The Perfect Solution

by Catherine George

  'Apple dumpling.' She smiled a little. 'Jim's favourite. If you're chicken you eat cheese instead.'

  He grinned back, then sobered. 'Strange. I forget now and then.'

  She nodded. 'I know. But life has to go on. Tell me, why does Polly believe Paul was her uncle?'

  Rosa Anstey had been surprisingly obstinate on the subject of her child's paternity. Because divorce was out of the question she'd insisted Polly never knew Paul Clifford was her father.

  'Would you have wanted to divorce him if you'd known?' added Marc, eyeing her.

  'You bet I would! Not that I could have done. Paul was a Catholic.'

  'Don't I know it!' he said bitterly. 'It was his alibi for not marrying Rosa. While she, devout Catholic though she was, loved him enough to live in sin. Because believe me, Joanna, it was sin to her. Thank God she lived long enough to receive the last rites.' His mouth tightened. 'I'd have hated Rosa to die unshriven.'

  Joanna looked sick for a moment. 'Paul did.'

  Marc stood up abruptly, his dark face brooding under the bright overhead light. 'I can't pretend to be sorry. I didn't care much for your husband.'

  'I could hardly fail to realise that!'

  'Would you prefer me to go? I could leave the notes I've made. About the agreement for Polly. I could meet Fowler separately another time.'

  Joanna considered him thoughtfully. 'You may as well stay now you're here. I've catered for three.'

  He raised an eyebrow. 'Do you want me to stay?'

  She looked away, conscious suddenly that they were discussing more than a mere invitation to dinner. 'Of course,' she said, deliberately casual. 'I'd like to get everything sorted out tonight if possible.'

  Marc resumed his seat, refusing a second glass of wine. 'I'd better keep a clear head. I'm still too tired to risk much alcohol.'

  'Have some coffee, then.'

  'Good Italian coffee?'

  She smiled. 'No. Good Brazilian coffee.'

  The tension in the air eased. Joanna filled the cafetiere, then left Marc to help himself while she put potatoes to roast.

  'I hadn't pictured you as so domesticated,' he said, watching her.

  'I'm still surprised you know anything about me at all!'

  He smiled wryly. 'Rosa couldn't seem to help talking about you. You impressed her no end. She said you were friendly and warm, but at the same time very British and poised, the end product of an expensive education.'

  Joanna chuckled. 'I'm British, certainly. But contrary to Rosa's belief I went to the village school and the local comprehensive, then on to a polytechnic, Mr Anstey. Though I must own up to a quite wonderful private tutor as well. My father did Greats at Oxford and bombarded my youthful brain with as much literature and philosophy as it could absorb, with a fair bit of Greek and Roman history thrown in.'

  Marc shook his head sorrowfully. 'While I'm just a humble hack, making a living by my pen.'

  'Not the way I heard it,' she said sceptically.

  He grinned, changing the subject to comment on the way the kitchen was fitted out. 'It's very state-of-the-art in here. Unlike the rest of the house.'

  Paul Clifford had wanted to do over the entire house when they had married, meeting with firm resistance from Joanna, who liked it exactly the way it was. To appease him she had given in over the kitchen. 'I admit it was a bit primitive in here. The cupboards and cooker were ancient so I finally gave in and let Paul loose in here with his idea of the country-house kitchen.' She made a face. 'Rather a contrast to the rest of Swan House.'

  'Why the name? I haven't seen any swans about, unless you're hiding a moat somewhere.'

  She looked at him levelly. 'Before I was married I was Joanna Swan. We Swans have lived here for two hundred years, good yeomen all.'

  Marc Anstey smiled wryly. 'Whereas I spring from exotic but unknown Sicilian stock mixed with British die-hard respectability.'

  'And Jim Fowler, who's due here any minute, is a product of London's Docklands—long before it was fashionable to live there!' Joanna removed her apron. 'I think we're what we are, not who we are. Paul could never reconcile himself to that point of view. He married me in his urge for upward mobility, to become part of a world he felt was different from his own. He was disappointed. All he achieved was an invitation or two to charity functions and an occasional pinner party with the rector and his wife—who's my closest friend.' She stopped suddenly, embarrassed. 'I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you all this. You can't possibly be interested in my bizarre marriage.'

  Marc moved towards her, holding her eyes with his. 'On the contrary. The subject interests me very much indeed ‑' He broke off as the doorbell put an end to the oddly intimate little moment. 'Ah. Your visitor. Time to get down to business.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dinner with Jim Fowler was more of a strain than lunch with Polly. Long before it was over Joanna wished she'd arranged a meeting over morning coffee instead of a three-course meal. While they ate it was impossible to get down to business, yet the very reason for the meeting made polite dinner conversation uphill work. Joanna was glad when the time came to take coffee into the drawing-room, though even then both men leapt simultaneously to take the tray, like dogs with a bone. When they finally got down to business the atmosphere was thick with constraint as they began to discuss the proposals Marc had ready regarding the small person of Paola Anstey.

  'I am Paola's guardian, of course,' began Marc.

  'Legally?' pounced Jim.

  Marc looked down his nose at the accountant. 'A year ago my sister called in a solicitor and made the necessary arrangements.' He reached in an inside pocket and took out a legal document. 'I think you'll find it in order.'

  Jim studied it swiftly, then handed it to Joanna, who barely glanced at it before handing it back.

  'What prompted your sister to do that?' asked Jim.

  Marc eyed him militantly. 'Why shouldn't she?'

  'All I'm saying is that she was relatively young. At her age women don't generally think of wills and guardians and so on,' said Jim, making an obvious effort to sound reasonable.

  'My sister was Paul Clifford's mistress. To Rosa this was flying in the face of her upbringing and religious beliefs.' Marc's face darkened. 'She made provision for her daughter's future because she was convinced God would punish her sooner or later.'

  'But that's ridiculous ‑' began Jim, then subsided at a searing blue look from Joanna.

  'Some people might think Rosa's been proved right,' she reminded him.

  'I don't,' said Marc bitingly. 'Paul drove like a maniac. He killed Rosa, not God.'

  The silence following this statement was so unbearable that Joanna rushed to break it. 'Where was Polly when it happened?'

  'At home with the woman who came in to help Rosa.' Marc smiled faintly at Joanna. 'Mrs Tucker is a lot like your Doris Mills, by the way. When Rosa failed to appear she contacted me. You know the rest.' Marc breathed in deeply, then laid out a typed list in front of Jim Fowler, who scanned it through his thick-lensed glasses in silence for a while before giving it to Joanna.

  'Anyone would think you were doing Joanna a favour by handing the kid over to her,' said Jim, eyeing Marc challengingly. 'It seems to me you get the penny and the bun. You've got the say-so about the child's education and so on, while Jo here gets all the work and responsibility.'

  Marc looked dangerous for a moment. 'I know damn well it looks that way, but this wasn't my idea, remember. I'm merely carrying out my sister's dying wishes. I thought it was a crazy idea to ask Mrs Clifford to take my niece. Frankly I expected her to slam the door in my face.'

  'What would you have done if she had?' asked Jim promptly.

  'Bought a bigger flat and engaged a nanny I could trust Polly to while I'm away. Which I can still do,' Marc added bluntly, 'if the trial period agreed on between Mrs Clifford and myself proves that the arrangement won't work.'

  'It will work,' said Joanna. 'After what Polly's been through it must work,
for her sake.' She picked up the sheet of regulations. 'Now. You don't say much about education, other than the money available for it, which, incidentally, is more than enough to send her to a very expensive boarding-school.'

  Marc nodded. 'But not yet, surely!'

  'Of course not yet! But I think I should be allowed an opinion on the choice of school,' said Joanna.

  'I should bloody well hope so!' exploded Jim. 'You're the one left holding the baby, my girl.'

  'Yes, I know, Jim,' said Joanna patiently. 'This is all very difficult as it is. Let's not make it worse.'

  'Sony, love.' Jim subsided, glaring at Marc.

  'The village school here is very good,' said Joanna in a businesslike way aimed at lightening the tension. 'If you're agreeable I'd prefer that Polly start her education there after Christmas. We can leave decisions about other schools until she's older. Much older.'

  Relief smoothed some of the lines etched at Marc's mouth and eyes. 'Thank you,' he said quietly. 'I'm grateful.'

  'I can do a little extra-curricular coaching myself,' she said, warming to the idea. 'Drawing and reading and so on.'

  'What about your own work?' demanded Jim. 'Won't that suffer?'

  'I can fit that in around Polly,' said Joanna, unconcerned.

  Marc frowned. 'I'd forgotten your job. What exactly do you do?'

  'Don't worry. I do it at home.'

  'She writes children's books. And illustrates them,' said Jim proudly.

  Marc eyed Joanna with a hint of accusation in his dark eyes. 'In that case surely Polly will be a hindrance?'

  'Probably. But only at first. I'll just organise my day differently, that's all.' She smiled sweetly. 'They're not three-volume novels.'

  'Perhaps you'll show me some time.'

  'If you like.' Joanna turned back to the agreement. 'Shall we get the rest of this settled, please?'

  The other items were routine matters which Jim vetted quickly, agreeing to all the financial arrangements with such readiness that Joanna knew they were generous rather than merely fair. When Marc agreed that the sale of the factory should go through at once the atmosphere between the two men thawed slightly. Then Joanna came across a final item over the page. She read it through twice, her eyes narrowing. She looked up at Marc with sudden hostility.

  'I don't care for the tone of this last bit.'

  Jim snatched the paper from her, frowning as he read the final clause. 'In the event of Mrs Clifford's remarriage, all the foregoing would be subject to review.' He eyed Marc Anstey belligerently. 'What the hell does that mean?'

  'If Mrs Clifford remarries I shall want Polly back in my sole care immediately.'

  'Why?' snapped Joanna, her eyes like chips of blue ice.

  Marc shrugged. 'Part of the reason Rosa was so desperate for you to have her child was that I'm not married, and the very nature of my job makes it difficult to provide a permanent base for Polly for the time being. Rosa was adamant that a child needs stability as well as love. But I'm damn sure she wouldn't want Polly at the mercy of some stepfather figure if you marry again.'

  'Did she say so?' demanded Jim.

  'She didn't have to!'

  'But you've got nothing in writing.'

  Marc jumped to his feet. 'Writing or not, those are my conditions, take it or leave it.'

  Joanna got up more slowly. 'I need time to think it over. Before I do, may I ask a personal question?'

  'Of course.'

  'What happens if you marry? Will I be expected to hand Polly back?'

  He shrugged, a grim little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 'Marriage is a snare I've done my best to avoid. The situation's unlikely to arise.' He paused, one eyebrow raised in the way Joanna was beginning to know. 'How about you, Mrs Clifford? Have you anyone in mind to replace Paul?'

  Joanna waved a furious Jim out of the way. 'No, Mr Anstey, not yet. It's only a few days since he died—not much to cast around for a suitable candidate. I'll let you know the moment I sort one out.' She paused, two spots of colour burning along her cheekbones. 'How about lovers? Am I allowed those?'

  His nostrils flared. 'I'm glad you find this all so amusing ‑'

  'On the contrary,' she snapped. 'I don't find it amusing at all!'

  'Look here, Anstey ‑' began Jim heatedly.

  'Leave it, Jim,' ordered Joanna. 'I'm determined the trial period will continue as agreed. Discussion over for tonight, if you don't mind, gentlemen.'

  Joanna knew perfectly well that Marc Anstey was reluctant to leave at the same time as Jim Fowler, but she made it crystal-clear she was bidding goodnight to both men. Marc was forced to return to the Lamb and Flag without the private word he so clearly wanted.

  Joanna, suddenly wakeful after an energetic burst of clearing up after the meal, went upstairs to check that all was well with Polly, then took a bath to calm her anger over the proviso at the end of Marc Anstey's set of rules. It seemed that as long as she remained a widow she was allowed to function as a surrogate mother to Paola Anstey, for which service she would receive an allowance generous enough to render the sale of Swan House unnecessary. Which, of course, was a relief. She hated the thought of losing her home, and as yet her earnings from the series of Snowbird books were not quite enough to banish the spectre altogether. At the same time she had no intention of letting anyone try to run her private life for her, Marc Anstey in particular.

  Joanna felt irritated and depressed as she got ready for bed. A few days ago she'd never heard of Marc Anstey, nor of Polly. Yet now both uncle and niece loomed large in her life, an advantage in one way, since it left her precious little time for bitterness and recrimination where Paul was concerned.

  She took her wedding photograph from the drawer and stared at it, trying to remember how she'd felt that day five years before. The wedding had been a quiet, private affair, soon after her father's death. Paul, as short of relatives as his bride, had requested as few people as possible. The only guests at the brief ceremony, and at the lunch at the Ritz afterwards, had been Jim and Maisie Fowler. Joanna had felt very much alone without even Mary Lavenham to lend her support. But her staunchest friend, who would otherwise have seen her through thick and thin, had been too close to presenting her husband with twins to act as bridesmaid.

  Joanna gazed at the fair, laughing girl in the simple silk suit and tilted hat, and marvelled at her youth. She felt at least a hundred years older now than the Joanna of her wedding day. Paul, maturely handsome in his morning suit, looked triumphant as he grinned at the camera. How pleased he'd been with himself. And with his bride. Yet once his hope of a family had been snatched from him all that had died a very sudden death.

  The telephone startled Joanna out of her reverie. She snatched off the receiver, her voice sharp as she snapped her name.

  'Marc Anstey here.'

  Joanna frowned. 'Yes? Is something wrong? It's very late.'

  I know. I'm sorry.' He paused, then said stiffly, 'I offended you this evening. I was rude. I apologise.'

  'I was surprised rather than offended,' she assured him, calm again.

  'And very unapproachable. Too much so for me to ask when I could visit Polly tomorrow.'

  'Come whenever you like. But if you want her full attention I'd make it after lunch. Doris will be here in the morning.'

  'Which brings me to one of the things I meant to mention tonight. The news about your writing came as a surprise. If I allot you a larger allowance, would Doris come in every day from now on to leave you more time for your work?'

  'I'd already thought of that. But I don't need extra money for her wages.'

  'You mean you'd rather not accept anything else from me.'

  'But it isn't from you, Mr Anstey, is it? The money will come from the sale of PCP in Polly's name.'

  'I used the word "allot", not "give",' he pointed out coldly. 'Thank you. I'll be round about two tomorrow. If that's convenient.'

  'Perfectly. Goodnight.'

  Joanna took some time to g
et to sleep, then woke in the middle of the night, heart pounding and disorientated, to the sound of crying. She slid out of bed to run to Polly's room, where the child lay in a crumpled heap, sobbing, heartbroken, for her mother.

  Joanna took the little girl into her arms and held her tightly, waiting patiently for the storm to pass. It was a long time before Polly quietened. At last she yawned widely, then snuggled her head against Joanna with a shuddering sigh.

  'Thirsty,' she said hoarsely.

  Joanna mopped the sodden little face with a handkerchief, then poured orange juice from the insulated flask she'd filled earlier. Polly drank deeply, consented to a trip to the bathroom, then allowed herself to be tucked back into bed, wide black eyes fixed imploringly on Joanna's.

  'Story. Please?'

  'All right. Just a little one. I'll tell you about a pony called Snowbird.'

  With the hot, damp little hand held tightly in hers Joanna began on the story she'd been working on before Polly's advent. Snowbird was a white pony whose adventures were gratifyingly popular with under-tens both nationwide and overseas. Joanna did full dramatic justice to the latest episode in Snowbird's career, making a mental note of a new twist in the plot as she went along. Polly was fascinated. At first her reddened eyes never left Joanna's face, but as the minutes ticked by her lids began to droop. Joanna's voice grew quieter and quieter until she was sure the child was asleep, then she tiptoed from the room and slid into her own bed with a sigh. Looking after a grieving, motherless little girl promised to be no sinecure. But if Polly wanted to stay at Swan House she was determined to make a success of it. And not for Rosa, either, nor even Marc, but for Polly. And, Joanna realised with sudden insight, for herself, too. Even with all the problems which came as part of the package she knew with sudden conviction that the child was exactly what she needed to fill the aching, empty void in her life.

  Joanna woke next morning to see Polly perched on the end of her bed, watching her.

  'Good morning, Polly,' she said, yawning, and looked at the clock. 'You're early.'

  'Can I come in your bed?'