The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

They drove through the village down the lane to the beach. Mary sat in the back, holding Kitty’s hand. She smiled at Francesca every time she turned round. She really was very sweet, thought Francesca, noticing absently that she had a rather runny nose. She passed her a tissue; Mary wiped her nose very carefully and tucked the tissue up her sleeve.

  As they reached the edge of the village, they passed a large, rather beautiful grey stone house, built high above the lane; it had very pretty wrought-iron gates set in a high brick wall, with roses tumbling endlessly over them. It looked neglected; there was an old man sitting on the steps that led up from the gate, mopping his brow in the hot afternoon sun. Poor old chap, she thought; probably the gardener. Not a time to be working.

  There was a path over the dunes to the beach, edged with gorse, brilliant yellow against the blue sky; she had to pull the buggy. Jack and Mary pushed it, which actually drove it deeper into the sand, but their intentions were so good she didn’t have the heart to stop them. The beach was no more than a large cove, but the tide was out, the big Atlantic tide, and the wet sand stretched out, shimmering silver in the sun. It was very hot, but the cliffs threw out great shadows, making a shelter, and there were tall caves, Enid Blyton caves, Francesca thought smiling, which they could explore. She looked at the sea, rolling endlessly in, the seagulls circling above it, at the rows of cliffs ranged as far as she could see; felt the warmth of the sand under her feet, licked her lips and tasted the salt. Mary and Jack were making a castle: or rather Mary was making one under Jack’s direction. ‘Too high,’ he was shouting, ‘too high. Make it wider. No, wider. Dig fast.’ He was very much his father’s son.

  She carried Kitty down to the water’s edge, and dipped her small feet into it; she squealed, giggled, kicked violently. The water was cold, and very clear. A small shoal of tiddlers swerved through the water, moving this way and that in their orderly forty-five-degree progression. Francesca felt soothed, comforted, almost happy. She had always loved the sea; it made her feeel strong. Well, she needed to feel strong. Maybe she should come and live down here, as Jack had said.

  She went back to him, him and Mary. They had tired of the castle and were now working on a tunnel. ‘We could make it all the way up to the convent,’ said Jack, ‘and crawl up it.’

  Mary nodded enthusiastically.

  Francesca set Kitty down on the sand; she promptly started eating it.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ she said, ‘come on, sit on my knee, I’ll give you a drink.’

  She watched Kitty drinking out of her beaker, her small face frowning in concentration, thinking how well she looked now, brown and almost chubby. It was much too soon to say, of course, but maybe Mr Lauder had been right in his cautiously expressed hope; maybe the hole in her heart would heal itself; maybe she would, literally, grow out of it.

  Mary picked up the baby, carried her a little way down the beach, talking to her; Francesca watched her, leant back on the rocks. It was so wonderful to be without Nanny, having her children to herself. Well, she probably would, now, all the time. Bankrupt people didn’t usually have nannies.

  The trouble was the minute she wasn’t properly occupied her dilemma crowded back in upon her, all the aching, exhausting pressure of it. She kept hearing Liam’s voice, telling her that of course she mustn’t do it, that if Bard really loved her, he would never have asked her to do such a thing. He was right: it was perfectly true. She knew what her mother thought: that she should do what Bard had asked. She would have done it, without a doubt. She hadn’t said so, of course, but she had fixed Francesca with her brilliant blue eyes and said poor man, poor poor man, and although then she had hugged Francesca, told her she was desperately sorry for her, that she could not imagine a more terrible situation for any wife to find herself in, it was perfectly clear what she really thought.

  But then, her mother was braver than she was. And a lot less intrinsically honest.

  Shelley was rather cool when Gray finally phoned her.

  ‘So now I’m no more use to you, you can keep me waiting for an hour.’ She spoke lightly, but she was clearly upset.

  ‘Shelley, I’m so sorry. I – well, I got bogged down in it all. Had to phone my editor, do all sorts of things.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said, ‘as long as I was able to be of service.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ said Gray again, ‘I really am a sod, aren’t I? I just don’t know what I’d have done without you today. Well, right through this. You’ve been terrific.’

  ‘I aim to please,’ she said, sounding more herself.

  ‘Good. Now then, can I buy you the dinner I spurned the other night? We could go back to that nice hotel. I really would like that.’

  There was a silence, then she said, quietly, ‘No. Sorry, Gray. I’ve just fixed up dinner with someone else.’ There was another pause, then she added, ‘Now. But I’m glad it’s all worked out so well for you.’

  ‘Oh – yes. Well thanks. If you ever come to London – ’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be on your doorstep. I have your fine card.’ She was Irish again now, laughing at him. ‘Bye, Gray. Good luck with it all.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and put the phone down, suddenly and in spite of everything depressed, seeing a fiercely vivid picture of Shelley, in her white trousers and cotton sweater, standing in a rock pool, her pretty heart-shaped face smiling at him. The whole thing seemed, on a small scale, symptomatic of all his relationships, and his ability to wreck them: by thoughtlessness, selfishness, sheer bloody stupidity. He might be a good journalist, he might have a nice way with words, he might have a fine eye for design and a clever way with a pasta sauce, but when it came to emotional matters he was a blockhead, as Kirsten would have said. A lonely, perfectly dressed, beautifully styled future stretched before him, and he could see no way out of it.

  He sighed, tried to return to the flying, triumphant mood of an hour earlier and failed rather dismally. Not even the prospect of the story of a lifetime beneath his byline could quite accomplish that.

  ‘Mr Channing, this is Oliver Clarke. I’m very sorry to bother you, but there’s something I really would like to talk to you about. I’m out of the office, I’ll have to phone back, maybe this evening. Thank you.’

  There was a second message, almost identical. Bard looked at the answering machine with distaste.

  ‘God, what is it now. Wants to know about his job, I suppose. Well, he’ll phone again, no doubt.’

  He and Rachel were in his study, the door shut; he had not wanted to talk to her in the drawing room.

  ‘She shouldn’t have told you,’ he said. ‘She had no right to tell you.’

  ‘And you had no right to ask her.’

  ‘Well, I know that. But I’m pretty desperate.’

  ‘I can see. I’m quite serious about my offer. And I’m a very good liar, and Francesca is not.’

  He was silent for a minute, then he said, ‘No. I couldn’t let you. There is far less reason for you to.’

  ‘And all the more, therefore, for people to believe me.’

  ‘I don’t see why you should, in any case,’ he said.

  ‘Well, let’s say, for all the reasons she should. To help you. To save the family. The children. Also – ’ She hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I can’t help hoping that if – if you came out of this with something salvaged, you might still be able to help me.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, and he almost smiled, ‘so now we have it. A motive. A quid pro quo. Well, that makes me feel a little better.’

  ‘So when did you make this – this phone call? Where were you really?’

  ‘In my office. On the Thursday before the crash. But late. Everyone had gone. It was stupid, sheer panic. I should have gone out, done it from somewhere else.’

  ‘Or not done it all.’

  ‘Well – yes. Obviously. Rachel, I do want you to understand why I did it. It was panic. Panic and a desire to salvage something. Not so much for
me, but for Francesca, the children. Sheer, criminal stupidity.’ He grinned at her. ‘Certainly criminal. You don’t seem too troubled by that, Rachel, if I may say so. Having a crook as a son-in-law.’

  ‘Well, I’m a pragmatic soul,’ said Rachel briskly, ‘and anyway, crook is a very strong word. Too strong. I know so very well how these things happen. What that particular breed of panic can do to you, how those chains of events take you over. I did wonder – no, I’d better not ask any more. The less I know the better.’

  ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘you really do know this stuff, don’t you?’

  ‘Bard, I’ve been through it all, of course I do.’

  He said nothing, just looked at her very seriously.

  ‘How much will you lose?’ she said.

  ‘Oh – a lot. Not everything, of course. This house is in Francesca’s name. So that’s safe.’

  ‘But she’s – ’

  ‘Well,’ he said, lightly, ‘she can sell it.’ He sighed. ‘I won’t ask you what she’s feeling now. I don’t know what I’m feeling myself, God help me … I thought at first I would never forgive her, never want to see her, be near her again. Now I’m not quite so sure.’

  ‘It was particularly – hideous for you,’ said Rachel. ‘A terrible thing for her to have done. And for Liam to have done.’

  ‘I would like,’ he said simply, ‘to kill him. If he walked in here now, I would do that. I know it.’

  Rachel looked at him, tried to imagine how he must feel and failed totally. ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘whatever else, he is certainly extremely clever. He has preyed on Francesca at a time when he knew she was extremely vulnerable.’

  ‘I don’t think,’ said Bard drily, ‘that is quite excuse enough. Actually.’

  ‘Of course it’s not. I can’t and won’t try to excuse what she did. I find it very – shocking.’

  ‘You do, Rachel?’ he said, and there was an odd note in his voice, one almost of relief. ‘You really do?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ she said. ‘Very shocking. I may be her mother, but I am not a fool about her. And not without a moral sense. But it is out of character. She is a fiercely honest person. I’m sure she didn’t enter into this without a lot of anguish.’

  ‘I would certainly hope not,’ he said, his dark eyes heavy.

  ‘But Bard, I do think the background, her unhappiness, her anxiety, Liam’s behaviour, does help at least explain it. Not excuse it, of course. And that might make forgiveness a little more possible.’

  ‘A little. Perhaps.’

  ‘Or at least acceptance,’ said Rachel. ‘There’s a huge difference. And in my experience, the one leads to the other. Given time.’

  ‘Quite a lot of time, in this particular instance, I fear,’ said Bard with a sigh, ‘but yes, you’re probably right. You’re a wise woman, Rachel.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I have had quite a lot to accept, in my time. And to forgive. I’ve learnt pragmatism. As you know.’

  ‘I do.’ For the first time he smiled at her. It was a rather exhausted, grim smile, but it was a smile. ‘In any case, I have my own theory about the whole thing. I think it was a deliberate plan of Liam’s, a sabotage, a kind of revenge for all the wrongs he thinks I have done him. I think he set out to seduce her. When, as you say, he knew she was vulnerable.’

  ‘Bard, nobody is that devious. Surely.’

  ‘Liam is. Believe me. Of course he would never admit it. But that is what I think. There is nothing, nothing at all, he would not do to hurt me. And I suspect Francesca may never hear from him again. Which will prove my case.’

  ‘Good God.’ She was silent.

  ‘The worst thing, you know,’ he said, suddenly, ‘is not that she slept with him. It’s that she could have been fond of him, been close to him, talked to him; I find that almost intolerable. The thought of what he might have told her about me, the thought of them together, discussing me … And – God. Oh my God.’ He was suddenly silent, looked at her, his face horrified. ‘You don’t think,’ he said, and his voice was very quiet, almost inaudible, ‘you don’t think she’ll have told him? What I asked.’

  ‘No,’ said Rachel, ‘no, I don’t. I’m sure she hasn’t. Quite quite sure.’

  ‘She told you.’

  ‘I’m her mother. That’s different. She trusts me totally.’

  ‘I’d like to be sure,’ he said, ‘because if he knows that, I’m – well, I’m really done for.’

  ‘Surely he can’t hate you that much?’

  ‘He hates me that much. Oh, partly my own fault, no doubt. I was a lousy father to him. But there were – mitigating circumstances. And I did try. For a long time I tried. Oh Christ. Christ Almighty.’ He was slumped now in his chair. ‘This gets worse and worse.’

  The phone shrilled suddenly.

  ‘Yes? Hallo, yes, this is Bard Channing. Oh. Yes, I see.’ He stood up suddenly, his face very taut, expressionless. ‘Fine. Yes. Well, let me look at my diary. Friday morning would be all right. Eleven. Yes. With – ’ He scribbled a name down on a pad. ‘Yes. Yes, I’ve got that. Goodbye.’

  He looked at Rachel. ‘That was the Serious Fraud Office. They want me to go in. Just for a chat, you understand. That’s all. Just for a chat.’ He put out his hand suddenly, gripped hers. ‘Don’t go away, Rachel. I don’t think I want to be alone just now.’

  Well, thought Oliver, pulling the ring off a can of lager, with a hand that he noticed was shaking, he’d agreed to see him, at least. That was something. Although the thought of confronting him, telling him face to face, was pretty terrifying. He’d hoped to do it on the phone. He couldn’t imagine quite how he was going to do it. What he was going to say. Maybe he could get Channing asking him questions. That would make it easier. The more he thought about it now, the more unlikely the whole thing seemed, the crazier his idea. But he couldn’t go back now. And he’d checked the phone number, from a phone box, and it had been what he’d thought. Who he’d thought.

  Every time his mind strayed towards the the next afternoon – at three o’clock, at the house, Channing had said – Oliver felt like throwing up. He’d never sleep that night. Not a wink.

  Well, at least it was taking his mind off Kirsten.

  Kirsten’s conversation with Meg Wilding had made her feel worse rather than better. She was so bloody honest, she thought; why couldn’t she have given me the answers I wanted to hear, made it easier for me? She felt now more than ever as if she were on the rack, pulled, stretched this way and that, tormented by primitive visions of perpetual hellfire and more rational ones of perpetual guilt, of dead and dying embryos. And thought that however sensible, however rational, she couldn’t do it; she couldn’t get rid of this baby. It was impossible; she would have it, manage somehow, make amends for the rest of her life for what had been at best an appallingly reckless, irresponsible piece of behaviour. She could manage somehow; she knew she could. At least she’d be able to live with herself.

  She felt better after making her decision; went for a short walk, and then, when she got back to the flat, realised she was out of milk and drove to the Seven Eleven. It was very crowded, mostly with people going home from work, men, girls, young couples. She got some milk and a large packet of crisps – she had a craving for crisps at the moment, they were about the only food she fancied – and was standing in the queue to pay for them, when a girl came in, with a baby in a pushchair and a toddler hanging on to her hand. The toddler was crying and its nose was running, and he was grizzling and swinging on her hand; she kept shaking at his arm, telling him to be quiet. She looked about eighteen years old.

  She picked up a packet of nappies and some sweets and joined the queue behind Kirsten. Kirsten smiled at her but she looked back at her blankly. The toddler was on the floor now, fiddling with his shoes, trying to undo them.

  ‘Don’t,’ said the girl, as if it mattered. He looked up at her, his small face a study in defiance, and started fiddling with his mother’s shoes instead. Su
ddenly she bent down, slapped his hand off her foot; he started to bellow, and she bent down again, pulled him up by his arm. His flailing legs caught Kirsten’s and hurt her quite sharply; she winced, tried to say it didn’t matter.

  ‘Course it matters,’ said the girl, although she didn’t apologise, shaking the child now. ‘Don’t do that, you little bugger, and don’t cry, just stand still, shut up.’

  He went on crying and she raised her arm and hit him, hard, on his bottom. Kirsten winced.

  ‘Oh don’t,’ she said, ‘don’t smack him. He doesn’t mean any harm.’

  The girl ignored her and, since he was still yelling and kicking, smacked the child again.

  ‘Don’t!’ said Kirsten more sharply. ‘It’s not fair.’

  The girl looked at her, through mean, exhausted eyes. ‘You shut up,’ she said, ‘keep your opinions to yourself. He’s my child, not yours.’

  Kirsten turned her back on her, paid the bill and went out to the car. As she reached it, the girl and the children came out; Kirsten looked at her and the girl raised two fingers. Kirsten sighed and started the car; and then suddenly looked at the little boy’s face. It was pale, heavy, dull with misery, with boredom, with what she supposed if he had been older would have been called despair. And suddenly she saw his life, that little boy’s; days spent interminably with his despairing mother – who was probably not really bad tempered, not intrinsically rude, had merely reached rock bottom in her struggle to cope, to provide, to be cheerful even. And she felt sorry to the bottom of her heart not only for the mother, for that girl, who had lost her youth, her future, her present even, but also, still more so for the child.

  And heard Meg Wilding’s voice saying, ‘Think of the baby, Kirsten, not of yourself,’ and realised that she had indeed only been thinking of herself, her own guilt, her own tortured conscience; looked at the kind of life she might in truth be able to offer that baby, and at the spoilt, immature, self-centred person who would be its mother, and knew what she had to do.