The Children's Hour

by Marcia Willett

  As the sound of the engine dies in the distance, Lydia gives a great sigh of relief. Her children run shouting and laughing on the lawn and Wilhelmina tugs at her arm.

  ‘May we go to the beach, Mama? If we wrap up warmly?’

  Lydia bends to hug her. ‘Of course we shall. After lunch. Afternoons are the best times for the beach, even in the winter.’

  ‘And we’ll come back and have tea by the fire, won’t we? Will you read to us?’

  ‘Yes, my darling, if that’s what you’d all like. I’ll read to you.’

  So it begins.

  *

  In her bedroom, which had once been the morning-room, Nest was very nearly ready for bed. The room, adapted for her needs, was austere, simple and unadorned, no roads back to the past by way of photographs or knick-knacks; no idiosyncrasies by which to be interpreted; no possessions with which she might be defined. Only necessities stood on the small oak chest, although several books were piled upon the bedside table along with her Walkman. She was able to stand for short periods, to haul herself along using furniture and her stick as aids, but she tired quickly and the pain was always there, ready to remind her that she was severely limited. At first, in the dark months immediately following the accident, she hadn’t wanted to move at all. Suffering was a penance for her guilt. She’d lie on her bed, staring at the ceiling above, reliving the appalling moment: Henrietta at the wheel, Connor beside her, head half-turned to Nest in the back seat. If only she hadn’t spoken, hadn’t cried out in frustration, maybe Henrietta wouldn’t have been distracted for that brief, vital, tragic moment.

  It was Mina who had propelled Nest back into life, both physically and emotionally; bullying her into her wheelchair so as to push her into the garden, manhandling Nest and her chair into the specially adapted motor caravan, forcing her to live.

  ‘I can’t,’ she’d mumbled. ‘Please, Mina. I don’t want to see anyone. Try to understand. I have no right . . .’

  ‘Not even the deaths of Henrietta and Conner give you an excuse to wall yourself up alive. Anyway, Lyddie needs you . . .’

  ‘No!’ she’d said, straining back in her chair, head turned aside from Mina’s implacability. ‘No! Don’t you see? I killed them.’

  ‘Lyddie and Roger know only that Henrietta misjudged the bend, not why. They need you.’

  Lyddie’s love and sympathy had been the hardest burden to bear.

  ‘I think you’ll find,’ Mina had said much later, ‘that living and loving will be just as cruel as self-imposed seclusion could ever be. You’ll be punished quite enough – if that’s what you want.’

  So Nest had given herself up to life as best she could, withholding nothing, accepting everything – nearly everything. She still refused to allow Mina to push her down to the sea. The sea was the symbol of freedom, of holiday; the reward after the long trek from London. Oh, the smell of it; its cool, silky embrace on hot hands and feet; its continuous movement, restless yet soothing.

  Now, as she lay at last in bed, exhausted by the exertions of getting there, she could picture the path to the sea. Here, between Blackstone Point and Heddon’s Mouth, the steep-sided cleave, thickly wooded with scrub oak, beech and larch, cuts a deep notch into the cliff. At the head of the cleave, a quarter of a mile from the sea, stands Ottercombe House, sheltered and remote in its wild, exotic garden. A rocky path, stepped with roots, runs beside the stream which rises on Exmoor, on Trentishoe Down. A tiny spring at first, it gathers speed, trickling from the heights, spilling down the rock-face in a little waterfall behind the house, welling through the culvert in the garden and pouring along the narrow valley until, finally, it plunges into the sea.

  Her eyes closed, Nest could picture each bend in the path to the beach; she could see the rhododendrons flourishing, despite the shallow covering of soil over the rocks: those Morte Slates, which run in a narrow band from Morte Point, across Devon and into Somerset. In early May drifts of bluebells grow beneath the terraces of trees, a cerulean lake of falling, flowing colour. In August, when the heather is in flower, the shoulders of the moor, which hunches above even the highest trees, shimmers bluish-purple in the afternoon sun. The path itself holds tiny seasonal treasures: bright green ferns, a clump of snowdrops, yellow-backed snails. How the children dawdle, postponing that delicious moment when they can at last see the sea; the cleave widening out as if to embrace the crescent-shaped beach, the cliff walls descending steeply into the grey waters. The stream, which has been beside them all the way, tumbles into a deeply shelving, rocky pool and then travels on, carving a track across the shaly sand until it is lost in the cold waters of the Bristol Channel.

  Nest and her brother, Timmie, learn to swim in the rock pool; they paddle there too, with shrimping nets and bright, shiny tin buckets, and share a passion for the wildlife on this rock-bound coast.

  ‘We’ll live here together when we grow up,’ he tells her, his cold sandy hand clutching the handle of his bucket, which contains a crab and two minute shrimps.

  ‘But who will look after us?’ The youngest of the family, it is beyond Nest’s experience that she might one day do this for herself.

  ‘Mina will,’ he answers confidently. Nine years older than he, Mina at fourteen seems already adult.

  ‘Yes,’ she agrees contentedly. ‘Mina will look after us.’

  Stirring restlessly, Nest recalled this prophecy. Mina had, indeed, looked after her – and now she must look after Georgie too. Panic fluttered just below Nest’s ribs, her fears returning – bringing memories with them – and she groaned. Sleep would elude her now, and she would become prey to those night-time terrors that left her exhausted and ill – but there was a tried-and-tested remedy at hand. She hauled herself up against the pillow, switched on the bedside light and reached for Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia.

  In her bedroom upstairs, Mina was pottering happily. The dogs, curled ready for sleep in their baskets, watched her as she moved about, their ears cocked as she murmured to them, a quiet monotone – ‘Good dogs, good little persons. There then, settle down now, and we shall have a lovely walk tomorrow, won’t we? Who’s my baby, then? Who’s a good Boyo?’ – and then that little exhalation, an explosion of air escaping from her lips in a descending scale, ‘po-po-po’, as she paused for a moment to brush her silky white hair.

  This room, which had once been her mother’s bedroom, was a complete antithesis to Nest’s cell. Here, freed briefly from the necessary disciplines of nearly a lifetime of caring first for her mother and then for Nest, Mina allowed her passion for vivid, visual drama full rein and, glad to see her creating something of her own, various members of the family had contributed by bringing her presents: prints, silk cushions, ornaments, even small pieces of furniture. Mina received them with delight and made haste to find homes for them. The walls were crammed with images – Klimt’s The Three Stages of Life and The Kiss next to Paul Colin’s La Revue Nègre poster – whilst a set of prints depicting what Mina thought of as Jack Vettriano’s gangster world hung beside Jackson Pollock’s silk-screened Summer Time. A chaise-longue, draped with silky shawls and loaded with cushions, reposed beneath the window facing a Lombok tallboy, exquisitely painted with exotic birds, which stood against the opposite wall beside a bucket-shaped cane chair. Odd, fascinating objects jostled on every polished surface: photographs in a variety of pretty frames, a pair of Chinese cloisonné vases, a charming set of amusing papier mâché ducks. A puppet, long-limbed, was suspended from a hook, his clever magician’s face lit by the gentle light of an elegant brass lamp with a tulip shade made of blue glass.

  The room brimmed with colour. A velvet throw covered the deep, high double bed, its jewel colours – amethyst, sapphire and ruby – repeated in the long, heavy curtains, and three long shelves creaked with books, stacked and piled together, old-fashioned, elegant leather jackets residing happily alongside modern, cracked, paper spines. A thick, plain grey carpet was almost completely covered by beautiful, ancient rugs and a
high, lacquered screen half-hid the alcove in the far corner.

  After the glowing, extravagant display of textures and tints, the starkness of the small alcove was a shock to the unprepared. A simple shelf, containing a computer monitor with a keyboard and a printer, ran the length of the wall, a typist’s swivel chair beside it. There was nothing here to distract from the simple, working atmosphere. Mina came around the screen, switched on the computer and sat down, humming beneath her breath. Connected to the world by means of the Internet, she settled happily, still humming, pulling her long fleecy robe more cosily around her knees whilst the screen scrolled and flickered. She typed in her password and waited, watching eagerly, her grey-green eyes focused and intent. She was rewarded at last: ‘You have four unread messages.’ The mouse moved busily, covering and clicking. With a sigh of pleasure Mina began to open her mail.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Lyddie woke, Liam was already up. She could hear him in the bathroom, whistling beneath his breath, as he ran hot water for his shave. Stretching out across the bed, pulling the pillows about her, she lay contentedly – half waking, half dreaming – until a gush of water in the wastepipe and a closing door announced Liam’s presence.

  ‘Not still asleep?’ He sighed, shaking his head as he dragged on jeans and a sweatshirt. ‘And me thinking that you’d be downstairs getting the coffee on. That poor dog will be crossing his legs, I should imagine.’

  ‘You’ve let him out already. And had some coffee.’ She was unmoved, too comfortable to feel guilty. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Ten to eight. Of course, it’s all very well for those of us who work at home . . .’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ she said lazily. ‘You’d hate to work at home. You can’t go half an hour without needing to speak to someone.’

  ‘Just as well in my job,’ he answered cheerfully. He bent to peer at himself in the glass on the small pine chest, whistling again beneath his breath as he dragged a comb through his thick, dark hair.

  ‘Who’s opening up today?’ she asked, hands behind her head, watching him appreciatively. ‘Isn’t it Joe’s turn?’

  ‘It is, indeed. A nice slow start for us, although I need to go to the bank.’ He turned to look at her, catching her glance and smiling to himself. ‘You look very beautiful, lying there.’ He bent over her, kissing her lightly, and she put her arms about him, pulling him down, so that he was half kneeling, half lying. ‘And to think,’ he murmured in her ear, ‘if it hadn’t been for that damn dog of yours, I wouldn’t be up at all. And you feeling sexy this morning. Isn’t it just my luck?’

  She chuckled, releasing him. ‘You don’t do too badly. A doting wife and all that adulation from your female customers.’ She was learning that a light touch earned approval. ‘Most men would kill for the amount of attention you get.’

  ‘Ah, there’s safety in numbers,’ he told her, kneeling back on his heels. ‘And what about you and Joe, if it comes to that, canoodling together in the snug while I’m working like a dog? What do you talk about, the two of you?’

  ‘Joe’s nice.’ There was a sweetness in the knowledge that he’d noticed. ‘He’s great company. He talks about things that you find boring, like books and films. We discuss the plots and relationships, how they work and why, and he gets right into the characters so that it’s like talking about real people. He’s compassionate too: he doesn’t mock at their weaknesses like you do.’

  ‘Ah, that’s just his way of chatting you up, cunning fellow that he is. You’ll need to watch yourself, I can see that. But he doesn’t make you laugh the way I can.’

  ‘No,’ she admitted, almost reluctantly, a tiny frown appearing, ‘no, he doesn’t, but then he doesn’t flirt like you do, either . . .’

  He kissed the rest of the sentence away – until she forgot Joe entirely and the frown was smoothed into delight – and then carefully, gently, detached himself. She clung briefly, though instinct warned her against any show of possessiveness, and sighing regretfully, she pushed back the duvet, running her hands through her black hair.

  ‘Make me some coffee while I have a shower, would you, Liam? Tell the Bosun I’m on my way.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ He hesitated, watching her thoughtfully. ‘If you were quick we could drive out to Malpas and give him a walk along the river. It’s a fantastic morning. Would you like that?’

  ‘Oh, I’d love it.’ Her face was bright with anticipation. ‘And so would he. Are you sure?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure I’m sure. Joe can manage without me for an hour or so. It doesn’t get really busy until around midday and we’ll be back long before then.’

  ‘I’ll be five minutes,’ she promised. ‘Well, ten.’

  She fled along the passage to the bathroom and Liam went downstairs, frowning a little, to tell the Bosun about the treat in store for him.

  ‘It’s a glorious morning.’ Mina opened the kitchen door to let the dogs out into the freedom of the garden. ‘How about a little trip in the camper?’ She stood watching Nogood Boyo quartering the ground below the bird-table whilst Polly Garter sat down on a mossy flagstone to scratch vigorously at an ear. The little yard was full of morning sunshine, glinting on tiny ferns and the round-leaved pennywort growing in the cracks of the cliff, which rose sheer as a wall behind the house.

  Nest, eating a Victoria plum from the orchard, turned her chair from the breakfast table and looked out.

  ‘We could go to the Fuchsia Valley,’ suggested Mina, ‘and have some coffee. Or the Hunter’s Inn. Or over the moor to Simonsbath.’

  ‘Simonsbath,’ said Nest, dropping the plum stone into her cereal bowl and licking her fingers appreciatively. ‘It’s just the morning for a drive across the moor.’

  ‘We could take the whole day off,’ offered Mina. ‘Coffee at Simonsbath, on to Dunster and back over Countisbury. We might as well make the most of it.’

  She didn’t add ‘before Georgie arrives’ but it was implicit in the glance the sisters exchanged.

  ‘Did you manage to get through to Helena just now?’ Nest asked, trying to sound casual, almost indifferent.

  ‘Yes.’ Mina was now peering out of the door. ‘Yes, I did. She was very relieved. And grateful. They’re bringing Georgie down on Saturday.’

  ‘On Saturday?’ Nest exclaimed. ‘Good grief! They’re not wasting any time.’

  Mina turned to face her: she looked uncomfortable. ‘It seems they have the opportunity to sell her flat, d’you see? They didn’t want to miss the opportunity.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. My goodness, they don’t hang about, do they?’ Nest began to laugh. ‘I hope Georgie has agreed. They’ve got it all worked out, by the sound of it.’

  ‘They need the money from the flat, so Helena says, to fund the nursing home.’ Mina, as usual, was trying to be fair. ‘They want her to have the best.’

  ‘Sure they do!’ said Nest drily. ‘And what if we couldn’t have had her here?’

  Mina shrugged. ‘They’d have thought of something else, I expect.’ She still looked unhappy. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have been quite so available but, after all—’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Nest quickly. ‘I’m sure we’re doing the right thing. It just irks me that whenever Helena and Rupert dish the dirt they always come up smelling of roses. But that’s because I’m a cow. There’s nowhere else for her to go, poor old Georgie.’

  Mina was silent for a moment. She knew that Helena had also contacted her cousin Jack, their brother Timmie’s son, asking if he and his wife, Hannah, could take Georgie in, if necessary. Mina knew that Nest would disapprove of this but she suspected that the truth would out before too long – Jack was very fond of his two aunts and in constant contact – and she decided that Nest might as well know at once.

  ‘Actually, I had an e-mail from Jack last night saying that Helena had been in touch,’ she admitted. ‘If we’d refused she was going to ask him if he and Hannah could cope.’

  ‘You must be joking?’ N
est was incredulous. ‘I should have thought that those two have quite enough on their plates already. They’ve just started a new term with a houseful of boys to organize, as well as two children of their own. I can just see Georgie in the middle of a boys’ preparatory school. The mind boggles.’

  ‘Jack would have done it,’ said Mina, smiling a little.

  ‘Jack would do anything for anyone. He’s Timmie’s son. And Hannah, bless her, would go along with it.’

  ‘He was anxious about us managing. Goodness, I don’t know what we’d do without that boy. Or without Hannah, for that matter. And then there’s Lyddie, always in touch and worrying about us. How blessed we are.’

  ‘It’s odd, isn’t it,’ began Nest slowly, ‘that we don’t have that same sense of . . .’ she hesitated, feeling for the right word, ‘satisfaction about Lyddie and Liam that we have about Jack and Hannah.’

  ‘Liam’s great fun,’ said Mina quickly, ‘and terribly attractive . . .’

  ‘But?’ prompted Nest. ‘There has to be a “but” after that.’

  ‘But it’s as if Lyddie feels that she needs to live up to him. Of course, she was knocked sideways when James left her and I sense that she’s vulnerable with Liam, as if she’s afraid that it might happen again if she’s not careful. I feel a kind of wariness on Lyddie’s side. There’s no. . .’ this time it was Mina searching for a word, ‘no serenity. Not like there is between Jack and Hannah. I hope she doesn’t do something silly.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ Nest looked anxious.

  ‘Oh, I’m being an old fool.’ Mina tried to shrug away her imaginings. ‘I was just remembering when we went to Truro and had lunch with them at The Place. I thought that she and Joe were very friendly together. She seems quite at ease with him, there’s no tension and she can be herself, but I had the feeling that Liam didn’t care for it.’

  ‘Joe and Liam have been friends since school,’ said Nest, trying to reassure herself as well as Mina. ‘I can’t believe that Joe—’