Holding On (18 page)

‘Hang on a sec.' Hal was trying to laugh but he felt strangely anxious. ‘Aren't we looking a bit far ahead? It might be years before we move to The Keep and even then—'

‘But that's what I wanted to talk to you about.' She perched opposite him, her own drink clutched in her fingers. ‘Don't you think it's a bit selfish for your grandmother to go on living in that big place? Just her and Theo? It's a family house. Don't you think that it's time that she abdicated,' she laughed a little at the word, ‘in favour of you? We've got a growing family and we need the space—'

‘Wait,' Hal interrupted. ‘Hold it. I think you've got the wrong idea somewhere along the line. The Keep is my grandmother's home. We're not talking about some entailed property or primogeniture inheritance here. She might have decided to leave it to us but it's still her home. Hers and Uncle Theo's. You wouldn't expect
your
parents to move out of their nice big house just for us, would you?'

‘It's not the same at all,' cried Maria impatiently, too intent on putting her point to listen to reason. ‘My parents are barely in their fifties. It's crazy that two such aged old dears should take up so much space.'

‘Are you suggesting that we should move in with them?'

‘Of course not.' Maria had earmarked Freddy's spacious south-facing central rooms for her own use, whilst Theo's wing would be perfect for the children whilst they were small. She had no intention of putting them up on the second floor where there was no heating and the plumbing was antique. ‘But don't you honestly think that they'd be happier in something smaller and more convenient? A nice modern bungalow, for instance?'

Hal tried to imagine his grandmother in a nice modern bungalow and failed utterly.

‘Grandmother belongs at The Keep,' he said positively. ‘It's her place. She'd hate anything else. I'm sorry, Maria, but this is quite ridiculous. You must have realised that I would never attempt to turn Grandmother and Uncle Theo out of The Keep just so that we could live there. Even if I had the power I wouldn't do it. It's their home, dammit. And even when we do move in one day, it won't be solely ours. It belongs to all of us. That's the agreement. You see how everyone comes and goes. That's how it's always been and how it must stay. The family must be able to come whenever they want, just as they do now.'

Maria was silent but, watching her sullen face, Hal suddenly knew exactly what was in her mind.

He thought: But they won't want to come when Maria is mistress of The Keep. Everything will be changed and they will no longer feel welcome and she will encourage the feeling so that finally it will be just ours.

For a brief moment he had an inward vision of Fliss and her children as he remembered them from a brief spell during the hot summer when the ship had been in at Devonport for some urgent repair. His captain had given him a few days' leave – provided he stayed locally – and he'd spent them at The Keep. Now, suddenly, he had a mental picture of the twinnies sitting together on one of the sofas in the hall after tea, leaning drowsily together whilst Fliss read quietly to them; he saw them squashed together on the swing, shouting with excitement as she pushed them higher and higher; playing ball in the courtyard; out on the hill with old Perks and Caroline. They'd worn canvas sandals and floppy sunhats, their smooth limbs tanned a honey brown, and he'd given them piggybacks up the hill when their legs got tired. He and Fliss had taken them to Totnes, with only just enough room on the narrow pavement for the double pushchair which they'd pushed together up Fore Street. He'd bought them ice creams at The Brioche whilst he and Fliss drank iced orange juice. Soon, no doubt, Susanna's children would become part of The Keep's landscape, and perhaps Mole's and Kit's. It was not to be jealously guarded simply for his own sons . . .

Maria was watching him across the table. ‘What are you thinking about?' she asked sharply.

‘Nothing.' He moved Jolyon, easing his languid weight into the crook of his arm. ‘I know you think it's a silly arrangement, Maria, but that's the way it is.'

‘It's quite ludicrous,' she said angrily. ‘Why should we be obliged to run a kind of hotel for the rest of your family? It's stupid and it isn't fair.'

Hal swallowed back his irritation with difficulty. ‘It's unusual, I grant you,' he said, ‘and it might not work once the old people have gone. It's an ideal, if you like. An ideal that we could all pull together, share the place and stay close as a family.'

‘It sounds like something out of Walt Disney,' answered Maria scornfully. ‘And
we
foot the bill, no doubt, for this – this commune?'

‘I don't know,' he said wearily. ‘That remains to be seen. The trust pays for the upkeep. At the moment it's academic. I hope that Grandmother lives for another ten years, which is why I suggest that we get on with our lives and buy our own place.'

They stared antagonistically at each other across the table but, before she could reply, Edward woke and began to cry and Maria slammed back her chair and strode towards the playroom. Jolyon, who had been half asleep, jumped violently and Hal held him close, murmuring soothingly, but his heart was heavy in his breast as he surveyed the wreck of the approaching evening and the recriminations and arguments which would follow.

Fliss let herself into the house in Above Town and stood for a moment just inside the door. There was a chill, empty feel about the place and she shivered a little, glad of the guernsey she'd snatched up at the last moment and now wore over her shirt. The tenants had left suddenly, pleading an unexpected posting, and she'd driven down from Northwood to check the place out, hoping that no damage had been done. The house had been let ever since she and Miles had gone to Hong Kong and so far they'd been lucky with their tenants. It was long since she'd tried to persuade him to sell it and she had decided to let the matter drop. She suspected that Miles was hoping to hold on to the house until the twinnies went away to school, when it would be quite reasonable for him and Fliss to move back to it. Meanwhile it could be rented to selected candidates whilst they continued to live in larger quarters.

At least the twinnies weren't ruining his precious furniture. Fliss shook her head at this cynical thought as she went into the kitchen and dropped her bag on the breakfast bar. Did he seriously imagine this small house would contain Bess and Jamie as they grew bigger, along with all the paraphernalia of going off to school or having friends to stay?

She looked critically about the kitchen and sighed with relief to see the sink gleaming, the floor clean, no greasy corners. The kitchen and bathroom were always the vulnerable spots but it looked as if their luck was holding. Now there would be all the trouble of finding new tenants, responsible people with no children and too old to want to give rowdy parties, but Miles always attended to that side of things. She'd quickly learned that it was best to pass the reins back to him on his return from sea, to keep explicit records and explain her reasons for any change in the normal running of the household. He checked everything, queried each decision, allowed her little room for manoeuvre. Some wives resented this behaviour. If they were to be left in charge then they reserved the right to do what they felt was best at the time without criticism. It was an area of naval life which was fraught with difficulties but Fliss had learned to keep her head down, to do that which was essential and nothing more. Only where the children were concerned did she insist on complete autonomy. Miles granted her that readily. He had no particular desire to be embroiled in their lives.

Fliss climbed the stairs to the drawing room. She'd left the twinnies at The Keep in Caroline's care and was hoping to be home in time for lunch. Susanna and Gus were coming over and it would be such fun to see them again. She opened the door and looked in at the long room. Impersonal without their small, portable belongings, the drawing room was as spotless as the kitchen. Having heard many horror stories from other naval families who had let their homes, Fliss heaved another relieved sigh. Miles certainly knew how to pick his tenants. They'd been friends of friends so far, naval people with good references and a sense of responsibility. He would be pleased to hear that all was well. She continued her tour of the house, finishing in the living room opposite the kitchen. Only here was she assailed by memories: of long chats with Mole and tea parties with Susanna; of late-night sessions with Kit and conversations with Maria when she'd come to stay all those years ago. In this room, Fliss had put her Chinese lamps and her big ginger jar. Somehow they didn't quite fit in with the décor upstairs, although the smaller jars were quite at home in the kitchen. The little amah, Remy, had given her the large pot as a farewell present but she'd bought the smaller set and the lamps in China Products, the department store in Central. The jar Remy had given her was much older, not tourist stuff but probably bought in the crowded, jam-packed markets of Wan Chai; or maybe it had belonged to her family. Fliss picked it up, trying to remember the story the figures described, remembering her sadness at the final farewells with Remy at Kai Tak airport. The twinnies – it was Remy who had so christened them – had been inconsolable . . .

The jar was broken. It had been professionally repaired but her fingers could trace the cracks that ran jaggedly through the frieze of characters and she could see the crazing of the pink and blue glazing. As she held it in her hands, other images formed in her mind: the green and white Star ferries scuttling like water beetles between Kowloon and the Island; the shock of the noisy streets, always full of bustling, pushing crowds, and the dazzlingly bright confusion of the neon lights and the advertising banners which hung down so that it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead; the branches of delicate pink almond blossom that decorated the vestibules of banks and hotels during the Chinese New Year. She remembered standing at her window high on The Peak watching the harbour below crowded with junks and sampans and ferries, hardly daring to look as she saw HMS
Yarnton
, returning from her weekly patrol, weaving her way through the busy waters. Surely Miles must mow down those frail craft that sailed practically beneath his bows? Some days the thick swirling mists would obscure this view from her eerie until suddenly, inexplicably, a gap, round as a porthole, would be torn in the dense curtain and she would see the tall skyscrapers of Central, rearing up below her. Miles had been determined to make the most of his posting. She could recall the delight with which he'd bargained with an old woman for a trip on her sampan round Aberdeen Harbour where the Chinese lived on these strange crafts with all their belongings piled on board, even their chickens, swinging in cages up in the sterns of the sampans. They'd driven through New Territories and seen the duck farms, which she'd mistaken at first for paddy fields, and once they'd visited the Po Lin Monastery, richly ornamented in golds and reds, set amongst the peaks of Lantau Island.

Still holding the jar Fliss thought of Remy, the little Filipino amah who had been so good with her ‘twinnies', sleeping in the cold but spotless little bedroom off the kitchen. She'd been quite content to leave them with Remy whilst she went shopping at the Welcome supermarket or caught the Peak Tram to the base to wander round China Products, buying souvenirs, such as the two lamps and the ginger jar. When the twinnies were older she and Remy had taken them by ferry to the beach at Cheung Chau. So many memories: old men hurrying through the crowded streets carrying birds in cages; red kites soaring and circling below her as she stood watching from the sitting-room window; the pattering of Mah Jong tiles and the fragrant smell of root ginger and garlic being stir-fried; the feeling of absolute safety and the bright red taxis . . .

Gently Fliss replaced the ginger jar on top of the bookcase. The more valuable items had been taken with them or stored at The Keep but they'd decided to leave one or two things so as to give the house a homely feel. It was reasonable that, when speaking of value, Miles had been talking in financial terms. Remembering Remy's faithfulness, her love for ‘my twinnies', the tears which had poured down her cheeks as she waved them off, Fliss let her own tears fall. How could she have been so careless as to risk her ginger jar to strangers? Blowing her nose, she gave one last glance round and let herself out into the rain.

 

By evening the rain had settled into a steady downpour. Prue stared out at it disconsolately. She was well aware that just lately she was doing an awful lot of staring out of windows; moving from one room to another; upstairs then downstairs; tidying unnecessarily, straightening ornaments, plumping up cushions. The blues, that was what Kit called this terrible depression that assailed her. Watching the rain bouncing on the pavement, running down the gutter, dripping from the railings, Prue fought the now familiar desire for oblivion. The well-known negative sensations were weighing down her heart, numbing her brain; her existence seemed utterly pointless, her past a wasteland, her future bleak. She struggled with this nihilistic demon, reciting to herself the blessings she enjoyed, but she knew that eventually the demon would drag her into submission unless she took drastic steps. At this time of the day her usual means of defence was the telephone but already this week she'd exhausted the list of friends who might reasonably be expected to enjoy a bit of a chat. One or two of these were suffering in the same way – ‘The change, dear,' one of them had said. ‘Who'd be a woman?' – and they generally managed to cheer each other up and make a bit of a joke of it.

Tonight, however, the hours stretched endlessly till bedtime. It was easier during the day. Determined not to give in to self-pity she'd flung herself into a certain amount of good works, visiting the housebound, doing their shopping and collecting library books. The toughness of mind of some of these indomitable and courageous elderly people strengthened her own resolve and she enjoyed her time with them, spending much longer than was necessary with them, cooking them little treats, always willing to listen to their stories regarding their children and the children's offspring. Prue would proudly show photographs of Kit, or Hal and Maria with the children, basking in the ready praise and interest. What with this and her small circle of friends, most days were bearable. Evenings, however, were something else again – and especially wet evenings such as this. Her heart weighed even heavier at the thought of the approaching winter. She tried to jolly herself with the thought of the plan she'd made with Kit, to stay with her in London and do a few shows and some shopping. She loved the Christmas lights and decorations, and Kit and Sin were so easy to be with and made her so welcome.