The place is even more up market than she expects and she can't help wondering just how rich Harry's father was. She's not really thought about it before, but it makes sense with him having been a banker and Harry having gone to a private school and then Oxford.
"He liked tennis. Got tickets to Wimbledon every year," Harry says, walking round the car to meet her on the pavement, and she realises that some of her thoughts must show on her face, "and he was accustomed to a certain... standard of living."
"It's lovely," she manages to say, meeting his gaze briefly before looking around again, for the gardens and buildings are quite something even in the dark, illuminated as they are with tasteful, warm lighting, the holiday lights in the windows, trees and bushes adding an almost magical effect.
Harry hums and leads the way to the reception where they have him sign some paperwork and hand him a set of keys and a sheet of paper.
"This way," he murmurs softly, stepping back out of the building and walking towards his car again. "It'll be faster if I drive us round and easier to load up the car later."
So they get back into his car and he drives them round to another building that looks even nicer than the last. "This is the assisted living section, rather than the nursing home. Dad had heart trouble, but could mostly take care of himself. He enjoyed his independence, such as it was at his age."
"And the tennis," she smiles. He must have been in his late eighties – she's pretty sure he was born in 1922 if memory serves.
"Yes," he agrees, parking the car and getting out.
"Did he... own this place?" she asks as she gazes about her whilst Harry retrieves some folded boxes from the boot of his car that he somehow manages to tuck under one arm, refusing her help when she offers it.
"The flat, yes," Harry confirms. "It'll be sold, of course, and he left most of his estate to Catherine and Graham." She looks up at him at that, so he adds, "He probably thought I had no need for it." She nods. "Which I don't."
She smiles. "It's nice for them. They could use it to buy a car, or a flat, or a mansion, or something."
He laughs. "I'm not sure it'll stretch to a mansion, but yes, assuming they use it wisely, they're both at an age where it should give them some independence."
"You're worried they'll squander it?" she asks once she's slipped through the door he holds open for her and they're walking side by side down the hall to the lift.
"Well, Catherine was talking about financing another documentary just last month and Graham..." he tails off and turns to stare out the window while they wait for the lift. "Of course, I worry, Ruth. I always worry about them. Part and parcel of being a parent, I'm afraid."
"I know," she murmurs, dropping her gaze for a moment as the memories of Nico come flooding back and the emotions threaten to overwhelm her. This still happens to her far too often – she's doing fine one moment, and then the slightest, little thing can throw her off balance and it all comes flooding back – and she can't help wondering how long it will go on, how long she can go on like this.
"Christ, Ruth," she hears him mutter beside her. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."
She lifts her hand to her eyes and quickly wipes the moisture away, giving him a quick, slightly watery smile before stepping into the lift. He follows her mutely, looking retched, and she can't help how her heart goes out to him in the midst of her own pain. Poor Harry. It's not his fault really. She created this mess, not he.
She reaches for his free hand, and when he looks up in surprise, she gives it a gentle squeeze. He smiles tentatively and squeezes her hand back, and it surprises her how much pleasure the sight brings her. She's spent most of her life challenging herself and doing things she loves – reading, singing, analysing, solving puzzles, testing her limits, becoming a spy – but during her time away, with George and Nico, she'd really discovered the joy of giving, of making others happy. In the last few months, after losing them, she's gone back to her old ways, to pushing herself, giving everything she's got to the job and forgetting about the people in her life. No, forgetting is the wrong word. Overlooking. Pushing them aside. The pain had been too great, the guilt – survivor's guilt – too overwhelming, but tonight – being here with Harry, for Harry – she finds she can experience the pleasure again without the heartache and the guilt overwhelming her. It feels good to be there for him, to ease his pain a little, perhaps even make him happy for a moment or two, and she finds herself wondering if maybe this is it – the answer to her grief – taking the time to be with the people she loves and make them happy. It's almost Christmas. She should ring her mum, maybe get in touch with one or two friends from before, tell them that she's not dead and go from there. Maybe she could join a choir again – she loves the music at this time of year especially.
He releases her hand as the lift comes to a stop and they step out, walking down the hall to the last door on the left. "This is it," he says and unlocks the door, opens it, and motions her inside.
She feels like she's stepped back in time as she enters, the furniture, the décor, the atmosphere of the room taking her back to her childhood, and she can't help smiling as she gazes around her, charmed by her surroundings and wishing, for a moment, that they were here on a visit and she could meet Harry's father, find out how much of the charm of the room is due to the charisma of its former owner.
She can feel Harry watching her, so she turns to look at him. "It's lovely," she says, but he doesn't reply, just makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat. Perhaps he doesn't agree with her – he clearly didn't feel close to his father. The way he'd described him makes her think that James Pearce was more a disciplinarian than a nurturer and probably pushed his sons too hard as children, especially Harry, who was the eldest.
"Make yourself comfortable," he says. "I'll make us some tea."
He puts down the boxes and disappears through the doorway across the room, into the small kitchen she glimpses beyond it. She thinks about following him to help, but decides against it, looking around her once more instead.
She spies the record player near a bookshelf and goes over to it, noting with some interest that there is already a record in it, so she switches it on, lifts the needle and lowers it onto its surface. The music that fills the room is not familiar, but it's older, from the sixties, she guesses and a look at the cover of the single lying nearby confirms it. "All of a sudden" - 1969.
We were fools, you and I,
Now we know it.
We stood still as the days moved along.
Love was ours, but our eyes didn't show it.
Suddenly, we can see we were wrong.
She's swaying her hips to the music, caught up in its seductive rhythm and Matt Monro's voice, but as the lyrics catch her attention she stops, her heart suddenly pounding, her mind filled with one word, one thought, one memory – Harry.
All of a sudden, this world's yours and mine.
All of a sudden, water tastes like wine.
Now every moment there are songs to sing,
All of a sudden, everything.
The words, the music, everything about this song speaks to her of him, of the feelings she'd had after their date – so long ago now – when he'd dropped her at her door and softly kissed her goodnight, the magic, the thrill of it, the giddy euphoria of standing in the hall afterwards, leaning against the back of the door and grinning like a fool, of dancing into the kitchen, scooping up her tabby and burying her face in his fur, unable to contain the exuberance, the elation, the glee as she'd laughed and spun around the room, stopping by the sink, breathless, to put him down and get herself some water.
It had tasted like wine in that moment.
Let's not talk of all the times we've been lonely,
But let us speak of the times we will know.
From today, I will live for you only,
Wish I'd said all these things long ago.
All of a sudden, this world's yours and mine.
All of a sudden, water tastes like wine.
Now every moment there are songs to sing,
All of a sudden, everything.
She lifts her hand to her mouth, momentarily overcome by emotion, blinking back tears as she swallows hard. She doesn't know what this means – yet another layer to add to the rest and unpick later, or possibly, not at all at this rate. Every minute she spends with Harry seems to generate more stuff between them, so that she doesn't know, any more, where to even begin to unpick it all – all their history, all these emotions, the tangle of the web stretched between them, binding them together, yet also keeping them apart. Now is not the time though, certainly. His eyes are on her back – she can feel it – so she hastens to pull herself together and turn to face him.
He's leaning against the door frame, his face a mask of control, watching her, his fingers wrapped around a glass of whisky.
So much for tea, she thinks.
"It was my mother's favourite," he volunteers after a moment.
"The song?" she asks, relieved that her voice is steady.
"Yes. And the singer – Matt Monro. Monro was her maiden name. She loved that they had that in common, even though she'd changed hers when she married my father and his was just a stage name. Dad bought her that record for her birthday the year it was released," he continues, a far away look in his eyes. "It must have been on a Friday or a Saturday that year because I had plans to meet up with friends. I remember walking past the living room to the front door and seeing them dancing together. They seemed so happy." His eyes focus back on her face and he smiles crookedly at her and looks down at his drink, bringing it to his lips and taking a large gulp.
She's not quite sure what to say to that. She's never heard him reminisce about his childhood before, nor has he opened up to her this much since they talked of Paris and New York and his plans for the Grand Tour. But before she can get her thoughts in order and reply, there's a knock at the door that has both of them turning towards it with a frown. She glances at Harry again, a question in her eyes, but he just shakes his head and moves into the living room, setting his glass down on the table before crossing to the door and swinging it open.
"Hello, Mr Pearce," a woman about her age – perhaps a little younger – with bright, blue eyes and dark, curly hair says cheerfully. "I'm Rachel McBride. I don't know if you remember-"
"Yes," Harry replies. "Of course. You work here."
"That's right," Rachel smiles, then her eyes fill with sorrow as she adds, "I'm so sorry for your loss, Sir."
"Thank you."
"I liked your father," she adds. "He was a quiet man, kept to himself mostly, but he was always well spoken and kind, a true gentleman and we will all miss him very much."
A sob comes from somewhere behind her and she sees Harry's shoulders stiffen though she can't see where the sound came from until Rachel steps back and slips her arm around an older woman's shoulders, who's standing in the doorway of the flat across the hall. "There, there, Agatha," she hears Rachel murmur before she turns to Harry again and explains, "Agatha was good friends with your father, weren't you, love?"
"Oh yes," the old lady replies, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "He was a good man, James was. We used to keep each other company of an afternoon." She smiles up at Harry, who nods. "You look just like him, you know," she adds after a moment. "Except you're a little taller."
"I know," Harry replies.
"He was ever so proud of you," Agatha continues. "My Harry this, and my Harry that. He was ever so chuffed when you received your knighthood."
Ruth can't see the expression on Harry's face, but she can guess his feelings. She wants to reach out to him, but doesn't want to intrude or give anything away. He'll be wearing his spook mask and will not appreciate her making him look vulnerable.
"Knighthood?" Rachel murmurs in wonder.
"Oh yes," Agatha beams, warming to her subject. "Sir Harry, he said, for services rendered to the realm. He never did tell me exactly what you do, but he always said it was terribly important."
"I had no idea," Rachel replies, looking a little worried and thankfully cutting across Agatha's implied questions. "I'm so sorry, Sir Harry."
"It's fine," Harry replies, trying to put her at ease. "Really. Most people call me Harry."
"Right," Rachel says, but she doesn't look convinced and an awkward silence settles around them for a moment. "Anyway," she adds after a beat, "we just wanted to pass on our condolences, didn't we, Agatha?" Agatha nods and Ruth has the feeling that it should be them who are passing on condolences to her. It looks like she and Harry's father were good friends. "So we'll leave you to it," Rachel finishes, looking like she's struggling with how to address Harry now.
"Thank you both," Harry replies, shaking each of their hands in turn. Agatha pats his hand and turns away, going back into her own flat and closing the door behind her after Rachel tells her she'll be right there.
"I'm sorry for the intrusion, Sir," she says in a low voice, clearly having recovered her equilibrium. "It was the sound of the record. Your father used to play that song of an evening when he was alone and Agatha was quite convinced that he'd come back, so I thought-"
"Ah," Harry replies, giving her an understanding smile. "I see. It's perfectly alright. They seem to have been good friends," he adds.
"They were," she agrees. "They used to have their tea together most days and play cards. He was a smart man, your father. He tried to set up a bridge club with Agatha and the Harrises from the next floor down, but I'm afraid he got a little frustrated by the level of the game."
"I can imagine that. He used to play bridge with my mother," Harry says, surprising her. It's not like him to share personal information and it makes her realise how much the loss of his father is affecting him, despite his best efforts to hide it.
"He used to talk about her sometimes," Rachel says sympathetically. "He loved her very much, I think."
"Yes," is Harry's monosyllabic reply.
"Anyway," Rachel says. "I must get on. It was nice to see you again, Sir Harry."
"And you."
"Take care now," she smiles and turns to go, but Harry stops her.
"I wonder, Ms McBride," he says, "if you think Agatha would like a memento, something to remember my father by."
"I'm sure she would love that," Rachel beams. "That's very generous of you."
"Well, I cannot possibly keep all his things. Perhaps the playing cards they used, or the tea set? Would you care to help me choose something?"
"I'd be happy to," Rachel smiles and steps into the room as Harry moves aside to allow her to enter.
"This is Ms Evershed," Harry introduces her.
"Ruth," she corrects, moving closer and shaking Rachel's hand.
"Pleased to meet you," Rachel replies, looking much more at ease now.
"And you."
"If you could point to where he kept these things, that would be very helpful," Harry suggests. "As no doubt, you know, I did not visit my father often."
Rachel turns to him with a sympathetic smile. "Of course. It is hard to make the time in our busy lives to see family sometimes, isn't it? I know I never visit my parents nearly as often as I should."
"Neither do I," she volunteers softly, liking this soft-spoken woman all the more for trying to make Harry feel better.
Rachel smiles at her, then helps Harry locate the set of playing cards James used with Agatha that are nestled in a beautiful wooden box and which he decides to give her. While he's gone next door with Rachel, Ruth makes herself useful assembling the boxes – after finding the tea Harry's made in the kitchen, that's a little colder than she'd like, but still drinkable, and putting the kettle on to make some more – and when he's not back by the time she's finished, she decides to tackle James's clothes, seeing as it's unlikely, in her opinion, that Harry will want to keep any of them.
