Holding On (32 page)

‘Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you. Clarrie went home and gave Andrew – that's his cousin – a glowing report about us, “poor but good” and so on, and he is seriously prepared to drop the rent a bit if he thinks we'll fit in. At least let's give it a chance.'

‘Sorry,' said Kit remorsefully. ‘Really I am. It sounds so impossibly good to be true that I don't quite want to believe it, just in case it isn't, if you see what I mean. I didn't mean to be a cow.'

‘Forget it.' Sin was refilling their glasses. ‘We're going to meet him on Saturday and have a look at the flat. Clarrie's described it and it sounds just heaven. He's given us a terrific build-up so we must try to live up to it.'

‘I think I do remember him,' said Kit thoughtfully. ‘A short round jolly chap with a military moustache and a great sense of humour.'

‘That's him,' agreed Sin. ‘So let's drink to it, shall we?'

For the first time since Jake's departure, Kit felt the stirrings of excitement, of a new hope.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘We shall. Here's to Hampstead!'

 

Now, nearly three years on, she paused once more at the window to look at the familiar, well-loved view, before pulling on a warm jersey above her jeans and pushing her feet into sheepskin-lined slippers. The central heating system was antiquated and, on a morning such as this, barely adequate. Well wrapped up, she let herself out of the flat and started up the staircase that climbed from the back of the hall on the ground floor to the top of the house. There was no question that Clarrie would be up. He rose early now so as to take his wire-haired dachshund out for his morning walk on the heath. Fritzy – re-named Fozzy by Clarrie who was a devotee of The Muppets – had been recently brought up from the country when the memsahib found that he upset the labradors and chased the hens, and it had been decided that a good home must be found for him elsewhere. Andrew had mentioned Fozzy to Clarrie, telling him how he outwitted the labradors on every front and had compounded his many misdemeanours by digging a very large hole in the memsahib's herbaceous border whilst ostensibly hunting for a rat.

‘He's a jolly little chap,' Andrew had said, rather wistfully. ‘Only a puppy, of course, but I warned her that she'd find him a bit of a handful. Poor old Margaret. She's got used to labs after all these years. Can't blame her for being unable to cope.'

‘Don't see why she had to have him in the first place,' Clarrie had said testily. He found it perfectly easy to blame Margaret for almost everything. He was very fond of his cousin and disliked the way his wife browbeat him, trading shamelessly on his gentle character and sweetness of disposition. ‘You can't experiment with dogs. It isn't fair.'

‘It wasn't
quite
an experiment,' Andrew, the peacemaker, had replied. ‘The breeder's a close friend and was determined that the puppy would make an excellent companion and watchdog now that the labs are getting a bit aged. Poor old Mags found it impossible to say no to her. The breeder would almost certainly have him back but it's a bit embarrassing. Fortunately she lives up in the north so Mags thought she'd try to find Fozzy a really good home and break the news later on.'

‘Prevaricating.' Clarrie had sniffed contemptuously. ‘Surprised she's being so sensitive about it. Margaret doesn't usually find it so difficult to say no to people. Why can't the poor little feller come here?'

Andrew had looked at him with some surprise. ‘Here? Do you think it's fair to have a dog in town?'

‘Good grief! We're right on the Heath, man! Bring him up and let's have a look at him. We might as well keep him in the family if we can.'

Now, as Kit beat a tattoo on the door, she was answered by Fozzy's deep-throated bark, out of all proportion to his size though, despite his short legs, he was a very large, sturdy animal. She opened the door, which was rarely locked, and greeted Fozzy who was just inside.

‘Hi! It's me!' she called. ‘Is it a bad moment?'

‘Why ever should it be?' Clarrie bustled out from the kitchen. ‘Come on through. We've had our constitutional and it's jolly cold out there, I can tell you. Coffee's hot, so pour yourself some and top mine up for me.'

Even in the kitchen there were books everywhere: leaning together on shelves, piled on the table, spilling off chairs. Clarrie's pipe was resting in an enormous ashtray and he had an encyclopaedia on the table open at a large map.

‘Met a chap when we were out just now,' he said, going back to the table. ‘He was in Burma in the war and happened to know a friend of mine. Quite extraordinary coincidence. We had a good old chinwag and I was looking up the place where he was based. He's just moved into a little flat in Well Walk so we arranged to have a jar in the Holly Bush at lunchtime. Want to come along?'

‘Love to,' said Kit promptly. Clarrie's acquaintances were generally interesting and amusing and could be relied upon to give good entertainment. ‘Did Fozzy behave himself?'

‘Course he did.' Clarrie snorted. ‘Nothing wrong with him, is there old chap? Man's dog, that's what he is. Needs to know who's boss but doesn't need to be squawked at all day long.'

Kit grinned to herself as she took a quick sip of the hot strong coffee. She put Clarrie's mug beside him on the large, shabby pine table and settled opposite.

‘I think you only took him in to prove a point,' she said provocatively. ‘You wanted to show the memsahib that you could succeed where she failed. Go on, admit it.'

He beamed at her, short white hair on end, eyes twinkling. ‘Had too much character for her,' he said triumphantly. ‘She can deal with poor old donkeys that are too far over the hill to fight back, and with those fat, unhealthy old labs, but give her something that's got a bit of character and where is she? Making life hell for poor old Andrew. That's where!'

‘I must admit that I find her quite terrifying,' admitted Kit. The memsahib had travelled up to London to give Kit and Sin the once-over, and she had proved to be a truly formidable woman: tall, angular, tweeded and with a very sharp tongue. It was clear to see why Andrew made regular sorties to the house in Hampstead, using it as a refuge.

‘She was a pretty girl,' said Clarrie reflectively, ‘but quite unsuitable for Andrew. She got her hooks into him, though. Saw straight away that she could wind him round her little finger. Didn't have an earthly, poor old boy. Talked to him like a father, tried to make him see the light. Terrible mistake. Brought out the chivalrous streak in him and we very nearly fell out.'

‘I can't imagine Andrew falling out with anyone,' murmured Kit. ‘He's so incredibly nice.'

‘Good job he's got this bolthole.' Clarrie closed the book and picked up his pipe. ‘He'd have gone mad long since.'

‘It's a pity there are no children.' Kit bent to stroke Fozzy, who had curled into a ball beside her chair. ‘He'd have been a lovely father.'

‘Don't think he was allowed to try.' Clarrie grinned evilly. ‘Doesn't like that sort of thing, the memsahib. Nasty, messy business. Andrew told me as much when we talked about children once. Discreetly, of course. Quite understood, must make allowances, and all that guff. No wonder she looks such a dried-up old stick.'

‘Honestly!' Kit began to chuckle. ‘I don't believe a word of it.'

‘Truth,' declared Clarrie. ‘Don't you say anything now. So he was out with Sin last night, was he?'

‘The opera. Wagner, I think. It's no good, Clarrie. I think we have to give up hoping that Andrew is going to suddenly have a rush of blood to the head and elope with Sin. He's one of the most married men I've ever met.'

‘Too honourable,' said Clarrie gloomily. ‘Here he is with you two gorgeous creatures and all he can think of is Wagner. Now if I were only twenty years younger . . .'

‘That's just your excuse.' Kit lounged on the table and made big eyes at him. ‘Here we are, languishing after you, following you about . . .'

‘Silence, wench. Tempt me not. Had breakfast? I thought not. Brunch. That's what we need. Something inside us before we go to the pub. I'll see what I've got and you can sit there and tell me all the gossip. What's the latest news from Devon? How's Fliss and those twins of hers? Nice girl, your Fliss. And how's your grandmother?'

Kit settled into the corner, kicked off a slipper, and rested her foot on Fozzy's warm, rough back. At moments like these, she could almost imagine herself in the kitchen at The Keep in the old days of Ellen and Fox and the dogs. She sighed with pleasure, picked up her coffee and prepared to regale Clarrie with all her news.

The room was very quiet. The cassette had stopped playing long since but Theo was reluctant to move lest he disturb Freddy, who was sleeping in her chair. Although she spent a great deal of the time asleep she refused to stay in bed. He knew that it was her final struggle, her last act of independence, against the disease which was slowly but implacably defeating her. She rose late and went to bed early but during those hours in between she got herself dressed with Caroline's aid and spent the time in her sitting room. Perhaps it was a blessing that every physical act took so much time to accomplish. It was nearly mid-morning by the time her breakfast was over and he arrived to keep her company. It was important that the day had a series of small events to which she could look forward; small goals to be attained; little treats to savour. Breakfast over, Theo would arrive with
The Times
from which he would read carefully edited portions of the daily news. It was clear that it was an effort for her to keep pace with the world beyond The Keep, nevertheless he never let her guess that he knew it. When they'd finished with the newspaper and selected some music – which was another very time-consuming occupation, looking through her growing library of cassettes, discussing the relative virtues of various pieces – it would be time for coffee, despite the fact that by now it was much nearer to lunchtime. Not that time mattered any longer; the former routine had become flexible; each meal a movable feast.

Freddy breathed regularly, face turned into her cushion, but Theo tried not to look at her; he knew she would hate it, that to Freddy it would be a violation of her privacy.

He thought: The sleeping are so vulnerable, so frighteningly unprotected. It isn't fair to take advantage of their helplessness.

He looked down at the book which he had been reading aloud when she had drifted into sleep:
Mansfield Park.
Her attention span was very limited, partly caused by the medicine on which she relied to keep the pain at bay, but she loved him to read to her. He tried to see it as some kind of recompense for all those years in which she had played to him, although it could not possibly give her the joy with which her playing had filled him. These last years had been blessed by a deep contentment and he gave thanks daily that he had never submitted to the temptation of admitting his love. It would have destroyed at one stroke the quiet, strong affection and invaluable friendship which had informed their relationship. Even if she had reciprocated his love it was likely that passion, jealousy, misunderstandings would have clouded that deeper understanding which had drawn them so close in these last fifteen years and enabled them to provide a strong, secure framework for the children.

Soon she would be gone from them. Theo closed the book upon the bookmark and stared into the fire. Although his own beliefs gave him spiritual comfort, his human heart could not so easily come to terms with a future without Freddy. She was his friend, his companion, the one person who had been a constant in his life. He had never known his mother. His father and brother had died whilst he was still very young, Freddy had been there for more than sixty years and it was impossible to imagine The Keep without her. Yet it sometimes seemed that they had been imprisoned in these two rooms for ever. How strange time was; sometimes the distant past felt closer than yesterday; sometimes events and people merged together in the memory.

He'd stood with Freddy at the window, watching the twinnies riding their new bicycles round the courtyard, just as he and Bertie had ridden theirs when they were children. He remembered Freddy's boys, Peter and John, doing the same thing, and, later, Fliss and Mole and Susanna. At that moment, the twinnies had represented all the children who had ever lived at The Keep, stretching back into the past, going on into the future. He'd glanced quickly at Freddy, wondering if she might be sharing his vision, and seen the tears on her cheeks. He knew that she was facing the harsh truth that she would see no more children riding round the courtyard and, although she had waved cheerfully to the twinnies, smiling down at them, once she'd turned back into the room where they could no longer see her she had collapsed into his arms and wept.

He'd held her as he had done before, down all the years; when she'd heard that Bertie had been killed at Jutland; when the telegram had come to tell them that John had died on convoy duty; when the letter describing the deaths of Peter and Alison and Jamie had arrived. More recently there had been Ellen, her friend Julia Blakiston, and then Fox to mourn, and now she was facing the approach of her own death. He'd held her closely, aware of his own inadequacies, saddened that he had never been able to bring her spiritual comfort or any conviction of the possibility of a oneness with God. In this respect he had totally failed her but he had no intention of insulting her now, in this weakened state, by offering her placebos; of talking of a storybook heaven or promising a benevolent God with the limited stature of a deity out of some Greek myth.