The Children's Hour

by Marcia Willett

  She was silent, still smarting with embarrassment.

  ‘You see,’ he continued after a moment or two, ‘it’s not just me, is it? It’s Joe. He might not like you knowing all his secrets too.’

  ‘But this wasn’t to Joe, was it?’ she replied miserably but determined to keep the record straight. ‘I imagine the company correspondence goes to The Place. This was to you, personally.’

  ‘So it was. But you read it anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said wearily. ‘I read it anyway and I know that you’re going to increase the mortgage on this house.’

  Silence. She looked at him, dark, saturnine and elegant, and was consumed with longing for him; it was utterly necessary to break down this barrier to their love.

  ‘Why?’ she pleaded. ‘Why, Liam, when you know I can raise some money on the house in Iffley?’ Her conversation with the Aunts and her subsequent resolution was so much dust and ashes now, in the face of his icy rejection. ‘Why won’t you let me help you?’

  ‘I don’t want to be “helped”.’ He spoke the word with distaste. ‘I started this business and whether it stands or falls is up to me. Can you not understand that?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can understand it. But don’t I come into this at all? This house is yours but we share it now. Suppose you put it at risk by increasing the mortgage on it? It’s my home too.’

  ‘So it is. But I shan’t let you down. You’ll have to learn to trust me.’ A tiny pause; a light, very slight relaxation of his bunched muscles. ‘Do you find that impossible?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She felt too wretched to protest further; all she longed for was the old familiar harmony. ‘It’s clear that The Place is a terrific success . . .’ She hesitated, afraid of endangering the faint, very faint, warming of the arctic atmosphere between them. ‘I’m truly sorry, Liam . . .’

  ‘And so am I.’ It wasn’t clear whether he was referring to her misdemeanour or tendering an apology, but he touched her lightly on the head before moving swiftly to the door. ‘I’ve got an appointment in the town and I shall go straight on to The Place. See you later for supper, I expect.’

  The door closed behind him: Lyddie sat quite still. It was terrible to be so much in love that almost nothing mattered except the beloved’s kiss. She wrung her hands together, humiliated by the depth of her physical need for him, willing him to return, but only the Bosun appeared, padding gently, warily, to sit beside her, offering her the grateful, warming benefit of his love.

  Later that afternoon, just as Jack and his family were assembling for tea, the telephone rang. With a resigned gesture he hurried away to his study whilst Hannah groaned with irritation. Her energetic vivacity kept her as slender at thirty-three as she’d been at twenty, and she was pretty and stylish in a sharp, up-to-the-minute way; it was as easy to imagine her in some smart city restaurant as it was to see how utterly content she was in the cluttered kitchen of this school house in the Dorsetshire countryside. Despite looking after Jack and their children, as well as eight small boys during term-time, she still managed to keep her own catering business in operation – although, at present, it consisted mainly of cooking for lunch parties and very special occasions. She was devoted to her children and adored Jack, who teased her, drove her mad with his refusal to be organized, but panicked privately lest anything should happen to his three very special people. Hannah knew all about this very real terror, and his desire to protect them from anything harmful, and tried to steer a sensible path that embraced reasonable caution and natural development.

  When he came back into the kitchen he looked pre-occupied but he smiled at Toby across the table and slid into the seat beside his daughter’s high chair.

  ‘Who was it?’ demanded Hannah, ‘and why does the telephone ring the moment we all sit down at the table together? There’s a conspiracy out there.’

  ‘Honey,’ said Flora. ‘Not jam. No, no, no . . .’

  ‘Is there some resonance about the word “no”,’ mused her father, moving the honey-pot with a practised thrust beyond Flora’s sticky reach, ‘which lends itself to the childish imagination? Why not “yes” or “please”? Wasn’t “no” the first word our darling daughter uttered? Not “Mum-mum-mum” or “Dad-dad-dad”, as I once understood was usually the case, but “No”.’

  ‘Actually,’ answered Hannah, putting Marmite soldiers on Toby’s plate, ‘it was “Bog off!” courtesy of young Jackson.’

  Toby made round eyes and mouthed ‘Bog off!’ at his father, who winked back at him.

  ‘What a lovely boy he was,’ he said, with a reminiscent sigh. ‘We owed so much to him by the time he went.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hannah grimly. ‘Tobes’s vocabulary was startlingly improved. OK, Flora, if you don’t want it I shall give it to Caligula.’

  Flora stared down at the enormous, predatory tabby cat they’d inherited from the former history master, and sniffed pathetically, eyes wet with frustrated tears. Toby watched sympathetically, instinctively knowing that her enormous pride needed some kind of assuaging before she could back down.

  ‘It’s new jam,’ he told her encouragingly. ‘Not the old one. It’s really, really nice.’

  Flora’s lower lip resumed its normal size and her arched limbs relaxed a little. She allowed, grudgingly, a tiny portion of bread and jam to be inserted into her mouth. When none of it reappeared her parents breathed deeply and smiled at each other, as if some great object had been achieved.

  ‘Tobes is destined for the Diplomatic Corps,’ observed Jack, ‘if we’ve still got one in twenty years’ time.’

  ‘Possibly,’ agreed Hannah, ‘but who was it on the phone?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Remembering, Jack’s face fell. ‘It was Lyddie. She can’t get over to see us after all.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Hannah put down her mug of tea and stared at him in disappointment. ‘Why on earth not?’

  He hesitated. ‘I’m not absolutely sure. She sounded really down but she insisted she was OK. Just said that everything was a bit on top of her and she couldn’t get away.’

  ‘Rats!’ said Hannah crossly. ‘I was really looking forward to it. We all were.’

  ‘I wanted to show her how I could ride my new bicycle,’ said Toby sadly. ‘And I’d done a picture.’

  ‘And Flora wanted to show off her new word,’ said Jack, trying to raise their spirits a little. ‘Didn’t you, my darling?’

  Flora scowled at him, cheeks bulging, crammed with bread and jam, and he grinned back at her.

  ‘What new word?’ asked Toby, interested.

  ‘Jack!’ warned Hannah. ‘That will do. It’s not like Lyddie to stand us up. Are you sure she’s OK?’

  ‘Not really,’ admitted Jack. ‘I couldn’t get anything out of her, though. The good news is that she’s agreed to drive over to Ottercombe when we go on Saturday. She wants to see the Aunts and I’ve made her promise, otherwise I’ve said we’ll set Flora on her.’

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ said Hannah reluctantly. ‘But we won’t be able to have a really good gossip.’

  ‘Will she bring the Bosun?’ asked Toby eagerly. ‘I do love him. And so does Flora, don’t you, Flora? I wish we could have a dog.’

  ‘I know you do,’ said Hannah. ‘You’ve told us before, actually. Just once or twice.’

  ‘On the hour, every hour. But, yes, Lyddie is bringing the Bosun so you’ll be able to take him down to the beach.’

  ‘The sea.’ Toby’s face was lit with excitement. ‘Flora! We’re going to the sea.’

  ‘Bistik,’ demanded Flora threateningly, drumming on her tray. ‘Bistik!’

  ‘We’ll take Flora swimming,’ said Jack, his eyes brightening with fell intent. ‘Isn’t there some scientific discovery which proves that small children can’t drown? Should we test it?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ said Hannah longingly, passing her younger child a small square of shortbread and starting to peel an apple. ‘Just don’t, that’s all.’ She passed a quart
er to her son. ‘Get on with it, Tobes, and then we’ll all go for a walk. All,’ she repeated firmly, as Jack swallowed the remains of his tea hastily and glanced purposefully at his watch. ‘It’ll do us all good.’

  Jack made a series of faces, which sent Toby into fits of laughter, and even Hannah grinned unwillingly.

  ‘Hopeless,’ she said. ‘Eight-year-old boys are a better example than you are. No, Flora, that’s enough biscuit. Apple, now. Eat up and we’ll walk down to the river. You can ride your bike, Tobes, and Daddy will give you a piggy-back, Flora. You like that, don’t you?’

  Flora, who did indeed feel that there was a certain rightness when her head was higher than anyone else’s, began to eat her apple pieces with enthusiasm. Jack looked at his wife.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing I love more than having both ears violently twisted whilst a pair of iron heels rhythmically shatter my breastbone.’

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ she answered equably. ‘I like everyone to be happy. I’ll get the coats. And don’t pinch the last of the chocolate biscuits, Jack. I know exactly how many there are.’

  She left the kitchen and there was a silence broken only by Flora eating apple. Toby finished his quarters and beamed at his father. Jack winked back at him companionably.

  ‘Tell me, Tobes,’ he asked thoughtfully, ‘have you come across the word “witch” yet?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nest woke suddenly, heartbeat unsteady, struggling into awareness as she tried to see the clock. Even before she could read its illuminated face she knew that the night was over. The thickness of the curtains could not completely block the light-fingered morning as it groped between the gaps in the heavy folds, touching the room alive with rosy colour, stroking mahogany and glass until they reflected a sheeny lambency. The house was wrapped in absolute silence. On such a morning the deep cleave would be filled with a creeping mist, only the highest treetops rising above drifting fog, whilst the sea, lying quiet beneath its clammy blanket, waited for that warming radiance that now traced its way into the darkness of Nest’s room.

  In the first months after the accident, her helplessness had brought nightmares to her waking and sleeping hours. What if the house should catch fire? Or if there should be an intruder? Her inability to move quickly or defend herself manifested itself in sweating terrors, which Jack and Mina had tried hard to allay by practical means: a very good smoke alarm system, bars at her windows. The large morning-room, barely used since Lydia’s death, was the obvious choice for Nest’s quarters. Next door to the kitchen, it had been quite easy to plumb in a small bathroom and equip it for her needs. The fact that it was on the ground floor made access simple for her, yet increased her night-time fears. Mina refused to allow her to lock herself in but the bars had helped.

  ‘It’s so stupid,’ Nest would cried vexedly, almost weeping with frustration. ‘I’m OK until I go to bed. It’s the dark . . .’ and Mina remembered a younger Nest, screaming in the night after Hans Brinker was read aloud during the children’s hour: the chapter ‘The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous’ tells how the young Dutch boys disturb an intruder. The vision of the robber, creeping quietly, creeping slowly across the moonlit floor, knife in hand, remained with small Nest long after lights were out and, after the nightmare, she’d been allowed to sleep in Mina’s bed for the rest of the night. Since the accident, she’d gradually adapted to this aspect of her disability but she was still prey to terrible dreams and waking horrors.

  Now, even as she peered at the clock, she stiffened into immobility. Someone was in the room. Tense and alert, blood singing in her ears, she strained to see the darker, denser shape near the door. It waited, motionless, yet, in the breathless silence, Nest’s heightened senses detected confusion on the part of the intruder. For a brief moment she wondered – hoped – that this might be a peculiarly vivid dream but, before she could dismiss the thought, there was a movement: a stealthy turning of a handle, a wedge of light lying across the floor before the door closed again with a tiny but audible click. Instantly Nest was washed in a drenching sweat of relief, her locked muscles unclenching painfully. She swallowed several times, her eyes closed, and began deliberately to inhale long deep breaths. Presently, she pushed back her covers and began the slow process of dressing, and, later still, wheeled herself into the kitchen for breakfast.

  The room was filled with bright, comforting light and Nogood Boyo came to greet her. She leaned from her chair to stroke him and wished her sisters ‘Good morning’.

  Georgie was immersed in a catalogue but Mina folded and put aside the Spectator, smiled at Nest – she never commented on her sister’s nocturnal miseries, preferring to dwell optimistically on the pleasures of the day ahead – and poured herself another cup of coffee.

  ‘There was an e-mail from Jack last night,’ she told Nest. ‘They’re all coming on Saturday for the whole day. And Lyddie’s coming too. Isn’t that good news?’

  Nest lifted the kettle onto the hotplate, responding to Mina’s evident delight with a raising of spirits.

  ‘Great,’ she answered cheerfully. ‘Isn’t it, Georgie? How long is it since you saw Toby and Flora? Flora’s baptism, was it?’

  ‘What a day that was,’ remembered Mina. ‘That lovely chapel. It was such a good idea having her christened at the school, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Do you remember, Georgie?’ persisted Nest, as Georgie rather fumblingly turned a page, frowning to herself. ‘Do you remember Flora?’

  ‘Of course she does,’ said Mina anxiously, her happiness evaporating a little in the face of Nest’s odd insistence. ‘And darling Toby.’

  ‘When are they coming?’ asked Georgie. ‘When . . .?’

  She fell into an odd, listening, posture; eyes vacant, head slightly cocked, and Mina looked at Nest in dismay. Nest wheeled herself to Georgie’s side and put a hand on her wrist; she saw that there were fresh egg-stains on the brown jersey and her sister’s hair was tangled and unbrushed.

  ‘Georgie,’ she said gently, and shook the flaccid wrist, ‘Jack and Hannah are coming on Saturday. Good, isn’t it?’

  Georgie’s glance travelled slowly from her wrist up to Nest’s face. ‘I know a secret,’ she said. She began to smile a little, secretly, cunningly. ‘I know a secret.’ Her voice was stronger now, the old singsong intonation, and Nest knew a tiny stab of fear. She looked at Mina, who was watching Georgie with an expression that mirrored her own sudden anxiety, and she released her sister’s wrist abruptly.

  Mina pushed back her chair. ‘Yes,’ she said with forced brightness. ‘On Saturday. What fun it will be,’ and, calling to the dogs, she went out into the garden. After a moment, Georgie returned to her catalogue as if nothing had happened and Nest wheeled back to the now-boiling kettle and, very thoughtfully, began to make herself some coffee.

  ‘It was Georgie,’ she said to Mina, some time later when they were alone together in the drawing-room. ‘You never come into my room without knocking. It was morning. Who else could it have been?’

  ‘She gets confused,’ said Mina. ‘You know she does. Oh dear . . .’

  ‘But why stand there in the dark without speaking? I was terrified.’ Nest’s fear was manifesting itself in anger. ‘If she’s going to start creeping about I shall have to lock my door. She might do it in the middle of the night next time. Have you any idea how frightening it is to wake up and know there’s someone in the room with you?’

  ‘Yes, well, no, but I can imagine,’ answered Mina distressfully. ‘Oh, I am so sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ Mina’s dismay made Nest feel guilty. ‘Obviously it isn’t. But I can’t cope with this.’ Silence. ‘Mina. Do you think Georgie might know . . . something?’

  The true fear was out in the open now. Mina’s eyes met Nest’s briefly and slid away.

  ‘I . . . don’t know.’

  ‘But no-one else knew,’ said Nest urgently. She glanced at the closed door and instinctively lowered her voice. ‘
Only you and me and Mama.’

  ‘I certainly never told Georgie,’ said Mina firmly.

  Nest stared at her. ‘Do you think Mama can have told her?’

  ‘I can’t believe that she would have done but that’s not to say that somehow Georgie didn’t . . . hear something.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘Look,’ said Mina quickly, ‘let’s not panic. She’s obviously suffering from delusions of some kind. Dementia . . . I don’t know what it is but it’s stupid to start jumping to conclusions. It’s probably something she just thinks she knows. After all, there are other secrets.’

  ‘Other secrets?’

  ‘Well, not secrets,’ said Mina quickly. ‘Not . . . real secrets. This is just Georgie being . . . Georgie.’

  Nest turned to stare out into the garden. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘And please don’t lock your door,’ pleaded Mina. ‘I’d be so worried. If you hear anything just ring your bell. That’s what it’s there for, after all. I realize that this time you were completely taken by surprise, but next time—’

  ‘I hope there won’t be a next time,’ said Nest grimly.

  She wheeled herself out through the french door onto the terrace and Mina was left alone. She sat quite motionless except for one hand which, gently and quite unconsciously, continued to stroke their mother’s rosewood sewing-box, standing where it had always been, beside her chair.

  *

  Timothy manages one more visit to Ottercombe before vanishing again into Europe. Ambrose and Georgie, by now, are firmly fixed in London; each manipulating the other to attain his or her own ends. Petrol rationing and restrictions on travel give them excellent excuses to avoid the long journey to Exmoor but, somehow, Timothy finds the means: travelling by train to Barnstaple, catching the last connection to Parracombe and walking the rest of the way, nearly four miles, across the moor. He arrives late on a wild March evening and only Lydia and Mina are still up to greet him. His skin is burned dark brown by a harsh foreign sun, his hair bleached liked straw, so that, to Mina, he seems as exciting and romantic as she has always remembered him.