The Prodigal Wife

by Marcia Willett

  Henrietta was on her knees, clearing up a large pool of sick from the flagstones in the kitchen.

  ‘And that is what happens,’ she was saying severely to the chastened Tacker, ‘when you eat nasty things when I’ve told you not to.’

  Tacker’s tail beat feebly, his ears flattened as he watched her. She wrapped the newspaper together into a ball, gave the floor another wipe with a clean sheet of paper and then stood up to fetch the bucket and mop. Juno and Pan watched from their beds, keeping themselves aloof from such behaviour.

  ‘And it’s no good,’ Henrietta warned them, ‘looking holier-than-thou. You’re just as bad as he is.’

  They pricked their ears and looked reproachfully at her, wounded by such an accusation.

  Henrietta mopped the floor vigorously whilst Tacker made cautious advances on the sweeping mop, his spirits already rising. She pretended to chase him with it and he turned tail, barking excitedly, but then rushed back to pounce on it again. Henrietta laughed and took the bucket outside to empty it into one of the flowerbeds. Glancing at her watch, she wondered how soon she might hear from Jo; it was too early. Her heart bumped with this exciting new happiness and she wished that she wasn’t alone; that she had someone with whom she could share her news. One of her London friends was coming for a few days – and that was great – but she daren’t tell Jilly, not until she’d told Susan.

  ‘I must tell Susan myself,’ she’d told Jo. ‘It’ll be another shock for her and I shan’t want to leave her in the lurch. I’ll need to go back to London with her when she gets home until she can sort out a new nanny.’

  He’d understood that but they’d decided to go away, just the two of them, for Christmas; she’d always wanted to spend Christmas and the New Year in Scotland, and Jo knew a hotel – an old castle – where they could be together.

  ‘And perhaps an Easter wedding,’ she’d said, ‘if we can get organized that quickly. Where shall we get married?’

  He’d been rather diffident when he’d suggested The Keep and the local church, hoping he wasn’t being pushy, but she’d been thrilled at the idea: The Keep would be utterly perfect – and, after all, it would be a bit much to expect Mum to do it all from the cottage.

  They’d sat together, curled up in front of the fire, talking, making plans, making love…

  ‘We could live in Bristol,’ he’d offered tentatively. ‘You know, to begin with. Until we know how everything would pan out.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be easier for you to be at The Keep?’ she’d asked. ‘Your television work seems rather peripatetic but you need to be at the office quite a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, it would be easier,’ he’d agreed, ‘and we’d be in the gatehouse, of course. But I don’t know quite how you feel about being there with all the family around. Bristol’s got more going for it; your friends could easily come down from London. I could commute down to The Keep.’

  ‘But I told you I like having people around,’ she’d protested. ‘And I want us to be together as much as possible. We could give it a try, at least. Perhaps I could help out with Keep Organics until I reinvent myself. I can’t go on being a nanny once we’re married. At least, I don’t think I’d want to. We want our own children, don’t we, Jo?’

  She’d looked up at him, pulling his arm more tightly round her shoulders, holding his hand, and she’d seen an odd expression on his face then: shock, wonder, almost disbelief at such a prospect.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d muttered at last. ‘Yes, of course we do,’ and he’d looked down at her and kissed her…

  The dogs were staring at her expectantly and she gave a great sigh.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Walks time. Where shall we go? Somewhere we can let Tacker play around and you two can have a good run. Come on, then.’

  Her mobile rang and she seized it up. ‘Hi. Where are you?’

  ‘Nearly there,’ Jo said. ‘Though I almost missed my exit, thinking about you. What about you?’

  ‘The usual,’ she said. ‘Taking the dogs out for a walk. Then some shopping to get ready for Jilly. It’ll be hell not being able to tell her. Wondering what sort of ring I want.’

  He laughed. ‘It ought to be a topaz, with your hair. Must dash, I’m going to be late. Love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ she said rather shyly.

  The dogs stood at the door, watching her, and she put the phone in her pocket and grabbed her coat.

  ‘I love him,’ she told them happily. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

  Maria was watching television: Simon King’s Big Cat Diary. Never in her life had she watched so much television, but then she’d never realized that each day could last so long when there was nobody else to share it. Penelope and Philip were wonderful, simply wonderful, but she had her pride and she couldn’t rely on them too heavily for company – and, anyway, they were out this evening.

  She took another sip at her gin and tonic: the lioness was watching her four cubs playing in the long grass. How sweet they were; they looked just like golden retriever puppies, just like Rex had looked at a few months old. Maria frowned; the memory irked her: the wretched animal had caused so many problems. Let’s face it – and this needn’t be a criticism – she wasn’t a dog person; mud all over the floor and hairs everywhere, always needing a walk or a feed. No, she could manage nicely without all those demands, thank you very much. She’d blamed Hal for Rex’s misdemeanours and finally, after a monumental row, he’d been carted off down to The Keep. Poor Jolyon had been heart-broken…

  Now the mother lion was looking about her, scenting danger, and here it came in the form of a large male, and Simon – what a sweetie Simon was – was explaining that the male would kill the cubs if he could get close enough. Maria shivered, holding her glass. He’d kill the babies simply because they weren’t his, just for the hell of it: so bloody typical. Sometimes she wondered why she watched these nature programmes: always full of death and destruction; one species eating another; tiny, vulnerable creatures swallowed whole by larger, brutal ones; distraught mothers flapping about helplessly. It was all rather depressing…She took another glop of gin.

  Simon was really upset; he really cared. Jo had this same kind of appeal that Simon had; he drew you in, made you want to watch. There was an intimacy about Jo’s presentation – and it helped that he was so good-looking, so like Hal. And, oh God, now the lion was coming closer and the cubs were all scattering about, terrified, and he was roaring and pouncing, and suddenly the lioness was attacking him savagely, so savagely, that he was actually turning tail and fleeing, and she was racing after him and seeing him off, and it was so exhilarating that Maria was shouting, ‘Go, girl, go!’ and waving her glass and half laughing and half crying.

  She got up to pour another drink – was this her second or third? – feeling slightly unsteady on her feet. Once, ages ago, she’d had a bit of a drink problem; well, fair enough, Hal had been at sea for weeks at a time and she’d been lonely. Dear old Jo had worried about her, making her cups of tea, running her bath. He couldn’t have been more than seven. Once he’d broken the sugar bowl while he was making the tea and she’d screamed at him…

  Maria steadied herself at the kitchen counter. She must simply stop this pointless brooding on the past. It did nobody any good. She sloshed some gin into the glass, poured in some tonic, and went back to her chair. Simon was explaining that only one cub had been saved, two must have been killed, and the fourth was so badly injured that he now simply lay down and refused to move. The mother stood over him, licking him, trying to restore him to life whilst the other cub watched and tears poured down Maria’s cheeks.

  She reminded herself that her problem was that she was just so soft-hearted, too sensitive; she’d always been the same. Dear old Pen, so stalwart and community-minded, was always trying to persuade her to take up good works, down at the hospice or amongst the elderly. It was OK for Pen; she was tough as old boots, always had been. She and Pen had been at school together, best frien
ds from the first day, and she’d been like it way back: a Brownie and then a Girl Guide, dibbing away, doing good by stealth. Mind, she’d been a rock, had Pen, always looking out for her shyer, gentler best friend.

  Maria staunched another flood of tears and stared at the screen. The mother lion wasn’t giving up, Simon was telling the viewers. She’d gone back with her remaining cub to the den and now stood amongst the flattened grass, calling for her young. Well, of course she would: she was a mother, wasn’t she? But how could they have survived that deadly attack? Honestly, it was simply too heart-rending, and any minute that huge chauvinist lion would come back and do for them both.

  ‘Run away!’ Maria wanted to cry. ‘Run away!’

  But wait, now the grasses were stirring and here was a cub, unharmed, running to its mother, and dear old Simon’s voice was wavering, and now another cub – oh, good grief, this was so fantastic – another cub was coming out of its hiding place, and the three cubs and their mother were having a reunion. Maria gulped some more gin, and wept, and so did Simon – well, there were tears in his eyes, bless – and by the time she’d mopped her own eyes and looked again they’d all moved on to meerkats, but she’d had enough traumas for one evening and she was perfectly certain that there would be more ahead. A predator who just adored raw meerkat would be hovering somewhere at hand and it would begin all over again.

  Maria channel-hopped for a few minutes and then switched the television off. The lioness had made her think about family, about Jo. Family was important, more important than anything else. OK, so she’d got a few things wrong in the past but there was absolutely no reason why things couldn’t be put right. She could buy a little cottage, or a flat, in Staverton or Totnes, not too far away from The Keep but not absolutely on the doorstep, and make a new start. Maybe, while she was looking for this little place, Hal might suggest that she should stay at The Keep. That would be so good; give everyone plenty of opportunity to mend fences.

  Of course, Pen would put up a fight. She’d already said that it was best for Maria to be amongst her friends in Salisbury, where she’d lived nearly all her life. Well, Pen would say that, wouldn’t she? There was no question that she enjoyed having her old friend next door – and they had some good times together, no doubt about that. Once or twice, to be honest, she’d wondered whether she’d ever do better than to be in this very comfortable little annexe with the use of the garden, demanding no effort on her part, and a couple of very good mates just a shout away. After all, they had lots of mutual friends and darling old Phil was just the kind of bossy boots who was only too happy to organize things and sort out problems. She simply had to put on a particular expression – a tiny frown, a nibble at the lower lip – and old Phil’s arm would be round the shoulder, comforting, wanting to help. Of course, in these days of equality it was an absolute godsend for an old-fashioned chap like Philip to be able to defend a helpless woman. Pen wasn’t having any of that kind of patronizing nonsense, thank you very much, so she knew that Phil really appreciated her own rather delicate helplessness. Adam had been just such another, and it was child’s play to have them eating out of her hand. Of course, she had to be careful. She didn’t want to upset darling Pen; no killing of the goose that laid the golden eggs.

  Maria finished her drink. Nevertheless, Pen and Philip weren’t her family. She’d explain that to them, very tactfully, and put forward this new plan. Hadn’t Pen talked of going down to their cottage in Salcombe quite soon? That might be an excellent place to start: she could go down with them, have a look at the market, go and see Hal and Jo…

  Her spirits flew upwards and she felt excited, quite giggly and happy. Humming to herself, Maria got up, holding on to the chair’s arm for a moment, just to get her balance, and went to make some supper.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Cordelia put the car in the garage, collected the shopping and found the front door key. Great gusts of salty air poured over the headland, whisking her hair around her face and tugging at the paper bags in her basket. The sea, glassy and transparent, mirrored the majestic, swift-moving cloudscape: cream and gold and white. She stood for a moment, relishing this new sense of happiness, recalling tiny, special moments that had occurred over and over again during the last week. Henrietta had been so sweet, so warm, that it was as if a whole new side of her daughter had been revealed.

  She let herself into the cottage, picked up the letters that were lying on the mat and carried them into the kitchen. McGregor came to greet her and a quick glance assured her that all was well, but she remained anxious. She was fearful lest there should be another visitation, a further development in the mystery that surrounded the events of the last few weeks. Several times she’d been tempted to confide in Angus, although she knew exactly what he’d say: call the police. It was a sensible idea yet something stopped her, though she couldn’t say quite what it was: some instinct that told her that she was not actually in real danger but rather being forced to be an unwilling partner in some drama that had to be played out. Angus would say that she was a fool; that she was taking a huge risk. Perhaps she was; but after all, what could she actually tell the police that would be of any help? She’d pieced together a fragmented sequence of events: a photo tucked into her windscreen wipers; a tall figure up on the cliff watching her through binoculars; some of her work destroyed whilst she was out on the balcony with Fliss; the sharp tap on her shoulder and the man hurrying out of the deli, followed by the discovery of the koala bear in her basket; the visitor who’d left another koala bear and moved her books whilst she was down on the beach. It was all so pointless. Surely the police would think that it was simply someone playing practical jokes on her, and she was inclined to agree, but who might it be? She had thought about it endlessly and only one person fitted the bill, as far as she could see, but her suspicion seemed so preposterous that at first she could hardly admit it to herself and she’d certainly been unable to talk about it even to Angus.

  Cordelia riffled idly through her letters: two bills, three catalogues and two envelopes – one handwritten, one typed. Dropping the bills and the catalogues on to the kitchen table she opened the handwritten envelope first: a card from an old friend asking if Cordelia might manage the trip to Oxfordshire to celebrate a wedding anniversary.

  Janey had written: ‘…thirty years!! Can you believe it? And it seems only minutes ago we were all at Smuggler’s Way in Faslane. Do you remember the drying area and how we used to puff up and down all those steps with the nappies?!!’

  Cordelia smiled reminiscently – ‘only minutes ago’ – and was still smiling when she opened the second envelope. A photograph fell out into her hand and she stared down at it, her smile fading into bewilderment. The young Cordelia beamed back at her, Simon beside her in his navy jersey with his lieutenant-commander’s stripes on its shoulders; he held a small, laughing Henrietta between his hands: a happy little family, kneeling together on a patch of grass.

  She turned the photograph quickly and saw three fuzzy black patches, where it had been torn from the black page of an album. Instantly, in her mind’s eye, she pictured the album: a rather expensive leather book with gold tooling that she’d filled with the best of the photographs that had been taken from the time of Henrietta’s first birthday until Simon had left them. There had been other photographs, stuffed into big manila envelopes or made into montages and framed, but the album had been the place for those special recorded moments.

  Cordelia picked up the envelope and shook it but there was nothing else inside. She examined the typed address but there was no clue there. The second-class stamp had missed the franking machine, although it had been crossed through in biro by the postman, so there was no date or postmark either. An idea occurred to her and with it a sense of relief: the photo was from Janey. Perhaps she’d meant to put it in with her letter, forgotten it, and sent it on in a different envelope. The photograph of the little scene, with the rather ugly concrete wall as the backdrop, might eas
ily have been taken at Smuggler’s Way, probably by Janey herself, and removed from her own album, and this would tie in with her letter. Cordelia pictured the scene: Janey arriving back from the postbox to find the photograph lying on the table.

  ‘Oh, Richard,’ she might have said crossly. ‘I’ve forgotten to put the photo in,’ and Richard would have said, ‘Don’t worry, love. I’ll print an envelope off on the computer.’

  Cordelia tried to take comfort from this scenario but her relief was short-lived. It was most unlikely that Janey would be so tactless as to send a photograph with Simon in it: she knew what a painful time it had been for her friend, and all that had happened since; surely she would never just send such a reminder out of the blue. Of course they talked about the past and on these occasions Simon’s name might crop up quite naturally, but to post the photo…No, no. It was simply an extraordinary coincidence that it should arrive with her letter.

  She put the photograph on the table and went into her study. The big rosewood chest of drawers had travelled with her for years; it had belonged to her grandmother. She knew exactly where the album would be. It would be lying at the back of the bottom drawer underneath all the folders and envelopes of photographs that had amassed over the years. She’d offered it to Henrietta years ago, after Simon’s letter had arrived, but she’d refused it.

  ‘I’ve got my own album, thank you,’ she’d said stonily, accusingly. And so she had: a large unwieldy book with the photos pasted in all haphazard, and uneven writing beneath each one in coloured ink: ‘Me and Daddy at Salcombe’ ‘Me and Daddy at the Boat Float’. She’d ostentatiously let Cordelia see that there were very few of ‘Me and Mummy’. Later, the entries were more sophisticated – simply a place and a date – but still very few pictures of Henrietta with her mother.