The Winter Children (25 page)

It is a wrench to let the child go, but Francesca releases her after a moment. She’s deeply, intensely moved.
My daughter. My little girl.
She looks up at Olivia, smiling.
‘Isn’t she just beautiful?’

Olivia gazes down at Bea, her eyes full of the same pride and love. ‘Yes, she is. Bea, you take Cheska inside, I’ll get Stan.’ She looks over at her son. ‘Oh my goodness,
those fingernails of his are going to be caked with mud.’

‘Yes, you take me inside, Bea.’ Francesca takes up the girl’s small hand. ‘Let’s go to the kitchen. Would you like some juice and a biscuit? I’m sure Mummy
will say it’s all right. Come on.’ The desire to have Bea to herself even just for a moment is so strong that she’s prepared to ignore Stan for the time being. She barely even
notices when the driver murmurs that the bags are unloaded and he’ll be on his way. Everything is centred on the small child at her side, and the way she longs to feast on the sight of
her.

They are at the kitchen table, the presents spread out in front of them. The twins are playing with their toys, sitting on their play mat and talking to each other in a mixture of words and babble that seems to make perfect sense to them. Francesca thinks that they are clearly bright.

‘This is really too much, Cheska, I mean it. You shouldn’t have.’ Olivia looks at the small mountain of expensive cosmetics that Francesca has brought her: oils, creams,
tinted moisturisers, shimmery cheek colour and lip balms. ‘I really don’t bother with most of this stuff anymore.’

‘You will,’ Francesca says wisely. ‘Believe me, I know what it’s like. One day, you’ll suddenly realise that you’ve got some of your life back and
you’ll want to start restoring yourself.’

Olivia laughs with a touch of embarrassment. ‘If you say so. My old self seems so far away now, I don’t know how I’ll ever get it back.’

‘Don’t be silly. Of course you will. You just don’t have time to think about yourself. It’ll change, I promise. Besides . . . now that I’m here, I can help look after the twins. You can have a bit more time to yourself.’

‘That’s very nice of you,’ Olivia says, and takes a sip of her tea. ‘I’m sure that would be lovely but you’re not here to do my childcare for me.
There’s obviously plenty here for you to oversee. Tom Howard called by earlier, as promised.’

‘Oh. Yes.’ Francesca remembers the ostensible reason why she is here. ‘What did he say?’

Olivia describes the visit, passing on all that Tom Howard said. ‘So what exactly is going on at the moment?’

Francesca sighs. ‘It’s such an endless palaver – we submit plans, they consider them, then object or demand changes or more explanation. Then we resubmit and it all goes through the same process, over and over. And you can imagine how much we want to do here.’

‘I saw the place for the first time really. It is extraordinary.’ Olivia frowns and smiles at the same time. ‘But I don’t really understand how it’s going to be a
home. It’s just so . . . large. How will you do it?’

‘We’re planning to do what the great houses do – have a comfortable family wing and very grand state rooms for big occasions,’ Francesca replies. She likes the way that
sounds. As though that kind of life is second nature to her. ‘And we’ll collect whatever we can that’s related to the house’s history, for visitors to see.’

Olivia nods slowly. ‘That makes sense. But what made you want a house like that? Where you have to let the public in?’

Francesca shrugs. ‘Walt wanted it. He loves history. Owning a place like this is his dream come true. Did you see Queen Elizabeth’s bedroom?’

‘No. I didn’t know she had one!’

‘There’s nothing in it. But it’s worth seeing. I’ll show it to you sometime when we’ve got a moment.’

‘And what’s your plan while you’re here?’ Olivia asks, sipping her tea again, regarding Francesca with her clear blue-grey gaze. ‘Are you staying long?’

A flutter of panic goes over Francesca. She wants to be evasive but she knows she can’t be too vague. She has booked some appointments to make sure she has a purpose here and she goes over
them quickly. ‘So all that should keep me busy.’ She smiles at Olivia. ‘I hope I won’t be under your feet too much.’

‘Don’t be silly, you’re very welcome! You can stay as long as you like. Consider this your home from home.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiles at Olivia, glad she has conveniently given the answer Francesca lined up for her. ‘That’s so sweet.’ She looks about. ‘Where’s
Dan?’

‘Working. He’s requisitioned one of the small rooms down here as his study. He’s in there most of the day when he isn’t looking after the twins. I’ll call him
– but he asked me to let him go for as long as possible before disturbing him.’

‘Oh no!’ Francesca holds up her hand. ‘Don’t call him on my account. There’ll be plenty of time to see him later.’

For the first time, she has something that takes precedence even over Dan. She turns to the twins chatting away to each other on their mat. Stan is pushing one of the toy trains she brought,
while Bea works away at slotting the track together. She looks back at Olivia with a bright smile.

‘If you need to go and finish the washing, I’ll play here with the babies.’

‘All right.’ Olivia puts down her mug and gets up. ‘It’s certainly easier to get things done when I don’t have to watch them all the time. Thanks,
Francesca.’

‘You’re very welcome. Think nothing of it.’

The three of them are absorbed in the game: Francesca has set up the railway track and now they are pushing the engines along the rails in a haphazard but generally good-natured way. There have been some squeals and squabbles over favourite trains or a preferred route – the bridge is particularly popular – but Francesca has calmed them down and
sorted it out.

There’s a real connection between us. I can feel it. I know it’s there. And I think they can feel it too.

They’ve responded to her with a total acceptance of her authority. When she sorts out the argument, they are both content with the outcome, especially as she is careful to be absolutely
fair. What startles her most is how alive she feels when she is near the children; it is almost as though the world begins to hum and vibrate in such an intense way it shakes her from within. Their
beauty and the perfection of their features is almost overwhelming, too much to bear. She is unable to take her eyes off them, studying each one for her own likeness, or for the combination of
herself and Dan. Stan has the blue eyes but his colouring is lighter than Dan’s. Bea – Francesca is full of silent, secret glee – Bea has clear green eyes like her own, with a
dark brown rim around the iris. Her hair is definitely darkening towards Francesca’s own brunette. The slight toddler curl in her hair will disappear as it grows heavier and thicker, and
then . . .
She’ll look like me. I wonder if Olivia will notice. Surely it’s practically impossible not to see it . . . but she won’t, of course.
The one who notices will be
Dan.

The door to the outer hall opens and Dan strides into the kitchen, as though summoned by her mental mention of his name. For a moment she feels like a witch who is conjuring strange and powerful spells, with power over who people are and what they do.

‘Olivia, when do we— Oh.’ He stops dead, gazing over at the play mat, where Francesca and the children are engaged in playing.

Stan looks up and sees him, immediately holding up his new prized possession. ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, look, look, train, train, train . . .’

Dan hardly looks; he is staring at Francesca, his expression hard to read. It is not joyful, that much she can tell. She’s been wondering how he will react to her act of rebellion and
refusal to do as he says. ‘Hello,’ he says at last, his tone neutral. ‘I wasn’t sure what time you were coming. Good trip?’

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘thanks.’ She’s pleased to see that he appears to have accepted the situation, but she can tell he isn’t listening, he’s looking
quickly around the kitchen.

‘Where’s Olivia?’ he asks.

‘In the garden. She went to finish hanging out the washing.’ Francesca realises she’s been gone a while now. She must have been distracted. ‘Come and look at our train
track.’ She wants Dan to join them on the mat, and play as well. She wants to feel a part of that complete unit:
Mummy and Daddy and babies, all playing together . . .

‘I . . .’ He looks reluctant. ‘You’re obviously having a good time. If Olivia’s not here, perhaps I ought to get back to work.’

‘How is the play going?’

‘All right.’ She can see that he’s in a quandary. He doesn’t want to stay but he also doesn’t want to leave her alone with the children. And he’s not going to say anything about her desire to get to know them.

You shit.
The sudden violent words startle her. The rush of fury that engulfs her is not a feeling she usually associates with Dan, but here it is: boiling anger at the way he is treating her.
I gave you these children. You wouldn’t have them except for me. I won’t be pushed aside. I won’t be ignored.

But as usual, she knows that control will be the only way to get what she wants. She mustn’t be angry. She must be charming and sweet and make sure he has no idea of the dreams and desires
she nurtures.

‘Go back to work,’ she says sweetly. ‘I’m fine here. Listen, there’s Olivia now.’

So everything’s fine now, isn’t it?

Or is it?

You’d better get used to me, Dan. Because I’m not going anywhere.

1959

The heat of Cairo is wonderful after the bitter chill of England and the endless freezing draughts in Renniston Hall. Julia feels herself relax in the warmth, and loses herself in the sights
and sounds of the city. Her mother takes her shopping, and they go past one of the oldest souks in Cairo. Through arches of golden stone, she catches glimpses of shining metal, colour and fabric.
The smells are spicy, rich and dense. One stall holder has hung metal lanterns up the high walls of the souk, some burning with lights inside their hammered copper or brass fretwork. Another stall
sends plumes of fragrant incense into the air, and another is heaped with bright patchworks: rugs, blankets and decorative pieces. There’s no end to the noise and colour and sheer mountains
of things for sale. No one sells just one of anything; everything is piled in abundance, from baskets to hookah pipes, from carved figures to inlaid furniture. And then there is the food –
this is the most exciting of all. At home, food is ceaselessly bland: all grey, washed-out green and turgid brown or beige. There hasn’t been much of it either, never enough to feel full with, even if you could stomach more boiled cabbage or stewed mutton. Here, there are great baskets heaped with spices of amazing colours: rust red, magenta
pink, bright yellow and orange. Enticing scents fill the air, and the sight of tables laden with vividly coloured fruit and vegetables is almost overwhelming. There is so much: sacks of onions,
crates of bananas and oranges and lemons. Her mouth waters to see it all.

They walk down a narrow alley with chairs and tables squeezed on either side, the doors and windows of cafes open behind them. Men sit at the tiny brass tables and the air is full of the aroma
of coffee. Julia sees a waiter carrying a plate of sweetmeats – pink, yellow and green confections – and she feels quite faint with desire to taste sugar melting over her tongue.

‘Ugh, these crowds. Filthy,’ mutters her mother, striding at a pace down the alley with Julia following afterwards as quickly as she can. She notices how eyes follow her mother in
her smart white dress and high heels, her neat calves and ankles perfectly visible. There is a white scarf wrapped around her head and she wears a pair of cat’s-eye sunglasses and looks,
Julia thinks, incredibly glamorous, like a film star. There are mutterings as they pass, but Julia understands not a word. She only hopes they are being nice, but perhaps they are not. Lately she
is entirely confused about the relationships between men and women. Once, it had been so clear. You went through life waiting to meet the one, the man destined to be your husband. Then there was
a romantic courtship, a marriage and grown-up life began, with children in due course, somehow, but all with the proviso that you were suitably worshipped by the handsome man whose heart you held in the palm of your hand.

Was that what it was like for Mummy and Daddy?

She thinks of her parents and their perfectly calm, quite sedate relationship in which her father’s work is always of the utmost importance. His frequent absences are only to be expected
when he is so high up in the army, and it is right that they follow wherever he leads – although in Julia’s case it has taken her all the way back to England and boarding school.

‘Mummy . . .’ She pants after her mother, who can walk awfully fast these days.

‘Yes, what is it? Come along, Julia, don’t dawdle. We’ll be late for Mrs Alexander and we must get through all the arrangements for the Christmas party.’

Julia tries to speed up, wondering why her sensible sandals don’t go anywhere near as fast as Mummy’s high heels. ‘Do I have to go back to Renniston? Can’t I stay here with you for a bit? I’m sure it wouldn’t matter if I missed a few weeks.’

‘Don’t be silly, Julia, of course you can’t. You can’t dip in and out of your education, you know that. I understand that winter is miserable at school – games are
harder and the cold is rather awful – but it will get better.’ Her mother throws her a smile over her shoulder, her eyes invisible behind the dark lenses of her glasses. ‘Honestly
it will.’

Julia says nothing but puffs on behind her mother, thinking that it won’t get better, not for a while yet.

‘Mummy?’

‘What is it?’ Her mother sounds exasperated, bored with it all.

‘Can you ask the school when the swimming pool will be finished? Can you telephone them or something?’

‘What?’ Her mother laughs in disbelief. ‘The swimming pool? What on earth are you talking about?’

‘I’m just so . . . so keen to swim again and I’d love to know when it will be done. The builders have been there forever and it’s not finished yet.’