The Fountain

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Simon, don’t.’ She tried to sound firm, but it was only an unconvincing whisper.

  He pulled her towards him and bent his head to kiss her again. She clung to him, mouth on mouth, body against body, felt the heat of him permeating her whole body. In another minute they would be ripping the clothes off each other. It must not happen again, not even knowing that George had a new love. She laughed shakily and slipped sideways away from him and started back down the stairs before she could disgrace herself. ‘I think it’s time for you to go.’

  He trailed after her. ‘I am dismissed?’

  ‘Afraid so.’ She said it lightly, but it took all her strength to say it.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Don’t, Simon, please don’t.’

  ‘Why not? It’s the truth. You fill all my thoughts, every waking moment, even when we don’t see each other for years.’ He smiled and reached for her hand. ‘You come to me in my dreams and even when I’m not asleep. I know you feel the same. Why deny it?’

  ‘Because I must.’

  ‘OK, I’ll go. But think about this: I read the newspapers and there’s no smoke without fire and I can guess what it’s doing to you. When it all blows up and you need a shoulder to cry on, I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Oh, Simon.’ She blinked back tears but they refused to be contained and began to tumble down her cheeks. He pulled her towards him and bent his head to kiss her again. It was meant to be a gentle kiss, a comforting kiss, something to take away with him, but he found himself putting all his pent-up emotion and frustration into it.

  ‘Mum, we’re all gasping for a cuppa—’ Alison stopped abruptly and stood gaping at them.

  They sprang apart but the guilt on their faces was enough to confirm the nature of the kiss she had witnessed. ‘Mum, how could you? How could you be so…so…’

  ‘Alison, darling, it was nothing…’ Barbara began, but her daughter had fled past them and out of the room, too angry even for tears.

  ‘Alison, what’s the matter?’ George appeared in the kitchen doorway, knocking snow off his boots.

  ‘Ask Mum,’ she shouted back. ‘Ask her what she and that man were up to.’ A reverberating bang told them she had reached her own room.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Barbara said. ‘That’s the last thing I wanted.’

  ‘What’s Alison on about?’ He caught sight of Simon standing by the kitchen sink. ‘Barcliffe! What are you doing here?’

  Barbara was too upset to answer, but Simon gathered himself. Though there was nothing he would have liked more than to have it all out in the open, he knew he had to calm things down for Barbara’s sake. ‘I’m staying up at the manor with my sister,’ he explained coolly. ‘She asked me to come and deliver her good wishes for a happy Christmas…’

  ‘And does that include kissing my wife?’ George was icily calm. ‘That is what you were doing, wasn’t it? Or was there something more to it than that?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Barbara said, collecting her scattered wits. ‘Alison misunderstood.’

  ‘Mr Kennett—’ Simon began.

  ‘And you can get out. You’re not wanted here, not by any of us. Is that clear?’

  Simon looked at Barbara. ‘Please go,’ she said. She remembered how she had felt when she found her father and Virginia in similar circumstances and all she wanted to do now was go to her daughter, to comfort and reassure her, make her see that her happy, secure life was not in jeopardy.

  Simon, reading her mind as he always could, gave her a wry smile and left. Barbara pushed past George and went up to her daughter’s room and knocked on the door. ‘Alison, let me in, please. I want to explain—’

  ‘There’s no need to explain.’ The voice was muffled. ‘I saw for myself.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. Let me in, please, we can’t talk through a closed door.’

  George had come up behind her. He banged on the door. ‘Alison, it’s Daddy. Let me in.’ He looked daggers at Barbara. ‘If you’ve done anything to make her unhappy, or any of the children unhappy, I’ll kill you, I really will.’

  ‘Go away both of you,’ Alison shouted through the door.

  They stood there for a moment longer, then turned silently and went back downstairs. Nick and Jay-Jay were in the hall looking upwards. Elizabeth, who had come back from her nap and passed Simon on the way, was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall, looking puzzled.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Barbara said. ‘Alison is a bit upset—’

  ‘Too true she’s upset,’ George said, feeling so angry and betrayed, he couldn’t keep quiet. ‘Wouldn’t you be if you found your mother kissing someone…?’

  ‘It was nothing,’ she said, stung into defending herself. ‘Only a bit of Christmas fun.’

  ‘Alison didn’t seem to think so.’

  ‘She was mistaken.’

  ‘Nicholas,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I think you should escort me back home. I don’t want to hear any more of this.’

  ‘But I do,’ he said. ‘Dad shouldn’t get onto Mum like that. Mum wouldn’t do anything wrong. I know she wouldn’t.’

  ‘Do as Gran asks you,’ Barbara said, her whole mind concentrated on preventing more home truths from surfacing. Jay-Jay was the most vulnerable of them all.

  ‘No, Mum, he started it. I’m going to have my say.’ He turned to his father. ‘You’ve no room to talk after what you’ve been up to—’

  ‘Nick, don’t…’ Barbara began, wondering what on earth her son knew. He was growing up fast, at an age to begin to know things if not to understand…

  He ignored her and continued addressing his father. ‘You look down your nose at Mr Younger, make fun of Mrs Younger, but you don’t mind going to bed with Zita, do you?’ This was only a guess, but he was pretty sure that’s what they had been doing in Paris and it was much worse than Mum kissing Mr Barcliffe.

  ‘Zita?’ Barbara put in. ‘You mean Rita’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes. He took her to Paris. I saw them coming off the train together and I heard what they said. “Paris was fun,” she said.’

  There was a dreadful silence. Nick’s words hung in the air, unanswered, unanswerable. Barbara was so shocked she couldn’t speak. Zita Younger. What had they done to their children, she and George? She looked at him. He looked like thunder, dark brows drawn down across his eyes, eyes full of anger and something akin to fear, cheeks tinged red.

  ‘Nick, you don’t know what you’re saying,’ she said, but she knew it was the truth.

  ‘I feel faint,’ Elizabeth said. ‘George, take me home. I want to lie down.’

  ‘Nick will go with you,’ George said, without looking at her: he dare not.

  ‘Jay-Jay, you go too,’ Barbara said, anxious to put him out of harm’s way.

  Elizabeth put her hand on Jay-Jay’s shoulder. She suddenly looked old and frail. ‘George, come and see me before you go to bed. I want to talk to you. There is something I should have told you years ago. As for you, Barbara, I thought you’d have more sense. Two wrongs don’t make a right, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, as Nick angrily slammed out of the house ahead of them. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m not in my dotage yet. Come, Jay-Jay.’

  He sighed. ‘And it was such a lovely Christmas until now. Why do people behave badly to each other?’

  ‘I don’t know, son, I just don’t know,’ Elizabeth said.

  Barbara was left facing George. She opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it. What could she say? What could he say that wouldn’t make matters a hundred times worse?’ She turned and went back to the kitchen to wash up the coffee cups, her feet and heart both like lead. They had gone past the point of no return, she and George. She heard the front door slam as George took himself off. To his new love, perhaps? What on earth had he been thinking of? What was she going to say to Rita? She felt as if her whole life was breaking up. The family stru
cture she had worked so hard to maintain was crumbling all round her. The scandal would spread and spread, Maggie Doughty would see to that. She looked out of the kitchen window towards the manor; was that project going to be ruined too?

  ‘Oh, please God,’ she prayed. ‘Please let it all die down. Let Nick be mistaken. Help Alison. Punish me, if you must, but let me keep my secret.’

  George didn’t go to Zita; he walked for miles. Why had he allowed himself to become entangled with her? She was not Virginia, never could be, not in a million years; she was certainly not worth losing his children over. It was Barbara’s fault. Had she invited Simon Barcliffe to the house? He had accused her once before of having an affair with him which she had vehemently denied. She’d been lying all along. He grimaced as he strode along the footpath beside the common. She had stuck by him over Virginia, but then she’d had a guilty conscience herself over Simon Barcliffe.

  Damage limitation, that’s what he must concentrate on. Keep away from Zita; keep away from Donald. Let him get on with the market job on his own. He’d better ring him and then get hold of Colin, find out what he’d take to keep his mouth shut, keep a low profile on the council, except for doing his job as mayor in exemplary fashion. Barbara must fall into line. She must see that. He turned on his heel and made for home.

  It was gone midnight and Barbara had gone to bed when he let himself in the front door. He picked up a glass and a bottle of brandy from the lounge and crept up to the spare room, where he pulled off his jacket and trousers, loosened his tie and flung himself down to drink himself into oblivion.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘George! Wake up!’ Barbara shook him, but all he did was turn over and mumble something incoherent. ‘George, if you don’t stir yourself, I’ll throw a bucket of cold water over you. Your mother’s ill.’

  He sat bolt upright. ‘Mum? Why didn’t you say so? What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘A stroke, heart attack, I can’t be sure. I’ve rung for an ambulance.’

  ‘What happened?’ he asked as he scrambled into his trousers. He was halfway down the stairs as he pulled his braces over his shoulders. Stopping in the kitchen to slip his feet into his shoes he raced out to the bungalow with Barbara behind him.

  ‘I knew she was upset last night, so I went over as soon as I got up. I found her unconscious.’

  George was struck by guilt. She had asked him to go and see her before he went to bed and he had forgotten, got drunk instead. He tore into his mother’s bedroom and flung himself down beside her bed. ‘Mum.’ He grabbed her hand; it was unresponsive.

  ‘Oh, God, no,’ he muttered. This was a direct result of the upheaval the day before. It was Barbara’s fault. And Barcliffe’s. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said, addressing the unconscious form. ‘The ambulance is on its way.’

  They heard the bells almost as soon as he spoke. Barbara ran to let the men in. Their calm efficiency abated some of George’s panic and he stood by helplessly as they took charge. He went with his mother in the ambulance, leaving Barbara to tell the children what had happened and wait for news.

  It was some time before George was allowed into the ward to see his mother. ‘She’s rallied a little,’ the doctor told him. ‘But the next ten days are critical. Try not to upset her.’

  He crept into the room, aware that he had not shaved, nor even washed and his clothes were rumpled. ‘Mum.’ He pulled up a chair close to the bed and took her hand, terrified by the pallor of her skin: it was almost transparent and her lips were blue. ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have had this happen for all the world. But you’re going to be all right.’

  She did not appear to hear him. He sat and looked at her, his mind going round in circles. She was the most precious thing in his life, always had been, more than Barbara, more than the children even, and infinitely more important than Zita Younger. ‘Fred,’ she murmured, without opening her eyes.

  ‘No, Mum, it’s me. George.’

  ‘Fred’s gone, hasn’t he? Didn’t want him to go, not angry like that. He’ll come back and we must make it up for the baby’s sake…’

  It was difficult to understand what she said, most of it was a mumble. ‘Yes, Mum.’

  She went on in like vein for a few minutes more, drifting in and out of sleep, muttering incoherently. He tried soothing her, and when Alison arrived to sit with her, he went home to bath and change. He was back two hours later and was relieved to see her looking stronger.

  ‘George,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you came. Want to tell you something.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Yesterday, that dreadful row, everybody screaming at everybody else. It was yesterday, wasn’t it? I’ve lost track.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, you shouldn’t have had to witness that. Barbara shouldn’t have—’

  ‘Don’t blame Barbara, you are as much to blame as she is…’

  ‘I know.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t think about it anymore.’

  ‘Can’t help thinking. Got to tell you. Didn’t think I’d ever have to. Must now.’

  ‘Please, Mum, there’s no need—’

  ‘Be quiet and listen. Mustn’t go near the Younger woman again. Not ever. You see…’ She stopped. ‘Give me a drink of water.’

  He picked up the cup and raised her head to help her to drink. She took a couple of sips and lay back exhausted. He sat and watched her for a couple of minutes and then she began talking again. ‘Your father—’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He wasn’t a hero, not to me, he wasn’t. Oh, it was fine to begin with, but he changed, got too fond of the drink. It’s terrible when two people who are supposed to love each other can’t talk. I prayed he’d get over it and go back to being his old self, but—’

  ‘He died in Canada, I know that.’

  ‘When he came home on shore leave, he wanted to spend it all drinking in the pub with his friends. We rowed about it. He left the house and he didn’t come back ’til morning. It was like that the whole week. The last night he came back in the early hours, but instead of coming to bed, he slept on the sofa. I was too angry and proud to go to him and when I went down the next morning, he’d gone back to sea. I never saw him again.’

  ‘Mum, it wasn’t your fault. You shouldn’t blame yourself.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said crossly. ‘He was out with that tart, Dora Symonds.’

  The name didn’t immediately register with him. ‘Please, Mum, don’t distress yourself.’

  ‘She came to see me later,’ she went on, determined to have her say, though the effort was making her very breathless. ‘Wanted to know if I’d heard from your father. The cheek of it! Then she told me she was expecting his child.’

  ‘Oh.’ His mind was in a whirl. ‘But it’s all in the past. Don’t think of it.’

  ‘It’s not in the past. It’s here. Now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know who Dora Symonds is, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s Rita Younger’s mother. Rita Younger is your half-sister.’

  He sat and stared at her, too dumbfounded to take it in. Then he remembered how she had reacted when Rita came to the house after Colin disappeared. He had thought it was strange because he didn’t know his mother even knew her. And she was always telling him to discourage Barbara from making a friend of her, refusing to explain herself. And, too busy with his own affairs, he hadn’t taken a bit of notice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘I didn’t ever want to. All I wanted to do was shut it out, pretend it never happened. But you can’t shut out the past. It always comes back. The sins of the fathers…’ She stopped suddenly too breathless to continue.

  He fell silent. His revered father was not the loving husband he had always supposed him to be. His mother had lived with that for over forty years, embittered and sad. And he had made matters worse, brought it all back by employing Rita’s husband. The revelation about Zita must hav
e been the last straw. That little tart was his niece, related by blood. He was appalled and disgusted.

  ‘There’s no need to say anything to anyone,’ she went on. ‘Soon, it won’t matter, I shan’t be hurt by it anymore.’ She smiled and reached out a thin, veined hand to touch his cheek. She was obviously tired and, having had her say, wanted to rest. ‘Go home, George, make your peace with Barbara. Talk to her. Listen to her, too. Don’t let history repeat itself.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ He kissed her goodbye and left. It was the last time he saw her alive. She died in the early hours of the next morning.

  The whole family was united in grief. To the children she had been someone who would always listen to their woes; to Barbara she had been, after the first few months when she realised her daughter-in-law was no threat to her closeness with her son, fair and supportive; to George, she had been everything. He could not cope with his misery and spent hours pacing up and down his study, unable to sit still. He tried going to work, but found he could not concentrate and took himself out into the country and walked for miles.

  The funeral was attended by almost all the older residents of the town who had grown up with Elizabeth, people from all walks of life, people he hardly knew. He followed the coffin down the aisle of the church in a daze, unable to believe what had happened. It was his fault. His and Barbara’s, because he would not absolve her. But mindful of his mother’s dying wish that he should make his peace with his wife, he had made no accusations. In fact he could hardly bring himself to speak to her at all.

  Barbara was glad of his silence. She didn’t want to talk about what had happened, she couldn’t. She sat in her pew in the church, black-clad, black-veiled, feeling isolated. Her children, particularly Alison, were confused and miserable, rejecting her comfort. No one offered her solace. She didn’t deserve it. Somehow, she had to survive on her own. She would, too, because she and George were finished. Not yet, though, she couldn’t leave him while he was at rock bottom. After the grand opening of the refurbished market the week before the jubilee celebrations, after he had ceased to be mayor, she would sit down and try to talk calmly to him about what they were going to do. It would give her time to sort out her life. She rose as the notes of the last hymn died away, and walked with George behind the coffin to the open grave, as always, the supportive wife.