Page 3 of The Way We Are Now

‘Oh, Angus, you’re here.’ Seventeen years older than herself, Angus has to be one of Immi’s absolutely favourite people. Tall, blond, but certainly not as handsome or as charismatic as Miles, Angus Mandeville has, from birth, carried with him the knowledge that one day, the whole of his family’s estate will pass to him. A burden he doesn’t appear to want to take on, and Immi has long wondered if he’ll pass on the baton to Miles, just eighteen months younger and more than happy to accept the estate, as well as the title.

‘I’m here.’ Angus grins down at Immi before sweeping her up in a hug. ‘How’s your second year going?’ He pauses, taking a good long look at her. ‘You certainly look well. What have you been up to? Or should I say who?’

‘Oh, Angus…’ Always her confidante, she’s desperate to tell this big brother of hers all about him but breaks off as Honor comes down the stairs trailing a veritable rainbow of pashminas and a particularly heady perfume.

‘This house is bloody cold,’ Honor complains, wrapping the mauve pashmina more tightly around her shoulders. ‘Your father won’t up the heat even though it’s almost Christmas. Hello, darling. How lovely to have you home.’ She proffers her face in Immi’s direction and, dutifully, Immi plants a kiss on her mother’s cold cheek. ‘Angus. You made it then, dear? Able to leave your scabby cats and dogs? Or are you out in the fields these days? Sheep and cows, is it now?’ Honor doesn’t appear particularly interested either way and Angus doesn’t reply. ‘Oh,’ she adds as an arthritic mutt limps over in greeting. ‘You’ve brought that dog of yours with you, have you?’

‘I’m not going to leave him by himself, Mum,’ Angus says mildly. ‘Where’s your Christmas spirit? And, talking of spirits, I’ve a bottle of Scotch somewhere. Anyone going to join me?’

‘I’m sure your father will.’ Honor continues to peer down at the dog as he suddenly sits, scratching fiercely at his right ear. ‘He looks a bit flea ridden. Just keep him away from our pack if he’s lousy.’

‘Mum!’ Immi tuts as, only five minutes back in her mother’s company, she feels the inherent anxiety of childhood and adolescence caused by Honor’s constant disapproval. ‘He’s a bloody vet. He’s not going to let his dog have fleas, is he…?’ She breaks off as three black Labs, claws skittering across the wooden floor, race towards Angus’s dog who, unfazed by the resident dogs’ arrival, simply sits and stares before continuing with the scratching of his other ear.

‘God, it’s like a bloody dogs’ home in here,’ Miles says, as he arrives in the Great Hall with yet another Labrador – golden this time. ‘Why the hell are you all hanging around in this freezing hall like you don’t have anywhere else to go? Isn’t there a fire lit somewhere?’

‘Hello, Immi. How are you, Immi? Lovely to see you, Immi. How was uni?’ Immi parrots the words in her elder brother’s direction as she bends to greet his dog. She hates to admit this, even to herself, but she reckons she likes Midas, the golden Lab, rather more than she does his owner.

‘Dinner in half an hour,’ Honor says, moving towards the door leading to the kitchens. A century ago, these kitchens would have been teeming with staff all hurriedly preparing food for the Mandeville family and guests. Now, there’s just Sue Brady who drives up from the village four times a week to clean and housekeep on an ad hoc basis and, when she can be persuaded, to lend a hand with preparing and serving dinner when the family have guests.

‘So, Imogen, are you studying hard?’ Ava Mandeville lifts her wine glass with an arthritic, blue-veined hand. ‘What is it you’re doing down there, dear?’

‘History and politics, Granny. You ask every time I see you.’ Immi smiles as the old lady passes a basket of bread in her direction.

‘Hmm, but will it help you find a job at the end of it all? D’you want a job? Or are you aiming to come back to help run the estate? I was always at your grandfather’s side, you know.’

‘Bit different that, Gran.’ Miles upends his wine glass, reaches for the bottle and refills his glass. ‘You were married to the owner of Mandeville Hall. Immi would just be a hanger-on unless Dad finds a job for her here.’

‘Excuse me!’ Immi glares at Miles. ‘I have plans of my own…’ As she speaks the words, she has to concede she really doesn’t know what those plans might be.

‘Oh?’ Miles puts down his glass, leaning back in his chair, a smirk on his handsome face. ‘And do those plans include the son of the Right Honourable Secretary of State for Justice?’

‘Sorry?’ Immi’s confused. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Miles?’

‘Noah Wrathmell? A little bird tells me you’ve been seeing rather a lot of him recently…’ Miles breaks off, Immi’s scarlet face assuring him he’s bang on target.

But that’s nothing to Theo Mandeville’s. His full glass of red wine drops and spills, a river of blood spreading and pooling across the starched tablecloth, a direct contrast to his white, shocked face.

PART I

1

LEEDS, FEBRUARY 1983

‘Reclaim the Night!’ I was in my stride now, shouting at the top of my voice, waving the banner I’d quickly designed, assembled and put together in the tiny bedroom of the student house I shared with three others in the Headingley area of Leeds. Not being overly artistic, my banner was somewhat amateurish, but what it lacked in finesse, it certainly made up for in intent. ‘Give our streets back to women!’ I yelled more loudly this time, determined, encouraging the others I’d persuaded to join me in the demonstration.

To be honest, it wasn’t much of a protest, and those who I had managed to get on board and who had started out with me didn’t appear overly enthusiastic. Even less so when the drizzle that had been falling all morning from the lowering Yorkshire grey skies threatened to turn to full-scale rain. I’d started out that morning with such high hopes of leading others in this protest, but they all, including myself, seemed, I now saw, slightly pathetic. The idea that women were unsafe on the streets of Leeds at night appeared of little consequence to either the throng of students hurrying to lectures, or the general public scurrying to get under cover before the heavens opened. I gripped my banner more tightly, saw the red ink I’d lovingly used to write my placard had run, until, like raspberry jam in rice pudding, it was a pink indescribable mess, the words no longer legible or decipherable.

The posters that Fliss, Frank and I had stuck up only an hour earlier were now bedraggled, half-torn by the rain and flapping against lamp posts and street furniture, slogans bleeding as the ink ran. The pooling rainwater was leaking into my boots and I was really hungry but, never one to give up on a job, I started to shout once more and was relieved when the others joined in. The chant echoed across the Parkinson Building, bouncing off the tall clock tower while a group pushed past with little more than a sideways glance, faces half-curious, half-irritated, as though the noise were no more than an inconvenient fire drill.

I felt my throat tighten, but not from the shouting. The bloody indifference around me was harder to bear than outright opposition.

‘Keep going, Anna,’ Frank muttered, at my side. His cheeks were red from the cold, his nose, at which he now attempted a futile wipe with the back of his hand, beginning to run. His hand-painted sign wobbled against his chest and part of me felt a pang of sympathy at his dedication to the cause. It wasn’t just dedication to the protest, I knew. He was doing it for me. Because I’d asked him. ‘They’re off to the Wimpy Bar now,’ he went on sagely, ‘only thinking of their stomachs, but in years to come they’ll remember this.’

I nodded, gripping my placard tighter, knowing more than likely they wouldn’t remember, while aware my mouth was salivating at the thought of a juicy burger. I’d only managed the crust of a week-old loaf of bread spread with the dregs of the Marmite jar for breakfast and my stomach rumbled loudly as a reminder. Then I remembered: I’d made the decision to embrace vegetarianism only the day before. With rain trickling down the neck of my shirt and sweater, I wondered if I could perhaps postpone my resolution for another day and join the carnivores in the queue on Boar Lane.

‘Come on, Anna,’ Fliss yelled, running forwards to catch me up at the front. ‘Let’s pack it in. I’m starving! I really don’t think anyone would begrudge us a sandwich in return for the walking and protesting we’ve done this morning.’

‘Keep up, Fliss,’ Frank shouted over our heads. ‘Free Nelson Mandela next!’