by Jessica Ayre
David stopped to examine Lynda's face.
'Go on,' she urged, 'go on.'
'Well, that's the crux of it, really. When she was better she told him to leave. She wanted nothing more to do with him. He went.'
'Just like that?' Lynda voiced her disbelief.
'Your mother didn't go into intimate-details… My sense was that he probably tried to make it up, but she was too proud, too stiffnecked. And then, after that, he went. Or so it would seem, for she heard nothing from him in over a year. After a couple of months of total silence, she announced his death. She'd already let it be known that he was away in the United States, doing something or other. Then all she had to say was that he'd been involved in a car crash.'
Lynda moved her food round her plate, unable to swallow a mouthful. Her mind, her emotions were in a jumble. She wanted to ask her mother a hundred questions, to console her for the pain she must have suffered; but also to rage—yes, to scream at her for being too proud, for having deprived them of a father. She couldn't bring her eyes to meet David's for a moment. Then she mumbled, 'She must have regretted her decision terribly.'
David shrugged, 'I don't know. I think she did at the last. That's why she didn't feel strong enough to , tell you all herself. But that's not the end. After a year, she had a letter from him, in America. She'd guessed correctly. He asked after the children, but nothing directly of her, and he sent a cheque. She didn't answer, didn't cash the cheque, though the money would have been very useful.
'The following year another letter came, much the same as the first, but bearing a larger cheque. Still she made no sign. And the next year again, establishing a pattern that was to continue. The letters, she soon noticed, were always written at the same time, the date of their wedding anniversary. She never took the money, never replied—God knows why. Perhaps by that time she was paralysed by guilt.
'Then for some reason, she didn't say why, about a year before her death she wrote to him, a long letter, she told me, telling him about the three of you, about herself, and the farm, about what she'd said of him and how she had never tarnished his image before you—asking in a way, I think, for forgiveness. This time there was no reply from him, but about two months later a thick envelope arrived bearing the stamp of a legal firm. She told me she knew instantly what it contained, and she was right. It was news of his death. He had died in a car crash and his will left everything to the three of you.'
David stopped to take a deep breath. 'I think it was the fatality of it all, the way she felt she had somehow determined the mode of his death all those years ago, that hastened her own.'
Tears were streaming down Lynda's face. She thought of her father, the dashing young man in the Air Force uniform she knew from a few fuzzy wartime photographs. She couldn't reconcile that face with any of this. And her mother—the horror of it, the strength of her secrecy, of her will.
David took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her tears. 'Try to think of it as a strange love story,' he said gently. 'After all, in however distant a way they were linked only to each other over all those years.'
Lynda tried a watery smile. The waitress, on David's instruction, had brought some strong black coffee and Lynda now gulped it down. She was full of questions she couldn't yet put words to, so she asked, 'Do Sarah and Caroline know about this yet?'
David nodded, 'I told them before I came up to London. They wanted me to tell you and it was one of the main reasons for my coming. But then I couldn't bring myself to say anything there. You felt so nervy and… well, amidst all those strangers, I felt a stranger too.' He took her hand. 'It's hard to imagine, your mother and all those years of tenacious secrecy.'
'I guess that's why she kept saying men weren't to be trusted. I could never work it out. I had no idea where the edge of bitterness came from.'
'Well, now we know. I guess at the beginning she thought he might still come back any day. And when he didn't she steeled her will against him.'
'Yes,' Lynda reflected, 'they must both have been stubbornly strong-willed… I don't know what's happened to mine.'
Unreasonably, thoughts of London had suddenly flooded back, and she felt drained. She couldn't go on… go on working with Paul day in, day out.
David looked at her oddly. 'What are you talking about, Lynda? You've got a will of iron! Look at the way you insisted on art school, then packed yourself off to London leaving us all behind… And now—well, I simply don't understand you sometimes.'
She lowered her eyes. How can you understand? she thought to herself. I'm developing a secrecy almost as astute as mother's. Out loud, she said, 'That was before. Now… now I just want to give it all up, do nothing for a while.' Her lips trembled and she could feel the tears rushing to her eyes again.
'I'll take you home,' David said, 'and you can have a good cry. It's a lot to take in all at once. And we can talk about London,' he added threateningly.
Lynda went out to the car while he paid the bill. She didn't even try now to stop the flow of tears, and she lost herself in them so totally that, without being aware of how it had happened, she next found herself snuggled into the sofa in front of the fire at home with David's arm wrapped tightly around her. He lifted her face to his and kissed her tears away gently, and then more forcefully found her mouth. She clung to him, to his kiss, his warmth, the strength she could feel surging through him. After some moments, he pulled himself away with a visible effort, and took her hands in his.
'I don't want to take unfair advantage of you now,' he smiled, but there was a look of sadness in his eyes.
'Oh David,' she moved herself into the circle of his arms again, 'what should I do? Tell me. And I will.'
He held her close. 'I know what I'd like.'
'What?' She felt she knew what he would say, and she was ready to let him set the pace.
'I'd like you to stay, now, here, with me, for good.' He paused. 'But I don't feel that's altogether right.'
Lynda was surprised and she tried to withdraw from his arms, but he held her tight.
'I somehow, oh I don't know, I don't feel you're ready. When I saw you in London, when you talked about your work, I realised how important it all was for you, that you had to see at least the project you're working on through, no matter how you feel now.'
She smiled at him as she had done in the old days, 'Wise David,' she said.
'And then there's something else. I don't quite know what it is… A distance. Another man, perhaps.' He looked at her steadily and she blanched. 'Am I right then?'
Lynda shook her head vehemently. 'No, there's no one, at least nothing real,' she stammered it out and wrenching herself away began to pace in front of the fireplace.
David watched her for a moment and then said softly, 'I'll wait you know, for a little while, at least.'
She turned towards him and coming close placed a soft kiss on his smooth lips. Then she mouthed a goodnight and climbed slowly up the stairs.
As she snuggled under her sheets, Lynda thought how good, how kind, how reasonable David was in comparison to Paul with his tempestuous moods. She shuddered. But there was no help for it now. She had near enough been ordered back into the fray. And David was right: she would have to steel herself to it, be strong, like her mother. And her last waking thoughts were about this extraordinary woman whom she now felt she had never known adequately.
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear and Lynda woke to the smell of sizzling bacon. She got out of bed, feeling ravenous, and only when she had pulled some clothes on and was going down the stairs did she begin to remember what had occurred on the previous evening. But now her parents' story filled her with something akin to awe. She went into the kitchen where David stood over the cooker.
'Imagine her, day in, day out working in this house and stubbornly guarding her secret. It's amazing!'
He turned to her and smiled, his eyes warm. 'I can see you've had a good night's sleep. I was going to bring breakfast up to you, thinking you
'd be shattered…'
She looked at him closely. His features were drawn, his face pale beneath the ruddy colouring.
'Oh, David, I'm sorry! You're the one who's exhausted. You've been carrying the burden for us all. I've been so selfish.' Lynda put her arms around him and buried her head in his shoulder. He stroked her hair and whispered humorously, 'Like an old married couple already, the two of us.'
They both laughed and sat down to eat, happy in each other's presence. Lynda felt that somehow after last night the air between them had been cleared. She was full of energy.
'Let's set off for Sarah's early. I'm dying to hear what she has to say about Mother and Father.'
After an enormous breakfast of bacon and eggs and thick slices of toast and pots of coffee, they set off across the sunny countryside. Lynda stored up images, thinking to herself that she might not be back here for some time. David drove slowly, steadily, singing old songs all the while and soon Lynda joined him. By the time they arrived, they were both beaming at each other.
Lynda bad never before visited the cottage Sarah now lived in and she was curious about her sister's new life. The two had been close until Lynda went off to art school, but they were quintessentially different. Sarah was small, with thick curly blonde hair and a wonderfully rounded figure. She was totally reliable, efficient and quick-witted, and although there was only a little over a year between them, she treated Lynda like a vagrant younger sister whose dreaminess needed occasional stern mothering. Lynda allowed it, knowing that Sarah meant well, but knowing too that she was quite capable of drawing the line and telling Sarah not to interfere.
Sarah opened the door before they had had a chance to ring the bell and the two sisters hugged each other warmly and then stepped back to examine one another.
'You haven't changed at all,' Sarah said. 'Well, perhaps a little thinner, and you're still not dressing properly. I thought you'd appear in some extraordinary London get-up.'
Lynda smiled down at her worn jeans, 'I left all that in London. But you look wonderful.' And Sarah did, in a pretty print dress that accentuated her slender waist and curves.
'You do indeed,' she heard David echoing behind her as he moved to greet Sarah in turn. She blushed a bright crimson and Lynda chuckled to herself. Sarah had always blushed when David paid her a compliment.
She ushered them in, showing Lynda the four tiny rooms all painted in tasteful pastels and full of the bric-a-brac Sarah loved. They sat down in the lemon and white drawing-room while Sarah went out to make some tea. She returned carrying a delicate china teapot and dainty cups on a large tray. Handing Lynda a cup, she looked at her enquiringly.
'What do you make of David's story about Mother?'
'Astounding,' Lynda replied. 'And now that I've slept on it, I think that Mother was truly remarkable… though I do regret not having known Father.'
'And I do. It makes one a little too independent, not ever having had a man around.' She turned her clear grey eyes a little wistfully on David. Lynda caught the glance and a suspicion began to form in her mind, but she put it aside. Instead she replied truthfully.
'I don't know. That's been important to me. Every time I feel life is getting on top of me, I think of Mother and how she managed and I carry on. Well, almost every time…' It was her turn to look at David.
He grinned, 'Tell Sarah about the project you're working on.'
Lynda did, embroidering it with anecdotes about her trip to the Shaw home. She was careful never to mention Paul, whose name and presence she had to chase away at every turn. It made her a little breathless.
But of course Sarah asked, 'Any exciting men?' She looked first at Lynda and then briefly at David.
Lynda was ready. 'Oh, lots. I have to chase them away with sticks.' She refused to meet David's eye and coloured.
He stood up. 'Well, if you two are going to start in on that, I'll go and have a look at the garden.'
'Oh no,' they both said together, entreating him to stay, and Sarah quickly turned the conversation to other things, her own job, the friends she had made in town. Then she suggested that Lynda and David have a walk while she got lunch together. 'A real Sunday dinner,' she emphasised. 'And I don't like anyone helping.'
'Sarah seems to be thriving,' Lynda observed as she and David strolled idly round the empty market-place and up to the old castle walls.
David murmured agreement.
'She's very fond of you, isn't she?' The thought had suddenly occurred to Lynda in a new light.
He looked at her strangely. 'If you mean what I think you mean, I don't know. I hadn't thought about it. I'm very fond of her,' he added as an afterthought.
Lynda was smitten by a sudden pang of jealousy. She had never conceived of David with any woman but herself. So selfish, she chided herself. And now, as she glanced at him with another's eyes, she could see that his rugged solidity was very attractive. She caught hold of his arm and squeezed it, then guiltily drew away. Did it really take the presence of another woman to make her appreciate David?
Lynda secretly watched Sarah and him throughout the long Sunday dinner and she concluded that Sarah was nurturing a secret passion. She had prepared a splendid dinner, like those enormous meals their mother had made on a Sunday: roast, crunchy golden potatoes, heaps of vegetables, gooseberry tart and custard. She served David with special care, making sure he wanted nothing, attentive to his smallest movement, but covertly observing any gesture he made towards Lynda.
At one point, Lynda caught her in the act, and when the sisters' eyes met, Sarah flushed and turned abruptly away. It made Lynda quite certain that she was right, and despite herself, she began to flirt openly with David. She was sorry she hadn't dressed better. The thought that she couldn't count on him left her with a dawning sense of loss.
When it was time to go, she found herself eyeing him suspiciously as he kissed Sarah warmly goodbye. Yes, she was sure of it; if she absented herself long enough, the two of them would make a match of it.
Lynda was pleased to have him all to herself in the car.
'It's going to be hard to go back to London after all this,' she said, almost hoping that David would dissuade her.
'It doesn't have to be for long…'
She was only a little reassured by his tone.
'Do you know what I'd like this evening?' she turned to face his profile. 'I'd like you to play for me. You haven't, you know, not since I've been here.'
He gave her a bright smile, 'I thought you'd be bored… I'd love to.' He reached for her hand and gave it a quick squeeze and she moved closer to him.
When they walked into the house, Lynda saw a brown envelope on the floor—a telegram. She picked it up and noticing it was for her tore it open with trepidation, while David looked over her shoulder.
'Orders from on top. Come back immediately. Tricia.'
Lynda read the message nervously. She had hoped to go back on Tuesday, but now she would have to rush back to London tomorrow.
'I wonder what that's all about?' she mused.
'I guess they can't get on without you.' David smiled at her comfortingly. 'But you can't do anything until tomorrow, so there's no point fretting. Meanwhile, let's enjoy our last evening.'
He went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine which he uncorked.
'Here, drink some of this. I've been saving it. I'll just see to the animals first.'
Lynda took a sip and then busied herself with making up a fire. She was certain the telegram had to do with Paul. She could sense his imperiousness in Tricia's 'Orders from on top'. The thought of it made her bristle and she closed herself against him. The nerve of it! She gave the fire a jab with the poker, making the logs tumble and leap with flame.
'Angry about something?' David stood behind her. She jumped up, surprised, her face flushed from the fire.
'The orders from on top,' she said, making a face.
'Suits you, being angry.' He took her hand, led her to the sofa and handed
her her glass. Then he looked at her for a long moment and shrugged.
'You're already in London.'
'Oh, David, I'm sorry, it's just that…'
He cut her off. 'It doesn't matter.' But he looked annoyed.
'Will you play for me?' Lynda asked.
He sat down at the piano and struck some angry chords. Then he played through a Beethoven sonata in an accelerated tempo, ending up with a thundering crescendo. When he lifted his hands from the piano, they both laughed.
'That should set the cows stampeding,' Lynda commented wryly.
His chestnut eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. 'Just sit here for a minute. I've got something for you,' he said, bounding up the stairs and coming back almost immediately. 'I was saving this for our last night together, and this is it, I guess. I've wanted to give you this for some time.' He placed a delicate golden ring with an old-fashioned diamond setting on her third finger. 'It was my mother's.'
Lynda gasped, 'It's beautiful, David, but… but I can't really take it.'
He looked into her eyes. 'I want you to have it. It doesn't tie you to anything. It's—well, it's an acknowledgment of all we've shared. And perhaps a promise…'
'It belongs here, then,' she said, taking the ring from her finger and threading it on to the chain which bore her mother's locket, 'next to my heart.'
She raised her lips to his and they met in a long warm kiss.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lynda heard the familiar 'beep, beep, beep', pushed her coin into the slot and asked for Tricia. Her train had been delayed by an hour and it seemed pointless to go into the office so late in the day. Then, too, she felt drained by the journey, depressed by the grey tawdriness of the station, the swarm of unseeing faces around her.