Holding On (34 page)

‘I know exactly what you mean. He keeps me going and yet he must be feeling so desperate inside. They've been together for so long.'

‘Oh, don't, Caroline. I simply cannot bear it. It won't be The Keep without Freddy, will it?'

‘It will certainly be different. I don't want to think about that just yet. Look, I'll have a talk with Mrs Chadwick later on when she goes to bed and I'll phone you back. About nine? OK? And, Prue. No more sighing!'

 

‘It's the indignity of it all,' whispered Freddy. ‘My dear Caroline, how often I've had cause to be grateful to you – but I didn't think that it would come to this.'

With an effort she held out her arms and Caroline deftly dropped the nightgown over her head, placed the shawl around the thin shoulders and lifted the long legs into the bed, freshly made with clean linen. Firelight danced across the walls and the bedside light was shaded to a soft glow so that the room had an intimate restful quality. Caroline checked that there was fresh water in the glass and tablets within reach, and smiled down into the sunken eyes.

‘Perhaps it's being a nanny,' she said gently, ‘but I've never found caring for people, whatever age, to be undignified. Dignity comes from inside, nobody can take it from you.'

Freddy lay back against the pillows and Caroline took her hand, as she always did now at the end of the day. Freddy knew that it was a kind of farewell, just in case she, Freddy, died in the night, and she held it as tightly as she could in her enfeebled state.

‘Thank you, Caroline,' she murmured.

‘God bless.'

They remained for a few seconds longer until Freddy's grip loosened.

‘Tell Prue that I should like to see her.'

‘I'll tell her. Sleep well. Theo will be in later to say good night as usual.'

Freddy nodded, eyes closing, and Caroline went out, gently shutting the door behind her. The clock ticked quietly but steadily, measuring the minutes, and the flames whispered in the grate. There was a gathering silence in the house about her and darkness pressed against the windows.

Ah, but you had to want to be lifted; want it more than life itself. You had to truly want to step free of your pettiness, your love of self, to long for the freedom.

Her thin hands clasped together as she felt the great wash of thankfulness which accompanied the knowledge that she had never told her love. How undignified it would have been, even if Theo had returned it, to admit her passion for her husband's younger brother. Would she have ever known the peace she possessed now or had the comfort of their deep friendship? She knew herself too well now. She would have resented any interference and been even more jealous than she'd been when she had no rights over him. In some obscure way she had been saved from herself and it was her greatest fear that in one of those moments of morphia-induced rambling confusion she might speak of it to him. It was her one last prayer that she might not weaken.

If only this detachment, this gentle inflowing of some kind of healing peace, had come to her earlier.

Freddy thought: But I did not want it earlier. I fought against it all my life lest it interfered with what I wanted. Just as I fought Theo . . .

How could she go, leaving Theo behind her? She had talked long with Hal, charging him to care for the family as a whole, passing to him the responsibility of its welfare, insisting that The Keep must be kept as a refuge for anyone of the family who might need it. He had promised, calmly assuring her that her wishes would be followed, giving her absolute confidence in his integrity. The relief had been tremendous, as if some weight had passed from her feeble frame to his strong, broad shoulders. For a brief, confused moment she'd imagined that it was darling John sitting beside her, holding her hand, giving his word; John who had died so young, leaving Prue with her small twins, just as she, Freddy had been left; Prue, whom she felt had never been good enough for her son, whom Theo had championed . . .

Freddy stirred restlessly. Theo had always been fond of Prue, taking her part, helping her out, protecting her from Freddy's wrath. How jealous she had often been of Prue. Yet it was Prue who had brought them Caroline.

In the early days of her illness, it had irked her to know that Prue and Caroline and Theo were together downstairs whilst she was confined, irritated that Theo was enjoying Prue's company whilst she lay upstairs, alone and weak . . .

As she lay alone, fretting and cross, these words had come into her mind and she'd found the piece of paper in the drawer of her bedside table and re-read them. Why had Theo written it down? She'd never asked him but the words had remained with her, like some insistent Questioner in her head.
In purity of love?
Might it be remotely possible that she could at last lift her love for Theo absolutely into that sphere? Might she finally free herself of her meanness and limitations, at least within this relationship which had become so precious?

Freddy turned her head on the pillow, wondering if she had the strength to reach for the glass which Caroline had left close beside her. Dear Caroline . . . Her thoughts drifted, forming and re-forming. Caroline had asked if Prue might come for a few days. She had telephoned for a chat, miserable and rather lonely and longing to see them all, but insisting that she didn't wish to be a nuisance . . . Silently Freddy acknowledged Prue's delicacy, clearly recognising her sensitivity; admitting her own selfishness and prejudice. Was it because John had defied her, choosing Prue in the face of her own disapproval, holding to his love for her despite his mother's opposition? After his death, she had given Prue all that she needed but never once had she generously extended her hand in love.

She thought: Oh, Prue. You shouldn't have had to ask. I have failed to make The Keep a refuge if it is necessary for you to ask my permission to visit, especially now when you are lonely. You of all people should have a special place here. John's wife, his widow and the mother of his children, and you are left all alone in that little house. Forgive me, Prue . . .

It would be good for them all to have Prue with them – company for Caroline and someone to make Theo laugh again. He and Prue had always been so close . . . The familiar green-eyed monster muscled in, briefly showing his teeth, shaking her resolve, reminding her of past grievances. It had always hurt her when Theo had taken Prue's part against her . . .

How could she go, leaving Theo behind her? He and Caroline rubbed along together very well but it would have been good to know that there would be someone to fill in the terrible gap; someone for whom he cared. Of course, Hal and Maria and the children would probably move in before too long but it would be hard for Theo, used to her own constant companionship, her love . . .

The Questioner was pressing her, indicating the way, offering her an opportunity. The battle was short but painful. Approaching death brought along with it the awareness of one's unimportance. It was terrible to know that soon, very soon, her power and influence would be gone, that laughter and happiness and life itself would go on without her. Yet she still held some tiny measure of that power. Theo, like Hal, would consider himself morally bound by her last wishes; a few words would make the difference, one way or the other. There was the usual choice: self – or sacrifice of pride; stepping free of meanness and limitations in purity of love – or holding on to power which might extend beyond the grave. It had always been so important to know that she came first with Theo . . . She opened her eyes to find him bending over her.

‘How are you feeling?' he asked.

‘Theo.' She reached out and grasped his wrist. ‘Will you do something for me?'

‘Anything.' He covered her hand with his own and sat down in the chair beside her. ‘What is it?'

‘It's Prue.' She was too tired to prevaricate. Time was too precious. ‘Caroline's inviting her down.' Did she see a familiar shadow of anxiety in his eyes? Shame for the past seized her afresh. ‘Theo, I want you to ask her to consider making her home here. I think she's lonely all by herself in Bristol and the children can come here to see her just as easily. Promise you'll ask her with my blessing? Please?'

‘My dear Freddy . . .' Her hand clutched his briefly and he lifted it to his lips and saluted her.

‘She will be good for all of us and she deserves . . . so much.'

She relaxed on to the pillows, exhausted, and he sat for some moments in silence. Presently she opened her eyes and smiled at him. They looked at one another with deep understanding and she nodded, acknowledging, accepting, confirming.

‘Go and do it now,' he could barely hear her, ‘and come back after you've talked to her. After your supper. Remember, Theo,
with my blessing
.'

He nodded, pressing her hand, going quietly away. Darkness pressed in but Freddy was no longer aware of the shadows. She lay in silent contemplation, lost in the quiet radiant joy of surrender . . .

Coming home with the boys across the frosty field, Hal turned to watch a flock of lapwings circling in ragged formation above the quiet landscape. The mist was rising and the low line of distant hills appeared to be mysteriously receding into the approaching twilight. The boys' breath made vaporous clouds in the freezing air as they shouted to each other, running zigzag towards the gate which opened on to the lane.

They came galloping up to him as he reached the gate, knowing that they must not run out into the lane, each seizing a hand. Looking down into their glowing faces, Hal felt a sharp sense of fear, of terrifying responsibility. Their dependence on him, their confidence in him, was awe-inspiring. It should be much more difficult to have children; adults should be made to pass some sort of test to prove that they were ready for it. No other undertakings of such magnitude were entered upon with such indifference . . .

‘Carry!' cried three-year-old Edward, whose short legs were feeling the strain. He flung his arms about Hal's knees and his father bent and hoisted him on to his hip, straightening his woolly bobble hat, which was decorated with a series of Snoopies.

‘You're too big to carry,' he told him – but Edward merely beamed at him and leaned to look down upon Jolyon with a certain satisfaction.

‘I can walk,' Jolyon told his father seriously. ‘You don't have to worry about me.'

‘I know that, old son,' said Hal, wishing it were true. He held the small gloved hand tightly. ‘You're a big boy, now.'

‘I miss Rex.' Jolyon swung his father's hand to and fro and then carried it around his small shoulders. ‘Walks are different without him. I wish we could have managed him.'

‘I wish we could, too.' Hal searched about for comforting words which were in no way disloyal to Maria. ‘The trouble is a huge chap like Rex needs lots of room. He's very happy at The Keep, you know.'

Jolyon looked up at him. ‘Certain sure?'

‘Certain sure. I promised I'd keep an eye on him, didn't I?'

‘Mmm.' Jolyon nodded, face slanted downwards. ‘But I miss him.'

‘I'm hungry.' Edward buffeted Hal's cold cheek with a mittened fist, demanding his share of attention.

‘So am I.' Hal was glad to change the subject. ‘Home for tea, then?'

‘Mummy and Grandma are making chocolate cake.' Jolyon gave a tiny skip, Rex momentarily forgotten. ‘It's my very favourite in all the world.'

‘And mine,' piped Edward. He bounced up and down, trying to make Hal hurry and began to sing in a small breathless voice. Jolyon joined in, jumping along at Hal's side.

Singing with them, Hal's thoughts were occupied elsewhere. A visit from his mother-in-law, Elaine, was not an unusual occurrence, nevertheless he suspected that there was some significance on this particular occasion which had not yet been made clear. She had already made several pointed remarks about his grandmother's approaching end, voicing vague suppositions as to what would happen to The Keep. It seemed that both she and Maria were only interested in its future and he was sad that Maria refused to take the boys down to see his grandmother before she died. His wife stood firm, however: the boys were far too young to understand about death; they would be frightened to see their great-grandmother looking so ill and confined to bed; it simply wasn't fair – and so on. It was clear that she had primed the boys, Jolyon in particular, who declared anxiously that he didn't want to go down to The Keep but, when Hal tried to reason with him gently, Jolyon had shaken his head, retreating from him, and Hal wondered exactly what it was that Maria had told him. When he broached the subject she'd denied frightening Jolyon but she was clearly embarrassed by Hal's direct approach, taking an indignant stance, surprised that he should want to expose such small boys to the gloomy atmosphere or fill their minds with the images of death.