Tangled Lives by Hilary Boyd Read Free Book Online

about?’ She glanced over at her friend. ‘Can you stay at first? Make it a bit more normal, so it’s not just him and me.’
    ‘Well, if you think I’m normal, or Aunt Best for that matter! Let’s hope he hasn’t led a sheltered life.’
    She laughed nervously. It had been Jamie’s suggestion she meet Daniel at Marjory Best’s house in Kent. Annie had first met Aunt Best – as she was known to the girls – one freezing day in December 1966. Six months pregnantand terrified by the unexpected turn her life had taken, she had arrived at the comfortably chaotic vicarage, dropped off by her mother as if Eleanor was unburdening herself of an awkward pet. At that time there was one other girl staying in Marjory’s sanctuary for unmarried mothers – a shy, annoying seventeen-year-old who spent all day crying. Annie, who’d been brought up never to cry unless seriously injured, and then as little as possible, looked upon Clemency with a disdain worthy of her mother. But Marjory had taught her compassion, shown them both respect. And, indeed, love.
    ‘Marjory’s not legging it, is she?’ Jamie was asking.
    ‘No, so you can talk about the weather or her beloved magnolias while Daniel and I get used to each other.’
    ‘Yeah, see how it goes. If you want us to leave, just cough loudly, or scratch you nose – whatever – and we’ll make ourselves scarce.’
    ‘I’m terrified, Jamie. I keep getting goosebumps when I think of seeing him.’
    He didn’t respond for a moment, then said, ‘He’s going to want to know what happened, isn’t he.’
    ‘You mean why I gave him away?’ She sighed. ‘It’s haunted me since the day they took him.’
    ‘What will you say?’
    ‘What can I say? I wasn’t some poor girl from a starving family with eighteen to a bed and coal in the bath. I was rich by most people’s standards. At least Mother was rich. We had a house large enough for five Toms …Daniels.’ She looked across at her friend. ‘Not much leeway there.’
    ‘Just tell it how it was, darling. If he doesn’t understand, there’s not much you can do about it now.’
    They pulled off the motorway, following signs for Faversham. It had begun to spit slightly and the windscreen wipers dragged noisily across the car window. This was a familiar route for her. She had spent much of the year after Tom’s adoption driving down from London to be with Marjory – like a murderer revisiting the scene of her crime. But it was comforting to have a friend who was prepared to talk about what had happened and listen to how she was feeling. Her mother certainly wasn’t.
    The Georgian vicarage looked just the same, elegantly decaying in its mature garden, neglected now that Marjory couldn’t physically indulge her passion. Annie hadn’t been down for over a year, but she met Marjory in London every few months, collecting her off the train at Charing Cross and walking slowly with her to the National Gallery. Marjory had always chosen which work she wanted to view that day; it could be anything, modern or ancient, sculpture, watercolour, oil painting or a drawing. Her friend was eclectic in her taste. She would settle down in front of the piece, silently absorbing the whole at first, then talking in detail to Annie about how it was created, its provenance, the artist, the period, why she liked it. It was a treat for Annie, who had been introduced to art by her Uncle Terence but had had no formal education inthe subject. Then, when the old lady had decided the painting had been given due respect, they would wander down to the gallery cafe and have lunch.
    As the car drew up on the weed-ridden gravel drive, Marjory appeared in the doorway, propped on a thick, ebony cane. She looked every inch the artist she was, her tall, lean figure, silver-haired and elegant even in baggy corduroys, a black polo-neck sweater and a red knitted scarf slung casually round her neck, gave the appearance of being younger and more robust than