'Oh, yes. He was down early. He said you were taking him to see a client today.'
'That's right. I'm going over to a farm near Simonsbath and thought he might like the drive. Old Hartley has been on our books for years. He and father are old friends.'
'Felix will enjoy that,' agreed Lizzie. 'And I might go and see Clio and Hester. Hatch a plot to deal with young Jonah. Shall I take Lion or will you?'
Piers hesitated, looking at Lion who sat up, ears flattened, tail beating expectantly on the flagged floor. 'Could you manage? Hartley's collies are a tad touchy. I know he likes to come with me as a rule but he'll enjoy a walk by the river.'
'He likes to see St Francis,' said Lizzie. 'He's such an enormous cat that Lion looks upon him as an honorary dog. They go for walks together; it's bizarre. He'll be fine once you've gone. Shut the door as you go out and then he can't follow you and I'll telephone Bridge House and see if they can cope with us.'
Clio was almost as upset as Lizzie. The thing was, as she'd said to Hester several times, it seemed so out of keeping with Jonah's character. If he'd telephoned, disappointed at not being able to go on with his exploration of the past, they could have understood it better. As it was, one Christmas card and a short, unsatisfactory letter didn't offer any kind of explanation.
'I don't think it was anything I told him,' Hester had said anxiously. 'He went off perfectly happily and planning to come down again soon.'
As much as anything else, as far as Clio was concerned, it was seeing Hester upset that was so distressing; she looked frailer, as if she'd been diminished by Jonah's brush-off. Clio was cross with Jonah, miserable by the break-up of her affair with Peter, and anxious about the future.
Waiting for Lizzie – Hester had gone to Dunster – Clio tried to recreate the peace and deep-down joy she'd felt at the convent during Christmas, especially in the chapel. At first it had taken some adjustment: the general atmosphere of quiet, the reflective silences between prayers and psalms during the offices, the sense of reverence and awe. She'd loved the chapel with its plain stone walls and high, over-arching ceiling and the strong, simple shape of the wooden altar table. A carved statue of Mary, serene and patient, stood in an alcove, a wide, shallow bowl at her feet filled with sand and stuck about with votive candles that flickered and streamed in the dusk-light when the office of vespers was sung.
On the morning of Christmas Eve the chapel was decorated: tall silver vases of evergreen and holly were placed on the altar steps, and a sweet-scented fir tree, dressed in silver and gold, twinkled in a shadowy corner. At the midnight Eucharist as Clio sat in her corner next to Hester, watching the faces of the nuns in their stalls, she suddenly noticed the crib and the Holy Family. The small figures were placed on a low table, hardly distinguishable at a distance; yet a hidden light shone upon them in such a way that their huge shadows rose, clear and dramatic, against the ancient stone wall beyond them. It seemed to Clio that this was a paradox: this small, homely event, hardly noticed by anybody apart from a few shepherds, yet foreshadowing something that would shake the world's foundations.
Celebrating with the community, sharing in their joy at the birth of the Christ Child, being with Blaise and Hester – all these things had distracted her from her own desolation and she'd confidently believed that she had found the strength to go forward without fear. Each evening, sitting in chapel during the hour of silent prayer before compline, as the sanctuary light flickered in the darkness and showed the dim, immobile shapes of the nuns, her unhappy heart had been miraculously filled with peace. This wordless sweet communion, which exalted and expanded her heart with love, drew her back to her corner time and again.
Once or twice she'd felt Blaise's eyes upon her, calm and reflective, and she'd wondered if he'd guessed. She was very slightly in awe of him here, as she never was when he came on holiday to Bridge House. There, his resemblance to Hester endeared him to her at once, however long it was since she'd seen him last. His self-contained quietness, his easygoing readiness to fit in and accept anything that might be going on, his way of looking at her intently as if he truly wished to know who she was but without any sense of intrusiveness on his part: all these things allowed her to treat him as a brother or some very special friend. She never thought of Blaise in terms of age.
One morning after terce, finding him alone in the flat, all her old affection for him had driven out this sense of awe and she'd spoken impulsively.
'If someone had told me that I could spend an hour sitting in silence in a chapel and loving every minute of it, I'd have laughed,' she said. 'I've tried meditation before but it's never really worked. I can't clear my head properly and I get frustrated. It's the same with prayer; you go rabbiting on but it's as if you're talking to yourself. There's nothing coming back. But these last few evenings it's as if I've connected with something. Oh, I don't know how to describe it but it's great!'
He'd probed her with his lancing look: not judgemental, not tolerant, but looking right into her as though he was greeting her from some place deep inside himself. When he smiled she felt as if he'd given her a present but he didn't speak, simply touched her shoulder as Hester did.
Later she'd found a piece of paper on her bed: a photocopy of a page from a book with some lines underlined. She picked it up and read them with curiosity.
Prayers like gravel Flung at the sky's
window, hoping to attract the loved one's
attention . . . . . . I would
have refrained long since but that peering once
through my locked fingers
I thought that I detected the movement of a curtain.
'Something like this?' was written at the bottom in Blaise's hand.
Finding him sitting at the table, drinking coffee, she'd put her arm round his shoulder and kissed his cheek.
'Just like that,' she'd murmured in his ear – and he'd chuckled with the pleasure of sharing.
As the week passed, Clio felt that she'd discovered a spiritual secret that would sustain her for ever. She'd said as much to Blaise on the journey back from Hexham where she'd driven him to do some shopping.
'It won't last,' Blaise had answered.
So sure had Clio been of Blaise's approval and delight that this display of pragmatism caused her to swivel her eyes from the road to stare at him with dismay.
'What do you mean?'
'I'm just warning you,' replied Blaise, 'because after such an experience it can be terribly disappointing when you find that these feelings can't be enjoyed at will. You might feel that you're not praying hard enough or in the right way and then you might be so disillusioned that you give up any attempt to pray or to listen, that's all. It's grace, something freely given, not deserved or worked for; it's a Gift. Never forget what you've experienced but don't come to rely on it.'
They'd driven in silence for a moment then Clio had begun to laugh.
'Thanks, Blaise,' she'd said wryly.
Blaise had smiled too, rather ruefully. 'I thought it was best that you should be prepared,' he'd said.
And now, Clio told herself, she was glad that Blaise had warned her, because once back at Bridge House, aching for Peter, her future a blank, she'd fallen prey once more to fear and misery. She remembered what Blaise had said and tried to persist with meditation, setting aside a short time every day just to sit quietly in her room with the candles lit, trying to recreate the atmosphere of the chapel. Here, however, she found her concentration wandering, and memories pressing more closely upon her: Peter pleading with her to give him time, telling her how essential she was to him.
'But is this how you see the rest of our lives?' she'd asked him angrily. 'Me just sitting here waiting? All those weekends when I stay in, hoping that you might manage a phone call; and outings together that you've promised, cancelled at the last moment because of some more important family event? Can you imagine how awful Christmas is? And bank holidays? Let's face it, Peter, you're never going to leave Louise and I don'
t think I want you to, not any more. I'd feel too guilty. Oh, I fantasized about you splitting up, in a very amicable way that didn't hurt the children, but it was complete crap. It was never going to happen. And now that Louise has been so ill, it's shown you very clearly where your heart really is. Hasn't it?'
He hadn't looked at her; he'd stood with his back to her, staring out of the window and jingling the loose change in his pockets. Then, just briefly, she'd relaxed her guard and allowed herself to look at him – his fair crisp hair, the length of his back in the well-cut jacket, his long straight legs – and had felt the utter anguish of love and longing. If he'd turned at that moment and seen her face, she'd have been lost.
Instead, still looking out of the window, he'd said: 'What happened down there on Exmoor? Did you meet someone else?'
She'd almost smiled. How much easier for both of them if she could use such a reason but, 'No,' she'd answered. 'There is no-one else. It simply removed me from your magnetic field, that's all. I realized that I've been in thrall, Peter.'
'And you're not now?'
He'd turned to look at her, then, and it had required an enormous effort to stare at him coolly and reply, 'No, not now.'
'Damn all godmothers,' he'd said, characteristically and matter-of-factly, and when she'd laughed he'd sent her a quick, sly glance, wondering if he'd detected a slight weakening.
She'd continued to watch him steadily but her heart had ached: at no time had he suggested any changes for the future. He'd pleaded for her to be patient while Louise was still ill, told her that he needed her, but he'd made no promises of more time together or hinted that he might one day leave Louise, and, in playing it brutally straight, he'd given her the courage to stand firm.
Back at Bridge House it was easier to bear the pain, and there was the prospect of the future to distract her, but it was Jonah's defection, she told herself, that was really upsetting her; though sometimes she wondered if she were simply projecting all her own troubles onto him.
She nearly said as much to Lizzie when she arrived with Lion, but Lizzie was chuckling at the sight of St Francis and Lion greeting one another. Lion bowed down before St Francis, large and peaceful in his basket chair, as if at first honouring him and then inviting him to play. He gave one or two tentative barks, and his plumy tail wagged encouragingly, but St Francis simply stared at him imperturbably, showing a benign and friendly indifference to his antics before embarking on a long, thorough wash.
'I know that people talk about growing like their dogs,' Lizzie said, 'but doesn't St Francis remind you of Hester? There's that same delightful detachment. I just love it.'
'She's not feeling very detached about Jonah,' said Clio crossly. 'She'd grown really fond of him and now he's made her miserable, Lizzie. She seems anxious in case she told him something that might have upset him. About his grandfather or his mother or something. I can't believe she has but it's really eating her up.'
'That's why I've come, sweetie.' Lizzie gave Clio her attention at once. 'Piers says we simply mustn't let Jonah get away with it. We mustn't let him impose his will on us. He says that we must hound him.'
Clio frowned, puzzled. 'But how do we do that?'
'I've got his telephone numbers, you see, and we must take it in turns to ring him up and leave messages. You must say that Hester is pining away and I shall say that he's letting me down over the film event. We can text him too. What do you think?'
Clio nodded cautiously. 'It might work. Sorry, Lizzie, I wasn't thinking. Would you like some coffee?'
'Do you mind if we give Lion a walk first? He hasn't had a run yet and I promised Piers.'
'OK. We'll go along the river. It looks wonderful in the woods at the moment. The marsh marigolds are out and the ground is positively golden with them. Hester calls them kingcups and says that they make her feel melancholy.'
'Oh, poor Hester,' said Lizzie. 'I hate her to be miserable. Honestly, I could murder Jonah.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Hester was sitting in Cobblestones café, staring out at the early March sunshine, thinking about Jonah. Although she was aware of a sense of loss – of missing him – her concern was not simply connected with the fact that she might never see him again. What primarily concerned her was the fear that, at some point in her recounting of the past, she'd touched upon some aspect that had caused Lucy so much pain that further contact was now impossible. Hester was convinced that it was during Jonah's reporting back to Lucy that the trouble had arisen and she cast her mind back again and again over the conversations she'd had with him.
Blaise's warning that it should be a truthful history haunted her, though she could think of no point where she'd dissimulated. Perhaps, in trying to defend Michael from his grandson's judgement she'd made an error in playing down the after-effects of the fight, yet she'd hated the thought of Jonah seeing his grandfather as vacillating and weak: forced to flee the house with his mistress and child. Had the very thing that she and Blaise feared actually happened? Had the heroic figure that Jonah had built up over the years crumbled to dust in the light of reality? As Blaise had observed: 'The young can be so puritanical.' Perhaps it was this aspect from which Lucy had never been able to recover: seeing her father with Eleanor in London. Away from the family, Eleanor would have made her relationship with Lucy's father brutally clear and Hester wondered how the sudden flight had been explained to the child.
At Christmas, with Blaise, Hester had not yet been aware of Jonah's reaction. She'd received a postcard just after his visit, thanking her and telling her that he'd gone straight to Chichester because his father was ill; nothing more except a Christmas card. It wasn't until they'd returned from the North that she'd begun to expect another visit. As the weeks passed she'd grown concerned – perhaps his father's health had deteriorated – yet both she and Clio were surprised at Jonah's silence: it wasn't in character. Then they'd heard through Lizzie that Jonah was back in London, his father was much better, but he was too busy to make the journey to Exmoor.
Hester was glad now that Clio was with her. She'd begun to suffer from anxiety attacks that she seemed unable to control; first thing on waking, or if she was disturbed in the early hours, her gut would churn and her heart would pound with unnamed fear. She tried to rationalize these attacks by reminding herself that added to her anxiety about Jonah was the pressing question as to whether she should sell Bridge House. It gradually occurred to her that she was waiting for some move from Jonah before she committed herself: that, in some way, Jonah – and Lucy – were involved in this decision. She told herself that such an idea was foolish yet she couldn't dismiss it from her mind. There was something more to be resolved at Bridge House.
At Christmas, Blaise had asked her if she'd decided what to do and she'd admitted that she had no idea.
How good it had been to see him, to spend such a special time with him! Even Clio, usually so busy and vital and restless, had been calm and quietly happy.
'This reminds me of that year we spent together after the war,' he'd said one evening as the three of them had eaten supper together, discussing the poetry of R. S. Thomas. 'D'you remember, Hes? You, me and Edward.' He'd smiled at Clio, including her. 'We were preparing Hester for Cambridge,' he told her. 'Edward was a very hard taskmaster and we didn't stop for a second, even when we were eating. There were books everywhere.'
'Rather like here,' Clio had said, nodding towards the shelves and piles of books, and they'd all laughed.
'That was a good time, wasn't it?' he'd asked Hester when Clio went to make coffee and they were alone together.
'The best,' she'd answered simply.
He'd stared at her, his eyes seeming to question her, as if surprised at the speed and directness of her reply.
'What was the play we were reading at nights round the fire?' he asked. 'Twelfth Night, wasn't it?'
She'd allowed a tiny pause. 'That's right. You were Orsino and I was Viola, amongst other characters. Edward was Malvolio with hi
s yellow stockings.' Then Clio had come back in and she'd changed the subject.
'Clio's been happy here,' he'd said on the eve of their departure. 'I feel confident that she's taken the right path. It's good to think of you together just at the moment.'
Now, Hester sipped at her coffee and thought about Clio. On their return to Bridge House, Lizzie had greeted the news of Clio's decision to stay for a while with delight.
'You shall plan the nuts and bolts of the film event,' she'd cried. 'Where the tutors and the students stay and how they get here and all that nightmare. Oh, what a relief. You must be paid the proper rate, of course, just as anybody else would have been. You will do it, won't you? Wonderful! This is brilliant.'
It was evident that Clio was thrilled to be asked – and very grateful to be paid – and was now busy organizing the event. She was extremely businesslike and very efficient, and Hester was relieved to see that some of Clio's pain and fear was alleviated by this distraction. This was another reason for staying at Bridge House for the present: she wanted to be able to give Clio space to find her feet again. She could see how much Clio was missing Peter and how hard she was trying to come to terms with a huge loss: Peter and her work had been nearly all of her life and now she had lost both. Hester knew the overwhelming attraction and the danger of being involved with someone who understood your work. Twice she'd had affairs with men with whom she could share mentally as well as physically, a delightful combination – until the relationships fractured and there had been nowhere to go to recover.
She knew that Clio was in that position now and she wondered what the future held for her god-daughter. Hester hoped that Clio wasn't programmed to be attracted only to older, successful men. This had been her own downfall: her upbringing, influenced first by her father and then by Edward, Michael and Blaise, had made the men of her own age seem rather callow. She'd been drawn to mentor-figures, imagining that by drawing them into her life, even physically into herself, she would be imbued with some measure of their wisdom and wit and knowledge, much as Nimue had sucked out the essence of Merlin's magical secrets drop by drop with her kisses.
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