Grace Hardie (33 page)

‘I do think it's unfortunate that so many young women move from school to marriage without considering what other use they might be able to make of their lives. But I've had plenty of time to consider. A headmistress's life is a lonely one, you know, dear. Since Patrick died …' She gave a sigh before continuing briskly. ‘There's no lack of society, but it's difficult to develop any intimacy with one's own staff or with the governors. There comes a time when you find yourself longing for companionship. Will's been a friend for very many years. It's taken me a long time to realize that a loving friendship lasts longer than a passionate love affair, and will bring more satisfaction in the end.'

‘I'm so glad for you, Aunt Midge. Really I am. I'm sure you'll be marvellously happy.' Ashamed of her first ungracious reaction to the news, she embraced her aunt; and for the rest of the evening they discussed Midge's plans for her resignation and marriage.

Only after she had gone to bed that night did Grace acknowledge disappointment to herself. It was Midge's example which had encouraged her to believe that she could be happy without being married, and now it was Midge whose change of direction suggested that not even a successful professional career was sufficiently fulfilling. Earlier that day Grace had intended not only to ask for Midge's advice but to take it. Now she was not so sure. She must make up her own mind whether she was prepared to put Greystones at risk.

As clearly as though it were yesterday she remembered the first night she had spent in the house, in the very same round tower room which was still her bedroom. She was the first of her family to arrive, brought early because she was ill. Pepper had come with her: the tiny kitten which later had been shot by David.

Was it, she wondered, the memory of that death which
still, after so many years, prevented her from feeling friendly and co-operative towards the only one of her brothers who seemed capable of looking after the family affairs? She shrugged the question away, remembering instead how she had crept out of bed as a little girl to butter the soles of her feet, as Nanny had earlier buttered Pepper's paws. She had done it so that she would never find herself lost away from home. She had wanted to spend the whole of her life in Greystones, and that was what she still wanted.

Were it to be mortgaged, David could rob her of it at any time simply by failing to pay the interest and she didn't trust him not to be spiteful. Nor was she prepared to keep a watchful eye on the arrangement he proposed by going into the business. Buying and selling wine was not a woman's job.

So she must become businesslike at home instead. David would not be above carrying out his threat to cut off the flow of House of Hardie funds to the property. She must learn what was involved in running it. What precisely did its upkeep cost, and how could she make it pay for itself? No answer came immediately to mind, but in the security of the tower room she felt confident that somehow she would be able to manage.

Her confidence proved short-lived. It was shattered by a letter which arrived on the day after her aunt's return to London. Before Mrs Hardie left England it had been agreed that Grace should open correspondence addressed to either of her parents. What she read now was so unexpected that her breakfast cooled as she stared at the typewritten words, finding them at first incomprehensible and then alarming. What was Tilsden House? And why should its superintendent be regretting that its monthly charge must be increased and that a first instalment of the new sum was now due?

Tilsden House had an address near Bournemouth but no telephone number. Rather than rely on an exchange of letters to resolve the puzzle brought by the morning post, Grace decided to travel to the south coast next day, to see the place for herself and talk to the superintendent face to face.

A bus from the railway station carried her to the end of a long drive, leaving her to walk up to a large, secluded house which had the air of an institution.

‘I came because I didn't understand your letter,' she confessed after she had been shown into the superintendent's office. ‘You addressed it to my father, but he's abroad. Could you explain to me what the fees are for, and why they've been increased?'

‘The increase has been caused by the need to transfer Mr Hardie – Mr Hardie junior – from our children's home to permanent quarters here. When I last saw your father, he explained that he'd set up a capital trust for Felix. The interest has covered all his expenses until now. Mr Hardie thought he would be back in England well before the time came to adjust the arrangement. But now that Felix is seventeen –'

Grace interrupted him. ‘Who is Felix?'

The superintendent gave her a puzzled look. ‘Surely, Miss Hardie, you know about Felix. Your brother.'

There was a long silence as Grace searched her memory. Yes, the name did seem familiar. Little by little she remembered the baby who had been born on the day that Pepper was killed, and what had happened to him. Her face and
neck flushed – was it with guilt or with horror? Silently she prayed that her first guess at an explanation might prove mistaken.

‘I remember there was a baby,' she agreed. ‘But he died. I was ill at the time, and only six, but I'm quite certain that he died. Because he was premature. Too small.'

‘That was said, no doubt, to spare you grief. Small children are often alarmed when defects are found in other children, in case the same problems may occur in themselves. Your brother Felix didn't die, Miss Hardie. But it was suspected soon after his birth that there was an abnormality, and time proved this to be the case. He's seventeen now – a handsome, strong young man. But his mind is that of a child of three or four, and will always be so.'

‘Why is that?'

‘It's one of the dangers of a premature birth. The infant's lungs are immature, causing breathing difficulties. These in turn mean that the flow of oxygen to the brain is insufficient, inhibiting normal development. It was a wise decision on your parents' part to bring him to a children's home where his special needs would be understood and cared for. No one is to blame for such misfortunes in a family, but to keep such a child at home can prove disruptive.'

Grace was silenced again by shame. No one is to blame, the superintendent said, but she knew better. It was a six-year-old's fit of temper which had tipped the new-born baby on to the floor, banging his head. How vividly she remembered now!

‘He's been very happy all these years,' she was told. ‘The change of quarters is purely on account of his age. From now on he should live amongst adults. So you'll understand why a different scale of fees applies – and the
funds from your father's trust are unfortunately insufficient to meet these.'

That explained the withdrawal of capital from the family business which had puzzled David. But the solving of one mystery did nothing to resolve the immediate problem.

‘Your request for an increase comes at an awkward time, because my mother is also abroad at the moment,' she said slowly. ‘Until she returns, it may not be possible to vary the terms of the trust. But I'll discuss the matter with one of my other brothers to see what can be done immediately. If I could ask you to be patient –?'

‘Oh, of course. The attention which Felix receives here isn't medical. He's provided with the attendance and care needed by a child. The most important consideration in his life is that he should remain in familiar surroundings. We've been bringing him over from the children's home every day for several months, to make him feel at ease here. Now that the move's completed, we wouldn't wish to upset him by altering the arrangements. As long as the matter is receiving your attention … And now I'm sure you'd like to visit your brother.'

Could she face that prospect? If she were to be confronted by some kind of gibbering idiot, whilst believing herself responsible for his condition, would she be brave enough to stand her ground?

‘Did my mother come here?' she asked.

‘Mrs Hardie has paid four visits every year until recently. I'm afraid she often found them distressing. Felix doesn't recognize her as his mother, you see. But he loves to have company. Even though he'll quickly forget that you've visited him, he'll be happy while you're here.'

‘Then of course …' Grace rose to her feet and followed the superintendent out of the office and into a long, light room which had perhaps once been an orangery. She looked around while he exchanged a few words with the
attendant in charge. The scene was not after all a frightening one. The twelve men in the room were neatly dressed. The only odd feature was that almost all of them were sitting without occupation. There was one exception. Felix Hardie was dipping a broad paintbrush into pots of poster paint.

She might have recognized him as a member of the family even at an unexpected meeting, so close was the resemblance to their father. He was broader in the shoulders and had not yet grown as tall; but his dark, curly hair and strong features, even to the aquiline nose, were those of Gordon Hardie.

There was even a moment, as he turned from his painting to see who had come into the room, when his black eyes seemed bright with the same alert intelligence which was typical of his father. But within a few seconds the light faded from his eyes, to be replaced by an expression of uncertainty in which she could recognize many elements: hope of some new excitement, worry at the sight of a stranger and doubt about what he was expected to do. Moving slowly, in order not to increase his anxiety, Grace approached her youngest brother.

‘That's very pretty,' she said, looking at his painting – though ‘pretty' was not the appropriate word, for the paper was covered with swirls of bright colour.

Felix nodded his head. ‘Pretty,' he agreed. He set down the brush which he had been holding in his left hand and pointed. ‘Red. Blue.' The words emerged with pride – a lesson well learned: but for a second time Grace was horrified that such a good-looking young man, strong and healthy, should spend the rest of his life imprisoned by the limitations of his mind.

The superintendent joined them. ‘Felix, this is your sister.'

‘Sister,' repeated Felix, smiling but uncomprehending.

‘What do you say when someone comes to see you?'

Felix thought, and became anxious until he was prompted.

‘Say “How do you do?“'

‘How do you do?' His smile returned and there was triumph in his voice at the successful repetition. Slowly and shakily he held out his right hand to be shaken. There was something wrong with it. He had been painting boldly with his left hand, but this side of his body seemed to be not quite under his control. Grace was as uncertain as her brother what to do next. She longed to hug and kiss him, but feared that this would cause alarm. Instead, she watched without speaking as he took up his paintbrush again.

‘Your sister is going now,' said the superintendent after only a short time. ‘Say goodbye.'

‘Goodbye.' He was still smiling as he repeated the word.

‘You can see why your mother is always so distressed,' said the superintendent when they were outside the room. ‘She comes to reassure herself that he's in good health and well cared for, but I have to remind her every time that it's for her own benefit only. It means very little to him. He'll have forgotten your visit already. And there was no point in your extending it, because he has no conception of how long you stayed.'

Grace nodded dumbly, near to tears.

‘You mustn't upset yourself, Miss Hardie. Your brother is happier than most of us in the outside world can hope to be. He has no responsibilities, no fears. He's comfortable and secure. Think how painful it is for anyone to leave the safe world of childhood when the time comes to grow up into adulthood. Felix will never have to cross that barrier.'

‘Yes, I understand. And I couldn't have understood without coming here. So thank you very much. I'm glad
to know that he's well looked after. And I'll deal with the extra charge as soon as I can.'

Instead of asking how she could get a cab, she enquired whether there was a path along the cliff leading back into the town. She needed time to think, and fresh air in her lungs.

The sky was clear and cloudless above her but, when she reached the edge of the cliff and looked down, she could see that the October winds were whipping the waves up into huge rollers, which rose and curled and crashed on the shingle below. For a long time she stood without moving, watching and listening. There was something satisfying about the curve of the water just before it broke into spray – a curve which reminded her of the swirls of Felix's painting. Would it be possible to capture in stone that fleeting second in the movement of water? Yes, it would; and so vividly could she envisage the result that she seemed to feel at her fingertips its smooth hardness rising and turning and swooping downwards and inward.

She ought not to be thinking about her hobby now. Breathing deeply in the blustery air, she forced herself to accept that what she had been told about her brother Felix was the truth. He was happy. To feel guilt over her childish tantrum could spoil her own life without changing his. One of her other brothers, Kenneth, had killed a kitten out of pity for its agony and his inability to forgive himself had distorted the whole course of his life. The best thing she could do for Felix was to make sure that his bills were paid, so that he could stay where he was happy.

But she wasn't going to give in to David. It was odd that this new problem, which might have made her resolution falter, served to strengthen it. During the railway journey which carried her back to Oxford, she considered ways of finding money to look after Felix and preserve her own independence. No solution came immediately to mind, but
she could not expect a miracle. A good deal of hard thinking and hard work was likely to be needed.