‘Hello, this is so silly, I’m going straight out again. I just came back to collect this …!’
Watching the sisters greet each other, Robin observed that whereas Felicity looked nothing like either of her parents, Honor, while no one would have called her a beauty, was the spit of their mother.
Felicity held out an arm to include him. ‘This is Robin … This is my sister Honor.’
‘Hello Honor, super to meet you. I do hope I’ll see you again over the weekend?’
Robin shook a warm, slightly calloused hand, noticing as he did so the first genuine blush he’d seen in years.
‘She gets time off for good behaviour,’ said Felicity.
‘I’ll be home for lunch tomorrow,’ said the still-pink Honor.
‘Good. I shan’t hold you up in that case. Look forward to it.’
‘Don’t watch me back out, will you?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
He waved, but Felicity was already back in the house so he followed, closing the door behind them.
Five
Marguerite was sitting up in bed in one of her oversized supermarket T-shirts, the one proclaiming It’s nothing a kiss won’t cure. She was holding a novel by the brilliant octogenarian Mary Wesley but not, on this occasion, reading. Hugh, who never wore pyjamas, bounced in beside her, thrusting his arm behind his wife’s neck and kissing her warmly.
‘Better now?’
‘He seems really nice, doesn’t he?’
Hugh withdrew his arm and linked it with the other behind his head, adopting a musing expression.
‘He does seem so, certainly. Bags of personality. Doing well for himself.’
‘Now come on.’ Marguerite recognized implied disparagement when she heard it. ‘He’s absolutely charming.’
‘No doubt of it.’
‘And that was an incredibly generous present.’
‘He’s in the wine trade.’
‘I hope you’re not going to be difficult.’ Marguerite fixed her husband with a hard stare. ‘Felicity’s very keen on him.’
Hugh sighed. ‘Believe me, I realize that, or he wouldn’t be here. What do you think, do I need to have a word with the bank manager?’
‘Well … no … I mean … how do I know? Even if they do want to get married—’
‘Ah, finally, the words have been uttered!’
‘Even if they do, they might want to do it with a handful of friends on a beach in Scotland.’
‘Daisy. This is Felicity we’re talking about.’
‘Alright, yes …’ Marguerite conceded. ‘But anyway listen to us, we’re jumping the gun.’
The next day, Sunday, was a model of its kind. At seven thirty a.m. Hugh walked down the lane to church, so as to get it out of the way, and not to cause embarrassment to their guest who was probably not a regular churchgoer. By the time he got back at nine, Bruno had already been picked up for Little League rugby, and Honor had gone off to minister to the old. When Felicity and Robin came down for breakfast at nine thirty it was to find Hugh, suitably shriven and exercised, with bacon and egg already consumed and tucking into toast and St Martin’s chunky. Robin professed himself amazed and delighted to be offered a cooked breakfast, Felicity had her usual black coffee and Marguerite, who had been up since seven, sat down with her muesli to join them.
It was a beautiful early autumn day, and Hugh declared that he was going to chop wood which was, as he explained, one of the very few outdoor tasks he did around the place.
‘That and feeding the boiler. I’m in charge of fuel.’
Having received assurances from Marguerite that no help was required towards lunch, Felicity and Robin hopped into the Morgan and went down to Salting to walk along the beach. Two miles – first on the prom, and then the unforgiving shingle – was followed by a comfortable hour and a half in the pub slaking their virtuous thirst. Halfway through the second pint a young man came over, a blast from Felicity’s past.
‘Fliss?’
‘Hello stranger!’
‘Fliss, this is brilliant – I haven’t been in here for ages, and now I bump into you.’
‘Pete, this is Robin.’
‘Pete Spurling.’ Robin stood and the two of them shook hands with forceful geniality.
‘Down for the weekend?’ asked Pete.
‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘Drove down yesterday.’
Probably only Felicity would have noticed the glint of animus this information produced, but Robin was not going to be wrongfooted.
‘Why don’t you join us?’
‘Ah, no, meeting someone, but cheers. Anyway – all well with you, Fliss?’
‘Absolutely. Lovely to see you.’
‘Yes, I’d say like old times but hey – nothing’s like old times, is it?’
And with a double-cheek kiss and a raise of the hand, he was off.
Watching him go, Robin asked, ‘So the two of you have old times in common, do you?’
She grimaced. ‘That’s what he’d like you to think.’
‘Can’t blame him for that.’
Five of them sat down to Marguerite’s roast lamb. Bruno had been invited to a friend’s following mini rugby. Honor had to be reminded to take her overall off, which provoked more blushing.
‘Sorry – I forgot I had it on!’
‘I suppose we should count ourselves lucky you’re not wearing those wretched rubber gloves,’ said Hugh, adding confidingly to Robin, ‘she has a box of the blighters on the back seat of her car. That and other unmentionables.’
‘Daddy!’
‘I tell you what, it’s a dreadful warning to us all about the indignities that await us in old age.’
‘Hugh, Honor is absolutely right, must we discuss this over Sunday lunch?’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Hugh comfortably. ‘There’s never a wrong time for a clear-eyed look at the future.’
‘You work awfully hard, Honor,’ said Robin. ‘And not many people could do what you do. I’m so impressed.’
‘No one quite believes me, but I really love it.’
‘Just as well,’ said Hugh. ‘Someone has to.’ His voice softened. ‘No, my girl, there’s no doubt about it you’re the angel of Salting.’
Robin found himself surprisingly pleased that the teasing, however gentle, was over. He understood that the old people were lucky to have Honor – she was a sweetie. Felicity’s expression was neutral. She had obviously heard this exchange, or something like it, many times, and was unaffected by it either way. Robin had no siblings, but assumed this was the rivalry one heard about.
‘Tell me,’ he asked, not entirely without mischief, ‘where’s Charity? What does she do?’
‘Believe me,’ said Felicity, ‘you don’t want to know. She’s the brainy one.’
By the time they’d finished and cleared, it was after three, and the next couple of hours were given over to the papers. Honor had gone out again and Bruno had returned, and was watching a film in the family room. Later, Hugh told him, there would be Scrabble ‘to save them from the God slot’ – for a churchgoer he was bracingly dismissive of religious broadcasting.
Robin couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent a Sunday with such an unforced traditional rhythm. It was, he realized, delightful, and must surely be the source of Felicity’s confidence. His own came from what he’d done, but hers from what she was – a part of this. That and her looks, but beauty was nothing without self-esteem, and she owed that to Heart’s Ease.
These reflections had the effect of making him feel more respectful towards the now imminent exchange with Hugh. Up to this point he’d regarded it as a game, now he wasn’t quite so sure. He wanted not simply to go through the motions but to get it right. And this was because it wasn’t just marriage to Felicity that was at stake, it was the chance of being part of all this – the Blyths and their heart’s ease. He had never wanted anything more. The relationship between him and Felicity might be work in progress but this –
he had a horrible feeling this was the real thing.
The tea tray, accompanied by Bruno with a plate of biscuits, appeared at four thirty and once he’d downed a mugful and a Penguin, Hugh as predicted got to his feet.
‘Right … I’m going to take a brisk turn up to the beacon, any takers?’
Felicity and Marguerite were in conversation. This was Robin’s cue.
‘I’m up for that, mind if I tag along?’
‘I’d be delighted.’
Robin looked down at his feet. ‘I’ve only got these or trainers.’
‘Those are fine, it’s not rough going.’
They went out through the loggia and across the lawn.
‘A few weeks,’ said Hugh, ‘and this won’t be possible.’ To Robin’s sensitized ears this sounded like notice being served – now or never.
‘How so?’
‘Clocks will change.’
They went out through a small gate between the bushes on the far side, and then forked right to take a path between high tree-lined banks.
‘About three-quarters of a mile to the clifftop,’ said Hugh. ‘That suit you?’
‘Perfect. Nice to walk in the country for a change after—’
‘Daddy! Wait!’ Bruno was pounding up the path behind them. ‘Wait for me!’
‘Get a move on then.’ If Hugh had harboured any idea about Robin’s intentions he covered it up well. ‘We’re going to the beacon, no dawdling and no turning back.’
‘I won’t – I want to come.’
That was it then, thought Robin. No chance whatever of the gently amusing and courteous man-to-man exchange he’d had in mind. That had been well and truly sabotaged by the little bugger. What were the Blyths doing, he asked himself testily and quite unreasonably, having another child when all the others must have been practically grown up?
Bruno fell in step between them, interruption made flesh.
‘Are you here tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Some of it,’ said Robin. ‘We’ll be leaving after lunch.’
‘Great!’
Robin couldn’t tell whether this meant great that they would be there next day, or great that they were going before the day was through. The latter, probably, though he was quite sure any ambivalence was intentional.
‘We’ll make lunch early,’ said Hugh. ‘You’ll want to be on the road well before two to avoid traffic the other end.’
Bruno moved ahead, weaving around, stopping and starting, it was like walking a particularly insensitive dog. Robin and Hugh fell into conversation about cars, the Morgan especially always proved a fruitful talking point. At one point the path led across a golf course and Bruno had to be prevented from sprinting across in front of a serious-looking four-ball, but one of the men seemed to know Hugh and waved cheerily enough. When they reached the clifftop they paused to admire the view which was spectacular, with the low red cliffs curving away to the west and a wonderfully rough, dramatic headland to the east, between them and the sequestered Salting Bay. Hugh did his best to point out landmarks, describe the role of the beacon and so on, but his commentary was continually broken by the need to contain Bruno, who kept going too close to the edge, windmilling his arms and generally playing the fool. Robin could all-too clearly imagine the casual shove which would end the nuisance once and for all, but Hugh’s patience was magisterial – or perhaps he was just used to it.
After ten minutes or so they started for home and this time Bruno hung back, but never far enough behind to open a window of opportunity.
‘One of the great mysteries of childhood,’ observed Hugh. ‘They can be in constant motion when there’s no objective, but anything that smacks of organisation and their energy seems to flag.’
‘He plays rugby,’ pointed out Robin, a diplomatic devil’s advocate. ‘I didn’t play till I was twelve, and it was pretty tough even then.’
‘The chap who runs it is practically a saint in my view,’ said Hugh. ‘I’ve been to watch and it would drive me to drink in minutes, they all run around in a loose scrum, no one can hang on to the ball or has any idea what to do with it, and they just break off when they feel like it to chat, or fight or whatever …’ He shook his head. ‘Not for me. Girls are easier.’
Once they’d crossed the golf course again and had reached what was effectively the home strait, Bruno suddenly took off, scrambling up the bank and between the trees to run along the rough at the edge of the fairway.
‘Mind the golfers, Bruno!’ bellowed Hugh to no avail, before adding with a shrug, ‘you see?’
Robin wasn’t sure what he meant by this, but as far as he himself was concerned this was the moment.
‘Ah, Hugh – there’s something I’d like to ask you.’
‘Really?’ Hugh stopped and faced him, smiling. ‘Fire away.’
‘You’ve probably realized – I’m sure you have – that I think the world of your daughter.’ He almost winced. Think the world of your daughter? He’d never used that phrase before nor even consciously thought it. What did he think he was doing, enacting some dimly-remembered scene from a Victorian novel? But Hugh appeared not to notice or, if he did, not to find it odd.
‘I’m glad to hear it. She seems pretty keen on you.’
‘Yes, it’s mutual.’
‘Good.’ Hugh continued to stand there, smiling in that pleasant, neutral way. ‘She’s always had more than her fair share of swains and not always treated them as well as she might. You seem to have brought out the best in her.’
‘We’d very much like to get married.’
‘Would you?’ Hugh’s smile grew wider and warmer, his eyebrows lifted. He was, Robin considered, a really nice man. ‘Would you really?’
‘Yes.’ There was a form of words for this, that didn’t actually involve asking permission, and now, like that earlier phrase it came winging to him out of nowhere. ‘Can we count on your blessing?’
‘My dear chap, you can.’ Hugh’s smile practically threatened to split his face. He held out his hand. ‘You certainly can.’
‘I realize you don’t know me.’
‘Fliss brought you here, and she’s clearly smitten, that’s testimony enough. And anyway,’ he went on as they began to walk, ‘in this day and age, as I understand it, it’s a bonus to be asked and not just presented with a fait accompli.’
Robin felt the need to regain some autonomy. ‘She was very insistent we do this by the book.’
‘And I consider it outstandingly decent of you to go along with her. But then,’ said Hugh, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘you love each other, so why the devil wouldn’t you?’
It was just as they reached the end of the path and were crossing to the gate that Bruno appeared from the other side of the bank, where he must have been walking parallel to them, and shot ahead of them, over the lawn and into the house.
‘Mercury,’ said Hugh fondly. Robin had been thinking something different.
‘What?’
Both Felicity and Marguerite spoke at the same time, and both their voices carried the same note of startled expectation.
‘You’re getting married!’
‘Sssh, Bruno!’ Marguerite flapped her hands to quieten him. ‘Don’t spoil the news.’
‘Too late,’ said Felicity, walking out. ‘He already has.’
Now all of that – the champagne, the fuss and fun, the classic country wedding in June when the rhododendrons of Heart’s Ease were at their best – was over, out of the way. The Italian honeymoon was their time to recalibrate. Robin had been captivated by the Blyths, but now that he had signed up he was about to feel the full force of Felicity’s project.
Six
1995
Charity had long since decided her family got along very well without her, and vice versa. This decision had been reached entirely without rancour. She loved them or at least she didn’t not love them, and how were these things proved anyway? She had always considered King Lear a petulant old fusspot with his insistence
on proof. Her parents certainly loved her, though she couldn’t speak for her siblings. Honor loved everyone, Felicity’s attention was focused on Robin and the children, and Bruno had always loved himself most.
Nothing wrong with that – Charity quite approved of amour propre and had always seen to it that her own was in good shape. You couldn’t let yourself be governed by other people’s reactions and what was going on in their lives. However, she suspected that in Bruno’s case being the youngest and the only boy had made him believe the sun shone out of his fundament. The parents and Honor were always swayed by his charm – even when they knew they were wrong they tended to laugh about it – and Felicity, who knew a rival when she saw one, affected indifference.
Charity’s position was that she was not prepared to take any shit. Least of all today when she’d been dragooned into collecting Bruno from school after yet another misdemeanour, this time requiring temporary rustication. Before it had been the classic fags-and-booze combo, today it was something far more serious connected with a member of the kitchen staff. Hugh was on a trip to Frankfurt and Marguerite knew that Charity was driving down that day anyway, and asked if she would mind terribly ‘scooping him up’.
‘I’d be so so grateful, love. I honestly don’t think I can face another interview with Mr Macfarlane being ruggedly understanding. I never know what I’m supposed to say, or even to do with my face.’
Alastair Macfarlane – ‘Mac’ as he was known, though Marguerite couldn’t bring herself to do so – was the head of Brushwood, the liberal free-thinking boarding school which Bruno attended most of the time. He was quite famous (in some quarters notorious) in the educational field, for being ahead of his time, devoted to children and fiercely direct with adults especially when it came to protecting their offspring’s interests. His tolerance with the young was legendary, but he made it clear with everyone from the start there were some things he just would not put up with. It was one of these – hanky panky with a member of staff – that Bruno was guilty of, the reason why Charity was taking him home in mid-February for a couple of weeks’ kicking his heels.
As she drew up in the school’s parking area, in the right angle created by the bike shed, the chicken run and the prefab classroom (a ‘temporary’ addition from three years ago), Charity wondered again why time at home should be considered such a deprivation, especially for a boy of seventeen whose sole preoccupation as far as she could see was to smoke and sniff around the local girls.
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