Natasha drives them west. She hates being driven, and the girls say that they feel safer with her than with Adam. They know that he resents this but it is just one of many of the power games played out between them. The girls tolerate him but only for as long as he is useful. They sit together now, nudging with sharp elbows, making faces. Today they are in alliance, knowing that their mother is in sympathy with them. She has bribed them with promises of DVDs and new clothes if they will be good during this visit to Adam’s parents. Nevertheless, they will push the boundaries to see just how far their powers extend.
‘I wanted to go to Millie’s party,’ one of them begins in a whiny little voice.
‘Cornwall’s boring,’ says the other. ‘Bo-ring. Bo-ring.’
They watch as Natasha’s back straightens, head up preparing for battle, as Adam gives a quick annoyed sideways glance at her. ‘They are your children,’ the glance says. ‘Deal with them.’
Natasha’s heart sinks: she really doesn’t want to have a row with Adam just now. Her agency has sacked two of her colleagues because of the recession and she’s doing three people’s work; and doing it well, she reminds herself. She’s tired though, very tired, and she could do without this long drive west. It’s not the girls’ faults that they don’t want to go. There’s so much going on in their lives and, to be fair, there’s no reason why they should be thrilled at the prospect of a weekend with two old people and a four-year-old they hardly know.
‘It’s only for a few days,’ she says quickly.
They note that she doesn’t contradict them and that her voice is conciliatory, not yet irritated, and they nudge one another.
‘It’s not boring,’ Adam says firmly. ‘It’s just different. Lovely beaches. Swimming. Sailing. Just wait until the summer comes.’
They make faces at one another. ‘You said it was boring,’ one of them reminds him. ‘Last time. You said to Mum, “I know it’s boring but we’ve got to make an effort. We’ll sneak out to the pub later.”’
They watch the flush of blood under Adam’s fair skin with interest. He can be quite scary when he’s cross but they aren’t really afraid of him. They’ve already assessed his place in the pecking order: Natasha is top dog, they share second place together, and Adam comes a poor fourth. But he’s OK; they can handle him. Better the devil you know … for the moment. Soon they will eject him from their nest: they’ve managed it before.
‘What I might say to your mother in private has nothing to do with it,’ he begins. His voice is already irritated and they cover their mouths with their hands and roll their eyes at one another. They love it when he rises so readily to the bait. He has such a short fuse that he’s easy game.
‘You did say it,’ they mutter sullenly, pretending to be hard done by, misjudged.
‘Never mind all that,’ says Natasha briskly – this, decoded, means that he is not to pursue any kind of criticism, and they writhe with delight – ‘let’s just try to enjoy it. Jakey will be there too.’
Cue for groaning: ‘He’s just a baby.’
‘You don’t seriously expect us to play with him.’
‘That’s enough,’ shouts Adam. ‘For God’s sake, just try to be civil for once in your lives. It’s a pity nobody has ever taught you how to behave.’
They are silent, biting their lips with glee, hardly able to believe such luck.
‘Thanks,’ says Natasha icily. She really resents this. She’s done a damned good job bringing up the girls with very little support after their father walked out. But it hasn’t been easy and she can do without snide criticism. Also, this bickering is beginning to get her down and she’s starting to wonder if she’s misjudged Adam. He seemed very strong at first, very up together, but certain other less admirable traits are emerging.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ he’s muttering, ‘you know what I mean.’
She’s not prepared to back down quite so quickly without a proper apology. ‘No, I can’t say I do.’
‘Look, all I said was …’
The girls subside, triumphant, plugging into iPods. They have won another tiny battle in the war for control.
‘We are only a week away from Easter,’ Mother Magda says into the telephone. ‘I am sure that you understand that we cannot possibly enter into any discussions during Holy Week … Yes, I know, and we have talked about it, but we have not yet come to any decisions … Very well, I shall tell the community at the next Chapter meeting … I see. I am so sorry but … Yes, Mr Brewster, you’ve made that very clear. Thank you for telephoning.’
She places the telephone back on its stand and looks across the desk at Father Pascal.
‘What is he saying?’
‘I think it’s what might be described as an ultimatum. He says that he cannot hold the price he has offered for Chi-Meur indefinitely and that he must have an answer soon.’
They stare anxiously at one another.
‘What do Emily and Ruth say?’ he asks.
She shrugs; shakes her head. ‘Not very much. They don’t know what to say. Neither do I. I have written to the Sisters at Hereford, who would be glad to have us, though they are equivocal about Nichola. They are a quite small and vulnerable community, with elderly and ill Sisters of their own, and are worried about how they can manage any extra responsibility. This worries Ruth who says – quite rightly – that we should all move together. However, she feels that we should go if they will agree to have Nichola. Ruth is good friends with one of the Sisters there – they did their novitiate together – and she knows the community very well. She would be happy to go to Hereford. Emily, on the other hand, feels that this is not the solution for us. She believes that there is some other destiny for Chi-Meur but cannot quite see what it is yet.’
He stirs and smiles a little. ‘I have great faith in Emily’s feelings.’
‘So have I,’ Mother Magda says at once, ‘but it is difficult simply to wait. If we move – and we may have to before very long – then we shall need the money, and an Elizabethan manor house, already partly converted for our peculiar needs, might not be as desirable to prospective buyers as it seems at first sight. I understand that Mr Brewster’s offer is very generous, given the slump in the market. He tells me that anyone else in our situation would apparently “bite his arm off”.’ She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Not a particularly attractive idea – have you seen Mr Brewster? – but the gist of it is that we should accept his offer quickly.’
‘I wonder if he’s thought of the planning complications. Very tricky in an old grade-two-listed house. He wants it for an hotel, doesn’t he?’
She nods. ‘He already owns several, apparently, so I can only assume that he’s thought about it very carefully.’ She pauses. ‘And, of course, it’s not as if there are only ourselves to consider. There’re Clem and Jakey and Janna, too.’
‘Do they know?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nobody knows but us. Mr Brewster has promised absolute confidentiality if we agree to a private sale. Emily believes that Clem and Janna, and Jakey too, are part of Chi-Meur and that they are here for a reason. We all do. This is part of her dilemma about moving.’
‘I think I agree with Emily.’
She looks at him. ‘My responsibility is to the community. We need to remember that although change can be inconvenient and uncomfortable it is part of the dynamic movement that ensures that we live as pilgrims. We should have no possessions; no resting place. We all understand that. Nevertheless, this proposed move is not necessarily God’s will for us.’ She hesitates. ‘I suppose that I am afraid of missing this opportunity and finding that we should have seized it instead of simply doing nothing.’
‘Praying for God’s will to be revealed is not “doing nothing”,’ Father Pascal says, after a moment. ‘Waiting is a terribly difficult thing to do. I think we should tell Clem and Janna. If Emily believes, as we all do, that they are part of your dynamic movement, then they should share in the responsibility of the prayer and t
he waiting.’
‘Very well,’ she says. ‘I shall need to speak to Emily and Ruth, and Nichola, of course. It would be a mistake to assume that Nichola doesn’t understand, even if there is no obvious response from her. The prayer life of a very elderly sister can be invaluable to the rest of the community.’
There is a little silence in the small panelled room, but it is a comfortable silence that stretches between them, each drawing strength from the other.
‘So most of your guests have gone,’ Father Pascal says at last, ‘and Janna has survived it.’
Mother Magda laughs. ‘She has been so good. There is such real warmth there; so much love. She’s managed wonderfully well this week without Penny. Well, we all have. But, goodness, it’s a strain. Emily is exhausted. She does far too much.’
‘So much is expected of you all,’ he answers soberly. ‘Chi-Meur has always been a powerhouse of strength and prayer. Not long ago there were fifteen of you. Now there are four. Yet there is still that expectation.’
‘So many people need us. As the world grows noisier and busier and greedier, the requirement for silence and peace grows correspondingly. We are needed here.’
He nods. ‘I know it. And you have many good friends to help you, but it is not enough.’
She stands up and goes to the window. After a moment he joins her. Janna appears, walking quickly and lightly. She passes across the lawn and disappears from view in the direction of the path to the beach.
‘Escaping,’ says Mother Magda with a smile. ‘And who shall blame her? Not I.’
‘Nor I,’ agrees Father Pascal. ‘By the way, has this man who’s staying with the Trembaths been bothering you? Apparently he’s writing a book on the social history of north Cornwall, but old Jack is beginning to be suspicious of him.’
‘Oh? Why? I haven’t seen him, as far as I know, but why should Jack suspect him?’
‘You know these people. They can smell fraud or inconsistency from miles away. They’re not deceived by name-dropping, and Jack says he doesn’t behave like an historian. He’s met a few of those in his time and he says there’s something wrong. Mr Caine doesn’t ring true. I thought I’d mention it in case he turns up here.’
She laughs. ‘Well, we have nothing here at Chi-Muir that a con man could want. But thanks for the warning.’
There are children on the beach, and two dogs. Janna watches them chasing a ball across the sand and then turns away, beginning to climb the cliff path from the village. Thrift is flowering in the shelter of the dry-stone wall that skirts the great cliff-top fields and she bends to touch the pink fuzzy-headed blooms: on the way home she will pick some to put into her little silver vase. Crouching lower she sees that there are hundreds of snails, piled together. Yellow and grey and striped, they cling like limpets to the rough, pitted granite.
Out on the cliff she braces herself against the strong, warm westerly, laughing with the sheer joy of it, looking away to Trevose Head, washed in brilliant golden sunshine and dazzling white sea-spray. Gulls tilt and balance on the wind, falling and rising beyond the cliff-edge, screaming in disharmony. She walks quickly, the sun in her eyes, her arms wrapped about herself as if to resist the plucking and pulling of the wind. Her heart is light, her spirits high. She has survived her first real ordeal at Chi-Meur, and now she is free to come out into these great wild spaces and be answerable to nobody.
Suddenly she longs to be travelling again; sitting up high, watching the countryside drifting by and not knowing where the journey might end. And yet she loves it at Chi-Meur with her little family: Mother, Father, Sisters, and Clem and Jakey. She loves her little caravan – her own cosy private space – yet there are memories tugging and pulling at her heart; a voice whispering restlessly in her ears: something to do with freedom, new horizons, change.
She guesses now that this is how her father felt: the sizzle of excitement in the blood at the prospect of independence and adventure, battling with the twist of terror in his gut when he realized that he had all the responsibility of fatherhood pressing in on him. On days like these she is able to forgive him – or, at the very least, understand him. This is better than resentment, and it takes the sting out of the knowledge that he didn’t want her.
‘After all,’ Father Pascal pointed out, ‘he didn’t know you. The idea of an unborn baby is very different from the real person. He didn’t give himself time to know you. That’s his loss.’
The turf is soft and springy. She leans into the wind breathlessly, hurrying forward, whilst the sea surges and booms through empty caverns far beneath her feet and tugs and roars at the steep cliff-face so that the sound of its clamour is all around her. As she approaches Roundhole Point she sinks down into the shelter of the stone archway near the gateway to Porthmissen. It is here, when Clem and Jakey are with her, that they stop for their picnic. Jakey likes to climb on the stones and squeeze through the arch but, all the while, he’ll be waiting for the moment when they’ll walk together to the edge of the blowhole and, Clem and Janna holding his hands, he can lean forward and peer down into that great space; looking right through the cliff to the black rocks far, far below where the tide surges hungrily through a low archway in the cliff, licking the steep sides, and the spray is flung high into the air. She loves to feel the clutch of his hand as he leans perilously forward; his whole trust in her and Clem as he stares into the echoing abyss with wide, serious eyes.
She sits in the sunshine with her back to the rock, sheltered from the wind, and brings out her own small picnic: some nuts and raisins and a piece of chocolate. Clem carries a small rucksack with juice and a sandwich for Jakey and a flask of hot coffee to share with her, and perhaps some delicious treat that Dossie has made. Their picnics are celebrations.
Looking north to Gunver Head, watching the gulls soaring and diving, she thinks: How easy it would be if only I could fall in love with Clem.
She does love him; but she loves him as she loves Nat: as a sister might love an elder brother, yet with none of the sibling rivalries and jealousies. Her love for Clem is uncomplicated and precious. Like Nat, whose preoccupation was with his sexuality, so Clem’s thoughts are fixed on his vocation: whether he should train for ordination and whether his belief in his vocation is a true one. Her love for Clem, and for Jakey, carries no weighty responsibilities: they have Dossie and Mo and Pa – and Father Pascal and the Sisters.
Janna finishes her chocolate, licking her fingers, thinking about them all. The Sisters, however, are rather different from Clem and Jakey. Without Penny, their dependence now rests upon her. Tough and self-contained though they are, yet they need her. Or, she argues with herself, they need someone. It need not necessarily be her. Yet she loves them too, and it will not be easy to walk away when the time comes.
She stands up and at once the wind buffets her and beats upon her as she moves beyond the shelter of the rocks. For a moment she stares longingly westwards towards Mother Ivey’s Bay and Trevose Head, but knows that she should go back. She turns, and immediately the wind ceases to be a force to fight against and instead it lifts and hurries her along so that she leans back against it and allows it to carry her across the cliffs to Chi-Meur.
Mr Caine watches her pass and then moves out of the shelter of the rock. He takes out his phone, presses keys.
‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he says. ‘Look. Problems. We should’ve set up a website before I started on this writing-a-book stuff. Some clever little worzel’s only gone and checked me out, hasn’t he? “Can’t find you on Google,” he says, all cocky like, with his mates all staring at me, jostling and barging all round me. Scary. I tell you, it’s seriously weird here. Anyway, I bluffed him. Told him I wrote under another name. “Don’t tell me,” he says. “You’re J. K. Rowling in disguise,” and they all yell with laughter. I pretended to laugh, too, and got out quick. But it’s gotta be sorted straight away … No, I know we thought it might be all over by now but it isn’t, is it? Let me know when you’ve got something up a
nd running.’
He put his phone back in his pocket, stares out to sea. He’s beginning to get a bad feeling about this one.
‘He’s right, of course,’ Pa says gloomily. ‘We need to bring our wills up to date, but I’m damned if I’ll have Adam telling me how to do it.’
They walk slowly in the lane, the dogs running ahead with Jakey, who zigzags back and forth on his bicycle. Mo waves encouragingly to Jakey, who stops to look back at them.
‘I know it’s very wrong of me,’ she says, ‘but I simply cannot bear the thought of all our hard work being used in the end to support Natasha and those girls. And it was our hard work that kept The Court going. Without your pension and all the B and B-ers we’d have had to sell up years ago. And we could have done that, and lived very comfortably on the proceeds.’
‘But we chose to do it,’ he points out fairly. ‘Nobody asked us to.’
He pauses to stare through a gateway, and Mo waits with him. She knows that these little halts along the way are simply an excuse to catch his breath and steady himself, but he would hate to admit it. Jakey comes cycling back.
‘There was a labbit,’ he calls excitedly, ‘and Wolfie chased it and it went down a hole.’
‘Good for the rabbit,’ answers Mo. ‘See if you can spot another one.’
He waves and pedals away, talking furiously to himself and to the dogs.
‘Labbit!’ says Pa. ‘Should he still be having difficulty with his speech?’
‘He’s not five yet,’ Mo answers defensively. ‘And it’s only with the “R”s and only then usually when they’re at the beginning of a word, though there are a few words he can’t quite manage, like “surprise” where the second “r” is quite strongly stressed. We’ve noticed that with some words. When he says “Stripey Bunny”, for instance, he hardly pronounces the “r” at all. It’s quite odd. We don’t want him to get a hang-up about it but we’re working on it.’
‘He’s a good little chap,’ says Pa. ‘Bright as a button, and very good manners. Clem’s done well with him.’
The Christmas Angel Page 9