Where You Belong

‘Rory and Moira.’ He glanced at me swiftly, and again nervously cleared his throat. ‘I have the distinct feeling we won’t be going, will we, Val?’

‘You bet we won’t,’ I snapped. I was livid.

III

It was just as well other people came into our pew at this precise moment, because it prevented a continuation of our conversation, which could have easily spiralled out of hand.

I was furious with Jake for not telling me about the wake before now, not to mention irritated with myself for not anticipating that there would be one.

Tony, after all, had been Irish; on the other hand, a wake was usually held after a funeral and not a memorial, wasn’t it? But the Irish were the Irish, with their own unique rules and rituals, and apparently a wake today was deemed in order, perhaps because the funeral had been held in Ireland. A wake was an opportunity for family and friends to get together, to comfort each other, to reminisce and remember, and to celebrate the one who had died. I was fully aware I wouldn’t be able to face the gathering. Coming on top of the memorial, it would be too much for me to handle. What I couldn’t understand was why Jake didn’t realize this.

The sound of organ music echoed through the church, and I glanced around surreptitiously. Here and there amongst the crowd I caught glimpses of familiar faces – of those we had worked with over the last couple of years. There were also any number of famous photographers and journalists, as well as a few celebrities, none of whom I knew, but instantly recognized because of their fame.

It was an enormous turnout, and Tony would have been gratified and pleased to know that so many friends and members of his profession had come here to remember him, to do him honour today.

I went on peering about me, hoping to see Rory. I felt quite positive that I would recognize him, since Tony had shown me so many photographs of his son, and of his daughter, Moira. They were nowhere to be seen, yet they had to be here. It struck me then that they would be sitting in the front pew, facing the altar, and that was out of my line of vision.

I sat back, bowed my head, and tuned myself in to the organ music. It was mournful but oddly soothing. I closed my eyes for a moment, and I was filled with relief that I was keeping my feelings in check. Well, for the moment at least.

When the organ music stopped I opened my eyes and saw a priest standing in front of the altar. He began to pray for Tony’s soul, and we all knelt to pray with the priest and then we rose automatically and sat in our seats again. The priest continued to speak, this time about Tony and his life and all that he had done with it, and what he had accomplished.

I took refuge by sinking down into myself, only half listening, absently drifting along with the proceedings, and endeavouring to remain uninvolved. Instinctively, I was scared to be a participant, for fear of making a fool of myself by displaying too much emotion, or weeping. Yet tears had risen to the surface, were rapidly gathering behind my eyes, and I struggled desperately to control myself.

Soon the priest drew to a close and glided over to one side of the altar, and as if from far, far away a lone choirboy’s voice rang out. It was an extraordinary voice, a high-pitched soprano which seemed to emanate from the very rafters of the church. The voice was so pure, so thrilling, it sent chills down my spine, and I sat up straighter and listened, enraptured.

‘The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you’ll find him.

His father’s sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him…’

Hearing the young choirboy singing so beautifully undid me. My mouth began to tremble uncontrollably, and as my face crumpled I covered it with my hand. I shrank into the corner of the pew and discovered that I wasn’t able to quell the tears. They rolled down my cheeks unchecked, slipping out from under my dark glasses and dropping down onto my hand which was clutching the lapel of my jacket.

Jake put his arm around me, drew me closer, wanting to comfort me. Leaning against him gratefully, I swallowed hard, compressed my lips, and finally managed to get my swimming senses under control. The old ballad came to an end at last, and that lilting soprano was finally silent. I hoped there would not be too much of this kind of thing, because I knew it would be unbearable. The emotional impact was already overwhelming.

But of course there was more. First Tony’s brother Niall eulogized him; he was followed by Tony’s oldest friend in the business, Eddie Marsden, the photo editor at Tony’s agency, who spoke at length. And, finally, it was Rory who was standing there in the pulpit, looking for all the world like a young Tony, strong and courageous in his grief. He had inherited his handsome father’s Black Irish looks, his mannerisms, and his voice was so similar it was like listening to Tony himself speaking.

Rory’s words came truly from the heart, were eloquent and moving. He reminded us of Tony’s great charm and his talent as a photographer, of his modesty and his lack of conceit, of his abhorrence of violence, his humanity and his condemnation of the wars he covered. Rory talked of his father’s Irish roots, his love of Ireland and of family. He spoke so lovingly about his father I felt the tears rising in my throat once more.

Rory went on, ‘He was too young a man to die…and yet he died doing what he loved the most, recording history in the making. And perhaps there’s no better way to die than doing that, doing what you love the most…’

But he could have lived a long life, I thought, as young Rory’s voice continued to wash over me. If he hadn’t taken such terrible risks none of us would be here today grieving over him. The instant these thoughts formed I hated myself for thinking them. But it was the truth.

IV

Rory spotted us as we came slowly up the central aisle. He was waiting to speak to friends of his father’s as they left the church, and his eyes lit up as soon as they settled on Jake. Moira was positioned next to him, and on his other side stood a slender, red-haired woman who even from this distance appeared to be quite beautiful. I knew at once it was Fiona, Tony’s former wife. I began to shake inside.

Jake had no way of knowing I had been seized by this internal shaking; nevertheless, he took hold of my elbow to steady me, as though he did know.

Fiona was smiling warmly at him, obviously glad to see him, and it was apparent they were old friends. Moving towards her, Jake only let go of me when we came to a standstill in front of her. He wrapped his arms around Fiona and gave her a big bear hug, then hugged Moira and Rory.

Bringing me forward into the group, he introduced me. ‘Fiona this is Val – Val Denning.’

‘Hello, Val,’ she said warmly in a soft voice, and she gave me a small half smile and thrust out her hand.

I took hold of it, and said, ‘Fiona’, and inclined my head, trying not to stare at her. She had a lovely face, with high cheekbones, a dimpled chin and smooth brow. Her skin was that pale milky white which Irish redheads seem to be blessed with, liberally peppered with freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones. Her hair, cut short and curly, was flame-coloured and her eyes were dark, black as coal. A true Celt, I thought.

‘I’m so glad you were able to come to London,’ Fiona was saying to Jake in her lilting brogue that bespoke her heritage. ‘To be honest, I’d worried that you might both be off on assignments, that you wouldn’t make the memorial service. Thanks for coming.’ She looked at me, and then back at Jake and said, ‘So you’ll be joining us at the house to take a bite with us?’

Jake hesitated uncertainly, gave me a quick glance and said to Fiona, ‘Val hasn’t been feeling well since we got here last night, have you, Val?’

He had adroitly thrown the ball into my court and I had no option but to go along with him. ‘Er, no, I haven’t, not really. I think I must be coming down with something.’

Fiona’s face dropped. ‘Oh, that’s such a disappointment, ’tis indeed, Val. And here I was wanting to give you both something of Tony’s. As a memento, you know. There’s so much at the house, all of his possessions collected over the years. I thought you could choose something, Val, and you Jake, something personal like a camera, or maybe a pair of cufflinks.’ She paused and shook her head, and a wry smile touched her mouth. ‘Well, as far as Tony’s concerned, there would be nothing more personal than a camera I’m thinking, since every camera he ever owned was part of him.’

‘We do want you to come, Jake, you worked alongside Dad for so long. And you should come, Miss Denning,’ Rory cut in, looking directly at me. ‘If you feel up to it. It’s not a real wake, you know. It’s a sort of…well, it’s just a gathering of friends remembering my father with his family, in his home –’

‘It won’t be the same without you,’ Fiona interjected. ‘Why, Jake, you were so close to him these last few years I thought at times that you were joined at the hip. Please come to the house. It means so much to me and the children.’

Jake said something but I wasn’t paying attention. Instead I was staring at Fiona. And I knew with absolute certainty that she was not Tony’s ex-wife. Fiona was still his wife. Or rather, his widow.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_30cb9ad0-45fa-57c2-a448-5dbb3ba55062)

I

‘Tony came to me at the end of July and said he was divorced. Why didn’t you tell me he wasn’t?’ I asked as evenly as possible, trying to keep my voice level and controlled.

‘Because I didn’t know he wasn’t,’ Jake answered, returning my stare with one equally penetrating.

‘But why didn’t you know? You were his best buddy, and you seem very pally with Fiona. You must have known something, known what was going on in their life together!’ I exclaimed, my voice rising slightly.

Jake did not answer.

We stood facing each other in my room at the Milestone, where we had returned after leaving the Brompton Oratory. When truth and reality had suddenly hit me in the face at the church, I had hurriedly excused myself to Fiona, hinting in a vague way that I really wasn’t well and had to leave. Under pressure from her, Jake had finally agreed to go to her house once he had dropped me off at the hotel. On the way here in the car, he had tried to talk to me, asking me why I had rushed out so abruptly. But I’d hushed him into silence, explaining that we must wait to have our discussion in private.

Now we were having it. He suddenly reached out, as if to take me in his arms. But as he moved towards me, I took a step backwards. ‘Don’t try to comfort me right now,’ I said swiftly. ‘I’m not in the mood, Jake, and anyway I want to talk this out with you.’ I shook my head. ‘I always thought you were my friend, my best friend, actually, but now…’ I let my sentence trail off.

Instantly I saw that I had annoyed him. His mouth tightened into a thin line and his bright blue eyes, usually so benign, had turned flinty and cold. ‘Don’t you dare question my friendship and loyalty!’ he cried, sounding angry. ‘And stop being so damned belligerent, Val. I haven’t done anything to hurt you, I’m only an innocent bystander. Now listen to me for a moment.’

‘I’m listening. So go ahead, shoot.’

‘Okay, okay, and just let’s settle down here a mite.’ He took a deep breath, and went on in a slightly milder tone, ‘Although Tony and I were close, he never confided in me about his private life, only ever hinted at things. I knew there were lots of women –’ He cut himself off, looked chagrined, and eyed me carefully before continuing.

I knew Jake would never wilfully hurt me, and I guessed that he was now worrying he had just caused me a degree of pain. But that wasn’t so. ‘It’s okay, Jake, keep going,’ I said in what I hoped was a reassuring voice.

He nodded. ‘Val, you have to face up to the fact that you weren’t the first, there were others before you. But he never left Fiona. She was always there in the background, his childhood sweetheart, his child bride as he called her, and the mother of his children. She was inviolate, in a sense. At least, that’s what I believed. As I told you, we never discussed his marriage or his love affairs, just as I didn’t talk about my personal life or my divorce from Sue Ellen. We only touched on those things in the most peripheral way. Very casually. Then he got involved with you last year, and eventually I began to think the unthinkable, that he was going to break up with Fiona. Not that he ever said so. Nor did he discuss you. However, when he came to Paris in July he announced, out of the blue, that he was divorced –’