After a year or two of marriage they had settled into a pattern. He remained immersed in his work and she was contented with her quiet round, visiting friends, going to concerts, reading. It was Thea who had sowed the seed of discontent, jolted her out of her pleasant rut. She had made Polly feel dissatisfied, as though she were missing out on something. But what to do about it? She had considered getting a job. She might find something in the university which was the obvious place to try. She imagined herself getting up each morning and hurrying off with Paul to spend her day in the library or one of the offices and the thought filled her with lassitude. Why should it be more fulfilling to do an indifferent job than to do exactly as one pleased all day? Of course, to do something that one really loved, as Thea was, would be quite different. But what would she really like to do? Nothing leaped to mind. After a bit she tried to see herself as a mother. She had watched Harriet and Suzy going through the process without the least twinge of broodiness or envy and imagined herself to be entirely lacking in maternal instinct. And now that scene with Paul had unsettled her further. Why should he be so reluctant to have her around for the week? She felt quite certain that it wasn’t simply because it might be difficult to find somewhere for her to stay. The old Paul wouldn’t have bothered about that. He would have left it for her to arrange and told her vaguely that he’d see her later.
Sighing deeply, Polly turned away from the window. Depression threatened to swamp her and she experienced the desire to crawl back into bed, hide under the quilt and weep gently, quietly, copiously. Or on the other hand, she could bawl loudly and messily and smash every breakable object in sight.
‘PMT,’ she told herself sternly and went back downstairs.
As she reached the bottom stair the telephone began to ring. She snatched it up with relief.
‘Hello, Polly. I hope you don’t mind me ringing. It’s Freddie.’
‘Freddie!’ Her surprise sounded in her voice. ‘How nice. How are you?’
Freddie, who had been in terror that she might say ‘Who?’ felt his heart bound with joy. ‘I’m fine. Fine. And you?’
‘Fearfully fed up. Suicidal. Paul’s gone off on some insect hunt and I’m all alone for a week.’
Freddie could scarcely believe his luck. He swallowed once or twice and cleared his throat. ‘The thing is,’ he lied, ‘I’ve got to pick up the books I ordered from Waterstone’s. I wondered if you might be free for a bite to eat or something. I hope you don’t think it’s a cheek or anything . . . ’
‘It’d be wonderful,’ Polly assured him. ‘I’d love it. I was wondering what on earth to do with myself. Shall I meet you in Coolings?’
‘That would be marvellous. Say twelve thirty? Would that suit you?’
‘Perfect. See you then.’
Polly, her spirits rising, put down the receiver. Her anxiety about her marriage and plans for her future could be postponed for another day, possibly indefinitely, and she ran back up the stairs to change into something suitable for a lunch date.
TIM, DRIVING AT SPEED down the M5, could hardly wait to get home. He wondered now how he could have lived in Dallas for two whole years and his one thought was to get back to his inheritance. Tim was a very English man, a fact that had only truly occurred to him when he met David and Miranda at the party in Dallas. To hear David’s Old Wykehamist vowels and to see Miranda’s fair English prettiness was, for Tim, a revelation. They represented all that he had been separated from and he suddenly knew just how terribly he had missed it. Miranda—dressed from top to toe in Laura Ashley—had a shy reserve which charmed him at once and he sensed her relief when she realised he was English.
It had been good to go back to America with the fact of Broadhayes solidly behind him and Miranda at his side. Everyone had been delighted for him and Miranda had been made much of and looked after by colleagues’ wives whilst he was working. They were staying with Tim’s boss and his wife and subtly, accepted by them both without words, they became an official ‘couple’, neither denying the prospect of a wedding in due course, and accepting the hints and gentle allusions. Miranda was impressed to see that Tim was well thought of and much liked and, although one or two of the younger wives treated him with a proprietorial affection which she resented, there was no talk of girlfriends or anything that implied a libertine temperament. Her mother had brought her up to despise lax morals to an excessive extent. Miranda was enough her mother’s daughter to have held these opinions without the added underlining and emphasis to which she was continually exposed. She loved her father but was wary and watchful of him lest he should slip. There had been several such moments and Miranda, schooled by her mother to regard niceness as weakness and kindness as foolishness, had no idea what it must be like for one of David’s character to live under such a regime.
Tim, blithely unaware—as David had been before him—of the iron will beneath the pretty shy exterior, blessed his good fortune and his grandmother’s generosity. It was wonderful to be going back to Devon with Miranda at his side. He had no fears at all about his ability to earn his living, especially with Grandmother’s money tucked away to help out until he really got going. His spirits soared as they turned on to the A30 just west of Exeter.
‘Nearly home,’ he said and reached out to squeeze Miranda’s hand. ‘How do you feel to be coming back to Devon?’
It occurred to him that she’d been rather quiet and if he’d thought about it at all he’d put it down to a natural weariness. It would never have dawned on him that it was because he had been overhelpful and friendly to an attractive young mother at Heathrow who had been struggling with a young baby at the carousel. Tim had leaped forward to assist, leaving Miranda to deal with their luggage, and she had been unable to overcome her resentment at his ready charm and the young woman’s obvious response. Tim hadn’t even noticed and, by the time they were through Customs and had struggled out to the car, his thoughts were already far ahead.
Miranda reasoned with herself. Tim’s love and good opinion were too precious to risk and, after all, he’d simply been helping the woman. Later, when they were married, she could point out the unwisdom of being too friendly and creating the wrong impression so that people, women especially, took advantage. She was aware of the pressure of Tim’s hand and the fact that he was glancing at her, concerned by her silence.
‘I was thinking of Daddy,’ she said mendaciously. ‘Staying all this time with Felicity.’
They’d been through it several times, ever since they’d been unable to get a reply from Broadhayes when they telephoned to tell David they would be delayed. It was Tim who’d insisted that they telephone Felicity and Miranda had been horrified to learn that David had decided to stay with her, quite beside herself worrying about what awful temptations he would be led into with a woman of Felicity’s reputation. Tim had finally succeeded in calming her and since, short of her returning alone, there was nothing Miranda could do she had made the best of it.
‘Well, he’ll certainly have been keeping George at bay,’ observed Tim with somewhat callous optimism. ‘We’ll telephone as soon as we get in. At least he’s been looked after. If only I hadn’t sent Mrs Gilchrist off he’d have probably stayed at Broadhayes. Never mind. All over now. Gosh! It’s wonderful to be back.’
Sixteen
FELICITY WAS TOO DEEPLY immersed in her happiness to feel any anxiety when Tim telephoned from America to find out if David was with her. Even when she took the call to say that they were back at Broadhayes and David could return she was unmoved. It didn’t occur to her that anything could happen that might shake this new wonderful love that had come when she was in such great need of it. Since George’s betrayal she had been living in a different world where pain and loneliness had kept an unceasing vigil over her life. She had fought and struggled, jealous and frightened by turns, terrified to look into the future, miserable when she looked into the past. Suddenly, between one moment and the next, David had arrived and it was as if the whole desp
erate business had been swept away. Resentment, hatred, fear, all had gone as if they had never existed and in their places had come love, happiness, peace. She had been raised from the dark places and they were only distant shadows to her now.
When Kate telephoned and asked her to lunch Felicity refused. She simply couldn’t bear to be away from David. Kate belonged to another existence, that other life of dark places, and she had no desire to return to it, even briefly. She had forgotten that Kate might be lonely or have needs and even if she had remembered it would have made no difference. David filled her whole vision and she could spare nothing from him. Summer was beginning to die down into autumn and Felicity longed to show David the glory of the moor when the colours turn to fire and the hills are purple with heather. She wanted to stand with him above Holne at night when the mist, soft and white like milk, lies in the valleys and coombes and the harvest moon rises slowly above the earth, huge and mysterious, bathing the silent moor in its unearthly glow. She wanted to share with him the sight of the rowan berries, brilliant against an early-morning sky, whilst one’s breath hangs like steam in the chill air.
Even her house had never seemed so much like a home. Things, possessions, had a different meaning now that the beloved saw them, used them, lived amongst them. Cooking became an art rather than a chore, Felicity forgot to count her calories, and food and drink became yet another gift which she could bestow. Never had she known life so simple and so happy. She hadn’t experienced a temperament which lived almost completely for the present and it bewitched her. She saw that David was contented, fulfilled, optimistic and imagined that she was seeing the whole picture.
David knew that this was an interlude, a gift from the gods, and accepted it as such, unquestioning and with no thought for the future. He worked and loved and it was good and he assumed that Felicity was accepting it in the same spirit. It would never have occurred to him that someone of Felicity’s age and experience could imagine that life could continue at this magical level. He was merely grateful that such a lull in the hurly-burly of life should be granted to him and enjoyed it as one enjoys the warmth of an Indian summer, the pleasure heightened by the knowledge that winter is not far away.
It was only when David began to talk of his return to Broadhayes that the first breath ruffled her calm sea and gently rocked the boat of her idyllic happiness. Even then she looked upon it as a temporary separation. Naturally he must go and see his friends. Obviously he had his work to do and his house in London to attend to. She hadn’t even got so far as to think about how they would live, although she had already decided that to spend some time in London would be fun. Her absolute confidence in their relationship blinded her to all sorts of small signs and when David realised this he was horrified. His work was completed so far as he could go in this setting and he wanted to get back to his studio. His sight was beginning to clear, the midsummer night’s dream was over, the magic was fading. When he saw what it meant to Felicity he felt uneasy. He remembered how she had pursued George, had been prepared to stop at nothing to win him back, and his unease bordered on fear. He was very fond of her and was deeply grateful to her. She was part of the miracle, without her it couldn’t have happened, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with her. When Miranda’s mother died he had been ashamed at the degree of relief that was mixed into his grief. He felt light and free and he had no intention of going back into bondage. He told himself that Felicity would get over it once he was gone but his heart was heavy and he was quite incapable of telling her the truth. He told her that he simply had to get back to London, that he’d already been away much longer than he’d intended, that he would be in touch. So confident was she that none of this disturbed her and when he drove away he felt like a murderer.
MAGGIE TABB CLEANED THE kitchen sink industriously, one eye cocked to the window. Outside, Thea and a man whom Maggie had never seen before walked up and down. Thea was gesticulating and talking furiously whilst the man, his head bent to hers, laughed and nodded. Jessie ambled at their heels, pausing for a moment to sit down and scratch at one of her floppy ears. Maggie had noticed the strange car, parked inside the five-bar gate, as soon as she arrived and her curiosity was rife. She stationed herself at the sink where she could observe the nature of their parting.
’ ’N’ ’oo c’n ’ee be?’ she asked of Percy, as she polished away at the taps. ‘I never sin ‘im befower.’ She sidled over to his cage, one eye on the door. ‘C’m’on,’ she wheedled. ‘Jes’ fer Maggie. Say “Normin’s a silly ol fewel.” Go on. ‘Ave a go!’
Percy regarded her solemnly and remained silent. She straightened up and shrugged. ‘Misrubble ol’ bag o’fevvers,’ she said. ‘Won’ even try, will y er?’ She heard an engine start up and, moving quickly to the window, saw Thea waving the car out into the lane. ‘Now!’ she exclaimed, vexed. ‘I didden see if ‘e kissed ‘er. ‘Tis all yer fault.’
‘Mademoiselle from Armenteers, hasn’t been kissed for forty years,’ shrieked Percy. ‘Hinky, pinky, parley-voo.’
‘What’s the matter with Percy this morning?’ asked Thea, appearing in the kitchen and beginning to root in the dresser drawer. ‘He’s been chattering away all morning. He seems to be in a state of high nervous tension.’ Various items fell to the floor and she bent to retrieve them. ‘Honestly, the things one keeps! We’ll have to have a good turnout, Maggie.’
‘ ’E’d be fair worked up,’ agreed Maggie. ‘P’raps ‘tis ‘avin’ strangers in the ‘ouse.’ She paused invitingly but Thea refused the bait. ‘If ‘ee tells us wot yewer lookin’ fower, us cud ‘elp, p’raps.’
‘Actually, I’m looking for the Sellotape. Oh, I know. I think I saw it in the study.’ Thea had no intention of telling Maggie who Marcus Willby was or that he had called in on his way down to Cornwall in order to discuss the progress of her work. She shut the drawer and made for the study.
‘Kettle’s boilin’,’ Maggie bawled after her, disgruntled that her ploy had failed. What was she doing upstairs in her little room? And who was the stranger with whom Thea was so friendly? ‘Wan’ a cup o’ coffee? I’ll bring ‘n up, eh?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Thea reappeared with the Sellotape. ‘I’ll make us both one. Then you can get on in the sitting room.’
‘Ah, I cud do wiv a cuppa.’ Maggie sighed deeply and relinquished her quest for information about Thea’s affairs. ‘Feelin’ right misrubble, I be.’
‘Maggie!’ Thea, preparing mugs, sounded surprised. She felt guilty that she hadn’t taken Maggie into her confidence about the book but she wanted to wait until everything was cut and dried. George had been delighted by her news and was quite ridiculously proud of her achievement and it had been immensely difficult to prevent him from immediately telephoning all their friends to share in the good tidings. She insisted on absolute secrecy until it was certain and once Maggie knew so would everyone else in the surrounding countryside. Since it had been Maggie’s idea that stories should go with the pictures that she had drawn for Wayne, Thea had decided to buy her a present as soon as her advance came. ‘I thought all was well between you and Norman now.’ She poured in milk, stirred and set the mugs on the table. ‘Come and have your coffee and tell me what’s been going on. You said he was overcome with remorse and wanted to come home.’
‘Yeah,’e wus. Didden know owter get ‘isself back, see. ‘E phoned up in a turrible takin’, cryin’ ‘n’ carryin’ on ‘e wus. Silly fewel.’
‘And what did you do?’ Thea stirred in sugar.
‘Went ‘n’ fetched ‘e,’ said Maggie promptly. ‘Banged on the de wer ‘n’ shouted fer ‘e ter get ‘isself out or I’d go ‘n’ get ‘is mum ter see wot a dick’ead ‘e wus bein’!’
‘His mum?’ Thea was riveted by this recital.
‘Big wumman,’is mum,’ said Maggie, reminiscently. ‘Scared to deff uv ‘er, Normin is. Came bol tin’ out like a rabbit.’
‘So what’s the problem now?’
’ ’Tes still the
t ole surfboard chin. Frien’ o’ mine saw ‘em togevver t’other day. ‘Course,’e denied it all. Never seen ‘er, never bin near the place. I give ‘im a s wipe roun’ the lug’ole wiv the lid off of ‘is san’wich tin. Got reel upset,’e did. ‘N’ ower Wayne come in ‘n’ Normin,’e shif’ out quick down the boozer.’ She took a great gulp of coffee. ‘Shitface,’ she said moodily. ‘Alius sneaks off,’e do. Never ‘as it out wiv me.’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ surmised Thea, to whom these revelations were no longer a shock, ‘that your friend could have been mistaken.’
They both paused to listen as a car pulled up outside and a door slammed. Thea stood up to look from the kitchen window. ‘It’s the vicar,’ she exclaimed. ‘Apparently he knows my father. He said he’d drop by for a chat.’ She went out to greet him.
Maggie swallowed her coffee hurriedly. ‘I doan’ like ‘im,’ she confided to Percy as she set her mug on the draining board.’ ‘E d’go on about me ‘n’ Normin summink awful.’
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