Holding On (29 page)

It was odd that she'd needed to come here when the news was confirmed; that she felt that this was the place in which she now belonged. She'd always thought that she'd hate to leave the flat where she and Gus had been so happy but during those joyful years their plans and dreams for this place had slowly become a reality and she was quite ready now for the move. After all, it was not as though they were leaving the flat. They were continuing to rent it along with the studio and had various ideas for extending the business. She would still want to sit on the steps in the courtyard, smelling the honeysuckle and watching the birds on the table which Fox had so painstakingly built . . .

Susanna moved back from the long wide window, folding her arms beneath her breast. How terrible and cruel life could be. Ellen and Fox gone and now Grandmother was dying. She moved to the edge of the snug and sat down on the top of the shallow steps. Grandmother was dying and would not see the baby which she carried within her. For the first time she realised how important it was that her grandmother should know her, Susanna's, baby. That her child should grow up without that tremendous sustaining love was a sudden, terrible shock. Whom did she know who could possibly replace her? For the first time in twenty-three years Susanna yearned for her unknown mother; how wonderful it would be to share this tremendous news with her. How would she have reacted? Susanna, closed her eyes, straining to remember something, anything, about her long-dead mother. Her mind remained empty. Of course, there was Gus's mother, but she already had numerous grandchildren and, although she would be delighted at the news of the baby, it wouldn't quite be the same.

She could understand now a little of what Fliss must have felt when she'd discovered that she would have to give birth to her first baby out in Hong Kong, so far from home. She'd had Miles with her but even so . . .

Susanna thought: She must have been so lonely. At least I shall have her with me. And Caroline and Uncle Theo.

She'd taken so much for granted during those careless, happy years of childhood. How could she be certain that she would be able to give her own child such emotional security? Memories came flooding back; games in the orchard with Mole; walks on the hill with Fox; trips to the beach and to the moors with Caroline; tea in the hall with Ellen's delicious scones; her grandmother reading to her at bedtime, listening to her prayers, kissing her goodnight . . .

Susanna bent her head until her forehead touched her knees.

‘Don't die,' she begged. ‘Please don't die.'

She didn't hear the car's engine and Gus was already in the doorway before she realised that he'd arrived.

‘What is it?' He was kneeling beside her, his face tense with alarm. ‘Is it . . .? Are you . . .?'

‘We're pregnant,' she told him, tears still streaming down her cheeks. ‘Nearly two months, she thinks. But it won't be in time . . .'

She stared at him, eyes tragic, mouth trembling, and he gathered her into his arms, understanding at once.

‘But she'll know anyway,' he murmured. ‘You know that, Sooz. She'll still be around, with Ellen and Fox. Closer than you could be to her now.'

‘I sort of know it.' Susanna scrubbed at her face. ‘But it's not the
same
. I want to
see
her seeing my baby.'

‘We don't absolutely know that she won't,' he told her comfortingly. ‘Shall we wait and see? Let's not start like this, Sooz. Let's be happy about it. It's so fantastic. Listen.' He sat beside her, an arm about her, and looked around. ‘I've got an idea about how she can see all this at least. I know she's too frail to come out here but we can do her a drawing like the one we did of The Keep so she can see where everything will be.'

‘Oh yes.' Susanna sat up straighter. ‘Oh, Gus, that would be great. Let's do it today and take it over later when Fliss has arrived and tell them all the news.'

‘Come on, then.' He stood up and pulled her to her feet. ‘Goodness, your hands are freezing. Too cold for cycling. We'll have to put the bike in the woodshed and collect it later. Oh, Sooz, isn't it just amazing?'

She grinned at him, lips pressed tightly together, and he grabbed her and they hugged furiously before going out together into the sunshine, locking the door behind them.

Hal straightened his back and stared up at the sky. There was a new sharpness in the fitful gusts of wind. In the tall surrounding hedge the laurel leaves shivered and a blackbird's stuttering cry broke the silence as it swooped low across the damp lawn.

Rex, who had been foraging at the far end of the garden in the shrubbery, gave up his search and returned, tongue lolling, tail wagging. He lived in eternal expectation of catching one of the squirrels which swung in the branches of the trees and scampered over the lawn.

‘A triumph of hope over experience, old chap,' murmured Hal, shrugging himself into his jersey. He was cold now that he'd finished chopping the firewood but he viewed his efforts with satisfaction. A good pile of kindling was ready to be stacked and the wheelbarrow was full of logs with which to fill the two big baskets. Away in London at staff college all week, he made certain each weekend that Maria and the boys should not be cold. She'd refused to consider the possibility of living in London and had decided to remain here in the same house, continuing to rent it for another two years, so Hal drove himself to Greenwich each Monday morning and returned each Friday evening in the MG which had replaced his Sprite.

As he began to tidy the sticks of kindling into a pile, Hal wondered if he'd been right in agreeing to let them all stay in Hampshire knowing, as he did then, that she'd been having some kind of a relationship with Keith Graves. He would never have believed it if he hadn't come home unexpectedly – the ship had sailed, discovered an engine fault and put straight back into harbour – and found them in the kitchen together. Their expressions, the silence, the tension, all these things had told him just as much as if they'd been upstairs in bed. It had been an ugly little scene. Graves had blustered, defending himself by accusing; his accusations were ludicrous. Whilst he had charged Hal with neglect, womanising, indifference and selfishness, Hal had leaned against the sink, arms folded, ankles crossed, watching Maria. Her face had flamed beneath his steady watchful stare, hardening from embarrassment and humiliation into a stony sullenness. He'd seen quite clearly the emotions which assailed her; he knew she was deciding which way to jump. Should she ally herself with Graves or appeal to her husband's loyalty?

When Graves had run out of breath, Hal had stirred, standing upright. He'd been ashamed that he was pleased to find that he overtopped him by several inches.

‘If you've quite finished,' he'd said coolly, ‘I should be pleased if you'd leave me alone with my wife.'

Graves had looked pleadingly at Maria, spoken her name, begged her to leave with him. Maria had remained unresponsive, back turned, head averted, picking at a garment which lay on the working surface.

‘Please, my darling,' he'd entreated. ‘For God's sake, after all you've said . . .'

‘Get out.' Hal had taken him by the shoulder, whirled him round, opened the back door and thrust him through it. He'd shut the door and turned to look at his wife. It was odd that the sensation uppermost in his mind was one of pity. He'd known instinctively that Graves had not been her lover, knew that it was not in Maria's character to be either promiscuous or even simply generous. He'd thought that he could now understand her recent touchiness and he'd felt an overwhelming sadness. Knowing of her frustration at being denied The Keep, of her inadequacies as a naval wife, of her jealousy and loneliness, it was not terribly surprising that she'd reacted in this way to the first man who had fallen in love with her.

‘Where are the boys?' His question had had the effect of shaming her further, implying failure as a mother.

‘Jolyon's with a friend. Edward's upstairs having his sleep.' It was hateful that he might think that she was entertaining her lover whilst her baby slept upstairs. ‘It's not how you think,' she'd muttered.

‘I hope it's exactly how I think,' he'd said easily. ‘Graves looks a bit of a wanker, if you ask me. Must have been one hell of a boost to his morale to come here and have your company. Get out of hand, did it?'

He'd seen her swallow and had guessed at her dilemma. Part of her longed to attack his confidence and arouse his jealousy by admitting her temptation to Graves's proposals; part of her knew that she was being offered an honourable way out. His certainty that she had not been unfaithful was almost insulting but he had no intention of degrading either of them with uncivilised scenes.

He'd waited. She'd bitten her lips, fingers busy shredding and pulling at the small garment, shoulders hunched, unable to respond. Fearing an impasse, Hal had willed her to turn round. He had not wished to get up and go to her, to force her physically to answer or look at him. The silence lengthened.

‘Perhaps I've got it wrong,' he'd said at last. ‘Perhaps it's arrogant of me to imagine that you're not having an affair with him. Perhaps you'd like to go with him . . .?'

The telephone had shrilled into life, making Maria jump, demanding attention.

‘Maybe that's him.' Hal hadn't moved. ‘Better make up your mind, hadn't you?'

She'd looked at him then, a question in her eyes, and he'd shrugged, opening his hands wide, letting them fall, showing a hint of indifference.

‘It wasn't my fault,' she'd said rapidly. ‘He kept coming round. I felt sorry for him at first . . . I don't want to speak to him . . .'

Suddenly she'd burst into a fit of violent weeping and Hal had stood up and gone out. When he'd returned she was wiping away her tears with a tea towel and she'd looked at him fearfully.

‘It was the ship. We're sailing this evening at twenty hundred hours,' he'd said unemotionally. ‘Do we put this right or don't we? Your choice.'

She'd rushed at him then, twining her arms about him, bursting into tears again and he'd held her tightly, comforting her . . .

Hal finished tying the kindling into bundles and put them on top of the logs in the barrow. Rex had found a ragged piece of wood and was chewing at it.

‘Drop it, you wretch, you'll get splinters in your tongue.' Hal made a grab at it and Rex, delighted by the attention, raced off round the lawn, ears flapping wildly. Mud flew up about his paws as he skidded to a halt and Hal began to laugh despite himself. Maria would be cross if Rex got too muddy and the poor animal would be relegated to the garage for yet another afternoon.

There had been a honeymoon period after the Graves affair, helped by the fact that his house had almost immediately sold and he'd been obliged to move away, but gradually the old insecurities and tensions crept back and poor old Rex was usually the chief offender. He'd become the scapegoat and, just lately, Hal's temper had been wearing rather thin because of it. The fact that there were golden hairs everywhere – especially during the moulting season – that his soft mouth made dribble marks on clothes, that his feet were invariably muddy, that he made a mess at his drinking bowl, all these sins were continually weighed against him. The boys were almost afraid to touch him lest they made him excited or triggered some misdemeanour which brought down a new tirade upon his luckless head – and theirs.

Hal thought: I should have been firmer at the beginning and refused to have a dog at all. I knew it wouldn't work.

His amusement at Rex's antics shifted to a faint depression. He'd better get the wood in, clear up any mess and then clean Rex before he could make the kitchen floor dirty. Hal put away the axe and wheeled the barrow round to the side door where the log baskets were waiting. It was Jolyon who defeated his good intentions. Coming to find his father, he left the kitchen door ajar and Rex sneaked inside, wandered about for a bit and then shouldered through the door into the hall. Maria found him curled up on the rug before the fire in the sitting room.

Her shouts summoned Hal, who had filled the log baskets and was just putting the kindling away in the big hall cupboard.

‘Out! I said out, you bloody animal. Just
look
at the carpet. There's mud everywhere. Who left the door open?'

Hal went swiftly through to the kitchen. Jolyon cowered whitefaced by the table whilst Maria dragged Rex by his collar to the door which connected into the garage.

‘What the hell . . .?'

‘I
told
you not to let him in!' Her face was fierce with anger as she glared at him. ‘The bloody animal's got mud everywhere. As if I haven't got enough to do. The back door was wide open.'

Hal glanced at his small son, who turned and, folding his arms on the edge of the table, buried his face in them. The brief glimpse of his expression of unhappy fear made a deep impression on Hal. His heart ached with pain for his son's misery and he felt anger building inside him. Yelping, Rex was pushed and kicked bodily into the garage and Maria slammed the door upon him. Red-faced, breathing quickly, she looked defiantly at Hal.

‘Someone's got to discipline him,' she said, ‘but I know that I can't rely on you to do it. I've told you that I simply cannot cope with him but you do nothing.'

‘You're quite right. But don't worry. I shall deal with him now.'

He knew that the weekend was going to be a washout, another tiny failure, and he was determined to act, to make a gesture, to break the mould of the on-going defeatism which was beginning to ruin their lives and was making his son unhappy. He began to wash his hands with quick sharp movements, holding them under the tap, scraping them dry on the towel.