The Simple Rules of Love

by Amanda Brookfield

  ‘I can do all of that,’ said Serena, peeling off her coat and pushing up the sleeves of her jumper. ‘We could make a start now – we've got a little time.’

  Cassie laughed, shaking her head – now a mass of exuberant corkscrew curls – in exasperated affection. ‘You're too kind, did you know that? It's unusual, endearing, but really unhealthy because people like me – and the rest of the world – will always want to take advantage of it.’ She put down the hammer and folded the duster. ‘I've got the rest of my life to sort this place out. My mother, on the other hand, has requested our company for a cup of tea at three forty-five and is bound not to be nearly so welcoming if we arrive any later.’

  When they were in the car Cassie told Serena about her encounter with Jessica that morning. ‘She's such a child her-self, it's unspeakably sad.’

  ‘Believe me, Cass, I know,’ replied Serena, quietly. ‘Accepting the situation has been harder than you can possibly imagine.’

  ‘Ed could visit at least, couldn't he? Get to know her, have some sort of relationship…’

  Serena was shaking her head. ‘Of course, in an ideal world, I'd like Ed to know his daughter – for us to know our granddaughter, for that matter. But the world isn't ideal and it's not up to us. Believe me, I've done what I can, but Jessica chose to have this baby and she must deal with it. Ed has been forced into a position he would have given anything to avoid and wants only to be allowed to get on with his life. And I don't blame him. He's eighteen, on a gap year, going to university. He's just passed his driving test and he's got a girlfriend called Melanie. He has set aside a thousand pounds of his trust fund to buy a car and is paying out a hundred pounds a month from the rest as maintenance. Maybe, one day, he will feel up to getting to know Gemma. Of course, part of me longs for that, but Ed is a grown-up now and it's up to him.’ She glanced at Cassie, who was staring forlornly out of the window. ‘Letting one's children live their own lives is the hardest thing,’ she added softly, ‘but all one can do in the end.’ Wanting to lighten the atmosphere she asked next if her sister-in-law had any inkling of the surprise gift Charlie had mentioned at the weekend. ‘If you know, just give me a clue,’ she pleaded. ‘The more I ask the less he says. It's so exasperating.’

  Cassie, who did know, chuckled quietly. As it happened, the gift was arriving that very afternoon. ‘You're extremely naughty to ask and you'll get nothing out of me. It's Charlie's surprise and he's very pleased with it.’

  They found Pamela in an old coat and gardening gloves patting miniature white and crimson cyclamen into the window-boxes lining the sills outside her room. Poppy was lying next to her, one paw protectively over a large bone.

  ‘She sneaks off to the kitchens, looking all sorry for herself, and they give her that,’ announced Pamela, indignantly, shaking her trowel at the bone. ‘If it carries on she's going to get very fat, aren't you, darling?’

  ‘She looks happy, though,’ said Serena, while Cassie crouched down to make a fuss of the dog.

  ‘Oh, she is. We both are, aren't we, Poppy? The food is splendid – all the vegetables home-grown. One of my bathroom taps was leaking but a nice man came to sort it out – and so quickly too. We had a concert last night, a delightful girl played the cello – reminded me of Elizabeth. Do you remember, Cassie, how good she was before she decided it was too much hard work?’ Pamela paused, smiling as she peeled off her gloves. ‘All you children, all your talents… John and I always felt so blessed.’

  ‘That's exactly how Charlie and I feel about our lot,’ said Serena, while Cassie kept her head down, patting the dog.

  Once Pamela had put away her gardening things and – needlessly, as it seemed to the two younger women – fussed at Poppy's perfectly clean paws with a cloth, they retreated inside for tea. The sitting room, with its oak-panelled walls, high ceiling and little fireplace, was both elegant and cosy. Pamela took evident delight in showing it off, pointing out how well her belongings looked and lauding the merits of a fire that burned like real coal but sprang to life at the flick of a switch. ‘So warm and no mess – I wouldn't go back to all that black dust and kindling if you paid me.’ Poppy's bed took pride of place on the hearth, along with a pair of dark blue velvet Queen Anne chairs, which had once lived in the music room at Ashley House, and the leather footstool from the drawing room, worn smooth by John Harrison's heels. Two mahogany and glass bookcases from Pamela's bedroom fitted snugly on either side of the fireplace, each sporting a vase of flowers and several silver-framed family photographs.

  Continuing to talk from the cubby-hole of a kitchen in the far corner of the room, Pamela made a pot of tea, which she served on a tray with what remained of the hand-painted china set that she and John had received from his parents as a wedding present.

  ‘It's perfect,’ cried Cassie, getting up to relieve her mother of the tray, then parking herself on the footstool. ‘Like a little piece of Ashley House – all the best of it rolled into one.’

  Serena, watching her mother-in-law relaxing into her familiar routines tutting at Poppy, pouring the careful dribble of milk into her tea, smoothing the non-existent creases from her lap, patting at the tight, silky sculpture of her bun – recalled in disbelief the disoriented unhappy creature who had stumbled into the lake less than a year before. The world had heaved and threatened and then – slowly – grown safe again, like a dangerous beast subsiding into a deep sleep, not just for Pamela but for her too, for Cassie, for all of them. It was, Serena mused dreamily, as if the giant kaleidoscope of family life had turned, shifting a period of senseless chaos into a new shape, which none of them could have envisaged: a baby, a bombing, the suffering of separations, new unions. It was only by looking back on it all that one could gain any perception of a journey made, a sense of cohesion and purpose. ‘Now,’ she said, while Cassie refilled their teacups, ‘the wedding… My goodness, she checked the date on her watch, ‘only ten days to go. Charlie and I thought we'd pick you up around midday, bring you home for a spot of lunch…’

  ‘No need, dear, thank you. I've arranged everything with Peter. He's coming down with Theo – Helen is bringing the girls separately, of course. He has promised to treat me to lunch somewhere nice beforehand, then take me back afterwards for the reception at Ashley House.’

  ‘Oh, splendid. So long as you're happy. Good.’ Serena took a sip of tea, fighting the absurd idea that she had been rebuffed and reminding herself that she would be busy enough with preparations for the wedding party.

  ‘Not that I'm not grateful, dear,’ added Pamela, smoothly, setting down her cup and looking at her watch in a way that made it clear to her visitors that it was time they took their leave.

  ‘She's got sort of bossy, don't you think?’ Serena laughed, when they were speeding back towards Barham. ‘In that way old people do when they've decided that they're past the point of having to pussyfoot around.’

  Cassie nodded and grinned. ‘I've every intention of following suit – God, all those years of trying to please people. Such a waste when you look back on it.’ She fell silent, thinking, inevitably, of Stephen. She knew from Keith, who had stammered out the information with a pink face, that he was in Cuba, devising a new case for his literary alter ego, Jack Connolly. ‘I'll make sure I stay in touch, if you like,’ he had added, ‘so you know what he's up to.’ There was no need, Cassie had assured him, but Keith's snippet had promoted a new peace of mind, because now she could picture Stephen somewhere, instead of floating in limbo like a spirit that refused to be laid to rest.

  ‘You have to try to please other people a little bit,’ ventured Serena, dimly aware that she was defending herself in some way.

  ‘Not me,’ said Cassie, stoutly. ‘My clients, yes, but I'm going to keep them to a minimum too from now on. I want to make my own little house as perfect as I can. And to make myself the number-one priority in my life – moi. All singletons agree it's the one great privilege of being alone.’

  ‘But you'll meet someone so
on, I'm sure,’ said Serena, fearing for what lay beneath Cassie's bravado. ‘You're still so good-looking.’

  Her sister-in-law made a gagging noise, then burst out laughing. ‘You're such a mother hen, Serena. Stop clucking. I don't want – I don't need anyone. The truth is, I never really did. In fact, that' probably been half my trouble – Oh, look!’ she exclaimed, as they rounded the bend in the lane to find a large green lorry parked across the drive and several men in hard hats standing next to it. ‘The council have come to cut the tree up at last. I suppose it was too big for Keith to manage. The wood's all yours, presumably?’

  ‘Absolutely. It'll keep us in log fires for years,’ Serena murmured, as she eased her car through the narrow gap between the lorry and the gatepost. ‘Charlie took the day off to oversee the project. He and Keith are going to stack it all in the shed next to my studio. Oh, they've brought a dog. Just as well Poppy isn't here – she'd go mad. She hates Alsatians.’ As she was speaking Charlie appeared at the back gate, looking anxious. The Alsatian bounded towards him and veered away as he tried to stroke it. ‘It looks rather wild,’ said Serena, and clicked her fingers to catch the animal's attention. The dog pricked its ears and turned towards her and Cassie. ‘You are handsome, aren't you?’ said Serena, letting the animal sniff her hand before she stroked it. ‘Don't you like him?’ she added, glancing at Cassie who was hanging back uncertainly. ‘He likes me’, she boasted, as Charlie sauntered across the front lawn to join them and the dog continued to lick her hand. ‘And such a soft mouth – you lovely boy.’

  ‘It's not a boy, it's a girl.’

  ‘So it is.’ Serena chuckled, peering at the dog's belly.

  ‘She's called Petra.’

  ‘Well, you've obviously had a busy afternoon,’ she teased. ‘I hope you've done a bit of wood-stacking as well as making friends with other people's pets.’

  ‘She doesn't belong to anyone else. She's ours – well, yours, actually. She's your surprise. She's a failed police dog – wasn't any good at chasing burglars, too soppy.’

  ‘So that's why you wanted to come back here,’ Serena exclaimed, rounding on her sister-in-law. ‘All that tosh about collecting a few more boxes – you wanted to see my reaction.’

  ‘Serena, darling, you are pleased, aren't you?’ urged Charlie.

  ‘I… don't know what I am – astonished, I think.’ Serena looked from her husband and his sister, both grinning sheepishly now, to Petra, who was rolling on the lawn paddling her huge paws like a stranded tortoise. ‘She is lovely but an Alsatian. The Ashley House dogs have always been Labradors or spaniels… and poor Samson!’ She gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth. ‘He'll have a heart-attack or something, won't he?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘They've already met. Samson swiped her twice across the nose and she backed off like a lamb. Like I said, she's a failed police dog. They're hard to come by, I can tell you – questionnaires and interviews – I've had more of a grilling than I did when I applied for the civil service. She's only two,’ he added, ‘still a baby. She'll need loads of exercise, but seems pretty obedient… You are pleased, aren't you?’

  Serena answered by slipping an arm round his waist and reaching up to kiss his cheek. Charlie turned and their lips met instead, so lingeringly that Cassie had to look away. Approaching with forms to be signed, and no knowledge of the poignancy of this man bestowing a young animal on his wife, the three men from the council whooped and wolf-whistled until the pair pulled apart.

  Maybe she should get a dog too, Cassie mused, walking home later that night, her overcoat buttoned up to her jaw to keep out the cold. Serena and Charlie had offered her a lift but she had insisted she wanted to walk. It was only a couple of miles, probably less, but she was glad of the torch Charlie had pressed into her hands, especially when she hit the part of the lane where the trees, although leafless and gaunt, blocked the paltry light of the clouded moon. She could have something small that would curl up on her lap, she decided, and thin-coated, so she wouldn't be forever vacuuming hair off carpets and cushions. She would spoil it with love and titbits and let it sit in her handbag – play the part of the happy spinster she had described to Serena, full of selfishness and self-knowledge.

  The torchbeam was both a comfort in the dark and a practical assistant in the business of keeping her suede boots from the worst of the mud and puddles. Once she was on the narrow pavement that ran the length of the village, Cassie had less need of it and walked with more confidence, idly using the beam to draw patterns in her path or to illuminate interesting patches on hedges and garden walls. By the time she reached her cottage gate she was humming and almost too warm. She was through it and only a few feet from the latticed porch when, with a clatter that made her jump, an empty milk bottle fell and rolled down the path towards her. Cassie stood very still for a few seconds, heart pounding, then gingerly steered the torchbeam into the porch. A cat, of course, she told herself. A cat had knocked over one of her empties. Then the arrow of yellow light fell upon the dark hood of a pram and next to it, Jessica's huddled figure, crouched on the doorstep.

  ‘God, you gave me a fright.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Jessica squinted, holding a hand up against the glare.

  ‘Are you okay? Has something happened?’

  ‘No, I – I just…’

  ‘You'd better come inside.’

  ‘No.’

  Cassie laughed a little impatiently, her nerves still jangling. ‘Has something happened?’ she said again, glancing into the darkness of the pram as she fished out her keys and edged round it to get to the door.

  ‘No… yes…’ Jessica clenched her hands as she stood up, seeing again the choppy darkness of the pond as she had lowered the pram wheels into the water. ‘I want you to have her,’ she blurted. ‘Gemma. I want you to have her. I was going to just leave her here and then I thought you might call the police or something. I've written a letter – it's in there with all her stuff.’ She pointed under the pram and at some bulging bags suspended from its handles. ‘So it will be legal and all that.’

  ‘My dear child,’ gasped Cassie, half inside the house now, groping for the hall light, ‘you're exhausted. Now, bring Gemma inside and I'll put the kettle on. We'll have a good talk, okay? See what we can work out here… Jessica?’ The girl hadn't moved. Her hair, mousy now and tousled, had fallen across her face so Cassie couldn't even make out her expression.

  ‘Don't talk to me like I'm a nutter.’

  ‘I'm not,’ Cassie protested, unable to keep the exasperation from her voice.

  ‘I want you to have her. If you don't want her that's another thing. If you don't get her social services will. I don't want her. I love her but I don't want her, and that means one day…’ Jessica drew in her breath sharply, as the emotions she had felt by the pond stabbed again, cold and sharp, like a dagger of ice. ‘My mum didn't want me either so I know, see?’ She hissed the word. ‘I know you want a kid Ed's mum told me. I don't want a kid and I've got one. It's fucking simple, if you think about it. And you're family, you're her aunt, and if you take her she'll have a fucking great life instead of a crap one and maybe…’ She paused to prevent the rest of the sentence coming out too tremulously. ‘… maybe Ed will get to know her a bit and her grandparents and all that.’

  ‘Jessica, my dear,’ whispered Cassie, ‘you can't just give a baby away, like it – like she – was a –’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ she snapped. ‘People do it all the time. You read about it in the papers and in books. That Silas Marner, he got given a kid. And there was a girl in my block who thought she had a sister who turned out to be her mum, and a boy at school who lived with his granny because his mum and dad did drugs, so don't tell me people don't do it. And you're her aunt,’ she said again, her voice trembling.

  ‘Sweetheart, you said yourself you love Gemma,’ Cassie pleaded, trying a different tack. ‘You might feel like this now but, believe me, you'd miss her terribly, want her back in no time. It would be
the most dreadful mistake.’

  ‘There you go,’ Jessica cried, ‘talking down to me, like you don't think I've thought it through, like you don't think I can see straight. I haven't been for months – I shouldn't have kept her but I did, and then today I nearly… Today I saw straight for the first time in my life.’ Jessica closed her eyes and took another deep breath, pushing her hair off her face. ‘It's in the letter, that I want you to have her. If you say no I'll get social services to have her adopted. I've made up my mind.’

  Cassie, clinging now to the front door, felt suddenly very cold and giddy. ‘But your grandfather,’ she tried weakly, breaking off as Gemma, stirred from her nap by voices or perhaps the dank night air, began to snuffle and mew, like a kitten.

  Jessica glanced sharply at the pram. The crying would start soon, she knew. She had to get away before that. She had limits after all, in spite of her certainty.

  ‘Granddad will be dead soon, won't he?’ she sneered. ‘He can hardly look after himself, these days. Anyway, he's always liked you Harrisons more than anything in the world. I've left him a note. When he gets back from the pub and reads it he'll be jumping for joy.’ She was still facing Cassie but had stepped off the porch. ‘Like I said, her stuff's all there – bottles, nappies and that. There's a whole pack of new dummies. She likes her dummy – you'll get no peace without it.’

  ‘Jessica – please!’ Cassie reached across the pram, as if physical strength might succeed where persuasion had failed, but Jessica was already backing down the path.

  ‘I'm going back to London now. Please don't call unless you decide you don't want her.’ And with that she ran out of the gate and up the street, her footsteps echoing long after the outline of her anorak had merged into the dark.