The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  She went up to look at Jack; he was fast asleep beneath his Thomas the Tank Engine duvet, his thumb in his mouth, the muslin cloth he still loved and kept hidden under his bed during the day, clasped in his small brown hand. He looked fine. She bent and kissed his intently sleeping face, adjusted his covers and then went into her bedroom to get ready for the evening, and for Bard.

  They ate in the conservatory, and Bard put La Bohème on the stereo; they didn’t talk much, for things were not easy between them. Francesca kept looking back, wistfully, at only a few months earlier, when they had talked endlessly, easily, and hated that they had come to this, the polite question and answers, the ‘oh reallys?’ the ‘did I tell yous?’ But the music helped keep awkwardness, embarrassment, away, and she was able to say, lightly, coolly, into one of the silences, ‘Oh by the way, my mother took me down to Devon. I’ve met Mary and heard all about it, I think it’s marvellous what you’re doing.’ It seemed better that way, to imply she had known all along, even though he knew she had not and even though it was the most difficult thing she had ever said; it avoided any kind of recrimination or reproach and she could tell from his slightly embarrassed smile that he appreciated it, knew what she was doing.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘she’s very persuasive, your mother. Even if you don’t entirely agree with what she’s doing.’

  And she knew that came close at least to an apology, even to an expression of sympathy, understanding, and they left it at that. It had cost her dear, in emotional currency; but it had been worth it.

  Jack appeared halfway through the meal, fretful, his head aching; they let him stay, grateful for his determined presence, sitting on Bard’s knee picking at his plate. ‘I don’t know what Nanny would say,’ said Francesca, looking at them both and shaking her head: and, ‘I do,’ they said in such absolute unison that she laughed aloud. She took Jack up finally, and put him back to bed, and then went straight to their room and got into bed and lay naked, waiting for him, hoping he would come, nervous that he might not.

  He did: he came in, looked down at her in silence for a long moment; then took his clothes off rather slowly, his eyes still fixed on hers. And then got in beside her, and pulled her close to him; they were very ready for one another, he hard and impatient, she soft and liquid. His silence was oddly erotic in itself, shutting out all else, all superfluous emotions, just a total concentration on her and his need, close to a desperation, for her. He was in her swiftly; there was no need for arousal, for preliminaries. She felt him moving, working, sinking within her, felt her own desire becoming fierce, taut, wildly sweet. The great throbbing pleasure began, beating, pulling at her; she was scarcely aware of him, of what he was doing, only of her response to him. Everything else was gone, all the emotions; she was filled, possessed entirely by only one thing: a total concentration on her own pleasure, and there was nothing else in the world for her. She curved, grew round him; she seemed to be part of him, and he of her: one body, one movement, and then, as she rose to him, as she felt herself climbing, climbing to him, heard herself cry out over and over again, felt the waves breaking, wider, broader, higher with each succeeding one, as he came too, so deep within her she felt she must break, she said as she had never done before, ‘Bard, look at me, look at me now,’ and he did, and his eyes were filled with a dreadful, intense misery.

  It meant nothing, she told herself, nothing at all; in a moment of extraordinary tension, emotions were not predictable, not normal. Afterwards he seemed himself (although unusually silent; normally he talked to her, it was the one time she felt they were properly close these days); kissed her briefly, held her for a while, then turned away and slept as he always did when they had made love, deeply, determinedly, like little Jack. And she lay beside him, staring into the darkness, thinking about him, thinking about their marriage. and she felt, despite the closeness, the pleasure he had given her, still estranged from him, still lost and confused.

  In the morning she felt better, more normal: Jack was cheerful again, covered in bruises, proud of a lump on his head the size of a duck’s egg.

  ‘I think I might not join the circus after all,’ he said. ‘I might be a racing driver instead. Cars are safer than horses, don’t you think, Mum?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Or I thought I might be a stuffer.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A stuffer. Stuff dead animals for money. Granny Jess has got some birds, in that glass case thing, you know.’

  ‘Oh. Oh I see.’

  ‘So like when people’s cat died, or their dog, I would stuff it and they could keep it always on a chair. Or I could do their granny or their auntie or something. Or even their husband. What do you think?’

  ‘What a good idea,’ said Francesca carefully. ‘Another entrepreneur in the family,’ she added to Bard.

  He was reading the papers, grazing through them as he put it, discarding great heaps as he went; he took them all, hated them all equally. He looked up at Francesca suddenly over a copy of the News on Sunday.

  ‘That chap Townsend,’ he said, ‘the one who came to the auction, the one who appeared at Duggie’s funeral. There’s a big article of his here about the single currency. It’s very good.’

  ‘Really?’ said Fancesca. ‘Should I read it?’

  ‘Not unless it really interests you. But he is clever. Did he write anything about the auction? And was it the usual unpleasant crap?’

  ‘Yes, he wrote a paragraph or two, and no it was quite nice. I don’t think he’s the sort of person who’d write anything unpleasant about anything or anyone. He’s much too nice himself.’

  Gray Townsend stood at the top of a high, overgrown drive, descending quite steeply to an extremely large, ugly and unarguably derelict Victorian Gothic house set on the edge of a very murky-looking lake, covered in weed, edged in tall grasses. Or was it what was in these parts called a loch? Probably not, not quite big enough. He began to walk down the drive; it was lined on either side with thick, unkempt conifer woods. The air was heavy with birdsong, with the wild cries of moorbirds, the less attractive cawing of rooks and crows. Several rather depressed-looking groups of fowl paddled about on the lake, ducking and diving into its dense waters.

  At the bottom the drive widened, and opened out into an uneven semi-circle in front of the house; presumably it had once been paved, but all that could be seen now were great straggling clumps of grass and thistle. There was a great studded front door, the hinges rusty, padlocked on the outside; many of the windows were broken, and as Gray stood there, several pigeons flew out from the top floor. The windows at ground level were all sound; he peered in through a couple, set at the right of the door, at a great empty room, with a fine stone fireplace and a wooden floor, the boards broken in several places. To the side of the house were outbuildings, doors hanging open creaking in the wind; he went over to inspect them. One contained a heap of rusting tools, half-bald brooms, rakes, an ancient mower, scythes, and another an old mangle, a couple of stone sinks, some filthy saucepans. Nettles grew amongst them all, reaching high to the broken windows.

  He went round to the back; what clearly had once been a vast lawn was a waist-high meadow, the grass fighting with thistles, wild roses, overgrown sorrel, and to the right a row of ruined glass houses filled with rotting seed boxes. The view from there was breathtaking: hills, woods, a shimmer of water, and beyond that a range of purplish black mountains.

  He turned again, looked up at the back of the house; the roof had great gaping holes in it where slates had fallen in, and there were still more broken windows, the ones that were intact glinting, and somehow menacing, in the brilliant sun.

  ‘Well well well,’ said Gray aloud. ‘Channing Leisure. Very impressive. Very impressive indeed.’

  He drove into the nearest village; it was hardly that even, a collection of grey stone cottages, a chapel, a pub. The entire area looked as if its creator had said ‘Few too many hills round here, let’s drop i
n a lake and a couple of villages,’ and had done just that. The landscape was glorious, fold upon fold of purple and black hills, going on seemingly for ever, great sheets of bleached-out sky, the air filled with wind and the cries of birds, not the neat tidy song Southerners know, but wild, strong, haunting. It was a wild, glorious place, but it did not seem an ideal location for a luxury golf complex.

  He went into the pub, ordered a Scotch, engaged the landlord rather determinedly in conversation. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘Lovely place, up here.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘I’m from London.’

  Silence, a brief, uninterested nod.

  ‘Making my way down. Any hope of a bed for the night?’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘So where’s the nearest town, or large village where I might find – ’

  ‘Forty miles south.’

  ‘Ah. Bit of a drive, then.’

  ‘It is.’

  There was a long silence while he stared morosely at the bar.

  ‘I was just looking at the old Manse up there,’ said Gray. ‘I’m a writer, it would suit me down to the ground. It’s not for sale, is it?’

  ‘It is not. It’s sold. Although what for God knows.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Bought by some man from the North of England. Four, five years ago. Never been back.’

  ‘Good Lord. Who owned it before?’

  ‘The old lady. Daughter of the laird.’

  ‘Is she still around these parts?’

  ‘Not precisely, no. She’s passed on.’

  At this he walked away, clearly feeling he had imparted quite enough information; Gray settled down in a corner, drank the Scotch, and wondered how cold it had to be in Auchnamultie before they lit a fire. Sub-zero probably.

  After about half an hour an old woman came in; she was wearing a long black skirt, a shawl, and a black scarf draped over her head. Gray looked at her incredulously: she looked so like an extra in a film about the Highlands he found it hard to believe she was real. She said something unintelligible to the landlord, and he gave her a glass of what looked like Guinness. She stood at the bar drinking it, staring at Gray. Then she spoke to the landlord again: ‘… from London’ was all Gray could hear. Being a topic of conversation was as good an introduction as any; he stood up, went over to her, smiled. ‘Good afternoon.’

  She nodded, addressed herself to finishing her Guinness.

  ‘It’s beautiful round here,’ he said.

  Silence.

  ‘Gentleman was talking about the Manse,’ said the landlord, in a burst of communicativeness.

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Wanted to buy it, he did.’

  ‘Too late,’ she said. ‘The old lady sold it years ago.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand.’

  ‘For a lot of money. Lord knows what she did with it, eh Rob?’

  ‘No. Lord knows.’

  ‘Really? I would have thought it would have gone quite cheaply,’ said Gray.

  The landlord made a sound that was halfway between a spit and a snort. ‘Cheap! That place went for two hundred and fifty thousand pound, didn’t it, Ba?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘quarter of a million. No-one could believe it.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Gray, ‘that is a lot of money.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Bard darling, there’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

  Not many people would have the courage (or, as it might be perceived, recklessness, or even lunacy) to say that to Bard Channing. His staff, his children, even his wife, would all have known better; would have anticipated the violent rage, the roaring denial, the instruction to get out of the room, to leave him alone, to be asked if they had nothing better to do than interfere in matters which had nothing whatsoever to do with them and about which they could not possibly have anything constructive to say.

  But Rachel, who had spent much of her life rushing blithely in where whole hosts of angels would have feared to tread (with, roughly speaking, a fifty per cent success rate) had looked at his ashen face (thinner than she could ever remember it), his shadowed eyes, red rimmed with tiredness, noticed his slightly shaking hand, his heavily weary voice, and said it. And Bard stared, glared, at her, and as she continued to sit there in his office, smiling calmly, he looked slightly shamefaced and said yes, there was a possibility that there was a problem or two in his life, but it was absolutely nothing to do with her, and he certainly had no intention of discussing it now or at at any other time.

  ‘Well, that’s a pity,’ said Rachel, ‘because whatever it is is obviously eating you up and spitting you out again. Discussing it might help.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Bard, ‘that’s out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Rachel, I don’t want to have to ask you to leave my office, but I might have to, if you persist with this.’

  ‘All right,’ she said equably. ‘When and if you do, I’ll go. But I’m a very good person to talk to. You’d be surprised. Unshockable, that’s me.’

  ‘I hope,’ said Bard heavily, ‘Francesca hasn’t been talking to you.’

  ‘No,’ said Rachel, returning the look steadily, ‘she hasn’t. She isn’t speaking to me at all, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Because of Mary?’

  ‘Because of Mary. I’m very surprised she’s taken it so badly. I knew it would be a shock, I knew it would hurt her. But I thought she would be more – mature – about it than this.’

  ‘She was pretty — mature about it to me, I have to say,’ he said.

  ‘Oh really? What did she say?’

  ‘Oh, that she was grateful that she knew about it. Very brief, very to the point.’

  ‘Well, I’m delighted to hear it. I haven’t been in contact with her at all. Anyway, I’m sorry, deeply sorry, if it made things awkward in any way between you.’

  ‘It seems not to have done,’ he said briefly. ‘Now look, you and I have work to do here, business to discuss. We can’t waste time on irrelevancies. I can’t quite believe I agreed to see you this morning anyway. I don’t think Marcia can either. She’s obviously slipping.’ He looked at her and half smiled. ‘You’re very persuasive, Rachel. I think perhaps I should invite you onto my board.’

  ‘I wish you would. And it is so good of you, Bard, to see me. It’s just that – well, the bank have delivered an ultimatum. They’ve had another offer for the priory, and they’ve given us forty-eight hours. I have to go back to them with a proper proposal, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes, all right. I understand. Now look, Rachel, I know what this place means to you. But financially it’s a nightmare.’

  ‘You’re not – ’ She hesitated, almost unable to speak the words, ‘You’re not pulling out, are you?’

  ‘Not exactly out, no. But out of the original plan, quite possibly. You’ve seen this report, it’s terrible. I was reading it on the plane. The place needs to be virtually rebuilt. Apart from anything else, your people would either be living in appalling conditions while the work was done, or they’d have a very long wait in the convent. As I understand it, neither is practicable.’

  ‘Well – Reverend Mother might be able to keep them for a while longer.’

  ‘She’ll have to anyway, even if my scheme can be made to work.’

  ‘You have a scheme?’

  ‘I do. I’m very strong on schemes, Rachel. The point is that for the price of putting that place to rights, we could build several modern houses. Or rather units. I know your heart’s in the priory, and it’s all very romantic and beautiful, but what matters is your people. Isn’t it? They’re not going to care whether they’re under a fifteenth-century roof or not …’

  ‘They might.’

  ‘Rachel, please. Don’t be awkward. I can’t afford the time. We can get finance to put up new buildings, I can organise it myself. I can’t get it to put that place to rights. It’ll be quicker and easier
my way. And you’ll end up with what is actually a more suitable outfit.’

  ‘But what would you do with the priory?’

  ‘Knock it down.’

  Rachel winced. The thought literally hurt her; the beautiful grey, graceful house by the sea, that had sheltered people with love and care for centuries, bulldozed down, replaced by a series of modern buildings: no doubt in what she called supermarket style, red-tiled, yellow-bricked monsters that were gracing – or rather disgracing – so many in- and out-of-town sites all over Britain. Defacing the valley, her valley: it was unthinkable.

  ‘Would you be allowed to do that?’ she said, grasping desperately, frantically, at an extremely small straw. ‘I mean, aren’t there rules, restrictions – ’

  ‘My dear Rachel,’ he said, grinning, ‘nothing we can’t get round. Believe me, I should know.’

  She supposed he would. ‘But Bard, it seems so – brutal. Terrible. That lovely house – I don’t see how we can …’

  He shrugged. ‘OK. That’s fine. But that’s my offer. Take it or leave it. The alternative is out of the question. I’m sorry.’

  Rachel looked at him. She knew he meant it. He wasn’t playing games. It was new houses or nothing. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Yes, all right, I’ll take it. Well, what I mean is, I’m sure we would go along with it, if it was really necessary.’

  ‘Good. I’m sure it’s the right thing to do. Now then, I’ve told Marcia about it, so in future any detail can be channelled through her. If I’m crucially needed for meetings, I’ll make myself available but on the day-to-day front, as I told you, it’s out of the question. Let me know what the next step is. Presumably, we must get some more trustees. And I’d like to propose Peter Barbour is on the board. Very sound, experienced with charity work, and we do need an accountant.’

  ‘Yes, if he’s willing, that would be splendid. And Reverend Mother has a local candidate, which I think is important, don’t you?’