Holding On (23 page)

She regarded him, now, looking at him properly for the first time since she'd arrived at the flat earlier that evening. He looked tired, preoccupied. She knew that he'd been back in France on family business; his matriarchal paternal grandmother had died suddenly and there had been lots to sort out, loose ends to tie up. His father was dead and a great deal was now falling on Jake's shoulders. The Villons were a clannish family, staunch Roman Catholics, and even Jake had been under his grandmother's thumb. He'd also been extraordinarily fond of her.

‘Was it hell?' Kit asked sympathetically. She'd met Jake's grandmother once – Jake had felt that he and Kit had much in common on the family front – but it had not proved an overwhelming success. ‘I'm so sorry, honey. You'll miss her, won't you? She reminded me a bit of Grandmother. Very austere and tough as old boots.'

Jake nodded, made an attempt to smile and sighed instead, pushing his hands through his hair. Kit saw that there were streaks of grey in the black and felt a twinge of terror. The years had fled so fast and she'd wasted so many of them. She opened her mouth to tell him so but he was already speaking.

‘I'm moving to Paris,' he was saying abruptly. ‘I've arranged a transfer with the bank. It's not a problem, apparently. There's so much to look after and Uncle Jean-Claude is too old to take it all on.'

She stared at him. In his dark city suit, white shirt, sober tie, he looked frighteningly adult; not the familiar Jake of student days but a mature man with responsibilities and worries.

Kit thought: He's not far off forty. Nearly middle-aged. Thank God I realised before it was too late. Paris will be fun. I'll learn the language properly, settle down, have darling French babies. He's hating the thought of leaving, I can see that. Oh, Jake . . .

Aloud she said, ‘Well I can understand that. You're the only male of your generation, aren't you? You can't just abandon them.'

He looked at her then, eyebrows lifted quizzically, and she guessed that he was surprised that she should respond in such a calm manner. With an inner twist of bitterness, she realised that he would expect her to be far less adult; to protest or make light of it, refusing to take it seriously. Her heart gave a twinge of compassion, imagining his feelings at the thought of the separation which surely lay ahead.

‘No, I can't just abandon them,' he agreed heavily, turning away, dragging off his jacket. ‘But it'll be a hell of a wrench.'

She guessed at the reason for his misery; she had refused him so often that it was unlikely she would change her mind now that he was returning permanently to France. Her calm manner could also have been interpreted as indifference.

‘Oh, Jake,' she said quickly, ‘it will be, I can see that. You'll be leaving so many friends and memories here. But do you think that I could come with you?'

She waited for his look of joy, the straightening of his shoulders, the outstretched arms, knowing he would not misunderstand or play games with her. This was far too important . . . He was staring at her in disbelief.

‘I love you, you see,' she said, rushing on, determined that he would understand, trying to remove all the past pain of rejection. ‘I realised when you were away. I always have, I can see that now. It's taken me too long to grow up. Oh, honey, I missed you so much.'

Jake sat down abruptly on the arm of the sofa, fists between his knees. He closed his eyes for a moment and she came to kneel behind him on the cushions, her cheek against his shoulder.

‘I can't believe this,' he said quietly. ‘No. Wait. It's no good, Kit. It's too late.'

She kneeled up abruptly, fear in her heart. ‘What d'you mean? Oh, Jake, it doesn't matter about going back to France. I don't mind. It'll be fun—'

‘Wait!' he shouted. ‘Shut up, Kit! It's too late. I told you. I'm engaged to be married. She a cousin of mine, Madeleine . . .'

In the silence that followed, the name seemed to drift, echoing on the air. He'd said it in the French way, with the middle vowel ignored, lyrical, romantic. In Kit's mind an image rose: a young girl with a sweet, gentle face and long red-brown hair, smiling adoringly at Jake. She'd been charming to Kit, the guest in her grandmother's house, but her attention had been all for Jake . . . Kit straightened up, still kneeling on the sofa, her brain too stupid, too shocked to take it in properly.

‘I remember her,' she murmured – and her heart ached in her breast.

‘She's loved me ever since she was a child.' He was speaking rapidly, his back still turned to her. ‘Her parents have been dead for years and Gran'mère took her in. She always wanted us to marry. Madeleine's father was a second cousin to my father and they were great friends. But there was always you, Kit, until the last time. Not now, for the funeral, but back in the summer. You remember you didn't want to come? You were too busy with Mark and your new job.' He shrugged. ‘I felt we'd come to the end somehow, that you were in love with him. You were moving on. I was pretty low and Madeleine was so sweet, so loving. Can you imagine how comforting that was? How boosting to the ego? Pathetic, isn't it?' he said savagely. ‘Well, she was there and I took full advantage of her.' He put his head in his hands. ‘I am very fond of her,' he muttered desperately.

Kit swallowed, still kneeling up, hands clenched together. ‘But does that mean that you have to marry her?' She tried to keep her voice level, despite her very real terror. ‘I can understand everything you've said. But to marry her, Jake? Is it fair, anyway, if you don't truly love her? I don't mean to sound so prosy but—'

‘She's pregnant,' he said flatly. ‘Three months. She wasn't going to tell me but after the funeral it was all too emotional for words and she wasn't very well, poor child. I think I guessed, anyway. She was so nervous and brittle, so unlike her usual self. She admitted it in the end and . . . it didn't seem to matter too much, after all. I never guessed that you'd . . .' He raised his joined fists and drove them down on the arm of the chair. ‘For Christ's
sake
, Kit!' he shouted. ‘Why now? Why bloody
now
? When it's too late. Twelve years, Kit. Twelve bloody years and you're three months too late.'

He turned to her, tears streaming down his thin cheeks. Snatching off his spectacles he swiped at his face with his wrist and she reached out to him, holding him.

 

As she let herself in, the sitting room door opened and Sin came out into the hall.

‘Jake telephoned,' she said without preamble. ‘He was worried about you.'

Kit stared at her, barely seeing her. Every movement was an effort; the pain in her breast intolerable. ‘I was too late,' she said, almost conversationally. ‘You were right about that, anyway. Oh, Sin, I've lost him,' and as she stumbled forward Sin reached out for her, putting her arms about her as she began to weep.

The sun rose late now, swinging up above the distant heights in showers of rose and gold, washing the bleached stubbly fields with warmth, lending colour and depth to the monochrome world. Grey, dew-heavy swags of cobwebs, stretched hammock-like across the hedge-tops, sparkled into jewelled fragility. In the lane a pheasant chirred, running stiff-legged, neck stretched, across the path of the milk van, whose driver leaned to watch the flash of glossy feathers as it scrambled to safety in the hedge.

Two young rooks bickered raucously in the hawthorn below Theo's open window and he drew back, realising that he was chilled, too bewitched by the miracle of sunrise to be conscious, until now, of the freezing air. As he closed his window, his eyes still drawn to the scene beyond it, he saw the rooks circling below him, heading for the stand of elms where they built each spring. The rookery had been their home for the last hundred years; this hill was their territory, fought for and defended season after season. As other rooks rose from the trees, flying to meet them, he found that he was thinking of Fox, uprooted at last from his own small territory within the gatehouse walls.

It was Caroline who had insisted that Fox should take up residence within the house. He was too crippled now to build up his fire, even if she made certain that he had fuel at hand, and she knew that his quarters were damp and not properly aired. He'd fought every inch of the way.

‘It's like winkling a snail out of its shell,' Caroline had said despairingly, ‘but I'm sure it's the right thing to do. I've thought it through very carefully.'

Theo had no doubts on that score. Caroline had always known the importance of balancing physical needs with mental and spiritual requirements. This instinctive wisdom had been her great strength, informing her decisions regarding the children, and she was now applying it to Fox. She was weighing his need for privacy and independence against his physical welfare and, as so often is the case, had been obliged to settle for a compromise.

‘But where shall we put him?' Freddy had asked, puzzled by the idea of Fox wandering the corridors of The Keep in his dressing gown. ‘Of course, if his quarters are uninhabitable . . .'

Caroline had exchanged a quick glance with Theo, aware that Freddy was remonstrating privately with herself that the thought had never occurred to her. Fox had lived in the gatehouse cottage for nearly sixty years; it was where he belonged. She would never have presumed to intrude on him there, nor question what he did within his own walls. Now she was castigating herself for neglect.

‘It's simply that he can't keep himself warm,' Caroline had said gently. ‘These old places are fine if we keep the fires going and open the windows regularly to maintain a flow of air. But poor old Fox can't keep his fire in, you see. He can't manage a shovel with coal on it, and even small logs are difficult for him. The result is that the place is getting colder and damper. It's all he can do to open the windows and the struggle to shut them is often so great that he leaves them open and then it's really bitterly cold in there. We must do something before winter arrives.'

‘I quite see that.' Shame had made Freddy's voice sharp. ‘But where is he to go? I assume he finds stairs difficult? Not that he has any in his cottage, of course.'

‘I've got it all planned out.'

Now, remembering Caroline, hands eloquent, rough grey curls on end, Theo smiled to himself. So she had been down the years, making her point, eagerly defending the children, intent on their welfare, parrying Freddy's criticisms. On this occasion Freddy had smiled, too. Perhaps she was also recalling a younger Caroline. ‘I'm sure you have,' she'd said drily.

The answer had been simple enough. Fox was to have the living room off the kitchen as a bedsitting room. He could wash in the scullery, and the lavatory was just along the passage. By day, weather permitting, he could potter in his workroom but it was to be hoped that he'd stay in the warm areas of the kitchen quarters.

‘But what will you use as a sitting room?' Freddy had asked, concerned. Caroline's rooms were still on the nursery floor and the living room had made a pleasant rest area for the three of them in the past. They had a television and some comfortable chairs there, and it was a very cosy place to be when the coal fire was burning in the small Victorian grate.

Caroline had shrugged away Freddy's anxiety. ‘With Ellen gone I hardly bother to use it except in the evening to watch television, and I'm sure Fox will be very happy to have some company,' she'd said. ‘I tend to stay in the kitchen. Fox spends a lot of his time there as it is and it's so simple to hop in and keep the fire stoked up if it's really cold. We must simply do it. Move his things and tell him afterwards. That's if you agree?'

‘You must do whatever is right,' Freddy had said. She'd looked weary, suddenly, with a kind of resigned patience, accepting the fact that she could no longer control events, and Caroline, with another anxious glance at Theo, had vanished away, her mission accomplished.

She and Josh had moved Fox's bed and other small items of furniture whilst he and Theo were out on one of their jaunts, hurrying to make it as comfortable as they could before their return. Theo, fully briefed, had taken the puzzled Fox to see his new quarters. As they'd stood at the door of the room Theo, firmly grasping Fox's elbow, had been aware that his arm was trembling as he stared about him, bewildered. Caroline had made it quite delightful: a small fire burning in the green-tiled grate; his bed made with fresh linen, covered with one of Ellen's quilts; his few books in a small bookshelf; a lamp on a table by the bed. The television still stood in the corner beside the fire, comfortable chairs at the ready, and his few clothes were contained in a chest of drawers beneath the window. A cupboard in the passage outside was available for coats and boots.

‘My dear fellow, this is charming,' Theo had said, his hold tightening on Fox's arm. ‘You'll be warm and comfortable here. I shall expect you to invite me in for a cup of tea when you're settled.'

There'd been a silence whilst he'd waited breathlessly for Fox's reaction.

‘Don't seem right,' Fox had cried piteously at last, ‘being in the house. 'Tisn't what I'm used to, sir. I can't do it.'

Theo had been conscious of Caroline, hovering anxiously behind them, and he'd moved further into the room, propelling Fox along with him, aware that he might have a real battle on his hands.

‘Nonsense, man,' he'd said sternly (‘I used my officer's voice,' he told Freddy later somewhat anxiously). ‘Times change and we all have to be prepared to change with them, you know. What's the problem exactly?'

Fox had looked about the room, his knotted hands working together, his expression distraught, but he'd tried to collect his thoughts and express himself properly.