Holding On (27 page)

Now, as she reached into the car, Kit automatically felt for the heavily chased silver locket which she'd worn round her neck from that moment. She held it in her hand for a second before lifting the presents out, relocking the car and going back up the path to the house where the twinnies waited expectantly.

 

‘Binker,' repeated Bess, hugging her teddy tightly. ‘Binker and Pudgie. Aren't they funny names, Mummy? It's what she called her pretend friends when she was small like us.'

‘Yes,' said Fliss, swallowing back tears as the three of them stood out in the road, waving after Eppyjay. ‘Yes, I know.'

At the turning the Morris convertible paused. The twins held up Binker and Pudgie, waving their velvety paws, so that she might see them, and for a moment they saw the silk holly-red scarf, chosen so carefully by all three of them, waved furiously out of the window in response. Fliss discovered that she could no longer see the car properly and she closed her eyes for a moment.

She thought: Oh, Kit. I do love you so much. Please be safe.

She turned away, following the twinnies into the house, clutching the little leather folding case which contained two photographs taken at Susanna's wedding; one of Kit and Hal, joshing together, and one of Mole and Susanna, smiling out happily at the world.

‘I had them done specially for you,' Kit had said as they'd hugged goodbye. ‘Your special people. Well, some of them.'

‘I love it,' said Fliss. ‘It's just perfect. Have a good Christmas, Kit. Love to Sin. And don't forget, I'm always here. Wherever we are, there's a place for you with us.'

‘There'd better be. I'm counting on it from now on.' She'd given Fliss one last squeeze before she climbed into the car. ‘Happy Christmas, little coz. Happy Christmas, twinnies. Happy New Year. And as darling Uncle Theo would say, God bless us everyone.'

Freddy stood at her window, staring down into the courtyard. The January afternoon, misty and dank, was fading into an early dusk as the rain swept in from the west. It pattered against the window, gurgling in the drainpipes and soaking the flagstones so that they gleamed in the light which shone out from the hall below her. She was accustomed now to the gatehouse cottage being in darkness. Three years since Fox had moved over to the house; three years since a friendly light had streamed from the cottage window, an indication that he was pottering about his small domain. Poor Fox; he had only enjoyed his new quarters for one winter, dying before the spring came . . . Freddy pressed her thin hand to her breast in an attempt to subdue the pain. Fox gone, Ellen gone, even Perks was gone. It seemed fitting somehow that Mrs Pooter's line should die out with Fox. It was he who had brought home Mrs Pooter as a puppy – to assuage the grief Freddy was suffering at the death of her beloved cairn, Kips – and Mugwump and Perks had followed after her. Now they were all gone. Only she and Theo and Caroline remained, the rest of the family scattered about the country.

With an effort Freddy reached up and drew the curtains against the encroaching dark. This room had always been her private sanctuary and she stood for a moment, looking about her, thanking heaven that at the time The Keep had been built it was quite usual to have fireplaces in the bedrooms. Now that she kept so much to her two rooms it was such a comfort to see the flames leaping in the grate, to hear the crackling and shifting of the coal. She lowered herself into her comfortable armchair, drawing the tartan rug about her legs. Even with the fire burning so cheerfully she was chilled and she felt for the hot-water bottle which Caroline tucked behind the cushions. The bottle was barely warm and she let it drop to the floor. Theo would be here presently and he would refill it from the hot tap in her bathroom.

She remembered how anxiously she had consulted him, years ago, about that bathroom; requiring the assurance that it was not purely a luxurious whim to install a second one on this first floor. How glad she was that he had encouraged her to go ahead. The little suite of rooms was so right for her, now that she was no longer very mobile. Everything was at hand for her comfort; all her treasures about her. In the corner cupboard her special pieces of glass and china, collected down the years, were displayed. The bow-fronted bureau held her papers; a tall glass-fronted bookcase was full of her favourite books; Widgerys hung on the pale walls. Her newest acquisition, however, stood on a low table next to her chair. For Christmas, the children had clubbed together and bought her a most wonderful piece of equipment; it was a radio which not only had a turntable for records but also boasted a cassette player. These new advances of technology were quite extraordinary to her mind and it had taken some time for her to master the technique required to operate its component parts. Now that she was too weak to play her beloved Bechstein this gift was doubly precious, helping to assuage her loss, for the rest of this same present had been a collection of these cassettes. This selection had been carefully chosen and, even now, used as she was to hearing concerts on the Third programme – now called Radio Three for some obscure reason – she was amazed by the clarity and sheer beauty of the recordings of her favourite works. When the pain was intolerable she only had to reach out her hand to be transported to another plane where she might forget her diseased flesh and move beyond this world to glory.

These words, now so familiar to her, had become important although she did not quite understand why. The paper had fallen, one day, from Theo's Bible, and she had picked it up intending to return it to him. She had never done so. Gradually these lines written in Theo's small clear hand had imprinted themselves in her mind, bringing a kind of comfort. She knew that during her life she had rarely attempted to free herself from meanness and limitation; she had liked to be in control and was, certainly where Theo was concerned, frequently jealous. Music, however, always had the power to free her, releasing her from the world of small horizons, raising her to that other, different plane.

With an effort, Freddy leaned to press the catch on the radio – she still referred to it as a wireless – which would expel the cassette. At this moment, she had neither the strength nor the will to choose a different one. This one, already to hand, must do. She reversed it, pushed it into place and clicked the ‘play' button. It was Barenboim playing Beethoven. The dramatic introductory
Grave
of the
Pathétique
had the power to relax her and she sank back against the cushions, breathing deeply, willing down the pain. As the music took hold of her she allowed her mind to open up, letting images come and go, entering into a kind of meditation. It was only lately that she had been able to achieve this state of quiet grace. She did not quite understand it but was grateful for its peace, holding the words of the prayer faintly in her consciousness.

As the effect of the pills, swallowed earlier, eased her, subduing the pain, Freddy breathed more deeply. The rain streamed down the window, dripping from the sturdy branches of the wisteria, puddling in the irregular hollows of the flagstones; the coals rustled, falling together, settling to feathery, ashy embers in the grate. The music filled the room, sustaining her, enfolding her, and presently she slept.

 

In the kitchen, Caroline put aside her knitting and glanced at her watch. Lately, since Mrs Chadwick rarely moved from her rooms, meals had become rather patchy affairs. The tiny amounts which she picked at were carried up to her on a tray and, since she now preferred to struggle with the exhausting business of eating unobserved, Theo had begun to eat in the kitchen. Caroline was glad of his company. With Fox gone there was a subtle difference in the atmosphere. The kitchen quarters seemed larger and emptier without his presence and she'd begun to feel lonely for the first time since she'd arrived at The Keep. Slowly she had become accustomed to being without him; no Fox in the rocking chair by the Aga, no Fox with whom to watch the television, no Fox to share with her in the progress and achievements – and disasters – of the family. When Perks died only days after Fox's funeral, it did indeed seem as if a whole part of her life had come to an end. It had been difficult enough to lose Ellen but after Fox's death her usual common sense had deserted her and the future had seemed bleak indeed without her old friend's gentle, undemanding company, his humour and his courage. She'd been grateful that Susanna and Gus lived near at hand. They had comforted and encouraged her, mourned with her and reminisced with her, until she was able to pick up the pieces again and carry on with her tasks. Now, three years on, the loss was easier to bear but she often looked back longingly to those early happy days when she'd first arrived at The Keep nearly twenty-five years before.

Caroline thought: It was twenty-two years ago last summer. Twenty-two years . . . After a moment she took Fliss's letter from the various papers scattered on the kitchen table and re-read it. For the last eighteen months Miles had been the Commanding Officer at HMS
Royal Arthur
in Corsham but now there was a talk of a NATO posting, and Fliss was anxious at the thought of leaving the country whilst her grandmother was so near the end of her life.

‘
. . . I thought we might come down for the twinnies' birthday,' she'd written. ‘Luckily it's a weekend, so no school. Miles can't get away but is quite happy for us to come. Let me know if it would be too much for you . . .
'

There was no question of that. The twinnies knew that they must be quiet when they were near their great-grandmother's rooms and Fliss was always such a tower of strength. It would be lovely to see them all, to have some company. Prue had been down for Christmas, staying over the New Year and into January, and The Keep seemed so strange and quiet once she'd gone back to Bristol. The silly thing was that she had no desire to go back to her empty little mews house, it was simply that she felt that she was outstaying her welcome.

‘I've never been Freddy's favourite person,' she'd said to Caroline, ‘and she's always been just the least bit cross with Theo for bailing me out so many times. I'd hate her to think I'm taking advantage of her now, muscling in when she hasn't got the strength to throw me out. She's so thin, isn't she? The pain must be awful but she's so brave . . .'

Caroline had attempted to reason with Prue, to tell her that it wasn't like that, but Prue held firm. Strict and formal though she might be, her mother-in-law had always played fair with her and she was determined not to cause her any twinge of irritation now that she was helpless and weak. She'd promised to come back again soon – or at any time she was needed – but she'd stuck to her guns. They'd hugged goodbye on Totnes station, closer than they'd ever been after those two weeks, both feeling better for the shared friendship. They'd had lots of chuckles together, despite the sombre atmosphere of the house, sympathising over the horrors of middle age, reminiscing about the past. They'd gone shopping in Totnes, walked round the gardens at Dartington, had coffee in the Royal Castle at Dartmouth.

‘Imagine,' Prue had said suddenly that morning, as they'd approached the car parked by the boatfloat. ‘We've known each other for thirty-five years,' and they'd stared at each other, awestruck, across the roof of the car.

Picking up her knitting again, Caroline wondered where those years had gone. They had been busy, happy years but how was it possible that so great a span of time should pass so quickly? Yet she felt content, grateful that she'd been in the right place at the right time for her own transitory passage through life; unworried by regrets. She knew that she was one of the lucky ones but it occurred to her to wonder how it might be in the future. It would be a natural progression for Hal to become master at The Keep. She knew that Fliss would continue to move with Miles and she couldn't quite see Susanna and Gus
in situ
. No, it seemed much more likely that Maria would move here with the boys, and Hal would hope for postings to Devonport, meanwhile weekending whenever possible. Caroline knew that this was what his grandmother had always envisaged although she thought that it was rather early for Maria and the children to settle down, leaving Hal to live in the Mess when the ship was alongside. The boys needed their father around . . .

Theo's entry disturbed these musings and she smiled at him, delighted to see him, putting her knitting to one side. These days she found herself scrutinising him closely lest he, too, should be showing signs of some inward disorder, but he looked as usual and his presence calmed her. It wasn't that he was unmoved or indifferent to pain or suffering but he had the detachment of one who looks beyond these things; who sees the possibilities for growth contained within them.

‘She is quite warm and comfortable,' he said, sitting down opposite. ‘She thinks she might rest for a while. I've made up the fire and refilled her hot-water bottle.'

‘Her wortle.' Caroline laughed as she tidied away her knitting into the large tapestry bag. ‘It was Jamie who was responsible for that one. He could never get his tongue round “hot-water bottle”. He got as far as “wortle botter” and then gave up. It's odd, isn't it, how these words filter into a family's vocabulary?'