Jamie took his time to reply, rolling the possibilities around his mind, well aware that if you took even one tiny step across a boundary line it is impossible to return.
‘You don’t look as though you make mistakes, Prue. You’re too careful a person.’
Was she? Prue asked the curtainless bedroom, and went to look at the London-scape spread beneath the window. Roofs touched by tungsten-light. Black tree shapes. Patches of gloom where the back garden met others. Who knew what was sliding through them? Foxes? Cats? Burglars?
At home, she thought with a catch in the throat, the earth would be wet from the rain and sodden mulch would be masking the spring growth. In the moonlight, her Prunus acquired the witchy grace of a Rackham painting, and silence spread under the night sky, with only the occasional fox bark to break it.
Prue let the sheet which covered the window drop. She had discovered that Jamie was thirty-nine. She had not imagined he was virtually her own age.
Nanny agencies kept Prue busy on the phone for a good part of the day, time she had wished to spend on Joan but which was filled instead with taking details of Alisons, Sarahs and Annes for Violet to consider. Were they NNEBs? Could they drive? None of them seemed ideal.
She rang Max and told him that it was the job to be in, car, flatlet, good pay, and you could demand the world. One had asked to bring her own baby, the other was into riding and wished to stable her horse at the nearest livery. Even the last failed to raise Max’s interest, ‘Tell me the news,’ she begged.
‘Met the new occupant of the Dower House, a Lady Truscott.’
‘And . . .?’
‘Silly woman. Huge pearls, nicotine-stained fingers and when I asked her what her husband had been she said, “A gentleman.’”
Prue laughed with real enjoyment. ‘Wonderful,’ she said.
‘When are you coming home?’
His need for her was palpable down the phone and Prue, once again, was conscious of the seethe and prick of rebellion.
‘Friday morning,’ she said. ‘How’s the cat?’
Max was not to be deflected. ‘I hate meals from the freezer.’
‘Darling. Half our meals are from the freezer.’ She visualized him, hunched over the phone, performing his ritual dance with his glasses. ‘Have a fry-up or something.’
‘It’s lonely without you.’
‘Max, it’s only two nights. What has got into you?’
His voice cleared. ‘Nothing.’
‘The baby’s crying, I’ll have to go.’
‘Bugger the baby,’ said Max, but Prue knew it was a good-natured cut-off.
Unable to settle to research, she spent the time while Edward slept rifling through Violet’s glossy collection of cookery books. Her finger stopped on a recipe: to cold-press a tongue first scrub it, soak for half a day in cold water and cook. The tongue is ready when the skin along the surface has blistered, and the T-shaped bone at its root comes away easily. After this destruction, it is arranged in a suitable dish, port-flavoured jelly is poured over it and it is pressed down by a heavy weight until it is ready. It is completely unrecognizable when it is served.
Could the procedure be said to be a metaphor for certain types of wives?
Prue’s finger released the page, and she moved on.
On Thursday morning, Edward woke late and refused his milk, screwing up his mouth and pushing aside the bottle. Tramlines dribbled down his cheeks and on to Prue’s sleeve. She put the bottle down to examine him more closely - and a fist squeezed in her chest. There was a blue shade to the baby’s mouth, and a red flush on cheeks normally like pale shells. He did not look well and when Prue took the minute hand in her own and gently felt the matchstick fingers, her flesh made contact with burning heat. Without thinking twice, she phoned the doctor.
After an interminable wait in a hot, noisy, overflowing surgery, a young and indifferent-seeming doctor took a look at Edward. Just a passing temperature, she informed Prue. Babies do that. It always seems worse than it is. Give him plenty of fluid and don’t bundle him up in too much clothing.
Her coolness only intensified Prue’s anxiety, otherwise she might have laughed at the cheek of the dewy-behind-the-ears patronage. Instead, she drove back to Austen Road and spent an uneasy morning hovering over the cot. From time to time, Edward wailed and his body twitched in between fractured dozing. Each time Prue forced Dioralyte down him, he vomited.
At half past three, Prue was once again on the phone to the doctor. The receptionist, who could detect genuine panic from ‘panic’, promised to talk to the doctor when she had a moment.
An hour passed. Prue sponged the little body with warm water and, in her fright, she imagined that flesh had already slipped from the bird-like bones, and the frog stomach was hollowing - like the poppyhead which ejects its seeds and dies.
Not to worry, that wretched doctor had said. Babies do this. Yes, they do. Babies do this and have died. Think, think of the millions of babies’ bodies which have piled up during the centuries.
Edward seemed to appreciate his blanket bath, for he sighed after she had finished, tucked his hand up by his neck and fell asleep.
Prue got herself some tea.
Edward’s piercing wails interrupted her and she rushed into the nursery. The baby was bright red and had been violently sick. Prue phoned Jamie.
‘I think he needs to get to hospital.’
Jamie did not hesitate. ‘Get a taxi to St Thomas’s. I’ll meet you there.’
He was waiting by the time Prue arrived, white and anxious-looking. ‘I’ve cleared it with the receptionist,’ he said, taking the baby from her. ‘We go straight in.’
Prue discovered she was trembling.
Jamie held Edward while the doctor examined him. He looked up once to thank Prue, otherwise he concentrated on his son. Prue held her shaking hands tight, and went outside to wait.
Casualty was awash with people, sitting on benches in the corridor in various states of dejection. Each time a nurse or a doctor went by, they looked up. Along with their bodies, perhaps they were hoping that their spirits would be patched up as well.
Prue closed her eyes and opened them when Jamie emerged, walked over to her and took her hand in his. ‘Don’t fret. They think it’s only a twenty-four-hour bug.’
He was followed by the doctor, and a nurse hovering at his heels carrying Edward.
‘Mr Beckett, you can take him home now. We’ve given him a thorough examination and paracetamol to bring down his temperature. He is a little dehydrated so you must try to get some liquid into him. If you’re worried, bring him back.’
They made the journey home in the taxi in virtual silence. Prue leant back against the seat and closed her eyes, luxuriating in relief. Her eyes opened a crack and she found herself observing Jamie, narrowed to a squarish shape which smelt of expensive aftershave and a whiff of cigar. Emptied of everything, she absorbed the contrast of his brown hair against his navy coat, the skin tones and the way in which his big, elegant hands emerged from his cuffs.
‘Why are you looking at me, Prue?’
Prue’s treacherous hands trembled in her lap. ‘Am I?’
Light-headed and consequently reckless in the aftermath of adrenalin, Jamie leant over, pulled Prue towards him and kissed her.
‘Oh, Prue, oh, Prue,’ he muttered into the white skin of her neck, relief for his son translating itself into physical need.
She felt her own body burn with desire and knew that if she gave it only the slightest leeway, pandered to it in the minutest form, it would make her forget that she was someone else’s wife, and that Jamie was her stepdaughter’s husband.
Back at the house, Prue fed Edward boiled water and Dioralyte, and Jamie hunted for a bottle of sherry.
‘It’s only five o’clock but . . .’ Prue drained her glass.
Jamie said he would ring Violet because she would want to come home. A conversation took place on the drawing-room phone with a great many pauses. Prue concentrated on Edw
ard who was taking his time, the sherry warming her gullet, sweet and wonderfully welcome.
Jamie returned and poured himself a glass. ‘Violet isn’t coming back till tomorrow. It would be difficult to leave as there’s a big dinner tonight, especially if Edward is over the worst.’
Prue found it impossible to gauge his expression. Instead she held out her glass for a refill.
‘I can’t,’ Prue said gently when Jamie appeared in her bedroom in the small hours as she lay thinking about him.
He looked down at the coils of hair and rounded shoulder illuminated by the light from the corridor, and his gaze travelled down the shape under the bedclothes.
‘No,’ he agreed but, in his imagination, he was imprisoning the full, tempting breasts under the white cotton and the unknown territory of her body with his own. He bent over, and brushed her cheek with a finger.
‘Goodnight, Jamie.’
‘Goodnight.’
Chrysalis-like, the sheets enclosed her body. She felt their weave against her skin, smelt the detergent and wool in the blanket. In the dark, the sheet across the window became a mask, hiding the slippery feelings and heated imaginations that raged behind it.
Prue had imagined that her desire centred solely on Max. It was a shock to discover that this was not true.
Violet arrived home on Friday morning. She stepped out of the taxi wearing a defiant expression and hugging her leather briefcase. Prue knew that look. It meant: I am not going to show that I feel guilty.
Brushing past Prue, Violet ran upstairs into the nursery. A couple of minutes later, she emerged holding Edward. ‘He looks fine,’ she called down. ‘You gave me such a fright. I couldn’t concentrate.’
You couldn’t concentrate. Reminding herself of the scenes with Jamie, Prue fought with herself to give Violet the benefit of the doubt. After those, how could she climb on to the rock of moral superiority? It was hard work turning into a mother, a process that did not come automatically. Violet, as she had, needed the time to learn.
Was Prue overreacting? Lusting after your stepdaughter’s husband, though bad enough, is not quite the same sin as neglecting a baby.
Talking to Edward in a breathy way, Violet came downstairs and went into the kitchen and put him in his chair. ‘It wasn’t very kind of you, baby, to get ill. I almost think you did it on purpose.’
She was aware that Prue would judge her, and knew she should have come home. But she had been frightened to leave, and equally frightened to return. She put Edward into his chair and surveyed the kitchen. ‘Goodness, how untidy.’ She began stacking the china on the draining board.
‘Sorry,’ said Prue, ‘it’s been a bit hectic.’
‘Of course,’ said Violet.
Prue made an effort to remove the constellation of saucepans that had migrated to the stove, and then thought: Dammit. ‘Was the conference successful?’
Violet put out a foot and prodded Edward’s chair. The baby juddered like an apple at apple bobbing. ‘You know,’ she said vaguely, ‘lots of talks, too much to drink and far, far too much food. I’m sure I’ve put on masses.’
She was busy opening and shutting drawers, rearranging contents and stacking plates, with the result that Prue felt deeply inadequate.
‘Did you impress the bosses?’
A smile spread across Violet’s beautiful face. ‘Yes, I think so. They were very nice about me. And there is some good business coming up.’
Prue produced the bit of paper with the doctor’s name written on it, and the dosage for the Dioralyte. ‘You should have this.’
Violet glanced carelessly at Edward who, mercifully, had stopped bobbing. ‘I hope I won’t need it.’
With obvious reluctance, she peeled off her olive jacket and draped it over a chair. ‘Thank you, Prue, for all that you have done,’ She spoke like a child at the end of the party. ‘Do you want me to call a taxi?’
If a seed is planted it grows, Prue thought. No, that is not correct. A seed grows when the conditions are right. When there is water, when there is light. When there is a chance that the root, a rudimentary bud at first, can push out from the confining cotyledon and drive deep into the warmth and secrecy of the earth.
That is what Jamie had done. Planted a seed. And Prue did not want it to grow.
Chapter Six
Emmy did not require much time to think over Violet’s phone call, inviting her to accept the post of nanny to Edward.
‘Pro tem,’ Violet added hastily (none of the Alisons and Sarahs having measured up to her standards), leaving herself leeway to say goodbye to Emmy if she found someone better. ‘You might not like London. Or us.’ She gave a laugh which suggested that the latter would be unlikely.
At Number 5 Hallet’s Lane, Emmy stared into the mirror positioned above the Phone ’N’ Sit table and grimaced. She moved her foot, sending a wave of static across the nylon carpet. ‘I’ll come,’ she said.
Violet rattled out some details about pay, conditions and use of a car. Emmy kept on repeating yes, it all sounded fine but could she ask if Violet would deal with the PAYE?
‘PAYE?’ Violet’s tone sharpened. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’
Emmy realized she had made a mistake. On the other hand, her rights were important - they were all she had. ‘And National Insurance,’ she added.
‘Oh.’ Violet became thoughtful. ‘That makes it a lot more expensive.’
Emmy thought it wiser not to comment.
Violet recouped. ‘If you decide to stay on permanently, Emmy, then, of course, we will be putting you on PAYE.’
She was cursing silently, having relied on the grapevine that alleged that nannies preferred to be paid in cash.
‘Thank you, Mrs Beckett.’
‘Er . . . Emmy, that being so, if you do stay on, I might reduce your pay a touch because of tax and insurance, which makes it a little expensive for us at the moment. I’m sure you understand, with the recession and everything.’
Lying b—, thought Emmy, and made conciliatory noises. How come Madam was so mean? She had plenty of money. Enough, as Anna pointed out with irritating frequency, to have a boob, hip and face job when the time came.
Question: Did having money make you meaner or were you mean in the first place? Never having had any, Emmy could not hazard an answer. As she moved through Number 5, dusting her mum’s horse brasses from Devon, the blue Maltese glass and bulbous china cherub from Portugal, the problem occupied her.
No enlightenment, however, emanated from the silent lounge and hall. In the kitchen, early spring sunlight filtered on to foil rectangles which sat thawing under a tea-towel for tonight’s microwave banquet. A solitary tea-leaf decorated the shining sink. Emmy removed it between her finger and thumb and the kitchen was perfect once again, scrubbed sterile and as ordered as a sergeant-major’s kitbag. Suddenly, she felt desperate to get away, from the silence and the unyielding concordance of crimplene and nylon.
As the days lengthen with the approach of spring, Emmy knew of old that, in some years, the cold increases, and the last week in March had been icy. A hard chill hugged the bottom of the valley and, in defence, birds had gathered close to the houses. They were hungry and probably frozen. Emmy hauled a pair of secateurs out of her jacket pocket and headed for the holly tree at the end of the garden, which formed part of the hedge bordering the road. For some reason, the birds never touched it. Emmy cut off the largest branch she could without doing damage and backed on to the lawn where she stuck the branch into the grass. Then she retreated.
After a minute, the first berry-eating birds arrived hot-foot and tucked in. Hand on hip, Emmy watched. Eat up, she advised them silently. It’s on the house.
Emmy headed up the road towards the airstrip which sloped up from the depression in which Dainton was sited. Up in the open, the frost which had closed in a week or so ago had rampaged unchecked and had burnt sections of hedgerow which gaped like lost teeth. A partridge ran across the field on Emmy’s rig
ht and she came to a halt. Partridges would be paired off by now and if she was lucky she might spot some.
Most people had paired off by now.
Wasn’t it better, though, to hold your life in your hands, cupped and shaped as you wished?
Emmy swung to her right and plunged into the tiny strip of wood that led up to Danebury Rings. Her feet sank into the softened earth and gathered mud as she passed. As she reached the foot of the steep rise, the first primroses greeted her.
She tucked her frozen, ungloved hands into her jacket, pulled it tight across her thin stomach and felt better.
The builders were creating a bathroom out of a cupboard and Mickey was regaling his team with a story to make a sex therapist blush when Emmy pushed open the spare bedroom door at Number 6 Austen Road with her foot. A flush stormed into her cheeks and, not at all sure what to do, she stood awkwardly with the heavy tray.
‘Hang on, love.’ The tall, glossy-skinned one with a pony-tail took pity. He detached himself from the Black and Decker and removed the tea-tray from Emmy. ‘Don’t listen to Mickey, he’s a throwback.’
Was her face scarlet or bright scarlet? ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard it all before.’
‘Have you, now?’
She liked pony-tails on men: they stirred a residual memory of childhood fairy tales, complete with illustrations of men in boots with flowing hair, where the maiden is saved, or is merely the helpless female swept away by a superior masculine force. Whatever. Emmy reckoned that being passive had its advantages.
Pony-tail winked at her. Why, he’s beautiful, she thought. The counterpoint that never failed her echoed: And I am not.
Later Emmy - having sorted the kitchen, emptied the tumble-dryer, washed the floor and changed Edward - was watching the birds feeding on the fat she had hung from a branch of the sycamore tree. After a minute or two she became conscious that she was being watched and whipped round.
It was Pony-tail bringing the tray back. ‘Thanks.’ His physical presence filled the room - all hair, skin and bones covered with lean flesh. Beside him, Emmy was transformed into a delicate and tiny nymph, the maiden trapped on the rock waiting for rescue.
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