Holding On (8 page)

‘I had a letter from Kit,' said Susanna, sitting up and reaching for her shoes, ‘and she said that she wants to be a godmother. She sent me a list of names as a joke. It was really funny. I kept it to show you. Now where did I put it?'

She finished lacing her shoe and glanced about her.

‘Never mind,' said Mole hastily, knowing they might spend at least an hour searching for it in all the muddle. ‘Later will do, when you've properly unpacked. It's probably in your writing case. Come on.' He pushed himself up from the window seat and made for the door. ‘This place wouldn't pass an inspection, that's all I can say. Make mincemeat of you, our CPO Manners would.'

‘I dare say,' said Susanna, kicking a stray shirt under the bed and seizing her jersey. ‘That's why I'm glad to be going to Aunt Prue. She's as bad as I am.'

‘What a frightening thought,' murmured Mole. ‘Who will keep an eye on you both?'

‘Kit,' answered Susanna promptly, slamming her bedroom door behind them. ‘She's going to come down regularly and check on us. She doesn't trust us, she says. Aunt Prue has all sorts of things planned.'

‘I believe you,' said Mole, grimly. ‘And I can just see Kit taking charge of you. She's worse than you and Aunt Prue put together.'

Susanna beamed back at him as she raced down the stairs. ‘I know,' she said cheerfully. ‘Oh, Mole, it's going to be such
fun
.'

 

‘End of an era,' said Ellen gloomily. ‘That's what it is. Fliss off to Hong Kong. Mole off to sea and Susanna finished at school. Things'll be changing now and no mistake.'

‘It won't be much of a change,' said Caroline soothingly, slicing the first picking of runner beans as she sat at the table. ‘Going to college in Bristol isn't too different from being at school, you know. The term times and holidays will be much the same. There will be cases to pack and all the problems of getting her to and fro. And Mole won't be going to sea for another two years. He'll have fourth-year courses after Dartmouth. It's only Fliss, really.'

Ellen put a tray of scones in the oven and sat down in the rocking chair. ‘I'm getting old and foolish,' she admitted. ‘That's what. I don't know what's come over me and that's a fact.'

Caroline was silent. Slicing the beans neatly into a colander she reflected that some sort of change had certainly affected Ellen. Hitherto it had been she who was the strong one: acerbic, sharp, keeping them on their toes. Negativity had never been one of Ellen's faults.

Caroline thought: It is as if she has a kind of premonition which is depressing her spirits.

‘It gets me here,' cried Ellen miserably, striking her breast, unconsciously corroborating Caroline's thoughts. ‘Like a heavy weight it is. Painful. And don't tell me it's indigestion.'

Caroline was unable to control a little smile. ‘I wouldn't dream of it,' she said gently. ‘Who said it might be?'

‘That Fox,' said Ellen grimly. ‘Should've known better than to tell him. Never get no sympathy from a man, that's my experience. Like babies they are, when
they
have a twinge of something but as to anyone else having something wrong . . .' she sniffed expressively.

‘He's worried about you,' explained Caroline. ‘He was hoping to cheer you up, I expect.'

Ellen rocked glumly. She wasn't accustomed to analysing her thoughts. In her view thinking or talking about yourself too much was simply self-indulgence and should not be encouraged, but just lately she seemed quite incapable of rising above this terrible depression. It occurred to her that she might simply be feeling the lowness of knowing that she was beginning to be useless. Caroline had taken over so much of the burden of her work that she was hardly needed, and now, with the children leaving home, there would be even fewer calls on her energy. Fox, she knew, had already come to terms with this. She remembered how restless and unhappy he had been at first, yet he had been able to accept it with a kind of grace which she was beginning truly to appreciate. He pottered about, finding small jobs and making himself as useful as his knotted hands and painful joints would allow, and for the rest of it he took his ease calmly, refusing to make a martyr of himself, which would have irritated those around him.

‘At least I have my health,' she said – and realised that she had spoken aloud.

‘And a great many other things, too,' agreed Caroline. ‘No one makes scones and sponges like you do, Ellen, or bramble jelly. And you've a much lighter hand with the pastry than I have. Just because the children won't be around quite so much doesn't mean that the rest of us have to go hungry. You'll still have five people to feed.'

‘Talking of which,' said Ellen more cheerfully, ‘that sponge will be ready to ice. Now where did I put the sieve . . .'

‘Baker's here.' Fox put his head round the door. ‘Wants to know if you need extra.'

‘Money,' said Ellen, distracted from the sponge. ‘Where's the tin? How much is it? And that's another thing. All these silly bits of money. Decimalisation indeed. Whatever next, I wonder. Here, let me have a word with him . . .'

‘She do be looking a bit brighter,' said Fox hopefully, when Ellen was out of earshot. ‘Found out what's wrong?'

‘Not really.' Caroline gathered the waste from the beans neatly into a sheet of newspaper. ‘It could simply be that there's another change ahead. Susanna off to Bristol and Fliss off to Hong Kong. She's not a one for change, Ellen.'

‘Says she's got a pain in her chest.' Fox sounded studiedly casual. ‘Indigestion, I told her, hoping to calm her down. Proper bit my head off, she did. Couldn't be anything more serious, perhaps?'

‘I don't think it's physical,' Caroline assured him. ‘She's just low in spirits and worrying about Fliss. It's odd, really. Before the children came there were just the three of you here. She didn't mind about that, I imagine?'

‘It was different somehow.' Fox tried to cast his mind back to those days. ‘We'd had the boys growing up, Peter and John, that is. Lots of coming and going then, especially when they went to Dartmouth and began bringing friends home. Then there was the war. Well, that was different again. Everyone in the same boat and trying to keep going. After the war Prue and the twins came down often and so did Peter and Alison, with Jamie and Fliss as little ones. Quite a houseful we had then. There was a bit of a gap when Peter went off to Kenya but Prue still came often with Hal and Kit so there wasn't an absolute break, if you take my meaning. Once the twins started school the visits got a bit less and we began to settle into a routine down here. What a shock it was when we heard the news and hardly had time to take it in when we had three small children to look after. Shook us all up, it did.' He laughed a little. ‘Funny, really, I remember we felt a right set of old fogeys when they small ones arrived. Didn't know how we'd manage. Looking back, we were still young 'uns. Though I have to say, maid, it was a great relief when you turned up.'

Caroline smiled at him. ‘It was a good day for me, too. I still think that Ellen's problem is that she doesn't like change. And the children are growing up, of course. It's a great pity that Fliss will be abroad when she has the baby. A new baby would have been just what was needed to cheer Ellen up and take her mind off things.'

‘Keeps saying she won't live to see it,' mumbled Fox. He shot a glance at Caroline and looked away. ‘Told her it's morbid. No reason to think such a thing.'

Caroline felt a tiny stab of fear pierce her heart and pushed it resolutely away.

‘Susanna will cheer her up,' she said hopefully. ‘Suppose we get everyone together for a weekend? Fliss can come over and we'll get Kit down from London. Hal and Maria will be here in a week or so anyway. A big family party, that's what we need. It'll take Ellen's mind off things. What d'you think?'

‘That young man's asking for a thick ear,' said Ellen, reappearing before Fox could answer. ‘Making games of me, cheeky monkey. Never shall I get this new money sorted out. “Can't teach an old dog new tricks,” I told him and he said it was a good thing my bark was worse than my bite. Now, where's that sieve?'

‘I'll put the kettle on and give Josh a call,' said Caroline. ‘He's in the orchard scything the grass. He'll be glad of a break.'

‘I'll go,' said Fox with alacrity. ‘Hot work that is. The boy'll be ready for a cuppa.'

Ellen opened her mouth – and closed it again, biting her lip as Fox hobbled out. She'd been about to observe that Josh's tea would be cold long before Fox reached the orchard and that Caroline should go instead but she was becoming more and more sensitive to Fox's need still to feel a part of the working household. Even more was she aware of the courage he was showing in accepting his disabilities. To begin with he had been morose, railing against the passage of time, reluctant to allow Josh free rein in the garden, but now he was cheerful, not bearing his pain and lack of usefulness mechanically, as a suffered tragedy, but using it to help himself to grow, turning it into a kind of grace which benefited them all. She had always been anxious for his physical wellbeing; now she saw that there was the inner man, another important part of Fox which was still painfully developing.

‘No need to hurry with that tea,' she said sharply to Caroline. ‘I'll get this icing done before those men come cluttering up the kitchen. Plenty of time.'

‘I'm bored,' declared Kit. ‘Fed up. I need a change. Do you realise I've been in the same job for seven years. A bit longer if you count working there while I was at university. I need pastures new.'

‘Marry me,' suggested Jake, stretched full length on his deep, cushiony sofa amidst the Sunday papers. ‘Give in. Accept that we were made for each other. We've been going for seven years, too. I hope you're not bored with me.'

Kit stopped prowling about Jake's large sitting room and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘It's habit,' she suggested cautiously. ‘We're used to one another, like an old married couple already.'

‘We're nothing of the sort,' said Jake indignantly. ‘Did our passionate night of love mean nothing to you, ungrateful wench? I love you. God knows I've told you often enough.'

‘That's what I mean,' insisted Kit. ‘It's become a habit.'

Jake sighed deeply. ‘How can I convince you?' he asked. ‘Surely my regular proposals are indicative of my serious intention. I don't go about asking every nubile young woman to marry me, you know. I've even resisted Sin. No easy matter, I assure you.'

‘No man is safe with Sin,' grumbled Kit. ‘I can't imagine why I like her so much. She's got a new chap. Twice her age and terribly rich. It's a bit suspicious if you ask me . . .'

‘Don't change the subject,' said Jake calmly. ‘Sin was merely brought in to back up my argument. We're talking about you and me. Your mother likes me. Your grandmother and great-uncle like me. Even Hal likes me—'

‘Why
even
Hal?' interrupted Kit, interested.

‘I'm a Frenchman,' said Jake simply. ‘Jacques Villon – my very name is against me. Hal's so English, isn't he? Doesn't like frogs as a rule. England's natural enemy and so on. But he does quite like
me
in a cautious, reluctant sort of way.'

‘But you
are
English,' argued Kit. ‘Your mother is English. You were educated at Ampleforth . . .'

‘Aah,' said Jake, shaking his head sadly, ‘and that's another thing. I'm a Roman Catholic. Scarlet woman and all that.'

‘You've lapsed,' said Kit severely. ‘So don't try to get sympathy on that score.'

‘I wasn't angling for sympathy,' said Jake. ‘I just want an answer to my proposal. Will you marry me? I have a good position in a merchant bank. I own this nice flat. I am kind to children and animals. I stay awake at the opera . . . You're going to say “no” again, I can see it. I need a drink. Did we have lunch? Never mind. I still need a drink.'

Kit watched him affectionately as he rolled off the sofa, felt about amongst the mass of newspaper for his horn-rimmed spectacles and wandered away towards the kitchen.

She thought: I
do
love him, but is it the grand passion? Supposing I married him and then met someone else who really swept me off my feet. The trouble is I know him so well. He's almost like a brother – except for sex . . .

She felt a familiar languorous sinking of her stomach, a deep warm glow, when she remembered the preceding night of love. Jake was the best lover she'd ever had – and the best friend – but was that enough? Sin thought so. Sin thought she was a fool to keep rejecting Jake. ‘You'll lose him one day,' she'd warned her, ‘and you'll never forgive yourself. Who wants a grand passion anyway? Seven years he's been faithful to you.'

Kit had laughed. ‘I very much doubt it,' she'd said. ‘Jake loves women far too much to be faithful to just one. Why do you think I nicknamed him Jake the Rake?'

‘That's just sex,' Sin had replied. ‘I'm not talking about that. He's never married, has he?'

Kit looked about the room. Jake had plenty of family money behind him, and this large flat in a big Georgian house in Bayswater Road opposite the park was delightful. The rooms looked out across the tops of tall trees and caught all the evening sun. He collected paintings of lesser-known artists – Augustè Macke, Eugène Delacroix, Paul Klee – especially loving those works influenced by the brilliant colours and Moorish architecture of Morocco and Tunisia. His taste, generally, was an odd mixture of modern comfort and a by-gone elegance which worked surprisingly well. On reflection, it was rather like Jake himself . . .