The Children's Hour

by Marcia Willett

  Now, as she cast off her clothes and reached for the long fleecy wrapper, a tiny flickering excitement fluttered beneath her ribcage. She tidied up, deliberately prolonging the expectation, setting the magician marionette dancing and turning on his hook, and then went into the alcove. Anxious now, she switched on the computer, moving the mouse, eyes fixed on the screen: five unread messages – and one from Elyot. Foolishly weak with relief she opened it, scanning it quickly for signs of any change, and then read it slowly, her heart light again.

  From: Elyot

  To: Mina

  Things are not too good here. Yesterday, the carer came in to look after Lavinia whilst I took a few hours off to get out into the country and stretch my legs. The weather is more like May than October, isn’t it? I had a wonderful walk in the hills, so refreshing and uplifting, but unfortunately, on my way home I clipped a parked car and still feel ridiculously shaken by the episode. The owner, a young man, was uncomplimentary about ‘old buffers’ being allowed on the roads and I felt strangely humiliated. Worse, when I got home, I found that Lavinia had been very difficult and the carer was rather worried about her, suggesting that she was deteriorating and that I might not be able to cope for very much longer.

  I can tell you, my dear friend, that once she had gone I was prey to the most terrible depression. Coming on top of my silly accident, this news managed to destroy all the recharging to my batteries that the exercise had achieved. What shall I do when I can no longer drive? How could I possibly put Lavinia into a home and walk away from her? I was too low to talk to you last night – I don’t sound much better now, do I? – but I needed to make contact. At these moments the only people who can really help are those who are in a similar position and your offer of a few days’ holiday has been like a tiny sparkle of light at the end of a very long dark tunnel. Bless you for it. Even if it never happens, the thought of it is keeping me sane – just.

  I hope all is reasonably well with you?

  Mina sat for some moments, deep in thought. Presently she began to type, in her careful, two-fingered way.

  From: Mina

  To: Elyot

  How strange, Elyot, that our experiences seem to bear a close comparison of late. Georgie and Lavinia are clearly suffering from the same kind of mental problems and she is beginning to make trouble – well, Georgie always did that! But it’s these swings from past to present that unnerve me. She upset Nest by going into her room early this morning, not doing anything, or speaking, but simply standing in silence in the dark. Poor old Nest, who has always been highly strung, nearly died of fright and was very upset. The trouble is, it seems impossible to confront Georgie simply because I don’t know how it might take her. Mentally, she’s clearly unstable. Nowhere near as bad as it is for you, I know that, and, anyway, Georgie is not my responsibility. If I insisted, Helena would come and remove her, but she is my sister. The trouble is that she’s worrying Nest, talking about a secret. Well, we all have those, don’t we, but there is something rather serious here. I only wish I knew which secret Georgie is thinking she knows. Oh dear! How odd that makes us sound but it’s such a relief to talk to you about it.

  As to the driving, yes! My terror too. I was so tired after our trip this afternoon, and, like you, I had terrible fears about how long I could keep going. We can’t let it get us down. I know you’ve read The Screwtape Letters but I wonder if you’ve read Bernard Haring’s Hope is the Remedy? His Uncle Screwtape is the Super-Skunk, presiding over a Universal Congress of Skunks, and their agenda is to transform their enemy, the Church, into a perfect sacrament of pessimism. He knows that Christians – and that goes for most people too – cannot survive if pessimism is injected and hope destroyed. We can’t afford despair, old friend. One day you’ll come to Ottercombe, I feel quite sure of it, and, meanwhile, we have this luxury of communication.

  Didn’t you tell me that your son was due home from abroad later this year? That’s something to hold on to, isn’t it? And we have Jack and his family, and Lyddie visiting on Saturday. They will certainly cheer us up. Forgive me if I’m beginning to sound dangerously trite but I know how close to the edge we both are.

  Stay in touch, Elyot. You are much in my thoughts.

  His reply came swiftly.

  From: Elyot

  To: Mina

  My dear Mina, you have restored me. I haven’t read Hope is the Remedy but I shall make a point of doing so now. I think I need it!

  Goodnight and God bless you.

  Mina breathed deeply with relief and a vague, warming happiness. Smiling a little she began to open her other messages.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Earlier that same evening, Lyddie had been hurrying through the narrow streets, hoping to get to The Place before the rain started in earnest. A soft, grey mist rolling in from the west had hung like a gauze curtain before the sinking sun, quenching its splashy, burning splendour so that the colours blurred and ran together, gold and scarlet and amethyst staining gently into a delicate, pearly dusk. Lyddie had watched it from the field gate in the lane above the town, whilst the Bosun pottered nearby, waiting for the last rosy flush to be extinguished before returning home to change into something that would give her confidence for supper at The Place. During the last two days, since the row over the letter, a kind of truce had begun to stretch between them and Lyddie was finding the strain of behaving like a polite stranger difficult to maintain. She’d been rather shocked – and then frightened – to discover that Liam seemed almost indifferent to the loss of their happy relationship. That evening, after the row, she’d found it impossible to stroll into The Place as if nothing had happened. How could she see him like that, in public, after what had happened between them?

  He’d returned home in the early hours of the morning and had been surprised to find her waiting up for him.

  ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ he’d asked, almost irritably – and when she’d gone to him, hoping to soften him, to explain why she’d been unable to come to The Place, he’d said that it was too late for emotional scenes and they’d both best get some sleep. Silenced, humiliated, she’d trailed upstairs behind him, wondering if he’d relent once they were in bed together. He’d turned on his side away from her, at once, and had been asleep in minutes. She’d lain, stiff and unhappy, wide-eyed in the darkness, listening to his regular, unforced breathing. Presently, she’d crept out of bed and gone downstairs to make some tea, drinking it with one arm round the Bosun’s neck. He’d been delighted to see her, charmed by this break from routine, and was rather sorry when she went back upstairs, ascending away from him into the darkness. Towards dawn she’d fallen into a heavy sleep and, when she’d wakened, Liam had gone.

  His note was on her desk: ‘It’s going to be a busy day – we’ve got the VAT inspector in the office. See you this evening for supper as usual.’

  She’d seen it as an olive branch and, anxious to build on even this small peace-offering, had gone, as usual, for supper. Liam, however, had remained in the office for most of the evening and even Joe had worn a preoccupied expression that did not encourage any kind of intimacy. As they’d walked home, she’d almost been afraid to ask Liam too much about the inspector’s visit, lest he interpreted her interest as unwarranted curiosity, but had managed to intimate that she wished that they could find some way back to their usual ease of manner. It was clear that Liam had been drinking, something he rarely did when he was working, and, although he was more approachable than he had been the previous evening, nevertheless there was an odd indifference, almost a brutality, about him that unnerved her. This time he made love to her with a passion that held no tenderness whatever and yet she still clung to him, determined to break through this stranger’s façade to the real Liam, whom she loved.

  Once again, he fell asleep immediately but at least, this time, there remained some semblance of an embrace and, comforted by his warm, relaxed body, she was able to sleep. He brought her a mug of tea in the morning, but the constra
int was still there, although she’d tried to smile at him, to indicate her love.

  ‘So what time are you away to your cousin Jack?’ he’d asked – and, when she’d told him she’d cancelled her visit, he’d looked quite put out.

  ‘How could I go when we’re like this?’ she’d pleaded. ‘Can’t you see that it would have been impossible?’

  ‘Mother of God!’ he’d exclaimed. ‘What a child you are’ – but then he had relented and stretched out a hand to her.

  ‘I was going to take the day off to go to Dorset,’ she’d said, holding his hand tightly, ‘so couldn’t we spend some time together? Take the Bosun and go for a walk somewhere? It looks as if it’s going to be a glorious day.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ he told her, looking away from her disappointment, disengaging his hand. ‘The VAT inspector’s not done with us yet, I’m afraid. I’ll be stuck in the office with him till lunchtime at least, maybe longer.’

  ‘But you’ll be home this afternoon?’

  ‘I hope so. If not, then I’ll certainly be able to have supper with you this evening. Is that a date?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she’d said, grateful for this much at least and responding to his lighter tone. ‘I’ll be there.’

  So here she was, the Bosun padding at her side, hurrying to be indoors before the rain increased. She was a little earlier than usual but this was deliberate. She was hoping to be at her seat in the snug before the café filled up. She knew she was being foolish but she flinched at the thought of facing the glances of the now-familiar clients, of threading her way between occupied tables, believing that those who knew her might guess from her expression that all was not well between her and Liam. It came as a tiny unwelcome shock to realize that she still counted herself so much on the outside; no warmth or true friendliness awaited her here; only polite greetings and the knowledge that any fall from grace would delight one or two regulars. Of course, there was Joe . . .

  She paused inside the door, fumbling with the Bosun’s lead, glad to see The Place was nearly empty. Two men sat on stools at the bar near the door talking quietly together, the background CD – an Aretha Franklin recording – giving them conversational privacy. Lyddie straightened up and looked around her as if for the first time, approving the black-and-white tiled floor, whitewashed rough-stone walls and the large gilt-framed mirrors. Comfortable, cushioned basket-weave chairs were set at the round, black-stained beech tables, which each had its posy of fresh flowers and a candle in a wrought-iron holder. The long bar, with its high stools, stretched the length of one wall and the snug was right at the back, just outside the kitchen door. In one corner a narrow staircase curved to an upper floor where the offices, storerooms and lavatories were situated. Discreet wall lights gave an intimate glow, the place was fresh and clean and inviting, and, through the glass panes of the kitchen door, Lyddie could see the kitchen staff working amicably together as if in a silent movie, cut off from the small world outside the sound-proofed door.

  Passing between the tables, she was nearly at the entrance to the snug when she heard the conversation, low-pitched but tense. The words were not clear but the tone was; she recognized the voices of Joe and Rosie – and they were arguing. The background music made it impossible to hear, or to make her approach heard, and Lyddie paused anxiously, wondering what she should do. The Bosun, however, had no such finer feelings. He shouldered his way past her and wagged cheerfully into the snug, confident of his welcome. The voices ceased abruptly and, by the time Rosie emerged, Lyddie had moved back into the body of the room and was busy taking off her long raincoat.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ She smiled at Rosie as if surprised to see her. ‘It’s beginning to rain quite hard. We only just made it in time. I thought there was nobody here.’

  Rosie watched her for a moment, not speaking, until Joe came out of the snug behind her and Lyddie was able to smile at him too, as naturally as she could.

  ‘I’m a bit early,’ she was beginning – and then, to her relief, a couple came in, exclaiming at the weather, and Rosie moved behind the bar.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Joe said, smiling back at Lyddie. ‘You are a bit earlier than usual, and Liam’s still in the office, but you must have a drink and then I’ll go and tell him you’re here. I know he wants to eat with you this evening. I’ve had instructions.’

  Her heart was warmed by his words, and by his welcome, and courage flowed once more in her veins. She sat down in the corner of the snug, the Bosun stretched just outside, and waited for her drink.

  ‘So.’ He put a glass of wine in front of her and slid onto the opposite bench. ‘How are you? I didn’t have a chance to talk to you last night, we were too preoccupied with the man from the VAT, but I think he’s finished with us and we’ve passed all the tests with flying colours!’

  He was friendly, easy in his corner, yet Lyddie still sensed uneasiness beneath the joky exterior.

  ‘I’m worried about Liam.’ She said the words without really thinking about them; they seemed to jump from her lips like the toads from the princess’s mouth, and she watched his expression change.

  ‘Worried?’ Joe never drank when he was working, so, having nothing to occupy his hands, nothing to sip whilst he thought up some light response, he folded his arms across his chest and frowned a little. ‘What’s to worry about? He seems fine to me.’ But he would not look at her, shifting, instead, sideways onto the table, one leg stretched along the bench, so as to stare out of the doorway of the snug.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She rested her arms on the table. ‘I hoped you’d be able to tell me. He keeps the whole business side so private but there’s something on his mind.’

  She noted that he looked relieved, watched him relax slightly. ‘Oh, that’s Liam all over,’ he said. ‘Even I don’t know what’s going on when it comes to the business. It’s his baby, always has been. No good getting upset about it.’

  ‘It’s not quite that.’ She wondered how much she could confide in Joe. ‘The thing is, I’ve been wondering if the business needs money. If— Oh, hell, I don’t know how to put this. We’ve had a bit of a row about it, actually.’

  She looked so miserable that Joe swung his leg off the bench and faced her directly across the table.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I know you saw a letter. Liam told me something about it and I think he was over the top about it, if you want my opinion. You’re his wife, after all, and I think he’s too obsessed – well, possessive, anyway – about The Place. It’s his whole world and you’re going to have to try to accept that. But there is no need to worry about the financial side of it. Honestly. It’s not unusual to raise money against your own property when you’re in a partnership. It means that the liability is equally shared. We’ve got to modernize the kitchen and that’s the long and short of it. I’m doing the same, raising money against my flat, and Rosie’s not too thrilled about it, I can tell you.’

  ‘Is that what you were arguing about?’ she asked, comforted by his matter-of-factness.

  He flushed, clearly embarrassed, and she cursed herself that, in her relief, she’d been so tactless.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said quickly, covering the lapse, ‘it’s simply that I might have some money coming to me, you see, and I wondered if I could help him.’ She shrugged. ‘You know, stop him having to borrow.’

  ‘Liam’s a control freak,’ Joe told her. ‘He likes to do everything himself. It’s crazy if you’ve got some money and you’re prepared to let him use it – but that’s Liam!’

  ‘And who is it taking my name in vain?’ Liam appeared in the doorway, smiling at their discomfiture, stroking the Bosun’s head. ‘What lies is he telling you about me?’

  It was clear that, between Aretha Franklin and the people now filling the café, Liam had heard only the last few words and Lyddie swallowed in a dry throat and took a quick, nervous sip at her wine.

  ‘I was just telling her what a mean, arrogant bastard you are.’ Joe got up, grinning easily. ‘
But I’m sure she knows that by now, poor girl.’

  ‘She does indeed.’ Liam took Joe’s place, lifting Lyddie’s hand to his lips. ‘I don’t deserve her at all but you knew that anyway.’

  Joe turned away, laughing. ‘I’ll get you a beer,’ he said, ‘and then you can tell me what you want to eat.’

  ‘It’s the truth of it,’ Liam agreed, still holding her hand. ‘I’m a mean, arrogant bastard. Can you forgive me at all?’

  ‘Oh, Liam.’ She was so overjoyed to see him easy and charming, so loving as he looked at her, that she knew she’d forgive him anything. ‘I’m really sorry about the letter. It was quite wrong of me—’

  ‘Shall we forget the old letter? The VAT man has gone, the saints be praised, and I feel like a reprieved man. Could you manage another drink?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said gratefully. ‘Oh, I could.’

  He leaned to kiss her, quickly to begin with, and then lingeringly, until Joe, coming back with a menu, was obliged to bang on the table to gain their attention, so that the three of them laughed together and harmony was re-established.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Driving to Ottercombe on Saturday morning, Lyddie still felt all the relief and happiness that making up with Liam had brought her. Within her relationships, Lyddie dealt in absolutes: she was incapable of living with strife, unable to ignore surly tempers or icy silences. She liked open discussion, however painful, and preferred communication to the bottling up of discontent. Misunderstandings could so easily blow up into full-scale resentment, irritation could develop into intolerance, and she believed that every relationship worth nurturing needed attention to detail. She’d discovered fairly early on that not everyone worked in the same way and she was quite content to leave those who did not agree with her to their own principles, though, as yet, she had not been prepared to compromise her own.