* * *
In the car, travelling back to Bristol, the girls sit in silence. They know that they have behaved badly but they also know that, though Natasha’s loyalty is to them and not to Adam’s parents and that she refuses to hear a word against her children, she is secretly embarrassed by their behaviour.
Natasha is humiliated but refuses to acknowledge it: she implies that the old dears must put up with it. Adam is cross and as she drives she is wondering how she can keep these tiresome visits to a minimum without Adam losing his inheritance. It’s not really fair to the girls to introduce another set of elderly people into their lives, especially when Adam is not even particularly close to his parents. And she simply cannot bring herself to call them Mo and Pa: she said so to Adam right from the start. It’s ridiculous to use such silly names; she’d feel a fool.
‘It’s not important,’ Adam said. ‘Get over it. Everyone calls them Mo and Pa.’
Nevertheless she insists on calling them Mollie and Patrick. The girls, taking her lead, refuse to call them anything at all – which they know she finds a bit difficult, and annoys Adam – and she says defensively that she can see their points of view.
‘It’s not as if they’re grandparents,’ she said to Adam. ‘The girls have got two sets of those already. They don’t need any more.’
The girls agreed: they certainly don’t. But they could see he was annoyed.
‘So what will they call them?’ he asked. ‘They can’t call them Mollie and Patrick.’
She didn’t answer. Sometimes she finds this is the best way: silence is a very useful weapon.
The girls have made a note of this and use the same trick themselves. They have agreed between themselves that their mother is more malleable if she has a man around. Adam’s presence ensures an ongoing conflict of loyalties and by clever manipulation they are assured of more treats and attention than when Natasha is managing alone and expects more cooperation from them and is often touchy, tired and short-tempered. However, they do not regard him as a permanent fixture in their lives – he is too irritable, too selfish – but they are experts in control and they will choose their time to evict him. Just now they want to put an end to these trips to Cornwall. So they wait.
‘So,’ Natasha says. ‘Did you manage to say anything?’
‘Yes,’ he says shortly, staring out of his window
Watching from the back seat the girls can see that his body language is telling her that he doesn’t want to talk right now. Probably he doesn’t want them to hear. He hunches away from her, scowling out, and they wait in breathless silence to see what she will do.
‘What then?’ she insists, though she lowers her voice. ‘Did she see your reasoning? About you having power of attorney?’
He sighs heavily. ‘She says they haven’t made any plans. In fact, she turned the tables on me and asked what our plans are? She said that I might die suddenly and, if I did, would everything go to you?’
She gives him a quick sideways glance. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well.’ He shrugs. ‘I suppose she’s got a point.’
‘What point?’
‘Oh, come on,’ he says crossly. ‘They don’t like the idea of you and the girls inheriting half of their property if anything happens to me.’
The girls nudge each other: here it comes.
‘That’s hardly fair, though, is it?’ Natasha says. ‘You’re their son, after all. And we’re your family now. Which means their family.’
‘In that case,’ he mutters, ‘it might be wiser to act like it. You doing your patronizing “Patrick and Mollie” act, and your children behaving like louts …’
Natasha’s grip tightens on the wheel; she prepares to defend her corner: ‘I resent that. We’ve given up another weekend to drive all this way …’
The girls grin at each other: result. They sit back in their seats as a bitter little argument develops.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Dossie says rapidly. ‘I sent a text but you didn’t answer and I wondered if it was just the signal playing up again. But I wasn’t far away so I just thought I’d dash down to say “Hi” and to see how you were getting on …’
She looks around her, smiling, still keeping up the jolly, casual approach, but she is feeling embarrassed. Rupert’s welcome hasn’t been one of unconditional joy and she is cursing herself for seizing this chance and taking him by surprise. Yet why shouldn’t she? Surely they have known each other long enough for her to make such a move. It occurs to her that, up until now, it is he who has been the proactive one; suggesting meetings and times and places.
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he’s saying, ‘except that I’ve no picnic this time, nothing prepared for you. In fact, the place is a bit of a mess.’ He begins to laugh, looking a bit shamefaced, regaining his composure. ‘The truth is I made a bit of an effort last time, so as to impress you.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ she cries, relieved. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just you said something about having to dash upcountry for the weekend so I thought I’d come and say goodbye.’
She feels a complete fool now. All the way here she’s imagined this meeting: how his face would light up when he saw her and that he might even take her in his arms, and she hoped that the unexpectedness of it would precipitate something exciting; something physical. She’s been playing Joni Mitchell’s ‘At Last’ again as she drove over, feeling light-hearted and happy and full of love for him; and wanting to feel his arms round her. Instead, his reaction has made her feel as if she were taking liberties.
‘Look,’ he’s saying now, ‘come and sit in the sun. I’m sorry I was a bit off. It’s just that I’m not looking forward to this trip. I’m going to see my bank manager to try to sort out a bit of extra finance for that cottage we saw. The owner’s holding out on me to raise my offer. It’s been a very slow season for the rental market and I need to reassess one or two things. I may have to put this place out on a long let, for instance. Or put it back on the market when I’ve finished it, though it’s not the best time for trying to sell.’
She is sympathetic at once; sitting down at the little table, looking at him with concern.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t thinking …’
‘Why should you?’ he asks quickly. ‘I’d got myself into a bit of a state. Look, I’ll go and make us some coffee. Only instant, I’m afraid. And, like I said, no picnic.’
‘That’s fine,’ she says warmly, anxious to reassure him and to comfort him. ‘Of course it is. I just wanted to say “Hi”, that’s all.’
‘Bless you,’ he says, smiling now. ‘Shan’t be a minute.’
He goes away into the cottage and she slumps a little with relief. Poor Rupert, no wonder he is looking a bit stretched and preoccupied. This might not be the moment for passion but at least she can support him; make him laugh. It’s hard, when you’re alone, to deal with all the problems of running a business and earning a living.
Slowly, as she sits quietly, she grows aware of the noise of the water. The little stream is full to overflowing after the heavy rain of the last two weeks, and the grass is sodden underfoot. No chance of a walk today, or lunch at the pub, as she’s hoped; she won’t suggest it. She’ll play it by ear.
He comes out looking more relaxed, carrying two mugs. ‘You’ve caught me out, you see,’ he tells her cheerfully. ‘I had it all off perfectly last time, hoping to impress you, and now I’m reduced to two mugs of instant coffee.’
‘You don’t need to impress me,’ she answers. ‘Surely you know that by now.’
He reaches out and touches the back of her hand with one finger, running it lightly up and down.
‘You’re a darling,’ he says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’ He stops stroking her hand and picks up his mug. ‘But how are you? Didn’t you say that your brother was down again? How did it go?’
She can’t speak at once; his touch has unsettled her and she wants to take his hand. She drink
s some coffee to cover her reaction.
‘It’s difficult,’ she says at last, marvelling at the calmness of her voice. ‘He wants Mo and Pa to make all these decisions about The Court. Well, I told you, didn’t I? I suppose it would help if we all had a crystal ball and knew what the future held.’
She falls silent, waiting. Rupert raises his eyebrows and draws down the corners of his mouth; a facial shrug.
‘Wouldn’t it just?’ he agrees lightly. ‘I’d give a great deal to know what my bank manger is going to say this afternoon, for instance.’
It isn’t the answer she hopes for but she rallies. ‘This afternoon? Where are you meeting him?’
He hesitates very briefly. ‘In Bristol. I’ve had my account since I was at university there. I shall stay on for a few days and see my mother.’
Somehow she hasn’t expected a mother and for some reason she can’t quite understand it makes her feel more cheerful. He glances at his watch and she finishes her coffee and sets down the mug.
‘I’d better let you get on,’ she says, getting up. ‘Have a good journey.’
He gets up too, and they walk together to her car. She smiles at him, not quite knowing what to say.
‘Thanks for the coffee.’
Quickly he put his arms round her and kisses her passionately, taking her by surprise. She responds instinctively, holding him tightly.
‘Darling Dossie,’ he mutters. ‘I wish I didn’t have to rush away. I’ll text you. Take care.’
He lets her go just as suddenly and, shaken and confused, she climbs into the car, fumbling with the keys, hardly knowing what she is doing. He has already walked away and now stands by the door, watching her. She backs the car out and turns, and pauses to wave to him. Rupert raises his hand in response and she drives quickly away.
Rupert takes the mugs inside and rinses them under the tap, runs upstairs to finish packing his bag and, twenty minutes later, is driving in the opposite direction. He curses under his breath, regretting the missed opportunity with Dossie simply because there is too much evidence in the cottage to support his supposedly single status. He’ll remember that, just in case there is a next time, though he generally prefers to play away rather than at home. The real problem is that Dossie isn’t the sort to mess around. He suspects that if she finds out that he’s married she’ll drop him – and he’s got rather fond of her. He wonders if he’s read her right and whether she might after all be prepared for a little fling: she fancies him, he knows that. He remembers the kiss. She’d been ready for it then, he’d swear to it. Perhaps she doesn’t want a permanent relationship and he’s being a fool in not seizing the chance. It’s a pity that she should turn up just as he’s on his way to Bristol: to Kitty.
And what about Kitty? Since meeting Dossie he’s been quite enjoying his double life and he doesn’t want to spend all his weekends in Bristol with the wretched Sally and Bill always on the doorstep, making up foursomes. And Mummy, tottering on her frame between her little sitting-room and her bedroom, or in her wheelchair, not even able to make it into the garden now. Though actually Mummy’s still up for a bit of a laugh, poor old darling: wheezing away, gasping for breath, tears of mirth filling her eyes when he teases her outrageously. The prognosis isn’t good. Six months at the most now, the doctor says. She’s still very with it mentally, but she suffers from angina attacks, shortness of breath and she gets very dizzy and even faints if she overdoes things. He understands why Kitty feels she must be there, but they argue so much of the time now about whether or not she will ever be able to face returning to the life she once enjoyed.
‘You loved Cornwall,’ he reminds her. ‘We’ve had such fun. You said you never wanted to live in a city again.’
‘I know I did,’ she cries. ‘I know! So OK, things have changed. Perhaps I’ve changed. It’s just that I’m enjoying being back in civilization. I’d forgotten what it’s like to be able to go to the theatre or the cinema almost on a whim, or to text a girlfriend and have lunch. I was born and brought up here, remember. It’s my home.’
‘But not in a flat, even if it is in Sneyd Park looking down the River Avon,’ he answers. ‘I feel suffocated here. You know I do.’
Her face turns sulky then, and she stops trying to jolly him out of his determination.
‘You don’t have to go on with this renovating work,’ she says. ‘We could afford for other people to do it. We’ve got a big property portfolio now, and poor Mummy will leave me very well off. We’ll be able to sit back and enjoy it.’
‘I don’t want to sit back and enjoy your money,’ he shouts. ‘I love my work. I love the planning and designing and making an old place beautiful again. I thought you liked it too. You were pretty keen about it at the beginning. You said you loved the independence, the freedom and the wonderful satisfaction when we’d finished a cottage. You said you loved all that. Do you really see us sitting here in this flat with no purpose to our lives? What the hell would I do? Go with you to have coffee with Sally and her boring, horse-mad husband? Take up a tidy little hobby? For God’s sake! We’re not fifty yet.’
Then she walks out, banging the door, and there will be a period of non-negotiable silence, warming very gradually into monosyllabic interchanges, followed by a hasty reconciliation before he goes back to Cornwall. He’s begun to dread these weekends and just lately he’s allowed them to become less regular, pleading an excess of work or sudden problems. He’s also beginning to see the advantages of having a bit more freedom: perhaps a compromise can be reached after all. He envisages a scene where Kitty is close but not necessarily too close: far enough away to give him a little more scope.
Kitty and Sally are having coffee. Kitty is faintly irritated – Sally has turned up unexpectedly – but she tries not to show it. Sally is quite aware of Kitty’s irritation and is quietly enjoying it. She likes to control their friendship – always has; ever since they were two little new girls at Clifton High.
‘You can be my new best friend.’ Sally has the important air of someone who knows the ropes. Indeed, she has two older siblings at the school – one of whom is a prefect – and Kitty is dazzled by her good fortune. And so it is through all the years of growing up: Sally leads and Kitty follows.
‘Like the new haircut,’ says Sally now. ‘At least … is it a tad short? A tiny bit? You have to balance your jaw line. Anyway, it’ll grow out. No, no, it looks great. Honestly. So Rupert’s on his way. He hasn’t made the last couple of weekends, has he? I expect he’s hurrying to get the cottage finished. You simply mustn’t let him buy another one, lovey. It’s madness, him being away like this. You must be so worried, well, not worried exactly, but edgy. Well, he’s such a charmer, isn’t he? Not that he’d do anything, of course, but the mid-forties is a dangerous age, isn’t it? Even dear old Bill is beginning to fear time’s winged chariot is hurrying a bit too near. Did you see him at the Club last time we were there with poor Claire? Of course, she played up to him. Honestly, I did laugh. I said to her afterwards, “Just ignore him.” Still, I’m really sorry to hear that your mum is worse again. You are such a saint. Bill was only saying last night, “Kitty is an absolute saint to put her marriage on hold for her mother. And old Rupert all on his own in Cornwall.” Look, I must dash away. I know you’ve got lots to do and I’m having lunch with Claire. See you soon …’
She whirls out on a trail of scent and a flutter of scarves and a clattering of heels. Sally still looks amazingly young: her longish, bobbed, ashy-blonde hair is more ash than blonde but she doesn’t care.
‘Dyeing the hair is so ageing, don’t you think,’ she says occasionally, glancing with a little secret smile at Kitty’s dark – rather darker, these days – short hair.
Kitty slams the front door behind her and peers in the hall mirror, turning her chin slightly. Is her hair too short for her slightly square jaw? She can see now that it is, and some of her confidence trickles away. Sally’s observations have roused other fears. Of course, Sally always fan
cied Rupert herself; still does. But she’s simply not his type: she’s much too managing, much too bossy.
‘I had a sergeant-major just like her,’ he said just after they met – and they’d laughed together, though she’d felt guilty. Guilty, but pleased.
Sally was there when she first met him: they’d been taking a mid-term break together from their university office.
‘Dishy,’ Sally said, after Rupert had shown them round the cottage and given them a key. ‘He fancies you.’
They had a fit of giggling, just as if they were still schoolgirls, but now, as Kitty stares at her hair – it is too short – she can still remember the little jolt in the diaphragm when she looked at him that very first time. He told her his future plans for the restoration of old properties over a pint in the pub one evening. His vision and passion thrilled her and she knew quite simply and clearly that she wanted to be with him every minute. And she had been: camping, laughing, working together.
So why not now? It isn’t that she doesn’t want to be with him; it is simply that she’s got used to city life again, and the prospect of going back to remote cottages and painting walls has suddenly lost its appeal. Even the days she’s spent down at the cottage haven’t reignited any enthusiasm. She prefers it when he comes to Bristol. If she’s fair she has to admit that, if she were living with him, the cottage would be much more comfortable but she doesn’t want to be fair. Just at the moment it is rather good having a big, roomy flat to live in, with the city on her doorstep. Even with Mummy in her confined state and needing supervision, she manages her moments of freedom.
She’s still hoping that without her there, Rupert, too, might be tiring of this peripatetic way of life, and that he’ll be pleased to take it easier, but so far he’s made it clear – very clear – that such a future does not appeal to him at all. Of course, it’s a bit tricky with poor Mummy ill – she can understand that – and Rupert’s not the kind of man to function at his best in the sick-room atmosphere. That’s why he’s not getting back quite so regularly; nothing to do with playing around. Sally has always liked to imply that he’s not quite to be trusted – and, to be honest, there have been a couple of moments when she’s had to be very watchful – but she’s always been able to tell when he’s being distracted. He seems to almost shine with contentment, eyes bright, and he’s even more up for it than usual.
The Christmas Angel Page 15
