by Rosie Thomas
For a long moment William stood staring at the foot of the stairs. Then, still moving as if he was in pain, he walked through into his cluttered study. The top right-hand drawer of his desk was locked, but his fingers groped for the key on top of a cupboard and found it at once. Inside the drawer was an old black and white snapshot. It showed a woman, smiling and holding her hair back from her eyes, with a wide, rippling stretch of water behind her. The shape of her face, and the lines of her eyes and mouth, were exactly Angharad’s.
William looked down into the woman’s face, and then, with a little sound deep in his throat that might have been pain, he thrust the picture back into the drawer and locked it up again. Then he sat down in his creaking chair and buried his face in his hands.
In the next room the grandfather clock struck the half-hour and then ticked imperturbably on into the night.
When she woke up Angharad winced and closed her eyes against the intrusive light. Her face was tight, and her eyelids were so swollen that they felt like tiny lead weights. The memory came back at once, dully familiar, as if it had been with her all night. She half-turned restlessly under the blankets and laced her fingers across her stomach.
Every word, every gesture from last night’s horrible scene burned in her head. Much worse than all the anger was the hurt that she had seen in her father’s eyes.
And that just because she had confessed to loving Harry Cotton.
What would her father say when she told him that she was going to have Harry Cotton’s child?
Angharad rolled over and bit against the corner of the pillow to stop herself choking. Never. She could never tell him. Once more she counted the days off in her head, hopelessly praying that she might somehow have made a mistake. Six days now. And her periods had always been as regular as the ticking of the clock downstairs.
Angharad was sure, now, that she was pregnant. There was a faint, metallic taste in her mouth that she couldn’t get rid of, however hard she tried, and it made the food taste dusty and nauseating in her mouth. She felt exhausted, and at the same time misaligned with everything, as if her physical responses had subtly changed. There was no point, any longer, in trying to see it as anything else.
She was pregnant.
Staring up at the tracery of cracks in the ceiling, as she had done as a child ill in bed, Angharad tried to work out what she should do.
Tell Harry, first. Except that today Laura would be home. She imagined them, too vividly, beside the lake, exchanging the stories of their summer apart. What would Harry say? She realized that she had no idea. All her confidence in their closeness began to crumble away. Love. Her father had mocked the idea, and she had a sickly fear that he might be right. What if nothing had any reality, except what was growing inside her?
Tormented, Angharad pushed back the bedcovers and flung herself out of bed. At once she felt sick, but she fought it back and went downstairs. William was sitting at the breakfast table. He didn’t look up at her, and his expression still held yesterday’s mixture of anger, hurt and bitterness. It was the first time she could remember that rest and reflection had failed to lighten his mood.
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’ Her voice sounded weary in her ears.
‘Yes. And does being sorry extend to a promise to leave the Cotton family alone?’
Angharad thought about Harry, trying to measure what he meant to her, and then abandoned the attempt. It was too complicated. Harry filled too many corners of her that had been empty before. She loved him, and it was impossible to imagine not doing so. She was right, and her father was wrong.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t promise that. I told you, last night.’ She was looking at the familiar bright colours of the cereal packet now, dully resenting the good-morning brightness, and she didn’t see her father’s face.
‘In that case, as I told you last night, you are on your own.’ His voice was clipped and cold. Angharad knew that he meant it, and she listened to him going away without lifting her head. Funny, she thought, how just a few weeks have changed everything so that there’s no chance of going back, ever.
In the oppressive silence in the house the hours dragged by. William and Angharad didn’t speak to each other, and she wondered how they would ever cross the breach again.
She sat by the clock and tried to read, but her eyes were on the black telephone on the little table beside it. She had made no arrangement with Harry, and there was no telephone at the cottage. She could do nothing except wait for him to call her. Laura would be home by now. What were they doing? At last, on Sunday morning when she thought she would go mad with the strain, the phone rang. She was sitting beside it, and picked it up half way through the first ring.
‘Cefn 339.’
‘Why do you sound so frightened?’ By contrast Harry’s voice was warm and lazy. He was certain of her, of course. Angharad sank back in her chair, closing her eyes in relief.
‘Harry. I … it seems such a long time.’
‘I know. I couldn’t call before. We’re at Heulfryn now. Can you come?’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. I want to see you so much. Is Laura with you?’
‘Yep. Rather full of her fashionable summer. And looking forward to seeing you. Don’t be too long.’
He was gone before Angharad realized they had both forgotten that there was no bus on Sundays. Well, that didn’t matter. She would hitch a ride somehow. All she could think of was getting to Harry, and leaving the silent house behind her.
She snatched up a sweater and almost ran to the door. Outside William’s study she hesitated for an instant, wondering whether to call out to him. But to tell him what? Chillingly, she remembered You are on your own. No, there was no point in telling William where she was going. Angharad closed the door softly behind her and set off down the street.
The morning was bright, but with the thin brightness of autumn, and there was a hint of mist still trapped in the corners where the sun hadn’t penetrated. The church bell was ringing, three unvarying insistent peals, ‘Come to church, come to church,’ that punctuated every Sunday. She passed several people on their way up to the church, or in the opposite direction to chapel, black hymn books under their arms. Everyone smiled and greeted her, and every greeting turned a knife in her.
‘How’s your Dad? Must be nice for him to have you home for good.’
‘Not going to church, are you, Angharad? Ah, I thought not. Haven’t you got the dinner in the oven, then?’
‘Lovely morning. Makes you feel glad to be alive, doesn’t it?’
Angharad imagined herself walking along here in six or seven months’ time, with her winter coat not meeting any more across her stomach. She had seen it happen to one or two other girls, and had ached with pity for them. The sharp eyes had followed them, calculating and speculating, and the gossip had been just as sharp. It would be even worse for her. It hadn’t been her own choice, but she had been set a notch above everyone else, with her smart school and now her college place. They would all be shocked when they knew, but there would be relish in it too. Village opinion was like that. Angharad felt sick again, and with it an overwhelming longing to be anonymous. Just so that she could live through whatever was coming to her away from prying eyes.
I can’t do it here, she thought, standing still so that the nausea would leave her alone. I can’t have a baby here. I’m not brave enough. I’ll have to do something. What do people do? Harry would know. The thing to do was to get to Harry, and to let him help her.
At the bottom of the village she saw Elfed the Milk in his pick-up truck, finishing the late Sunday milk-round. He would be driving back home along the Heulfryn road. Angharad ran, waving to him.
‘Can I have a lift?’ she begged. He looked at her, inquisitive bright blue eyes sunk in red cheeks, and opened the truck door. They settled into the ancient vehicle and drove away with the milk crates rattling behind them.
‘I hear you’re off to University,’ Elfed said.
‘That’s right.’ Was she imagining it, or was there sly speculation in his sidelong stare.
‘Ah, well. A clever girl like you, you’ll be going off and leaving us all behind you.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said weakly.
Heard about Angharad Owain? Got herself in trouble. Seventeen years old and supposed to be so clever. Says she’s in love with the father. Even my Bronwen’s got more sense than that.
That’s what they would be saying. Elfed was definitely staring at her now. She wondered if she was going to make it to the Heulfryn turning before throwing up. ‘I haven’t decided exactly what I’m going to do, yet,’ she told him with a bright, tight smile, and turned her face to look out at trees that were showing the first brown wrinkles of autumn.
Angharad clambered thankfully out of the truck at the bottom of the lane, and with her head down and her hands in her pockets began the steep walk up the hill. She knew that if she looked up she could just see the grey corner of the cottage in its shroud of trees. The brisk scramble in the open air cleared her head, and she felt better as she came up to the peeling old door. Harry’s grey van was parked in its usual place, and her heart started thumping with the thought of his closeness.
Angharad pushed the door open and walked in. Her eyes searched for and found Harry’s supple height. His face was in shadow, but she thought she should have seen the white flash of his smile. Her gaze flicked to Laura, and was held there.
Laura was sitting at the table, in Angharad’s usual chair, tilting it back at a dangerous angle. Her hair was longer, and it waved voluptuously around her face. Angharad thought she looked different. Older, and somehow riper, as if her mouth had widened and her eyes brightened with seeing new things. She was smoking, and her head was encircled with a blue haze.
‘Darling Angharad,’ she said. Her red mouth was smiling, but her dark eyes were not. They stared at Angharad, perfectly level. Angharad saw that Laura was wearing a creamy blouse with full sleeves caught tight at the wrists. The pale colour made her throat and hands, with silver rings on all the fingers, look even more glowingly tanned. She was wearing a long, full skirt that made Angharad want to tug at her own skimpy hemline.
‘Welcome home,’ she managed to say.
Laura’s eyebrows arched. ‘Home?’ She looked round the cottage and laughed, a new, throaty laugh. ‘I don’t think so. It’s different, but I think that’s all there is to be said for it. Harry, you’ve got so eccentric.’
‘And you’ve spent too long with the idle rich.’ Harry came out of the shadow and Laura’s brown fingers caught his arm as he passed her.
‘Much too long,’ she agreed and Angharad saw their eyes lock for a second. Then Harry turned abruptly away, to Angharad.
‘I forgot about the bus. Are you all right? You look very white.’ He kissed her cheek, but awkwardly, so that their foreheads bumped.
‘I felt sick, but I’m okay now. Can I make myself a cup of tea?’ She began to move around the room, finding the tea-caddy and a mug, filling the kettle at the single cold tap and settling it on the gas ring. All the time she felt Laura’s level eyes on her back.
‘Tell me about France,’ she said out of her dry throat. ‘You look as though you’ve had a very glamorous time.’
‘Very. And what about you? You seem quite at home here.’
The gas hissed softly, echoed by the wind in the chimney. Angharad understood. Harry hadn’t told his sister about their weeks together. Angharad had been invited here this morning on the old basis, as privileged spectator at the ringside of Harry and Laura’s perfect match.
Anger with Harry mounted inside her, but when she looked at him, it melted away again. She saw the black hair falling in points over his forehead, and the impatient dark-blue stare. He looked strained, with a trace of uncharacteristic anxiety. Harry would hate this, she thought. His instinct would be to set himself free. She loved him more than ever, and even now she ached for the feel of him.
Laura saw, of course. Sharp-eyed, clever Laura knew at once. She looked coolly from Angharad to the red cover on the narrow bed, and the curve of her mouth tightened.
‘Quite at home,’ she repeated softly.
Harry’s black eyebrows drew together and he stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking away from both of them.
How could I, Angharad thought, have been so naive? And so dim-wittedly optimistic as to imagine that Laura would let me have him? She’ll never let anyone have him. Least of all me. With the realization came the chilling thought that she had lost a friend. And Laura would make a dangerous enemy.
Harry had simply stepped aside. She might have blamed him for that, but she didn’t. He had promised her nothing. All through the summer Laura had been the dark shadow between them, and now that she was here, Angharad felt her sight clearing as if it had been fogged until now with happiness.
Harry loved her, she was certain of that. But not to the exclusion of Laura. Laura had shared all his life, up in the mysterious isolation of Llyn Fair, and for some reason that she only partly understood, he couldn’t desert her. It would be desertion, of course. It was all or nothing, with Laura. And with Harry she had always had all.
The direction in which Angharad’s thoughts were leading her made the hairs prickle warningly at the nape of her neck. She stopped thinking, at once. The two women sat looking at one another. Laura’s head was still ringed with lazy blue smoke, and her lovely face was calm. Angharad thought that she had never see her look so beautiful, or so cold.
Well then. If Harry chose to stay aloof, then the battle lines would have to be drawn with Laura. Angharad wanted to fight, she was sure of that.
‘Yes,’ she answered her. ‘Heulfryn does feel like home. It’s been a wonderful summer.’
Laura’s glance flicked to the window, and the grey rain outside.
‘What a pity it’s over.’
They might almost have been talking about the weather.
‘You’ve been away such a long time. I want to hear about all the things you’ve been doing and seeing while Harry and I haven’t been further than the other side of The Mountain.’
Laura shrugged gracefully. ‘Oh, I enjoyed it. Gaby’s parents are absurdly rich, and know everyone. There were lots of parties. On yachts. Around white marble swimming pools. At the Casino. I met all kinds of people. I sat next to George Harrison at dinner. Danced with David Niven. A French racing driver – Jean-Louis Grégoire, you know? – sent me flowers every day for two weeks.’ Laura’s head turned on her slim neck. ‘I even fell in love. With an American movie actor called Richard Latimer.’
At the sink Harry threw the potato peeler with a clatter on to the metal draining board. The corners of Laura’s mouth lifted a little, but the look in her eyes didn’t change.
‘He’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen.’
‘He’s a prick.’
Angharad saw it. Jealousy in Harry’s face, unmistakeable.
‘You don’t know him, Harry.’
‘I know enough about him.’
‘It was Angharad who asked. I was telling her. Go away, if you don’t want to hear, and we can have a girls’ talk.’
It isn’t just me, Angharad thought. She wants to punish Harry too. She must feel that we’ve both betrayed her. Poor Laura, if everyone she cares for must belong exclusively to her. And I’ve got something of Harry’s now that she can never have. Poor Laura. Poor all of us. It’s a mess. A horrible, sickening mess that I can’t see how to disentangle. Harry.
‘Well then, why don’t you two regale me with stories of Heulfryn and Cefn, instead?’
‘I don’t think we could compete,’ Harry said shortly.
It was a miserable meal. Harry ate as if he wanted to attack the food. Angharad consumed what she could, feeling sick and heavy, and pushed the rest endlessly around her plate. Laura didn’t touch hers, but she smoked incessantly and went on talking in her bright, brittle voice. There were flashes of the old witty Lau
ra as she described the rigorous French formality of days at the d’Erlangets’ villa, and the stark contrast of nightlife with Gaby when the pair of them slid into wilder and wilder parties.
‘At one of them I saw a model, whose face, incidentally, was on the cover of last month’s Vogue, walk down the length of the dinner table wearing nothing but bracelets of feathers around her wrists and ankles. At each place she pushed the crystal glass off the table with the tip of her toe. When she reached the end, a man walked barefoot over the broken glass and carried her away. At another party I was handed a Fabergé egg with sugar cubes in it. Very strange things happened after that.’
Harry said, ‘How tiresome.’
Laura smiled at him, suddenly a real smile. ‘Not exactly tiresome. Repetitive, rather, after a while. I’d rather have been here with you. I don’t know why I wasn’t.’
Angharad guessed that Laura was very unhappy. It was so like her to veil it with cynical brightness. But if Laura had spent the summer away in a deliberate search for diversions, or new perspectives, then she had failed to find them. She had come home with a luscious, provocative world-weariness, but it was in conflict with a restlessness that Angharad had never seen in her before. Laura had always seemed calm and tranquil. But there was a feverish glitter about her now, and Angharad was frightened of it.
When Angharad put down her knife and fork at last, Laura ground out yet another cigarette.
‘And what shall we three do now?’ she asked, flicking her little gold lighter again.
‘Go back to Llyn Fair,’ Harry said. To Angharad he explained, ‘My mother and father are leaving tomorrow for a month’s holiday. Laura will have gone up to Cambridge by the time they get back, and I … have to leave soon, too.’ He gestured at the pile of film cans in the corner. It was no more than Angharad had expected in her heart, but she went cold. What would he say, when she told him? What could they do?
Harry made a quick, wry face. ‘We’re expected. Why don’t you come back too, and help us out?’
‘Yes,’ Angharad said firmly. ‘I’ll come.’
