‘Good little chap,’ James says to his sister-in-law. ‘Very like Hubert, don’t you think?’
‘Very.’ Julia permits herself a smile as she looks at the little group. ‘Hubert would be proud of him. He’s a brave little fellow. Of course, Emma is too young to understand what’s happened but she’s a dear little soul.’
‘We’re not doing too badly either, Julia.’ He allows himself to share a moment of uncharacteristic self-congratulation with her. ‘Those two of yours are a credit to you.’
For a moment they think of past Christmases: Julia thinks of Hugh, home on leave, playing with Mousie and Rafe in those years before the war. James thinks of Margaret and the quiet, happy times together; and he thinks of his son. They exchange a long look, each silently acknowledging the other’s pain, and then the mantle of stoicism descends on them once more. They straighten their shoulders, lift their chins and look about them cheerfully. The party is a great success.
19th February
I’d forgotten how melancholy the English spring can be, Vivi. I sit in the drawing-room looking out into the twilight, a wood fire crackling behind me, watching the sky change colour: patches of gun-metal grey, robin’s-egg blue, salmon pink. The lawn is frosted with a light scattering of snow, icing the snowdrops and crocus that are flowering in the grass, and I can hear a thrush singing amongst the camellias. A blackbird flies swift and low over the silent garden, alighting with its stuttering, warning cry on a bleak, bare branch, and there are lambs crying in the fields below the house. Quite suddenly the crimson sunset colour drains out of the sky and I see the thin beaten-silver disc of the moon tangling amongst the black twigs of a thorn tree.
This is Paradise, Vivi, and the serpent is a worming, gnawing creature called Discontent: the sting of the wasp, the smarting of the nettle, the piercing of the thorn, all belong to him. Do you think that God punishes us? I don’t. We punish ourselves by making Him small; cramming Him into mansized boxes, making Him in our own image, and actually imagining that He thinks like we do. On evenings like this I catch a glimpse, just a glimpse, of what He is offering us. It’s odd, isn’t it, that Satan offers to Christ – and to us – those things that we believe are Godlike: empires, angels protecting us, freedom from starvation and want? He tricks us into believing that these things will make us safe and great and happy, whispering in our ears, creating a restlessness. God remains silent, continually offering a poverty of spirit, promising nothing but love.
Sorry, Vivi. I find that, more and more, I have to talk things through with myself so as to try to understand my feelings. It’s best when I sit and write to you like this, sharing everything just as we did all those years ago before the war. I hear your voice and imagine what you would be saying to me.
I love Simon.
‘Remember Robert Talbot and Geoffrey Stack,’ I hear you cry. ‘Remember the young PP, for whose spiritual top marks we vied and fought like cats, and the young man who taught us art for one whole, blissful term.’
I do think of them – and all the others too, including Johnny – but Simon is different. I can hear your snort of contempt and I long, oh how I long, to see your face. Did ever other girls love like we did, Vivi? It seems that from the age of twelve we were in a continual state of longing, whether the object of our passion dwelt between the pages of a book or ran the local riding school. I fell in love with Geoffrey simply for his long legs in jodhpurs and riding boots. Yet how innocent we were. Oh, the heart-stopping joy of those deliciously chaste kisses; the thrill at the unexpected – yet longed-for – touch of a hand. But I’ve eaten the fruit of Goblin Market and I want more, much more than that now.
We took Bruno to the pantomime at Bodmin for his belated birthday treat; he’d never seen anything like it and he was speechless with delight. His eyes never left the stage, Vivi, and nor did mine. He sat between me and Simon – Mousie and Rafe and Aunt Julia further along the row – and Simon laid his arm along the back of Bruno’s seat, oh, so casually and naturally, so that his fingers were just resting on my shoulder. It was all I could think about; the touch of his fingers burning through the thin material of my frock. Honor’s frock. It was this, oddly, which exerted control over me, the memory of her wearing it preventing me from covering his hand with mine, and I was able to pretend that I hadn’t noticed.
As I stared sightlessly ahead, unmoved by Aladdin’s plight, I thought about Honor and how she would have reacted. It was a pointless exercise: Honor would never have allowed herself to be in such a position. Yet the sight of the fine, blue wool stretched over my knee, the glimpse of its well-cut sleeve, held me steady. I clapped in all the right places, hands held high, smiling brightly, and bent solicitously to Bruno to share in his pleasure and explain the plot to him from time to time.
I knew that Simon was watching me, admiring me in my motherly role, approving my love and tenderness for my son. Honor’s son. Bruno’s rapt excitement, the way he clutched me when the genie shot up through the trapdoor, also held me steady. I love him too, Vivi, which makes it all so terribly complicated.
I imagine that I hear your voice telling me that it was already complicated, that, once I’d taken that decision in the hotel room in Karachi, my life could never be simple again. I make up little scenarios for myself; fairy stories in which everything comes right in the end and we live happily ever after. The serpent whispers in my ear and tells me that I can have it all, that I need only to stretch out my hand to take it, and his restless whispering drowns out the silence where God lives.
In returning and rest you shall be saved: in quietness and trust shall be your strength.
It’s surprising how much I must have taken in unconsciously during those convent years, and now comes back to comfort me.
It’s evening now. The moon is sailing free of the thorn tree, its cold light silvering the frosty grass, and the trees cast sharp black shadows across the drive. I can hear James coming out of his office, ready for a drink.
Today would have been my birthday, Vivi, and I would have been twenty-eight.
Love you, darling.
Simon can barely keep his eyes from her. She looks so beautiful but tonight there is a remoteness about her that both attacks his confidence and fuels his determination. The presence of the family is frustrating and he senses that she is holding him at arm’s length because – apart from James and Emma (who is being looked after by Jessie) – they are all here together, belatedly celebrating Bruno’s birthday. Simon grimaces ruefully to himself: ‘arm’s length’ is exactly the right phrase. He is unable to resist stretching his arm along the back of Bruno’s seat so that his fingers just touch Mutt’s shoulder. Oh, he’s done it very casually so that it looks like one natural movement combined with leaning back to make himself more comfortable. His height and length of limb have secured him the seat at the end of the row and his posture is very relaxed.
Bruno is far too preoccupied with the pantomime to notice what his godfather is doing but Mutt is aware of him: Simon knows that. She isn’t responding this evening as she has done in the past, though. She’s particularly maternal this evening, her whole concentration bent on ensuring that Bruno is enjoying himself. Simon is surprised that, despite his approval of her behaviour towards her son, he feels unusually jealous and becomes even more determined to get a reaction from her, however slight.
There’s something different, though: a new coolness has quenched the warmth of her personality. He finds himself studying her covertly across Bruno’s head. Is it something to do with her hair or her clothes? She watches the stage, apparently totally absorbed, unconscious of his stare, and he moves his fingers so that they touch the thin material of her frock and the warm shoulder beneath it. Suddenly he is aware of Mousie, further along the row, watching him. He smiles quickly and shifts in his seat, folding his arms across his chest.
Although he laughs and applauds in all the right places, he is thinking hard, planning ahead: somehow he must find the opportunity to be alone wi
th her again.
Later
I never told you what James gave me for Christmas, did I? He’s not a man for gifts – and in these strict days of rationing it’s a problem anyway – but he presented me with his wife’s tapestry frame. I rather prefer this kind of gift, something special that has been used for years within the family, and I was absolutely thrilled with it. He was rather anxious that I might be offended that a half-done tapestry was still stretched over the big, tilting frame, but I was very moved to think that I should be taking up where Margaret left off. She was obviously very clever with her needle: dark red flowers of the japonica, held stiffly on a thick branch with bright green leaves, against a cream background. There’s also a small round frame and a workbox full of silks and wool.
I used to get top marks for needlework, do you remember, Vivi? You found it tiresome, fiddly work but it was one of the very few areas in which I could hope to please Mother. I see the evidence of Margaret’s work all over the house: an impressive set of chair covers in the dining-room, a big medieval-type tapestry on the landing, and smaller charming flower studies in lovely, plain frames.
James was so pleased at my reaction. I’ve taken the big frame and set it up in the dining-room. I should like to have it in James’s office – two big windows facing north and east, oh, I do envy him his privacy – but this does splendidly. He is so good to us; it can’t be easy having two small children suddenly wished upon you, yet he manages very well. He has a detached quality that enables him to drift above the day-to-day, absorbed in a book or in his office …
He told me yesterday that, after his death, the two farms would have to be sold to pay the death duties. You can imagine my shock at this subject so casually introduced into the conversation. I said I didn’t want to talk about his dying and he smiled, such a sweet, Hubert-like smile, and said that he didn’t actually have it in his diary but that we needed to discuss certain things.
‘Everything goes to you and the children,’ he said. ‘No change there. Of course, if you were to marry again …’
He hesitated and I knew that he was thinking about Simon. I felt my face grow hot and my stomach churned about.
‘I shan’t marry again,’ I answered.
I said it so quickly, with such certainty, and immediately afterwards I felt a great peace begin to fill me.
‘You’re very young to make that decision,’ James said. He looked so kind, so understanding. ‘You don’t have to rule it out but if you were to do so then I would make a new will. The estate would revert to Hubert’s children to be held in trust until they come of age.’
I saw then that he wouldn’t want Paradise and St Meriadoc being passed on to any children I might have by Simon and this whole, wretched deception came clearly into my mind. He wouldn’t want Emma or me to have any of it either, if he knew the truth of it, and my brief moment of peace was shattered.
‘It was simple for me and Margaret,’ he was saying, ‘having only one child. My dear, forgive me for speaking about it but I want to leave you safe if I can, and not in the hands of Bruno’s wife or Emma’s husband, so it will all come to you and I shall trust you to leave it to Hubert’s children. I’ve arranged a trust for their school fees but, beyond that, you’ll be hard pressed, I’m afraid. There are the rents from The Row, of course …’
‘I have my pension,’ I said quickly. ‘We shall be fine. Please don’t worry.’
‘The place is in good heart,’ he said, ‘I’ve seen to that, but things have changed since the war. Very well, we won’t talk about it any more at present. How about a drink?’
So Paradise is to be mine, Vivi, but not just yet. I had a letter from Simon this morning. He’s beginning to press me a little, suggesting a visit to Exeter. He shares a flat with a fellow medico, and his proposals are all very proper, but I have the feeling that he thinks the mourning period should be coming to a close. He’s coming down for Easter.
What shall I do?
Just as with Margaret’s jewels, it is Julia who prods James into action over his will.
‘You should let Honor know how she stands,’ she tells him. ‘We’re not getting any younger and she needs to understand how things are.’
‘I can’t see a problem,’ he mutters, feeling that it might be embarrassing. ‘I changed my will when Hubert had a son. Everything goes to his widow, or if she’s died, then to Hubert’s children. It’s quite straightforward.’
‘But Honor doesn’t have second sight,’ Julia insists. ‘She might assume that when you die she’ll have to move out, d’you see?’
‘Nonsense,’ he says irritably – but he acknowledges the possibility of it and forces himself to discuss it with her.
First, he makes a little ceremony of giving her Margaret’s large tapestry frame. Honor frequently admires her needlework and it gives him pleasure to think that Margaret’s legacy will be put to good use. Honor is delighted and it is easier then to introduce the subject of the will. It is clear that she is just as uncomfortable as he is and tries to brush the subject aside. He is obliged to mention the subject of her marrying again – Julia has touched on this too – but she answers very promptly.
‘I shan’t marry again,’ she says – and he suddenly feels a deep compassion for her, left so young with such small children. Watching her laughing with Simon he has wondered whether the two of them are falling in love and, though he wouldn’t blame her in the least, he is determined that St Meriadoc must be held secure for Hubert’s children. Of course, if she marries again after his own death there will be nothing he can do about it and he wonders if he should make a new will leaving the estate in trust to the children. Yet she is so sure.
‘I shan’t marry again.’
Well, he’ll leave it a while and see what happens. He wants her to be safe as she grows older, not dependent on the whim of any future in-laws she might acquire, and she is happy here at Paradise. It is what Hubert would have wanted.
He is pleased to see that she’s already started work on the big half-finished tapestry and for some reason this gives him confidence that he’s made the correct decision and that he is right to trust her.
23rd March
We’ve been down to The Lookout today, by the cliff-path. The day starts with thick mist drifting smoke-like from the sea, blotting out the waxy faces of the magnolia, misting the windows. Quite suddenly a breeze ripples through the garden, tearing the cloudy vapour apart and revealing a patch of tender blue sky. An unexpectedly violent downpour, and then the wind begins to rise and the clouds are whirled away. We set out at last in brilliant sunshine and vibrant colours: the icy green of the wild sea, the gold of the forsythia and the pinkyred of the ribes – all is vivid where, an hour before, all was grey and dim. After the sheltered garden, the cliff-path is high and exposed: the wind tears past us, whipping our hair into our mouths and stinging our eyes, our clothes are whirled about our legs, and we have to shout to one another to make ourselves heard above its screaming. I pick Emma up, since she can make no headway on her short legs, and, with Bruno clinging to my free hand, we stare down through the flying creamy foam to the heaving, billowing mass of water which seethes around the cliffs and smashes into the rocks below.
We are quite grateful to reach the relative peace of The Lookout, to watch the magnificent drama of sea and sky from the great bowed window, although the gale seems to shake even this solid rock-built fortress.
‘I love it here,’ says Bruno, staring out, arms resting on the broad, low sill. ‘I shall live in The Lookout when I grow up, with Pipsqueak and Wilfred. You and Emma can be at Paradise and I shall come here.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ I answer lightly.
I never go too deeply into the future with Bruno, unlike Aunt Julia who is always asking him if he is going to be a doctor – like his father – or a sailor, like his uncle. It would thrill her if he were to join the Navy, keeping up her family’s tradition, but I never burden him with these things; time enough …
> So, ‘That’s a good idea,’ I say, ‘and Emma and I will come to visit you.’
‘We’ll have tea at the table here,’ he says, his face lighting up at the prospect, pointing at the big deal table which faces out towards the sea, ‘and then we’ll sit by the fire and tell stories. Are we going to light the fire today?’
This is a big treat. James has given us permission to light the fire in this enormous room: it helps to air the house, he agrees, as long as we make sure it’s properly out by the time we leave. Bruno and I set to with twigs and matches and some paper spills and soon we have a jolly little blaze going. Emma droons about, singing to herself, wrapping herself in the dust-sheets which cover the few pieces of furniture. Presently the inevitable picnic will take place, after The Lookout has been thoroughly explored, the upstairs windows opened and the minimal amount of housework accomplished.
‘You could live here too,’ says Bruno out of the blue later, fearful perhaps that I have been hurt. ‘Only who would live at Paradise?’
‘Well, of course, Grandfather will be there,’ I tell him cautiously.
‘But not for ever,’ he answers anxiously. ‘Grandfather is old and sometimes he isn’t very well. You’ll be there too, won’t you, Mutt?’
And out of nowhere, Vivi, I hear Honor’s voice saying, ‘You’ll look after the children if anything happens to me and Hubert, won’t you, Mutt? You know I’ll have Lottie.’
We always promised each other and we meant it. We were like sisters and I used to think of Goblin Market then – and of you:
The Golden Cup Page 18