Grace Hardie (12 page)

Her mother would have said that Grace herself carried the atmosphere to the stones – and it was true that she most often visited them when her spirits were disturbed. They had a soothing quality. When she touched them she could feel them absorbing all her tensions, leaving her mind and body at peace.

Today she had no cause for unhappiness, and hardly understood her own mood as her fingers, like those of a blind woman, passed lightly over the stones. From a distance they appeared smooth, but her touch was sufficiently sensitive to register the thousands of tiny pitted circles
which covered the surface – just as Andy's arms were covered with the overlapping circles of his freckles. For a moment it was as though it was the young gardener's arms, and not the boulders, that she was stroking. Guiltily she let her hands fall to her sides. She did not want to think about Andy now.

But she had no choice, for he had followed her down the hill and through the wood, and was standing motionless in the shadows. Grace had never before felt uneasy in his presence, but there was something different about him today – a change which could not simply be explained by her shameful behaviour of a few moments earlier. Just as Jay appeared to have left boyhood behind him during his visit to London, so Andy had abruptly matured from a youth to a man. What had happened to inspire the excitement he could not conceal? She did not speak, but her eyes gave him permission to step forward and explain.

‘Mr Hardie sent for me this morning. I'm to be promoted. To take over all his own work while he's away. The plant room, the glasshouses, the seed beds, the records. Sole responsibility, he said. I'll still help in the garden with the time I've got left, but my father's to have another journeyman, so that I'll be at no one's beck and call. It's what I've always wanted. My own kingdom, you might say. Three years. There'll be time for me to try crosses of my own, as well as keeping to the plan Mr Hardie's leaving behind. I might surprise him with something.'

Never in his life before had Andy been heard to deliver such a long speech, but Grace was startled by far more than his sudden fluency. Her first reaction was one of relief that her childish question had already been forgotten, but this was quickly followed by a stab of indignation. If it was true that her father was going away for three years, she ought to have been told before a member of the staff.

What a selfish reaction! She should be happy for Andy,
whose whole body seemed to be glowing with pride in his new responsibilities. And indeed she
was
happy for him, instinctively stretching out her hands as she smiled her congratulations. ‘I'm sure you'll do marvellously well, Andy.'

‘Thank you, Miss Grace.' The words were what she expected. More startling was the movement with which he caught and gripped her hands. Grace realized that her gesture had been too impulsive – but Andy should have known better than to take advantage. Although he looked down at their clasped hands with as much surprise as she did, he did not relax his grip, but instead gave an odd kind of gasp. ‘Oh, Miss Grace!' He pulled her close, enfolding her in his arms.

It was Grace's first kiss and took her by surprise, giving her no time to think how she should respond. It was wetter and rougher than the cool touch of her mother's lips on her cheek or forehead. At first she felt herself to be outside the embrace, observing and worrying about it. What was she supposed to do with her hands? Tentatively she moved them upwards until they rested on Andy's arms. How firm and strong they were compared with Jay's! Her fingers moved over the soft skin which covered the hard muscles rather as they had earlier explored the boulders, trying to feel through the texture of the surface the quality of what was inside.

And then, without warning, she could not remain outside the scene any longer. Andy had been holding her close enough already, but suddenly he flung himself at her, pressing her back against one of the boulders. The first long kiss was over. His mouth moved over her face and neck as if no inch of skin must be left untouched. Grace's hands no longer awaited instructions, but held him tightly, pulling him even nearer. Their closeness robbed her of breath and the beating of her heart was suspended by
happiness. When at last he let her go, she staggered a little from faintness.

Andy, for his part, was gasping. He struggled to speak, but no words emerged. Then he turned and ran away through the wood. The child that Grace had been until an hour earlier would have felt disappointment, but the woman she was now was aware only of a glow of happiness. Andy thought she was beautiful. She had found someone who could love her.

It was to her aunt that Grace first confessed her feelings. Midge Hardie was as much a part of Christmas at Grey-stones as the family charades on Christmas Eve, the mince pies waiting for the wassailers and the frosty walk down the hill to Headington Quarry church on Christmas morning. No doubt she had to remain on her dignity all through the school term, so she made up for that by flinging herself wholeheartedly into all the fun of the festivities – playing silly games with her nephews and niece, as well as beating them at the pencil and paper games which required more thought.

Aunt Midge was expected to arrive on 23 December, and this year, Grace realized as she kneaded and plaited the dough for a special Christmas loaf, she would notice a difference. Grace's father was an all-or-nothing man, who balanced any neglect of his children during the working part of the year by the vigour with which he threw himself into the celebration of birthdays or Christmas. But the head of the household was absent. He had sailed for China two months earlier.

The boys had changed, too. Well, they were not boys any longer; perhaps that was the trouble. Only Jay, who at this moment was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, swinging his legs and eating scraps of raw dough, was still a schoolboy. He certainly was as high-spirited as ever. But the twins had left school and gave themselves the airs of grown-ups, complaining when they were still treated as juniors. David was articled to a firm of solicitors, while Kenneth, unable to produce any suggestions of his own
about a career, had been placed by his father in the family business as a trainee. He grumbled that Frank used him as an errand boy, and at home was apt to become tetchy.

Like Frank, the twins were expected by their superiors to stay at work until late on Christmas Eve, being allowed only Christmas Day and Boxing Day as holidays. That was another difference from the time when the family celebrations stretched over at least a week. Philip, who was working for a degree at London University, had arrived home a few days earlier, but even he claimed that he must spend all the vacation in study, and rarely emerged from his room. So Grace and Jay had already concluded that it was up to the two of them to turn this Christmas into a merry occasion. They were confident that their aunt would prove an ally.

She came to search for them in the kitchen, looking startled and amused at the sight of Grace's floury hands and apron, and at the anxious expression on the face of Mrs Charles, the cook, who busied herself in the larder whilst waiting to regain control of her kingdom.

‘Have you become assistant cook?' Midge embraced her niece more cautiously than usual, lest her clothes should be marked with flour.

Grace shook her head laughingly. ‘I'm just making one special thing. A Christmas loaf.'

‘You make
bread!
'

‘This is only the second time,' Grace explained. ‘In the autumn one of Mother's friends asked if I could help her. She always makes the loaf for the church's harvest festival, but this year her hands were too rheumaticky and she couldn't manage the little fiddly bits. She told me what to do, and I did it. It was beautiful. We made a huge wheat-sheaf, with every ear of corn showing and two little mice nibbling.'

‘It was inedible.' Jay, as usual, was teasing. ‘Hard as rock. Convict fare.'

‘Nobody was expected to
eat
it. It was for looking at.' Grace had had this argument with Jay before and was not prepared to waste time on it again. ‘I enjoyed doing it,' she told her aunt. ‘So I thought I'd try making one by myself, for Christmas. Not a wheatsheaf, of course. It was meant to be finished before you arrived, so that I could be waiting with Mother to say hello; but everything took longer than I expected.' She glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘It should be ready now.'

As she opened the oven door, Jay slipped down from the table, ready to help; and Mrs Charles also stood by. But Grace – taller and sturdier than either of them – was already thrusting in the paddle to slide the tray out. She set it down on the table and studied her handiwork with critical pride.

She had fashioned a holly wreath, weaving the stems into a plait. The leaves lay neatly in a circle, but eight sprays of berries curved slightly outwards to break the solidity of the shape, and a robin perched above to give it height. Except for the robin's dark raisin eyes and the sesame seeds decorating what had been made to look like a bow of ribbon, the surface had a smooth, honey-golden gloss.

Her aunt took a deep, appreciative breath. ‘There is nothing, nothing in the world that smells quite as good as newly-baked bread.' She laughed as Grace glanced anxiously at her. ‘Oh, don't worry, dear. I'm not going to start breaking pieces off.'

‘Jay's right, really,' Grace admitted. ‘It's too dense to taste nice. If I used ordinary rising dough, it wouldn't keep its shape. I had to make a tougher mixture, so that I could model it like clay.'

‘Have you ever made anything out of clay?'

Grace shook her head. ‘No. But I can imagine what it feels like, or nearly. When I was small I used to make mud pies down by the stream. And then squeeze the water out so that I could make little men and animals out of the mud. They always crumbled as soon as they were dry, though. Clay must have the same sort of feeling, but stickier and stronger. Well, that's finished.'

She pulled off her apron, leaving the clearing up to the cook. ‘Shall we go for a walk?' she asked. It was always the first thing that her aunt wanted to do – to fill her lungs with country air. They separated only for a few minutes, to dress themselves warmly before setting out together.

The first snow of winter had not yet fallen, but the grass, stiffened by frost, crackled beneath their feet. Grace, tall and long-legged, set off with the athletic stride of someone used to walking in male company, but quickly adjusted to her aunt's pace.

‘You walk like your father,' Midge told her. ‘I suppose at this moment he's pressing through the Himalayan valleys, full of purposeful energy, sniffing out new plants. Have you heard from him since he left?'

‘No. There's hardly been time. He wasn't going to write until he reached Shanghai. I expect the first letter's on its way now. I hope so. Mother's worried. She didn't want him to go. She thinks it's too dangerous.'

‘Of course it's dangerous. But that didn't stop her from going with him when she was only a few months older than you are now.'

‘It's worse now, she says. He first planned this expedition a few years ago, if you remember – just before the news came through about all the awful things that were happening in China.'

Midge nodded. ‘That terrible Boxer Rising. Murders, massacres. Yes, I do remember how disappointed he was at having to abandon his plans.'

‘Mother says, that the area he wants to explore is unfriendly to foreigners even at the best of times. But when the agent wrote to say that the situation was calm again, I suppose she didn't like to argue.'

‘I noticed as soon as I arrived that she wasn't sparkling in her usual way. I've always admired her, you know. She married your father because she wanted to share the excitements of his life, but ever since Frank was born she's had to stay at home and look after you all.'

It was a new thought to Grace that she was partly responsible for condemning her mother to a life of dullness. ‘She never says –'

‘Of course not. She's not a grumbler. And no doubt it happens to all of us. We have our time of adventure when we're young, and then we have to live on the memory for the rest of our lives. What's your adventure going to be, Grace?'

If there was any excitement in Grace's life it was to be found in Andy's kisses and her own daydreams. But she was not ready to confess to that. ‘Nothing ever happens here,' she mumbled. ‘Mother makes me go to dancing classes, but I hate them. I'm taller than any of the boys. I look stupid.'

Midge, walking briskly, made no comment on this and for a little while was silent. When she spoke again, it was with her usual decisiveness.

‘When I was about your age, my father sent me to France for a year, to stay with the family of one of his suppliers. It would be easy for your mother to make the same kind of arrangement for you. Wouldn't you like that – to go and live in a château of one of the great wine-making families?'

‘What for?' asked Grace. ‘What would I do there?'

‘You wouldn't need to
do
anything unless you chose to. It would simply be a very agreeable way of life. You could
learn a good deal about wine if you wished. You could even ask to be given instruction in cookery. French cuisine is thought to be the best in the world.'

‘I don't like cooking!' Grace was horrified by the idea.

‘But that beautiful loaf –'

‘That was different. A special occasion. And no one will eat it. I watch Mrs Charles sometimes, icing cakes or decorating fish in aspic – taking such trouble to make things look nice, and then it's all spoilt and eaten in a second. I couldn't bear that. Last year, when Mother and Father had a silver wedding party, I made a swan out of meringue for the centre of the table.'

Grace was silent for a moment, remembering how difficult it had been to make the mixture keep its shape, and how beautiful it had looked as it came out of the oven, baked slowly for just long enough to form a crust – and then how, by the end of the evening, there had been nothing left but a mess of sticky crumbs. ‘I like to do things that will last. I'm giving Mother a cushion cover for Christmas – but you mustn't tell her, of course. I don't specially enjoy doing
gros point
, but now it's finished it will be there to be looked at for years; so I suppose it was worth it.'