The Sweetest Thing

by Susan Sallis

  Connie looked down again. William bent and picked Frankie up and held him high, laughing. Then he kissed him and put him down and they both went into the sea and filled their buckets. Connie could almost hear William saying, ‘Let’s go on pretending – just for May.’ William never missed an opportunity to put Frankie in charge of his raucous little sister.

  Then over the brow of the dune, like the arrival of the cavalry in a film, came Barbara, Rosalie, Lily and Harry. They tore down to the shore to which Denny had just returned from a swim and was now being offered a towel. There were more shouts. William stood still and looked up at the house; he put a hand across his head to shield his eyes from the sun then turned back to the children and Connie realized he was assuming that she and Greta were still sitting there peacefully. Harry started to introduce all the children; Lucy watched that too. They made fresh groups; May, Frankie and Denny; Barbara and Rosalie and Lily. Frankie held May’s hand.

  Lucy said, ‘They’re close, those two.’

  Connie forced herself to speak. ‘Yes.’

  There was another silence. Lucy was unable to look away from the children, hardly conscious of Connie Mather sitting by her side. Frankie was leading May to the damp pond. They jumped into it. He began to dig at the sides and after a while May joined him. They scooped sand up and out until they had small bucket seats just the right shape for them to sit in comfortably. Frankie leaned towards May and said something and she threw back her head and gave the sort of belly laugh that was worthy of Arnie and Maurice combined.

  Lucy said softly, ‘He’ll never be lonely with that one.’

  Connie knew she was weeping; she could do nothing about it. She whispered somehow, ‘He is close to William too.’ She sounded desperate; it was a plea.

  Lucy nodded. ‘William would make sure of that.’

  At last Lucy looked away. She studied her hands in her lap, wondering what to say. There was so much; too much. She said at last, ‘Thank you.’

  From the corner of her eye she saw something drop on to Connie’s clenched hands. She swallowed. What else did she want?

  She said, ‘You gave my son something he might never have had otherwise.’ She flicked her gaze to the children again. ‘He must have been happy. Everyone said he was and I didn’t believe anyone. Now . . . I see his son. And I know.’

  Connie choked, ‘William doesn’t know. Please . . . Lucy . . . please . . .’

  Lucy looked round in surprise. There were the childish brown curls, brown eyes, round face. William was darker again. Did she really think anyone could doubt that Francis Mather was Egg’s son?

  Lucy blurted before she could think, ‘William knows. Of course he knows.’

  Connie said, ‘We were together. It was not a success but . . .’

  Lucy waited, staring. Then she said slowly, ‘Now that I know William . . .’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘He would never have risked you becoming pregnant. You must know it yourself.’

  The words came out flat and entirely convincing. Connie thought back. The bathroom; William’s embarrassment covered by a thick white bathrobe. She stared at Lucy Pardoe, her eyes wide.

  ‘But – but – he has never ever said . . .’

  ‘Surely you know too that he wouldn’t?’ Lucy was as surprised as Connie. She knew that the girl was silly and thoughtless but not that she was totally stupid. ‘He loves you, Connie. Do you know that much?’

  She saw the girl withdraw slightly and knew she had trodden private ground. She smiled. ‘I see you are pregnant again.’

  Connie took a breath. She said, ‘Yes.’ She wanted to give Lucy something, she wanted to share something. ‘It’s twins actually.’

  Lucy smiled properly. ‘Frankie and May will have one each.’

  Connie actually laughed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  They talked of families. Lucy had, of course, had four children. She said she recommended it. For a moment Connie was silent then she said, ‘You could come and stay with us sometimes. You and Harry and the girls.’

  ‘They would like that. A big city.’ She looked at Connie. ‘Perhaps later. I’m not sure.’

  ‘All right.’ Connie nodded. ‘Let’s wait and see.’

  She smiled at Lucy; tentatively, still nervous; she gave her the same smile she had given Arnold Jessup when he had interviewed her for the job of filing clerk ten years ago. In that moment Lucy saw her as Egg must have seen her. She stared at her, startled. This girl had understood Egg. In the few hours they had spent together she had known Egg as well as Lucy had known him herself. She had recognized his connection with everything around him. He had transcended the ordinary and mundane without the help of any magic mushroom and with his feet on the ground. And when he had asked this girl for comfort she had given him something wonderful.

  Lucy swallowed. Then, suddenly, she reached into the big patch pocket of her skirt and withdrew Margaret’s letter. She took off the back page and gave it to Connie.

  ‘It’s an address. In America. I think it’s the address of his grandparents. Take it. For later. Perhaps.’

  Connie took it, startled herself, but knowing it was important.

  Greta arrived with mugs and two enormous thermos jugs. ‘I’ve made sandwiches,’ she said proudly. ‘Peanut butter. Banana and sugar. Some of that ham from Home Farm. Hard-boiled eggs . . .’

  Lucy laughed, feeling suddenly helpless and not caring.

  ‘Harry and I have brought pasties! They must still be in the car.’

  Connie watched the two women organizing everything. She walked slowly into the house holding her sundress beneath the bump to support the twins. She found her handbag and slid the sheet of paper inside it, then turned and looked at the long table with its array of sandwiches. This was where it had happened for Lucy Pardoe, Lucy Roach as she had been then. Connie pieced together the things William had told her, the beatings after her mother died, the cellar and the escape. This was where she had found Harry and saved his life. How on earth could she bear to come here so often, work the garden, cook in this kitchen, make happiness where tragedy had been?

  She heard them coming back with the pasties, Greta talking nineteen to the dozen, instantly friendly. Connie trusted Greta’s instincts. She turned, smiling widely as they came in.

  ‘Look at this! Greta, you must have worked like a trouper to get this lot on the table in half an hour!’

  Greta fetched a tray. ‘I am a trouper!’ she reminded Connie.

  Lucy arranged the pasties on the tray. She was unexpectedly captivated by Greta. She said, ‘Greta was telling me how you found her husband for her after twenty years!’

  ‘Well . . .’ Connie began.

  ‘And how on earth she knew about Barbara and Denny liking banana and sugar sandwiches – and she’s not even Cornish!’

  Connie laughed. There seemed nothing else to do. She found a chair and sat down and Greta was there, rubbing her back.

  Lucy washed her hands at the sink and looked over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got some of it. I know that you will go full term and have one of each, a boy and a girl.’ She laughed as Connie’s face opened wide. ‘Lots of women can make those sort of predictions. But banana sandwiches . . . that’s another thing!’

  Connie laughed too, suddenly full of excitement. A boy and a girl.

  She said, ‘Why don’t you go and watch the pond fill with the tide? That’s what Frankie was telling William – no need for the buckets.’ She swallowed. ‘Frankie has a natural feel for the sea.’

  Lucy finished drying her hands on the roller towel. She straightened it carefully. ‘Yes. He has, hasn’t he?’ She came over and said again, ‘Thank you. Thank you, Connie.’ She knew what she had to do. She leaned over the chair and pecked Connie’s cheek one side . . . and thought of William and that kiss. Here in this house. She kissed Connie’s other cheek. Then she turned and went.

  Connie closed her eyes for a moment, then said, ‘She can’t be that much younger than Mummy. Look at
the way she runs!’

  ‘Your mother could run faster than that if she wanted to,’ Greta said. She hugged Connie’s shoulders. ‘Was it all right, darling? You did so well. I was proud of you.’

  Connie kissed the gnarled knuckles and said wonderingly, ‘She thanked me, Greta. Again and again.’

  ‘Well, of course she did, darling. Now before we start on all that coffee, I’m going to make you a nice cup of tea. Just sit still. It’s all been a bit much.’

  Rosemary appeared in the doorway. She had obviously run very fast indeed and she hung on to the doorway, panting loudly, taking in the normality of the scene before her.

  Even so, she gasped, ‘Are you all right, Connie? What did she say? I didn’t realize you were here. With her. On your own.’

  ‘Oh Mummy. Sit down. The dunes . . . so steep . . . sit down.’

  Rosemary sat and held her side. ‘When I saw her tearing along like a maniac and sitting in the pond – yes, in the water – by Frankie and May – and William said, “This is Lucy” – and she said you and I were like peas from the same pod – I did not know what to think.’ She stopped speaking, then suddenly started to cry.

  Greta and Connie gathered her from either side and told her everything was all right and of course Lucy was not going to take Frankie away and Connie told her that Lucy had actually thanked her.

  At some point during all the emotion, William joined them and Greta made the tea. William told them how Frankie had made May sit down and wait for the water to arrive because she was getting ‘all het up’. He took his sunglasses off and looked at his mother-in-law. ‘Rather like you, Rosemary.’

  Rosemary acknowledged this. ‘I was never het up until I met Arnie!’

  Connie, still held down in her chair by Greta, smiled at William and said, ‘That’s perfectly true, actually.’ And it was the way she made that matter-of-fact defence of her mother that convinced William that somehow, in some way or other, acceptance and forgiveness had actually happened in this place. He went to her and helped her up and put a hand on the front of her sundress.

  ‘How are the Bisto twins?’ he asked. ‘Would they like a swim?’

  She nodded. He said, ‘Let’s do it now. By ourselves.’

  They waited until everyone was settled with sandwiches and drinks and the noise level was ascending by the second, then they slipped into their room, changed sedately and went down to the dunes almost unnoticed.

  Connie floated on the same sea that had taken the lives of Lucy Pardoe’s loved ones and felt the water hold her babies for her. William told her the story about Josh watching the Flower People do the same thing. ‘A pre-natal baptism – that’s what the vicar called it.’ He put a hand in the small of her back and moved her to the shore. ‘Are we going to be all right, Connie?’

  He pulled her gently to her feet and she shaded her eyes and looked back towards the house. Frankie and May were sharing a pasty, starting at either end. Sitting next to them in the sand, Lucy seemed to be telling them a story. She described a big circle in the air and then jiggled her fingers around it.

  William said, ‘That’s the Merry Maidens dancing in a ring.’

  Connie said, ‘I think it’s Lucy Locket who lost her pocket on a summer’s day.’

  He leaned back to look down on her, astonished.

  ‘That’s something you danced to in the playground at school,’ he told her. ‘We’re joined in so many ways . . . of course we’re going to be all right.’

  They clambered back up through the loose sand of the dunes and ate their pasties and sandwiches and drank the rest of the coffee in the thermoses. Harry took over the storytelling and even Barbara sat and listened to the familiar tale of the Mousehole cat. She explained it to Rosalie, who was actually the same age as her but seemed to fit the latest put-down at the Laurels, which was ‘pretty juvenile’.

  Arnie slept with his head in Rosemary’s lap and when he woke he smiled up at her and said, ‘I don’t mind getting old, Rosie. Actually it just seems to get sweeter and sweeter.’

  ‘What does?’ She looked down at him and smiled back.

  ‘Love, of course.’ He reared up and nearly broke her nose as he kissed her.

  Then she had to convince him she was laughing, not crying. She held his head and said, ‘D’you know how that song ends? It’s something to do with “love’s old sweet story” – can’t quite remember but the word “old” is definitely there!’

  And Lucy, listening to Harry, overhearing Rosemary’s words, thought suddenly and inexplicably of Margaret Trip. She had loved Margaret. And Margaret had loved her. Lucy put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezed it gently.

  Greta and Maurice were washing up. Greta said, ‘I’m not sure about next year, Moll. How do you feel about it? The twins are going to need so much attention. I rather think William and Connie could do with being en famille – after all, there will be six of them.’

  Maurice nodded vigorously. ‘I’m already drawing my pension, love.’

  Greta rinsed away a bowl of water and drew another one. ‘Pass those mugs, Moll.’ She began again. ‘What about Monte Carlo? Have you ever been to a casino?’

  ‘Never had the time, love.’ He laughed. ‘D’you fancy trying a holiday in Monte Carlo? Sounds a bit racy.’

  ‘We might break the bank!’

  They both giggled and he slapped her with his damp tea towel. ‘D’you think Arnie and Rosie might come? He speaks French.’

  ‘He’d come like a shot. I’m not sure about Rosie.’

  ‘She will if he wants to.’

  She rinsed and dried her hands, thinking sentimentally of Arnie. Then she said, ‘If it’s only his French you want, then don’t worry. I speak it like a native. I lived with a Free French captain for three months in the war. He couldn’t speak a word of English so I had to learn French!’

  He chased her round the kitchen and she let herself be caught.

  It was dark when Connie and William walked the shoreline that evening before bed. William had watched Connie’s strength returning that long summer and enjoyed seeing her stroll confidently into the shallows, bending with difficulty to pick up shells.

  He said, ‘You must be fed up with this pregnancy, honey.’

  ‘Not a bit. I know it will be the last – Greta has said so. And it’s two for the price of one!’ She laughed then said, ‘You’ve never called me honey before.’

  ‘Did I call you honey? How strange. But it suits you. Honey. You are sweet and natural and honest through and through.’

  ‘I am not. I have been . . . dishonest . . . often.’

  ‘But because it was right to be so. Because it would have hurt people had you been honest.’

  She was silent.

  He said, ‘The Americans are sometimes spot-on, aren’t they? If I called you bramble jelly it wouldn’t be right. Yet you are that too.’ He was cajoling her with his laughter. She smiled, shaking her head.

  ‘It’s all right, my darling William. Call me honey. Or bramble jelly. But be near when you can. And believe that I have always loved you even when I was not sure about it.’ She hugged him. ‘It was because of you that Frankie was born. You know that, don’t you?’

  The moon was silvering her hair. He looked at her and suddenly saw her likeness to Frankie. It was the nearest they had ever come to admitting everything that had happened seven years ago.

  He nodded slowly, perhaps understanding for the first time.

  She said, ‘Thank you, my darling. Thank you.’

  The tiny wavelets lapped their feet and they moved with them as if they were dancing.

  About the Author

  Susan Sallis is the author of over twenty novels, many of which are set in the West Country. She was born in Gloucestershire and now lives in Somerset with her family.

  Also by Susan Sallis

  Rising Sequence:

  A SCATTERING OF DAISIES

  THE DAFFODILS OF NEWENT

  BLUEBELL WINDOWS

&nb
sp; ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE

  SUMMER VISITORS

  BY SUN AND CANDLELIGHT

  AN ORDINARY WOMAN

  DAUGHTERS OF THE MOON

  SWEETER THAN WINE

  WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE

  TOUCHED BY ANGELS

  CHOICES

  COME RAIN OR SHINE

  THE KEYS TO THE GARDEN

  THE APPLE BARREL

  SEA OF DREAMS

  TIME OF ARRIVAL

  LYDIA FIELDING

  FIVE FARTHINGS

  THE PUMPKIN COACH

  AFTER MIDNIGHT

  NO MAN’S ISLAND

  SEARCHING FOR TILLY

  RACHEL’S SECRET

  THE PATH TO THE LAKE

  and published by Corgi Books

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  A Random House Group Company

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain

  in 2010 by Bantam Press

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Corgi edition published 2010

  Copyright © Susan Sallis 2010

  Susan Sallis has asserted her right under the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781407054681

  9780593065624 (Corgi)

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted inwriting by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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