The Fountain

by Mary Nichols

  She had gone to see Alan Fairfax, the family solicitor, and was appalled to learn just how contorted George’s financial affairs were. He had apparently been robbing Peter to pay Paul for years, mortgaged the house and cashed in his pension, leaving only a small life policy for her. He was in debt to his suppliers, who had only been holding back because he was the mayor and would have been baying for blood when his term of office came to an end. To add insult to injury, she couldn’t touch any of the assets of Melsham Construction because, on paper, they belonged to Donald Browning.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kennett,’ Mr Fairfax had said, looking shamefaced. ‘I only became aware of the extent of the problem when I started sorting things out for probate. He didn’t always deal with me, sometimes he saw my partner and we neither of us knew the state of his bank balance. I have no idea why he lent Melsham Construction such a large amount of money without securing it.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a good thing you were not part of the business and can’t be held responsible for its debts.’

  ‘Are there any others?’

  ‘It’s all very involved and will take some time to sort out, but I think we can secure the house for you…’

  ‘Don’t,’ she had told him. ‘Sell it to clear the mortgage and as many other debts as you can. I still own the farmhouse my father left me.’ She had looked across his desk as a worrying thought struck her. ‘They can’t take that, can they?’

  ‘No, that’s yours.’

  ‘Good. It’s let to an American family and they’re due to go back to the States soon. I’ll move back there.’ That had been one of her easier decisions. She loved the old farmhouse, it was more home to her than The Chestnuts had ever been.

  She came out of her reverie to find herself on the gravel of the churchyard, following the men bearing the coffin to the open grave. The rain had stopped and a faint shaft of sunlight pierced the trees surrounding the churchyard, making swirls of rainbow colours in the puddles. She was astonished how calm, how detached she felt, as if it was happening to someone else. She was able to stand and listen to the committal service without emotion. She was numb.

  Afterwards she invited everyone to the house and they all milled about, eating sandwiches and sausage rolls and drinking sherry and beer, and telling each other what a fantastic man George had been and how much they were going to miss him. Alison was white-faced and uncommunicative, but determined to be brave because she was sure that was what Daddy would have wanted. Nick, on the other hand, was red-faced and hiding his grief behind fury, and she would have to try and ease that for him, assure him his father was not a bad man. Poor Jay-Jay simply looked bewildered. She saw him slip his hand into Penny’s and Penny stoop to speak to him, her red-gold head bent to his, telling him something that elicited a smile.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Kennett,’ Donald murmured, beside her.

  ‘I know that, Donald. Don’t think any more of it.’

  ‘Yes, but Melsham Construction…’ He paused. ‘Do you think we could talk about it some time?’

  ‘No, Donald, I don’t think so. It’s your business.’ She spoke firmly and he wandered off, too embarrassed to continue the conversation.

  ‘Barbara.’

  She turned from watching him walk away, to find Simon standing beside her. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit and a black tie, and at thirty-nine still incredibly handsome, though the years had etched fine lines about his mouth and eyes, eyes which were as blue as they had always been, as blue as Jay-Jay’s. His expression of concern deepened the slight scar on his brow. ‘Hallo, Simon.’ Her face felt stiff with trying to smile. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m OK. More importantly, how are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Drained. A bit bemused. I keep thinking I’ll wake up tomorrow and everything will be like it was.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said, wanting to hold her, to comfort her, and though he lifted his hand to touch her, he changed his mind and let if fall to his side. ‘Please don’t hate me for it.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘Christmas. What happened then. If I hadn’t come—’

  ‘Nothing to do with you, Simon. It would still have happened. Please don’t think about it.’ She had to keep him at arm’s length, to make it look to the others in the room that he was doing no more than offering his condolences and she was accepting them. She could see Alison watching them and smiled reassuringly at her.

  ‘I’m still sorry. What are you going to do with yourself now?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything at the moment, my brain refuses to function above trivialities. I have to get over each day as it comes and look after the children.’

  ‘Of course you do. But some time, sooner rather than later, sit down and think about what you want to do. Not what everyone else wants you to do, but what you, Barbara Bosgrove that was, want from your life.’

  ‘There’s the children—’

  ‘They are growing up. Soon they’ll leave home. Penny tells me Alison is destined for university and Nick has a career to carve out for himself.’

  ‘That may be true, but Jay-Jay’s not yet eight. It will be ages before he’s old enough to leave the nest.’

  ‘Ah, Jay-Jay.’ He smiled down at her. ‘I think Jay-Jay takes after you. Alison and Nick have some of George in them, but not him. He’s a one-off.’ He bent towards her speaking softly. ‘Take care of him, Barbara. He’s very special.’

  She looked up at him, the tears she had been refusing to shed sitting on her lashes ready to spill down her cheeks. ‘Simon, I—’

  He put his finger on her lips to stop her speaking. ‘I have to go now, but if you need me, you know where I am. Any time.’ He kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘I believe there is someone waiting to speak to you, so I’ll say goodbye.’

  She watched him walk away and it was as if he were taking half of her with him, the core of Barbara Bosgrove that was, leaving only Barbara Kennett behind. Had she understood what he was trying to say? Especially about Jay-Jay. Was he saying he knew? How did he know? Penny would never have broken her promise not to tell him. She took a huge breath to steady herself and turned to find Tony Bartram standing not three feet behind her. It was a moment or to before she realised he had begun speaking and she hadn’t heard a word he said. She forced herself to pay attention.

  ‘We must try and carry on as normal,’ he was saying. ‘It is what George would have wished. And the people of the town have been looking forward to the jubilee celebrations and the official unveiling of the new fountain.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, wondering if Simon had really gone or was still somewhere about. Did it matter? She couldn’t call him back, could she? Sleeping dogs must be left to lie.

  ‘We should be delighted if you would consent to turn on the new fountain at the opening ceremony.’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t think I could. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to make a decision today. Let me know in a week or two.’

  She was determined to refuse, but later, after everyone else had left, she told Penny, Isobel and Rita, who had stayed to help her clear up.

  ‘You should do it,’ Isobel said. ‘I can’t think of anyone more appropriate.’ She was surprised at how easily the other three accepted her, a spinster from a different era, a time traveller trapped in the past, not only in the past but in a different stratum of society, one that had all but disappeared. But Barbara and her friends had brought her out of that, made her value herself.

  ‘If George had been alive, you would certainly have been asked to do it,’ Penny put in. ‘He’d have made sure of that.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  She moved back into the farmhouse at the end of April, on a soft spring day. The fruit trees in the orchard were covered in blossom and the garden was at its best. Daffodils vied with tulips, aubrietia and polyantha. An early clemati
s covered the end of one wall, a cloud of white blossom. The climbing rose that stretched up the flint stone wall to her bedroom window was still there and in early summer would be a glorious trail of gold. She breathed deeply. This was a new beginning, late in life perhaps, but new. Isobel had adamantly refused to allow her to resign as a director of Melsham Manor Hydro when she broached the subject. ‘Nothing has changed,’ she had said. ‘I need you as much as ever. And you’ll need something to keep you busy, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t add, though she could have done, that she would also need the money. George’s finances were still in a mess.

  The children had gone back to school almost immediately after the funeral; it was best that they should. If they still thought about the dreadful events of Christmas and New Year, they never referred to them and seemed to have forgiven her. Jay-Jay, though still quiet, still thinking of the man he knew as his father, was the cheerful, affectionate boy he had always been, untouched by scandal.

  The market wasn’t finished in time for the jubilee. Zita was so traumatised over what had happened she couldn’t bring herself to finish the sculpture and it was too late to commission someone else, and the convoluted problems of Melsham Construction’s finances since George’s death meant that Donald had trouble paying the suppliers for the street furniture, things like lamp standards, bollards, drainpipes and paint, to finish the whole project off. And Farrier’s Court, left until last, was a wide open space with nothing on it but one tumbledown house, where Dora Symonds reigned in isolation, though she had been promised one of the town’s almshouses when one became vacant. The town fell back on the tried-and-tested methods of celebrating with a civic dinner, a street party for the children and jubilee mugs.

  The market was finished a year late, but by then George V had died and the Prince of Wales had become Edward VIII. It was decided to leave the ceremony until his coronation, except, of course, he was never crowned. There had been rumours about him and Mrs Simpson for some time, but even so, the abdication shook everyone. The prince had been a very popular figure, but few wanted the twice-divorced Wallis Simpson for a queen. Edward’s abdication speech, broadcast on the wireless, had many in tears, including Dora, who loved a good romance. His unassuming brother became George VI and together with his wife, Elizabeth, supported by their two daughters, Elizabeth and Margaret Rose, was crowned in Westminster Abbey on Wednesday the twelfth of May 1937. Although the new market had been operational for some time, it had been decided the official switching on of Melsham’s new fountain would take place the following Saturday, while the town was still in celebratory mood.

  Barbara sat on her bed in her underwear and stared at the dress hanging on her wardrobe door. It was made of blue silk, deceptively simple in style, with three-quarter sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, fitted waist and a skirt that fell in panels over the hips and then flared out to the hem. It had been hideously expensive, but she’d bought it because Penny had told her it would boost her morale to look good. And she needed that. Why on earth had she agreed to switch on that damned fountain? To the people of Melsham it might be something to celebrate along with the coronation, but to her it represented all that had gone wrong with her life. Anyone else would have performed the ceremony just as well. Isobel, for instance, or Penny. Penny could have done it standing on her head.

  She took the dress off its hanger and slipped it over her head, then stood before the mirror and appraised her reflection. Her figure may have lost some of the litheness of youth but it was still good; her skin was still smooth and Penny had taught her how to use make-up discreetly, so that it enhanced her high cheek bones and wide greeny-blue eyes, but skilful make-up did not make her feel any less nervous. She set her wide-brimmed, feather-trimmed hat at an angle on her head, slipped into her shoes, picked up her handbag and went downstairs, just as the doorbell rang.

  She opened it to see a uniformed chauffeur on the step and behind him, on the gravelled drive, the mayor’s shining black Rolls-Royce. ‘Mrs Kennett.’ He put his hand to the brim of his cap. ‘I’ve come to fetch you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She took a deep breath, stepped outside and locked the door behind her, before making her way to the car. As guest of honour she was to be conveyed in style.

  The big car negotiated the crowds and was waved on its way by Constable Tommy White, immaculate in his uniform. Who’d have thought that little tearaway would turn out to be a policeman, and a good one at that? Barbara remembered the day she had taken the boy to London… No, she must not think of that. It only made her feel melancholy and today she was expected to put on a cheerful face. For the most part she was cheerful. The eighteen months since George’s death had softened the rawness of the emotions, the misery, the guilt, the feeling of helplessness, as the tide of their lives swept them to disaster.

  The new lamp posts had been decorated with hanging baskets containing red geraniums, white petunias and blue lobelia and there was red, white and blue bunting strung from one to the next. More banners hung across the new shop fronts. Landers department store had decorated one of its windows with red, white and blue ribbon and swathes of dress material of the same colours. Another window was stacked with coronation mugs and other commemorative china and glass. She was surprised and not a little alarmed to see that the marketplace itself was so packed with flag-waving onlookers, it was impossible to see the new red-brick paving. A roped-off walkway led from the town hall to the fountain, and even that was covered with a red carpet.

  The car moved at walking pace and drew to a stop outside the town hall. A huge banner hanging over the balcony proclaimed: ‘Melsham’s loyal greetings to King George VI and Queen Elizabeth on the occasion of their coronation, May 12 1937.’ A commissionaire opened the door for her. She got out, breathed deeply to steady herself and went up the steps.

  There was a crowd in the vestibule, but Tony Bartram, now mayor, spotted her and hurried forward, his heavy chain of office glinting on his jacket front. He extended his hand. ‘Mrs Kennett. We are all very pleased you agreed to do this. George—’ He stopped, suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘It’s my pleasure,’ she said and turned to Donald who stood at his elbow. She hadn’t spoken to him since George’s funeral, not because she hadn’t wanted to, but simply because their paths had not crossed. He was chewing on his moustache, a sure sign he was uncomfortable. She smiled and offered her hand. ‘How are you, Donald?

  He took her hand with a smile of relief. ‘Very well. And you?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Here is Miss Younger, the fountain’s designer.’ The mayor moved her on. ‘You must have met?’

  Barbara looked at Zita with a smile that never wavered. She remembered seeing her in Rita’s house when the girl would have been about thirteen, but she hadn’t seen her again until George’s funeral, standing in the churchyard after the service, half hidden by gravestones. ‘I believe we did meet, but it was many years ago,’ she said, holding out her hand, surprised to find it wasn’t trembling. ‘How do you do?’

  Zita touched Barbara’s fingers. ‘Mrs Kennett.’

  ‘Shall we go?’ Tony said.

  Barbara lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders and walked beside him along the red carpet, followed by the podium party to the dais which had been erected beside the fountain and took their places.

  She hardly heard the mayor’s speech as she looked round at the sea of faces in front of her. She spotted Isobel sitting very upright on one of the chairs in the front row of chairs and beside her, Penny, dressed in a flame-coloured silk dress and matching turban. In the crowd at the back Rita was craning her neck to see. Her pink dress was patterned with large poppies and her bright red hair was topped by a hat whose brim was decorated with more poppies. She was laughing and waving a tiny union jack. Three friends, a most unlikely combination of characters, but she wouldn’t like to be without any of them. They had kept her sane.

  But it was not on her friends Barbara concentrated,
but on her children who were seated on the other side of Isobel: Alison, sixteen now, raven-haired, even-featured like her father, wearing a cotton dress patterned in small flowers; Nick, two years younger, hair slicked down, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth; and nine-year-old Jay-Jay, proud and excited, his unique red-gold hair reflecting the light of the sun. He was grinning at her, his clear blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Tears sprang to her eyes but she was smiling, genuinely smiling. Life suddenly seemed worth living again.

  The mayor’s voice, carried by loudspeakers to the far corners of the marketplace, forced itself into her consciousness. ‘It is very fitting that the man who made all this possible, though sadly he did not live to see its completion, should be honoured on this day when we are also celebrating the coronation of our new king and queen.’ He paused to beam at his audience. ‘I now call on Mrs Kennett to unveil the fountain and set it into motion.’

  Barbara stepped down and pulled the cord which released the covering from the fountain to reveal a bronze statue of a naked man, his hands lifted skywards holding a golden globe. At his side stood the slim, almost stick-like figure of a woman and a young boy whose curly head just managed to hide the genitalia of the man. Although not lifelike, it had vision and great strength. She had been prepared not to like it, wanted not to like it, but her own sense of justice made her admit it was good.