by Lulu Taylor
‘Well now,’ Walt says, gazing about, his eyes gleaming. ‘Isn’t this grand?’ He turns to Francesca. ‘There’s already a pool here! Just think, we can make all this into our own private gym.’
Francesca doesn’t know what to say. The amount of work needed to bring this pool back to anything near usable is enormous. To transform it into the kind of luxurious one that Walt is no doubt envisaging will be an epic undertaking. Even then, would it ever entirely lose the feel of an institution? The size of this place is overwhelming. It’s not a home. It should be a hotel or something. It makes their house in Geneva look like a cottage. This is madness.
But looking over at Walt, she knows that he wants it, and there’s absolutely nothing she can do about it.
As they are leaving, going back through the great hall towards the front door, Francesca sees through a window a man working on one of the back lawns. He’s carefully raking the grass as though fluffing it up to luminous emerald perfection.
‘Who is that?’ she asks. It’s almost the first thing she has said since they came into the house. She points through the diamond-paned mullioned window. ‘Out there.’
The heritage expert pauses and looks out, then says casually, ‘Oh. That’s William. He’s been the caretaker here for many years. He keeps an eye on the building, makes sure it’s secure against squatters and intruders. And he keeps the gardens in check.’
That explains the beautiful lawns. ‘Does he live in the house?’
‘Not exactly. He has a converted section of it that’s almost become a small dwelling in its own right. There are a couple of places like that here, but William’s is the only one occupied.’
‘What will he do when you sell the Hall?’
The expert’s tone tightens. ‘Well . . . we’ll see. He understands that his tenure is almost over, let’s put it that way. Of course, he’s not terribly happy about it. But he sees that the future of the house is best served by a private owner. Now. If we’re quite done, shall we be on our way? I’m sure you have plenty to think over.’
The Daimler glides down the motorway, heading back to London, passing everything with ease, as though it’s existing on a different plane from the other, more mundane traffic.
‘Well, Frankie, this is going to be an adventure, isn’t it?’ Walt rubs his hands on his legs and pats his knees. ‘I thought that place was amazing, didn’t you?’
‘Of course.’ She takes off her sunglasses and looks at him, really seeing him for the first time in a long while. He’s a coarser, fatter, older version of the man she married, and she wasn’t wildly attracted to him then – at least, not in that dizzy passionate way she hungered for Dan. But she grew to enjoy his body, the way its heft provided comfort and reassurance, and she cherished their lovemaking for the sense of safety it gave her, and the evident delight he took in her. Now she feels a tiny twinge of repulsion when she looks at him. Their sex life together is still regular enough to be called healthy, although they have different bedrooms. When he’s home, Walt expects a conjugal visit every Friday and Saturday night, or on a Sunday morning, sometimes brief but often prolonged and vigorous. The days of revelling in his enjoyment of her are gone. She doesn’t need him like she used to. When they first met, she felt like one huge bleeding wound walking around, her planned career faltering and her world disintegrating as she collapsed under the weight of her pain. He surrounded her in such simple love, it was like being coated in some kind of healing balm. He made the pain go away, for a while at least, and she loved him for that. But that was then. Now she feels a vague sense of being cheated, because he has never inspired the giddy feelings and desperate longing that Dan did.
Still does? She breathes deeply and turns to stare out of the window. She hardly dares admit it to herself but she knows that she still adores Dan. It seems to be something elemental inside her that she’ll never be free of. It seems to be growing stronger instead of weaker as time passes.
These days, Francesca has to steel herself for the encounters with her husband, trying to damp down the dread beforehand and enjoying the relief afterwards when it’s over. Occasionally, if she and Walt have got on well, and if the evening has been enjoyable, or someone has flirted with her at a dinner they’ve attended or she’s danced with someone attractive at a ball, she can get some pleasure from the activity. A few glasses of champagne help to warm her blood and give her the ability to pretend Walt is someone else. And he knows her body well enough to make sure she is satisfied. But it’s not really enough.
I can’t help yearning for what I should have had.
The only comfort is the knowledge of the secret that she and Dan now share, and the prospect of what the future might hold for them both. She still can’t believe that it will really happen, but Olivia is getting closer and closer to her due date.
I mustn’t think about it. Not yet.
‘So,’ she says, turning back to Walt, ‘are you going to buy the house?’
‘Do you think I should?’
‘Does it matter what I think?’
He gives her a sharp look. ‘Of course it does. What do you mean?’
She smiles winningly, always knowing when to back down. ‘I only mean that your heart is obviously set on it. But I think it’s crazy – you ought to know that.’
‘I’ll need your help,’ he replies.
Of course you will. You always do. ‘I’ll need to recruit some people to help me,’ Francesca says. ‘It’s an enormous job. I don’t have the skill or knowledge to do it alone. And it’s going to take money. Lots of money.’
‘Of course,’ Walt says, unconcerned about that aspect. ‘But just think of what we’ll have in the end. And the contribution we’ll make. We’ll be saving that old place, preserving it for future generations. I’ll have the lawyers start talking to the heritage people. We need some concrete numbers. And, baby –’ he grins over at her – ‘how about we have that royal bedroom for ourselves, huh? Fancy sleeping where Elizabeth the First got her zees?’
Francesca laughs, but the eerie feeling she felt in that room creeps over her again. She can’t imagine ever finding peace in it. The image of the abandoned swimming pool floats through her mind. Why does he want that house? What does he see in it?
She thinks of the comfortable Kensington flat waiting for her in London, and hopes it won’t be long before they are back there. She wants to put Renniston Hall as far out of her mind as she can, before it is forced on her.
Chapter Five
Renniston Hall School for Girls,
1959
Oh cripes. This is awful. Where is she?
Julia shivers in the darkness and wishes she’d thought to put her dressing gown on. She’s only wearing pyjamas, thin ones, and a pair of felt slippers her mother sent from Egypt. They’re not designed to keep out the cold in an English boarding school, and the chill of the stone floor bites through them with ease. She hears a noise close by and jumps violently, but it’s only the wind-driven swish of the canvas sheeting the builders have put up to cover the building site that will one day be the new swimming pool. Every day, they arrive and start digging away at the hole in the ground, scooping out more mud to be carried away.
Come on, Alice. Where are you?
Behind her, the school is in silence, and Julia is alert to any noise that might be Miss Allen coming down from the boarding house at the top of the school. Perhaps she has done one of her late-night patrols armed with the little torch that she shines over the bed of every boarder, making sure each is present and correct. Julia has lain still often enough, pretending to sleep, as that ray of light shines orange against her shut lids, wondering where on earth Miss Allen thinks they might escape to. The school is in the middle of sixty acres of parkland, and the way to the road is down a long, winding drive over a bridge and several cattle grids. But Miss Allen has no thought that anyone might be crazy enough to attempt a getaway; she’s taking precautions against midnight feasts or high jinks or nocturnal bullying. Th
ey’ve all heard the stories of booby-trapped beds, or girls dunked in icy baths, though no one in Julia’s dorm has ever been brave enough to do any such thing. Not with Miss Allen in charge. Her strictness and severity are legendary.
That’s why Julia is so afraid. She doesn’t know what punishments Miss Allen hands out, she only knows she doesn’t want one. She isn’t a rebel, like Alice. The rules might be restrictive and boring, but she sees no point in challenging them for the sake of it. Life is steadier in the safe confines of obedience. She likes to be good, whereas Alice gets her kicks from being as naughty as possible.
Why did I let Alice talk me into this?
She imagines being expelled and feels sick at the thought of her mother’s disappointment and her father’s anger. Far away in the heat of Cairo, they think she’s behaving herself, doing them credit, taking advantage of this opportunity. She’s an army brat, her fees paid for by the government. Her parents couldn’t afford boarding school if it wasn’t for that. They were so happy when she got her place at Renniston, and when they left her at school that very first term it was with smiles and kisses and the evident hope that she would make a success of her time here. So far, it has gone well. She’s been sensible and hardworking, and was even made form captain for a term. But then Alice, with her glamour and vitality, took a shine to her and decided that Julia would be her special friend.
Why can’t I resist her? She’s going to get me into trouble, I just know it.
But there’s no denying life has been more exciting since she and Alice became best friends.
The canvas sheeting swishes again, and Julia gasps with fright. That’s it. She can’t stand it any longer. She’s going back upstairs, no matter what Alice said. She’s obviously not coming. Just as she turns to make her escape, the canvas moves again and Alice slips in from behind it, her stout school shoes looking incongruous with her pink dressing gown, the belt of which is tied tightly round her middle. Her eyes are bright in the darkness and Julia can tell she’s smiling.
‘Where were you?’ hisses Julia, relieved and cross in equal measure. ‘You’ve been ages!’
‘Sorry,’ Alice replies a little too loud for comfort. ‘I forgot the time. I’m only ten minutes late, what are you fussing about?’
‘You’ll get us both into awful hot water. Why did you need me here anyway?’ Julia is eager to get away.
‘Just in case,’ Alice says enigmatically.
‘Come on, let’s get back upstairs.’
‘All right, Miss Fussy, we’ll go back. Don’t worry, Allen is bound to be asleep by now. She never goes on the prowl after ten thirty, don’t you think I’ve watched to make sure?’
Julia doesn’t want to argue. She just knows that Miss Allen’s predictability isn’t a safe bet. Miss Allen likes to shake things up and surprise people, and not in a good way.
Alice sighs happily. ‘Oh, I’ve had a lovely time! You can’t think how nice.’
She’s still speaking too loudly.
‘You’ve got to shut up now,’ Julia says as they head back up the corridor. She peers at Alice in the gloom. There’s a little illumination from the glow of the emergency exit sign above the doors. Alice’s cheeks look suspiciously flushed. ‘Have you been drinking?’
Alice giggles. ‘Only a little bit of whiskey. Roy gave it to me to keep the cold out. I didn’t like it at first so he had to mix it with lemonade. It was lovely like that.’
Julia is more afraid than ever. ‘For goodness’ sake, keep quiet and let’s get back to bed.’ She leads the way as they patter up the corridor, over the stone floor of the great entrance hall with the minstrel’s gallery lowering over them from the darkness, and to the staircase that takes them upwards to the dorms at the top of the house. The way to Miss Allen’s house is usually via the White Staircase, but they’re using a different one, one that takes them to the door furthest from the housemistress’s quarters. It’s a tightly wound stone staircase, curling upwards inside a tower. The little arched door into the dormitory isn’t the end of it; the staircase goes on and up to the roof.
They reach the doorway; it’s very slightly ajar, just as Julia left it when she descended. Now is the truly dangerous bit. Her heart pounds and her breath comes short and quivery. She bites her lip to keep herself calm as she pushes the door further open, fearful that Miss Allen is standing behind it, waiting for them. But there’s no one there. They slip through, and close the door behind them, the sound of the latch dropping making them both flinch. They freeze, alert, staring at each other. Alice’s insouciance has worn off with the cold climb up the stone stairs, and Julia can see her own fear reflected back in Alice’s wide eyes. There’s nothing. They’re still undiscovered. Now they can tiptoe quickly into the dorm and make their way to their own beds and safety.
Never again, Julia thinks as she slides into the coolness of her sheets and pulls her blanket tightly round her. She’s kept the slippers on, to warm her feet more quickly. She closes her eyes and wills sleep to come. I’m never helping her again.
But she always thinks that.
The last notes of the hymn die away and the girls shut their books. It’s a competition to see who can shut them with the loudest snap, and the hall is full of the sound of it, like a lot of biting jaws. Julia doesn’t care about winning but feels she has to take part, so she always shuts hers with a half-hearted effort, while Alice puts everything into her snap. The Headmistress frowns from the stage where she is leading the assembly, evidently disapproving, but she seems to have more important things than hymn books on her mind.
‘Now, girls,’ she says in her very proper voice, sounding like someone on the wireless. ‘I want to take this opportunity to remind you that the building site is completely out of bounds to all pupils. Anyone caught going in the vicinity of the site will be subject to severe penalties. I hope that is understood.’
There’s a shuffle through the room as though the girls are expressing their comprehension through their feet.
‘And furthermore,’ continues the Headmistress, raking the girls with a gimlet glare, as she does when she wants to make a particular point, ‘it is utterly forbidden to communicate in any way with the builders who are working here.’
A rustle moves over the girls. She’s talking about men. The thought seems to pass from head to head, and with it, pictures of strange indecencies and forbidden thrills.
‘They are not to have any dealings with you. It is more than the reputation of the school is worth if it were known that our girls were consorting with Irish workmen. There will be the harshest consequences if there are any infractions of this rule.’ She frowns down at the two hundred girls, from the wide-eyed, uncomprehending first form to the sniggering sixth at the back. ‘And now, our bible reading. The purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Mabel Standish, please come forward and read.’
Alice turns to Julia and gives her a giant wink. Julia nudges her back crossly. It only takes one teacher to see, and they’ll be hauled up and interrogated.
‘And who, oh who,’ whispers Alice, leaning in towards Julia, ‘is ever going to purify me?’
Julia stares straight ahead, concentrating on Mabel Standish, and trying to shut Alice’s throaty laugh out of her ears.
I’ll be good, she promises in her head. Even if Alice won’t. Maybe I can be good enough for both of us.
Chapter Six
Olivia laughs, even though she’s heard the story several times before. She can’t help it. Dan has perfected his imitation of his boss and the little skit of his redundancy. He manages to make himself look a bit daft, slow to realise he’s being let go, but his boss appears truly stupid and pointlessly mean. Francesca throws back her head and laughs heartily as she enjoys the rendition.
‘Oh, Dan,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘What on earth were they thinking of, letting you go? What a bloody awful way to treat you, after ten years.’
Dan shrugs as he tops up their glasses from the chilled bottle of white wine. �
��It’s the way the market is at the moment. Job losses all over the place, particularly in the bigger companies where they’re just completely overstaffed. But even so, I was the best guy they had. I can’t understand what made them do it.’
‘They didn’t deserve you,’ Francesca declares. ‘And you’ll be snapped up in no time.’
‘Amen to that!’ Dan holds up his wine glass, and they clink before drinking.
Olivia looks over and thinks, It’s nice of Cheska to be so supportive. Dan can always count on her.
She moves with slow deliberation between the kitchen island and the stove, half listening to them as they talk on. She didn’t think she could get much bigger but there doesn’t seem a limit to how far her body will stretch. Her hips feel loose and her pelvis has softened and widened to allow the babies the room they need. But it won’t be for much longer. They’re due to be delivered by caesarean section in a couple of days’ time. Her bag is in the hall, packed and waiting. In the tiny spare room, the large white cot is set up, a cheerful mobile of painted wooden kites hanging over it. There’s a changing table with baskets full of fresh supplies. Teddies are perched on the top of the chest of drawers, piles of clean muslins are on the table next to the feeding chair, and the feeding pillow is propped up against it. Giant wall stickers of floating balloons brighten the cream walls. There’s nothing more to be done.
I’m ready, I can’t wait . . . But there is something delicious in this quiet bubble before the babies are born. They’re grown and ready for the world – that part is over – but they’re also safe inside her where nothing and no one can hurt them.
Dan and Francesca seem entirely absorbed in their conversation, leaning across the table towards one another, lifting glasses of cold white wine to their mouths in a slow pattern. Francesca appears to know a lot more about all the ins and outs of Dan’s office than Olivia ever has. She tried to follow it but the names of his work colleagues didn’t seem to inspire anything in her imagination. There was never anything to hang on to. But, she reflects, it’s probably the same for Dan and her work. While words like lupin and peony and agapanthus create bright pictures and emotional responses for her, they mean nothing to him. She has always secretly thought it is because she is not in his league of intelligence. Francesca, Cambridge educated like Dan, is one of his tribe: ferociously clever and self-confident, even if she gave up her career years ago. Olivia’s always admired their self-belief, their absorption in matters of the world of business and money, but never envied it. The only world that matters to her is the one of fertile soil, and the cycle of dormancy and rebirth, the coming to fruition of things that bloom beautifully and then are gone.
