‘I’m sure he would.’ Lou smiled; a rare occurrence this early in the day. ‘Posthumous fame was just his kind of thing. I’d better go.’
She got to her feet, and Alice came round the table to kiss her goodbye. A chaste, wifely kiss, Lou thought. It might feel as though they were both acting parts, but the daily round had been easier since Seaford, and she was grateful for that.
The drive to the station was beautiful at this time of year, the woods speckled with the crimson of rhododendrons, but Lou thought of Alice trudging out to the studio, perhaps even back to bed, with envy. She’d considered changing her season ticket to first class when she got pregnant, but she hadn’t. It wasn’t the money so much as the principle, the idea of trading on weakness, but she looked at the spacious carriages each morning with longing. Today there was only one seat left in standard, next to a large man whose coat gave off a powerful scent of mothballs.
She had papers to read, but she didn’t get them out straightaway. Instead she shut her eyes and thought of the rhododendrons, of Alice’s hair tangled with sleep, of the cool morning air on her cheeks as she waited on the platform. And of Julia Hoxton. Perhaps her name was too familiar now for Lou to remember it being spoken in a private context. Had she had a fling with Henry? Would she, if so, really have the gall to organise a public event in his memory?
She had always, Lou thought now, been more sanguine than Kitty about her father’s infidelity, but more resolutely disapproving. She remembered Kitty white with anxiety when another crisis broke, desperate to heal the breach. Kitty had been younger, of course, and wired to make the best of things. Her father had held sway in her heart in a way Lou had found hard to accept. And in Flora’s, too. That was something she had never come to terms with.
Of course Flora had raged sometimes, even thrown Henry out once or twice; and of course Lou understood that her dignity was important, and her loyalty to the family that was bound together with such a strange and makeshift assortment of knots. But surely her endurance had cost her more than she had shown? Surely her marriage had eroded something inside her, over time? That, Lou assumed, was why she’d given up work to nurse Henry at the last – because in the end, it mattered more to her to prove that her marriage had come right than that her career had been a blazing success.
And that, Lou realised, was why Julia Hoxton’s letter troubled her. Flora had reclaimed Henry, and now someone else wanted to assert some kind of public right over him. As the train rolled through the familiar railway landscape of fields and factories and back gardens, Lou pondered. Families, she thought, rarely left you in peace for long. The other week there had been Flora’s disconcerting announcement that she’d arranged to swap houses for the summer with a wine merchant she’d met in France, and now there was this dilemma to address.
Lou sighed. She needed to speak to her mother. She needed to tell her about the baby, for one thing. It was high time that Flora heard that news.
24
After the Wigmore Hall encounter Lou and Kitty had promised they’d meet more often, and Kitty had really meant to stick to that resolution. She’d been too absorbed by her song cycle, she thought now, and then by Daniel. Neither of those preoccupations was very willing to share her attention. It felt, walking through the London streets this morning, as though it was weeks since she’d been out and about on her own. Weeks since she’d seen Lou, certainly.
They’d arranged to meet in the same Moroccan café: it was convenient for Lou’s office, and there was something in the Jones genes that liked establishing traditions. The good old same old, Henry used to call it. Lou looked better than she had the last time. When Kitty said so, she gave a characteristic sideways smile.
‘We had a weekend away,’ she said. ‘A bit of sea air. How about you, Kits?’
‘Well, I had a little success, actually,’ Kitty admitted. ‘My song cycle was in a lunchtime concert last week.’
‘Oh, I would have come! You should have told me.’
‘I know,’ Kitty said. ‘I know I should. The thing is that until it happened, I didn’t really believe in it. But actually – well, it was quite good. The college is pleased, anyway.’
More than that: Janet Davidson had actually beamed, the next time they met. She was talking about Kitty doing a PhD. Apparently that was what composers did these days, now there weren’t any Grand Dukes to fund you while you wrote your early symphonies.
‘Will it be performed again?’ Lou asked. ‘I’d love to hear it.’
‘There might be a recording. I’ll see if I can get hold of it, if you like.’
‘I would like. Don’t you want to hear it yourself?’
‘I heard it. And it’s in here, anyway.’ Kitty tapped her head. ‘I can hear it whenever I want.’
Lou looked at her for a moment, a new expression on her face. ‘Have you found your métier, little sister?’
‘Maybe.’ Kitty gave a small shrug, attempting something between nonchalance and take-it-in-your-stride sincerity. She felt rather shy about discussing her music with Lou. The idea that Lou would take it seriously wasn’t something she felt sure of. She’d never known quite what Lou thought about music and musicians.
Their food arrived then, a similar selection of mezze dishes to last time. The good old same old, Kitty thought. But they both looked at them with more enthusiasm this time. Kitty, at least, was famished.
‘And dare I ask how Daniel is?’ Lou asked, spooning green beans onto her plate.
‘He is,’ said Kitty.
‘Meaning . . .?’
Another little shrug, with a different inflection. ‘Meaning I’ve been seeing a lot of him.’
‘Good,’ said Lou – and then, after a hesitation, ‘is it good?’
Kitty helped herself to a piece of skewered chicken while she contemplated the answer. ‘This is the first time for days I’ve been away from him for long enough to think about that.’
Lou said nothing; just raised her eyebrows in another question.
‘I feel . . .’ Kitty said, ‘oh, I don’t know. Life feels very – vivid, when I’m with Daniel. As though any other kind of life is second rate.’
‘But?’
‘I don’t know if there is a but. I haven’t written anything since the concert, but I can’t really blame Daniel for that.’
Although she could, of course. It was hard, somehow, to call up her own musical language when Daniel was around. She craved his affirmation almost as much as she had once craved Henry’s, but she dreaded his judgement. She had thought once her piece was finished, performed – now she could think of herself as a proper composer, almost . . . but it wasn’t that simple. She couldn’t explain any of that to Lou, though. And it wasn’t the whole truth, anyway: surely no one could think about work when they were spending so much time in bed.
Kitty sighed. ‘I think – I sort of feel it ought to be clearer, but I think I’m in love with him.’
Lou made a sceptical face, peering over imaginary glasses: an old gag, designed to make Kitty laugh. Instead, Kitty found herself suddenly on the brink of tears.
‘Oh, Kits,’ said Lou, taking her hand, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘I know,’ said Kitty, ‘I know. It’s – nothing, really.’
She stopped, biting her lip. Why was it that the moment she spoke the word love a kind of dread overtook her? Why was it so much harder to know what she felt when she was away from Daniel? He was so sure about everything, that was the thing. Unnaturally sure, she sometimes thought, for someone of their age, but that was supposed to be a good thing, in this commitment-phobic world. When she was with him, his certainty soothed her. But when she wasn’t, when that blanket was lifted. . .
Sometimes she almost felt as if she and Daniel had known each other in a previous life, and things had ended badly for them then, but she knew that was nonsense. Perhaps it was her mother’s life that haunted her, she thought now; the echo of her father’s behaviour. Someti
mes she looked at Daniel in her mind’s eye and saw Henry instead.
‘Let’s talk about something else,’ she said. ‘How are you? How’s Alice?’
She leaned forward to take a piece of pickled beetroot from a bowl, and Lou frowned, as though trying to recall their last conversation. Kitty remembered it well enough: she remembered the ambivalence in Lou’s voice.
‘Things have been a bit difficult,’ Lou said. ‘They’re better now, I think. Not – perfect, but better.’
Kitty waited, but that seemed to be the end of it. ‘And the baby?’ she asked.
‘Growing. In fact I’ve got . . .’ Lou reached into her bag and produced a black and white image that bore an uncanny resemblance to a cave painting.
‘Gosh,’ said Kitty. ‘Is that . . .?’
‘It’s an ultrasound scan,’ Lou said. ‘That’s the head, look, and the body.’
Kitty hardly dared to look at Lou’s face. The picture didn’t look much like a baby, but it was proof, even so. And Lou showing it to her was a different kind of proof. Goodness, she thought, Lou really is going to be a mother. She was going to have to get used to that idea.
‘Have you told Flora yet?’ she asked.
‘No, but I need to. I’ve been meaning to.’
‘It feels odd, doesn’t it, having her so far away?’ Kitty said. She had been thinking about Flora on the tube this morning: thinking that she missed her, a more straightforward feeling than she’d expected. ‘Odd having someone else living at Orchards, too.’
‘Yes, that’s definitely odd.’ Lou hesitated. ‘I went there, you know. To show the agent round, before Flora came up with the house swap plan.’
‘How was that?’
‘I’m afraid I scared the life out of the poor estate agent with my insinuations about family life chez Jones.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’s heard worse,’ said Lou. ‘But I’ve – felt the aftershocks a bit, lately.’
Kitty’s heart beat a little faster. Now was the moment to ask, she thought – but what? Was it really worth digging it all up?
‘I was planning to go some time,’ she said instead. ‘To collect some stuff from the barn.’
‘Don’t be put off by me,’ Lou said. Her face had composed itself again. ‘Or the tenant. He seems nice. Perhaps you could find out what Flora’s up to in France.’
‘Life after Henry,’ said Kitty, and she felt a rush of sadness. Not so much for her mother or her father, she thought, as for the missed opportunity to talk to Lou about them. For her lack of courage.
‘That reminds me,’ Lou said. ‘Have you heard from someone called Julia Hoxton?’
‘The conductor?’ asked Kitty.
‘Yes. She wants to do a memorial concert for Henry. Did she write to you?’
‘How would she find me?’ Kitty asked. ‘How would she even know I existed?’
‘I could ask the same thing,’ said Lou. ‘But she found me somehow. She’s proposing something on a pretty grand scale.’
‘Oh.’
‘That was rather my feeling. Should we say no?’
‘She ought to ask Flora,’ said Kitty. ‘But can we stop her, if she wants to do it?’
‘Maybe Landon could be an intermediary,’ said Lou.
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Kitty. ‘Dear Landon. I keep thinking about his eulogy at Henry’s funeral. He found such nice things to say.’
‘Admirable chap,’ Lou said.
Kitty smiled at her imitation of Henry, but she felt a dart of grief too. There was such a resemblance in Lou’s face, suddenly – an unmistakable imprint of Henry. Perhaps now, she thought; another chance. But just then there was a sound like a subdued fire alarm.
‘Damn,’ Lou said, frowning at her phone. ‘I’m so sorry, Kits, but I’m going to have to go. A client has arrived early. Look, have this – lunch is on me.’
She handed Kitty two twenty pound notes. Kitty demurred briefly; then, when it was clear that Lou wouldn’t be refused, she stood up to embrace her.
‘Sorry,’ Lou said again. ‘I wouldn’t usually – but it’s a big case.’
‘Go,’ said Kitty. ‘Don’t worry.’
Lou put a hand on Kitty’s shoulder. ‘Look after yourself, little sister,’ she said.
25
At first, Flora didn’t recognise the voice that answered the phone.
‘Alice?’ she said.
‘No, it’s Lou. Alice isn’t here. Can I take a message?’
Flora felt a strange frisson. Like a glimpse of a stranger, she thought, catching her daughter unawares.
‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Flora.’
‘Ma?’ There was a tiny pause. ‘How are you? Is everything OK?’
Ma – when had Lou last called her that?
‘Everything’s fine,’ Flora said. ‘I just thought . . . It seemed a long time since we’d spoken. I wondered how you were.’
‘I was going to ring you, actually,’ Lou said. ‘I’ve got some news.’
‘About Orchards?’
‘No.’ Lou laughed at the other end of the line; a little laugh, very characteristic, that made Flora’s heart ache suddenly. ‘About me. I’m pregnant.’
‘Oh, Lou!’ Blood thudded in Flora’s ears: of all the things Lou might have said, this was possibly the least expected. ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘How wonderful. How many weeks?’
Lou hesitated. ‘I’m just about through the first trimester,’ she said. When she went on there was something in her tone of voice that Flora couldn’t decipher. ‘We’ve talked about it for a while, but it happened very quickly once . . .’
Flora could feel the prick of tears now, and she wasn’t sure whether she was glad or sorry that Lou wasn’t there to see them. Would she feel the same if Lou wasn’t gay; if this news was less of a surprise? She so rarely thought in those terms, but it seemed impossible not to, on this occasion. Impossible, either, not to think of the moment when she’d found out she was pregnant herself.
‘I had some difficulty conceiving you,’ she said.
‘Really?’
‘It took over a year,’ Flora said. ‘We almost gave up hope.’
It had been Henry’s problem, not hers. A low sperm count: nicely ironic, Flora had thought at the time. And perhaps just as well. Who knew what sordid consequences had been averted by that quirk of reproductive physiology?
‘I didn’t know that,’ Lou said. ‘I should count my blessings, then.’
About her baby’s conception, Flora wondered, or her own? She couldn’t think why they’d never told her. Lou would have liked to know that she’d been wanted and planned and waited for.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. ‘Are you through the morning sickness?’
‘It’s been pretty bad, but it’s beginning to ease off. I feel fine, otherwise. Fine.’
‘I’m very pleased, Lou,’ Flora said. There was another silence then, and in the middle of it she said, ‘your father would have been pleased too.’
Lou’s announcement reverberated in Flora’s mind after she’d put the phone down, leaving her feeling unexpectedly shaky. She carried a glass of wine outside, and sat on the bench at the end of the garden from which she could see the blazing finale of the sunset reflected in the tall windows of the house: a treat regularly bestowed at the end of these late June days. The chirp of cicadas filled the air, adding to a sense of the exotic and far-from-home; the far-fetched, even. Lou pregnant? she could hear Henry saying. What were the odds on that, then?
But as well as surprise she felt an extravagant sense of joy. She’d never thought about being a grandmother, but the allure of it was a powerful thing. A deep-rooted desire to see the line continued, perhaps; a primal pleasure in the prospect of new life. Flora had never set much store by primitive emotions, but this one had caught her full on.
She was also aware, though, of a more complicated reaction. Things were different for working mothers these days, of
course. Doctors could take career breaks with impunity, and presumably lawyers could too. And this child would have two mothers to share its care. But even so, having a baby was, for Lou, a more deliberate, more audacious decision. It made Flora feel proud, and a little humble. For her, motherhood had been the natural corollary to marrying Henry. He’d longed to be a father: even in the face of scientific evidence Flora had felt responsible for their failure to conceive. Lou had come, finally, as the consummation of a grand rapprochement, after a row that had raged for weeks. She and Henry had made their baby in the way that medieval monarchs made marriages: to seal the peace and cement their allegiance, overcoming the odds at last in an outpouring of hope. Misguided hope, Lou might have said, with her clear-eyed vision.
The sunset had drained from the windows now, leaving behind the heavy grey of dusk. Flora sat on, watching the tiny bats loop and dart over the garden, their suddenness and silence another part of the spell of evening here. Had it been fair to make her children the glue for her marriage, she wondered – especially Kitty? Would it have been better for them if she’d left Henry – perhaps accepted one of those glamorous research chairs in Sweden or America she’d been offered in the nineties?
She should have been braver about facing those questions in her full-throttle forties, she thought, when other dice could still be cast. But perhaps she needed to find the courage now to face regret square on, if it was there: regret about marrying Henry, or about pursuing her career so doggedly, or about giving it up to nurse him at the end. Regret about missed opportunities and futile guilt: oh, that was dangerous ground. The secrets she’d kept for so long, the scruples and taboos she’d allowed to enclose her like Sleeping Beauty’s briars. Did she dare to hack them down?
February 2001
Standing in front of the stove, Flora fights off a familiar feeling of frustration. It should not, she thinks, be so difficult to produce, just for once, a meal which doesn’t make her family laugh or squirm. She is a competent person, and she has done everything in the order specified by the recipe book, but the cake in the oven is defiantly refusing to rise and the consistency of the mixture in the pan in front of her is quite wrong. It irritates her to fall prey to the cliché of the working mother who can’t cook. She’s never set her mind against it; never taken pride, as some women do, in being domestically incompetent. Why shouldn’t she be able to make a proper cake, and a passable version of beef bourguignon, for Lou’s eighteenth birthday?
The Things You Do for Love Page 18