Jo turned his back on the cloud-filled valley and began to climb the hill, calling to the dogs whose barks could be heard somewhere below him, echoing in the almost eerie silence. Susan’s reaction had affected him too, resurrecting his old fear of commitment, and it had been difficult for either of them to regain the exhilaration of the earlier few weeks.
Luckily, the prospect of the weekend at The Keep had forced them to raise their spirits and, in the end, it had been easy – and fun. Having three lively twelve-year-old boys around had kept the focus away from the newly engaged couple, and it was clear that Hal and Kit had no intention of letting anyone steal too much of their thunder. It was a family celebration and very soon both he and Henrietta had been able to unwind. It had helped, too, that his mother had been staying with Cordelia; it had taken the pressure off him. It was odd, on reflection, that both mothers had been content to behave as if they were very close friends rather than to be in control. It had somehow made it less stressful for him, and for Henrietta, and he’d been aware of a stirring of admiration for his mother. After all, it couldn’t have been easy, given the past, to confront such a gathering of Chadwicks, and she’d done it well, with an unusual quietness and self-effacement. It was clear to him that Cordelia was unobtrusively supporting her and giving her confidence.
‘I really like your mum,’ he’d said, driving Henrietta back to Somerset on Sunday afternoon after a walk on the cliff and tea with Cordelia and Maria at the coastguard cottage. ‘She’s just great.’
‘I thought yours did pretty well,’ she’d said. ‘She seemed much more laid-back this time and happy just to be in the background. She seems to have taken on board what you said to her at the White Hart. I got on with her really well.’
After their walk on the cliff, when they’d been having tea, his mother had given Henrietta a pretty bracelet: a delicate chain of silver and coral.
‘My grandmother gave it to me when I was eighteen,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve always adored it but it needs a more delicate wrist than mine now. I’d love you to have it. I just hope that it isn’t politically incorrect to wear coral because it’s an endangered species.’
As usual Jo had been seized by the instinctive anxiety that manifested itself whenever Henrietta and his mother were together; all his protective instincts were aroused lest she make one of those light hurtful comments that might wound Henrietta as they had once wounded him. But to his relief, Henrietta had slipped the bracelet on at once, and given his mother a kiss, and Cordelia had raised her teacup in a toast to ‘happy families’. And there had been an atmosphere of real happiness, a true sense of family amongst the four of them, and the fact that Cordelia had made such a friend of her disposed him towards his mother even more kindly.
The dogs had appeared now out of the curling mist, their coats damp, and barged past him, racing up the hill towards the green door in the wall. He paused in a small homage to other dogs who were buried here, under the wall, then he opened the door and they all passed inside.
Hal was just leaving the office when Jolyon appeared.
‘I’ve got a few phone calls to make,’ he said to his father. ‘See you later on.’
Hal left him to it and made his way back to the house, hunching his shoulders slightly against the encroaching mist. He was still filled with a pleasurable satisfaction at the memory of the birthday weekend, and he wanted to get an email off to Ed telling him all about it, but there was a tiny edge of discomfort; something that he didn’t particularly want to think about, that nevertheless continued to nag at his consciousness. It had been a terrific success, he told himself; everyone had enjoyed it. Even old Maria had behaved incredibly well. Hal grimaced to himself; that sounded a bit patronizing but, might as well admit it, they’d all been a bit anxious about how it might work out with Maria there. And there was that memory again, all tied up with another great occasion, though he couldn’t just put his finger on which one; there had been so many celebrations at The Keep.
There was nobody in the kitchen and he went into the hall. His mother was dozing by the fire, the damp dogs stretched before the flames. Their tails thumped gently in welcome but his mother didn’t stir and Hal picked up the newspaper and wondered where Fliss was. She and Lizzie had worked so hard to make the weekend such a special one that she was taking a little while to recover. She’d been so happy, though, once the preparations were over and everything was actually under way, but she was always like that, dear old Flissy: anxious and preoccupied until the first person arrived and then all her fears were swept away and she was like a child again, loving every minute of it. And she’d looked really good, too; once or twice he’d seen her amongst all the family, talking to Kit and Susanna, or joking with young Sam and his friends; coming in to the hall with a tray of glasses for the champagne, her face alight with pleasure…
Hal frowned a little. He was remembering now and he could see it quite clearly: another weekend party at The Keep, one summer thirty years ago; plans for it spiralling out of control so that invitations had been extended to others apart from family members. He and Maria must have been at the quarter in Compton Road in Plymouth by then; oh, how Maria had hated that quarter after the pretty little cottage that had been their first home in Hampshire. And, even then, he’d been aware of how daunting Maria found these big family get-togethers, and he could remember that she’d been so uptight that he’d telephoned his mother and asked her to come to the party to give Maria some moral support. Hal looked across affectionately at his mother, still asleep, her head sliding sideways against the cushion. She’d always been sweet to Maria in those early years, so encouraging and patient.
‘Please come down, Ma,’ he’d pleaded. ‘I don’t think Maria can face it without you. She’s wound up about Fliss being pregnant – you know how she’s longing to have a baby – and Kit’s inclined to tease her. All in good fun, of course, but Maria’s a touch sensitive just at present…’
She’d come by train from Bristol, he recalled, and he and Maria had met her in Plymouth and she’d stayed with them for the weekend. Kit and a group of her friends had travelled down to The Keep from London, and Fliss and Miles had come over from their house in Dartmouth, of course; Miles full of his imminent posting to Hong Kong. And then during the party he’d bumped unexpectedly into Fliss as she was carrying a tray of glasses into the garden and his love for her had suddenly threatened to overwhelm him; he hadn’t wanted her to go to Hong Kong, to be so far away from him. He’d put out his hands and covered hers with them so that they held the tray between them – and Maria had seen them, and later there had been a terrible row.
He remembered that he’d denied his love for Fliss and accused Maria of jealousy, turning it back on her, making her feel guilty…
Prue woke suddenly. Hal was sitting opposite, staring at nothing in particular, his face grim. She watched him fearfully for a moment, knowing that he was thinking about something that was causing him a great deal of pain. She stayed quite still, casting her mind over the various things that might be concerning him. After all, it’d been such a happy time, and everyone was still basking in the afterglow of the weekend. Fliss had been so happy, despite the fact that she’d wished that dear Bess and Jamie could have been there with them all. And darling Jo with that sweet girl beside him; oh, how handsome he’d looked, and so much like Hal at that age…And Maria had behaved wonderfully well; not overacting to mask her insecurities as she’d done when she was young…
Prue sat upright, disturbing Hal, who still wore that rather forbidding look as though he wasn’t really seeing her properly.
‘Thinking about the past,’ she began, uncertainly, hardly knowing what she was saying, ‘can be so unsettling.’
Hal didn’t look at her. ‘Opening Pandora’s box,’ he said. ‘That was what Fliss called it and she was right.’
‘But sometimes,’ Prue said, ‘it can be a good thing.’
‘I don’t see how it can be particularly good to be aware of all
the mistakes you’ve made when it’s too late to do anything about them.’
‘We’ve all made mistakes,’ she said gently, still feeling her way forward. ‘None of us is free from guilt. To be fair, though, we have to try to remember how things were at the time.’
‘Fair to whom?’ he asked rather bitterly.
‘To everyone,’ she answered. ‘Feeling guilty about someone can do just as much harm as making the mistake did in the first place. It can put pressure on a relationship and throw it out of balance.’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right then,’ he said flippantly. ‘We can just forget all about it.’
‘I didn’t say that nothing should be done,’ she said. ‘I was trying to point out that guilt, all on its own, is a singularly destructive emotion. Healing, on the other hand, is a special grace.’
He looked at her with such an odd expression on his face – a mixture of disbelief and hope – that she felt terribly anxious and completely inadequate. ‘And how do we achieve that?’ he asked almost derisively.
Prue shook her head helplessly, and then for some reason thought of Theo. ‘By simply wanting it more than anything else,’ she answered.
He put the newspaper aside. ‘It’s odd,’ he said, ‘and rather unsettling, how these little memories keep coming back after all these years.’
She saw with relief that he was looking more like his usual self. ‘It’s been an emotional time,’ she said. ‘Adam dying and Maria coming back into our lives. Jolyon and Henrietta meeting and falling in love. It’s bound to stir up the past. I still think that good will come of it all.’
‘If you say so.’ He got up. ‘I think I need a drink.’
‘Now that,’ said Prue warmly, ‘is a very good idea. And since you’re on your feet, darling, you could put some more logs on the fire.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
‘The trouble is,’ Cordelia said, ‘that I’ve kept putting off telling Henrietta that Simon is dead and now I simply don’t know how to do it. Or where. I know I’m being tiresome, Angus. No. Don’t do that gentlemanly thing and be polite about it. I know I am but you can see what I mean, can’t you? To begin with: where do I tell her? Oh, I know that you think that it doesn’t really matter where it is but I don’t want her to be left alone afterwards and I can see difficulties either way. And don’t say that I’m just making trouble for myself. I can hardly drag her all the way over here without telling her why, and I really don’t think I ought to do it on the telephone. And even if she were to come here, then she’s got to drive all the way back on her own, mulling it over in her head, unless she gets that girl in from the village again to look after the animals so she can stay here. But then I’d have to give her some reason as to why she’d need to stay. Of course, I could go over there – and I know you said I could stay there with her if necessary, and that’s a possibility, but generally I don’t go to the cottage. It’s a long drive for me. We usually meet somewhere for lunch, like Pulhams Mill, and I can hardly tell her there, in public. So after lunch I’d have to say, “Let’s go back to the cottage”, and I think she’d find it a bit odd and wonder why I hadn’t simply told her straight out.
‘And that’s the other thing. How do I actually tell her? The more I think about it the more I lose my nerve. Oh, I wish I’d done it straight away, but first of all Jilly was with her and then, as soon as Jilly left, she decided to phone Susan and tell her she was engaged and she was really wound up about that so I thought I’d wait, and then, of course, it was the great weekend at The Keep and I didn’t want spoil it for her. So it’s got quite out of proportion and OK, so you’re saying, “In that case just get on and do it and get it over with,” but how? It’s really not quite that easy. I simply can’t see myself phoning her and saying, “I just want to tell you that your father is dead.” I know you think that I’m making a fuss, and at least she hasn’t seen or heard from him for ten years so it could be much, much worse. I know that. But I still can’t quite see how to do it and I simply don’t want to spoil things. It’s been so much better between us since she got engaged to Jo, I’ve been so happy, and I just know that this is going to rake up the past again and I shall feel the need to justify myself and all that stuff. And it’s no good telling me that I don’t have to tear myself apart and all that, I just simply can’t bear it when it’s all being so good and I just know I’m going to cock up in a really big way over this one…Oh damn, that’s my mobile. Where the hell is it? Oh, here it is. Oh, my God, it’s Henrietta.
‘Hello, darling. How are you?…Oh, is he? Oh, that’s lovely…Oh, just until tomorrow morning but still, that’s good. Give him my love…No. I mean yes. Yes, quite alone…Do I? Well, actually I am in a bit of a state, to be honest. I’ve got some rather sad news, darling. I’ve just heard that your father died earlier this year from cancer…Yes, I know. A terrible shock…A mutual friend told me, and I’m so sorry, darling…Well, that’s true, of course. I can imagine that’s how you’d feel. Shocked but rather detached. After all, we’d all been out of touch for so long…Yes, of course it’s terribly sad and I’m so glad you’ve got Jo with you…No, no. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me…It’s sweet of you to think like that but I shall be quite OK, as long as you’re all right…Yes, we’ll talk again tomorrow. ’Bye, darling…
‘Golly. Wasn’t that extraordinary, Angus? Fancy it happening just like that. After all the scenarios I’ve painted and it just happens out of the blue. And she’s OK. She was fine about it. Worried about me, actually, being on my own. And don’t look at me like that, Angus. You’ve got to admit that it wasn’t just quite the moment to say that you of all people were here at nearly ten o’clock at night, was it? But she was OK. Oh, I can’t get over it. Very calm. She said she felt detached about it. Shocked but detached. Thank God Jo was there. Well, I wouldn’t have told her if he hadn’t been, of course. Oh, the relief. Don’t just sit there, darling, say something. No, on second thoughts, just pour me a drink. A very big one.’
‘Dad’s dead,’ Henrietta said. ‘I can’t quite take it in. Poor old Mum just blurted it out. I think she was in shock, actually. Well, I suppose she would be, wouldn’t she? After all, they were married, even if it was a long time ago and they haven’t been in touch. It’s still a shock, isn’t it? Oh, yes, please, Jo, I think I will have another cup of tea. I know it’s a bit late but I’m kind of, like, numb. It might warm me up a bit. I can’t believe it, to tell you the truth. It was cancer. Oh God, how beastly. And he wasn’t very old, either. Oh hell, I just wish he could have known about us and I could have asked him why he went away like that. And I know what you’ve said about him obviously being a very black and white, intense kind of guy, and that he simply couldn’t cope with Mum being unfaithful, or with having a relationship with me as well as starting a new life for himself. I know all that, but I still wish we could have just made our peace, if you know what I mean. I mean it’s one thing sending me a letter when I was too young to know how to handle it and another actually having closure – if that’s the right word, sounds a bit formal – between two adults. I mean, I really think that you and Maria have got a bit of a chance to make that kind of peace now, and I feel I’ve been cheated out of it. I’d actually been wondering whether I might send a letter to him, I expect someone could have traced him, just to let him know about you and me. I mean, it’s been so great these last few weeks and I’ve felt differently about a few things, and I just thought I could have sort of let him know that. No, no, it’s fine. I’m not crying, really, I’m not, and I’m not really upset, honestly, because actually I didn’t particularly want him back in my life. I’d have felt very nervous about it because, like you said, there was something so cold and calculating – and, OK, creepy – about the way he behaved to both me and Mum and I wouldn’t have felt very happy about that, especially when we have babies, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t have been able to trust him and it could have been really embarrassing and difficult. Oh God, that sounds awful, doesn’t
it? You know what I mean, though, don’t you? But, well, it is a shock. It’s bound to be, isn’t it? Because he was my father, after all, and he was part of my life, even if I don’t remember much about when we were a proper family because even then he was at sea so much. And then, after he left, we had to fit meetings in between me being at boarding school and his leave so it was really difficult, and he didn’t write much and when we did meet up we never had much to say to one another and it was difficult to know how to fill the time up. So, one way and another, it didn’t really work. Oh, thanks, Jo. Lovely hot tea. Come and sit beside me and give me a cuddle while I drink it.’
Lizzie finished her porridge and sat for a moment, enjoying the unusual silence in the kitchen. Jo had already driven away to Bristol, and Hal was over in the office checking any overnight emails and faxes. It was a bonus for all of them that Hal’s long years in the Navy resulted in this habit of being up early in the morning; he’d be back for coffee once he’d made certain that everything was under control but on the days when Jo was away, Hal’s self-discipline let Lizzie off the hook a bit and she was grateful for it.
She reached for some toast and, using her butter knife, she slit open the first of her two letters. It was from her mother, and she laid the sheets on the table beside her plate whilst she spread butter and marmalade on her toast. It was a cheerful letter, full of news about the family and the dogs, telling her about their inability to make a decision about getting a puppy; asking if Lizzie would be coming home for Christmas…
The Prodigal Wife Page 27