The Children's Hour Page 5

  ‘No,’ answers Georgie scornfully. ‘Of course she isn’t dead, silly. We have a new baby brother.’ A pause. A cloud covers the sun, shadows rippling over the sand, and the wind is chill on their bare legs. Mina is too weak with relief to feel the discomfort but Georgie stares at Mina, her pose forgotten, her eyes frightened. ‘A brother. Do you think Papa will still love us?’

  Lyddie closed the front door, paused to stroke the Bosun, who lay deeply asleep in the narrow hall, and carried the Jiffy bag up to her study. The bag contained the typescript for her next editing project – an historical saga by an author she’d copy-edited before – and she was looking forward to it. The editor, an old friend and a former employer, had already discussed certain points with Lyddie on the telephone.

  ‘We’ve had to do quite a lot of revising so the new material might not quite gel with the original,’ she’d said. ‘Look out for the timing, will you?’

  She’d booked Lyddie for another project, for the first two weeks of December – a repeating author who wrote one thriller a year – had a gossip and hung up, but not before telling Lyddie how she envied her being able to work in Cornwall. Lyddie was not in the least deceived; most of her colleagues had been shocked at the idea of her giving up her job and working freelance from Truro. She’d known that they were anxious for her. Her story of how she’d met Liam whilst she was on holiday in Cornwall, the speed at which the relationship had warmed from attraction into love, sounded too much like fiction. The fact that he’d asked her to marry him went some way to allaying their fears but it was a huge step. It sounded wonderful, they’d agreed cautiously, but wouldn’t she miss London?

  Lyddie, studying the calendar on her notice-board, marking in blue ink the date of the arrival of the typescript, smiled reminiscently. It had been difficult to describe her love for Liam or explain her readiness to quit London for the old cathedral city of Truro. Once they’d met Liam, of course, those colleagues had been more understanding. Knowing that they could trust her, they were also very ready to offer her freelance work.

  ‘I’d hate to give it up completely,’ she’d told Liam, ‘and the money will be useful.’

  He couldn’t deny it: the lease on The Place hadn’t come cheap and he’d insisted that the refurbishment must be classy; nothing tacky. Joe had agreed with him; Liam knew the market, knew just what was needed – and he’d been right. The Place was hauling in the punters, filling a particular well-heeled niche. The mortgage with the bank, however, was a large one.

  As she noted in red ink the date on her calendar when the typescript was due back to the publisher, Lyddie wondered whether she should offer the money from what could be raised on the house in Iffley, once the deal was completed. Liam hadn’t mentioned it and, oddly, she felt a certain restraint in raising the subject. Liam was deeply possessive about his business – it was his child, his world, and, although he encouraged her to come in for supper or lunch, he never made her feel truly a part of it. He and Joe were partners; The Place was theirs. Neither of them ever sought her advice or opinion but continued to treat her as though she were a valued, very special guest. In some ways she liked this: there were no pressures, no expectations. In the snug, after a day of copy-editing, she could simply relax, let her thoughts wander, chill out. She was never hurried from her cup of coffee, as Rosie was, should a customer be waiting at the bar, and her meals were presented with all the courtesy given to any of their clients. Yet her particular association did make her more special, which was rather fun. Did she want to change the balance? Would she be capable of putting a large sum of money into a business that didn’t encompass her, without wanting to become involved in any way? Having invested her money in The Place, could she remain disinterested? And why should it make any difference if she had no control? After all, she was already dependent on the business: it was her livelihood, as well as Liam’s and Joe’s. The proceeds provided for her, paid the mortgage of the little terraced house – but not completely. She had her own work, the results of which shared their own personal financial load, and Liam was very proud of her. If he saw a review of one of the novels she’d copy-edited or heard one mentioned on the radio, he was filled with pride.

  She was afraid to change the status quo, yet unhappy at the idea of not contributing more substantially if she had the means. Perhaps she would speak to the Aunts about it before she suggested it to Liam. Tomorrow was a day off and she’d planned a trip to Exmoor; Lyddie felt a little glow of expectation. Sitting down at her desk, pulling on a fleece jacket, she settled down to work.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The three dogs sat together at the end of the terrace, ears alert. Voices could be heard, rising and falling from inside the house, but the dogs’ attention was fixed upon the Bosun, who stood uneasily, half in, half out of the french window. He was a handsome fellow, with his jet-black, silky coat, white chest and russet markings, but the Sealyhams were unmoved both by his good looks and his sweet nature, which was viewed contemptuously – by Captain Cat, at least – as weakness.

  The Bosun took a few cautious steps, emerging very nearly onto the terrace, his tail waving gently in a faintly deferential way. Captain Cat growled, an ear cocked towards the drawing-room, and Nogood Boyo, who had been considering a more balanced approach, sat down again, his ears flattening. Polly Garter, too old to sustain more than a token display of territorial aggression, yawned widely, curled into a ball and settled herself to sleep in the sun. The Bosun, seeing an opening for negotiation, emerged fully on to the terrace. Once outside he lay down quickly, indicating that his approach was entirely friendly, lest the two dogs should set up a volley of barking in defence of their invaded space. The Bosun laid his head on his paws, though his ears were pricked warily, and his tail beat a feathery tattoo upon the warm stone.

  Captain Cat stirred about, irritated. His plucky, fiery temperament demanded that he should fly out at this intruder, that this large alien should be assaulted and driven from their favourite, private place; yet he knew from long experience that this perfectly reasonable, natural response would bring shrieks and reproaches about his ears and, possibly, even the deprivation of certain treats. Stiff-legged, hackles up, he rumbled frustratedly, deep in his throat, staring insolently at his huge, handsome, gentle opponent, who could have had all three of them for lunch if he’d only had a mere pawful of decent pride.

  Nogood Boyo whined a little. He enjoyed a good scrap as much as the next fellow – but his instinct was to approach the Bosun with friendly caution. Captain Cat could feel control slipping away from him but, before the situation became dangerous, the three women emerged into the sunshine, the balance of power shifted and the tension lifted.

  The Bosun stood up, tail wagging wildly now, and hurried to sit beside Lyddie’s chair; Nogood Boyo, hostilities forgotten, examined the contents of the tray placed on the bamboo table; Captain Cat gave a few short barks, so that the Bosun should realize – and be suitably ashamed – that his skin had been saved by a pack of women, and settled beside Nest. Only Polly Garter continued to lie dreaming in the sun, beyond the prick of lust, whether for blood or love or even food; all passion spent.

  Mina reached a hand to her warm white coat, smiling to herself, remembering other, earlier years, and then began to pour the coffee.

  ‘We’re all ready,’ she told Lyddie cheerfully. ‘Her room’s looking very pretty – just the flowers to do. I hope she likes it. It’s the one she and I shared when we were children during the war. You know, we haven’t seen Georgie for ages. Oh, more than a year at least. It’ll be fun, won’t it, Nest?’

  Nest’s eyelid flicked as Lyddie looked at her and she smiled as she took her mug. ‘I’m sure it will,’ she answered. ‘We’ll make it a real holiday.’

  Lyddie slipped her arm round the Bosun’s neck as he sat, solid and comforting, beside her. ‘But you would say, wouldn’t you, if things got a bit . . . well, a bit out of hand?’

  ‘Poor Georgie,’ said Mina lightly. ‘She’s n
ot some kind of lunatic, you know. Only getting rather old and forgetful. Well, aren’t we all! I don’t think we shall need physically to restrain her.’

  ‘And if we do,’ added Nest lightly, sipping her coffee, ‘we’ll knock her out with a treble dose of my tramadol hydrochloride and tie her to her bed.’

  Lyddie chuckled, as Nest had intended she should. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you, either,’ she replied. ‘You’re both very unscrupulous women.’

  Mina raised her eyebrows. ‘How exciting you make us sound. So how is Liam?’

  The slight pause caused both women to glance at her although each steadfastly avoided the other’s eyes. Lyddie stroked the Bosun’s soft sun-warmed head and crumbled some shortcake with her free hand.

  ‘He’s fine,’ she said at last. ‘Great. Everything’s fine. But, actually, I did want to talk to you about something.’

  She hesitated again, whilst Mina and Nest strove to contain their nervous impatience.

  ‘Nothing too serious?’ suggested Mina at last, unable to bear the tension any longer. ‘Nothing . . .’ She was unable to formulate her fears and glanced helplessly at Nest, who shook her head warningly.

  ‘No, no,’ said Lyddie quickly. ‘Of course not. It’s simply what I ought to do with my money once Roger has got his mortgage sorted out. I should get a hundred and fifty thousand. Liam’s never mentioned it but I know The Place has got a big mortgage. Do you think I should offer it to him to help pay it off?’

  ‘No,’ said Nest sharply and at once – and both Mina and Lyddie stared at her in surprise.

  Lyddie gave a small embarrassed chuckle. ‘Well, that’s honest, anyway,’ she said – but she looked worried.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Nest quickly. ‘That was rather a knee-jerk reaction but probably an honest one. Sorry . . .’

  ‘I asked you,’ said Lyddie quickly. ‘Don’t apologize. But why do you say that? After all, it’s my livelihood too, isn’t it? And Liam’s my husband. Shouldn’t the whole thing be a partnership? Financially as well as emotionally and . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Well, you see what I’m getting at.’

  ‘The money could perhaps be invested,’ began Mina carefully, ‘against hard times. The Place is a huge success, anyone can see that, but things can go wrong and it might be wiser—’

  ‘But it’s not just that,’ interrupted Nest. ‘Sorry, Mina, but I think this should be said – given that Lyddie’s asked us. My view is that The Place is very much Liam’s show. Well, his and Joe’s. It seems to me that you’re not really included in any way. Would you say that’s a fair observation?’

  ‘Perfectly fair.’ Lyddie sat upright, her silk-black hair gleaming in the sunshine.

  Her small face looked sad, the wide, grey-green eyes thoughtful, and the two older women each experienced a clutch of fear. Mina longed to put her arms about her, as she had when Lyddie had been small, and Nest felt an unjustifiable surge of dislike for the absent Liam. Lyddie sighed a little and fed a corner of shortbread to the Bosun. Nogood Boyo nipped over to check it out and the large dog looked benignly upon the small opportunist who hoovered expertly round his large paws. Encouraged, Nogood Boyo, wagged his tail and settled beneath the table, an eye on Captain Cat, who pointedly looked the other way.

  ‘You’ve really put your finger on it,’ Lyddie told Nest, after a moment or two. ‘I’m not included in any aspect at all. He never discusses it with me. It’s almost weird but I can understand it. Liam can be very possessive. Possibly it might be different if he didn’t have a partner.’

  ‘But that’s the point, isn’t it?’ Nest was quick to pick this up. ‘He does. You wouldn’t only be backing Liam, you’d be backing Joe too.’

  ‘There might be some legal way of splitting it into three. Or into shares,’ Mina was determined that all aspects should be considered, ‘so that if Joe were to leave or ask to be bought out . . .’ She paused, frowning, not certain where her argument was leading.

  ‘It’s risky.’ Nest was sticking with her gut reaction. ‘And if Liam hasn’t asked, why offer? He’s a very independent man and he probably prefers to keep his business quite separate from his family life. It’s a very wise decision. He and Joe can slug things out between them but two against one means trouble. I should think it would be almost impossible for you to put money into The Place and then manage to stay disinterested, especially should things begin to go wrong. At the moment it’s Liam’s problem, the decisions are his, and you can remain free of it. You don’t have to question or argue or fall out over it. You might make it very difficult for him if you make him the offer.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Mina agreed quickly, ‘that if he were hoping for some financial assistance he would have mentioned it by now.’

  ‘You could be right.’ Lyddie was looking more cheerful. ‘I’ll think about it carefully but you’ve cleared my mind. Sorry to bring it up or worry you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mina robustly. ‘It’s what we’re here for. Have some more shortbread and eat some of it yourself this time. I made it specially – and not for the Bosun or for Nogood Boyo. There, take a nice big piece and tell us what you’re working on at the moment. An Aga-saga, is it? Or a juicy thriller?’

  Lyddie saw that the subject was closed, accepted the shortbread and settled back in her chair to talk about books.

  Much later, once Nest was in bed, Mina seated herself at the computer. It was her nephew Jack, Timmie’s son, who had introduced her to the world of the Internet just as once he’d introduced her to Private Eye. During the early months after the car accident, with Nest almost destroyed by pain and grief and guilt, Jack had shown Mina how to communicate with other people in a similar position to her own: those people who emptied themselves into a self-giving of warmth and humour and patient love.

  ‘You need something of your own,’ he’d told her, ‘otherwise your whole investment will be in Aunt Nest and that’s dangerous. Surf the Net. Talk to other carers; there are so many people out there who are in the same boat. Exchange jokes and let off steam. Just don’t sink yourself into becoming a slave like you did with Grandmama. Oh, I know you loved her, and that you were happy looking after her, but I’ve seen you doing your own thing for the last ten years: going off to the States to visit Aunt Josie and the boys, going to Oxford, buying puppies. I don’t want you to disappear,’ and he’d grinned at her and kissed her briefly on the lips.

  It was odd that he should always do this – not a kiss on the cheek, or a hug, but a gentle salute on her withered lips. Afterwards, once he’d gone, she’d press them gently with her fingers, as if holding the kiss in place. Darling Jack! Tall and blond, just like his father, just like Timmie.

  Ambrose, bursting with pride, insists that Timothy must be godfather to his new son and ‘We’ll call him Timothy’ he says to Lydia. ‘What do you say? I was thinking of naming him Ernest, after my father. But let’s call him after old Timothy, shall we, darling?’

  Lydia agrees gratefully, rocking her new baby boy, marvelling at his fairness after four black-haired girls. Ambrose returns to London in tearing spirits whilst Lydia and her daughters settle into a new pattern of living. Ambrose’s delight has cast a mantle of happiness over his entire family; he is expansively generous, loving to all, and even Georgie, for now, feels no cause for jealousy. Timmie – ‘Timothy’ is quickly shortened by Josie – is a contented, cheerful baby, and his sisters vie for the responsibility of watching over him and showing him off to their few neighbours.

  ‘How strange,’ murmurs Enid Goodenough, hanging over the cradle. ‘So blond. Not like his sisters at all, is he?’

  She glances with bright, malicious eyes at her brother, Claude, who rocks to and fro, now on his heels, now on the balls of his feet, as he stands beside the french window fingering his moustache.

  He titters a little, drooping an eyelid at Enid. ‘Quite a little changeling.’

  Lydia pours the tea calmly. ‘He takes after my father,’ she tells them. ‘He was very fair and very tall
.’

  ‘How very convenient,’ murmurs Enid Goodenough, so low that Lydia does not quite catch the words.

  But Mina, who is never very far from her new brother, hears what she says and is puzzled.

  ‘I don’t like the Goodenoughs,’ she tells Georgie, after they’ve gone. ‘They’re . . . tricky,’ but Georgie is too busy being the eldest, ‘a proper little mother’ as some kinder neighbour has dubbed her, to care about Enid and Claude. She bustles away on some important errand and Mina is left to herself, trying to analyse the aura of disquiet that clings to the Goodenoughs, leaving edginess in its wake. Mama is restless after their visit, preoccupied as she lifts the baby from his cradle and holds him so that her cheek rests against his round blond head. Mina watches, longing to restore the harmony the Goodenoughs have destroyed.

  ‘It’s time for our story, Mama,’ she says, knowing that the children’s hour creates a special world of its own. ‘Do you think Sophia will think of a new story to tell the robber Baron? I can’t wait to hear what happens next. Shall I call the others?’

  Mama smiles, touching Mina’s hair, and nods, the anxious lines smoothing from her face, and Mina sighs an unconscious gasp of relief as she runs away to find her sisters. At nine years old, books are her chief delight, her greatest comfort. Their created worlds are her reality and she peoples the cleave and the beach with these characters who are so well known to her, whose words rise so readily to her own lips. Naughty Sophia especially lends itself to being re-enacted in Mina’s environment and the children’s hour is, for her, the most magic moment of the day. Soon they are ready: Georgie and Mina on the sofa, with Timmie supported carefully between them, Josie lying on the floor with her wooden jigsaw puzzle and Henrietta on the stool where she can see the pictures. The windows are open to the scents and birdsong of the summery garden and the scene is tranquil. Mina relaxes against the cushions, waiting for her mother’s voice. The book is opened and Mama begins to read.