A Friend of the Family

by Marcia Willett

  Miranda, shocked and frightened at her part in it, thrust it deep down inside and refused to look at it at all. Even she was unable to say with conviction that Felicity had got what she asked for or that it was a just retribution. She pushed it out of sight and was glad when David returned to London and she no longer had to see his tortured eyes looking out of the carefully schooled mask that had become his face.

  Tim fared best. Horrified though he was, he steadfastly refused to believe that Felicity had killed herself. Everything that they knew of her, he argued, went against that. Much more likely to have been accidental and, because of his love for Thea, he was able to remember what Felicity had been prepared to do to harm his cousin and could harden his heart. As the new year wore on, he was far too busy setting up his business and organising his new home to think of it at all and it sank gently into the recesses of his mind.

  As the months went by they saw very little of David, who was busy with an exhibition in London, and Tim, alone at last with Miranda, was beginning to find that marriage was not quite the joy he had hoped for. Miranda’s tendencies to unexplained silences and prickly irritability worried him. It was borne slowly in upon him that she preferred them to live an almost reclusive life, where there could be no cause for jealousy or suspicion, and Tim, who had imagined them using Broadhayes to its maximum advantage—giving parties, keeping open house—was disappointed and puzzled. He spent more and more time in his office with his computers and made the most of his business trips to see friends and fulfil the naturally gregarious side of his personality and, although she hated it when he went away, Miranda seemed content enough to keep herself occupied with her own pursuits.

  GEORGE’S GRIEF WAS VIOLENT but as proportionately short. Thea talked him through it as he had hoped she would, comforting him, guiding him kindly but firmly away from the boggy paths of guilt and self-pity and leading him to the higher paths where he could look back and remember Felicity with gratitude and affection. Perhaps she made it too easy for him to disown any responsibility but it was not in her interest—or his—to have him obsessed by remorse. She had no past memories to mourn over but a much more recent memory of a glowing, youthful-looking Felicity which she could describe to George, assuring and reassuring him that her death was an accident. George was only too ready to be convinced, to put it all behind him and to look forward to a life which seemed to have no cloud on its horizon.

  In June when Thea gave birth to a daughter, Amelia, even she let the tragedy of Felicity’s unhappiness and death slide away. It was as though she had taken the pain from George to be dealt with in her own way and she mourned Felicity in a completely different manner. She mourned the sadness and unhappiness that had been Felicity’s lot by virtue of her character. What a blessing it is to be born with a happy, loving, generous disposition; what a handicap to start life with a tendency towards self-seeking and selfishness, an indifference to the well-being of others. Thea brooded on the ability to change oneself, to train and encourage the character towards a discipline that brought contentment and fulfilment. It depended upon so many things and it was impossible to judge the capabilities of others. The frailty of human nature and life itself weighed upon her soul and she sought her usual reassurance. The collect for the fourth Sunday after Epiphany brought her comfort.

  O God, who knowest us to be set in the midst of so many and great dangers, that by reason of the frailty of our nature we cannot always stand upright: Grant to us such strength and protection, as may support us in all dangers, and carry us through all temptations; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

  She left the care of Felicity’s soul in higher hands and turned her attention to her own household.

  AS IN THE PAST, Kate’s mourning took place on the great open spaces of the moor. She looked back over the twenty years that she had known Felicity and her heart w as heavy. She wondered if Felicity had ever experienced real happiness. It seemed that this unknown man had shown her something, enabled her to experience some depth of feeling hitherto unknown to her. How cruel, then, to have it snatched away. Kate remembered how Felicity had sat at her kitchen table and wept and she knew that none of them had really known her. Perhaps Felicity had never truly known herself. As usual Kate’s fears and depression were soothed in the face of this great timeless world but they could not entirely be done away with.

  I’m getting old, she thought and remembered Cass’s last letter.

  Cass had felt it almost impossible to believe that her old enemy and sparring partner was dead. She still couldn’t take it in.

  ‘. . . It’s too awful, Kate,’she’d written. ‘It sounds so terribly unlike her, if you know what I mean. I simply can’t imagine her keeling over or giving in just for a mere man. It must have been an accident. Those awful heads she used to get. Perhaps she didn’t know what she was doing, especially if she’d been drinking. Oh, God! When I think of all that Felicity-baiting I used to do I feel very small and mean. I’m so glad you and she were together just before the end. That’s a comfort somehow. I wish I could have the chance to say I’m sorry. I was rotten to her sometimes. Oh dear. I’m crying now. She was an old cow, wasn’t she? But even so, she was part of us, part of all our pasts, and I’d give anything to see her again. She could be as rude as she liked! And when I think that she left everything to you I’m speechless! I could forgive her anything. Oh, Kate. Isn’t life hell? I think I must be getting old! Thank God we shall be home for Christmas . . . ’

  Kate, too, still felt a spasm of shock when she woke each morning to the fact that Felicity had smoothed her path financially. It was such a very great blessing, to be eased from the pinching and saving of the day to day, but Kate felt uneasy at receiving such benefit in such a manner and her thoughts of Felicity were troubled and grateful in equal measure.

  DAVID SIMPLY COULDN’T COME to terms with it. His mind played and replayed the same scene: Felicity dying. He saw this scene a hundred different ways while trying desperately to cling to Tim’s theory. Sometimes this seemed very reasonable. Felicity had been no neurotic, no unbalanced clinging female. She was a strong, forceful personality. Look how she had fought for George. At this point, David would remember that George, too, had rejected her and that even the most balanced of people can only take so much punishment. Even so . . . And so on and so on. His mind would tread the same well-worn circular path until he was exhausted.

  His exhibition was a tremendous success but each painting was a reminder, a memory, a little stab to the heart, and he was glad to put it behind him. He visited Tim and Miranda as seldom as he could, afraid of resurrecting emotions or being obliged to talk about Felicity. If he had but known it there was no risk of that. At Broadhayes the subject was taboo by mutual consent but, at present, the mere presence of Tim and Miranda would have been too much for him. Anyway, he was enjoying his freedom. He hadn’t been alone for years and he found it soothing to potter quietly when the day’s work was done, listening to music, reading, inviting one or two of his closest friends to supper. Slowly the pain receded a little but the guilt lived on, fresh and new each morning, and he suspected that he would never be free of it.

  EVEN POLLY, THOUGH SHE had never known Felicity, was affected by her death. Thea often talked of it with her, going over the mysterious circumstances, describing George’s reaction, reporting on his progress through the months. Polly was strangely moved by the idea of the lonely, unwanted woman, dying alone in the empty house. Had she regretted it when it became too late? Tried to raise help? What had been her last thoughts? She was moved to make greater efforts with Paul, who was even more deeply immersed in his work and—Polly suspected—Fiona. However, these efforts seemed to go unnoticed and, with the arrival of Amelia, Polly was often at the Old Station House and life gradually slipped back into its old pattern.

  THE YEAR WORE ON and the anniversary of Felicity’s death arrived and passed. Those who had known her turned their eyes towards Christmas and a new year but they had all, in some way, be
en touched and changed and Felicity herself would have been surprised to know how often she was remembered, mourned, loved. Too late now, these emotions, to be of use to her, but they would go on working in other hearts and breasts and, because of her, thoughts and actions would be differently shaped and lives changed.

  Twenty-one

  ALBAN BERG WAS COMPOSER of the Week the day that Polly’s husband went off with Fiona.

  The day started like any other. Paul had risen early but this was not unusual. He was in the habit of waking at about six o’clock, making coffee and vanishing into his study to put in a few hours’ work before he went off to the university. Two or three times each week he and Polly didn’t see each other until the evening, for she found mornings difficult. The thought of light conversation across the muesli was anathema to her; the bleared eye above the stubble was inimical to her well-being so early in the day. Apart from which she doubted that Paul would have noticed her presence since he tended to spend breakfast time with his head in a book, his eyes rarely lifted from the printed page.

  By the time Polly arrived downstairs, on the day in question, Radio Three was well into Berg and the kitchen showed the usual signs of disorder. Automatically she began to clear the table and saw, mid-yawn, the note propped against the butter dish.

  Paul’s tiny crabbed handwriting was almost illegible and broken phrases presented themselves to Polly’s dazed eyes. ‘. . . bit of a shock . . . can’t let her down . . . inevitable . . . be in touch . . . ’ with ‘Fiona’ scattered about at intervals like sultanas in a scone.

  Polly, her nerves on edge, switched off the Seven Early Songs and wondered what to do next. What was the form when one’s husband took off with his assistant, leaving a farewell note and mentioning in passing that he’d be in touch?

  She looked again at the note. Nothing had prepared her for it, no warning, no discussion, no opportunities to put things right. It was true that during the last two years they had tended to drift a little further apart. Polly had become deeply involved in the launching of the Percy the Parrot books and had encouraged Thea through her pregnancy and the birth of her daughter, Amelia. She knew that this was living life rather vicariously through someone else’s achievements and joys but it was harmless and fun and Paul seemed to be spending more and more time wrapped up in his work. There had been no rows or arguments and he had accepted with total equanimity her friendship with Freddie. It had, so far, been a perfectly harmless friendship just as she had imagined Paul’s had been with Fiona. Perhaps she had been naïve but Paul didn’t seem to have the temperament of a deceiver. And how very odd of him to come to such an important decision about their marriage all in a rush, between, as it were, one insect and the next! But what was in his mind for the future? What did he intend? Obviously he intended that she, Polly, should stay put while he sorted his life out with Fiona. Then, no doubt, he would ‘be in touch.’

  Polly felt a sudden surge of anger. She’d be damned if she would sit here, tamely waiting to hear what had been planned for her and how her future had been organised! Leaving the table in its disorder, she gathered up the note and went upstairs. A recce of Paul’s dressing room showed that he had taken verv little with him. His weekend bag had gone and his shaving things from the bathroom but she saw from the bedroom window that the car stood in its usual place by the kerb. She also saw Mrs Bloge coming down the road. This solved one problem. Nothing useful could be attempted with her in the house. Polly couldn’t have borne for her to know. She hurried round collecting her keys, bag and jacket and went back downstairs.

  ‘Can’t stop this morning, Mrs Bloge,’ she called. ‘Got to dash. Shan’t be back till after lunch. See you next week.’

  ‘What about me wages?’ Mrs Bloge issued from the kitchen, heavy with disapproval.

  ‘Heavens!’ Polly gave a feeble laugh. ‘Yes, of course, it’s Friday, isn’t it?’

  She scrabbled in her purse, brought out the amount in the back section which was designated ‘Bloge’ and, passing it over, hurried out into the bleak January day. A few yards up the road, she turned in at the gate of a semi-detached villa almost identical to her own but in rather better repair. Round the side of the house she went, through the back door and into the kitchen.

  ‘Hi,’ she shouted. ‘Hello. Only me. Anyone in?’

  She could hear scufflings and voices off and, in the upper regions of the house, the sound of a French horn. The inner door opened and her friend Suzy appeared, a small child growing out of her hip like a Siamese twin and another clinging to her leg. She came in, dragging the leg with the child on it.

  ‘Thank goodness it’s you,’ she said with her sweet smile. ‘Simon is having one of his insecure days and Daniel’s got a bit of a temperature. Put the kettle on, there’s a duck.’

  ‘Jake’s home, I hear.’ Polly jerked her head French horn wards and went to fill the kettle.

  ‘He’s got a concert in Bristol next week.’ Suzy laid the smaller child in a carrycot on the sofa under the window and swung Simon up and into his high chair at the table. He clung to her as if she were a lifebelt and he a drowning man. Polly knew just how he felt.

  ‘Paul’s left me.’ She couldn’t keep it back another second.

  ‘Paul? Left you?’

  Even Simon, sensing drama, let go of Suzy and gazed at Polly.

  ‘He’s gone off with Fiona.’

  ‘With Fiona?’

  ‘He left me a note. On the table.’

  ‘Left a note?’

  Polly looked around for the echo whilst Suzy thrust a plastic drinking mug into Simon’s open but unresisting mouth and gave Polly her undivided attention.

  ‘I don’t believe it. It doesn’t sound a bit like Paul. He doesn’t like women. And with Fiona of all people.’

  ‘Why “of all people”? If he’s going to run off with anyone surely she’s the most likely candidate? They have masses in common, she’s young, pretty . . . ’

  Saying the words made the situation a great deal more real and, quite suddenly, Polly began to howl. Loudly and luxuriously, she broke down and howled without restraint.

  Simon took his mug out of his mouth and his face began to crumple. Ominous noises came from the carrycot. Even the French horn stopped. So did Polly. She couldn’t face an irate Jake roaring in demanding, ‘What the bloody hell is going on now ? Can’t I ever get to practise in peace?’ and so on.

  Suzy soothed the baby and replaced Simon’s mug whilst Polly sniffed and snuffled and tried to pull herself together. After a moment. Suzy pushed a mug under her nose. Polly gave her the note to read and morosely piled sugar into her mug.

  ‘What dreadful writing,’ observed Suzy. ‘He should have been a doctor.’

  ‘He is a doctor.’

  ‘You know what I mean—a real doctor. I can’t read a word of this.’ She screwed up her eyes, turning the paper this way and that, and passed it back. ‘I’ll take your word for it. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. There’s no address, no telephone number. He doesn’t seem to have taken verv much with him and the car’s still there. I think I’m supposed to sit and wait until he contacts me. At the end it says “be in touch”. I don’t know what to do.’ Polly felt like blubbing again but the French horn was back in full flood and Simon had a glazed look, so she didn’t like to. She took a huge swig from the mug and choked violently.

  ‘Jesus!’ she spluttered. ‘What the hell is this?’ She coughed frenziedly.

  ‘It’s wild raspberry tea. It’s very good for stress.’ Suzy once again patted the baby and restored Simon’s mug. Luckily the French horn hadn’t been disturbed this time. ‘Listen, I’ve had an idea.’

  ‘So have L’ Polly held the mug out. ‘I’d like some coffee.’

  ‘Know what I think?’ Suzy ignored her. ‘I think it would be a very bad idea to sit waiting for Paul to take all the decisions. You’re always so easy-going. And he seems to spend half his spare time in the lab with Fiona. Let’s face
it. You’ve handed it to him on a plate. I expect she flatters him and it’s gone to his head. I can’t believe it’s serious.’

  ‘But what can I do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anything. Visit friends. Get a dog. Have a haircut. Get a job. Anything. It doesn’t matter so much what you do as long as you do something. You don’t want to sit about moping, do you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly, sulkily. ‘As it happens, I do. I think it’s intolerable that he should explode this bombshell and then expect me to wait patiently until he decides to get in touch. I want to sit and think about it and realise how much I hate him. And her.’

  ‘It’s a pity you haven’t got children,’ mused Suzy, ignoring this excursion into self-pity. ‘Children keep you occupied, stop you thinking too much. It’s a mistake to do anything dramatic. Mmm. Yes. Perhaps a dog’s a bit much and jobs aren’t that easy to come by but at least you can go and get your hair done. It will keep your morale up and make you feel better. Now will you go?’

  Polly shrugged. She felt that her problem was being made light of and she didn’t want to make it too easy. ‘I might.’

  ‘After all, it’s a start, isn’t it? There’s a super place just off Queen Street I go to when life gets too much for me. Hang on, I’ll see if I can make an appointment with Tony for you.’

  ‘Who’s Tony?’ Polly asked listlessly.

  ‘He’s the owner. He does my hair. Hang on.’

  She went into the hall and Polly heard the telephone being used. Simon stirred in his chair and she eyed him cautiously. Sometimes she could deal with him, sometimes not. Simon and Suzy had a real Oedipus and Jocasta thing going and Polly simply wasn’t in the mood for it. She gave him a biscuit. He placed it carefully on the tray of his high chair and proceeded to smash it into crumbs with his mug. Fair enough. Polly shrugged. At least it was keeping him quiet.