Postcards from the Past (8 page)

She remembers Bitser, wriggling in her arms; she remembers pressing her cheek against his smooth head before passing him to Ed. And with this memory comes the painful reminder of those children that she couldn’t bring to birth, who wriggled, fish-like, swimming away in their amniotic liquid to disappear for ever.

‘I can begin babies,’ she had said to Dom, ‘but I can’t finish them.’ And this time he did hold out his arms to her and hugged her. Billa wept as she had never wept: for her father, for Bitser, and for her babies. Dom held her, his cheek against her hair, thinking of their father; the man he never knew.

‘What shall we do?’ Ed asks now. ‘First the bike and now Bitser. Don’t tell me these are friendly notes suggesting that we meet up to reminisce happily about the past.’

Billa shakes her head. ‘But what can we do? We don’t know where he is or what he plans. As usual he has us over a barrel.’

‘They got everything they wanted.’ Ed drops the postcard on the desk. ‘And then they just packed up and left.’

‘Not everything.’ Billa glances around the study; at the paintings, the little cabinet of netsukes, the miniatures, the shelves of books. ‘How he hated you having this.’

‘But he couldn’t touch it,’ says Ed with satisfaction. ‘He was far too clever to go in for straight destruction but he tried everything else. It was as if the room defied him and won.’

‘Has it occurred to you,’ says Billa carefully, ‘that there might have been another will?’

Ed frowns at her. ‘What?’

‘Supposing Mother left something to Andrew in a will that we never found because Andrew had it?’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘That’s the point. Supposing she was besotted enough at the beginning to leave him Mellinpons, thinking that he’d look after us.’

‘She’d never have done that.’ Ed is ashen-faced.

Billa shrugs. ‘We have to think of everything. Why is Tris coming back? Has he discovered something that might be to his advantage? If Andrew persuaded her to make a will with his own solicitor we’d never have known anything about it. Perhaps Andrew has died recently. He’d be well into his nineties but it’s quite possible that he’s lived this long. And suppose Tris has found some document…’

‘But then he or Andrew would have come back when Mother died. Why wait until now?’

‘I don’t know. But I think we need to be ready for anything.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Can you think of any reason why Tris should want to see us again? After fifty years?’

Ed shakes his head. ‘So what do we do?’

‘We try to think like he does and be prepared.’

‘But what if he has some … some real claim? Is it possible after all this time?’

‘I don’t know. I might talk to Dom to see if he knows anything about the legal situation. I don’t want to do anything until we know a bit more. Do you agree?’

‘I suppose so.’ Ed looks uncertain. ‘It’s just awful to think that he might have some hold over us.’

Bear sits heavily on Billa’s feet, leaning against her, and she bends to hug the huge dog, comforted by his weight and presence.

‘I’ll phone Dom,’ says Ed. ‘And then we’ll make a plan.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tilly drives between the tall pillars at the convent gates and stops beside the Lodge, wondering if someone might come out to question her. She feels oddly nervous; still trying to think of ways that she might promote a retreat house and wondering how to behave, should she meet any members of the religious community. The front door of the Lodge remains closed, nobody comes to challenge her, so she sets off very slowly along the drive, towards the ancient granite manor house set amongst its gardens and orchards at the head of a steep valley that looks west to the sea. There are a few people wandering along the path amongst the trees, a woman sitting on a bench, her stretched-out feet almost in a golden pool of crocuses that washes over the grass. These, Tilly guesses, must be the retreatants.

The drive passes in front of the house, curving round towards some outbuildings, but Tilly stops to look at the mullioned windows and the heavy oaken door. Already she is imagining the photographs she will want for the website. The nervousness is receding and she is beginning to feel excited. As she dawdles there, words forming in her mind, a small, slight figure appears from the direction of the outbuildings. She wears a long blue habit, a green cotton scarf tied at the back of her neck, gumboots and a black fleece.

Tilly’s anxiety returns but she lowers the car window and smiles at the enquiring face with its bright, intelligent eyes.

‘Hello,’ she says uncertainly. ‘I’m Tilly from U-Connect. I’m looking for Elizabeth.’

The nun beams at her. ‘Have you come to help us?’ she asks. ‘Oh, how wonderful. Put the car round there,’ she gestures at the corner of the house, ‘and we’ll go to find her.’

Tilly obeys. In the stable yard the Coach House has been converted, but there is room for the car in one of the open-fronted barns and she pulls in, switches off the engine and climbs out.

‘I am Sister Emily,’ says the small figure at her elbow. ‘What have you got there?’

She looks with keen interest at Tilly’s laptop case and Tilly can’t help but smile at her eager curiosity.

‘It’s my laptop and stuff,’ she says. ‘I’m supposed to be helping you to create a new website for the retreat house. I’m rather nervous, I can tell you. We’ve never done anything like this before.’

Briefly she wonders if Sister Emily, too, might quote Browning at her, or some encouraging religious text. But Sister Emily simply laughs with delight.

‘Neither have we,’ she says. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’

Tilly laughs too. ‘Yes,’ she agrees, and suddenly all her fears vanish and she sees that it
is
exciting. ‘It’s utterly gorgeous here,’ she says. ‘We’ll need lots of lovely photographs for the website.’

She follows Sister Emily in through a door that leads to the kitchen and looks around with delight at the low beamed room, the big, ancient inglenook with its Aga, the pots of flowers on the deep-set stone windowsills.

‘The community has moved into the Coach House,’ Sister Emily is saying, ‘but we are still very much a part of all that is happening here. Would you like some coffee while I look for Elizabeth? It’s Fairtrade coffee,’ she adds, as if this is in some way reassuring.

‘I’d love some,’ says Tilly, relishing the warmth of the kitchen and the quiet atmosphere, though there is clear evidence of industry. A saucepan of soup simmers at the back of the hotplate and a batch of bread stands on a grid. The smells are delicious.

She sits at the big table, whilst Sister Emily makes coffee, and feels no requirement to make conversation. The silence is companionable, and somehow natural. She takes the mug of coffee with a smile of gratitude and Sister Emily disappears through a door that leads into the house. Tilly sits quietly; her terrors are quite gone as she waits for Elizabeth. Her mind has cleared, ideas begin to form, and she is filled with confidence.

*   *   *

‘So what was it like?’ asks Sarah, making tea. ‘Lots more lovable nutters?’

‘Totally fantastic,’ says Tilly, ignoring the sarcasm and picking George up to give him a cuddle. ‘I’ve met Sister Emily and someone who does the cooking called Penny. And Elizabeth, who is helping them out with their administration. She’s quite computer literate but not into websites. I’ve got some ideas but I need to think about it. It’s such an amazing setting, isn’t it, looking west to the sea?’

‘It’s breathtaking,’ agrees Sarah. ‘A perfect spot for a retreat, I should think.’

‘Elizabeth gave me a list of the kind of courses they offer. They want to encourage what they call “led retreats”, which are organized by independent groups looking for a venue. And then there are people who simply want to come and be quiet on their own, just to walk and read but maybe join in the Daily Offices, which the sisters have in the chapel. Sister Emily calls them Holy Holidays. I need to go back again with a camera. Dom’s got a really good one so I shall ask to borrow it.’

‘Great,’ says Sarah. She is pleased with Tilly’s enthusiasm, glad that she’s overcome her nervousness of the convent and is being positive. ‘Have you made an appointment to go back?’

‘No, I thought I’d check with you first. I’m with Sir Alec tomorrow morning for a session. I could go on after that since it’s so close.’

Tilly swings George round so that he chuckles and tries to grab her hair.

‘Come and have lunch after Sir Alec,’ says Sarah, putting mugs of tea on the table. ‘I’ll phone and see if you can go along afterwards.’

‘OK,’ says Tilly. She holds up one of George’s chubby fists and dances with him, swaying and twirling. ‘George and I are going in for
Strictly
next year, aren’t we, George?’

‘You are completely crackers,’ Sarah says, resigned. ‘Drink your tea and put George down before you make him sick.’

‘He won’t be sick,’ says Tilly, but she puts George in his bouncy chair and sits down at the kitchen table. She feels light-hearted, as if she’s passed some kind of test and is on the brink of something exciting, and it’s good.

Sarah watches her rather enviously. Tilly has always been a free spirit and, just at the moment, Sarah has a sudden and uncomplicated longing to be free of her own responsibilities and duties. This is quite out of character and confuses her: she likes to be in control, hands on. She was teased at school: ‘Our Natural Leader,’ the girls would cry when Sarah had been commended yet again for her initiative. She didn’t care; she was popular enough to withstand such teasing with confidence.

Just now, though, when Tilly was dancing with George, she’d wished that she, too, could simply put George back into his chair, drink some tea and walk out of the door, as Tilly would presently. These emotions confuse her and make her feel guilty. She adores George, she would die for him, but sometimes she absolutely longs to close the door on him and walk away from all the other duties that pile toweringly behind him: getting Ben – with all the right belongings – off to school and home again, buying food, preparing food, washing, ironing, keeping the garden tidy. The list is endless. She misses Dave; misses his quick humour, his practicality, his arms round her.

Her mother has little patience with these moments of despair.

‘If you can’t manage, darling,’ she says briskly, ‘you shouldn’t have taken on this new job.’

Her mother, a naval wife – widowed now – is a tireless committee woman who has brought up three children. She is proud of Sarah but doesn’t allow whingeing. She quotes the old naval maxim: ‘If you can’t take a joke you shouldn’t have joined.’ And most of the time Sarah manages very well indeed; it’s just that sometimes she has those moments, when George has a fever and doesn’t sleep and then disturbs Ben so that she’s awake most of the night, when she’d love to hear Dave saying: ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. Just try to relax and I’ll bring you a cup of tea…’

But even when he does, she can’t quite relax. He’s good with the boys but she likes to keep an eye, to check that he’s doing things the way she likes them to be done. Sometimes he gets cross with her.

‘It might not be your way,’ he’ll say, ‘but that doesn’t mean to say it’s wrong. It won’t be the end of the world if their routine is different now and again. Lighten up.’

He doesn’t understand that it’s necessary for her to remain in control; this way she can feel secure, knowing that everything is mapped out so that she can manage properly. At the same time, she sometimes feels aggrieved that Dave doesn’t pull his weight or appreciate what it takes to keep the household running smoothly. She accuses him of taking her for granted – oh, not directly but by meaningful sighs, irritated glances, impatient gestures – but when he suggests that he should take the boys out, cook the lunch, do the bedtime routine, she can’t quite allow herself to sit back and let him. She needs to check that he’s doing it properly, and so the old arguments start up again.

She’d like to unburden herself to Tilly but can’t allow herself the luxury. Tilly is like a younger sister; she admires and respects Sarah. She’d lose face if she admitted these feelings to Tilly, who would never begin to understand anyway. How could she? She has no responsibilities. Everyone loves Tilly; everyone wants to help her, to be her friend. Just sometimes Sarah feels a real irritation that Tilly gets it all so easy and wonders why she offered Tilly the job with U-Connect. If she’s honest, it wasn’t just because Tilly had walked out of the job in Newquay. The truth is, it was because Tilly is good at this kind of work; people take to her, they trust her, and she’s good for the business. Sarah gets very slightly tired of clients phoning to say how brilliant Tilly is but she bites her tongue and agrees that Tilly is sweet, clever, funny or whatever it is that has impressed them. And she’s very fond of Tilly, of course she is. It’s just today, after a really bad night with George and then not being able to find Ben’s latest nursery school project …

‘Are you OK?’ Tilly asks, and her look is so anxious, so loving, that for a brief moment Sarah considers breaking down and howling loudly, just like George did all night.

‘I’m fine,’ she says brightly, eyebrows raised a little as if she’s wondering why Tilly should be so misguided as to ask. ‘Just planning ahead, getting things sorted in my head. Lunch tomorrow, then, after Sir Alec?’

*   *   *

Poor old Sarah, thinks Tilly as she drives away. So uptight and serious. All those baby books when Ben was born.

‘I wonder how our cave ancestors managed without Gina Ford?’ she’d said to Sarah, trying to lighten her up, and Dave roared with laughter but Sarah didn’t see the joke.

‘A routine is absolutely essential,’ she said tightly, and Tilly didn’t dare to look at Dave lest they should laugh again and upset Sarah. Dave was very good with her, trying to defuse tension when Ben refused to eat or sleep at the prescribed times, but Sarah was not to be deterred from her chosen path.

‘It’s best,’ he said privately to Tilly, ‘to let her do it her own way. After all, I’m away a lot of the time. She needs to do what’s right for her and Ben.’