on Sarah’s wrist and feel her heavy jet and platinum bracelet brush against my ear as she taps my head. “Comprende?" And now I’m getting told off and feeling a bit aroused at the same time.

No way; I’m not that sort of bloke. My mind drifts back to Sarah in her riding outfit brandishing her riding crop and, yes, she looked quite something, but I’m putting that down to her cute bottom squeezed into those spray-on jodhpurs.

Yes, that’s it.

Bloody hell… I sincerely hope so. I assume an air of penitence.

"Yes, Lady Pinke-Burnleigh." We draw up at the Town Hall.

"There’s a good chap. Now, let's go kick some ass!"

Sarah is, when we get to the Town Hall, looking disappointed that there is so little ass to kick. Storming into the Mayor's office unannounced merely gets her the comment: "What are you going to do? Hit a man when he's down? I've lost my house, my wife, my career and possibly even my project thanks to a few scrubby little flowers." Sarah has gone in to give him what for, but then she looks around at the cardboard document boxes that contain the half-marathon medals, the photographs from his desk and the red and gold leather desk impedimenta. Sarah reaches out her hands to him as she stares at the back of his crumpled suit, his lack of concern about his appearance disturbing her as much as seeing the empty office.

"Look, this was none of my doing... It's horrible seeing you like this!"

"Oh, yeah, right, of course it is. I see you brought your little sidekick again."

"Oh, come on, even HE was your doing!" It is as if I am the child of two estranged, mismatched parents. Sarah puts a brake on her tirade and the room falls silent. She looks at me, puts her hand to her mouth and mouths 'sorry, that's not what I meant'. This only causes a momentary glitch in her flow, however, and it soon picks up speed again. "You know, even YOU can't blame me this time. IT'S NOT MY FAULT!"

"Nothing ever is, is it? You swan through life and - " He stops and I get the feeling that this is my cue to leave another Burnleigh Family Moment; I couldn't bear to have them look at me a second time as if asking what the hell I’m doing there. I shut the door very quietly behind me and tread softly down the stairs. After a few steps, I then go up to the landing again because I've seen another document box and it's on Magenta's desk, except that this one contains a pink teddy bear holding a red heart that says 'I Wuv U" and pictures of Magenta and Troy at their wedding reception, Magenta and Troy on a tropical beach and Magenta and Troy on the steps of the Town Hall after getting married.

"Hi." Magenta's tone is subdued and it is the first time I have seen her look so serious. "Is her Ladyship here?" I point at the Mayor's office door. "Oh. Right." She tips the contents of a drawer into her box. "Yeah, I'm nicking a few pens and rubbers, but what they going to do? Call Troy in Security?" She laughs weakly and sighs.

"Silly man, it's his own bleeding fault. If he hadn't touched me up I wouldn't have blown the whistle. He wanted me to blow his whistle, but he asked the wrong blimmin' woman!"

"Have you been sacked? You looked very serious just then."

"No, that's my 'I'm thinking' face - people don't get to see it often!" Magenta giggles. "I'm alright; he wanted to get shot of me, but I got a much better job and resigned – as from next week I shall be a personal assistant at PHB."

"Does Her Ladyship know?"

"Know? She got it for me!" I spot a car in the box and Magenta, smiling, removes it for me to look at. It is a beautifully detailed model of a pink Mini, just like hers. She frowns. "Not bad, but if you look underneath the sump's in the wrong place and the diffs are from the previous model."

"Mm... Just what I was thinking!" Magenta giggles, shakes her head and raises her eyes to the ceiling. Suddenly animated, she scrabbles round in the box and retrieves a random lump of metal, a stillness coming over her as she stares at it in reverence.

"Just look at that baby! This, my friend, is a piston from a Jaguar Straight Six and it came from my dad's car. He's got his own garage has my daddy, and he taught me everything I know. I helped him replace this and now it's my paperweight." Magenta turns it in the light, sighs, and puts it back in the box. "Mind you, there's not many cars I haven't worked on."

"So, you do your own car, then?" I am doing my utmost to sound relaxed, as if I've always had a hunch about her being a mechanic.

"Piece of proverbial - with me eyes shut." I decide to get back onto more familiar territory.

"We'll be working in the same place, if somewhere the size of an airport can be one place, that is."

"Ooh, fantastic! Troy could get a job there but he's okay here.” Magenta waves a proprietorial hand around her ornate Edwardian marble niche. “These big wigs come and go but the ones who actually keep the place going, they stick around for ever. What do you do, then? Bet your job's to keep the boss happy!" Magenta blushes. "Sorry. Don't tell her I said that, will you?"

"No problem, especially as I don't - not in that way, anyway. You see, we're just fr-" As if on cue, there is a blood-curdling shriek from the Mayor's office. "Well, I think we're probably off now. See you round."

"But what do you do?"

"I design their tights and stockings."

"This is one of theirs. It's my favourite - is it one of yours?" Magenta lifts one stiletto onto a chair and hitches up her skirt to reveal a shapely leg and a lot of stocking, so much so that I get a flash of her suspenders and knickers. "You know what, Troy loves them!"

“Yes, er, I expect he does.” Sarah storms out of the office to find me examining Magenta's thigh closely.

"Um, yes, that's my handiwork." Sarah smiles as Magenta hurriedly pulls her skirt over her leg and stands demurely behind her desk. Her Ladyship taps me on the lapel with her cane.

"Your handiwork? Hm, I think Magenta's parents'll want a paternity test." Sarah pauses theatrically. "Ah, you meant the stockings..." Magenta laughs nervously.

"Very funny, madam. Just to say I’m really looking forward to my new job, your Ladyship, and thank you!"

"Our pleasure, I’m sure – and welcome aboard. Yes, I'm sure we'll see a lot of each other. Just so you know, promotion at PHB is based on ability as opposed to a place where, for example, it depends on how much you let the boss have his dirty little way, in which case I'm sure you'll do very, very well. See you Monday."

"Yes, Your Ladyship. Thank you, Your Ladyship."

"Sarah, I want to check something out." We are on the steps of the Town Hall waiting for the Bentley but the sun is out, the right kind of day for my first ever ride on a bike. "I reckon I know where my sculpture is; I want it for Charlotte's urn thing... And it's also about time I paid my mum a visit."

"Genius... I can see your thinking; your mum lives near the scrap yard so you visit her on your motorbike and go to check out your masterpiece. Two flaws, though; your sculpture's in a barn and you aren't going near your bike until you have had lessons." This is the lull after the storm and I'm now tired, I'm crotchety and I snap at her.

"Bloody hell. 'You my mother?' Now, where have I heard that little phrase before?"

"No, sorry. You're right." Sarah's now upset. I hit a raw nerve and I'm not proud of it. "Damn it man, it's because I care about you!"

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