‘Caroline, my dear, how are you? Looks like you’re doing well with the nearly new?’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Are you keeping well? You look full of life.’
‘I am, despite the years going faster and faster.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘I know the feeling. Bridget’s doing well with this flood victim’s fund. She’s good at rallying people, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ Caroline laughed. ‘Has she been rallying you?’
‘Just for a donation.’
Caroline got the impression that maybe Craddock Fitch wasn’t quite as willing as he usually was to hand out the money that had flowed in all directions in ever increasing amounts since he first came to live here. They’d all benefited in one way or another. She caught him watching Kate behaving in her accustomed efficient headteacher way as she collected together the school recorders; she saw how precious Kate was to him and she was glad. Still there was this surprising underlying feeling that he . . . in a matter of weeks it seemed he suddenly looked his years. How odd.
About eleven thirty Beth arrived. Still niggling at the back of Caroline’s mind was what Beth had said about not being happy at Cambridge and it worried her. Maybe a gap year would have been better for Beth, whereas Alex appeared to have taken everything in his stride.
Beth came across to her carrying two coffees, one for her and one for Sylvia. ‘Mum! Can I check your diary? I remember you putting a telephone number for one of Dottie’s cousins in your phone ages ago. Do you think it might still be there?’
‘Possibly, darling. My bag’s locked in the cupboard in the kitchen. I’ve got the key.’ Caroline delved in her trouser pocket. ‘Here we are.’
So Beth stood by the light of the church hall kitchen window trawling through the list of phone numbers on her mother’s phone. Eureka! It was there. She’d ring, right away.
‘Good morning. Is that Irene, Dottie Foskett’s cousin?’
The voice at the other end was hesitant. ‘Er! Yes. Who’s that?’
‘Beth Harris.’
‘Beth, did you say?’
‘Yes. Your cousin Dottie knows me. It’s Beth Harris from the Rectory at Turnham Malpas. Is it possible to speak to her, please?’
‘I’m sorry, she’s not speaking to anyone. Sorry.’
It sounded as though the line was about to go dead. ‘Please, don’t hang up. I want her to come back home, straight away. I know why she went but she can’t go away for ever and we all want her back. Every one of us. Please, tell her it’s me; she may speak to me when she knows who it is.’
‘Sorry, she’s shaking her head. She’s OK staying with me, so not to worry.’
Then the phone went dead.
Beth stood looking at the mobile for a moment, wondering what on earth she could do. She knew it would be pointless ringing back to ask for her address.
Caroline had been so busy with the nearly new stall that it wasn’t until they were eating a late lunch at home that she got an opportunity to ask Beth what happened about her phone call.
‘She was there all right, because her cousin Irene said, to use her exact words, “she’s not speaking to anyone”, so though we have her number we don’t know the address.’
‘Do you remember she had her house renovated and stayed with her cousin in Little Derehams till the worst was over? How about her? Sheila Bissett will know her.’
‘Of course she will. I could write a letter and give it to the cousin to address, couldn’t I? I’ll finish lunch and then—’
‘Darling! Maybe she will come back on her own accord; after all, she has the rent to pay for her cottage so she can’t go on not living in it.’
‘She might give her notice and never come back.’
Peter, slightly alarmed by Beth’s persistence about Dottie said, ‘I think we should leave Dottie to come home when she’s ready.’
Beth retorted, ‘Well, I don’t. She needs to know that there is someone, someone in Turnham Malpas who wants her back. Don’t try to stop me, Dad. I’m sorting this or I won’t go back.’ Having made this declaration Beth realised that she quite simply didn’t want to go back anyway and Dottie wasn’t her only reason. ‘I’m doing nothing for anyone else, just thinking about my academic work every hour of every day and I hate it. What’s more . . . I’ve decided . . . I’m not going back. Ever.’ She sprang up from her chair and disappeared upstairs.
Peter and Caroline were staggered. Peter got up and quietly closed the kitchen door so they could talk without being overheard.
‘Surely she can’t mean it?’ Peter said quietly.
‘I fear she does, Peter.’
‘It’s not the end of the world, you know. She could ask to begin again next September, take a year out. You know a lot of them do. She could do a gap year, well, part of one.’
‘I did wonder about that myself. She hasn’t settled nearly so well as Alex.’
‘It wouldn’t do her any harm.’
‘I don’t know how you feel about it, Peter, but I wouldn’t want her hanging around the house with nothing to do for months. She’d need some objective. It wouldn’t be good for her to fall into a vacuum, would it?’
‘Let’s wait and see. Perhaps if we solve this Dottie business she’ll feel better and go back. If not, I’ll go back with her and talk to someone and secure her place for the next academic year. We don’t want her feeling as though she’s under pressure to go back when she’s so unhappy; that would be the worst thing of all.’
‘I couldn’t bear that.’ Caroline was beginning to warm to the idea of Beth being around for six months. In her mind’s eye she could see the tiny bundle that was Elizabeth Caroline Harris snug and warm in the hospital cot and the slightly bigger bundle that was Alex and she remembered how grateful she had been to have children, even if they weren’t actually her own, but were Peter’s. How precious they both were to her, almost more precious than if they had been her very own.
She smiled at him and he reached across the table and took hold of her hand. ‘All right?’ She nodded. He squeezed her fingers to reassure her. ‘We’ll sort something out, mustn’t let her close the door on Cambridge though. We must keep that option open in case she changes her mind. I feel for her. I remember homesickness myself; it’s damned debilitating and makes life hell. I—’
They were interrupted by the sound of Beth clattering down the stairs. The kitchen door was flung open. ‘I’m sorry to land such a bombshell, but I can’t help it. I really can’t. I’m off to Little Derehams to see if Sheila Bissett is in. I’ve done a letter. Won’t be long. I mean it, you know. I’m not going back.’
Peter nodded. ‘We understand. Off you go.’
Caroline was relieved to see the gratitude in her eyes for their understanding. Peter always seemed to know the right thing to say in difficult circumstances; she would probably have insisted Beth went back just to give it another try till the end of the Michaelmas term, but in her present mood that could have been disastrous.
When Caroline heard the front door bang shut she said, ‘Jake Harding’s turned up at Cambridge.’
Peter raised his eyebrows. ‘No!’
‘She caught sight of him in the distance at a concert. Beth thought he’d gone to London. More handsome than ever, she says.’
‘Right! That definitely is a very good reason for her not going back!’
‘I think she still has feelings for him; he is a very striking young man.’
‘Not a strictly honest one though, two-timing her like he did.’
‘But it was her he put on the pedestal.’
‘Indeed.’
They both laughed.
Chapter 8
The morning after the highly successful flood victims’ coffee morning Alice was retching over the loo almost the moment she got up. Oh! My God! She felt dreadful. She perched on the edge of the bath and dwelt on her food intake the last couple of days. But she hadn’t been actually sick had she, just retched. Maybe if she had some breakfast she migh
t feel better. She threw cold water over her face and hands, dried them off and started down the stairs. But the stairs swam around her feet and she had to clutch the rail to keep herself upright.
The thought of butter made her stomach heave so she tried plain toast. It tasted like wood and she didn’t want to eat it, but she forced herself. She couldn’t face either tea or coffee, so she drank chilled water from Marcus’s American fridge.
The newspaper rattled through the letter box. Alice pulled it through and went to sit in her favourite chair to read it. The world news was depressing as usual, so she turned to the inner pages. She must contact Johnny to tell him how happy she was to have received his letter. She couldn’t think why she hadn’t immediately got in touch with him. Just exactly why hadn’t she?
There was no answer to that. Here she was with his letter on the mantelpiece above the very fireplace she was sitting by, the letter she’d longed to receive because it told her she only had to raise a finger and Johnny would be here and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to make that final earth-moving decision. Why not? Why not indeed? How could she not grab this chance to change her life from something the colour of sludge to something all the colours of the rainbow? She would be an idiot to turn him down. She couldn’t turn him down when he was the love of her life, could she?
And where was the other love of her life? He certainly wasn’t with her, taking care of her when she’d felt so awful when she first got up. Marcus March had walked away and good riddance to him. She could, she supposed, always ring his mobile, find out where all their money had gone. Why hadn’t he been in touch? Where was he? Was he going to be published or had it all fallen through?
She would, she’d ring him. Find out. After all, she was his wife. Even if in name only. Alice rooted in her handbag for her mobile and pressed his number.
A woman with a London accent answered. ‘Hello. Marcus March’s phone. Who’s calling?’
‘Alice.’
‘Who?’
‘Alice March.’
‘His sister! I’ll hand you over.’
Alice distinctly heard her say, ‘It’s your sister.’
Completely dazed by this, she didn’t immediately speak when she heard Marcus’s voice, more clipped and brisk than normal, asking her why she’d rung.
‘To find out how you are, of course. You haven’t kept in touch.’
‘Well, I’m in the office discussing my novel.’
In the office discussing his novel this early on a Sunday morning? That was odd. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Fine, absolutely fine. Look, can I ring you back? We’re rather busy; you know what it’s like – every storyline picked apart, every character reshaped a little, and quite right too.’ He kind of chuckled in a most un-Marcus-like way. After a pause he added, ‘Will you put the money you owe me in the bank account tomorrow? Don’t forget. I’ll try to ring you back another time. Right. Don’t forget the money; I’m running out. Bye.’
‘Don’t forget the money, I’m running out.’ That sounded very Marcus-like. Always seeking the best in people, it took Alice a while to recognise the situation for what it was: he’d found someone else. She was right; she knew she was. She hadn’t been married to Marcus for twelve years and learned nothing about him. His voice was so false, so brisk and jerky and . . . the money she owed him? That was the biggest cheat of all. Well, if he had found someone else, and she was sure he had, she could fund him like Alice March had been funding him all these years, and good luck to her.
Alice couldn’t trust herself to speak coherently over the phone, so she typed Johnny a long email in which she told him how much he meant to her, and how much she was looking forward to seeing him. She was just about to press send when something, she didn’t know what, held her back. Why had he not believed her when she said she’d divorce Marcus because she loved him, Johnny, so very much? Didn’t he recognise that she, the love of his life, was speaking the truth, whereas all the others had been after his money? He’d known her almost but not quite a whole year and yet he couldn’t believe her. Had she not sounded sincere? Had she not cast aside her promises to Marcus against her will but for Johnny’s sake? He’d claimed he felt guilty about that. She’d believed him when he said he loved her, so why didn’t he believe her?
And what about Marcus? She’d trusted him all these years and here he was, only days after leaving home, already with someone else. Who could you trust?
So Alice never pressed the key that would send her message winging its way to her beloved. Instead she walked for miles through the countryside, practised for hours on the piano and got up the next morning to find herself just as sick as she had been the day before.
While she was recovering from her latest painful bout of retching there was a knock at the door. Dragging her feet reluctantly down her little hall, she opened the door to find Bridget Cleary beaming from ear to ear.
‘Alice, m’dear. Thought you should be the first to know, seeing you did so much towards our success on Saturday, that, altogether, we made,’ with a flourish she held up a piece of paper and written on it was £1,227. ‘There now, what do you think? I told you it would be one thousand but it was a bit more. Can I come in?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Alice stepped back to make room for Bridget and Bridget’s first words were, ‘My God and all the saints! You look terrible! I know it’s wonderful news but there’s no need to go into shock. You are the most peculiar colour. Are you ill?’
‘I’m feeling a bit . . . queasy.’
Comprehension dawned on Bridget. ‘Oh! Right. Ah!! I didn’t know. Dry cream crackers I always found were the best with a cup of tea before you get up.’
Alice didn’t understand what she meant. ‘Dry cream crackers? What are you talking about?’
‘Sorry. I’ve jumped the gun, haven’t I? Still, someone with my experience . . . might be able to give you a few tips perhaps.’ Bridget looked quizzically at her, but got no response and continued by saying, ‘Well then, I’ll put the total in the church magazine with a thank you to all who helped, I want everyone to know. It was hard work, but well worth it. Take care! Bye!’ and with that she shut the door behind her.
Alice returned to her chair in the kitchen and a terrible truth came over her as she sat down. Bridget must have meant . . . surely to God, as Bridget would have said, she wasn’t, was she? She couldn’t be. She couldn’t be pregnant; they’d always been so careful. It wasn’t Marcus’s baby – he hadn’t been able to for months and months, but Johnny certainly could so . . . obviously . . .
For five wonderful minutes she wallowed in the thought of a baby, of its total dependence on its mother for survival, of the lovely smell of its hair, of the warmth of its head lolling against her neck, of the sweetness of its breath and the joy of its tiny fingers and toes. That was until the matter-of-fact predicament she was in hit her. Marcus would know it wasn’t his, so she couldn’t pretend it was. She couldn’t let Johnny come back because he’d think she only wanted him back because of the baby. She wouldn’t cry. Definitely not. A baby was what she wanted and had done for years. Everyone knew that. Well, whatever, she’d bring the baby up herself. It happened so often nowadays and there was no shame in it. People could think it was Marcus’s; no one would know it couldn’t be. He’d have to come home to make it look genuine. In fact he was the sort of man who would come home and pretend the baby was his to save face. She could bet he wouldn’t even question her about it, wouldn’t even mention that it couldn’t possibly be his and Marcus would proudly claim to everyone he was the baby’s father simply to boost his image. What with a book published and a baby on the way he’d be on top of the world.
But was it right not to tell Johnny? To deceive him?
Should she have an abortion? No one need know. Did she want an abortion? After all, it would solve a lot of problems. Yes, that would perhaps be the best route, and the result of that? No Johnny, no Marcus, no baby. How about tha
t for a situation? Only she would carry the aftermath of the guilt.
Later that day she bought a pregnancy test and proved once and for all that Bridget was right.
Chapter 9
In the Rectory, Caroline and Peter were still struggling with Beth’s reluctance to return to Cambridge. Getting Dottie’s cousin in Little Derehams to address Beth’s letter to Dottie for her and post it off had only gone part way to improving her spirits.
On the Monday after Bridget’s highly successful coffee morning, Caroline suggested at breakfast that Beth went back to college with her dad to explain her absence and at the very least keep a place open for herself, collect her belongings, take some months off, and then come home for a while and return in October.
Beth didn’t reply. She was busy buttering a toasted teacake and after she’d taken her first bite she said, ‘Well, I might do that.’
‘Have you spoken to Alex about this?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . .’
‘Because what?’
‘I want to stand on my own feet. I’ve relied on him too much these last years and it has to stop.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘He has a life to lead too, Mum; he doesn’t want me asking for advice over every little thing like I’ve done since I was about three.’
‘Alex doesn’t mind.’
‘That’s not the point, though, is it? Maybe he’s feeling as bad as me and isn’t saying anything for fear of looking a fool. But I don’t care. I know what I want to do and that’s that.’
A Village in Jeopardy (Turnham Malpas 16) Page 8
