“Yes, good idea,” said Tilly, “but I do want crackers. We can’t have Christmas without crackers. And stockings.”
“Stockings, of course,” said Elizabeth. “But I want one too.”
“Self self self with you, isn’t it?” said Annabel, giving her a hug. “Never think of us having to find things for you. OK, just this once.”
And then, a week before the day, she came home and said, “Mummy, don’t say no at once, but Florian wondered if he could come round in the evening on Christmas Day. Just for some champagne and a chat. He’s such a brilliant chatter, and I think it would be nice, give the evening a lift. Only if everyone agrees, obviously.”
“Obviously we agree,” said Tilly. “Don’t we, Toby?”
“Suppose so,” said Toby; he actually rather liked Florian. He had street cred and Toby longed for that beyond anything.
So it wouldn’t be too bad. They’d get through it. As they were getting through all the rest.
Toby was much more relaxed about the baby now. The change had been wrought not by Florian but by Fallon. Fallon was becoming day by day increasingly beautiful: she had had her wild hair cropped short—by Florian, who had met her one night at the house and begged her to allow him to do it—and it clung to her head like a small black cap. She was tall, almost as tall as Tilly, and very slender, and she had begun to wear rather eccentric clothes, bought from secondhand stalls in Kensington Market—long floating skirts and loose silk blouses, rainbow-coloured sweaters and large floppy hats. Her voice was gorgeous, low and husky, and she had a deep, rather dirty laugh. Toby thought she was wonderful and had even asked her out, but as Fallon said to Tilly, there was no way she could go out with someone who looked and dressed and talked like Toby. “No offence, Til, but I’d be a laughingstock.”
But she did like him and they had many long conversations over the kitchen table; and one of the things she said to him was that he must be well pleased about the baby.
Whereupon Toby had gone scarlet in the face and opened another bottle of beer and lit one of the cigarettes that Elizabeth had forbidden in the house.
“What’s the matter? Did I say something I shouldn’t?”
“No,” said Tilly, “but he doesn’t like the idea.”
“Why on earth not?” said Fallon. “I mean, there’s all the noise, I suppose, and the stink from the nappies and that, but you’re not here that much. And I’m sure your mum will keep it nice. But they’re good fun, babies are. I should know, we got enough of them.”
“Yes, but you’re a girl,” said Toby.
“You noticed! Well done. Yeah, I know, but what if it’s a boy? You can be its—what d’you call it, Tilly?—something about a model.”
“Role model?” said Tilly.
“Yeah, role model. You’ll be the only male in this house, and he won’t half need you. You can take him off, go to the football together, all that stuff. Nah, it’ll be great. Me little brother misses me big one something awful.”
“What’s happened to him?” said Tilly.
“Oh, Dean’s gone to live with Ron—that’s our oldest brother,” she explained to Toby. “Dean is a lot better off with ’im ’cos he doesn’t like my mum’s latest boyfriend at all. Well, none of us do. But poor little Darren, he’s quite lost without Dean. Nearest thing to a dad he’s got.”
“Yes, I see,” said Toby; and then, smiling at Fallon rather awkwardly, “Well, I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“No,” said Fallon, looking at him almost pityingly, “I don’t suppose you had. Can I have a puff of that, Toby?”
And they sat there, sharing the cigarette and chatting while Tilly endured an agony of anxiety that her mother might suddenly appear. Which she wouldn’t; for Elizabeth had come downstairs in search of a cup of tea, caught the whiff of cigarette smoke, heard Fallon’s unmistakable voice and Toby’s laugh, and decided the best thing she could do was creep back upstairs and pretend ignorance of all of it. Certainly until the morning.
Flora was acutely excited about Christmas. To be spending it at Broken Bay, the future safe: it was truly too good to be true. She went into a fever of cooking and planning and decorating and shopping; and when Debbie and the children arrived, on the evening of 22 December, ahead of Richard, the house looked so beautiful, hung with holly and with ivy garlands, every windowsill set with candles, a huge tree in the hall, they burst into spontaneous applause.
Debbie looked very strained, Flora thought; she did too much, worked too hard. She would try to give her a happy Christmas, a rest, try not to annoy her, not to be bossy.
She had written to Richard about the house; explaining that it was safe, that she could stay there “as long as Alexander allows!,” telling the story of the first John Fielding, saying that she had known nothing of the entail. Richard would find it difficult, she knew; he was stiff and proud, just as William had been, but he had to know; and he seemed to have taken it well, wrote back a generous letter—but she felt there was more to come. What pleased her far more was that Debbie had rung to congratulate her, sounding genuinely pleased.
Richard was coming down directly from Scotland; he had a lot of administration to do at the end of term, and he and Morag needed a few days of quiet together to accomplish it: “She’s worn out, but she won’t give in, of course.”
The children were in a state of acute excitement, decorating their rooms, deciding where best to hang their stockings, foraging for holly and locking themselves into rooms with much giggling while they wrapped presents. It was all totally idyllic, Flora thought, the sort of Christmas people dreamed of.
“You’ve made a wonderfully happy family, Debbie,” she said, as they walked out on the moor, the children running ahead. “It can’t always have been easy. Well done.”
Debbie said nothing; looking at her sharply, Flora saw that her eyes had filled with tears. Some instinct told her to pretend not to have noticed, and to change the subject. She hoped the marriage wasn’t going wrong again; she had allowed herself to think things were better. But she was fearful for Debbie’s happiness in Scotland with the much-revered Morag.
Later she said, rather casually, that she had a friend coming to supper on the following evening. “I hope you don’t mind, Debbie, but it’s quite a long-standing arrangement and Richard will be very late.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” said Debbie, “and anyway, I’ve got to go and meet Richard at Cardiff Airport. Who is she, your friend? Have I met her before?”
“It’s not a she,” said Flora, “and no, you haven’t. His name is Colin Peterson—the one who was helping me with the sale of the house, remember?”
“Oh—yes,” said Debbie. “Of course.”
Flora was clearing the table very busily; if the notion hadn’t been completely ridiculous, Debbie would have thought she was blushing.
She was getting through it; hour by hour, day by day. She did her best to close her mind to the events of the twenty-seventh, when she would talk to Richard, to the dreadful repercussions that would ensue, but it overshadowed everything she did. And Flora congratulating her on her happy family as she had today made her feel even more like a murderess, like Lady Macbeth or Lucrezia Borgia. How could she do it to them? What right did she have? She didn’t know, and she had no right; she only knew she had to do it.
She drove over to Cardiff to collect Richard from the airport, feeling queasy. How was she going to pretend for—what—three more endless days? How was she going to smile at him, talk to him, express interest, affection, let him make love to her…Stop it, Debbie. You’ve got to. Just do it.
“Debs, hello. Lovely to see you. Let me give you a hug.” Well, that was all right. She could handle a hug. Just…
“Lovely to see you too,” she said. “How are you?”
“A bit shattered. We’ve been working flat out, Morag and I. There’s so much still to learn, you know. And she’s incredibly patient with me.”
“Good, I’m glad. How was your fli
ght?”
“OK. Bit late leaving, as you know.”
“Yes. Luckily, I’d phoned to check. So I’ve even had a quarter of a supper. What about you? Your mum’s keeping something for you.”
“Good. I need it. How is my mother?”
“She’s fine,” said Debbie, leading the way to the car. “So happy about the house.”
“She must be. What an extraordinary story, isn’t it?”
“Quite extraordinary. Our little Alexander, a landowner.”
“Yes, well, that does seem rather absurd,” Richard said stiffly.
“Anyway, I must tell you,” Debbie said, “oh look—there’s the car—yes, I must tell you, your mother’s got an admirer.”
“She’s what?” Richard froze and turned to stare at Debbie. “What sort of admirer?”
“The usual sort. A man, you know. Clearly interested in her—devoted actually, I’d say.”
“Devoted? Some man devoted to my mother?”
“Yes. Don’t look so disapproving, it’s lovely for her.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say. Who…who is he?”
“Not sure. Some kind of property developer, I think. He had been advising her over the sale of the house. Obviously he’s thrilled about the way things have turned out for her. I rather like him. Anyway, he may still be there when we get back. He said he’d like to meet you.”
“But what’s he like? I mean, is he an old man? I don’t understand why she’s never mentioned him.”
“I think because she was embarrassed,” said Debbie, doing up her seat belt—thank God they had so much to talk about. “She was talking coyly about a friend and stuff like that, and when she had to tell me the friend was a him, she got very flustered. Anyway, when he arrived, it was perfectly obvious they were very fond of each other. They go to concerts together. He’s her sort of age, and the most surprising thing about him is that he’s not like the people she usually has as friends. I mean, he’s—well, you know, a bit naff.”
“No, I don’t know,” said Richard. He sounded irritable. “What do you mean?”
“Well, his clothes are a bit odd, for a start. I mean, he had a really weird cardigan on, sort of striped…And he’s not exactly posh, bit North Country. He’s perfectly sweet. He’s called Colin.”
“But…do you think it’s serious? Debbie, do look what you’re doing, there’s a lorry coming towards us.”
“I did see it.” She controlled herself with an effort. “I don’t know if it’s serious, I mean, I presume they’re not planning to get married. Or—”
“If you’re going to drive in the outside lane, you really should speed up a bit. It’s dangerous.”
Why did she always forget the way he did this? She pulled sharply over to the inside lane. “Better?”
“Yes. Anyway, you were saying—about this man?”
“He’s called Colin. Colin Peterson. Like I said, I really liked him.” The other Debbie would have added, “You probably won’t,” but she was determined not to sound crabby. She owed him three good days. And the children. Three really happy days. And then…
“Debbie, please get into fifth gear. Surely you can hear the engine labouring.”
Debbie pulled up onto the hard shoulder and got out.
He stared at her. “What’s the matter?”
“You drive. Please. I can’t cope with this.” She was close to tears: all her good resolutions gone.
“Look,” he said, “I’m exhausted, I’ve only just got off a plane, for heaven’s sake—”
“Just shut up, will you? If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Let’s just get home. And then you can ask Colin yourself what his intentions are.”
He didn’t say another word all the way to Gower; and when they reached the house, Colin’s car was gone. Flora came out to meet them.
“Hello, darling. Lovely to see you. Happy Christmas.”
“Yes, it all looks wonderful. You’ve excelled yourself, Mother.”
“Well, I’ve had lots of help. Good trip? Come along in, I’ve saved you some casserole.”
“Thank you, that was kind. Are the children all asleep?”
“Emma’s still awake. She wants to see you.”
They went into the hall; a small thunderbolt in a nightdress hurled itself at Richard.
“Daddy! Oh, I’ve missed you so much!”
“I’ve missed you too, darling.”
This is why it’s so dreadful, Debbie thought, staring at the two of them: Richard lifting Emma up, kissing her, her small arms winding round his neck. This is why I know I’m so wicked. This is what I’ve got to destroy.
She felt so bad, she drank two large glasses of wine in the time it took Richard to eat a very small supper, Emma on his knee. And was vaguely aware of Flora watching her. Oh God. God help me.
As if He would, a wicked woman like her.
Braced for sex, Debbie was spared. Richard kissed her, said he was sorry, but he was completely exhausted, and turned out the light. She lay there, looking at his back, listening to his snores, thanking God for the reprieve. And tomorrow, to quote her favourite heroine, was another day.
Chapter 58
DECEMBER 1990
She had watched herself go through it, hour by hour, smiling, opening parcels, saying thank you, singing carols, eating turkey, drinking too much, playing charades, watching Rachel fall asleep on her father’s knee, putting the children to bed. And then sitting with Richard and Flora, drinking still more, listening while they talked and reminisced and didn’t seem to notice how quiet she was. To bed, then; where Richard made love to her. She got through it somehow.
“Lovely Christmas,” he said, turning away from her. “Thank you.” And fell asleep. How could he not know? How could he not tell? But—tomorrow was Boxing Day. And then soon, soon it would be over. The worst would be over. For her at any rate.
Amazingly, through it all, she had still felt not one shred of doubt. She knew she was doing the right thing.
Boxing Day was cold and brilliant.
“Isn’t it lovely?” said Flora. “You know what we ought to do. Walk the Worm.”
“Oh ye-es!” the children all shouted at once. They had only done it once, walked along the sometime peninsula, sometime island of Worms Head, the great stretch of land that stuck out over a mile from Rhossili Bay. Named the Worm, because it looked like a dragon, lying there in the water (“wurm” being Old English for dragon), it was one of the great walks of Gower: children particularly loved it, and loved looking at it when the tide was in and saying, “We were walking there yesterday.” But it could be dangerous, if not enough time was allowed for tides; and today it would be icy cold.
“I really don’t think…” said Debbie doubtfully.
“Now, Debbie,” said Flora briskly, “you know we always have this discussion and it’s always fine. The children are growing up, they’re wonderful walkers”—she paused, for a notional “thanks to me”—“and it’s a beautiful day. Let’s look at the tides, anyway. Richard, what do you think?”
“I think it would be fun,” he said. His expression as he looked at Debbie was chilly; she was doing what he most hated in front of his mother, being overprotective.
“Good. Now let’s see…ah yes. Low tide at one thirty. So we’d be absolutely fine.”
“Don’t forget it gets dark at half past four,” said Debbie.
“I hadn’t,” said Flora, “and I had no intention of going as late as one thirty. You know the tides allow us five clear hours. In fact, we could take a picnic.”
“A picnic!” said Debbie, and this time she was laughing. “Flora, it’s freezing out there.”
But, “Ye-es!” shouted the children again.
The phone rang; Flora answered it.
“Colin! How lucky that you rang…What?…Well, because I thought you might like to join us. We’re going on a picnic…Yes, I know it’s freezing, but look at the sun…On the Worm. Then you could meet R
ichard, and…Oh, all right…What?…Oh, that’s a good idea. Yes, come and meet us, park at Rhossili and walk along towards the Worm. At about four. No, let’s say three thirty. Debbie is anxious about the tides. And the light, of course. Then we can come back here for tea. Fine…What?…Yes, I will.” She smiled at Debbie. “Colin said to tell you how much he enjoyed meeting you, and how he was looking forward to seeing you again today.”
“Well good,” said Debbie, “and I’ll look forward to seeing him.” Thinking that when she did, they’d be back, warm and safe, not stranded on the icy rocks. And it would be the end of the last day. Their last day as a family.
They set out along the grassy cliff walk that led to the sea; the children ran ahead, shouting and laughing.
“They’re having a lovely time,” Debbie said, and meant it.
“Of course. Now, Richard, you take the rucksack, and then I can help Rachel over the Causeway. Are you all right, Debbie?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” It would be all right; they’d have loads of time and she’d already said bravely she didn’t want them to go as far as the Devil’s Causeway, the treacherous narrow high walkway that had to be crossed to reach the last quarter of the Worm. Richard, to her surprise, agreed.
“It is too far in the cold. And I don’t want to have to carry anyone back.”
Flora slightly scornfully agreed.
The sun was still high and the sky brilliant as they set out across what was known as the causeway; not exactly a causeway at all, Debbie thought, just a difficult scramble across rocks and stones. Emma danced ahead chattering to her father, Rachel held her grandmother’s hand, Alex walked more slowly with Debbie. Every so often, Richard or Emma would turn and shout, “Come on!”
“Don’t take any notice,” Debbie said, “and don’t let them hurry you.”
“I won’t.”
They had their picnic on the grassy plateau just above the causeway; Flora had put some soup in a big Thermos jug and they dipped French bread into it, and then ate cheese sandwiches and tomatoes. It was idyllic, but in spite of the sun and the blue sky, it was very cold; a sharp wind had blown up, and Richard looked around almost anxiously.
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