A Friend of the Family

by Marcia Willett

  George’s heart expanded with relief and gratitude and he came nearer to loving Felicity at that moment than at any time during the previous twenty years.

  ‘I’d come to that conclusion myself,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure you had.’ She was smiling at him and after a moment George smiled back. ‘And now'—her tone suggested that all the deception and hurt was behind them and forgotten-’what do you say to taking me out for a bite to eat before the train goes?’

  ‘Oh!’ George was taken aback by this direct approach and one or two alarm bells sounded.

  ‘Just a quick snack? For old times’ sake?’

  She was still smiling at him but now it had an almost wistful quality and George was seized with remorse. He had treated her disgracefully and she was being so forgiving and generous. Surely it wouldn’t hurt, just this once, to take her out? After all, Thea need never know. What harm could it possibly do?

  ‘Why not?’ He nodded. ‘Good idea. Finish up your drink and we’ll go round the corner to the little Italian place. Bit rough and ready but it’s very good. You always liked Italian food.’

  ‘Oh, George. How sweet of you to remember. Sounds fun. There!’ She emptied her glass and stood it on the little coffee table. ‘Ready when you are!’

  AS THE TRAIN SLID out of Paddington, Felicity settled back into her seat. Her expression was an odd one: bleak, contemptuous, triumphant. It had all gone better than even she had dared to hope but there was some element of satisfaction missing. Of course, she’d sized up George’s weaknesses with masterly precision and exploited them shamelessly and now he was trapped, but even so . . . There was one fact that she had failed to take into her calculations, one thing; she hadn’t allowed for, and that was her own feelings on seeing him after all this time. The sheer power of her own emotions had almost unmanned her and she’d needed all her considerable strength. He’d looked so tall, so very male. In her plottings George had played a pathetic role. She’d seen him as a weak figure to be crushed and humiliated. He had ceased to be flesh and bone and blood and hair but had become, in her imaginings, a puppet to be manipulated. When he had opened the door and she’d looked up at him, she’d felt quite dizzy. He was so real. She remembered how the thick greying hair grew, the texture of his skin under her fingers, his smell. It was an evocative, masculine smell compounded of tobacco, aftershave and George’s own particular body smell and she had felt suddenly weak. She’d wanted to seize him, feel his arms round her, wanted to be told that it was all a terrible mistake, that he still belonged to her. She had been obliged to hurry past him, forgoing the enjoyment of his look of horror, shock and fear. She had planned to enjoy that look, to savour it, but weakness had overcome her and she’d had to summon up all her reserves to be able to carry out her plan.

  As the train gathered speed, she stared out into the cold, light spring evening remembering how they had chatted during dinner. She had renewed her acquaintance with his hands, long, elegant members with sensitive fingers, that had moved, gestured, clasped, totally indifferent to her whilst she had watched them, mesmerised, longing for their touch. He had kissed her at the end. It seemed the only way to say goodbye that wasn’t churlish or simply silly. He had taken her by the upper arms and given her a swift light kiss and, as quickly, released her and put her into the taxi he’d telephoned for from the restaurant.

  Now, she sat quite still, containing, controlling her loneliness, calling up her anger and jealousy. Somehow, these fiery emotions which had dominated her waking hours for so long seemed to elude her, swooping and wheeling just outside her consciousness, whilst an aching feeling of loss took hold of her until all she could feel was the grip of his fingers on her arms and the touch of his lips near her mouth. As the train sped westwards she crouched in her corner like a damaged bird, staring out, until the sky beyond the window grew dark and night approached.

  Six

  THEA SAT ON ONE of the benches on the platform of the Old Station House and watched a robin pecking at the crumbs she had thrown down for him. He was very tame, sometimes hopping after her through the original sliding doors that led into what had once been the waiting room. Thea raised her face, eyes closed against the hot June sun, and the sharp, peppery scent of hawthorn drifted into her nostrils. Beside her stood strips of bedding plants in plastic containers alongside several larger shrubs, presently to be put into the big wooden half-tubs that stood between the seats. The lawnmower had been run down the ramp ready to be pressed into service along the railway track. Still Thea sat on, immobilised, half drugged by the heat of the sun, such a welcome change after a long cold wet spell. She pushed up the sleeves of George’s old tattersall shirt and stretched out her long legs in the shabby jeans. Thea had no thought for clothes beyond their ability to keep her warm and decent and she had been delighted to discover a number of old shirts and jerseys amongst George’s cast-off possessions that would keep her adequately clothed for some time to come. George, who had never lived with a woman other than his mother but had heard all sorts of stories regarding wives’ extravagances and clothes-buying sorties, was rather relieved to find that he had such a frugal wife and thought that she looked charming in his checked shirts with the sleeves rolled up and a cotton scarf at her throat. With her youth and height and glorious hair she could have carried anything she chose. And Thea chose simplicity.

  She stirred and drew in her legs and the robin cocked an eye at her and flew away. Thea sighed a little and passed her hands over her face, straining back her hair and stretching a little. There was no doubt that things seemed much better again now. George had lost that rather inward look and the ‘quietness’ which she had described to Hermione. He had come back one weekend quite his old self, if not more so. There was a kind of expansiveness about him which suggested relief from tension and he had been loving and attentive and happy. Why then was she visited with this feeling of unease? A verse of psalm slipped into her mind. Why art thou so full of heaviness, O my soul: and why art thou so disquieted within me? Why indeed? A week or two later when she told George that Felicity had dropped in he had suggested, quite casually, that they should perhaps invite her for lunch one weekend. She might be lonely, he said, as if in explanation, and it might be a kind thing to do. So Felicity had come and everything had been easy and natural and since then she’d been in several times whilst George was at home: for a cup of coffee one Saturday morning and for supper on a Sunday evening. And once she’d come uninvited on a Saturday afternoon bringing a home-made cake. On that occasion she’d seemed slightly tense and George, coming in and finding her unexpectedly in the kitchen, had behaved rather oddly, with a kind of forced jollity, and had disappeared again quite quickly. Felicity had watched him go and continued to stare at the closed door for some moments before Thea gently recalled her attention. She had left soon after, refusing a cup of tea or to share in the cake, and Thea had gone to look for George and found him standing at the window in his dressing room, jingling the coins in his pocket and staring out across the garden to the humped indigo shoulders of the moor, clear-cut against a pale twilight sky. She had slipped her arms round his waist and pressed her cheek against his throat and he had dragged his hands from his pockets and clutched her to him, kissing and touching her with such urgency that they had fallen on to the little bed in the corner and he had made love to her exhaustively, almost desperately.

  Thea knew quite well now that Felicity was the married woman with whom George had had his affair but what she did not know was how seriously to regard it. If it was all over it wouldn’t matter at all. It was in the past.

  That Felicity had been married to another man who was George’s friend was a moral issue between the three of them and nothing to do with Thea. If only George had told her they could have laid the ghost together; as it was she could only watch and wait and pray that it was indeed all over and that she had nothing to fear from Felicity. She knew that that was where the danger lay. Despite the fact that George was a kindly man,
who would hate to hurt anyone’s—and especially a woman’s—feelings, Thea felt certain that she could trust him absolutely. However, she feared the effect that Felicity’s loneliness, un-happiness and residual power over him might have if she chose to exert it.

  Thea felt genuinely sorry for Felicity who, she imagined, had probably expected to marry George after Mark died. Now she was alone, middle-aged, her lover taken by a younger woman. As the woman in possession, as it were, Thea could afford to feel generous but she felt more than that. She would have liked to befriend Felicity but couldn’t decide if it were naïve or merely patronising to assume that it could be done. Now, these small incidents were beginning to make Thea wonder if Felicity was using her, Thea’s, innocence to come close again to George and she felt fearful and helpless. What could she do, so young and inexperienced, to hold her own against someone like Felicity? She couldn’t bear to think of losing George or to think that their happiness could be destroyed. She drew her feet up on to the seat and wrapped her arms around her knees, burying her face in them. What could she do to hold on to all that she had grown to love so much? Panic seized her and she wondered to whom she could turn. If only her cousin Tim, Hermione’s grandson, were not so far away. When she was a little girl Tim had been her hero and her champion, the big brother she’d never had, hauling her out of scrapes and taking her part when things went wrong. Later she had been his confidante, boosting his ego through unhappy love affairs. During the years when she had been nursing her mother, Tim had qualified and taken the highly prestigious job in computer programming with a Dallas-based company. They stayed in touch and he had flown over for the wedding but he was too far away for Thea to confide in him as she had in years gone by.

  Instinctively she fell back on the teachings and habits of her young life and, emptying her mind of its confusion, tried to pray. The collect for the second Sunday in Lent seemed the most appropriate on which to concentrate.

  Almighty God, who seest that we have no power of ourselves to help ourselves: Keep us both outwardly in our bodies, and inwardly in our souls; that we may be defended from all adversities which may happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

  The words brought Thea a measure of comfort. After all, as yet her terrors were formless and she knew that she must have faith in George and in their love. Surely it was great enough to overcome anything that might threaten it? She sighed deeply, feeling more hopeful, and, getting up, turned her attention to the bedding plants.

  SOME WEEKS LATER, CASS wandered down Tavistock High Street wondering what she should buy for supper. The boys, Oliver and Saul, and Gemma, her twelve-year-old daughter, were home for the holidays and the days seemed to pass in a continuous series of mealtimes. It was lucky that the weather had changed. Meals could be less formal and more haphazardly put together when it was hot. Then there was the lunch party that she and Tom were giving on Sunday to be organised. The usual crowd was coming: Abby and William, Harriet and Michael, Kate, Thea and George. Even as she thought about George, she saw Felicity on the other side of the road staring into the shoeshop window. Cass paused for a moment and then crossed the road and touched her on the shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Felicity. How’s it going?’

  It was a moment or two before Felicity could grasp the intrinsic difference in Cass’s approach and when she did it was as if she had been struck a blow to the stomach. Never in all their acquaintance, since she and Cass had first met at Felicity’s own wedding and Mark and George had behaved so foolishly over her, to Felicity’s rage, had Cass spoken or looked at her in such a way. Gone was the mocking, measuring glance of the rival, the provocative tone of an old enemy who knew her to be worthy of her steel, and in its place—she felt herself cringe away from it—was pity. If Cass felt sorry for her then her position must indeed be pathetic. Cass’s smile was friendly, her tone kindly, and instinctively Felicity’s head reared up in pride and total rejection.

  ‘I’m very well, thanks. And you? You’re looking tired.’

  Cass raised her brows a little as if she acknowledged the hit but was surprised and even faintly amused at it. Her reaction was rather that of one who might look tolerantly, even with admiration, upon an old and toothless dog who barks at a visitor. Metaphorically she patted Felicity’s head, refusing to be alarmed or provoked.

  ‘It’s the holidays and the children are home. Totally exhausting. What about a cup of coffee?’

  No jibes about Felicity’s ‘barrenness’ as Cass had always called it, no remarks about the pleasures of being able to live for oneself. Felicity clenched her fists.

  ‘No time, I’m afraid. I’ve got people to lunch.’

  ‘Nice for you.’

  Felicity knew that Cass was visualising her small circle of cronies, mostly naval wives who, now that their husbands were away less and less, would soon get tired of Felicity dropping in, phoning up. Single women could be a bit of a pain when husbands were around and they made an odd number at dinner parties. Lunch sessions and coffee mornings would be cancelled and more and more she would be left alone except when someone said, ‘We really must ask Felicity round, poor old thing. We forget she’s all on her own.’ Felicity saw all this and more in Cass’s eyes. She saw sympathy with the pity, and the humiliation and pain that she felt was nearly as great as that which she’d experienced when she received George’s letter announcing his defection. She lifted her chin and stared at Cass.

  ‘And, of course, I go to London very often now.’

  ‘London!’ Cass arched her brows as if in amazement that Felicity was still capable of travelling so far and, had she done it in her old manner, Felicity would have seized upon it with fierce satisfaction. But Cass was still regarding her with that friendly kindness, pleased for her that she should have such a treat, and Felicity felt that she would like to rend her with her red pointed nails. She must restore her position of equality and wipe that look from Cass’s face.

  ‘Oh, yes. To see George. I’m sure Tom has told you that George is at the Ministry of Defence?’

  She had done it and her heart exulted within her. Cass looked at her blankly. ‘George?’

  It was Felicity’s turn to raise her black, much-plucked brows. ‘Of course. He’s got a flat in London. All on his own of course. I must say that I was a bit surprised when you talked of his sharing with Tom and Tony.’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘That wouldn’t have suited us at all. Anyway. I mustn’t keep you from your brood. I must say I’m glad I haven’t got all that. Nothing so ageing as children. Look after yourself, Cass. You really mustn’t let yourself go. So easy at our ages. See you.’

  She turned away, her heart beating so hard and so heavy with bitter satisfaction and pain that she felt it might burst or that she must faint. Cass stood staring after her and then walked quickly away in the opposite direction.

  ‘WELL, ALL I CAN say,’ observed Kate on Sunday as she stacked plates on the draining board, ‘is, if what you say is true, Thea and George look very happy about it.’

  She kept her voice down so that Cass’s other lunch guests shouldn’t hear and began to scrape the remains of food from the plates into the dog bowl, watched with keen anticipation by the golden retriever, Gus. Kate had bred Gus and he knew that when she came to a meal at the Rectory she could always be counted on to look after his welfare.

  ‘And I can only tell you what Felicity said to me,’ hissed Cass and jumped violently as Oliver suddenly materialised behind her.

  ‘What’s all the whispering about, girls?’ he asked in a normal voice and they both said ‘Shush!’ together and then burst out laughing.

  ‘Now who were you gossiping about?’ he speculated as he went to help fill Gus’s bowl.

  Kate smiled and slipped an arm around him. ‘How do you know it wasn’t you?’ she asked.

  He beamed down at her and put his arm about her shoulders. ‘People only gossip about me to my face,’ he assure
d her. ‘They always want to be absolutely certain that I know exactly how they feel about me.’

  Kate hugged him. She missed her twins terribly and saw them very seldom now that they were in their final year at university. Cass’s children had always been almost as dear to her as her own, and Oliver, so like his grandfather the General who had been such a friend to Kate, was especially dear. Incredible to think that he was eighteen years old and yet, in some ways, Oliver had always had something about him that made her feel he was older than all of them.

  ‘What do you think of Thea?’ she asked him.

  ‘Now are you trying to throw me off the scent?’ he pondered, putting the bowl down for the salivating Gus. ‘Or was this the subject of all your whispering? I like her very much. George is a lucky old devil, isn’t he? Can’t think what these young girls see in these old men.’

  ‘George and your father are the same age,’ said Cass repressively, making coffee.

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ said Oliver, unperturbed. ‘Positively ancient. It’s almost indecent. She’d be much better off with a young virile chap like me.’

  ‘That’s a mistake that young men often make,’ said Cass, who had always treated Oliver as an equal rather than her child. ‘A girl some-times prefers an experienced older man to a callow youth who has no idea how to treat her and is only interested in bolstering his own ego.’

  ‘I hope,’ said Oliver reprovingly, ‘that you are not implying that I am a callow youth?’

  Kate burst out laughing. ‘She wouldn’t have the nerve,’ she said. ‘None of us would.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is that marriage is doing wonders for old George,’ said Oliver. ‘Not nearly as boring as he used to be. Speaks to me and Saul as if we’re actually members of the human race. He’s full of the milk of human kindness and I put this pretty shirt on specially to wind him up. Saul and I took bets on how long it would take him to remark on it. And he hasn’t even noticed it. Too busy leering at Thea and trying to hold her hand when nobody’s looking. I shall have to pay Saul twenty pence now!’