After the frenzy of unwrapping came the pleasant wind-down of the day, with Hugh collecting up the discarded paper, ‘Like a looter on a battlefield’ he always said, which they never got. And then some undemanding games which Charity didn’t join in, but nobody minded. After Bruno’s arrival the balance was disturbed because they had to rewind arrangements to take account of a little child’s different schedule and requirements. Honor had loved the rewind and revelled in it, and Charity took it in her stride but Felicity, at the top end as it were, had been put out. It was as though her feet had been caught in cement.
Still, the memory of childhood Christmases was what drove her. In her house everything was always perfect – shiny, delicious, fragrant and tasteful, ‘just like Harrods’ as Charity had once put it – the box trees sprinkled with white lights, the greenery both real and artificial swagged and trailing in abundance, clusters of church candles everywhere … But she could never recapture the special atmosphere of the past, that intangible something which had nothing to do with money or effort, which in fact involved a good deal less of both than she expended.
The hospice in December was always lovely. Felicity helped with the decorations, for which she had a special flair, and prepared exquisitely wrapped fairings for the residents – tiny soaps and wrapped chocolates. There was a small tree in the hall, and larger ones in the ward and the day-care centre. Outside, the unremarkable single-storey building was strung with fairy lights just below roof level, which transformed it into something like a fairytale cottage. In the garden at the back the biggest tree, a Norwegian spruce planted in the middle of the lawn, was also picked out in lights – the centrepiece for the carol concert. All the visitors would stand around the tree and the principals – the patrons, padre, mayor, readers and singers – would be on the terrace just outside the building, so that the residents could see and hear them. It gave Felicity goosebumps to think of it.
Today she was on the tea round with Angela, now a full member of the team. They moved down the eight-bedded ward, one on each side, putting the nicely laid trays on bedside cabinets or tray-tables as was appropriate, helping people get comfortable and where necessary helping them to drink their tea.
David Thorpe’s deterioration had been abrupt and dismaying over the past couple of weeks. He wasn’t in good shape. Family members were coming in every day. The exuberant manner and careful self-presentation were gone, he looked an old man. His skin, now waxy and translucent, stretched and hung at his jowls, and on the underside of his arms. His eyes were small and dull above speckled pouches. His lips were dry, and he’d developed the habit – all too familiar to the volunteers – of keeping it slightly open as if to enable what little breath there was. And then there were his hands … Felicity could hardly bear to look at them, the backs sunken between the fragile bones, the veins like blue worms beneath the surface, the nails mauve.
His deterioration repelled and frightened her, so that she hung back. She usually managed well with patients in extremis – that was after all what the hospice was about – but David’s descent from handsome flirtatiousness to skeletal near-death was simply too shocking. He seemed scarcely to see her, or if he did he showed no recognition. She was not exactly happy for Angela to take over, but recognized it as best for all concerned. Resignedly, she watched as Angela saw him right, lifted him correctly, poured tea into a sippy cup and helped him drink it, all of it quiet and practical and without resorting to cheery chat.
What, she wondered as she washed up afterwards, was the matter with her? If ever there was a moment to simply be friendly (she hated the word ‘caring’), to touch and minister and nurture (another tricky word) their fragile friendship, this had been it. For Angela there had been apparently no challenge, or if there was she didn’t let it show. She was the same with everyone, calm and pleasant.
Felicity was overcome by something new to her – self-doubt. And with it a nagging anxiety. It was as though some emotional muscle that had till now been strong and taken for granted had suddenly begun to hurt. Tears crept down her cheeks and she swiped at them with the cuff of her marigold, making her face damper. Angela came in with water flasks that needed filling.
‘Felicity …? Are you OK?’
‘Yes!’
Angela set the flasks down beside the second sink and began to fill them from the jug of filtered water. Without looking at Felicity, she said, ‘It is very sad to see Mr Thorpe in such a bad way.’
Felicity nodded.
Angela ran the cold tap slowly to refill the filter jug. ‘He’s so fond of you.’
‘Oh, I don’t think … You know what’s he’s like …’
‘You and he really spark off one another.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Definitely. I bet he’d like a bit of that more than ever just now.’
Felicity had been moving the brush round and round inside one cup for the past minute. Now she simply stopped, with both gloved hands plunged into the suds. She could feel something perilously like an enormous sob rising up through her chest, disturbing the muscles of her face, causing her shoulders to tense. She couldn’t speak, and she wouldn’t look round.
Angela put the flasks back on the tray.
She said, ‘I suppose this is why we have supervision. Awful to say, but I thought it sounded like unnecessary mollycoddling when they told us about it, but actually it’s sensible. My reactions haven’t been tested yet, heaven knows what they’ll be. Anyway … I’ll be back in a tick and help with that drying-up.’
The moment she’d gone Felicity let the sob spill out of her. She ripped off the rubber gloves, tore off a couple of squares of kitchen towel and effected repairs. By the time Angela reappeared she had put a good face back on, and the subject was not re-opened.
That evening once the children were in bed she said to Robin, ‘I’ve had a bit of a rethink.’
‘What about?’
Supper was a pre-cooked tagine, and they were having a G and T each in the drawing room.
‘The hospice concert.’
‘You’re backing out!’ It pleased him gently to mock her ceaseless activity.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I think after all that it would be nice if you brought the children.’
‘Umm … OK.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that after our last conversation I’ve agreed to a work thing that afternoon. The Germans are in town.’ He must have noticed her disappointment, because he added, ‘Maybe Ellie could be persuaded.’
‘No, it’s alright.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s my fault for changing my mind late in the day.’
‘Aah, sweetheart …’ Robin leaned towards her, and moved her hair from her cheek. ‘That’s a lady’s prerogative.’ She flashed a brief, colourless smile. ‘Anyway, they don’t know about it so they won’t feel hard done by, and as you said—’
‘I know what I said.’
‘OK.’ He adopted a different, more practical tone. ‘But don’t worry, is all I’m saying.’
But for some reason Felicity did worry. A couple of days later she asked Ellie.
‘I’d have loved to do that, I really would, but as soon as Robin gets back I’m meeting my cousin who’s over, so the times won’t fit. I suppose I might be able to reschedule—’
‘No! No, Ellie, don’t think of it.’
‘If you’re sure. Time is a bit tight.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Felicity was cross with herself now for asking. ‘It’s not important.’
An unprecedented sense of inadequacy was starting to spread in Felicity, like ink through a blotter.
It may have been this which prompted her to ring Honor, who could always be relied upon to calm one’s nerves because her own life was, let’s face it, so dull. And she was curious, in an idle sort of way.
‘Fliss? Is that you?’
‘There’s no need to sound so surprised.’
Honor regrouped.
‘Super to hear from you. How are you?’
‘Fine – busy, as always.’
‘I can imagine! And everyone – Robin, the kids?’
‘All well. Look, Honor—’
There was a pause which Honor jumped to fill. ‘The parents are so looking forward to coming to you.’
‘Actually—’
‘It’ll do them so much good to be away, not doing everything here as usual. A lot for you though, how are—’
‘I wondered,’ said Felicity firmly, ‘what you’ll be doing.’
‘Me?’
Felicity waited. Her sister, the saint. A person could be too self-effacing, she thought.
‘I’m going to have a friend round.’
‘A friend?’ Felicity was sceptical. ‘Or one of your oldies?’
Another pause. Honor knew her sister couldn’t be fooled. ‘An old gentleman. But he is a friend.’
‘So you’ll be working even on Christmas Day.’ Felicity could hear how sharp she sounded, it was so easy to push Honor just because you could, because she would never rise to the bait.
‘It’s not work, he’s good company. Please don’t tell the parents.’
‘Why? They won’t mind.’
‘No, but they probably think … Gosh, I don’t know – something different, and I’ve decided to let them.’
‘If you say so, it’s none of my business. What about Charity?’
‘She told Ma she had plans. I don’t know what they are.’
‘Right.’ The call wasn’t having the soothing effect she’d hoped for. ‘I just wanted to check no one was going to be lonely.’ This wasn’t strictly true, but Honor could be relied upon to think the best of her.
‘How sweet of you,’ she said. ‘We shan’t be.’
‘Bye then. Speak soon.’
‘Of course, loads of love to everyone.’
As Felicity put the phone down, out of sorts, Noah came into the room, carrying a cardboard folder. She sensed a school project, her least favourite thing.
‘Mum, we’re doing something about this village in Africa …’
It was on the tip of her tongue to say Robin would be home soon, and he was so much better at this sort of thing – which was true. But something stopped her.
‘Let’s have a look.’ She patted the sofa next to her. ‘I’ll help if I can.’
‘You can,’ said her son, opening the folder. ‘You do that clean water thing.’
Her heart sank at the well-worked pages covered in childish maps, annotations and drawings.
‘Mum?’ Noah looked commandingly from the pages to his mother’s face. ‘What else do you think I can put?’
Concentrate she thought. ‘Let’s see.’
Fifteen
No one who knew – or thought they knew – Hugh and Marguerite Blyth, would have suspected that they were a couple who hadn’t planned a big family, or indeed any family at all. That for a long while they had been a couple complete unto themselves.
Hugh had first seen Marguerite in a pub on Dartmoor in 1958. He’d been with a group of friends applying hairs of the dog to the hangover acquired at the previous night’s twenty-first celebrations. She’d come in with another girl, a friend of one of the friends, and a dog called Butch. He knew the dog’s name because it was large and boisterous and needed frequent admonishment, so the name was uttered often and shrilly by the other girl who appeared to be the owner. In spite of his fizz headache and sandpapered eyes Hugh noticed that the second girl – the one not shouting at the dog – was very tall and exceptionally pretty, like a Thomas Hardy heroine with her mop of wavy hair, brown eyes and pink complexion. And in her walking boots and parka she didn’t look like a girl to be daunted by scaling tors in driving rain.
But noticing her was only a momentary thing, because he was with the others, and she was talking to someone else and he was never going to see her again. She was just a girl in a pub.
Only she wasn’t ‘just’ anything. There had been a moment when she’d taken charge of the obstreperous Butch, pulling him against her leg (a fine strong leg) and rubbing the side of his head gently but firmly until he quietened down and rested his chin resignedly on her knee. Hugh admired her way with the dog, and envied the animal that calming, authoritative touch. With typical directness he went over as she and her friend were about to leave, petted the straining, bounding Butch and commented on her dog-managing abilities.
She’d laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘It’s like when you get off the stiff lid of the jar, someone else has already done the groundwork.’
That was when he realized he’d fallen in love.
‘Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’ put in the friend cheerfully. ‘Unfortunately I’m the one who has to live with him. We’re off, you’ll be glad to hear.’
She towed the dog outside. It was now or never.
‘Do you live near here?’
She shook her head. ‘Just spending the weekend.’
‘I wonder if I could have your phone number.’
He was blurting and he knew it, but she expressed no surprise.
‘Sure, have you got something to write with?’
He took a biro from his breast pocket and held it over the back of his free hand. ‘Fire away …’ It was a London number. ‘Thanks.’
‘OK. Nice to meet you – I don’t know your name.’
‘Hugh Blyth.’
‘Marguerite Dancy.’
‘Cheers.’
Six months later they were married, in the somewhat chaotic and makeshift manner of the time. They weren’t as impecunious as some – back then Hugh, until recently a successful club rugby player, had a job with the training development programme of the RFU, and Marguerite, not long graduated, was secretary to the managing director of a well-known outdoor-clothing brand, popular with the county set. As a sideline, she did occasional modelling for their catalogue, standing on windswept hillsides and tussocky river banks and leaning on stiles and five-bar gates in a fetching assortment of tweeds and corduroys. Hugh found these images almost unbearably sexy, and would occasionally amuse himself by leafing through the latest Huntsmoor catalogue admiring his wife.
He was not the only one, apparently. At an early stage in their marriage Marguerite went on a photoshoot in the grounds of a stately home in Yorkshire. In another part of the grounds a film crew was working on a historical romance with two instantly recognisable stars. During one of the many inevitable longueurs the male star, Frank Doran, had wandered off and watched some of the shoot. What started as only idle curiosity soon became more focused interest.
‘He did what?’ asked Hugh.
‘Chatted me up.’
‘Really?’
‘There’s no need to sound so thunderstruck.’
‘I can imagine why anyone would – I just think it’s a bit of a cheek, you a respectable married woman and all.’
‘He didn’t know that.’
‘You told him, I hope.’
‘I gave him the brush-off,’ said Marguerite matter of factly. ‘I didn’t think I owed him an explanation.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it.’
That encounter remained a joke between them. Any man with a pleasantly flirtatious manner (and there were plenty where Daisy was concerned) was referred to as ‘doing a Doran’. And since Doran’s career went from strength to strength there was also a good deal of byplay along the lines of ‘I should have said yes’ or ‘bet you’re regretting turning that one down’.
Years later, when Marguerite was in hospital having just had Charity, Hugh was rifling through her top drawer looking for contact lens lotion and turned up an old envelope, so dusty and dog-eared he at first thought it was just part of the lining paper. There was a postcard in it which he took out, without much interest initially, only to find he was staring at a publicity photo of Frank Doran – white open-necked shirt, slightly tousled hair, that famous grin bracketed by crescent-shaped dimples. To remove all doubt, there was Doran’s signatu
re racing across the bottom, with ‘To the lovely Marguerite’, and a couple of kisses.
On the other side were a couple of lines in the same dashing hand.
Sorry I couldn’t persuade you – but you can’t blame me for trying.
Stay fabulous, F.
At once Hugh returned the card to the envelope and slid it back beneath the earring box. His fault for looking, those that pried got what they deserved. Driving back to the hospital he told himself that he was never, ever, going to mention the bloody thing; that anyway Marguerite had turned Doran down (more than once apparently) so what the hell; but that she had kept the picture all this time – why, if not to keep some sort of remembered flame alive?
Much later again – they were at Heart’s Ease, and Honor was little – they’d been to the cinema and he came in from driving the babysitter home to find Marguerite sitting on her side of the bed with her back to him, her head bowed. For a moment he thought she was crying.
‘Darling? You OK?’
‘Yes.’ She turned, envelope in one hand waggling aloft the postcard in the other. ‘But look what I found!’
He knew it simply wasn’t possible that she’d only just found it, or not remembered where it was. So it must have been on her mind all this time, in however small a way, and this was her chance to come clean.
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