The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  She went home and left a message on Meg Wilding’s answering machine before she could change her mind.

  ‘What’s that pretty house in the village?’ said Francesca to Reverend Mother at supper. ‘The one set high up, behind the wall. Is it a vicarage or something?’

  ‘No, it’s much nicer than the vicarage,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘It belongs to a charming man, Colonel Philbeach, his wife died a few years ago … It’s actually called High House. Such a lovely family, they were: all grown up now, and flown the nest. I fear he’s very lonely. He was going to sell the house last year, but at the last minute pulled out because he didn’t like the people.’

  ‘Oh, I can understand that,’ said Francesca. ‘Houses are like – well, like children. You can’t just put them in the care of any old people, people who won’t understand them.’

  She looked across at Mary, who was smiling at Richard, and thought how lucky she was, to be here, to be safe, to be happy, loved, understood; and then remembered she wasn’t quite so lucky or so safe any more. She found it very hard to imagine Mary living in the flat in Battersea; she would pine for the country terribly. Maybe – just maybe – ’

  ‘Do you think Colonel Philbeach might put the house back on the market?’

  ‘I don’t know. I would think he’ll have to. He’s very hard up.’

  A little later she went to phone her mother. There was no reply from the flat; Rachel had obviously gone out on the town. Francesca left a message on the answering machine to say she’d ring in the morning, and went for a walk round the convent grounds.

  She was slightly surprised Liam hadn’t phoned. In fact she was – well, quite surprised. Of course it was difficult for him sometimes, but he had her mobile number, he could ring any time. He always had before, and it was safer, easier when she was here, away from Bard. He must know how she’d be feeling, must know how much she’d appreciate even the briefest call. Well, maybe Naomi was home, taking a few days off before starting her new job. Yes, that was probably it. And the children were around all the time, of course, it was the school holidays. She still felt uneasy about telling him about Bard. She shouldn’t have done it. Of course he wouldn’t tell anyone, obviously he wouldn’t, she trusted him totally; but if she had been more in her right mind she would have kept her mouth shut. It wasn’t fair on him, apart from anything else. It wasn’t fair on anyone, she thought bitterly. Certainly not on her.

  She went back to her room and tried to read, but she couldn’t concentrate. She kept now hearing her mother’s voice asking her if there was any future in her relationship with Liam, and suddenly she wanted to know. Not that he was going to move out and suggest they set up home together or anything; but whether he was going to tell Naomi, so that they could be together more. She supposed he would; after all, Naomi wasn’t going to care. And then they could explore their relationship properly, get to know one another, just enjoy one another. It was essential really.

  Yes, if he didn’t ring in the morning, she might try him. She could always put the phone down if Naomi picked it up. She missed him.

  ‘I thought,’ said Naomi, over supper that night, ‘we might go away for a few days. Once I start this job, week after next that is, we’ll be stuck for the rest of the summer. I mean if we went on Friday, say, we could have ten days. We could go to my dad’s flat in Spain, he says it’s free next week. I know it’s a bit grotty, but at least it’d be a break. What do you think?’

  Liam thought fast. It would quite suit him to go away. He had no real desire to pursue the relationship with Francesca any longer; it had served its purpose and he could see her becoming very tedious. If he just wasn’t at home, and didn’t contact her, she’d presumably get the message pretty quickly. And if she didn’t get the message, she still wouldn’t be able to bother him. He had this tasty little morsel for the News of course, but he could deliver that first thing in the morning and then it would be quite a good idea to get the hell out of things for a bit. Townsend would be back tomorrow, the girl had said so.

  ‘Lovely idea,’ he said, ‘yes. And I might even stay on for another week or so with the kids, if the flat’s still free. They haven’t had much fun lately.’

  ‘Fine. Well, I’ll ring Dad and clinch it then. And you can sort out the flights tomorrow.’

  ‘OK,’ said Liam.

  Bard had gone to see his solicitor; it was nine o’clock. Rachel felt uneasy, sitting there in the great house. Awkward. Compromised. Well, of course that was ridiculous, but she did want to go home. She needed to go home. Francesca might phone, wonder where she was. Perhaps she should ring her. Tell her she was in a restaurant or something. Yes, that was a good idea.

  She tried the convent, but there was no reply; they seldom picked up the phone in the evening. And she had left Francesca’s mobile number in her other bag, at the convent. Very sensible.

  Well, never mind. As soon as Bard got back – and he’d said he wouldn’t be much after eight-thirty, his solicitor was going out to dinner – she’d go. She couldn’t possibly stay the night.

  She heard the car outside: good, he was back. She had a tray of drinks waiting for him, some smoked salmon and a salad. Sandie had gone out, said it was her evening off. She’d see he was all right, they could share the food, and then she’d go.

  She heard the front door shut and then total silence: just nothing. It was unnerving. She went out to the hall. And knew she couldn’t go home.

  Bard was grey, leaning with his back against the door: appropriate, she thought. His great head was thrown back, he was staring up at the ceiling. Rachel went forward, took one of his hands.

  ‘Bard? Are you all right?’

  He looked at her, staring at her as if he didn’t even know who she was for a long time; then he said, ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said gently, leading him into the drawing room, ‘come on, tell me about it.’

  He sat down heavily on the sofa, buried his head in his hands. ‘It looks like I’ve had it,’ he said.

  Rachel phoned the convent first thing in the morning and left a message for Francesca, to say she had to go back to her dentist and wouldn’t be down until the evening.

  ‘Tell her I’ll ring later about which train I’ll be on. But probably the five o’clock.’

  ‘Poor Mummy,’ said Francesca, when she received this information. ‘She’s obviously having a lot of trouble. I think I might wander up to the village, Reverend Mother, take the children. Kitty didn’t sleep very well, I don’t know why. Probably over-excited. She might drop off in the buggy.’

  ‘Mary’s not too well this morning,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘She has a very nasty cold. She has a weak chest, you know, we have to be careful with her.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Francesca. ‘I hope that’s not my fault, letting her get all her things wet on the beach yesterday.’

  ‘No, no, she was starting the cold before that.’

  ‘Yes, I did notice. I’ll see if we can find her a little something in the village, cheer her up.’

  She felt tired herself that morning; tired and depressed and with a throbbing headache. Liam hadn’t phoned, and she had hardly slept. The pressure of time passing added to the rest; she felt terribly alone. Every time she thought she was coming near to making a decision something tugged her the other way: she would think no, she couldn’t do it, and then she would look at Jack, his clear, untroubled little face, and think how he would feel with a father imprisoned for fraud, think that she could save him from it, decide perhaps she should: and then think of doing it, of lying, formally, publicly, for a man she no longer loved, and knew she couldn’t.

  She was beginning to think she was going mad.

  She set out with the children; the village was half a mile from the convent, down a high-banked Devon lane, lush with fern, which opened up suddenly near the church and the village green. They spent some time in the village shop, bought a packet of pretty hankies for Mary, which the lady in charge produ
ced, rather dusty, from the bottom of a shelf piled high with teatowels, dusters, and children’s T-shirts. There was a long delay while Jack tried to persude Francesca that Mary would much prefer some bubble gum and a water pistol; she dissuaded him with some difficulty, finally agreeing to the bubble gum for himself. He walked down the village street blowing huge balls of it, and popping them loudly while Kitty watched him admiringly. She seemed better; probably just over-excited and therefore overtired, Francesca thought. That was certainly what Nanny would say.

  As they reached High House, the old man she had thought to be the gardener appeared at the gate with an equally elderly black Labrador. He wasn’t quite as old as she had thought: he looked as if he were in his late sixties, and rather good looking, with brilliant blue eyes and thick, silvery hair. He raised his battered panama to her; she smiled at him, said good morning.

  ‘Good morning to you.’

  ‘I was admiring your house yesterday as we drove past. It’s lovely.’

  ‘How very kind of you. Yes, I love it too.’

  ‘Reverend Mother, from the convent, you know, we’re staying there, said it was on the market last year.’

  ‘It was indeed, but the people who wanted it were rather dreadful. Yuppies, I believe they’re called. In the end I couldn’t let it go to them. Hanging on a bit longer. But really I should move into something smaller, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Very sad for you.’

  ‘Well, yes and no. Not sure that I can face another winter in this place. Very expensive. And very cold. But the thought of all that business with estate agents, dreadful people coming round – oh dear.’ He smiled at her. ‘Are you from round here, or – ’

  ‘London, we live in London,’ said Jack. ‘It’s horrible. I like it here much better.’

  ‘Of course you do. Any child would. Been on the beach, have you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going surfing today. Can you surf?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I used to be able to. Believe it or not. Oh, not all this Malibu nonsense, but we used to have such fun, on our old wooden boards, me and my lot.’ He smiled at Jack, patted him on the head. Jack grinned up at him.

  ‘Charming,’ he said to Francesca, raising his hat. ‘Well, I must be on my way …’

  ‘Er – Colonel Philbeach – I’m sorry, Reverend Mother told me who you were – my mother and I – well, that is, I wondered if – if you were serious about selling the house – whether we could come and have a look at it. Later.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t know.’ He hesitated. ‘Oh, why not. Yes, of course you could come. Yes. I’ve got some chappie coming round to sort out the summerhouse, but – look, can I get you at the convent?’

  ‘I’ve got a – ’ Francesca stopped herself just in time; she didn’t think the Colonel would approve of a mobile phone. The yuppies had probably had one. ‘Yes. Yes you could. My name is Francesca Channing.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll phone you. I have the number, of course.’ He beamed down at Kitty. ‘Pretty little thing. Good morning to you.’

  ‘Good morning. And thank you.’

  Meg Wilding phoned Kirsten at work, and said she had had an operation cancelled for Saturday morning; if she liked she could book her in then.

  ‘I know it’s a bit of a rush, but there’s no point hanging about.’

  ‘No,’ said Kirsten. She had already been sick three times that morning; suddenly even three days seemed a very long time.

  Colonel Philbeach phoned the convent and said that he would be delighted to see Mrs Channing and her mother that evening at six-thirty. ‘Come for a glass of sherry. Oh, and bring the young chap. I’ll show him our surfboards.’

  Francesca had already accepted when she realised she still didn’t know when Rachel would be back. Damn. She might try and catch her. She phoned the flat: no answer.

  Well, she could try the dentist, she thought. She might catch her there, or be able to leave a message; she knew the number, it was the dentist she used to go to herself. Her life recently seemed to be revolving around dentists, she thought amusedly.

  She dialled the number. It was engaged. Damn.

  And then she looked down at the phone, and thought she would try Liam. Quickily. Before she had time to think.

  A child answered the phone. ‘Islington four-seven-six-nine.’ A little boy: that would be Jasper. He sounded sweet, perfectly spoken, very efficient.

  ‘Oh – oh hallo. Is – is Mr Channing there?’

  ‘No. No he’s gone out. Can I take a message?’

  ‘Oh – no. No, it’s all right. I’ll call again. When will he be back?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh. All right then. Thank you.’

  She put the phone down, feeling bleak, Absurdly bleak. Then she shook herself. It was obviously terribly difficult for Lim to phone her at the moment. With the children there all the time. Probably he’d gone out to phone her. Probably he’d phone any minute. She’d ring the dentist quickly and then keep her line free.

  ‘Mr Poultney’s surgery.’

  ‘Oh – good morning. This is Mrs Channing, Mrs Duncan-Brown’s daughter. I wonder is my mother there? Or if not, could you tell me when her appointment is, give her a message from me?’

  There was a silence, then the receptionist said, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Channing, there must be some mistake. Mrs Duncan-Brown isn’t booked in with us this morning.’

  ‘Oh. Oh I see.’ Francesca’s sense of disorientation increased. ‘But she did come in yesterday, didn’t she?’

  ‘No, Mrs Channing. She has an appointment for two weeks’ time, maybe you’ve been confused – ’

  ‘Yes. Obviously. Thank you.’

  Francesca slammed the phone down. If her mother wasn’t at the dentist, where the hell was she? And why should she have lied to her? A dark, unwelcome thought came into her mind; so unwelcome she could scarcely bear it. She got up, walked round the room, kept looking at her phone. Finally, very slowly and almost reluctantly, she picked it up again, punched out the number of Hamilton Terrace.

  Mrs Roberts answered it.

  ‘Oh – Mrs Roberts. Good morning. This is Mrs Channing.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Channing. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mrs Roberts, thank you. I just wondered – er – my mother hasn’t been there, has she?’

  ‘She was here, Mrs Channing, yes. She was here when I arrived, as a matter of fact. But she’s gone now. Can I give her a message if she comes back?’

  ‘Oh – no. No thank you, Mrs Roberts,’ said Francesca. ‘No, it’s quite all right.’

  She put the phone down and sat staring at it, angrier than she could ever remember. At being lied to, belittled, manipulated, betrayed. And disregarded. Completely disregarded. Again. And then suddenly, through the white heat of her rage, it came: the answer. Brilliantly, savagely simple: the answer to her dilemma.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘Gray, you look wonderful. You’re quite brown. I don’t believe you’ve been doing any work at all.’

  ‘Have you?’ said Gray lightly.

  ‘Yes of course I have,’ said Tricia indignantly. ‘Look at these poor stubby things, worn to the bone.’ She waved her hands at him. ‘Well? Was it good?’

  ‘It was very good. As stories go, this is going to run and run. Now I have to make a couple of appointments. Starting with Mr Channing.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you’d have spoken to him already. He’s been very pro-active. Didn’t you get the message?’

  ‘What message?’ said Gray. ‘And no, no I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh. I’m very sorry. I did leave one at the hotel.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t get it. What was it, anyway?’

  ‘Bard Channing came here, the first day you were away I think it was. He said to tell you to keep your nose out of his affairs, and that he had some very good lawyers.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he was. But then he rang again, said it was very urgent he sp
oke to you, and could you ring him. So I phoned you straight away.’

  ‘And never thought to make sure I’d got the message? Bloody incompetent,’ said Gray.

  ‘Gray, how was I supposed to – ’

  ‘By using your bloody brain,’ said Gray. ‘Anyway, let’s not waste time on that now. Get him for me, will you? I presume you’ve got the number.’

  ‘Well – no. Because after I’d given it to the hotel, I threw it away. But it was an Islington number, I do remember that – ’

  ‘You don’t remember any such thing,’ said Gray. ‘Bard Channing doesn’t live in Islington. Well, never mind. I’ve got it here – shit.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve left my bloody Filofax at home. Must be losing my grip. Well, I can get it from Kirsten. Get her for me, will you?’

  Kirsten sounded very subdued, startled to hear his voice. ‘Oh – hallo, Gray.’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Oh – yes. Yes, thank you.’

  ‘You don’t sound it. And they said you weren’t well the other day. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh – some bug or other. I’ll live.’ There was a silence, then she said, ‘How’s things with you?’

  ‘Oh – fine. Thanks. Look, can you give me your dad’s number at home?’

  ‘Well I – ’

  ‘Come on, Kirsten, I’ve rung it lots of times, spoken to your stepmother. But I’ve left it at home. He’s rung me, for Christ’s sake, he wants to speak to me.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, all right. It’s four-five-six, double-three, double-three.’

  ‘Thanks. Hope you get better soon. We must have a drink. For old times’ sake.’

  ‘Yes. Sure.’

  She really did sound rotten, Gray thought. He might ask Francesca about her if she was at the house.

  Francesca didn’t answer the phone; Rachel did. She remembered Gray immediately from the funeral; she had liked him, he was rather charming, and extremely well dressed, she remembered, and they had had a most enjoyable chat about their favourite London restaurants.