Two Loves

by Siân James

  ‘Of course it is. I haven’t got anything else, have I, so this is a plus. We’re friends, after all, as well as occasional lovers.’ She knew very well that she could never have been so fair-minded and undemanding if she’d been violently in love. As she was with Daniel.

  ‘Violently in love,’ she murmured to herself, savouring the words. ‘I’m violently in love.’

  So how could she have come back to bury herself in the country, when it was surely her place to stay in London until she’d found her love again!

  She got out of bed and went downstairs. It was two in the morning, an empty mournful time, silent except for the ticking of the clock. She felt like ringing Dora to tell her to find her a flat as soon as possible. She needed to be in London again. She had to find Daniel again. If she had enough faith in her quest she would succeed. She found herself crying once more – not in that hard, desperate way, as before – but with a quiet litany of sobs.

  She’d put the schoolhouse on the market, sell the furniture with it, because it wouldn’t suit a London flat, get rid of her paints and all the painting paraphernalia, give up the thought of being an artist, perhaps take a job in a gallery. ‘I’m violently in love,’ she told herself over and over again, whenever the prospect seemed daunting.

  She went to the kitchen and made herself a pot of tea. How had she been able to stay so long in Anthony’s house, with nothing of her own surrounding her? She was sick of the country pine, the blue and white china and the yellow walls; she wanted something quite different – an elegant little flat like Dora’s, with of course a large, untidy room for Joss.

  ‘I am violently in love,’ she told herself, trying to forget something she’d often suspected; that violent love usually ended in violent loss for at least one of the couple. Violent loss, disillusion and destruction.

  Chapter Eleven

  The baby didn’t stop crying. Once or twice when Joss held his long delicate fingers, he almost stopped, went, ‘La, la, la,’ his mouth quivering, which wasn’t so bad. Joss liked the new baby, though the other boys said he was nothing but a nuisance. If it was his baby brother he’d call him Jim – or Jimbo – and he’d pick him up and play with him and stop him being so sad. ‘La, la, little baby,’ he said to himself. His hand was like a starfish.

  Mrs Woodison said crying was good for a baby’s lungs and that he’d be spoilt if he was picked up between feeds. She said Harry was spoilt because he wouldn’t finish his boiled egg. When she went to the kitchen to put more water in the teapot, Harry said it was full of shit, and they all laughed, even Thomas.

  Mrs Woodison lived in a little grey village surrounded by grey hills where it rained every day; it was a beauty spot. The name of the village was ‘The Church near the Waterfall’, but none of them could pronounce it. She told them that the church had a famous stained glass window and that they could go to see it if the rain stopped, and Stephen said, ‘How delightful,’ and they all spluttered again. But when Saturday Morning Roundabout was over, they put their anoraks on, deciding to go and find the waterfall to throw stones at it. Thomas had important letters to write, but he promised faithfully to take them to the funfair the next day.

  First they walked down the road to the shop which had two small windows full of packets of soap powder, and bought four liquorice sticks each, which was the only thing they could get with the money Mrs Woodison had given them for crisps. Then they took the path to the church, chewing contentedly and leering at one another as their teeth became more and more discoloured. ‘Look at my black spit,’ Joss said, gobbing at the path.

  They came to a brook and Stephen said it would be bound to lead to the waterfall if they walked back against the current, but though they walked miles and miles through soaking wet grass, they didn’t come to it. They came to some cows, though, who stared at them, lifted their heads and said, ‘Mmm,’ but kept their distance. Stephen told them not to look back at them over their shoulders because it would make them angry, but Joss and Harry couldn’t help it; they liked the way they said ‘Mmm’ instead of ‘Moo.’ They both agreed that cows were much more intelligent than sheep.

  A tall, thin, grey-haired woman came down the hill towards them. She stopped dead in front of them so that they had to stop too. ‘Where are you going, then?’ she asked them, her thin, mild voice full of surprise.

  Stephen said they were going to the waterfall.

  ‘English visitors,’ she said. ‘Where are you staying? At Nant Eos?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Anyway, you’re going the wrong way for the waterfall. This track only leads to Cefn Eithin, and there’s no one there but me, and I’m out. But come, I’ll show you the way. Now, can one of you carry this parcel for me, I wonder? Only it’s very heavy. It’s a old mirror with a gold frame that I’m hoping to sell in Denbigh this afternoon. Don’t drop it, will you, or it’ll be seven years’ bad luck. Isn’t this rain terrible?’

  Stephen took the mirror, but however he tried to carry it, it banged against his knees as he walked.

  ‘You’ll never do it that way, bach.’ She looked back at Martin. ‘But if your friend takes one end, you’ll be able to carry it between you. See if you can manage the old thing as far as the stile and then I’ll take it again. Oh, that’s better. Oh, you are good, careful boys. Where are you from, then? You should go to Rhyl if the rain clears up this afternoon. I used to relish a trip to Rhyl when I was a girl. Haven’t been for years now, of course. I’m too old for funfairs, but I used to love them. To tell you the truth I used to be a bit of a devil on the Big Wheel. There’s nothing much to the waterfall, mind, only a lot of water from the mountain falling over some old stones. The tourists seem to like it, of course, they come in droves with their shorts and their fat thighs. It’s reckoned to be one of the sights around here. But you get your mammy and daddy to take you to Rhyl as soon as the rain stops.’

  They walked slowly and carefully as far as the stile. ‘Oh, dear God,’ she said then, coming to a sudden halt, as though receiving a personal revelation from On High. ‘You’re Mrs Woodison’s little grandsons, aren’t you?’ She flung her arms round Joss and Harry, giving them a long, painful hug. ‘And here’s me bothering you about my old mirror and you with your poor mother gone. Give it here, do.’

  She took the mirror from Stephen and Martin, propped it against her hip and tried to hug them, too, but they stepped smartly out of her way, so that she hugged Joss and Harry again for an even longer time.

  ‘Now I go to the village this way, and you go that way to the church, and when you get there, just walk straight on and you’ll hear the waterfall. And perhaps you’ll stop to see the rose window in the church as well. Some people say it’s the most beautiful window in Wales, it’s very old anyhow. Well, I’ll say goodbye. And, believe me, I’m more sorry than I can say.’

  ‘Silly old cow,’ Stephen said, his voice sounding as though he was full of cold.

  ‘She had very stiff bones,’ Joss said. ‘My nose was bent against her chest.’

  ‘I wish we were at home,’ Harry said.

  They all wished that, as they walked along the slightly wider path leading to the church, kicking at stones as they went.

  The waterfall failed to impress. They stood as close to the spray as they dared, but it was only like more rain and they were soaked already, their trainers gurgling like hot-water bottles as they walked. Martin said Niagara was the biggest waterfall in the world and Stephen said the Victoria Falls, but even that sharp disagreement didn’t seem worth having a fight about. And however violently they hurled stones into the waterfall, they were simply swallowed up, making no impression at all.

  They walked back towards the church, sodden and dispirited, but instead of keeping to the path at the front, they climbed up the grassy bank behind it. The rain stopped and a watery sun appeared between the dingy white clouds.

  ‘I used to be a devil in the funfair,’ Martin said, imitating the woman’s nasal accent. They all laughed, delighted to have somethin
g to laugh about.

  ‘I used to be a devil on the Big Wheel,’ Stephen said. ‘You get your mammy and daddy to take you to the funfair this afternoon.’

  ‘Look at that bloody church,’ Martin said after a few seconds’ silence. ‘Look at that bloody famous window. It doesn’t look very bloody much from up here, does it? All dark and bloody dismal. Let’s throw some bloody stones at it.’

  Stephen should have stopped them, he knew that, but they were a long way away and he didn’t really think any of them would manage to hit the window, though it was, it had to be admitted, quite definitely a large one. ‘Six goes each,’ he said, and they scrambled back to the path to pick up stones. ‘Small ones,’ he added firmly, still struggling to be the responsible eldest brother.

  Neither Joss nor Harry managed to hit the back of the church, let alone the window. Two of Martin’s stones hit it, but bounced off. Stephen aimed five stones without success so, unwilling to be outdone by Martin, he put considerable force and effort behind his last throw, and the stone, marginally bigger than the others, went right through one of the small grey panes at the very top of the window. The sharp burst of pleasure he felt at his success was immediately followed by a sickening numbness as he saw the small round hole in the window.

  ‘What a dumb thing to do,’ he said.

  ‘And that man saw us climbing up here,’ Martin added.

  ‘Let’s go back to Granny’s,’ Harry said.

  They walked slowly back to the village.

  * * *

  That evening they saw the vicar coming up the drive, battling against the wind and the rain, his large black umbrella prancing before him. They were in the breakfast room watching Noel’s House Party and expected to be called into the sitting room and questioned, but they weren’t. They were all apprehensive, laughing immoderately at antics they’d normally have groaned at.

  It was at least half an hour later when they heard Mrs Woodison and the vicar in the hall again. ‘An act of God,’ they heard her say in her usual high-pitched bossy voice, ‘but I shall, of course, pay in full for the restoration.’

  ‘You can come in to have your cocoa now,’ she said at nine o’clock, opening the door and looking at them over her glasses. ‘The baby’s fast asleep and I’ve persuaded your father to go out to the pub for an hour.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Stephen said as he followed the others to the kitchen.

  ‘Whatever for? Millie Roberts was on the phone earlier telling me how kind you were to her this morning. No need to be sorry about anything.’

  Chapter Twelve

  All through that Saturday, Rosamund had been striding about the house and garden, trying to decide what to do. She wanted to go to London again to find Daniel, but was afraid of failure. If he had really decided not to meet her the previous week, then she accepted that finding him wouldn’t be too much help. She had thought his eyes had held all the certainty of love, but how much did she really know about him, or about love? And who could advise her? Dora was sure he would both want and manage to contact her again. Ingrid was equally sure that he’d thought better of it. They were both intelligent women and both more experienced than she was.

  She went to bed on Saturday night wearied by doubt and indecision, and with no Joss to wake her, slept deeply until ten and got up feeling still tired.

  Sunday was a perfect day, a slight heat haze at first and then stillness and jewel-bright colours, the sky so blue she felt she could taste it on her tongue. The day tasted of hope. Why wasn’t Daniel with her? He’d seemed so certain he wanted to move in with her. ‘Are you sure?’ he’d asked when she suggested it, as though he thought it was too good to be true. It had seemed a new beginning – exactly when she’d needed one. So where was he? The blackbird’s song filled her with longing. In the night she’d heard a she-cat calling for a mate in a voice gone harsh with lust. Whereas she could do nothing but wait and hope. She didn’t even have his address.

  She fetched paper and some sticks of charcoal and tried to draw him. Several times she managed a decent-enough portrait of a pleasant-looking young man, but on the eighth attempt she succeeded in capturing a likeness. Daniel she wrote underneath and pinned it up with her drawings of Joss. For a while it seemed to ease her pain. After all, she thought, it was what primitive tribes did when they went hunting.

  * * *

  Marian and Brian came up in the afternoon.

  ‘Only a cup of tea, dear,’ Marian said, filling the kettle. ‘Oh, I’ve been thinking so much about you. What are you planning to do? Brian, would you mind putting another chair out on the patio, love?’

  Rosamund had told her mother nothing about meeting Daniel and wondered whether she’d been talking to Dora that morning. ‘Planning to do about what?’ she asked.

  ‘About Harry’s father. About Thomas. About the whole sad situation.’

  Rosamund breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I don’t have to do anything about Thomas. Of course I’m very sad, very sorry for him and the children, but I can’t really be much help, can I? He’s so guilt-ridden at the moment, I’d be the last person he’d want around. Perhaps his mother will move down here for a while.’

  ‘As long as you don’t get sucked into it, dear. Thomas seemed a very decent sort of person, but I’d hate to think of you with five boys to care for.’

  ‘I haven’t even considered such a thing – and neither has Thomas, I’m sure. In fact, I’ve been thinking about moving to London, selling this place and buying a flat in some fairly inexpensive area. Dora thought it might be a new start for me.’

  Marian said nothing, only carried the tray into the garden.

  ‘How much would Rosamund get for this house?’ she asked Brian as she poured out the tea.

  ‘Is she thinking of selling?’ he asked, looking at each of the women in turn. ‘Where would she go?’

  ‘I thought Joss and I might move in with you two,’ Rosamund said, ‘so that I could invest the money I got and live on that. Even pay you some rent.’

  Brian sipped his tea carefully, looking about him at the garden and then at the valley beyond. ‘It seems a good idea,’ he said then, ‘but don’t do anything in a hurry, that’s my advice. It would suit Marian, of course, but you might soon feel…’

  Rosamund got up and dropped a kiss on his head. ‘You’re a good, brave man, Brian,’ she said, ‘but I was teasing you. I wouldn’t dream of imposing myself on you two.’

  ‘It would be very nice in many ways,’ he said, breathing freely again. ‘Oh yes, you and Joshua keep us young, you know. Our Mrs Harlin couldn’t believe that Marian was going to be sixty next birthday.’

  ‘We’d just given her a rise, dear,’ Marian explained. ‘But I think Brian’s right. Don’t decide anything too hurriedly or you might regret it. Get temporary accommodation in London and find out whether you could settle there. Leave Joss with us for the summer. You know he’d be well looked after, and of course you could visit every weekend.’

  ‘You could even let this place if you wanted to, I could have a word with Don Latham who runs Windrush Cottages. They take a pretty hefty percentage, of course, but they see to absolutely everything. Anything that goes wrong with the plumbing, electricity, etc, they undertake to get it sorted out. And naturally, I could potter about a bit in the garden, see to the lawns and so on.’

  ‘Think about it, dear,’ Marian said. ‘I don’t want you to be trapped by circumstances beyond your control. While you remain here, you’re in danger.’

  ‘What sort of danger?’ Brian asked, his eyebrows displaying alarm.

  ‘The usual sort,’ Marian said snappily. ‘Men and children.’

  The phone rang and it was Joss. They were at the funfair and having a brilliant time. Thomas had bought a family ticket so all the rides were free and Granny Woodison had given them two pounds fifty each which they were spending on chips and cider ice-pops. And, Mum, could he please, please buy a white mouse?

  ‘No,’ Rosamund said, ‘but if you come
home in one piece, I may get you that mountain bike for your birthday.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind about a mountain bike. What I want is a baby brother.’

  ‘We’ll discuss that when you come home.’

  His money ran out and Rosamund put the phone down.

  ‘What was that, dear?’ Marian asked.

  ‘He was telling me what he wanted for his birthday.’

  ‘Brian and I are getting him a mountain bike. Harry’s got one, apparently, so it seems only fair that he should have one too. Yes, we’ve ordered the very latest model, fiesta pink and moondust silver, with alloy wheels and this and that. Well, we felt it might keep him happy and out of mischief for a year or two.’

  ‘Sex and drugs will be the next stage, no doubt,’ Brian said. ‘Of course, there was none of that when I was a boy.’ He sounded gloomy. ‘A glass of shandy and a hurried fumble at the front door was all we had to look forward to.’

  ‘You speak for yourself, dear,’ Marian said.

  * * *

  The next morning Rosamund received a letter from Ambrose Lockhart, Molly’s solicitor: ‘At Mrs Gilchrist’s request, I have undertaken a fresh study of the last will and testament of your late husband, Mr Anthony Gilchrist. As you are aware, he made provisions for both Mrs Gilchrist and yourself; Mrs Marjory Gilchrist receiving the matrimonial home, 42 Albany Crescent, St John’s Wood, London NW8, an annuity of twenty thousand pounds and the monies from the copyright of his three volumes of poetry; Mrs Rosamund Gilchrist receiving his second home, The Old Schoolhouse, Compton Verney, Gloucestershire, an annuity of ten thousand pounds and the copyright of all his poetry and prose written after 1964, the year of his divorce absolute from Mrs Marjorie Gilchrist.

  ‘As there is no provision made in his will for any other person or persons, the copyright of any poems written for and sent to Miss Erica Underhill in or around 1965 are owned not by her but by yourself.