by Alison Giles
‘Yes, you do. This is Charissa.’
‘Hello, Don.’ I held out my hand.
He ignored it.
‘Never mind,’ said Flora.
She despatched me to fetch our picnic lunch from the car while she persuaded Don to a bench below the house. We sat there, huddled in coats, sharing out the sandwiches and warming ourselves with coffee from the flask. A member of staff occasionally emerged on to the terrace above and glanced in our direction. Everyone else appeared to have had the sense to retreat inside.
I was packing away the remnants when Don startled me by reaching out and slapping a hand on my knee. ‘You’re very pretty,’ he said, as though having come to that conclusion after considerable thought.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘But not as pretty as Amy.’
I looked across at Flora.’
‘Who’s Amy?’ she asked.
‘Hugh’s daughter.’
‘No, this,’ she nodded towards me, ‘is Hugh’s daughter. Her name is Charissa. Is Amy one of the nurses?’
‘Yes,’ said Don. He directed a devastating smile at me and patted my knee again. ‘Very pretty.’
We booked into the small hotel on the edge of town where Flora regularly stayed. We were close enough to London, it had occurred to me, to suggest we go up to the flat and stay there overnight, but something told me Flora needed the routine of the familiar.
For that matter, it wouldn’t have been too late by the time we departed – following afternoon tea, brought out to us in already failing light on the terrace – to drive back to Cotterly. But Flora always made a two-day trip of it.
I asked about plans for the next day when she eventually came downstairs and joined me in front of the modest log fire.
‘Friday’s the morning when I can catch the psychiatrist as well as the GP,’ she said. ‘I like to make a point of having a word with them both.’ She shrugged. ‘Not that there’s usually much for them to report – a bad episode here, a better one there. He swings so.’
‘At least it ensures they know you’re around; that Don’s not forgotten.’
She glanced up. ‘I suppose that is part of it. But it’s also something to do with that dreadful feeling of helplessness – it’s all I can do.’ She turned on me, almost aggressively. ‘Don’t think I haven’t wondered whether I could have had him at home.’
Something made me keep quiet.
She subsided. ‘It was a pipe-dream, of course. Totally impractical. I was only a girl – younger than you are – when it happened.’
The reminder shook me. Supposing I, now, were faced with something like that.
‘And there was Auntie to look after as well.’ Flora was staring into the fire, her face taut. Was she remembering Bristol; wondering …
I hesitated. ‘Your parents,’ I said. ‘I mean, you’ve never said much about them. Were they—?’
‘Gone,’ she replied tersely. She sat up and turned, concentrating her gaze over my shoulder towards the dining-room door. She checked her watch. ‘Must be about time they started serving dinner.’
Over the soup I apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked …’
She looked up, the stiffness eased from her expression.
‘No, I’m sorry. Just touched a raw spot, that’s all. I guess that particular scar’s still tender; and visits here …’ She gave a quiet rueful smile. ‘Doesn’t seem as though, even now, I’ve managed to forgive my parents totally, does it?’ She looked reflective. ‘Still haven’t got rid of all the anger, I suppose.’ She tipped her plate, scooping up the last spoonful of cream of mushroom. ‘Virtually abandoning us as children was bad enough; but –’ her voice almost imperceptibly rose – ‘when they refused to face up to what had happened to Don …’
We waited while the soup plates were removed and roast lamb placed in front of us.
‘They were like children, you understand,’ Flora resumed. She shrugged. ‘The war gave them a wonderful excuse to play hero and heroine. I guess they just became addicted to Never-Never-Land. Peter Pans, both of them.’
‘Are they still alive?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
I stared at her. She was cutting into her meat.
‘You know you talked to me about my lost years with my father,’ I said. ‘Were you speaking from personal experience – your parents … and Don too, of course?’
Flora put down her knife and fork and dropped her hands to her lap. She sat there silently for a moment before replying. ‘I suppose I was.’
I’d have liked to reach out and touch her. Instead: ‘Oh, Flora,’ I said.
She straightened her shoulders then and continued eating. ‘Just one of those things,’ she said firmly.
As we said goodnight on the landing, I gave her a hug.
‘Will you be coming with me tomorrow morning?’ she asked.
‘What do you think? Would you like me to?’
‘There are some quite interesting little shops in town.’
‘Then I’ll go and browse round there.’ I hoped it was the right response.
Flora seemed more relaxed on the journey home, but preferring to enquire about my morning rather than reveal anything of her own. We arrived back at Wood Edge just after six.
As I pulled on the handbrake, I turned to her. ‘Thanks for letting me come.’
She squeezed my hand. ‘I’m glad you did. Now –’ she opened the car door and swung herself round to alight – ‘off you go and see Andrew. Find out if he’s sorted things out with Ginny’
It was she who, a few minutes later, opened the door to me. ‘Hi. Come in.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve interrupted you.’ I’d heard the sound of the piano as I switched off the car engine. I’d paused for a moment in the driveway, savouring the lightness of a single instrument merging with the muted music of everyday sounds. The playing had stopped abruptly as I rang the bell. ‘Isn’t Andrew …?’ I nodded towards the Volvo beside which I’d parked.
‘He and Philip have taken the boys off to help put the finishing touches to the bonfire. For tomorrow night,’ she added in response to my look of incomprehension.
‘Oh, Guy Fawkes.’ Long time since I’d even thought about it. ‘And Philip too!’ I commented as Ginny closed the door behind me.
She laughed. ‘Always likes to involve himself in village events. There’s a bit of the would-be-squire in our Philip. Surprised you haven’t noticed.’
I supposed I had, come to think of it.
‘You could wander along and see what they’re up to if you like.’
I made a face. ‘I’d much rather flop down if you don’t mind. It’s been a long day. But –’ nodding guiltily in the general direction of the abandoned piano – ‘don’t let me stop you—’
‘Nonsense.’ Ginny headed for the kitchen. ‘Nice to have a bit of female company for a change. Tea, coffee, or something stronger?’
I opted for tea. ‘I’m parched.’
‘You’ve been with Flora to see Donald?’ said Ginny as she plugged in the kettle.
I nodded.
‘You’re privileged.’
‘Am I?’ I hadn’t thought of it like that. Or had I? In a way, yes. Flora had certainly let me see a side of her – of her life – she’d previously kept firmly wrapped.
‘So,’ said Ginny, declining to probe further and now perching herself on a stool, ‘what do you think of this cottage Andrew’s considering moving into?’
‘What do I think?’ I’d have liked to add it had nothing to do with me. Instead I opted for neutrality. ‘It seems OK.’
Ginny gave me a long look. She pushed a packet of biscuits in my direction. I shook my head. She retrieved them and helped herself. ‘I think it’s a great idea.’
‘You do?’
She nibbled. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all day. On and off. At first – last night – I felt a sort of panic. I mean … having Andrew living here with us … when we came back….
it smoothed the ground.’ She grinned. ‘Got the grass cut anyway. But –’ her expression became serious again – ‘I guess that nice comfortable path has worn itself into a rut. For me anyway.’
She picked crumbs from her lap and made a neat pile of them on the table. ‘We ended up having a really good talk about everything yesterday evening. Andrew’s quite right – I’ve got to let Jonty go; start making a new life.’
‘Is that what he said?’
Ginny looked up. ‘Actually, no – I guess those are my words. But it’s what he meant. And I can see it now. It’s all been too cosily safe.
‘I’ve been hanging on to Jonty, in whatever sense that is, because – this is what I’ve worked out, anyway – the possibility of getting involved with someone new is too damned scary.’
‘I think I know that feeling,’ I said.
‘Do you?’
I considered. ‘When you lose someone you love – in my case feel let down by them too – you’re a bit cautious of risking being hurt like that again. Not,’ I added hurriedly, ‘that my experience is any way comparable with yours.’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘My father. And a boyfriend. Not that I’m sure whether I really loved Mark – but I certainly felt he let me down.’
Ginny looked thoughtful. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘in a crazy way I suppose I’ve always felt Jonty did just that. A sort of irrational feeling of “how dare he die and leave me to cope”.’ She prodded the biscuit crumbs into a heap, then smoothed them. She turned to me. ‘And before you ask, no, I don’t feel Andrew’s abandoning me. Freeing me from leaning on him, more likely.’
I almost commented that that seemed to be becoming something of a habit for him, but changed my mind.
While I was debating instead whether to ask about the boys and their reaction, we heard the sound of what Ginny recognised as Philip’s Land Rover pulling up outside.
‘Oh, whoops!’ She sprang to her feet. ‘And I haven’t even started preparing supper.’
There was a bustle at the front door. Tom and Justin came rushing through to the kitchen. ‘Hi, Mum.’ And on seeing me: ‘Hi, Charissa.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Ginny’s eyebrows shot up in mock horror. ‘You’re filthy. What have you been doing?’
Andrew, closely followed by Philip, had appeared in the doorway. ‘Having fun,’ he said. ‘You should see the size of the bonfire.’ Then he looked across at me and winked a greeting. ‘Hi.’ Philip nodded.
‘Baths. Now,’ Ginny was instructing the boys.
‘Yes but—’
‘Now!’
Andrew made play of booting them in the direction of the stairs. ‘And leave some hot water for me.’ He and Philip moved forward into the room and started chatting. ‘Three trailer-loads,’ Andrew was saying, referring to old wood and dead branches cleared from the farm.
‘Could do with a beer if you’ve got one,’ suggested Philip, gruff as ever.
He leaned against a cupboard to the side of the rest of us, nursing his drink, saying little. I made my share of attempts at conversation with him but found it hard going.
‘Stay and have supper,’ Ginny invited.
‘No thanks. Things to do.’ He drained his glass. We heard him call up from the hall as he departed. ‘Goodnight, boys.’
‘Night.’ There was a patter of feet on the stairs. A pause. ‘Night. See you tomorrow.’
Justin, smelling of soap, appeared in pyjamas. ‘Tom’s just getting out,’ he said.
‘Right. My turn.’ Andrew went off. Moments later there was the sound of laughter and a scuffle on the landing.
‘What was going on?’ demanded Ginny, busy with a saucepan, when Tom strolled down.
He grinned. I was struck by how much more grown-up he suddenly seemed. Maybe it was the sleeked hair, wet from the shower; or that the long stripes of his pyjamas accentuated the inches he’d been almost imperceptibly putting on over the summer. ‘I was measuring up,’ he said, ‘to decide where my stereo speakers would go in Andrew’s room.’
‘Goodness.’ Ginny pulled a face. ‘Anyone’d think you can’t wait for him to move out.’
Again that teasing self-assurance. ‘I can’t, if it means I don’t have to share a room any longer with this –’ he made a playful lunge at Justin – ‘… this infant.’
Justin tossed his head. ‘Can’t wait to have our room to myself, either.’
I looked across at Ginny.
‘So much for nepotal devotion,’ she observed.
‘What’s nepotal mean?’ It was Justin.
‘Look it up,’ said Ginny.
By the time Andrew came down, the boys were already seated at the table, gazing hungrily in the direction of the stove. Ginny related, with amusement, their conversation. She patted Andrew’s shoulder. ‘So you needn’t worry you’ll be missed.’
He pretended dismay.
Justin was the one concerned to reassure and be reassured. ‘But you’ll see us often,’ he said, ‘won’t you?’
‘I’m going to need you to help me do the place up.’
Tom allowed himself interest. ‘When can we see it? Can we have a look tomorrow?’
Andrew helped himself to another beer. ‘Sunday, if you like.’ He looked across at me. ‘I was going to suggest we go and walk over the Quantocks again tomorrow. Good idea?’
‘Great.’
He turned to Tom and Justin. ‘Don’t worry, Charissa and I will be back for the fireworks. Just you make sure –’ he prepared to dodge Ginny – ‘that your mother’s ready in good time.’
Flora, correctly assuming I would be included in supper at the Dower House, had already retired when I returned to Wood Edge. I crept upstairs with my bag and shook out the trousers and shirt I would need next day. I hung them over a chair, ready for an early start, before climbing into bed.
I lay there wondering how many more times I would stay in this room that had by now become so familiar. How long would it be before Andrew could move into Lucke Cottage – as it seemed he was now all set to do?
While Ginny had been chasing the boys up to clean their teeth – ‘Come on, hurry up; it’s late already’ – I’d turned to him. ‘I gather Ginny’s accepted your plans happily enough?’
‘To my relief.’
His version corroborated Ginny’s. ‘As for the boys –’ he laughed – ‘ever practical and pragmatic, my nephews. As you heard.’
There was a pounding overhead as someone scampered across the landing. Andrew stared up at the ceiling, grimacing in mock apprehension. ‘Tom wanted to know,’ the commotion seemed to prompt him to recount, ‘whether you would be living there with me.’
‘What did you say?’ I strove for light-heartedness.
‘I pointed out you could hardly commute to London from here.’
‘And my work’s important to me.’
Andrew abandoned his consideration of the plaster above and turned his gaze on me. He smiled. ‘I know,’ he said.
I reached across and slid my hand over his hair. ‘Are you going to make an offer for the cottage, then?’
‘First thing on Monday morning.’
‘You don’t hang about, do you?’
‘Not once I’ve made up my mind.’ He got up, sweeping plates together. ‘I suppose we could clear these away before Ginny comes down.’
Later, walking me out across the darkened driveway to my car, he took the opportunity to ask about my trip to Sussex.
I leaned against the bonnet, explaining Don as best I could. ‘It’s such a lonely responsibility for her,’ I said of Flora. ‘At least while my father was alive she had someone to share it with. Her feelings about it anyway.’
Andrew nodded. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘that was part of the reason your father sent you down here.’
‘You mean, not just for my benefit?’ The thought presented a new angle. Or rather, resurrected the one I’d discarded on coming face to face with Flora’s forceful self-sufficiency.
&nb
sp; ‘It’s taken a long time for me to see it,’ I remarked ruefully.
‘Or for Flora to allow you to.’
I’d let his comment stand at the time but now, increasingly drowsy, I mulled it over. Andrew, I was at last beginning to appreciate, was considerably more astute than I’d realised.
I had prepared myself, as we drove westwards next day, for the disappointment of lost magic on this, my second, visit to the gently rolling Somerset hills. Instead, the beginnings of familiarity enhanced it. Seasonal differences were apparent, of course: a chill wind and light drizzle for a start; and colouring muted not only by the browning of trees and heather but by the angle of light now winter was approaching. But such changes seemed only to firm the ground; to emphasise some special quality that was more than permanence – though that was part of it.
I strode alongside Andrew, neither of us willing to intrude anything other than the occasional comment. Now and again, in tacit understanding, we stopped and looked around us. Once, paused at the top of a rise, I reached up and put my arms round his neck. Our kiss was light, its intimacy a function of our contentment.
If ever life were perfect, it was now.
Apart, that was, from the problem of Mother, and our mutual resentment. I saw no imminent prospect of resolving the situation; but then, who ever knows what tomorrow may bring?
CHAPTER 24
It was strange, I reflected later, that it should have been a death – my father’s – that led to the estrangement between myself and Mother, and a death that was instrumental in bringing us together again.
The answerphone was winking when I arrived back in Fulham late that Sunday evening. My mother always ignored it – ‘makes me nervous; it’s not natural, speaking to a machine’ – so I was taken aback, when it wound through to the final message, to hear her voice.
‘Charissa.’ Pause. Then in a rush: ‘Ring me as soon as you come in, would you?’ The pitch indicated more than unease with modern gadgetry.
I gave myself a couple of minutes before returning her call. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
