He was still slightly fazed by what had happened between them; still amazed that this girl, the beautiful, difficult, disagreeable girl he had grown up watching, observing, disliking, should have become the beautiful, interesting, and agreeable one he now knew rather intimately. And he did know her intimately: OK, they hadn’t been to bed, but they had spent a lot of time together. He knew how she worked, what made her happy, what made her sad, what pleased, what angry; he could tell a bad mood from a good, within minutes of saying hallo to her; he knew her views on things, what she felt about matters large and small. He knew that she was a mass of contradictions, physically reckless, emotionally cautious, self-opinionated, unsure of herself; that she had huge phsysical energy, and was acutely intellectually lazy; that she was generous, good humoured – until she lost her temper, and then she was unreasonable with rage; that she was swift to judge, slow to change a view, dismissive of those she disliked, intensely loyal to her friends. And he knew she liked him, and he knew she wanted him, and he felt they had known each other long enough now to take things further. To get into bed together. To have sex. And even while he was nervous of the event itself – for he felt instinctively her sexual energies would be enormous, that her experience probably far outstripped his own – he thought it would still be all right. More than all right, good. Her rather touching attempts to defer to him, to let him take the lead, to please him, to be seen to be a great deal more compliant than he knew she actually was, all conspired to make him think so.
And he had really thought that they were there: that she had decided the time had come, was waiting, slightly impatiently even, for him to make the move, to go beyond the kissing, the caressing, the rather tumultuous closeness they had reached; and had planned the last time, when they had gone out to Oxford, to do so. Only she had been strange that evening, distracted, slightly edgy: probably PMT or something. Melinda made much of such issues; he had grown up respecting them. Had understood, been patient – and thought today would see it happen.
And now she had phoned, clearly not herself, saying she felt lousy, could she cry off, she had a foul headache – Kirsten never had headaches, she had her father’s impatience of sickness, as she had so many of his other such arrogant qualities — she just wanted to be on her own, she said, she’d be bad company. And he felt miserable and disappointed, and something else: worried. Worried that maybe she was telling him that after all there was nothing for them, the two of them, that it was best stopped now, quickly before it was too late. Only she had said she’d ring him in a day or two, and added she was sad and sorry too.
Well, there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe it had been PMT the other night, he thought, so now it would be her period; yes, that must be it. They really didn’t know each other well enough for her to feel she could discuss such matters, he thought, while setting aside the uneasy idea that actually she would have confronted it head on, said that was precisely what the matter was.
Oliver got out his mountain bike and set off down the street, heading in the direction of Richmond, telling himself very firmly that it would be perfectly all right in the end. He only had to wait a few more days. He really was quite sure of it.
Kirsten sat by the phone for a long time after Oliver had rung off, hearing over and over again in her head the echo of disappointment in his voice behind the bright, light, ‘Well, speak to you in a day or two, then.’ And then she went back into the bathroom and looked down at the long white plastic stick with two identical pink circles on it, two pink circles that meant she was indeed pregnant, and thought that there was only one person who could possibly be the father, and that was Graydon Townsend.
‘I’ve got to go to Devon,’ said Rachel, ‘to see Reverend Mother. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly do that.’
‘Why on earth not? Of course you can, it would do you good. Make you realise there are other problems in life besides Bard Channing.’
‘Mummy, don’t start on that tack, please.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, darling. But he is a large, spoilt child, and I have a rather less spoilt one to worry about. And several more. And I feel I’ve let them down and I don’t know what to do about it.’
Francesca hesitated. It was quite true; it would do her good. Bard wouldn’t be back; the children were at Stylings, and perfectly happy; she had nothing to do. She couldn’t even – she shut her mind hastily away from what she couldn’t even do, and said rather feebly, ‘What about the children?’
‘Bring them. They’d enjoy it.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Francesca, envisaging the arrival of Jack at the convent with some foreboding. ‘Anyway, I want to talk to you.’
‘What about?’ said Rachel casually.
‘Oh – just things.’
‘Fine.’
‘I must check they’re all right. But we’re not going to be far away, are we?’
‘Much less far than if you’d gone sailing with your husband,’ said Rachel. ‘Think of it that way.’
‘Yes, that’s quite true. And they’ve got Nanny and Mrs Dawkins and Horton down there. All right, Mummy, I’ll come. We’ll take my car, it’ll be much more comfortable.’
It was a glorious day, too glorious to be on the M5. The sun beat down relentlessly on the procession of cars, caravans, trailered powerboats and motorbikes that were beating their way to the coast; after a while they gave up, turned off just before Taunton, had a leisurely lunch at a pub, and resumed at three when the worst was gone.
It was five-thirty by the time they turned into the lane that led to the convent; the residents were having their supper. But Reverend Mother was waiting for them in her study, with tea, freshly baked bread, warm scones with clotted cream, chocolate cake: as one woman Francesca and Rachel waved temptation way, took small cucumber sandwiches.
‘It’s absurd,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘You look like half-starved birds, both of you. Well, I shall eat cake for us all.’
Francesca looked at her, thought inconsequentially how in another life, another age, she would have been called voluptuous, with her thick, creamy skin, her bosomy figure, her lovely full-lipped face, the fair curls drifting from beneath her headdress onto her high, unlined brow.
‘I am sorry, Mrs Channing, about your husband’s business. We have prayed for him.’
‘Thank you,’ said Francesca, thinking rather nervously, even at this distance, of Bard’s likely reaction to this piece of information.
‘Has he taken the event badly?’
‘Not too well, I’m afraid. It is quite – serious. And – ’ She smiled at Reverend Mother. ‘He is a very – emotional man.’
‘But a very strong one, I would suppose.’
‘Yes.’ She had forgotten Bard had been to the convent; it made her feel odd, more of a stranger herself.
‘Well now, Rachel, we have a problem,’ said Reverend Mother, Bard Channing and the downfall of his multi-million-pound empire having been dismissed as a minor matter: and he wouldn’t like that either, thought Francesca, amused in spite of herself.
‘Yes,’ said Rachel, ‘yes, indeed we do.’
‘You see, I know that we shall not be permitted to continue to house all our residents. Our facilities are simply not adequate. If we lived in Italy, or France, no-one would so much as lift the smallest finger to keep these new regulations, if it was known that all was running well, and everyone was happy, but I’m afraid in England, we feel rules are to be obeyed.’
‘So, what will happen?’ said Rachel. She sounded calm, but Francesca could hear an echo of panic in her voice.
‘Well – those who have families who we feel can cope will be asked first to remove them. To find alternative accommodation, or to take them in themselves. That is the sensible thing.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘And Mary has a family. Does she not?’
‘Yes, Mother. She does.’
‘A family who can cope. C
ope very well, it seems to me.’
A longer pause: then Rachel said, ‘Yes.’
Later they walked on the cliffs by the priory; Francesca stood and looked at it, its lovely outline etched against the brilliant evening sky, so sheltering, so safe and strong looking. A refuge: she wished she could go into it herself, stay there, for a long time. The air was clear, salty, still warm; she could hear the waves below beating on the rocks, the gulls crying overhead. She looked at her mother; she was standing still, staring at the sea, her face troubled, her eyes dark.
‘The thing is,’ she said to Francesca, ‘Mary will be so unhappy in London, with me. She has only known the country, the community, Richard, the bakery, collecting the eggs, helping everyone, helping her friends; that is her life. She will hate it. Hate it.’
‘I suppose,’ said Francesca gently, ‘that’s what everyone will say.’
‘Yes. Yes of course it is. And if she goes to another community, that will be strange, she will know no-one. At least in London she would have me.’
‘Well – yes. And — and me,’ she added carefully.
Rachel looked at her thoughtfully, then smiled. ‘That is very sweet,’ she said, ‘very sweet indeed. And I am proud of you, and I know I don’t deserve it, the way I’ve handled all this. I hope one day you’ll understand.’
‘Well – let’s say I think I’m beginning to,’ said Francesca.
They were staying at the pub in the village: over a dinner of baked mackerel ‘and vegetables grown at the convent,’ said the landlady, beaming; new potatoes, peas and tender runner beans, and then a wonderful French apple tart, served with clotted cream, she talked to her mother about her unhappiness with Bard.
‘It’s not his temper, not even his high-handed attitude to me, it’s the way he won’t tell me things, even now, now when I want to help, when I know I should be helping. He just loses his temper whenever I ask him about any of it; I can’t bear it.’
‘Your father was much the same,’ said Rachel briskly.
‘He was?’
‘Yes. Information is power, darling; keep it to yourself, and you have something no-one else has. Then you can deal it out in whatever proportions you choose, to whomever you choose. Be a puppet master, pull strings, watch people jump. Only your father was rather stupid and it did him no good. Bard is extremely clever and I daresay it works for him.’
‘Not for me it doesn’t,’ said Francesca, ‘I can’t stand it. Not now, now all this has happened. I feel as if I’m on a quicksand. Not knowing which way to go, which way is safe. It’s horrible.’
‘How bad is it, does he think? Is he going to be personally bankrupt?’
‘Mummy, I don’t know. He won’t talk to me about it.’
‘Not at all?’
‘Not at all, no. You see what I mean. It’s impossible for me to do anything, anything constructive or helpful. He just behaves as if there’s nothing to discuss. If I try he starts shouting at me. We don’t have a marriage any more, we’re just two people meeting occasionally, not knowing what to say. I hate it so much.’
‘Francesca,’ said Rachel slowly, ‘are you trying to say you think Bard is – well, is concealing something major from you?’
‘Like what?’ she said, her voice suddenly sharp. Sharp with fear, that Rachel had guessed what she was really afraid of. Wanting her to be the one to say it, to spell it out.
‘That he’s doing – done – something wrong.’
‘You mean with the company? Something fraudulent?’
‘Well yes, obviously that’s what I mean. I didn’t think he might be running around with some floosie – ’
‘No of course not,’ said Francesca, and her voice, even to herself, sounded surprisingly steady. ‘Of course I don’t think that. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He may be difficult, he may be devious, but he’s not dishonest. I would know, if he was, obviously. I couldn’t be married to him and not know. I’m surprised at you even thinking such a thing, Mummy, really I am.’
‘I didn’t say I thought it,’ said Rachel carefully, ‘I asked if it was what you thought.’
‘Well, I don’t. Absolutely not. It’s the last thing I meant. I trust him totally, in that way. If I didn’t I’d leave him. Immediately. I’d have to.’
‘Yes, of course you would,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to upset you. Really I didn’t. I just felt – well, you’re under a lot of strain. It helps to air things, talk them out.’
Francesca looked rather helplessly round the dining room. They were the only people in it: fortunately, she thought, given the direction their conversation had taken.
Rachel put out her hand, touched her cheek gently. ‘Are you all right, darling?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m all right. Just – tired, I suppose. Sorry. And I’ve got a bit of a toothache. That doesn’t help.’
‘Do you want to go on talking about it? We don’t have to.’
‘Oh, God, I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. It’s all so hopeless, you know? But he’s always been the same, as far as I can make out, he’s just got worse lately. Liam says – ’
‘Liam?’
Damn. She hadn’t meant to mention him. It was the sense of security induced by the closeness restored between her and her mother, her tiredness, the long day, the bottle of wine …
‘Yes. Liam,’ she said with a quick smile. ‘Surely you realised we were quite good friends now.’
‘Darling, I realised no such thing. How did that happen? I mean I know you visited him in hospital, after the accident, I thought it was very nice of you then, but – well, he’s always been so horrid to you.’
‘Well, he isn’t any more.’ She could feel herself blushing, getting flustered. ‘I met him at Channing House one evening, and we got talking and then yes, I went to visit him in hospital, a few times actually, and – well, anyway, yes, we’re friends now.’
‘And what does Bard have to say about this? Is he pleased? I imagine he must be.’
‘Bard doesn’t really know,’ said Francesca, and then, realising this sounded more incriminating still: ‘I mean, it never seemed worth mentioning. Talking about. And the way he’s been behaving recently, you never know what might send him into a bait, he’s almost pathologically hostile to Liam – ’
‘Francesca darling,’ said Rachel lightly, ‘there’s no need to justify your friendship with Liam to me. Probably best for Bard to know about it, though. Whatever his reaction, it would be better to hear about it from you. Than from someone else.’
‘Well, I don’t know who you think he might hear about it from,’ said Francesca irritably, ‘and hear about what, anyway? You make it sound as if there’s something sinister about it, Mummy. It’s only a friendship, for God’s sake.’
‘Well, that’s all right then,’ said Rachel.
She smiled at her, the quick brilliant smile that Francesca knew meant she hadn’t quite left a subject, and turned with the apparent irrelevance that was one of her trademarks to the question of whether the new curtains for her drawing room should be made with simple Fre
nch pleats, or with a swagged pelmet.
In the morning they went to Mass at the convent: Rachel stood in the shafting sunlight, and looked at her two daughters – at the one, sweetly, and securely innocent, singing her heart out, unconscious of the dark fate that hung over her, and at the other standing silent, her lovely eyes ranging round the chapel, so worldly yet so insecure – and was all too conscious of the one who truly concerned her. In spite of her denials.
Barnaby and Bard had had a good trip. The sail across had been idyllic; just a sweet, fast-running wind, easily manageable, perfect for the Lady Jack. They reached Bard’s favourite port, Sainte Vaas, by eight in the evening, had a superb meal of moules, lobster, and peaches poached in white wine, drank the best part of a bottle of wine each, and slept extremely soundly. Barnaby, waking once in the night for a pee, listened, smiling indulgently, to his father snoring, and though
t that no-one would have thought he had a care in the world.
But in the morning, the wind was high. ‘Be fine,’ said Bard briefly, tearing into his second pain au chocolat, ‘exciting, much more fun.’ They set sail at around ten-thirty; two hours later they had not made a great deal of progress. Bard seemed perfectly happy, roaring out instructions, battling with the elements, but Barnaby looked at the rising and plunging sea with increasing anxiety and wished most fervently that he was safely at home in London, downing pints at the Pheasantry … or even just downing pints … or even just at home … ‘Pull yourself together,’ roared Bard suddenly. ‘Let that sheet out and bloody concentrate. Or do you want us to capsize?’
‘Yes, Dad. I mean no, Dad. Sorry, Dad.’ God, and there were another eight or nine hours of this at least.
They had sailed for another half hour, still only following the coast as far as Barnaby could make out, when the weather suddenly got worse. They were heading straight for a stretch of darker water, stronger wind, Barnaby knew that, recognised it with foreboding and – ‘Shit,’ said Bard, ‘holy shit, Barnaby, for God’s sake lean out, out, right back – that’s better. Right, now pull on that sheet hard. Hard. Christ, bloody thing’s broaching. Fucking weather, the sea’s so bloody heavy behind us, that’s what’s doing it – ’
Barnaby looked up at the great sail, straining above him, heard the wind screaming in it, felt the boat suddenly rear almost vertically beneath him, watched the sail lying now almost parallel to the water, felt he was sitting on a perilously narrow wall; felt terror, felt violently sick.
‘Barnaby, concentrate. The bloody thing’s going to go right over if we’re not careful. Lean out further. That’s right. The sail’s going to get wet in a minute, then we’ll be done for. Oh Christ. Christ Almighty.’
‘What is it?’ shouted Barnaby. ‘What’s wrong?’
The Dilemma Page 54
