“Not a lot. He has a good team of blokes working there, but he is always game to take his jacket off and show them how the job should be done, when necessary.”
“He and Anne have a good life. Their boys are growing up. George is twelve, now and Derek is fourteen. Pity poor old Filly is so ill.”
“Yes. Anne practically lives in her house at the moment, helping to nurse her, but I gather she is steadily going downhill.”
Greg gazed down into his beer sadly. It was hard to think of young Felicity with her giggly blue eyes, yellow curls bouncing as she darted round the other side of the tennis net before he and Sarah were even married, now old, wrinkled, white-haired and dying. Was it a good thing, perhaps, that Sarah had been taken from him so many years ago, still in her fifties, so that she had been spared this awful ageing process? He sighed, knowing how much he would have preferred the opportunity to share their ageing together. He had missed her so dreadfully, the one and only love of his whole life. Of course, he was lucky to have a daughter like Sue and a son like Richard, along with their jolly families, to keep him young and alert. It was disappointing that young Stephanie was an unmarried mother, but she was a nice girl and hopefully would find a husband and respectability eventually.
“Better be getting home for lunch or Gelly will complain,” George said, heaving his stout body up from his chair.
Greg drained his glass and unwound his lean frame to stand, towering, over his lifelong friend. “Yes. Sue likes to have lunch on the table sharp at one.” He loved the routine of lunching with Sue and the family on Sundays.
*
“You are late today.” Neal looked up from the Financial Times as Debbie came into the flat. “Is my step-sister overworking you?”
“Heaven’s no! In fact I left the shop ages ago. I had one or two things to see to before coming home.” She dropped her bags in an armchair and crossed to where he sat, planting a kiss among the few hairs left on the top of his head.
He twisted in his chair to find her mouth, kissed her long and hard. “So what things had to be seen to?”
“Well, we hadn’t anything in the fridge for supper, for a start.”
“So what did you get?”
“A couple of steaks, some French bread, salad, and a bottle of wine.”
“Wow! A real feast! What’s the celebration?”
“I have had an idea. You know Anne and Richard have decided to sell Great Aunt Filly’s house, out on L’Ancresse Common?”
“I didn’t. But go on.”
“I wondered if we might consider buying it for ourselves?”
“We could consider it, I suppose,” he said, doubtfully. “I can’t even picture it. I’ve never set foot in the place.”
“It’s a lovely, old-fashioned bungalow with fabulous views.”
“And equally old-fashioned plumbing and wiring, no doubt.”
“Oh, Neal!” she pretended to pout. “Blow the plumbing! It’s a place to die for! I’ve always loved it. Mummy used to take us there, visiting, when we were kids. It’s a wonderful spot for children, being able to step out of the front door on to the Common to play. And perfectly safe.”
“But what’s brought this on? I thought we had agreed to stay here in Town until we started a family?”
“We did. And that’s the other reason for a celebration dinner. I’ve just been to the doc and he has confirmed it. I’m pregnant.” She watched for his reaction, and wasn’t disappointed.
A huge grin spread over Neal’s face. “Yippee!” he bounced out of his chair, flinging sheets of the FT across the floor, and gathered her into his arms. “Oh my sweet! My darling, clever little girl!” At last he was going to be a father; he had begun to think it might never happen.
*
The late Felicity Warwick’s bungalow was not yet officially on the market. Anne Gaudion had wandered through the rooms several times, but had not had the heart to begin the dismantling of her mother’s treasures, which would have to be done before strangers were admitted for ‘viewings’. There were so many precious ornaments, tiny silver replicas of tennis trophies she had won with Richard’s mother, Sarah. Sepia photographs in silver-embossed frames. Mementos of holidays taken with Father, items of furniture which had belonged to generations of ancestors. It was impossible to know where to start. So sad. The end of an era.
Richard had apparently told his mother that the place would be sold, and Sue had mentioned it to Debbie. Hence the latter had telephoned the previous evening to ask if it might be possible to take Neal round to see it. Of course Anne had said yes – she didn’t want to refuse and sound rude, but she wasn’t at all sure she was ready for this move, yet, only two months after her mother’s funeral.
“Debbie and Neal might be the very answer to the problem,” Richard had said. “They might be interested to buy much of the furniture and fittings – you know how Debbie loves traditional things and antiques.”
Anne had thought about it for a while, then agreed. “It would be nice to feel the place stayed in the family, along with some of Mummy’s treasures. She would be heartbroken to think of everything being sold off to strangers.”
So Anne had opened up the bungalow the following afternoon to air the rooms, and even put a vase of roses on the oak coffee table, waited till Debbie and Neal arrived and left them to wander at will and return the key to her at home when they left.
Neal was enormously enthusiastic, right from the beginning, quickly overcoming his reservations about the outdated bathroom and dilapidated electrical wiring. “That can all be dealt with in due course,” he declared. “Just look at this view! And the lovely master bedroom built into the attic. We can lie in bed and look at the sea! I mean, it’s not huge, but very cosy!”
“Our bed would fit in here very nicely, and Aunt Filly’s single can go into a spare room. Don’t you just love her dressing-table?”
“Do you think Anne would be willing to part with some of these pieces?” he asked, running a hand appreciatively over a pretty Victorian chair.
“I think she would love to feel that anything she can’t take would stay in situ.”
“It will stretch our resources, I’m afraid, to the limit. We may not be able to do much by way of improvements for some time.”
“So what? We have all the time in the world, haven’t we?”
There was no question about the fact that they were both as keen as mustard to buy.
So after consultations with Roderick and Alex Grolinski with regard the true value, Anne and Richard came up with an asking price over which Neal haggled only slightly, hands were shaken and it was agreed they would pass contracts within the month.
*
“Cooee! Where are you?” Stephanie called as she hurried through the house.
“In the kitchen!” Sue and her granddaughter shouted in unison. They were both wearing pinafores and up to the elbows in flour.
“You’re baking! What’s cooking?”
“We’ve made a pie for tomorrow’s lunch and this is for blackberry and apple crumble,” Sarah told her mother. “When Gran fetched me from school we went blackberrying. We got lots!”
“I see that. And ate lots, too, judging by the state of your face!” she stooped to kiss the child, then flopped into a kitchen chair. “Is this tea hot?” she indicated the pot sitting at her elbow, under a cosy.
“Made about ten minutes ago. There’s a cup there for you. Help yourself. There, young lady, I think that crumble is about ready, don’t you?”
“Can we cook it now?”
“We’ve got to get home, darling,” Stephanie interrupted. “We both have things to do.”
“Oh Mummy! Please?” Sarah wailed.
“Shh! No need to panic,” her grandmother admonished. “I’ve put some of the fruit mixture into a plastic tub, and some of this crumble can go in a bag for you to take home and cook for your supper.”
“Oh goodie!” the child squealed.
“Thanks, Mum,” Stephanie ackn
owledged Sue’s thoughtfulness. Which didn’t start and finish with apple crumble! Her mother was such a brick, collecting Sarah from school every weekday, and having her here during the holidays, taking such a load off her mind, leaving her free to work and concentrate on her career. It remained hard going, forcing herself out of bed early every morning to make herself look neat and smart for the day, cook breakfast, make preparations for the evening meal and leave their home reasonably tidy. Then get Sarah ready for school and deliver her there, before hurrying into Town to hunt for a car park. However much she enjoyed her work, the extra chores at morning and evening made the days very long and tiring, so it was wonderful to know that Sarah was with her grandmother, and far happier than with a paid carer. That was another thing, the saving of money; for of course Sue flatly refused to be compensated financially, even for the petrol in her car.
“Having Sarah with me so much is all the reward I need. She keeps me young and feeling useful. You have no idea how redundant some women feel at my age.”
Stephanie knew her mother wasn’t exaggerating, though she guessed there were many times when she might have preferred the chance to relax, to do something more amusing. As for herself, Stephanie was aware that tiredness was the cue for the recurrence of memories of the commune, of the luxury of lying in bed till one felt inspired to get out, of drifting, undriven, through the hours of a day unhurried, unpressured by clocks and business hours, uninterrupted by beeping phones and appointment diaries, but those memories always ended with shuddering thoughts of the downside – the aimlessness and the endless dirt.
Her salary remained very modest but was sufficient to rent what had once been a holiday chalet near L’Islet, no great distance from La Rocquette de Bas. A roll of secondhand carpet, some discarded curtains from home and various pieces of redundant furniture from Mum’s attic had turned the soulless four walls into a cosy home. Granpa Greg had supplied a bed and some old paintings and a few potted plants had completed the picture.
Of the pair, Sarah had most enjoyed the building of their new nest, installing her toys, favourite Rabbit taking pride of place on her bed.
“Long may your desire to fight redundancy continue!” Stephanie laughed. “Now we must away. Being Saturday tomorrow Sarah and I will be at home, so I doubt you will see us.”
“But you will come for lunch on Sunday, won’t you?” Sue insisted.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
*
“Why, after nearly twenty years, do I still have this urgent desire to maul your body?” Stephen nuzzled under the curls in the back of Sue’s neck while his hands moved over the front of her T-shirt.
“You always were a lecher!” She leaned against him, turning her face to rub the short stubble on his chin with her forehead.
“And I suppose the children would call me a dirty old man, if they saw us.”
“Wouldn’t they be right?” she stopped stirring the gravy, pulled the saucepan away from the heat and twisted in his arms, reaching up to draw his face down to hers.
“Really, you two! Must you carry on like that in public!” Bobbie exclaimed as he came in the backdoor.
“Why the hell not?” his father demanded. “You do!”
“I’m barely twenty!”
“So what? Do you imagine that gives you a priority on lust?”
The boy roared with laughter. “Lust! At your age!”
“Bobbie!” his mother complained. “I shall be very disappointed for you if you can no longer lust after your wife when you have been married a mere twenty years!”
“Honestly, Mum! You have to be joking!”
“Of course, darling,” she said with a note of sarcasm. “Now I shall be dishing up in five minutes and I don’t want you disappearing into the bathroom as soon as I put it on the table.”
“Of course not, Mother,” returning the sarcasm with interest. “As though I would.”
Playfully, Sue pulled the ovencloth from her shoulder and flung it at his head.
“Lunch!” Stephen called across the lawn to the tennis court where Debbie and Neal were playing.
“Thank heavens for that. I’m starving!” Already there was a slight bulge under her tennis skirt, denoting she would be eating for two. “Anyway,” she added as she came into the kitchen, “It’s not much fun playing with Neal at the moment. He’s so afraid I might over-stretch myself that he deliberately returns every ball to the centre of my racquet.”
“Quite right too,” said Greg from the doorway, remembering how taboo the subject of pregnancy had been when his Sarah was expecting Sue. When she had told her mother the glad tidings, the old lady hadn’t spoken to her for weeks!
“Not many of us today for lunch,” Sue complained as she carried in the roast pork.
“Uncle John and Edna not coming?” asked Stephanie, following with an ashet piled with roast potatoes.
“No. They’ve been invited out to friends in St Saviour’s.”
“And what about Roderick and Jane?” Stephen brought in the carrots and parsnips.
“She is still getting the most appalling morning sickness.”
“Why?” Greg asked. “Is she pregnant again?”
“Oh Dad! You are becoming so forgetful! I’ve told you several times. She’s nearly four months gone, now!”
“And I suppose Sir Gordon and Lady Sybil are still in Spain,” Bobbie observed.
“Yes.” Stephen picked up the carving knife and honed it up and down the steel. “I wonder how they are getting on.”
*
Lady Sybil was stretching out on a sunbed on the naya, overlooking the little fishing port of Moraira on the east coast of Spain. They had seen scarcely a cloud since arriving at the villa nearly a month ago. General Sir Gordon Banks, now a youthful eighty-three, preferred a recliner chair where he could read yesterday’s papers more comfortably until they dropped on to the naya tiles and he fell under the spell of the Spanish siesta hour. He enjoyed their annual trip to the sun; he felt truly invigorated by the drive south from St Malo, down the superb French autoroutes – even Spain was extending her autopistes, though Sybil who did all the navigating, complained bitterly that the signposting left too much to guess work. He thought this villa, the same one they rented every year, was delightful, with it’s tosca stone arches, wide shady nayas with tosca balconies, decoratively curved iron rejas over the windows and colourfully tiled kitchen and bathrooms. Three times a day he plunged into the blue-tiled swimming pool to do the statutory ten lengths and showered away the clorine before changing into khaki shorts and sandals, North African desert gear as he remembered it. The only thing that got his goat, slightly, was the fact that the English papers were always one day late. Not that it really mattered nowadays – he was not in a position to influence national events any longer, though he did like to keep up with current affairs.
His eyes drifted over the stone balcony to the glistening horizon where two yachts were seeking, unsuccessfully, a breath of wind to fill their sails. Then he smiled as he watched his wife slumbering, her magazine on the floor beside her. She was so beautiful still, a mere girl of sixty-two. He knew she assisted her hair to remain as blonde as ever, but her figure in that skimpy two-piece bathing suit remained perfect, revealing how she had gently toasted her skin to a golden tan.
“Hmm!” he would need to get some sleep, ready for this evening. They were meeting up with some English friends who had settled out here, years ago. Not something he would care to do himself: nothing to do here all year round but drink till you dropped. No, he preferred living in the island amidst constant family and friends, where one had easy access to London’s theatres and clubs.
Sybil wore a sleeveless, pale turquoise silk dress and matching stole, with gold-mounted ivory earrings and ivory bead necklet. Gordon was in a linen khaki suit, the jacket doubling as open-necked shirt and tunic.
Jean and Geoffrey Havers were waiting for them in the bar at the Parador in Javea, and the four settled down in
a corner with gins and tonics.
“Lovely to see you both looking so fit and bronzed,” Jean remarked. “You were quite pale when you arrived.”
“Not a very bright start to the summer, this year, up north,” Sybil responded. “In fact jolly frigid!”
“So the family tell us,” Geoffrey nodded. “It’s why we prefer to live out here.” He turned to Gordon. “Doesn’t the though ever cross your mind?”
“Not seriously. Too far from London and from the family.”
“Personally, I think having the family out to stay for a fortnight each year is more than enough. Their visit always leaves us feeling totally washed out,” Jean complained. “Can’t think of anything worse than living within permanent hailing distance of them.”
“Absolute hell,” her husband nodded, laughing. “The women would end up never speaking to each other.”
So much for family unity, Sybil thought, picturing the happy family lunches at the Martels’ home. Of course she was in no position to make judgements, never having had any children herself. Gordon already had a family by his first wife and had had no desire to start again. They had a very different kind of lifestyle, enjoying each other, indulging their whims and fancies, travelling . . . but she would have considered herself a failed parent to have maintained such a miserable relationship with any progeny. Such antagonism and intolerance!
“. . . bridge last night with friends who have a villa in near Orba,” Geoffrey was saying. “We were talking cars: well, as you know ours is getting truly dilapidated and we want to get a new one. Trouble is bringing it into the country without paying phenomenal duty on it. So I pricked up my ears when they told us about this fellow who deals in really good quality secondhand cars. Brings ’em in duty free. So I asked them for an introduction.”
“Are you sure it is legal?” Gordon asked.
“Seems to be all above board. The fellow swears they are clean, so who’s to query it?”
“I imagine he is doing a roaring trade. Is he a Spaniard?”
“No, no. English. Name of Jason Smith. And by coincidence I believe he has some connection with one of the Channel Islands. He also deals in boats.”
The Guernsey Saga Box Set Page 73
