Bard had taken Francesca to meet her as soon as she had given in and agreed to marry him; Jess had liked and accepted her immediately for what she was, rather than viewing her as an adulteress and usurper of Pattie, as she might well have done.
‘I don’t approve of any of it,’ she said, ‘but you’re clearly what Isambard needs, and I think you’ll do him good. And those poor children of his,’ she added.
After the wedding, when they were all back at the house, she had taken Francesca aside and asked if she was happy; Francesca had said she was, and Jess had taken her to her large, black-encased bosom and kissed her rather sternly.
‘Good,’ she said, ‘that’s as it should be. Now it isn’t going to be easy, but you know that, I imagine.’
Francesca said she did.
Jess looked at her and smiled her sudden sweet smile. ‘You must continue to be firm with him,’ she said. ‘He’s horribly spoilt, and I don’t seem to be able to do much with him any more. And any nonsense, come to me.’
She had not gone to Jess with any nonsense from Bard, feeling she would in fact be straining her maternal loyalty considerably, but she had on occasions gone to her with nonsense from the children, notably Kirsten. She knew it was admitting defeat, but she felt defeated; Kirsten’s coldness, her ongoing silent insolence (open rudeness was more rare and punished severely by her father), was always unpleasant and often intolerable. Term times at least had been bearable when she had been away at school, but she had been removed from Benenden by Bard only just in time to prevent expulsion and had then been sent to St Paul’s, and was unrelievedly at home. Francesca could see she was unhappy, that she had had a dreadful time indeed, but she felt powerless to help. Kirsten adored Jess, and confided in her, and Jess in turn eased a little of her hatred away from Francesca, and comforted Francesca over the hatred. It would have been much worse without her.
The other two were comparatively easy; Tory was sweet and malleable, and Barnaby had been charmingly manipulative from the cradle; by the time Francesca and Bard were married he was seventeen, and an unarguable, if unreliable, delight in her life.
Of Liam she saw nothing, heard nothing; felt only the weight of his hostility to Bard and she supposed to her; and thought of him hardly at all.
Chapter Two
It always amused Francesca when she heard women debating when and where their children had been conceived: the vagueness, the could-have-beens and might-not-have-beens. She had known precisely when Jack had been conceived and when she lay, released finally and mercifully from pain, holding the small Kitty Channing, she could look back nine months almost to the hour and say when had been her beginning.
They had been, she and Bard, in the house in Greece, just for a few days; he had been away on endless business trips – another of the things she had not envisaged when she had agreed to marry him, the loneliness of the long-distance wife – and they had been quarrelling a lot when he had been around. He had told her he wanted her all to himself again so that he could remember how much and why he loved her. It was the afternoon of their last day; they had been lying on the beach in the late afternoon, she half asleep on her stomach, sated with warmth, with sun, with new happiness, he reading, and he had reached out for her, she had felt his hand, his demanding, skilful hand, on her back, moving, smoothing down her, had turned, met his eyes, smiled at him, and without a word, stood up and walked into the house, into the cool, up to their room.
‘Oh God,’ he had said, as he came in, looked at her lying there, waiting for him, and moved across, lay beside her, turned her face to look into his.
‘I love you,’ he had said, ‘so much, so very very much,’ and she had leant forward and kissed him, slowly, carefully at first, then as his hands began to move on her again, harder; had felt the yearning, the longing, the hunger for him deep within herself, and as he met her hunger with his own, entered her, moved slowly towards her centre, she had felt the longing and the hunger at once increase and ease, had felt the lovely, flowing, unfolding of herself towards him, greeting him, had felt herself, with him, within a great arc of pleasure, bright, brilliant pleasure, and as she moved to him, with him, fiercer, harder now, she reached out and pushed herself higher, sharper, and the arc broke, shattered into dazzling fragments, fragments that she felt in every cell, every vessel, every particle of her, leaping, probing at her, and for a very long time afterwards, she lay afraid to move, feeling the pleasure so slowly, so sweetly, ebbing from her.
And felt, knew indeed, what had happened to her.
The pregnancy was not easy, though; she was faint, nauseous as she had never been with Jack, she had migraines, for the first time in her life, her back hurt, her legs ached, she bled a great deal, had to spend many weeks in bed, was sleepless, fretful, terrified of another miscarriage, with none of the joyful serenity she had looked forward to. Labour was short, but savage; she stayed at the house too long, remembering the endless tedium of Jack’s birth (while forgetting the pain, which had in any case been very skilfully controlled), and then arrived too late for an epidural, was carried from the ambulance straight into the delivery room, was pushing the baby out, feeling she would break, tear into shreds, frightened by the pain, the harshness of it, unblunted by any drugs, for she hated the gas and air, it made her dizzy, sick, turned it away; heard herself groan, again and again, call out, try to be brave, push again, heard someone scream, a long, loud call of agony, and before she could realise it was herself, beg for relief, Kitty was there, slithering out, tiny, red faced, her little Grecian spring baby, born in London at Christmas time.
Kitty was a difficult baby, and Jack, a demanding, hugely naughty four-year-old, was difficult about her; for the first time Francesca was grateful for Nanny. Kitty fed reluctantly and did not take much at a time; she was small and gained weight very slowly. She slept in periods of what seemed more like minutes rather than hours, and she was restless and miserable even when she had just been fed. There was nothing wrong, both the paediatrician and the GP assured Francesca, she had passed all her tests, she was absolutely fine; she was just a difficult baby, it happened sometimes. Francesca took none of this reassuring information in, and fretted over her until even Rachel lost patience.
‘You’re just being ridiculous, darling, and you’re doing her no good at all, never mind everybody else. She’s a difficult baby, lots of them are. Do try to relax and enjoy her a bit at least.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ said Francesca, ‘she’s not your baby, you’ve never had a difficult baby, a baby that worries you, you don’t know how I feel.’
She looked at her mother over Kitty’s head and frowned at her, and was astonished to see Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. She had obviously been harsher than she meant.
‘Sorry, Mummy,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to be cross, I made Jack cry this morning as well.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Rachel, brushing the tears slightly impatiently away. ‘Sorry, so silly to over-react like that. I’m a bit tired myself I expect. What does Bard say about it? He’s had enough children to be able to compare her.’
‘Bard says if Nanny and Dr Hemmings and the paediatrician all say she’s all right, she’s all right. He said Tory was quite a bad baby and look at her now. And then he told me he was going away for a week. Bloody man.’
‘Where to this time?’ said Rachel.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Francesca vaguely. ‘Sweden, I think.’
‘Sweden! Doesn’t sound like Bard.’
‘No, I know. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. I find it very difficult to distinguish his trips one from another.’
‘You should go with him more,’ said Rachel briskly.
‘Oh Mummy, don’t start that please. I don’t want to, and he doesn’t want me too. All right?’
‘Yes all right, darling. I’m sorry. Now then, are you going to have this little creature christened soon?’
‘Yes, I am. End of March, I thought. She should have settled down
a bit by then and the weather’ll be nicer. I’m going to ask Tory to be godmother, she’s been so sweet lately, I thought she might be pleased.’
‘Good idea,’ said Rachel.
She decided to hold the christening at Stylings.
‘More suitable somehow to a christening, the country, I think, don’t you, Bard?’ said Francesca. ‘And it’s not as if it’s a long way for everyone, only just over an hour from London. And the garden will be coming at least a bit alive. Is that all right?’
‘Yes, if it’s what you want,’ said Bard. He sounded very distracted; he looked tired. Francesca debated asking him if something was wrong, if he was worried about something, and then rejected the idea. He wouldn’t tell her anyway.
‘I’d like to ask Pete Barbour to be Kitty’s godfather,’ he said a few days later. ‘All right?’
Peter Barbour was the financial director of Channings; stiff, pompous with a slightly distant smile, a tendency to over-dress (Rachel had once described Pete as wearing an eight-piece suit), and a complete inability to make any kind of light conversation.
‘No, not really,’ said Francesca. ‘Why Pete, for heaven’s sake? He’s not even a proper friend.’
‘He is to me,’ said Bard shortly, ‘and I would like it. And so would he.’
‘But – ’
‘Francesca, please. It’s not a lot to ask. I want him to be Kitty’s godfather. And ideally I’d like Vivienne Barbour to be a godmother.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Francesca. She was prepared to fight very hard on this one. ‘Not Vivienne. Not with that ghastly arch manner of hers, and her refined little ways – I’m sorry, Bard, but no. Pete if we must, but – ’
‘Well, who were you thinking of?’
‘Tory.’
‘Tory?’ He was clearly pleasantly surprised. ‘Oh, well, yes, that would be nice.’
‘I thought so. She’s been so sweet lately, and she’s very fond of Kitty. And I just don’t think anyone needs more than two godparents, one of each sex, any more than they need three parents. So – yes, we’ll have Pete, if you really insist, but no, we won’t have Vivienne.’
Bard scowled at her, but didn’t say any more, and she knew that she had won.
Nanny was very disapproving of her decision to have the christening at Stylings. ‘None of the other children were baptised in the country, Mrs Channing, I don’t see why – ’
‘Well, a change is nice, Nanny, I think,’ said Francesca briskly, ‘and the drawing room at Stylings is beautiful in the afternoon sun. And we can have a huge fire and – ’
‘It will be very difficult to get the children down there,’ said Nanny, as if Stylings were set in some remote equatorial region rather than at a point just off the A24. ‘It will need a great deal of planning.’
‘I think we can manage that,’ said Francesca, ‘just,’ and went to discuss catering with Sandie.
Sandie was also rather unwilling to accept Stylings as a venue; it meant a lot more complication, she said, and she raised similar objections to Nanny about getting the food organised at a distance.
‘Sandie, we’re going to Sussex, not Outer Mongolia,’ said Francesca briskly. ‘There is the occasional shop down there, I believe. Now I’d like you to come down to help, if you don’t mind, Mrs Dawkins isn’t up to that sort of party, and – ’
‘Well, I suppose it can be arranged. As long as I can have another day off in lieu,’ said Sandie, her rather hard blue eyes meeting Francesca’s. Don’t try cutting into my free time, that look said, I don’t like you enough to make any concessions to you.
‘Yes, Sandie, of course you can. And Horton will be coming of course, to see to the drink. He’s very happy about it,’ she added firmly.
Later when she walked into the nursery she found Sandie in there talking to Nanny: they both looked at her awkwardly, suddenly silent, and Sandie hurried out of the room. Discussing the christening, no doubt, and her inconvenient plans for it, she thought, and wished she didn’t mind, could brush it aside or confront it. At least Horton had been helpful and positive. She sometimes didn’t think she’d know what she’d do without Horton. He pervaded every area of the family; he was not only a driver, but he helped with the gardening in Sussex, waited at table at London dinner parties, and had even been known to baby-sit in a crisis. He was in his late fifties, small and extremely thin, and oddly good looking; he never laughed, seldom smiled, but had a wonderful sense of fun, a seemingly bottomless fund of bedtime stories for the children, and a nature of extraordinary sweetness. Jess frequently remarked that he was too good for this world, whereupon Bard would reply that if Horton left it he would follow him as fast as he possibly could. Horton had applied for the job of chauffeur twenty years earlier when Bard was just beginning to make enough money to pay for some props, as he put it; had worked rather trustingly for shares in Channing Holdings when things took a dive in the mid-’seventies and was now reportedly rather rich, but he steadfastly refused to consider retiring or even doing less work.
Tory was, as Francesca had hoped, very pleased to be invited to be godmother.
‘I’d love it,’ she said. ‘I love Kitty, she’s so sweet, thank you, Francesca.’
‘That’s all right. I’m so pleased. I’m afraid the godfather’s a bit out of your age range, but never mind.’
‘Pity Barnaby’s away,’ said Tory thoughtfully. ‘He’d have been ideal.’
‘Er – yes,’ said Francesca, flinching slightly from the thought of the unreliable, feckless Barnaby, so badly behaved, even while so infinitely agreeable, entrusted with the spiritual wellbeing of her innocent baby. He was currently roaming the world, rucksacked, his in-between-university-courses trip. (Or rather until some other place of further education could be persuaded to take him on, the Universities of both East Anglia and Plymouth having told him regretfully that they didn’t feel a great deal was to be gained from their further association.)
She was missing Barnaby; he might be lazy, unreliable and manipulative, but he was charming, and genuinely sweet natured. She sometimes wondered how Bard’s genes had managed to produce him at all. He was also very sexy, of course, and very good looking; Rachel had more than once told Francesca that given a straight choice between Bard and Barnaby, she would not have known which way to turn. Francesca, while insisting she did not see him quite in that light (having been over the past five years rather too intimately involved in keeping the details of his hugely active love life, various other overindulgences, some of them illegal, and his disastrous scholastic record, from his father), still admitted that when Barnaby was around, life was undoubtedly more interesting and a lot more fun. But he wasn’t around and certainly wouldn’t be on 27 March, the day of the christening, and perhaps it was all to the good; he would only have drunk far too much, or started chatting up their friends’ wives, or encouraged little Jack in some terrible naughtiness. Jack adored Barnaby; he said he wanted to be him when he grew up.
‘Tory,’ she said now, ‘could you ask Kirsten for me? She might be more likely to come if you did. Your father would be so pleased.’
‘Yes, of course I will,’ said Tory, flushing slightly. They both knew that Kirsten would be too busy, would be unable to make the long journey from London, even in the new Golf GTi her father had given her for her twenty-first birthday, but she had to be asked. And she just might say yes.
Kirsten didn’t say yes.
Francesca also sent an invitation to Liam and Naomi; a stilted, third-person refusal came back, in Liam’s rather flamboyant handwriting. Just to impress on us that it’s him who doesn’t want to come, rather than Naomi, thought Francesca, throwing it in the bin before Bard could see it and become angry or alternatively upset. She was never sure how mutual the dislike between Bard and Liam was; Bard would never discuss it.
‘So I ask you all to raise your glasses to my new daughter. And of course her beautiful mother. Kitty. Francesca and Kitty.’
Bard’s voice was rich, heavy with emotion
; his eyes, the brilliant dark eyes, fixed on her and Kitty were thoughtful, tender. Francesca smiled back at him, and thought that in spite of everything, if you could see and feel happiness it would be this moment in this room, a bright, warm, smiling thing, set down in the long, light drawing room, with the quirky spring sunshine dappling the walls, great vases and bowls of flowers everywhere, all yellow and white, lilies and daffodils and narcissi and freesias, and the roomful of friends, smiling with such truly genuine pleasure and affection at the three of them, herself and Bard and the tiny Kitty, her small face relaxed most determinedly in sleep, lying peacefully (for once) in her mother’s arms, dressed in the myriad layers of ivory satin and lace that had adorned Francesca and her mother and her mother’s mother and so on back for almost a hundred and fifty years of christenings.
There were shadows over the brightness of course; Kirsten’s absence, Liam’s absence; but Tory had behaved so beautifully all day, been charming to everyone, and now was sitting cuddling Jack on her knee, careless of the effect his already filthy sailor suit was having on her extremely pale pink silk dress.
She was so lovely, Tory, Francesca thought, looking at her, smiling, with her father’s dark eyes and her mother’s fair hair – and there was another shadow; they had heard only that morning that Pattie was once again in the clinic, after a bad lapse into her alcoholism. Bard, as always on hearing this news, had flown into a violent rage, said why couldn’t Pattie get a grip on herself, it was outrageous, hard on him, impossible for the children, and had gone out to the stables and saddled up his horse and gone for a long ride. He came back hot, exhausted but calmer. What upset him, in truth, Francesca knew, was that a goodly proportion of Pattie’s problems had been brought upon her by himself and his behaviour and he knew it; she sometimes wondered if she might not in time become an alcoholic too.
The Dilemma Page 4