The Prodigal Wife Page 9

  ‘It’s head and heart,’ Fliss had said to him once about something else. ‘Your heart says, “Yes! Yes! Go for it!” and your head is saying, “Hang on! Wait a minute. Are you sure?” It’s so difficult to know which is right.’

  And the problem was that this whole thing about his mother coming back on the scene was really unsettling him. He felt resentful that she was coming for his birthday when really he wanted to be with Henrietta, and cross too, because he knew that he’d given in to it too easily. He couldn’t really blame Dad – he was simply trying to be kind – but he was angry that she felt she could simply walk back into his life now that she was on her own. Could she really have forgotten how she’d treated him?

  Every emotional storm, with his mother at their centre, stood like a series of signposts stuck into the map of his childhood; each pointing the way to the final rupture, though some more crucial than others. Since meeting Henrietta the memories of them had become more than usually vivid. For years he’d managed to crush them down, but for some reason they’d begun to surface: that time when she’d rubbished his plans for The Keep, for instance; and the terrible row over Rex. And the odd thing was that the memories were so fresh. He’d imagined that he’d dealt with it all, that he’d grown up and away from it, and it was unsettling to find the scenes replaying so vividly in his head.

  The dogs had reached the spinney, and Pooter’s excited barking fractured the drowsy peace of the autumn afternoon and recalled Jolyon from the past. He guessed that she’d probably seen a squirrel and was now trying to follow it up its tree. Nothing would persuade the indomitable Pooter that she couldn’t climb or fly. He cast aside his disquieting memories and began to run, jumping the last few yards of track and following the dogs into the spinney.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fliss lit the first fire of the year in the hall just after lunch. She’d suddenly decided that the hall should be a warm and welcoming place for Henrietta tomorrow and now she kneeled on the granite hearthstone, making a pyre of kindling in the vast, empty grate and lighting the firelighter beneath the scaffolding of twigs. There was a huge log basket in its own small alcove within the deep recess that housed the fireplace, and which Jolyon kept filled with dry logs, and, while she waited for the flames to take hold, she sat on the little stool that was kept in the other alcove opposite the log basket.

  Fliss looked about the hall, unable to decide whether she liked it best in high summer, cool, shadowy, peaceful, with the door open to the courtyard, or in the depths of winter, with the curtains pulled against a wet afternoon and the flames leaping in the granite fireplace.

  It was a room within a room: two high-backed sofas piled with cushions faced each other across the low, long table. At the end of this table, opposite the fireplace, stood a deep, comfortable armchair. It was a cosy area within the vaster, draughty spaces of the hall and she could remember so many happy occasions that had taken place here, as well as much simpler everyday events. In the past, tea had always been eaten in the hall and Fliss could readily conjure up the memory of her grandmother, The Times open on the sofa beside her, pouring tea for Uncle Theo, cutting a slice of delicious cake.

  It was difficult to believe that she, Fliss, was the grandmother now. How wonderful it would be, just at this moment, if the door were to open and nine-year-old Paula were to come running in, followed by Bess with little Timmy staggering beside her. Or darling Jamie, flinging open the door and shouting, ‘Is anyone around?’ Oh, how she missed them.

  Perhaps she would phone Susanna for a chat, a comforting, sisterly gossip about their children and their grandchildren, now all so far from home. Thank goodness that Susanna and Gus lived only a matter of miles away and were still so much a part of the family. Even as she got to her feet the telephone rang and Fliss waited for a few moments, wondering if someone might hear it and answer. The bell was silenced and she could hear Hal’s voice speaking. Was it the tone of his voice or some sixth sense that made her feel certain that it was Maria on the other end of the line? The door that led from the hall to the back of the house was open and Fliss could hear Hal laughing, though not what he was saying.

  She moved quietly towards the sound of his voice – he must be in the kitchen – and stood in the doorway watching him. He was still chuckling, his face absorbed, and Fliss was seized by the now familiar sense of misgiving. As he turned he caught sight of her in the doorway and his expression changed so suddenly that, had she been in a different mood, Fliss might have laughed. She raised her eyebrows, as if signalling ‘Who is it?’, but instead of mouthing an answer – as he usually did – he gave an awkward little shrug. Determined, now, not to leave the kitchen, Fliss crossed to the Aga and put the kettle on.

  ‘OK,’ Hal was saying cheerfully. ‘I’ll have a think. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything. Give my love to Ed when you phone him. It’s great news about his new job, isn’t it?…Yes. Yes, I will. ’Bye for now.’ He switched the telephone off and put it on the table. ‘That was Maria,’ he said, ‘wondering what Jo might like for his birthday. She sends her love.’

  ‘I can well imagine she wouldn’t have a clue what to buy him,’ said Fliss acidly, hating herself for her bitterness but quite unable to control it. ‘It must be such a long time since she’s bothered to think about it.’

  She kept her back to him, expecting him to react sharply, but he said nothing for a moment; suddenly she felt his arm across her shoulder.

  ‘Come on, old love,’ he said quietly. ‘Can’t we do this together? We’ve all agreed that she can come for the weekend…’

  ‘Have we? Well, I suppose we have, although I think Jo is really upset about it. You got him at a weak moment, you know you did.’

  Hal removed his arm abruptly but before he could speak, Prue surged into the kitchen.

  ‘Someone’s lit the fire in the hall. How lovely. Was it you, Hal? Oh, and Fliss is making tea. I saw Jo out on the hill with the dogs so he’ll be ready for a cup. I love the first fire of the year, don’t you? I just wonder, though, if it needs some more logs on it, Hal? Could you come and see to it?’

  They went out together. Fliss began to put the tea things on to a tray, partly irritated at the interruption, partly relieved. Always, since she and Hal had been married, there had been other people around: Prue, young Sam, Jolyon, Lizzie. She and Hal had never been alone, although the house was big enough to give everyone plenty of privacy. Sometimes the family irked her but she believed that its continual presence very often held foolish emotions in check and gave silly little storms plenty of time to blow over before they could lead to more serious rows. It was difficult to maintain prolonged silences, to sulk or to say spiteful things with Prue or Lizzie or Jo around. Some friends said that it was unnatural, even unhealthy, to be so constrained, but Fliss believed that it had a rather civilizing effect – and there were many benefits: Prue’s eccentric take on life was very wise, and the youthful energy and optimism of Lizzie and Jo and Sam lifted her spirits.

  While she waited for the kettle to boil Fliss wandered to the window seat, hitching one knee on to the old patchwork cushion. Outside the two tall windows, the hill sloped away so steeply that the kitchen seemed to be poised high up in the air. She could see the migrating swallows below her, wheeling across the small, neat, multicoloured fields, and beyond them to the high bleak contours of the moor. How often she’d kneeled here as a child; aware of the house around her, as strong and safe as a fortress. The Keep had always been a place of sanctuary, and she’d always felt secure within it; why then should she suddenly feel at risk?

  The kettle began to sing. Pooter and Perks came barging into the kitchen ahead of Jolyon, who was still taking off his gumboots in the scullery, hurrying to see if there might be some biscuits for them.

  ‘Wait,’ she said to them. ‘In a minute, when I’ve made the tea. Just wait.’

  Jolyon came in looking preoccupied and she smiled at him. ‘I’ve just lit the fire in the hall. It’s a trial
run, really, so that it’s all warmed up ready for Henrietta tomorrow. It’s always so welcoming, isn’t it, to have the fire going?’

  His brooding expression fled and he smiled at her. ‘I think she’s nervous. Well, I don’t really blame her.’

  ‘Nobody can be nervous with Pooter and Perks around,’ Fliss said. ‘And the rest of us will be restrained and very well-behaved.’

  He frowned, as if suddenly afraid that he’d committed himself too far, that he was making too much of it. ‘It’s only lunch after all,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Of course,’ said Fliss non-committally. ‘Well, tea too, I hope. I’ve made a cake. Susanna and Gus will probably come over as usual but I’m sure Henrietta will be able to cope with them. For goodness’ sake, give those dogs a biscuit each and then come and have some tea.’

  She carried the tray down the passage and into the hall. The fire was burning well, piled high with logs, and Prue was tidying up the newspapers and books that were scattered across the table so as to clear a space for the tray. Fliss saw that Hal looked quite cheerful; if he’d been upset by her earlier remarks he made no sign of it.

  ‘We need a couple of really big logs,’ he said. ‘These are so dry they’re burning at a rate of knots. Last thing this evening I’ll bring in a couple of damp ones to help keep the fire in overnight.’

  Fliss knew that he’d guessed why she’d lit the fire, that it was to welcome Henrietta and make it special for her, and his insight disarmed her. She didn’t look at him, again, however; she put the tray down and crouched beside the table, pouring tea.

  ‘Where’s Lizzie?’ she asked. ‘Surely she’s not still in the office? Oh, here she is.’

  Lizzie and Jolyon came in together with Pooter and Perks, and Fliss was seized by a disproportionate sense of relief – as if Lizzie’s presence dispelled this clinging miasma of anxiety. Her straightforward approach and natural cheerfulness cut through the shadows of the past, letting in the brighter, fresher air of common sense, and enabled Fliss to breathe more freely.

  She thought: What is the matter with me? – and, pouring more tea, was horrified to see that her hand was trembling.

  ‘I’ve had a letter from Sam,’ Lizzie was saying, sinking down beside Prue. ‘He’s fine. Sends his love to everyone and asks if Jolyon can pick him up for his exeat weekend. He wants to show off his famous cousin.’ She flourished the letter. ‘Shall I read it to you?’

  Fliss perched on the little stool, her mug beside her on the floor, hands linked round her knees; she watched their faces as they listened – amused, interested – and was comforted.

  Lizzie stayed on in the hall after the others had disappeared away, curled on the sofa, watching the flames with Pooter and Perks at her feet. After eight years with the Chadwicks she was adept at keeping her finger on the family pulse and just now she’d have said that it was beating a tad too fast. She’d noticed the tension in Fliss’s shoulders and hands as she’d sat on the little stool, sipping her tea; she’d been aware of Hal’s determined cheerfulness and Prue’s watchfulness, and she could almost feel the waves of anxious excitement emanating from Jo.

  Well, that was perfectly reasonable; Lizzie smiled to herself. Ever since he’d met Henrietta he’d been beside himself – which could be an uncomfortable place to be. It meant that you were outside of your usual skin, you could see yourself more clearly, and your words and actions took on a new and intense quality. But there was more to it than that: there was the question of his mother suddenly coming back into his life – into all their lives – and it was beginning to cause problems. She could remember that when she’d first arrived at The Keep Jo had been reluctant to speak about Maria and only very gradually, as he and she became friends, had she begun to piece together the history of Jo and his mother, and of the whole Chadwick family.

  And what a tragic history it was. Lizzie shifted, no longer smiling. The presence of that matriarch, Freddy Chadwick, could still be felt – possibly because the family still talked about her with such affection and respect. She’d been twenty-two when she’d lost her husband at the Battle of Jutland; left with her twin sons, Peter and John, just a few months old. When the next war had come along John had been killed on convoy duty in 1945, leaving Prue with three-year-old twins. And then, twelve years later, Peter and his wife, Alison, and eldest son, Jamie, had been murdered by Mau Mau terrorists. Lizzie wondered how anyone could survive such appalling loss. She’d often tried to imagine their three remaining children, Fliss, Mole and Susanna, returning from Kenya to their grandmother at The Keep, and how Freddy Chadwick had coped with her own terrible anguish whilst caring for them. That’s when Prue had introduced Freddy to her friend, Caroline, who came to The Keep to be the children’s nanny.

  Perhaps, Lizzie thought, it was because of the strange way the pattern had recurred that she felt she had her own place at The Keep. She’d had an important part to play when, thirty years later, history had almost repeated itself: Mole killed by IRA terrorists before his child was born, and young Sam’s mother, Lizzie’s closest friend, refusing to tell the Chadwicks about either the relationship or the baby.

  ‘They don’t know anything about me,’ she’d said to Lizzie. ‘They’ll think I’m just trying it on. He’d have taken me down to meet them if he’d wanted to, but he thought he was too old for me. He simply couldn’t believe I really loved him. But he loved me, I know he did, and the baby was to help him commit; to make up his mind…’

  Of course, Mole hadn’t known she was expecting his baby; their relationship had been such a secret, private thing. And then she’d died too, in a skiing accident, her first holiday for three years, the first since Sam had been born, leaving him with Lizzie. That’s when she’d first met the Chadwicks, and Fliss had persuaded her to move to The Keep, to look after Sam.

  ‘You’re the bridge,’ Fliss had said, ‘between Sam’s past and his future, and I have this feeling that without you we might all come tumbling down.’

  Lizzie leaned to put another log on the fire, remembering. She hadn’t needed much persuading to give up her agency work and the tiny flat she could no longer afford. The offer had seemed like a miracle. Of course, the Chadwicks hadn’t really hoped or expected her to stay once eight-year-old Sam went off to school at Herongate, but she’d wanted to stay; she loved the Chadwicks. And she’d already begun to work with Jolyon on his new project. It was she who’d really kept it going, once he’d begun to work as a television presenter, by gradually swinging the operation over from being growers to suppliers: to sourcing organic vegetables and meat for West Country hotels and restaurants. She was proud of that. She enjoyed talking to new clients, and finding local farms who were trying to find outlets for their organic produce. Her friends were rather envious of her little suite of rooms up in the nursery wing and the fact that she could walk across the stable yard to work. No, she wouldn’t want to leave the Chadwicks just yet – and anyway, she would miss young Sam terribly.

  ‘You and Jo are our generational link with Sam,’ Fliss told her, ‘just as Prue and Caroline were between us and Grandmother. We all need you.’

  It was fun, she and Jolyon driving to Hampshire to watch Sam play in a rugby match or to take him out to tea. And fun, too, to have someone of her own age to go with to the pub, or a film at Dartington or the theatre at Plymouth; though it was possible now, with Henrietta around, that things might change. Lizzie tried to imagine what form the change might take, and how it would affect her, but, before she could pursue the thought, Prue reappeared, looking for her spectacles, and Lizzie got up to help her in the search.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Maria put the telephone down with a great gasp of relief: goodness, how she needed a drink. Just to hear Hal’s voice had been such a relief; to share a joke with him and listen to his infectious laugh. Perhaps it wasn’t such a crazy idea to think of moving down to Devon. She’d never imagined that she could be so lonely; she still found herself making tea for two, preparing far
too many vegetables, waking at three every morning – always three o’clock – and being struck afresh by aching desolation. Oh, those long, terrible, demon-ridden hours before dawn and the cold emptiness of the big bed. She’d get up and make tea but there was no comfort to be had: the silence was just as much a reminder of her loneliness. And even during the day, even with Penelope and Philip at hand, there were deserts of misery to be negotiated, featureless and pointless; hours that stretched emptily.

  At last she could see the point of communal living, of having family and friends near at hand. That’s why the Chadwicks were such cheerful people. That strange grouping of all ages under one big roof meant that you need never be lonely or depressed. It was rather odd, though, that she of all people should suddenly be able to appreciate a way of life that she’d once despised. She remembered the cruel, cutting things she’d said to Hal about his family, and how she’d had her own private plans to take over The Keep and throw the old Chadwicks out. She wondered if Hal remembered too, and was unexpectedly suffused with hot embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s selfish for your grandmother to go on living in that big place?’ she’d asked Hal, years ago, just after Ed had been born. ‘Isn’t it time she abdicated in favour of you? We’ve got a growing family and we need the space—’

  ‘Hold it,’ he’d interrupted. ‘The Keep is my grandmother’s home. Hers and Uncle Theo’s. I’d never try to turn them out. Even if I had the power I’d never do it. And even when we do move in one day, it won’t be solely ours. It belongs to us all. That’s the agreement…’

  ‘It’s quite ludicrous,’ she’d cried angrily. ‘Why should we be obliged to run a kind of hotel for the rest of your family? It’s stupid.’