The Choice

by Valerie Mendes

  “But they don’t like me there.”

  “So? The place is half empty. You can stay there as my guest. They’ll prepare a bedroom for you, close to mine. We’ll get a doctor to strap up that ankle of yours, and we’ll enjoy supper together… Where’s your luggage?”

  “In my car.”

  “So, we’ll walk slowly to find it, and I’ll drive us to the Porthminster.” The cornflower eyes flicker at Eleanor. “Finally I’ll have a chance to say I’m sorry.”

  “You? Sorry?” Eleanor gulps at the tea, her head spinning. “Whatever for?”

  “If I’d looked after my son better, you wouldn’t be in such a predicament. I’m truly sorry, Eleanor. I’m staying in St Ives for Christmas. I’m going to buy a holiday home here… James and I were discussing the possibilities.” She soaks the handkerchief in water, wrings it out, turns to Eleanor.

  “But I’m bitterly sorry because your affair with Felix has obviously come to a painful end.” The colour rises in Moira’s cheeks. “He’s behaved atrociously. And if I’m completely honest, I have to tell you something… This is hard for me, but if I don’t say it, nobody else will.”

  “What is it?”

  “I think you’ve had a lucky escape.”

  Eleanor feels the breath catch in her lungs. “Why?”

  Moira presses the handkerchief to Eleanor’s forehead. “Do you want the truth? Can you bear it?”

  “Of course.” But Eleanor grits her teeth against another wave of pain.

  “Felix doesn’t love Agnes. Oh, she adores him, that goes without saying. She’s hoping for wedding bells. She’s pretty, charming and convenient, and Felix is enjoying her. But their affair won’t last. By the spring, he’ll have thrown her over.”

  Eleanor says breathlessly, “Then is there still hope for me, do you think? Should I stay here, wait for him to come to his senses?”

  “No, absolutely not. I beg you to go home to Woodstock.” Moira bites her lip. “I need to tell you something else, to prove my point… While Felix was in Juan with me, for those few weeks, he seduced a pretty young woman he met while we were having drinks at The Provençal. She owned a small yacht moored off the coast. Felix used to swim out to meet her. Even if you had moved in with him this afternoon, you’d have discovered he has a roving eye. He can’t help it. It’s the nature of the beast.”

  Moira hesitates. Then she says, “Walter was just the same. I failed to change him, and neither you nor I nor any other woman will ever change Felix.” She looks at Eleanor, her eyes filled with regret. “Much as I love him, I believe he’d have made your life a misery. You don’t need that, Eleanor. You deserve so much better.”

  They have supper by the fire in Moira’s suite at The Porthminster. Moira has summoned the local doctor to examine Eleanor’s wrist and ankle. He has strapped them with firm bandages, given her strict instructions to have them X-rayed as soon as she gets home, and has offered her a sleeping tablet.

  Moira looks up from her soup. She says with a calm directness Eleanor’s already come to appreciate, “I gather Felix told you what happened to Walter and Felix and me when we lived together. Back then in St Ives, Felix was only a child. He knew very little about what was really happening. I suppose you want to know why I disappeared from his life that terrible day in the storm?”

  Eleanor flushes. “You don’t have to tell me. My mission was to find you, to keep my promise to Daddy, to reunite you with Felix.” His name sticks in her throat. “As for what happened… I’ve no wish to pry.”

  “You deserve to know, even if what I tell you about your father will not be music to your ears. But if I don’t spell it out, the wondering will always be at the back of your mind… Am I right?”

  “Yes. The picture Felix painted of your life together, the affection and happiness he described… None of it tallied with Pierre’s letters.”

  “Felix was only a child when the three of us lived together. He so much wanted us to be a happy family. We weren’t. It was partly my fault. I was the odd one out. The cuckoo in the warm and cosy nest. But Walter’s love for me changed from devotion and affection into something so monstrous that, in the end, he gave me no choice but to leave.”

  Moira stares into the fire, remembering.

  Eleanor sits back to let her talk.

  Part Six

  On the Beach

  St Ives, Cornwall, August 1911

  With as much grace and dignity as she can muster, Moira Mitchell lowers herself onto the tartan rug Walter has spread out for her on Porthmeor Beach. Felix is already stark naked, the skin behind his knees and on his arms and chest so red and blotchy it seems to be on fire beneath the sun.

  “There, my angel face.” Walter opens the picnic-hamper lid. “Cake, biscuits and some lovely sandwiches your Auntie Bea made for us yesterday… You just make yourselves comfortable while I go and find us somewhere to live.”

  Moira looks up at him. She undoes the wide ribbon underneath her chin, raises her arms, takes off her driving hat. Dust falls off it onto her skirt. She coughs and wipes her face with the back of her gloved hand. The fingers of her gloves are stained with dirt. Her hair’s flat with sweat.

  She says, “You’ve got three hours.”

  “I beg your pardon, dearest?”

  “Three hours!” Moira raises her right hand. Three grubby fingers point upwards to a cloudless sky. “Three hours in which to find Felix and me somewhere to live. If, by the end of this afternoon, we have nowhere to go but your dusty, noisy, intolerable little sports car, we’ll get the next train out of here—”

  “Oh, don’t say that—”

  “And what’s more, Walter, you’ll never see us again. The journey down here was bad enough. The heat, the dust, the traffic… Staying with Auntie Bea was a nightmare. Do this, do that – poor little Felix was hardly allowed to breathe. If you think this has been a holiday, you’re very much mistaken.”

  Walter opens his mouth to argue. Then he changes his mind. He drops a hot, wet, conciliatory kiss on Moira’s forehead. She does not enjoy the experience.

  “Never fear, my sweetest girl. I shall find the three of us the most adorable little cottage.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.” Moira looks across the beach. Felix is waving his wooden spade at a seagull, laughing with delight. “And not so little, Walter, please. We need space, remember. Space to eat and sleep and work and paint and be separate people. I’m not living in some pathetic cramped seaside caravan.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it, my angel—”

  “So go on then… What are you waiting for?”

  Moira watches Walter lurching across the beach.

  She turns her attention to the sea, taking great breaths of salty air into her dust-filled lungs. She allows herself to lie down, but all the time she keeps Felix in the frame of her vision. She never takes her eyes off him, not while she’s in charge.

  Not for a moment.

  If it weren’t for Felix, Moira wouldn’t be here in Cornwall. She’d be in France with the love of her life. Pierre hadn’t liked the sound of this holiday. He hadn’t wanted her to go. He’d written to her just before they left.

  What if that Walter Drummond does not allow you to return to Oxford? What then? Shall I never see you again? How could I bear my life without you?

  Moira asks herself the same question as she lies on the beach. The trouble is, Pierre doesn’t understand what her life in Oxford had been about. So much domestic work. So little freedom. It’s partly wonderful to be here. To escape the ferocious heat of Oxford. The stinking drains. The parched river beds. The stench…

  But what if Walter keeps Moira a prisoner in St Ives?

  What will she do then?

  She’ll cross that bridge when she comes to it…

  Two hours later, Moira and Felix
are eating Auntie Bea’s dried-up sandwiches.

  Walter comes puffing towards them. He squats on his haunches, pats Felix on his silky head, raises Moira’s hand to his lips.

  “I’ve found,” he says, his breath beating in his lungs so that his words sound like small explosions, “the most divine little cottage. It’s just the right size. It’s in St Andrews Street, the most wonderful central location. We’ll be in the very heart of St Ives. It’s perfection. You can see the sea from the balcony. The cottage has everything we need. It’ll be our paradise, just for the three of us.”

  “How much will it cost?”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.” Walter assumes his best paternal, authoritative air. “We can rent it for as long as we want.”

  Moira clambers to her feet. Her back aches. Sand rustles in her hair, clings to her lips, scratches at her throat. She longs for a bath. She’s dying for Pierre.

  “So, Walter…” She stands with her hands on her narrow waist and her cornflower-blue eyes flashing. “If this is the start of your brave new world, why don’t you take us there right now.” She bends to pick up the naked Felix. “And be quick about it.”

  Turning a Blind Eye

  St Ives, Cornwall, August 1913

  It’s a sunny August afternoon two years later.

  Felix, who’s now five, plays marbles, skips with ropes, and rolls the red wooden hoop in St Andrews Street with his two best friends, the twins Rupert and Victoria, whom he adores.

  Walter’s painting a deliciously attractive young model in his studio upstairs.

  Moira hunches at the table in the living room. A recent, half-finished sketch of summer fruit lolls at her elbow, but she’s peeling potatoes. On the chair beside her in a wicker basket squats a pile of damp clothes waiting to be ironed.

  The sheen has disappeared from Moira’s hair. Her skin, given the amount of Cornish sunlight currently available, is surprisingly pale. She wears a high-necked blouse and long skirt, both of which have seen better days.

  Moira’s paintings make pin money which she spends on Felix and food. Walter’s paintings make him a lot more money. He disposes of it partly in the Sloop Inn, partly on his models – “My dear girl, you look ravishing in the new hat!” – and partly on oils, brushes, elaborate smocks and enormous canvases. And sometimes, when he’s nagged into it, on household bills. He seems to have forgotten he has a family.

  ***

  Lizzie Farrell pokes her head around the top of the stable door.

  “It’s only me.”

  Moira puts down her paring knife. “Lizzie, darling. How nice. Come and sit down.”

  Lizzie rustles in. She wears a crisp new summer frock she made for herself the night before. It’s simple, stylish, full-skirted and delightful.

  “I’ve got wonderful news.” She strokes the pale curls beneath her straw bonnet.

  “I could certainly do with some of that!”

  “What’s he done now?”

  “Only the usual.” Moira inspects the face of another boring potato.

  “God, Moira. Why on earth do you put up with it?”

  Moira pushes at her hair with the back of a wet hand. “You know why. Felix is happy here. He’s healthy. His skin is clear as a bell. He eats like a horse, swims like a fish. He has friends. People in St Ives like me. Not in the political, challenging way we had in Oxford with our Votes-for-Women group. But artistically. They buy my paintings.” She puts down the potato. “I have you…”

  Lizzie grasps her hands. “Listen to me. Things might get better. So much better. I’ve found us a house to rent.”

  Blood rushes to Moira’s pale face. “What?”

  Lizzie pulls a piece of paper from her skirt pocket. “Here. Take a look. It’s on Carbis Bay, right on the beach. It’s called Spindrift. It’s big enough for you and Walter, me and Mother, Felix and any friends he may want to stay the night. At the side there’s an annexe that sleeps six people. We could rent that out in the summer months and make good money.”

  “God, Lizzie, it sounds perfect… Is there room for—”

  “Yes, darling. You and Walter could have separate studios and separate bedrooms.”

  Moira murmurs, “Lizzie Farrell, you’re my saviour and I love you.”

  Upstairs a door opens.

  Walter says, “Thank you so much, Amanda, darling. You’ve been so patient. Same time next week?”

  A blonde girl, hardly more than seventeen, wearing a turquoise suit and a mind-blowing scarlet hat drifts slowly down the stairs. A smile hovers on her painted lips. Without acknowledging either Moira or Lizzie, she lets herself out.

  Moira swallows her feelings. A year ago she’d have burned with fury and resentment. Now a dull apathy has taken over. She wants to feel more, to bubble with jealousy. But part of her no longer cares what Walter thinks of other women – or what he does with them.

  Walter remains at the top of the stairs. “Would there be a cup of tea available? Could you bring it up?”

  “Walter…” Lizzie stands to challenge him. “I’ve something to show you.”

  “I’m terribly busy at the moment—”

  “But not too busy, I hope, to look at a house on Carbis Bay.”

  “Why on earth would I want to do that?”

  Moira picks up the saucepan of peeled potatoes. She wishes Walter were on her level. Then she could empty the pan over his selfish head. “Because, Walter, as you know very well, we need more space.”

  Walter stares down at her. “You mean you do. You’re one of those women who never have enough. If I gave you the moon, you’d demand the stars as well.”

  “How dare you be so rude!”

  “Just bring me my tea, Moira, my dear sweet angel face. And by the way.” Walter swings a dapper leg over the stairs. “Yesterday morning I signed a new five-year lease with James Lanham. We’re now committed to renting this adorable, perfect little cottage until 1918. I want Felix to have continuity in his young life. I want my clients to know they can always reach me here. And I love living at the heart of this artistic community. I’ve even managed to get our landlord to agree to my giving our cottage a name.”

  Moira’s heart bubbles with anger. “Without at any time consulting me about anything? I suppose you’ve called the cottage My Blue Heaven.”

  Walter gives a snort of laughter. “Not quite, although of course it is heavenly. No, its name is now The Hideaway. Close to the centre of St Ives, and yet our own private, gloriously intimate little world. Isn’t that a marvellous choice?”

  He turns to walk back into his studio.

  “Oh, and with my tea, could I have some of your delicious lemon-drizzle cake, please? A very large slice.”

  The End of the Line

  St Ives, Cornwall, Easter 1914

  Moira walks alone along the harbour. It’s Easter 1914, and early afternoon. Back home, she has the usual tidal wave of chores. They’re so boring and repetitive she can’t find the energy to face them. She has a painting to finish. She longs to work on it, but once again her space in their small studio has been invaded by one of Walter’s models.

  She sees Lizzie walking towards her. Gratitude floods her heart.

  “Has anything come?”

  “Yes.” Lizzie digs in her pocket. “This arrived for you yesterday morning.”

  Moira grabs the letter. “You’re an angel. Let’s go and have some tea. I’ll read it in the café.”

  Moira tears the envelope open. Her cheeks flush with excitement.

  “Pierre’s coming to London next week. He’s made all the bookings. He’ll be staying at Brown’s Hotel.”

  Lizzie drinks her tea, her eyes on Moira’s trembling hands. “And he wants you to join him?”

  “He wants to see both of us… Fe
lix and me.” Moira’s voice chokes. “What am I going to do?”

  “Do you want to see Pierre again?”

  “You know I do. More than anything.”

  “So make it happen, Moira. Heaven knows, you’ve been patient enough.”

  Moira takes a deep breath, willing herself to find the courage to speak.

  “I’d like to spend a few days in London over Easter.”

  She’s having supper with Walter three days later. Felix is in bed, fast asleep.

  “Why on earth do you want to do that?” Walter helps himself to a slice of fresh white bread, spoons a large portion of chicken casserole onto his plate. Moira’s is empty but he doesn’t notice or care.

  “There’s a dealer who wants to meet me. He owns an art gallery in Bond Street. He’s asked to see some of my work.”

  “Oh, really,” Walter sneers. “So the little shops and galleries in Cornwall aren’t good enough for you any more. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Moira ignores the question. “And I’d like to take Felix. Just for a few days. In all the time we’ve spent in St Ives, I’ve never had a holiday. I need one.” She puts some food on her plate although she’s never felt less hungry in her life. “A break from the chores. A chance to do some shopping.”

  “Sorry, Moira, it’s out of the question. I need you here, both of you. I can’t sleep unless you’re by my side, my sweetest girl. And Felix is much too young to travel to that big black city. Besides, who’d cook for me? Keep this place clean? I’ve got clients coming out of my ears. I haven’t the time to go with you.”

  Moira stares at her plate. A year, maybe even six months ago, she’d have accepted Walter’s unbelievable selfishness. She’d have been too tired to argue, too resigned to his patronising attitude. But something in her has changed. She feels as if she has climbed to the top of a mountain and for the first time she can see the spectacular view on the other side… A vision of what her world could be like if only she can find the courage to make the break.