by Lulu Taylor
But I didn’t. I gave it all up. I turned my back on it.
She knows that it started at Cambridge, from the time she met Dan. She can recall with absolute clarity the day she walked into her supervisor’s room and saw him, lolling in an armchair, idly glancing over the essay he had written. He was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen, with his tousled black hair, the chiselled features and romantically hollow cheeks, the strong brows and the deep blue eyes. She almost gasped with the impact of him. Then he looked up at her, gave her the full force of his most charming smile and said, ‘You must be Francesca. Hello. You must excuse my essay, the ink’s barely dry. You’ll have to do the brain work, I’m afraid. I soused myself in beer last night, and I’m fit for nothing. I’m sure you’re much more respectable.’
But when the supervisor came in and asked Dan to read his essay, it was, of course, brilliant. Afterwards they went for a coffee together and when the waitress brought it over, she said with a smile, ‘Oh, aren’t you a pretty couple!’
Dan laughed and said, ‘Nice of you, but we’re not a couple.’ Then he winked at Francesca. ‘Yet.’
That was that. She was head over heels from that moment.
He must have known from the start that she adored him. He flirted with her sometimes, making her tremble with pleasure, or acted like a protective older brother. Occasionally, there’d be a touch of scorn in the way he acted, or he’d make her the butt of a joke, sending a rush of scarlet to her cheeks, but he’d always see her mortification and later make up for it with a whispered compliment or an affectionate hug. She never really knew how he felt about her, though he went through strings of other girlfriends, mostly gorgeous. She would have given up if he hadn’t kept that conspiratorial attitude towards her, that cheeky warmth that hinted she knew him best of all. Maybe he cultivated her so that when he really hadn’t done an essay, she would lend him notes, find him books in the library, make his excuses for him. Once, knowing he had stayed out two entire nights before a supervision, she even wrote a whole essay for him just in case he needed it, getting up at dawn to make sure it was ready in time. She imitated his style as best she could. But he pulled a sickie and didn’t show up anyway. When she gave it to him, he laughed, thanked her and took it. She never knew if he handed it in or not. But she didn’t mind. She’d do anything for him, even at the expense of her own work. Instead of being able to settle and concentrate, she would trot around the faculty, college and university libraries looking for him, under the pretence of talking about their work, but really so she could spend time with him.
When her results began to suffer, her tutor asked her if anything was wrong. Was something interfering with her work? She said no, of course not. She could hardly admit even to herself that she was prepared to put her passion for Dan ahead of her studies. But the truth was, he took precedence over everything. He became more important than her friends, her degree, and eventually, even her career.
I would have sacrificed everything if he’d asked. Everything.
And in a way, she had.
Francesca stares out of the window at the English countryside. She’s lived away from the land for so long, it feels almost as foreign as Swiss mountains once did to her, but something in her responds to the rolling patchwork of green and yellow fields, the white dots of distant sheep, the ancient hedgerows cutting across hills and bordering roads. Once she wanted to leave all this behind; now she is starting to envisage a future here. But what is it? There are misty pictures in her mind, little snapshots of a life that might await her.
The car races up the motorway, the engine a smooth hum, the driver silent and concentrating on the road. Francesca lets her mind wander over the dreamlike images that are assembling in her mind.
She sees the house: it’s been transformed into a splendid and comfortable home. Fred and Olympia are there, healthy, happy, positive and behaving like perfect, civilised teenagers. But Walt . . . where is he? He’s a benign presence still – he’ll always be that, she can’t imagine him any other way – but he’s not exactly there. He’s away somewhere else. But Dan is there, smiling, happy, realising, at last, that all along they were meant to be together. Olivia is somewhere else too. That’s not specified. She doesn’t want to think about that. And what’s this? Two beautiful little children, the wonderful creations that unite her and Dan. They have made him understand why he and Francesca are destined for each other. Life will be wonderful. At last, she’ll begin to live the way she was supposed to. It will be like coming home.
Francesca blinks, realising her eyes are full of tears. She sniffs. Don’t be so silly. It can’t happen like that. It’s impossible.
But that picture of bliss is so very hard to resist.
It would make everything right. It would show that all along, it’s been worth it.
It’s teatime when the car draws up at Renniston. As they pass the gates, she glimpses the stunning frontage of the building and has a sudden rush of excitement that this is hers now.
What a long way I’ve come, from that tiny, noisy house in Gloucestershire, to this.
Then the car turns to the side, and pulls up in the space next to a muddy vehicle that must be Dan and Olivia’s. It has certainly seen better days, and next to the Daimler, it looks positively decrepit. She hopes it’s roadworthy enough for the twins to be driven in; two large seats in the back seem to indicate that their safety is taken seriously, at least. Giving Dan and Olivia a new car might be a more tricky proposition.
‘Can you bring the bags in, please?’ Francesca asks the driver as he holds the door open for her to emerge. ‘Just one case to start with. Then wait five minutes, and bring in the other bags. Thanks.’
She picks up the bag loaded with gifts and carefully makes her way over the muddy drive to the gate in the wall that leads into the cottage garden. Her cream ballet slippers are not exactly suitable for this so it’s a good thing she brought a pair of walking boots with her, along with a warm waterproof jacket. Her anticipation builds as she opens the garden gate and steps through. Her heart is pounding and she’s filled with a kind of delightful nervousness, knowing she’s about to see what she most longs for. The first thing she notices is great patches of white hanging in the air, and then realises that they are sheets hanging out, drying in the spring wind. Olivia is there, pegging out the last one. Now she can see, emerging from behind one of the flapping white squares, a child sitting aside a riding toy, pushing it along with their feet. The caramel-coloured hair is tied up in bunches – it’s grown! And she’s got curls at the ends – and the little body is wrapped up warmly in a bright spotted coat. Bea. Her heart swells with love for the tiny girl. Where’s Stan? She spots him at once, crouching over one of the borders, digging in the soil with his fingers. For a moment more, she enjoys the scene of their innocent play, and then she calls out.
‘Hello! I’m here!’
Olivia turns from the washing line she’s strung up over the old paving stones in front of the cottage, and waves, a big smile on her face. ‘Hi! You made it!’
‘Is it okay if Richard here takes the bags up?’ Francesca says, as the driver comes into the garden carrying her case.
‘Of course. Go upstairs, turn right, and it’s at the end of the corridor.’ Olivia walks towards them, homely in jeans and a flowery shirt with a cardigan over the top. She’s completely natural, her hair pulled back and her face bare.
And still not yet lost the baby weight.
‘Hello, darling,’ Francesca says, and kisses Olivia on each cheek. ‘You look lovely.’
Olivia laughs. ‘I know I don’t but it’s nice of you to say. Come on in. How was the journey?’
‘Oh, fine, I barely notice it now, I’m so used to it.’ She holds out the bag. ‘I come bearing gifts and you shall have them in return for a proper cup of English tea.’ She is studiously keeping her distance from the children but she is aware of them at every moment. Bea has stopped riding and is observing the new arrival with no sign of
recognition. Stan is still absorbed in his earth works.
‘You shouldn’t have, Cheska!’ Olivia exclaims, a little abashed at the sight of the loot. ‘You really do spoil us far too much. But how kind of you. Come on, let’s go in and I’ll get you that tea.’
Richard has made his journey up to deliver the case. He catches Francesca’s eye as he heads back towards the car and she gives a small nod. It won’t be too much trouble for him to slip past with the rest of the luggage.
‘Here are the children!’ she cries, sensing this is the moment to notice them. ‘Hello, sweeties, are you having fun? Do you like playing in the garden?’
‘Come and say hello,’ Olivia urges Bea, who is closest. Bea climbs off her yellow plastic ride-on and trots over obediently.
‘’lo,’ she says and smiles at Francesca. A wave of fierce love surges through her for the child. She drops to her knees, releasing the bag of gifts and hardly noticing the cold grass underneath her, and holds out her arms to her. Bea approaches, understanding that she is to be hugged, and submits to Francesca wrapping her in a tight embrace and kissing her cheek.
It is a wrench to let the child go, but Francesca releases her after a moment. She’s deeply, intensely moved. My daughter. My little girl. She looks up at Olivia, smiling. ‘Isn’t she just beautiful?’
Olivia gazes down at Bea, her eyes full of the same pride and love. ‘Yes, she is. Bea, you take Cheska inside, I’ll get Stan.’ She looks over at her son. ‘Oh my goodness, those fingernails of his are going to be caked with mud.’
‘Yes, you take me inside, Bea.’ Francesca takes up the girl’s small hand. ‘Let’s go to the kitchen. Would you like some juice and a biscuit? I’m sure Mummy will say it’s all right. Come on.’ The desire to have Bea to herself even just for a moment is so strong that she’s prepared to ignore Stan for the time being. She barely even notices when the driver murmurs that the bags are unloaded and he’ll be on his way. Everything is centred on the small child at her side, and the way she longs to feast on the sight of her.
They are at the kitchen table, the presents spread out in front of them. The twins are playing with their toys, sitting on their play mat and talking to each other in a mixture of words and babble that seems to make perfect sense to them. Francesca thinks that they are clearly bright.
‘This is really too much, Cheska, I mean it. You shouldn’t have.’ Olivia looks at the small mountain of expensive cosmetics that Francesca has brought her: oils, creams, tinted moisturisers, shimmery cheek colour and lip balms. ‘I really don’t bother with most of this stuff anymore.’
‘You will,’ Francesca says wisely. ‘Believe me, I know what it’s like. One day, you’ll suddenly realise that you’ve got some of your life back and you’ll want to start restoring yourself.’
Olivia laughs with a touch of embarrassment. ‘If you say so. My old self seems so far away now, I don’t know how I’ll ever get it back.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course you will. You just don’t have time to think about yourself. It’ll change, I promise. Besides . . . now that I’m here, I can help look after the twins. You can have a bit more time to yourself.’
‘That’s very nice of you,’ Olivia says, and takes a sip of her tea. ‘I’m sure that would be lovely but you’re not here to do my childcare for me. There’s obviously plenty here for you to oversee. Tom Howard called by earlier, as promised.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Francesca remembers the ostensible reason why she is here. ‘What did he say?’
Olivia describes the visit, passing on all that Tom Howard said. ‘So what exactly is going on at the moment?’
Francesca sighs. ‘It’s such an endless palaver – we submit plans, they consider them, then object or demand changes or more explanation. Then we resubmit and it all goes through the same process, over and over. And you can imagine how much we want to do here.’
‘I saw the place for the first time really. It is extraordinary.’ Olivia frowns and smiles at the same time. ‘But I don’t really understand how it’s going to be a home. It’s just so . . . large. How will you do it?’
‘We’re planning to do what the great houses do – have a comfortable family wing and very grand state rooms for big occasions,’ Francesca replies. She likes the way that sounds. As though that kind of life is second nature to her. ‘And we’ll collect whatever we can that’s related to the house’s history, for visitors to see.’
Olivia nods slowly. ‘That makes sense. But what made you want a house like that? Where you have to let the public in?’
Francesca shrugs. ‘Walt wanted it. He loves history. Owning a place like this is his dream come true. Did you see Queen Elizabeth’s bedroom?’
‘No. I didn’t know she had one!’
‘There’s nothing in it. But it’s worth seeing. I’ll show it to you sometime when we’ve got a moment.’
‘And what’s your plan while you’re here?’ Olivia asks, sipping her tea again, regarding Francesca with her clear blue-grey gaze. ‘Are you staying long?’
A flutter of panic goes over Francesca. She wants to be evasive but she knows she can’t be too vague. She has booked some appointments to make sure she has a purpose here and she goes over them quickly. ‘So all that should keep me busy.’ She smiles at Olivia. ‘I hope I won’t be under your feet too much.’
‘Don’t be silly, you’re very welcome! You can stay as long as you like. Consider this your home from home.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiles at Olivia, glad she has conveniently given the answer Francesca lined up for her. ‘That’s so sweet.’ She looks about. ‘Where’s Dan?’
‘Working. He’s requisitioned one of the small rooms down here as his study. He’s in there most of the day when he isn’t looking after the twins. I’ll call him – but he asked me to let him go for as long as possible before disturbing him.’
‘Oh no!’ Francesca holds up her hand. ‘Don’t call him on my account. There’ll be plenty of time to see him later.’
For the first time, she has something that takes precedence even over Dan. She turns to the twins chatting away to each other on their mat. Stan is pushing one of the toy trains she brought, while Bea works away at slotting the track together. She looks back at Olivia with a bright smile.
‘If you need to go and finish the washing, I’ll play here with the babies.’
‘All right.’ Olivia puts down her mug and gets up. ‘It’s certainly easier to get things done when I don’t have to watch them all the time. Thanks, Francesca.’
‘You’re very welcome. Think nothing of it.’
The three of them are absorbed in the game: Francesca has set up the railway track and now they are pushing the engines along the rails in a haphazard but generally good-natured way. There have been some squeals and squabbles over favourite trains or a preferred route – the bridge is particularly popular – but Francesca has calmed them down and sorted it out.
There’s a real connection between us. I can feel it. I know it’s there. And I think they can feel it too.
They’ve responded to her with a total acceptance of her authority. When she sorts out the argument, they are both content with the outcome, especially as she is careful to be absolutely fair. What startles her most is how alive she feels when she is near the children; it is almost as though the world begins to hum and vibrate in such an intense way it shakes her from within. Their beauty and the perfection of their features is almost overwhelming, too much to bear. She is unable to take her eyes off them, studying each one for her own likeness, or for the combination of herself and Dan. Stan has the blue eyes but his colouring is lighter than Dan’s. Bea – Francesca is full of silent, secret glee – Bea has clear green eyes like her own, with a dark brown rim around the iris. Her hair is definitely darkening towards Francesca’s own brunette. The slight toddler curl in her hair will disappear as it grows heavier and thicker, and then . . . She’ll look like me. I wonder if Olivia will notice. Surely it’s practically impossibl
e not to see it . . . but she won’t, of course. The one who notices will be Dan.
The door to the outer hall opens and Dan strides into the kitchen, as though summoned by her mental mention of his name. For a moment she feels like a witch who is conjuring strange and powerful spells, with power over who people are and what they do.
‘Olivia, when do we— Oh.’ He stops dead, gazing over at the play mat, where Francesca and the children are engaged in playing.
Stan looks up and sees him, immediately holding up his new prized possession. ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, look, look, train, train, train . . .’
Dan hardly looks; he is staring at Francesca, his expression hard to read. It is not joyful, that much she can tell. She’s been wondering how he will react to her act of rebellion and refusal to do as he says. ‘Hello,’ he says at last, his tone neutral. ‘I wasn’t sure what time you were coming. Good trip?’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘thanks.’ She’s pleased to see that he appears to have accepted the situation, but she can tell he isn’t listening, he’s looking quickly around the kitchen.
‘Where’s Olivia?’ he asks.
‘In the garden. She went to finish hanging out the washing.’ Francesca realises she’s been gone a while now. She must have been distracted. ‘Come and look at our train track.’ She wants Dan to join them on the mat, and play as well. She wants to feel a part of that complete unit: Mummy and Daddy and babies, all playing together . . .
‘I . . .’ He looks reluctant. ‘You’re obviously having a good time. If Olivia’s not here, perhaps I ought to get back to work.’
