Shifting Sands Read Free

then?’
    â€˜Watch this space!’ Steve raised his glass. ‘So here’s to you and Vicky getting back together, and Maddy and me staying that way!’
    â€˜I’ll drink to that!’ said Jonathan.
    It was odd, Ma not being there when, on Friday evening, he let himself into her house, and again he felt anxious on her behalf. God knows when he could expect a postcard.
    He looked about him. The house felt strangely silent; he couldn’t remember when he’d last been alone in it. There was a faintly stuffy smell, due, no doubt, to closed windows in the September sunshine, and he went round opening a few.
    His parents’ room, as he still thought of it, was as tidy as usual and held a faint remembrance of his mother’s scent, sharp and citrous. His father’s silver-backed brushes still stood on the tallboy, and Jonathan felt a tightening in his chest. The unexpected death should have drawn himself and Vicky closer, but, sadly, it hadn’t. He’d refused her attempts at comfort, preferring to keep his grief fiercely private, and knew she’d felt rebuffed. She’d been very fond of her father-in-law, but he’d been little help in her grieving.
    He deposited his bag in his boyhood room, which he’d been allocated during these visits. The narrow bed was made up with clean sheets, and there were a couple of Reader’s Digest magazines on the bedside table. Familiar books lined the shelves – paperbacks of Rex Stout and Raymond Chandler for the most part – and the walls bore traces of long-removed posters from his teenage years.
    On his first visit, he’d automatically turned towards the guest room, but his mother redirected him, saying matter-of-factly, ‘You’re behaving like a schoolboy, so you might as well sleep there.’ And she’d been right, damn it, though he’d only just acknowledged the fact.
    Jonathan glanced at his watch. Eight thirty. The traffic had been slow coming out of London, typical for a Friday evening, and he’d not yet eaten. He knew an assortment of dishes awaited him in the freezer, but first he must touch base with Vicky, and his mouth went dry at the prospect. Returning downstairs, he poured himself a tumbler of whisky. Then, his heart beating uncomfortably, he picked up the phone.
    â€˜Vicky . . .’
    â€˜Hello, Jonathan.’ Unlike his own, her voice sounded cool and calm.
    â€˜Just . . . clocking in. OK if I come round about ten in the morning?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜I was wondering if we might have a word before I take the boys out?’
    A pause, then: ‘I’m afraid I shan’t be here; Doris will stay with them till you arrive.’
    His preconceived plans collapsing around him, Jonathan hastily tried to regroup. ‘Perhaps when I bring them back, then?’
    â€˜I don’t think so, do you? There doesn’t seem much to say.’
    â€˜On the contrary,’ he said harshly, ‘there’s the hell of a lot! Vicky, I—’
    â€˜I can’t talk now; Sally and Robert are here. The boys will be ready at ten o’clock. Goodbye, Jonathan.’ And she put the phone down.
    â€˜Bloody hell!’ he said aloud. Well, there was still Sunday. Having geared himself up to a discussion, he’d no intention of returning to London without one. But the delay had wrong-footed him, increasing the inevitable awkwardness, and there was no way he could shunt the boys out of the way without her cooperation.
    He swallowed a mouthful of whisky, standing irresolutely in the middle of the sitting room. He’d thought it would be easier without his mother’s disapproving presence, but he’d been wrong. If she were here, he might even have asked her advice. She and Vicky were close, and it was no secret whose side she was on.
    He looked round the room, suddenly filled with nostalgia. He’d known this house most of his life,