‘Rather nice,’ Cordelia was saying, ‘to have chums with a holiday cottage in Salcombe.’
‘It makes a change from The Keep,’ Maria said quickly, wanting to give the impression that she had choices. She felt suddenly shy, wondering how to introduce the subject of Henrietta and Jolyon whilst still smarting from the knowledge that she’d been excluded from their secret. Cordelia saved her the trouble.
‘Isn’t the news wonderful?’ she asked, so naturally and easily. ‘Such a surprise to us all. The engagement, I mean. And isn’t it tiresome to be sworn to secrecy about it? Honestly, the young can be so intense, can’t they? But I’m afraid you must blame my daughter for it. Did Jo mention the reason to you?’
‘No,’ said Maria quickly. ‘No, not exactly.’
How could she say that Jolyon hadn’t trusted her enough even to tell her that they were in love; that he’d feared she might have made some unkind and hurtful remark to his beloved? Of course she couldn’t and, anyway, Cordelia surely knew that already; she’d been at The Keep that weekend. Humiliation threatened to weaken her again and she tried to concentrate on what Cordelia was telling her. She was saying something about Henrietta needing to explain to her employer, Susan, that she’d be leaving her when she got married and she didn’t want anyone else telling her first because Susan’s husband had walked out and she was in a bit of a state…
To be honest, she didn’t care too much about the details because she was so relieved that Cordelia didn’t seem to know about how things were between her and Jolyon, and she was able to relax and look about her and allow herself to feel happy. And when she saw the row of coastguard cottages perched at the end of the cliff she gave a cry of delight, probably overdoing it just a tiny bit because she wanted to reward Cordelia for being so kind to her.
Though when she got inside there was no need to fake her amazement. She walked into a room that brimmed with brilliant, shaking light; the sea and sky were just one immense bowl of tremulous radiance that made her gasp and stand in silent awe. Even the great hound that rose up so regally from its bed seemed all part of the magnificence. Cordelia opened the French door for her so that she could step out into the big stone balcony, and she stood in silence, overwhelmed by the glittering expanse of water and by an odd, unsettling sense of infinity. For a moment, she was seized with a sense of absolute peace, as if the light had somehow drenched her soul in its purifying lustre and washed away all her weakness and pettiness: a baptismal process that cleansed her, lifted her above the foolish striving of this world and set her down in a new place. She gulped the sweet, salty air and suddenly realized that her cheeks were wet with tears.
She turned, dazed, but Cordelia was busy making coffee, taking no notice, and she quickly wiped her cheeks and licked her salty lips and frowned into the brilliance, holding on to the stone wall.
‘Is it warm enough to have coffee outside?’ Cordelia was coming out, followed by the great hound that went to sit against the wall. ‘I often sit here swathed in shawls and rugs simply because I love it so much. After all these years I can never get enough of it. Yes, I think it will be. There’s no wind, is there? The chairs will be wet, though. Don’t sit on them until I’ve wiped them with a cloth.’
The business of wiping the chairs and setting out the coffee helped to get her over her first reaction, although her gaze was drawn over and over again to the vision of infinity beyond the stone wall. Cordelia poured the coffee out and sat down. Maria sat down too. Any need to gush or exclaim seemed to have vanished away. The stark, sheer cliffs and the dazzling expanse of water seemed to have reduced all emotions to one simple requirement: truth.
‘It’s extraordinary,’ she said, and she noticed that her voice was almost expressionless; no wheedling lilt or determined jolliness; not even the familiar whine of irritation and disappointment. ‘Do you ever get used to it?’
Cordelia shook her head. ‘It’s hardly ever the same, you see. And it’s always amazing. Having the sea as your neighbour teaches you that you’re never in control and, after a while, you accept that and relax into it. It’s extraordinarily freeing, if you know what I mean?’
‘Yes, I think I do. Except that it wouldn’t last, would it? Not if you couldn’t be here all the time.’
Cordelia was watching her thoughtfully. ‘Only so long as any uplifting experience stays with you. You have to make an effort, don’t you, to remember what it was like and, well, practise it, I suppose? Like meditation. Or contemplative prayer. You have one brief moment of glorious clarity before you descend again into the vast plains of doubt and anxiety.’
Maria remembered her earlier conversation with Jolyon. ‘Like Paul on the Damascus road?’ she asked. She sipped some coffee: the first shock was over and she was able to behave more normally. Even so, she didn’t have the usual desire to plunge into speech, to project the image – charming, amusing, winsome – with which she instinctively masked the insecurities and inadequacies that made up her persona. It was surprisingly restful not to have to act, to pretend.
‘The trouble is,’ she said, sipping some more coffee, ‘I feel so guilty all the time lately.’ She frowned, she hadn’t meant to say that, and she felt slightly alarmed, as if she were indeed out of control.
‘Tell me about it,’ Cordelia was saying, laughing rather bitterly. ‘Guilt seems to drive us all, doesn’t it? I wonder why. There doesn’t seem to be anything particularly life-enhancing about guilt, does there, that makes it necessary to the survival of the species?’
‘It’s just that Adam dying seems to have opened my eyes to so many things and I blame myself for a lot of mistakes in the past. I always manage to put the responsibility on to other people but I’m beginning to find it difficult to do that any more. I feel so ashamed. I go over and over the past and just tear myself to pieces.’ She sighed rather sadly. ‘Well, I suppose humility is good for the soul, at least.’
Cordelia frowned. ‘But self-blame is not necessarily humility, is it? Often it’s a form of self-rejection. True humility is something quite different. I think it’s rather dangerous to assume that because we’re beating ourselves up we’re actually addressing the real problem. We can even feel complacent about it instead of asking why we feel guilty. Perhaps feeling guilty lets us off actually looking honestly at ourselves, asking why it is we are rejecting ourselves, and then doing something about it.’
Maria felt confused; anxiety nibbled at the fringes of her new peacefulness. ‘How do you mean?’
Cordelia smiled ruefully. ‘Take no notice of me,’ she said. ‘It’s just a theory I’m working through in an attempt to cure myself of this debilitating guilt. We all make mistakes, and other people suffer because of them, but surely there must be a moment when we can ask forgiveness of them and let it go.’
There was a little silence.
‘And then?’ asked Maria tentatively.
Cordelia shrugged, pursed her lips. ‘And then, perhaps, we allow plenty of space all round and start practising true humility. We respect them and ourselves equally, and try to work together for good; not just our good, but their good, without assuming that we naturally know what that is. How does that sound? Confusing? Pretentious?’
‘It sounds…good,’ said Maria cautiously.
Cordelia grinned. ‘Great,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll write an article about it.’
Maria began to laugh. ‘You make it sound terribly easy.’
‘Writing it might be, though I doubt it; getting it published by a magazine, now that’s something else.’
Maria accepted more coffee and gave a sigh of pure pleasure. How good it was to sit here in the autumn sunshine with this odd, likeable woman, feeling no strain or stress.
‘Isn’t it odd,’ she remarked, ‘that we’re going to be comothers-in-law? There’s something quite…’ She hesitated, seeking for an appropriate word.
‘Random?’ suggested Cordelia. ‘Haphazard? I couldn’t agree more. Their children will share our genes. Now th
ere’s a scary thought.’
‘I’ve got to move soon,’ Maria told her, quite calmly, ‘and I don’t know where to go. I can’t stay in Penelope’s annexe for ever. That’s another random thing, isn’t it? I could go anywhere – and nobody would stop me.’
Cordelia glanced at her quickly – an odd, penetrating look of compassion – and Maria made a little face as if agreeing with something Cordelia had said aloud.
‘I know it sounds pathetic but I’m not used to making decisions, you see,’ she explained. ‘There have always been people, my parents, Hal, Adam, who have done it for me. I’m afraid of getting it wrong, and nobody would care. Nobody would actually stop me from making a terrible mistake. I’m really rather frightened.’
‘Do you have to move just yet?’ asked Cordelia gently. ‘Maybe the decision will become clearer if you give it time.’
‘It’s getting a bit embarrassing,’ she said, ‘just sitting there being dependent. I don’t want Pen getting fed up with me, though I think she actually likes having the company, but I’d rather jump than be pushed, if you know what I mean. There’s something else. My younger son, Ed, made a terrible business loss and my house was standing security for it. I had to sell up. Nobody knows. Not even Pen and Philip. I simply can’t bear the humiliation or the pity. Oh, I’m not destitute, I’ve got some good investments and enough over to buy something small, but it’s been a rather scary experience.’
She looked out over the shining sea, surprised at herself at making such an admission, at not bothering to keep up any kind of pretence. She glanced at Cordelia, who was exhibiting no signs of pity or disdain but merely murmured, ‘Isn’t life hell?’ and continued to drink her coffee thoughtfully. The relief of having finally told the truth was so exhilarating that Maria took another brave step.
‘I suddenly thought that I might move down here. To be nearer to Jolyon and the Chadwicks.’ She grimaced. ‘Jolyon wasn’t frightfully keen on the idea – and that’s putting it mildly.’
‘It’s too early,’ Cordelia said – and, turning again to look at her, Maria realized that she was not bothering to pretend either. ‘Don’t you think,’ Cordelia continued slowly, rather as if she were thinking it through as she talked, ‘that what we see as rejection in other people might simply be their need to protect themselves from our neediness? They might not be capable of supplying all the things we want from them so they withdraw to give themselves a little space. And then we feel hurt. But we don’t have to blame ourselves – or them – we just need to accept that we all have limitations. Perhaps Jo needs space at the moment. After all, he’s entering a momentous period of his life, isn’t he? I think that this engagement is a big step for both of them. This is your chance to show Jo just how much you love him, isn’t it?’
‘By keeping out of his way?’
‘By not pressing or pushing,’ corrected Cordelia. ‘By allowing him to see that you’re thinking about him and his needs, now, not you and yours.’
There was a little silence.
‘It’s a bit depressing, isn’t it?’ Maria said wistfully. ‘Not doing anything, just waiting.’
‘Oh, but tremendous things can happen when everything is lying fallow,’ exclaimed Cordelia. ‘Think of the wintertime with the earth sealed and silent, but all that growth going on underneath. And then the spring comes…’
‘You think it will come?’
‘Of course it will come. You’ve made the first move, which was brave, no matter what your reasons were, and there has been a response. It’s begun, the wheels are in motion. You’ve been invited down for Hal’s birthday and the engagement party for the family.’
‘Yes, that’s true. Though I’m rather dreading it. I shall feel such an outsider with the whole Chadwick clan there in force, and after all these years. My track record’s pretty rubbish, isn’t it? I’m rather frightened of Kit. I haven’t seen her for years and we were never good friends. Never mind.’ She straightened her shoulders as if instinctively bracing herself for battle. ‘It will be good practice for me to show Jo that I really mean to be different. The Chadwicks en masse can be quite powerful.’
‘I can imagine that it would be a bit daunting,’ admitted Cordelia. ‘Listen, I’ve had a thought. Would you like to stay here for the weekend? We can go and come to suit ourselves, and we’ll invite Jo and Henrietta over for a cup of tea or something. They’ll probably be quite glad to get away too.’
Maria stared at her in amazement. ‘Do you really mean it? But that would be wonderful. Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. We mums-in-law must stick together. We mustn’t allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by Chadwicks, delightful though they are.’
‘Thank you very much. I honestly don’t know what to say.’
‘No need to say anything.’ Cordelia got up. ‘We’ll have a drink while I think about lunch. Don’t get up. I can’t bear people watching me while I prepare food.’
She went into the cottage and Maria sat in absolute happiness, her mind quite still; none of the usual restlessness, no turning the last half-hour into an amusing little scene to be recounted to Philip and Penelope, no anxiety as to whether she’d acquitted herself well; just this amazing peace.
PART THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Thick grey mist, blank as a wall, blotted out the valley and the distant hills. Only the very tops of the tall beeches were visible, rising sharp and clear out of the cloud: each naked twig shining, vivid. Jolyon stood on the hill below The Keep wishing that he had the skill to paint this rather surreal scene, glad that the weekend, so long anticipated, was over. He couldn’t quite remember at what point the plan for his father’s birthday celebrations had tipped over into becoming a much more significant event; he was just relieved that Henrietta had been happy to go along with it and allow their engagement to be the cause of such jollity.
Kit had come down from London, Sam had brought two school friends home – after all, it was also half-term – and the rest of the family had been busy with the preparations for days beforehand. Jackie, from the village, had been called upon again to house-sit and look after the dogs and the ponies, and he’d picked Henrietta up on Saturday morning to drive her to The Keep. She’d been white-faced and tense and he’d felt anxious and guilty that his family had rather taken over.
‘It’s really Dad’s birthday,’ he’d said, so as to alleviate her anxieties, ‘and Kit’s, of course, since they’re twins, and it’s Sam’s half-term. Lizzie picked him up yesterday. He’s got two friends with him so there’s pandemonium but it’s always like this at this particular time of the year. It always has been. It was my great-grandmother’s birthday too, you see, as well as Dad and Kit’s, and since it generally coincided with half-term it became an institution. Us being engaged is not all that important, honestly.’
She’d grinned at him. ‘Thanks for that,’ she’d said.
‘You know I didn’t mean it like that,’ he’d protested. ‘I’m just trying to say that we’re celebrating lots of things so you needn’t feel too embarrassed,’ and she’d given him a hug and they’d both relaxed a bit.
‘It’s just a tad overwhelming,’ she’d admitted. ‘There are rather a lot of you, you know – Fliss says some of Susanna’s family are going to be there – and being an only child I’m just not used to it. I like it, though, and I’ll be fine when I’ve met all these new ones. It’s lovely that they’re all so pleased about it. I’m being silly, really.’
He knew that part of her difficulty was that Susan had taken the news rather badly and this had upset Henrietta.
‘I was half expecting it,’ she’d told him after the telephone call to New Zealand, ‘which is why I kept putting it off, I suppose, but she was almost bitter. It wasn’t personal, she says she’s very fond of you, but she asked me if I was really sure, and stuff like that. Well, the timing’s not too good, is it? She’s been really let down so you can’t expect her to feel terribly positive about the married state.
It was awful, doing it on the phone, but I’m glad it’s over now. I told her I’d stay with her until she found a new nanny but she was rather negative about the whole thing and said she didn’t know how she’d tell the children that I’d be leaving too.’
The Prodigal Wife Page 26
