Holding On (19 page)

Prue thought: But why doesn't Kit marry? What is it that holds her back?

She'd broken the cardinal rule and spoken directly of it to Jake at Susanna's wedding.

‘Why is it,' she'd asked, making a joke of it, ‘that no one wants to marry my Kit? Don't you think she's rather nice?'

His reply had been equally direct. ‘I think she's gorgeous,' he'd said, ‘and I'd marry her like a shot but she won't have me. I've asked her a dozen times but she rejects me each time.'

‘She must be mad,' Prue had answered feelingly, looking up at him appreciatively, tall and dark, handsome in his morning suit. ‘Quite mad.'

He'd grinned, bowing his thanks to her, and she'd laughed too, wishing that Kit would settle for this delightful man.

‘Why ever not?' she'd demanded of her daughter later. ‘He is simply delicious. I wish
I
were twenty years younger.'

‘I'm sure you do, honey,' said Kit patiently. ‘And I don't know why, except that I've known him for so long. He
is
gorgeous, I admit, and I adore him but he's so . . . oh, I don't know, familiar, I suppose. I long for romance and excitement.'

‘Well, don't wait too long,' she'd answered tartly. ‘You might just live to regret it.'

Later Prue had felt remorseful for her sharp words but Kit bore no malice and they'd planned the trip to London quite happily together. After all, she could hardly blame Kit for this longing for romance and passion; she'd been exactly the same herself and it had been very evident in Hal's earlier feelings for Maria.

Prue frowned out at the rain, thinking about her son and his family. Maria had changed now that the children had finally come along; the clinging adoration was hardening into a kind of possessive selfishness. She still seemed quite unable to come to terms with the separations and other problems which beset the naval wife and she was determined that Hal should take an active part when he was at home. Well, there was nothing wrong with that. Hal clearly took pleasure in his small sons and was perfectly happy to assume the role of family man when he came home from sea. Maria was a good mother, if slightly overprotective, and the house was always spotless, the garden tidy and well-kept. There was, however, a kind of joylessness in her approach, a tendency to make the daily round a martyrdom. Prue was rarely invited these days, and then generally only as company when Hal was at sea, but her offer to look after the boys so that Maria and Hal could go away for a week of his leave had been gratefully received and Prue was looking forward to it. The responsibility was faintly awesome but she knew that Maria would leave lists of instructions, contact telephone numbers and plenty of prepared food in the brand-new freezer, and it would be such fun to have the darling children all to herself . . .

Prue thought: I have so much to look forward to. The trip to London and the week in Hampshire.

The depression was not so easily dismissed, however, and she turned back into the room and went to the drinks cupboard. A good stiff gin and tonic was a tried-and-trusted way of shifting the blues, and afterwards she would try to think up a special treat for supper. After that she might have to resort to the television; perhaps it was the night for
The Avengers
, which would be fun. Kit had recently gone to Molton Brown's for a ‘Purdey' cut and, although her hair wasn't quite so thick and blonde as Joanna Lumley's, it suited her very well.

Prue thought: Oh, if only she would marry Jake. He is so absolutely right for her, I know he is. I shall work on it when I go to London.

She carried her glass through to the kitchen and took out her favourite cookery book. Food could be such a comfort.

‘Do you think it's a sign of approaching age,' asked Kit idly, ‘when neither of us leaps to answer the telephone any more? We sit here saying, you go, no, it's your turn, no it isn't, I got it last time and so on. Until the caller hangs up.'

‘And the really terrible thing is,' agreed Sin, ‘that we don't even care who it is. Remember those nail-chewing moments wondering if it was the gorgeous chap we'd met at some party and whether or not he'd bother to ring again?'

‘Only to find, after nights of waiting in, that it was Ma phoning to ask if I'd forgotten Uncle Theo's birthday or something really riveting.' Kit sighed heavily. ‘Was it
ever
the gorgeous chap we'd met at some party?'

‘Perhaps,' said Sin glumly, ‘the real sign of approaching age is that, even at thirty-two, I can't ever remember
meeting
a gorgeous chap at
any
one's bloody party. If you're getting up, put the Carly Simon on, would you? I want to hear “You're so Vain”. It makes me think of Martin and then I feel superior.'

‘I'm not getting up,' said Kit, who lay stretched out flat on the sofa. ‘Do it yourself.'

‘Yes you are,' insisted Sin. ‘You're getting up to make the lunch. I did breakfast. Jump to it, you idle wench.'

‘Breakfast,' scoffed Kit. ‘Is that what you call it? Two mugs of black coffee?'

‘What I call it doesn't matter. It was a deal. Go on. I'm starving. And don't forget to put that record on.'

Grumbling, Kit hauled herself upright, pausing by the record player to extract the LP from its sleeve.

‘I have to keep this hidden from Jake, I'll have you know,' she said, studying the picture of Carly Simon, who clearly wore no bra under her long-sleeved T-shirt. ‘It's quite shocking. I found him leafing through the pile the other night, looking for it.'

‘Poor old Jake,' yawned Sin. ‘What d'you expect if you keep him on stoppage? And all for that weed Mark Thing.'

‘Mark Thompsett has given me a terrific opportunity,' said Kit with dignity. ‘I am now a freelance art dealer. I supply top hotels with paintings and
objets d'art
. No more boring old gallery for me. He's got masses of contacts.'

‘So you keep telling me,' said Sin. ‘But he's not a patch on Jake.'

‘You could be right,' conceded Kit. ‘He is a bit . . . well, a bit . . .'

‘Conceited?' suggested Sin. ‘Big-headed? Self-opinionated? A know-all and a bore to boot? All of the above but not necessarily in that order?'

‘He doesn't wear well,' admitted Kit, ‘but he's pretty stunning, you must agree. I was a bit knocked off my feet at first. I thought, Wow! This is it! But now I'm not so sure.'

‘You're a fool, Kit Chadwick.' Sin pushed aside the mass of Sunday newspapers and twisted round to look at her. ‘I wish Jake fancied
me
. I'd be up the aisle with him quicker than you could shake a hairy stick.'

‘And what about all those high-minded declarations of undying love for Uncle Theo?
What
, if it comes to that,' Kit shook the record cover at her and then dropped it on the floor, ‘what about Mole?'

‘I'm in love with Mole,' said Sin flatly.

There was a deep silence. Rain beat against the windows and gurgled in the guttering. Out in the hall the telephone began to ring again. Kit and Sin stared at each other.

‘Oh, honey,' said Kit at last. ‘Oh, I did wonder and then I thought you couldn't possibly be. He's so much . . .'

‘So much younger,' finished Sin. She drew her legs up beneath her and rested her head against the back of the chair. ‘I know he is. That's why I can't do anything. It's best not to think about it. Only I can't help it. I just love him.'

Kit sat down on the arm of the chair opposite and looked at her compassionately. The telephone cut off sharply and there was another silence.

‘I thought to begin with it was because he looks so much like Uncle Theo,' said Kit gently. ‘I thought it was a bit of a . . . well, not quite a joke but . . . you know?'

‘Yes, I know,' said Sin wearily. ‘Perhaps it was, to begin with. But not any more. He's special, Mole is.'

‘Oh hell,' said Kit. ‘Oh
hell
. But he
is
too young. He's twenty-four in a few weeks' time and I shall be thirty-three so that means—'

‘I've done the sums. I know I'm eight years older than he is. Eight years and five months, if it makes a difference.'

‘It would be later when it would really matter,' said Kit after a moment. ‘When you're forty-two and he's only thirty-five. It would be ghastly. You'd fear every younger woman and all those pretty girls. Oh,
why
is it that men of fifty are distinguished and women of fifty are old bags?'

‘I'd risk it,' said Sin, ‘if Mole really loved me and really wanted to, I couldn't resist him. But he doesn't. Oh, he's made chivalrous, well-bred noises but he's been relieved when I've shut him up. Don't look so shocked. What d'you expect from a young chap just starting out on life? At least, he was when we began all this. I think I'm just a habit now and he's too kind to give me the push.'

‘This is awful,' said Kit. ‘It must be perfectly wretched for you. I had no idea.'

‘Why should you?' Sin shrugged. ‘He's away at sea most of the time anyway. It's just I can't get him out of my system. Bit like poor old Jake and you. Perhaps Jake and I should get together. At least we could comfort each other.'

In one short moment Kit realised that she would hate Jake to be comforted by Sin. They'd joked about it many times but this time, after such a serious confession, Kit felt a strange anxiety. Was it possible that Jake and Sin might ultimately turn to each other?

‘What about Martin?' she asked, attempting to hide her panic. ‘I thought you had something going with him?'

‘Oh, Martin's OK,' said Sin. ‘He's a bit like Mark Thing. Rather too full of himself. It's being a barrister does it. Earning a fortune for wearing a wig and showing off in public. It gave him a bit of a shock when I told him that I was an archivist at the BM. Didn't know I had a brain under my Afro hairdo. Shut him up for a full two minutes and forty-four seconds. That's a record, that is. I rubbed it in by telling him about my first from London University. He's a Cambridge man, of course, but he was impressed.'

Kit began to laugh. It was ridiculous to imagine that dear old Jake would ever abandon her. Perhaps she might telephone him later and go over for supper; she'd neglected him a bit lately for Mark, but he always kept in touch. It might even be he that had telephoned . . .

The telephone began to ring again and she raced out into the hall. Sin raised her eyebrows at such a precipitate departure. One thing was sure: it wasn't Mole.
Warspite
was at sea and wouldn't be back for another eight weeks. He might send her a postcard but he'd never written her a letter. His instinct for self-preservation ran very deep, hand in hand with his fear of commitment. It would have to be a very special girl who could capture Mole.

Sin thought: How terrible that moment will be. I shall hate her. How kind he will be to me. Oh God, I can't bear it . . .

Kit was standing in the doorway looking disgruntled.

‘So?' asked Sin. ‘Who has been desirous to have speech with us? Do I gather from your expression that it wasn't that gorgeous chap we met at someone's party?'

‘It was Ma,' answered Kit crossly, ‘ringing for the third time to remind me that the Birthday is approaching and what am I going to buy Grandmother and please make an effort to go down for the weekend because Mole and Hal are at sea so it will only be me and Grandmother celebrating.'

‘I shall come with you,' announced Sin, getting out of her chair. ‘We shall go together to swell the ranks. How about it?'

‘Why not?' agreed Kit thoughtfully. ‘And I'll ask Jake to come.' She brightened visibly. ‘That's a brilliant idea. We'll all go. I might just give him a buzz to make sure he's free. Be a duck and start the lunch, would you? It seems like years since breakfast and I'm starving.'

 

Now, with the autumn drawing on, the studio courtyard was at its best first thing in the morning. Hart's-tongue fern grew at the base of the wall alongside the clump of montbretia with its sword-like leaves and yellow and orange flowers. These were nearly over now but the leaves of the Virginia creeper were turning crimson and scarlet and gold, and a tiny wren hopped amongst the bright berries of the cotoneaster. At the top of the steps which climbed up to the first floor a wooden tub full of winter-flowering pansies made a glorious splash of colour against the grey stone, and there were still red and purple bells on the sturdy standard fuchsia which stood in its pot by the studio door.

‘It can be a bit dank in the winter when we lose the sun,' Gus had said, ‘but it's amazing how quickly it picks up when the spring comes.'

Susanna liked to sit outside on the top stone step beside the pansies, cradling a mug of coffee in her hands, looking over the wall to the huddled roofs of the houses below the castle. Now, in early October, the morning sunshine was still warm, glinting off the slate rooftops, lingering on the colour-washed creams and pinks of cottage walls, touching the castle ramparts and turning them to rose.

Soon Gus would finish in the tiny bathroom, which was only big enough to contain a shower, a small basin and a lavatory, and she would join him for breakfast in the huge room which was sitting room, dining room and kitchen. This was a very jolly place; the kitchen, at one end, was hidden by tall rattan screens and the dining room part was made up of an oak gate-leg table set under the window which looked over the courtyard. The sitting room, at the other end, consisted of several big and ancient armchairs tactfully covered with tartan rugs and grouped round a pretty Victorian fireplace. The walls were lined with bookshelves which held not only a great number of books but also Gus's collection of records, sheet music and scores.