The Sweetest Thing

by Susan Sallis

  ‘What rubbish! Everybody gets tired when they’re looking after a baby.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose they do.’ Rosemary sat back, not entirely satisfied. She told Connie about the vicar and how he was encouraging her to do more church work. ‘I can’t remember his name but he was interesting. I don’t think I’ve met a celibate vicar before,’ she said, passing a clean nappy.

  ‘Celibate?’

  ‘Well . . . I assumed . . .’

  ‘He’s just a typical man. Waiting for the right woman, when he will automatically fall in love. Meanwhile he’s got a wonderful housekeeper and can have his own way about everything.’

  ‘Connie! So cynical. And still so young. But it did cross my mind that he saw his position as a rather nice job. Status and so forth.’

  Connie put Frank over one shoulder and he wailed and then burped. Both women laughed. Connie said, ‘He’s a realist. Managed to keep out of the war because of his eyesight and has made his life as comfortable and trouble-free as possible. He realizes that marriage is hard work so he’ll have to find the ideal wife before he launches into matrimony.’

  ‘Kept out of the war? William told me he was one of the First of the Few!’

  ‘You misheard, darling. William probably told you he was one of the few to sail through the war.’

  Rosemary felt annoyed to have been wrong on two counts. Connie obviously did not like the vicar. She herself had not been enamoured at first but suddenly was on his side.

  ‘I’m hardly going deaf, Connie, dear. I’m not fifty yet. The vicar said I must have been a child bride and I was only twenty-one when I had you!’

  Connie laid a sponged baby in her mother’s lap and stood back, grinning.

  ‘Grandmother and child,’ she said in an affected voice. ‘Bathed in light from an electric fire!’

  The baby looked up at Rosemary and opened his eyes wide. She was immediately adoring. ‘He’s so beautiful, Connie. His eyes are the clearest blue I have ever seen. I think my grandfather had blue eyes. You took after me and William’s eyes are brown too.’ She put her face close to the baby’s. She had the strangest feeling of being somewhere else, somewhere . . . other. Just Frank and herself. She could not pull away from him. His blue, blue eyes were a whole world.

  She must have looked as if she were about to collapse on to that tiny body because Connie’s hands were on her shoulders holding her up. Connie was saying urgently, ‘Mummy – sit up – I’ll take Frank – sit up, darling. Please.’

  Rosemary did so. She blinked. Everything was as it should be. Connie lifted Frank and went to the cot. She tucked him between the sheets and pulled a loose-knit blanket over him. He started to cry. She said loudly, ‘He always does this at first. If we’re here he will soon stop.’

  Rosemary looked at her in astonishment. She had shared this bedtime routine several times in the last three months, insisting that William and Connie go out now and then, baby or no baby. Frank never cried when he was put down to sleep. In fact, he rarely cried.

  But Connie was right; his heartbroken wails abated into little grumbling noises, he turned his head towards one upflung arm and fastened his mouth on to his own thumb. He was asleep.

  Rosemary whispered, ‘Let’s stay here for a while, darling girl. It’s so peaceful and you look all in.’

  Connie sat down again without a word. Rosemary made little clucking noises, trying to clear her throat quietly. She put a hand to her face; it was wet. My God, she had actually cried over her grandson. What on earth was the matter with her?

  Connie said, ‘You know, don’t you?’

  ‘Know? Know what, Connie? I certainly don’t know what’s got into me. Sentimental old fool. I could howl.’

  ‘You know that something is wrong with Frank.’ She looked up at her mother’s gasp. ‘I’m the same. I cannot believe it.’

  Rosemary spoke strongly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that baby. Don’t think I’m crazy, but just now . . . he touched my soul. There’s no other way I can put it, Connie. He knew me. As if we had known each other before life. It was just so wonderful. But not wrong. There was nothing wrong about that moment.’

  Connie stood up suddenly and hung on to the high mantelpiece. She whispered, ‘He’s not William’s. He belongs to . . . the boy. The golden boy. The boy I called Philip. He’s got his father’s eyes. Blue as the sky.’

  Rosemary had to hold the arms of her chair. She stared up at her daughter as if she had never seen her before. She could almost feel herself working things out. It seemed to take for ever. When she spoke she was still incredulous.

  ‘You mean . . .? He was fifteen, Connie. How could you . . . how could you?’

  ‘He was sixteen.’ Connie’s voice was dull, resigned.

  Her mother said nothing and after an agonizing time Connie said in the same tone, ‘I simply cannot understand it. Not now. I cannot excuse it. I was six years older than him. I should have known better . . . I did know better. And I still . . . He’d had what William called a seizure. He was terrified of the small earthquake and then the rain. I must have known then that he was still . . . a child. But he could read and discuss what he was reading and he was . . . he was wise, Mummy. In a basic, commonsense sort of way. When the jellyfish stung me, he knew what to do. He had comforted me and I wanted to comfort him so I cuddled him to me.’

  Rosemary felt her first outrage collapse completely and she said instantly, ‘I do understand. Don’t chastise yourself like this, Connie. I do understand. I was a girl before I was a woman.’

  Connie looked down at her mother and dissolved. Rosemary stood up. They held each other.

  After the tears abated, Rosemary whispered into her daughter’s hair, ‘Does William know?’

  ‘No!’ Connie’s sob caught in her throat. ‘He taught me about the comfort of sex, Mummy. I was so frightened by the possession part of it I almost forgot the comfort until I needed to use it to help Philip.’

  ‘Oh darling.’ Rosemary held the shaking shoulders. This was why Connie had come home in such a state.

  ‘I knew what to do, you see.’ Connie went on speaking through renewed sobs. ‘It seemed so mean and petty not to do it.’

  Rosemary said again, ‘I do understand. But William . . .’

  ‘We never speak of Cornwall. I know he is acting for Lucy Pardoe still but he has not been to see her since we were married.’

  ‘If he has chosen not to speak of it, then probably it is better if you follow his lead. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘It was how I hoped . . . but of course Frank’s likeness . . . There is another thing, Mummy. Philip – Egg – had some kind of brain damage. I cannot make enquiries. But could it be hereditary?’

  Rosemary looked over her daughter’s shoulder to where Frank slept peacefully. She remembered those wonderful eyes looking into hers, promising something . . . She tried to recall what it had been.

  She said firmly, ‘There is nothing wrong with that child, Connie. I am completely sure of that!’

  She drew back and looked into Connie’s tea-brown eyes. And Connie, only too ready to believe her, gave a small sob of relief.

  Rosemary spoke firmly. ‘You are not certain that Frank is not William’s son, darling. And William loves him so much. You have to leave things as they are.’

  Connie nodded through her tears. ‘You’re right, of course. He adores Frank. And . . . and he thinks I’m a good person. Oh Mummy, he’s loyal and true and he thinks that is how I am. And I was not. And he must know some time—’

  ‘He need not. And you are loyal and true, darling! You did what you had to do at the time.’

  ‘How could he not know? Those eyes are Philip’s eyes – William’s are brown, darker than mine. And that photograph of his mother, hers were grey and his father’s were brown.’

  ‘Darling, don’t gabble. It will make you feel more muddled and awful than ever. Let’s take it one step at a time, shall we?’

  Connie blinked on the hot tear
s still spilling over. She nodded. It was, after all, the easiest thing to do: absolutely nothing. She had been living in a fool’s paradise ever since she got married and it would be bliss to go back to that state.

  She and her mother went to the cot and looked down at the tiny contented boy, thumb fallen out of his mouth as he slept. It occurred to Connie for the first time that the strange anomaly of the romantic Philip Marlowe character and the sixteen-year-old who seemed part of the magical world around him and was so prosaically called Egg had not, after all, been annihilated. She could have smiled at the thought, found comfort in it, except that nobody else would. Certainly not dear William, who had had such a rotten time of it anyway. It would make life very much worse than it had been when he was alone. And as for Lucy Pardoe, her hatred for the ‘foreign girl’ would be compounded yet again.

  Her mother whispered, ‘He is so beautiful, Connie. And so very happy.’

  Connie nodded. Yes, that was how his father had been. So very happy.

  She hugged her mother. ‘Thank you, Mummy. Thank you,’ she murmured into her ear.

  Seven

  ARNOLD JESSUP HAD never married though there had been a number of women in his life with whom he had fallen romantically in love. Perhaps fortunately, none of them had been in a position to marry him; he had chosen the role of bachelor without any trouble at all.

  When Greta Heatherington had asked for his help with her fly-by-night manager he had tried to explain to her that, as they occasionally spent a rainy afternoon in bed together, he was unable to represent her. She had glanced out of the window at the perfect July afternoon and said, ‘Well, I’m blessed! It’s actually snowing as I speak! And if I can’t undo what we have already done, Arnie darling, we might as well go to bed and keep warm!’

  He had laughed inordinately and told her that her opportunism would get her into trouble one of these days. And later he had mentioned that William would probably be able to help her and why didn’t she book an extra room at this boarding house she went to every year in Cornwall and he would make sure William joined her.

  Arnold had worked for his father in the small legal practice on the outskirts of Birmingham until the outbreak of the war, when he volunteered his services to the Intelligence Corps. If he had hoped for a more interesting life he was disappointed; he referred to his two-year service as ‘festering behind a desk’. During the Blitz he was an air-raid warden in the Leicester Square area of London. It made those two years worthwhile but when his father died suddenly he had no difficulty in extricating himself and returning to civilian life in Birmingham.

  While he was still at school, William was born and he was asked to stand as godfather. He was flushed by the honour of it; also he was in love with William’s mother and even years later could feel his eyes fill with tears when he thought of her. He looked on William as the son he had never fathered.

  When the boy (he always called him ‘the boy’) was demobbed he made it his business to find out about courses for ex-servicemen.

  ‘They’re offering emergency training for teachers at the university. Recruiting people like yourself who had to stop whatever they were doing to fight the war. Just two years, then you get your certificate. What do you think?’

  William knew that he could not face a room full of children; in fact, he was finding it very difficult to face people at all. He shook his head.

  Arnold said, ‘Right. I didn’t think so. In that case you need three years to get a decent degree in law. Your fellow students will nearly all be your age. Small groups. Seminars. You can cope with that. Then you come in with me. My stuff is mostly bits and pieces for the university but I do have other cases I like to take on, neighbours, friends and so on – feel obliged. You understand.’

  Much later William wondered whether Arnold had ‘felt obliged’ to keep an eye on him, but by that time he knew that he was doing the right thing. During the years at university he saw Arnold at least twice a week and hogged the conversation simply because he had to share his enormous interest in what he was studying. Arnold would stand up occasionally and go to one of his shelves, pull out a book and bring it back. ‘Let me have it back, for God’s sake. I can’t practise law without it. Does it fit that particular case?’

  Once, when they said good night and shook hands and William got on his bicycle, Arnold said casually, ‘All right, are you? Knocking about in that tall old house? You can always have a room with me, you know. That’s the best of staying single. Don’t have to get permission.’

  William hesitated then shook his head. He said honestly, ‘I didn’t like it at first but it’s all right now. People knew us. I like that.’

  Arnold nodded, quite unable to speak. Six years later, when he was interviewing the girls from the secretarial school, he chose Connie without a moment’s hesitation. The position was for a filing clerk and he had no idea how she would perform, but there were other considerations.

  He felt personally responsible when they became engaged; even more so when they were not engaged and William tried to explain about the awful event on the little beach in Cornwall. It was wonderful when they patched it up because of the baby and got married. He boasted about them as if they were his own family. And sometimes he wondered whether he ought to have made sure he had a family of his own.

  And then Frankie Mather was christened and he had another evening with Greta Heatherington, which was comforting and marvellous at the same time. But more importantly, he met Rosemary Vickers. Not for the first time because she had called for Connie once or twice and come into the office. But it was the first time he had seen her properly.

  Rosemary did not sleep that night at Number Five. However much she had reassured Connie, fears and doubts came at her from all directions. There was nothing at all she could do about it, yet she had to do something.

  On the drive back home on Monday morning she decided that the only thing she could do was to find out more about the seizures Connie had described. Obviously there was nothing whatsoever wrong with Frankie. You only had to look at him to see it. But if she was still worried it stood to reason that Connie would be too. She would name no names, everything would be hypothetical. But she would question Dr Thomas about it.

  She wasted no time. When she had garaged the car and let herself into the house, she made straight for the phone.

  Mrs Thomas’s voice was gently reproachful. ‘It’s Monday, Mrs Vickers. Unless it’s an emergency, my husband does not see patients on a Monday.’

  ‘Oh, this is nothing to do with being a patient. This is simply a general question. Hypothetical.’

  Mrs Thomas, gentle or not, could be firm. ‘I’ll ask him to give you a ring then, shall I? He’s actually on the golf course at the moment but will be home for dinner. Or perhaps I can help – is it a crossword clue?’

  Rosemary said, ‘No. I’m not sure about a phone call – but yes, that will be fine. I’m in for the rest of the day.’ She replaced the receiver with a click, wondering whether Rita Thomas was being deliberately annoying. Crossword clue indeed. They knew each other through the Women’s Institute but had never become friends. And Rosemary was a little disconcerted at being bulldozed into a phone conversation with Dr Thomas.

  She unpacked her overnight case then made tea and sat by the window overlooking the golf course. Her head was still full of baby Frank. She wondered about his father. And his grandmother . . . She was the one to talk to. But she was probably biased against Connie. Connie had not been able to tell her anything much about the family. And William, who must have seen her several times, did not know that there was anything to tell. Poor William . . . poor Connie. And the boy himself, Philip or Egg or whatever his real name was . . . poor boy. What a waste. And the mother . . . She was the one who would know . . . everything. Lucy Pardoe. Rosemary dried her eyes furiously, topped up her teacup and drank the tepid contents in one go. Just for a moment she had imagined how it would have been if Egg Pardoe had been rescued and Connie Vickers h
ad drowned. She closed her eyes for a second. Thank God for William . . . thank God. She put the cup down and stared out at the July afternoon. It had all happened a year ago. Almost. It had been in August, towards the end. Very hot. Enormous thunderstorms had seen the month out.

  Someone was waving. She squinted through the window, wondering whether the wave was for her. No one could see her behind the glass, of course. But someone was definitely waving in the direction of the house, no doubt about that. She reached behind her to the desk where the binoculars were kept for birdwatching. Whoever was waving was still there by the time she had wriggled the glasses from their case and removed the dust caps. She held them to her eyes and focused with the usual difficulty. Then she dropped them into her lap and said, ‘Damn!’ quite loudly. She had caught sight of the dog collar. It was the vicar from the christening and she still had not got his name! She would have to lock the back door . . . not that he would try to come in, surely to goodness? But he was the last person she wanted to see. She backed away from the window and scuttled through the kitchen and the scullery and was about to shoot the bolts as quietly as she could, when there was a light tap from outside and the door opened eighteen inches and there was Maria Selby, her neighbour. She leaped nervously when she encountered Rosemary’s face two inches from her own.

  ‘Rosemary! I thought I heard you drive in! Is something the matter?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Rosemary ushered her in quickly. Perhaps the vicar would go when he saw she had company.

  ‘Only, this morning, quite early actually, well, about ten o’clock, I suppose – you know how long it takes me to get up and dress these days, the pain across my back has been unspeakable – anyway, a vicar was knocking on your door and I dragged myself over and told him you were with your daughter and he seemed to know all about it and it turned out he’d actually done the christening!’ She laughed heartily. ‘He said he’d have a round of golf and call back later, so I thought I’d better warn you. He seemed awfully nice, Rosemary, and quite concerned about you because you live alone. I told him so did I and we looked after each other and he asked about your health and I said you were really strong and did the garden without help – not like me, I have to have Mr Tasker once a week – and he was pleased about that. You being strong, I mean.’