Holding On (7 page)

‘So you've said many times before,' said Hal quietly. ‘I did suggest that you might feel happier if you lived on a married patch with other wives of your own age, just until you got used to things. It was you who insisted that you wanted to bury yourself in a little village, miles from the base and with no transport.'

‘They were beastly houses,' she cried. ‘And I didn't want to go to boring Tupperware parties or have the other wives in and out all day long, thank you very much. I'm not interested in listening to gossip for hours on end.'

‘I should have thought that it's better to listen to a bit of gossip than sit weeping on your own for weeks at a time,' said Hal impatiently. ‘Just what
is
it that you want, Maria?'

She was silent, head bent, near to tears. Why couldn't he understand and sympathise? After looking at the available married quarters in the Portsmouth area, this little cottage had been heaven-sent. It hadn't mattered then that she'd be isolated. The low-beamed ceilings and private garden, the charm of Sarah's choice of decoration and furniture was bliss after the unimaginative uniformity of the quarters. Hal had simply no idea of the horror she had felt at being transported from her parents' comfortable home to the vulnerability of the married patch. She'd felt safe in this tiny, fairytale cottage. The thought of moving from it, of going to a new place, of living in the semi in Compton Road, filled her with alarm. How could she say this to Hal, especially when Fliss seemed to be facing the thought of Hong Kong with such equanimity? She finished the preparations without answering, stepping past him as if he didn't exist, confused and miserable.

Hal watched her, his anger evaporating. Her long dark hair swung loose, hiding her down-slanted face, and her bare arms and legs were tanned from hours of sunbathing. She disliked the long Indian clothes which Fliss had adopted and continued to wear miniskirts or jeans. This evening she wore one of his own cotton shirts, left loose over her bikini, but for once he was unaroused. He was too tired. She told him that she longed for them to be together, said that she felt every moment apart was wasted time, yet these bickerings broke out so often. He knew that one way to solve the problem would be to catch her in his arms and make love to her. She would pretend to put up a fight but she would be relieved to allow their mutual passion to sweep away the anger and the tears.

Hal thought: But I don't want to. I'm fed up with this coaxing and pleading. Anyway, I'm damned hungry.

Aloud he said, ‘Come on. Have a drink and let's forget it. Thank goodness I shall be home for the move. At least that's a bonus. Gosh, that looks good. What a clever wife I've got.'

He slipped an arm about her, nuzzling her hair, but keeping everything light and easy. Torn between self-righteousness and loneliness, Maria allowed herself to relax against him, accepting the glass of wine. She longed for his approval, to be admired and desired.

‘It's only a salmon,' she said, ‘and new potatoes and salad. Nothing really.'

She smiled reluctantly at him and he bent to kiss her, putting as much passion into it as he could commensurate with it not distracting her from supper. Once or twice he'd been obliged to take her to bed early and the food had been ruined. Tonight things were not quite that bad. There would be time later to reassure her in the only way which really seemed to matter to her, time to show her that she was the only one he loved, the only one he'd ever want. Perhaps this time she'd become pregnant . . .

 

In this hour before dinner all was quiet at The Keep. Theo crossed the cool, shadowy hall and, selecting a walking stick from the tall brass container by the door, stepped out into the courtyard. Earlier, Josh had been mowing the central rectangle of grass and the scent lingered, evoking other summers of years long past. He passed beneath the gatehouse roof, between the tall wooden gates which were rarely shut now that there were no small children to keep inside, and out on to the drive which led to the lane.

Fields stretched away on either side and he paused from time to time to examine the beauty of the minutiae which grew on the old stone boundary walls. It never ceased to amaze him that such a dry, even hostile, environment could produce such magic. He bent to look more closely at the English stonecrop, its white flowers faintly flushed with pink, its stems and leaves tinged with red, preferring this delicate sedum to the mustard yellow of the biting stonecrop, its close relative. A tall foxglove leaned perilously from its narrow crevice between two stones, a slender column of purple bells, and Theo wondered anew that any root should gain purchase in nothing but a grain or two of soil. Along the wall, clumps of red valerian clung tenaciously at intervals and patches of powdery lichen stained the pitted surface of the stone with golden rust. A spider darted from its web, scurried between the stems of the herb Robert sprawling over the top of the wall, and disappeared into a dark recess.

Theo walked on, noting the trees' long shadows reaching across the green turf and the brilliance of the western sky. He turned from the drive into the deep, narrow lane, plunging abruptly from light into darkness. The banks were high, narrowing the sky, creating a density of shade. Long gone were the bright, fresh colours of spring but thick, creamy meadowsweet and yellow ragwort lent cheerful colour to the brittle tawniness of the feathery grasses and luminously pale honeysuckle trailed over the mixed hedgerow – nut, thorn, oak, beech – which grew along the top of the bank.

As he walked, Theo brooded on his family. His inner peace was regularly disturbed by the knowledge of his inadequacies. As a priest, he felt that he had done little to promote the spiritual wellbeing of those he loved. His natural reluctance to proselytise had prevented him from doing much more than advise when pressed, or encourage and comfort whoever required support from him. As he grew older his belief became simpler, more concentrated. A constant, secret inflowing of God enabled one to be used as a channel, a conduit; this love was passed on to those nearest to one at any given moment. This was the most, he had decided, that anyone could hope to achieve in this life.

Leaning heavily on his stick, he paused to consider the deep, burning blue of the tufted vetch which scrambled up the bank, reaching out with its tendrils to climb the cow parsley and alexanders. How new and miraculous each shift of season was. It was over seventy years since first he'd walked in this lane and yet there was always something different, something exciting, something at which to marvel. At the same time, there was the calm reassurance of continuity and a comforting sense of belonging.

Theo thought: It is this needing to belong that is making it hard for Fliss to leave. She is more deeply rooted here than any of the other children.

He remembered how often he had walked here, meeting the children coming home from the village school. Susanna had run to him, shouting out her news, recounting the details of her achievements, seizing his knees, laughing up at him. Mole had usually been silent with relief, another day successfully negotiated, his loved ones about to be safely gathered in beneath the same roof; he had carried Theo's arm around his small shoulders, holding his wrist tightly as he stumbled along beside him, listening to Susanna's chatter, frowning in an effort to keep up. Fliss had greeted him with a deep gladness, beaming at him as she took his hand, attempting to match her stride to his. She rarely spoke about her day at school but was more interested in all that had happened at The Keep in her absence. No detail was too small, no convention too banal to be repeated.
Home is where the heart is.
Theo feared that Fliss's heart would be always here, in this small corner of Devon.

Theo knew that the depth of his anxiety for Fliss was the measure of his guilt. He, alone, had attempted to prevent her marriage to Miles. He'd suspected that it was a reaction to Hal's engagement and believed that she should not surrender her strength and independence in a desperate gesture of pride. He had attempted to show it to Freddy in this light, had even raised it – tentatively – with Fliss herself, but he had allowed himself to be convinced, or at least distracted, and he had been unwilling to make any more trouble. How nearly he and Freddy had come to grief over the discovery of the love between Hal and Fliss.

His own love for Freddy was another of his humiliations. To fall in love with your brother's wife was shameful and he thanked God that he had never by a look or word betrayed it to her, that he had been given the strength to keep away. It might have been so tempting to abuse her affection for him, to have made himself necessary to her. Despite her confidence, there had been occasions when she had been ready to submit her will to his. It had been she who had suggested that he should live at The Keep but he returned only when he was certain that her own strength was too well developed to be open to his influence. It had been neither too early nor too late and they had had seven years of quiet happiness. It had been this happiness which he had been reluctant to disturb by pursuing his suspicions about Fliss's sudden decision to marry Miles.

Well, it was too late now. Fliss would go to Hong Kong and have her baby in the British Military Hospital in Kowloon, thousands of miles from her home in Devon.

Theo thought: But had she married Hal the same thing might have happened. He, too, might be posted abroad.

Yet he knew that, somehow, this would have been different, that Fliss would not have minded if she had been with Hal . . .

‘They haven't got faces any more,' mourned Susanna, kneeling on the window seat. ‘They're just trees. I didn't notice them change.'

Mole went to stand beside her, gazing across the garden and the orchard to the three tall fir trees. For as long as they could remember these trees had seemed like guardians, facing north, south and east, watching over the gardens and The Keep. Overlapping branches had allowed glimpses of the sky which looked like eyes and teeth, and Susanna had invested them with personalities and had looked upon them as friends.

‘I can see what you mean,' said Mole. ‘They've grown out, like hair. Never mind. I expect they'll look more like people again when the wind blows. Then you can see the sky through the branches and they'll have new, different faces.'

‘Probably,' said Susanna, slipping off the window seat. ‘Gosh, it's good to be home.'

She wandered over to the bed upon whose pillow sat a row of much-loved, if battered, toys. They'd entered into many games and adventures and had suffered a great deal in the consequence. Mole envied Susanna's confidence, which allowed her to leave her toys on public view. When he had reluctantly decided that having toys on his bed was a bit childish for a putative naval cadet, his old teddy and the dashing golliwog knitted by Ellen had been put on the top of his wardrobe. For some reason – which he knew to be utterly ridiculous – he couldn't bear to think of these two stalwart companions shut into a box. ‘They won't be able to b-breathe' he'd said to Caroline, a hot wave of embarrassment suffusing his face. Caroline had remained unmoved by his foolishness, her eyes roving about his bedroom. ‘Tell you what,' she'd said, ‘they can sit up here.' She'd placed them together on the wardrobe. ‘How about that?' He liked to see them there, leaning together, when he entered his room. Golly's bright red jacket seemed undimmed with the years, and Teddy still wore a pale strip on the bottom of his foot, which was the name tape bearing the legend ‘S CHADWICK', a reminder to Mole of prep school days.

Susanna pushed a pile of clothes to the end of the bed and flung herself down, her head amongst the toys. ‘No more school,' she said gleefully. ‘I simply can't believe it.' Looking at her, Mole could hardly believe it either. It was impossible to realise that his small sister was growing up at last. It had been difficult enough keeping her under control as a child but what might not happen to her as she moved beyond his control, as friendly as ever but now pretty and desirable, too? At least during these last two years he'd had chance to become slowly accustomed to it. Apart from anything else, the Navy kept him too busy to think about it much but his own growing confidence had also enabled him to be a little more balanced about his ingrained fear for his loved ones.

‘I suppose it didn't seem much of a change to you,' she was saying, ‘going straight from one educational establishment to another. Still in dormitories and people bossing you about. You're happy, though, aren't you?'

‘It's not really like school,' said Mole. ‘It's great, and there's much more freedom than we had at school, but I shall be glad to specialise; to be joining a boat and going to sea.'

She grinned at him. ‘Still submarines, of course?'

‘Oh yes. Still submarines.'

Susanna looked about her happily. As usual her room was in a state of chaos, clothes spilling out of the chest of drawers, books on the floor, a clutter of belongings on the small table.

‘Two months,' she said. ‘Two months' holiday to enjoy. What shall we do?'

She still sounded like the little sister who had asked that very question so many times before. Well, they were too old now to play their games of make-believe in the little stone shed in the orchard or to ride their bicycles into Dartington to buy sweets.

‘To begin with,' he replied, ‘I thought we might take Perks for a walk. Poor old Fox can hardly manage it these days and Caroline's busy this afternoon. We can catch up on all our news. Fliss and the baby and things.'

‘Imagine.' Susanna looked at him awestruck. ‘Imagine us being an uncle and aunt.'

Mole shook his head. ‘I can't really,' he admitted. ‘It's weird.'