Fearful Symmetry

by C F Dunn

  Pregnant. How on earth was I going to manage, with Theo still in nappies and needing less and less sleep as the weeks went by? Soon he’d be up all night like his sister and, although I didn’t need as much food or sleep as I used to, I would still need to rest at some point. Matthew had always been there, taking advantage of the long nights to teach and bond with his daughter, whereas I barely managed to juggle everything without him with the two children as it was. A bubble of loneliness surfaced and popped in a sob. I quickly smothered it; there were plenty more where that came from if I gave them free rein.

  Beth squeezed me to her woolly bosom. “I know, it’s a bit of a shock, isn’t it? I remember when I found out I was pregnant with Arch. You’ll give Matthew a call, won’t you?” I made an indeterminate movement with my head which she took for a nod. “Good, and that settles it – if you won’t come to us, we’ll come to you – bring Christmas lunch and everything.”

  I pulled away. “Beth, you can’t!”

  “Yes, we can. I’ve always wanted an Aga and Dad’ll love playing Lord of the Manor. You can put him on that dais and he can wear a paper crown.”

  “I haven’t enough chairs…”

  “We’ll bring some from the restaurant in the van. Any other objections?”

  “I haven’t any presents for anyone.”

  She flapped a dismissive hand. “Right, we’ll be over bright and early. Make sure both ovens are hot.”

  “Both?” I queried, frowning at the range.

  “Em, there are two ovens. You are hopeless; it’s a wonder the kids don’t starve.”

  * * *

  Sharp blue skies replaced the moose-grey clouds of the previous few weeks and welcomed Christmas morning. Brittle frost limed long grasses and glazed the bronze leaves of last season’s brambles as Rosie puffed clouds of vapour towards the rising sun. “Can Daddy see the sun?” she asked. Stacking logs into the sack, I checked her, but her colours were bright in the early morning light.

  “I don’t know, but it’s the middle of the night in Maine.”

  “Yes, but the sun’s always there even if we can’t see it, isn’t it? That’s what Daddy says. Daddy likes the sun.”

  An image of Matthew raising his face to the golden disc crashed heavy-footed into my memory. I gave a wobbly smile. “Let’s get this wood in and make the house cosy.”

  Cosy. That was one word that didn’t quite fit the great hall in winter. Still, the fire helped if you climbed under the hooded canopy with it, and with swathes of ivy studded with holly and whatever berries we could find, the room looked homely and welcoming enough. We had improvised a tree and Rosie hung pine cones on cotton as baubles that Theo batted like a cat, and swags of ivy for tinsel. High up and out of reach, I draped the few remaining strands of bright red bryony scavenged from the hedges. The tree looked very… traditional.

  “Shall we go and put Jesus in his crib in the church,” I suggested, “and spend some time with Daddy before everyone arrives?” In the quiet of the church, we laid Jesus in his matchbox crib among the dolly-peg figures on the rickety altar, next to the cross made of plaited grass, while Theo explored, occasionally stopping to hoist himself to his feet. There, isolated for just a little while from our shattered world, we found peace and a sense of wholeness.

  * * *

  “Happy Christmas, Rosie!” Dad lifted her into the air with some effort. “I think you’ve grown since last week. Are you looking forward to Aunty Beth’s turkey?” I slid a quick look in her direction but she had it sewn up.

  “Mummy says I mustn’t because I have a funny tummy.” She patted her stomach, looking suitably disappointed. It was at least partially true. “I can have a teensy-weensy bit, can’t I, Mummy?” She turned large, sapphire eyes on me.

  “Better not just yet, sweetheart. Perhaps later.”

  “Dicky tum, hey? I hope it’s not something you’ve eaten.” He put her back down a little hastily. “That Gurney’s making a difference, Emma; it’s almost warm in here.”

  “And the Aga’s belting out heat. Beth’s been here all morning…”

  “… slaving away,” Beth said, appearing from the kitchen to greet our parents, wiping her hands on her apron. “We’ve got your thron… chair ready for you, Dad. The kids are in the great hall sorting presents if you want to say hi.”

  “Where’s Theo?” Mum asked with her anxious face on.

  “Helping,” I said, giving her a hug. “Happy Christmas, Mum.”

  “Splendid,” Dad announced, sitting back in his chair to give the cloth-covered table a final appreciative sweep. “Beth, you’ve worked wonders.”

  “Darling, Theo’s only had a mouthful or two. Would he like a little more? And are you sure Rosie shouldn’t have something to eat?”

  “Theo had plenty for breakfast and Rosie’s fine, Mum. It’s better if she doesn’t. Anyway, she’s busy playing with the Barbie Flora’s given her. She loves it.” I smiled at my teenage niece, her bubble hair tamed into a neat bob.

  “Wait till she sees the castle,” Flora beamed. “You remember the one, Emma? You and Matthew gave it to me one Christmas.” She faltered as she saw my face straighten at the memory.

  “I do, Flora. That’s really kind of you to let her have it.” I crumpled my napkin, feeling suddenly hollow.

  Dad cleared his throat. “Such a fine room, Em. You’ve made it much more comfortable. I was looking at the family tree a few weeks back. I’d forgotten that one of our ancestors lived near here in the sixteenth century in a place called New Hall – long gone now, of course. An Emma D’Eresby. Married a Lynes too. Same family Joan Seaton told us about that time – chap had a run-in with his uncle and had a narrow escape, by all accounts. Lynes and a D’Eresby. Extraordinary coincidence.”

  Beth, rosy with wine, raised her glass. “Em doesn’t believe in coincidence, Dad. She would say it was ‘meant to be’.” She finished the last drops, chortling.

  I wiped Theo’s chin free of gravy, fighting the sticky hand that tried to push me away. “There’s a stained-glass window in the church which has an image of her, Dad. The Lynes family is buried here.”

  “Really? I’d like to see that.” Did it matter if he saw the resemblance between the stained-glass image and his son-inlaw? Did part of me want to tell him, to remove the veil of lies we had drawn – by necessity – over our lives? No more lies, Matthew and I had promised each other all those years ago, when the uncertain future seemed more solid than ours did now.

  The wind had gathered strength during the course of the morning and now sucked and blew at the chimney. Mum shivered.

  “It’s the ghosts, Granny,” Alex grinned. “I bet this place is haunted. Seen any ghosts, Emma?”

  “Alex, really!” Mum admonished. “Although I don’t know how you sleep here alone at night, darling.”

  “I’m not alone, Mum.”

  “I know, but it isn’t the same without… I mean, it’s different, isn’t it?” She changed the conversation. “It used to be so beautifully kept when I met your father here, girls. We had the most wonderful tennis parties, and the terraced lawns overlooking the courts had herbaceous borders to die for, or so your father thought.”

  “They did,” Dad confirmed, looking wistful. “The Seatons had several gardeners to maintain it.”

  “And the winter ball. Hugh, do you remember? The music and the dancing – not that your father ventured much beyond a waltz – but we had such fun. The Seatons always had a magnificent Christmas tree covered in lights and decorations, and a big ball of mistletoe hung over there in the doorway.” She indicated the door to the screens passage. “Really, one couldn’t enter the hall without someone trying to snatch a kiss.” She laughed, a little self-consciously, I thought, and had avoided looking at me throughout her reminiscences. There was nothing I could say.

  “I like our tree, Granny,” Rosie piped up, looking her grandmother dead in the eye.

  Mum coloured. “Yes, of course, darling. It is a super tree – s
o clever of you.”

  “I think I’d better put the kettle on,” I said, making the trestle shudder as I rose.

  Rob began to collect the bowls. “Alex, Flora, give me a hand, please. Arch, grab the napkins.”

  Mum’s colour deepened. “I didn’t mean… but, how could Matthew leave you like this? What sort of husband lets his wife and children live in such a state? And at Christmas! He could at least have made an effort to be here for Christmas.”

  Biting my tongue, I said quietly, “He would be here with us if he could. Now…” My chair grated over the stained stone floor as I pushed it back. “Would you all like tea to go with the cake?”

  “She doesn’t mean to,” Beth said, depositing plates on the kitchen table next to the remains of the turkey.

  “I know.”

  “Mum’s just worried about you.”

  “Yes, but she has no need to be.”

  “You can’t blame her; you’ve hardly been yourself since you’ve been here. You’re sort of… absent.” How could I not be? I’d left part of myself in the States. “You’ve still not heard from him, then?” I gave a quick shake of my head. “Yeah, but Matthew’ll be OK, won’t he? I mean, if he’s working for the government and it’s all hush-hush and that sort of thing, they’ll have to look after him, won’t they?”

  I half-heard her as from the kitchen window I watched Rosie take Barbie and Archie on a tour of the inner courtyard, chatting away and demonstrating the lifting gear on the covered well.

  “Anyway,” she said, becoming brisk, “staring out of the window all day won’t get these dishes done. Is that water hot yet?”

  I turned from the window and felt the side of the first kettle on the stove. “It’s boiling.” Steam spiralled as I poured water into the sink half-full of cold water. Leaving my rings on the deep windowsill and rolling my sleeves past my elbows, I reached for the sponge. Beth picked up her apron from the stool. “Alex, Flora – come and help, please. Rob, chivvy them along will you, love? Now,” she said in a busy voice, “let’s get started.”

  With hands already soapy, I plucked the apron from her and gave her a little push towards the door. “You’ve done enough today; it’s my turn.”

  “Don’t be daft, Em; you need to rest, and those hands of yours wouldn’t know one end of a washing-up sponge from the other. Mine, on the other hand…” She held out stubby fingers, red skin chapped and nails ridged. She pulled a face.

  “All the more reason you go and sit down,” I insisted, not rising to the sibling jibe. “I’m quite capable, so don’t treat me like I’m completely useless. Can I have that second kettle of water, please?” She tutted and grabbed a cloth to lift the kettle. As Beth turned, kettle spitting, she skidded on the greasy flagged floor and boiling water shot from the spout over my bare arm. I yelped, recoiled, and Beth shrieked. Rob came running from the great hall, followed by the twins and my parents.

  “Sorry; I’m so sorry,” Beth gasped, face colourless, still clutching the kettle as I stood staring like an idiot at the scarlet skin of my arm. I covered it with my hand.

  Rob grabbed my elbow. “Quick, put it under cold water!”

  Beneath my hand, the pain was lessening by the second. “I’m OK, don’t worry.”

  “Did you burn yourself?” Mum asked, trying to pull my hand away. “Does anyone have any lavender oil? Do you need a doctor?”

  “No, really, I’m fine; it wasn’t that hot – look,” and I showed them my arm, a fading reddened mark where the water had scalded my skin.

  Beth’s mouth fell open. “But it was boiling…”

  I rolled my sleeve down to my wrist. “Well, it couldn’t have been. Come on, I want to get this lot washed up and put away. Alex, Flora, clean tea towels are hanging over the Aga, please.” I located the sponge again and began cleaning the carving dish vigorously. Behind me, I heard Beth protesting, “But it was boiling, Rob…” as he led her away. In the foxed glass of the mirror above the sink, I met my father’s eyes briefly before he, too, turned and followed them.

  He suspected something – he had told me as much – and part of me ached to share this burden of knowledge that now separated me from my kin. This is what Matthew had lived with for all the years of his changed life – this degree of separation. He must have known the risk of buying a house so close to my family. Did he too feel the need to return to his roots? Or was it that he never expected us to live here in my parents’ lifetime – or even my own? Now that was a sobering thought.

  Outside, the younger children played in the last light of the winter sun. Archie heaved a bucket onto its side and water gushed over their feet and they danced in the flood, laughing. I marvelled at Rosie’s capacity to take life as it came. As I watched, her head suddenly jerked around, tilting to listen. Then I heard it, too – an unfamiliar car engine, growing closer. My breath caught in my throat. They had found us.

  Rapping an urgent warning on the window, I beckoned her inside. She didn’t move. “Rosie!” I shouted through the glass. She looked at me, but instead of making for the safety of the house, started towards the outer courtyard.

  “What’s the matter?” Alex asked, dishcloth in hand, but I was already running into the screens passage and to the back door. This is how they had caught us out last time – when our guard was down, the family gathered in celebration. It wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. Dad appeared from the great hall. “Emma, what is it? What are you shouting for?”

  “Get inside, close the shutters and lock the doors!”

  “What the…?”

  I was in the courtyard where Archie was standing alone and confused. “Arch, inside,” I ordered him. Evening light made silhouettes of the high walls, but premature dusk darkened the courtyard. And there in the archway to the outer courtyard, stood Rosie. Without warning, she dropped Barbie, let out a squeal and darted forward.

  “Rosie, no!” I yelled, dashing towards the arch, hearing her swift footfall tapping across the flagstones.

  “Daddy!” Her cry echoed around the walls. “My daddy!” I reached the archway in time to see her fling herself at a tall figure outlined by the setting sun and haloed in fire.

  “Matthew!” I breathed. For blind seconds I couldn’t move, but Rosie had drawn back, gazing up at the figure bending down to her. Her thumb found its way to her mouth. The low sun filling the gatehouse arch stung my eyes as I began to move towards them, and she looked around uncertainly as I approached at a run. “I want my daddy,” she whimpered. My skin prickled. “Rosie, come away!”

  CHAPTER

  22

  Reparation

  “Emma,” a calm, quiet voice called.

  In the broken light he looked like Matthew, sounded like him, but it didn’t feel like him.

  “Henry?” I queried. “Henry!” I made the last few yards at a run and flung my arms around his neck. Hesitantly at first, he returned my embrace, and then strongly, fiercely.

  “I’m so sorry, Emma; we came as soon as we could.”

  I pulled away, looking around. “‘We’?”

  He pointed behind him through the golden arch and out of sight along the driveway. “Pat’s in the taxi. She wanted to make sure we are – I am – welcome before she imposed on you.”

  “Welcome? Of course you’re welcome! We’ve missed you. Matthew would be so relieved to know you’re here, that you’re safe.”

  He stepped out of the light, his forehead furrowed. “You can say that knowing how I behaved? My ridiculous… relentless… antipathy towards him?”

  Laying my hand on his arm, I peered up into his face. “Henry, you are his beloved son. Matthew never held you responsible. He regrets not having told you everything from the start. He just didn’t know how. He was always worried he would lose you.”

  “I should have known better than to blame him. I should have known…” He hung his head, guilt suffusing the air around him.

  “We all should have known. Matthew said to me once that hindsight is a pr
ecious commodity in very short supply.”

  Henry’s mouth lifted. “Yes, that sounds like my father.”

  From behind me, a small voice said, “He looks like Daddy.”

  “Rosie, come here; it’s all right.” I brought her to stand by me, my arm comforting around her slight frame. “Darling,” I said carefully, “this is Henry.”

  Henry bent down to her again and his face softened into a smile and his voice gentled. “Hello, Rosie. I haven’t seen you since you were a baby. I remember choosing that otter for you just after you were born. You are such a big girl now and look just as pretty as your mommy. I’m so glad to meet you again.” He held out his hand, palm up, inviting. Rosie looked at it, began to extend her own small hand towards his, but suddenly withdrew it and retreated to the safety of my legs. Clinging to the folds of my skirt, sharp eyes assessed him for a long moment. “Are you my big brother?”

  Henry looked surprised and then laughed. “Why, yes I am.”

  “Daddy told me about you lots. Have you come home?”

  Henry looked up at me. “Have I?”

  “Mum, Dad, we have visitors. Pat and Henry are here.” I stood aside and Beth’s jaw slackened and I heard Mum’s little gasp as I watched confusion ghost their faces. Dad peered at Henry before convention spurred him to stride forward with his hand outstretched in greeting.

  “Well, well, this is a surprise. Patricia, Henry, I think Emma believed you were Special Forces come to investigate the strange goings-on at the manor.” He laughed. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “Golly, Henry,” Mum exhaled, her hand fluttering to her cheek, “I thought you were Matthew.”

  Henry fingered his smooth-shaven jaw. “I’m afraid not. We always did bear a strong resemblance. It’s that obsession with youth – contact lenses and a bit of bottled sunshine.” He ran his fingers through his thick, wheat-gold hair, identical to his father’s. “Call it an old man’s vanity.”