Holding On (2 page)

Theo Chadwick, watching his sister-in-law across the table, was aware that she was unconscious of any of the afternoon's delights. Although her head was turned towards the open door, he was convinced that she neither heard the birds nor was aware of the scent of roses. Even the plate of Ellen's new-baked scones and the pot of home-made bramble jelly could not hold her attention. He'd searched about for something with which to distract her, knowing that her thoughts were with Fliss, but his mind remained unhelpfully blank. The silence lengthened and presently he spoke the words which he hoped might offer some kind of comfort.

‘She will be well cared for, you know,' he said gently. ‘It will all be very much a home from home. A little England. Hong Kong is a crown colony, after all.'

She made no attempt to dissemble or to deny her anxieties. ‘But it is so far away,' she said despairingly.

Theo was silent. Although the Chadwicks made their money from china clay there had been a naval tradition in the family for well over a hundred years. Theo's father had been an admiral, his elder brother, Bertie – Freddie's husband – had been killed at Jutland during the First World War and he himself had become a naval chaplain. Nobody knew better than he that Freddy was no stranger to separation and loss. Left a widow with twin baby boys, Peter and John, she had managed with the help of Ellen and Fox: Ellen, who as Freddy's maid, had arrived with her at The Keep more than fifty years before, and Fox, who had served under Bertie as a gun-layer in 1916. After the war Fox had made his way to The Keep, so as to tell Lieutenant Chadwick's family the truth of his courageous last battle, and had stayed on to look after The Keep and to protect the young widow and her babies. The twins had grown up in time to serve in the Second World War. History repeated itself with uncanny relentlessness. John died when his ship was torpedoed on convoy duty, leaving his young widow, Prue, to bring up their twins, and although Peter had survived the war, he had died later in Kenya along with his wife and eldest son . . .

Theo sighed, a silent internal sigh. No, Freddy was no stranger to grief – and already the next generation was taking up the challenge. Hal, John's son, was a naval lieutenant and Mole, Peter's younger boy, was determined to become a submariner . . . and now Fliss was preparing to pack and follow.

‘You were quite happy when Hal's ship went out to the Far East for two years,' he ventured at last. ‘It's much the same, isn't it?'

‘It's not the same at all,' said Freddy sharply. ‘Hal is a man. And he wasn't pregnant.'

Once more Theo was silenced. He heard her words but he felt that there was something much deeper here; something beyond her natural concern for her granddaughter. She glanced at him almost defiantly, chin lifted in the old way, and his great love for her shook his heart and increased his feeling of inadequacy.

‘Say something,' she cried. ‘Don't just sit there.'

‘But what can I say?' he asked helplessly. ‘Hong Kong
is
a long way off. Hal
is
a man and he certainly wasn't pregnant when he went out to Singapore.'

To his horror he saw tears glinting in her eyes. ‘I might die before she comes back,' she muttered. ‘I might never see Fliss's child.'

‘My dear Freddy,' he answered, trying for a lighter tone, ‘this could be true for any of us, even for Susanna or Mole – accidents might happen to any one of us at any time. But why should we be morbid? You are fit and healthy and come from a long-lived family—'

‘I am seventy-seven years old,' interrupted Freddy crossly, rather as if she resented Theo's positive view. ‘Anything could happen.'

‘Another undeniable truth,' agreed Theo, reaching for the teapot. ‘Earthquake, flood, famine. A plague or two . . .'

She glared at him but, as usual, he had cheered her a little by refusing to panic with her. If only she could be certain that Fliss was truly happy, that she had been right to marry Miles.

She took her tea from Theo, managing to return his smile, just as the door which led to the back of the house opened and Fliss came in. She smiled at the two elderly people who waited for her.

‘Sorry I'm late,' she said. ‘It's so beautiful out there I could hardly bear to leave it. I've just been round the spinney.'

The familiarity of the scene before her was both soothing and poignant. Since she'd known that she was expecting a child her emotions had been unreliable, teetering unsteadily between tears and laughter, confidence and terror. The picture of her grandmother and great-uncle sitting opposite each other at the tea table was a comforting one, representing continuity and serenity; yet her contentment at the sight was undermined by the fear that they might not be here when she returned from Hong Kong. She tried hard to control these emotions, mocking herself for childishness, telling herself that she was being pathetic, but still she wished that she need not have had to cope with both the posting and the baby at once.

Uncle Theo was pouring tea for her whilst Grandmother talked gently on the subject of greenfly on the roses. Fliss took a scone and reached for the bramble jelly.

‘I've been spoiled, living so close to home,' she said cheerfully. ‘I'm going to have to write down some of Ellen's recipes to take out with me. I hope I'll be able to buy the ingredients. Isn't it odd to think that in three months' time I shall be shopping in Hong Kong?'

It was later, in the solitude of her room, that Fliss wished that she had not used the words ‘I've just been round the spinney'. She suspected that the significance of them had not been lost on her grandmother and great-uncle. Although she had chattered all through tea about the excitement of going to Hong Kong there had been an air of – of what? Fliss turned her back on the view from the window and, sitting on the window seat, took stock of the little room which had been hers for the last fifteen years. Apart from a few precious things which had gone to the house in Dartmouth, it remained much the same as when she had taken possession of it.

‘You'll want to come and stay sometimes,' Caroline had said, ‘when Miles is away at sea. Home from home. Leave a few things . . .'

Fliss had taken her advice. Anyway, her bits and pieces didn't quite fit into the narrow house in Above Town which Miles had bought when he was first married as a very young officer. His delicate wife had died after only a few years of marriage but he had kept the house, and his personality was stamped firmly upon it. Fliss's Victorian flower prints would have looked incongruous beside his original watercolours and antique prints of naval ports; the small painted chest would have been out of place amongst the expensive reproduction furniture. He had selected his furnishings with care and there was a certain austerity combined with practicality which was faintly daunting. Fliss was used to a more organic style of living. The pieces in the rooms at The Keep had accumulated gradually, each generation adding, replacing, repairing, so that modern and Edwardian jostled with Regency and Victorian, yet all blended together in an entirely natural way.

She stood up and wandered over to the washstand. She had removed the small china pot which had belonged to her mother, and the alabaster box which had once held her father's cufflinks, and taken them with her to Dartmouth but she had left the looking-glass, age-spotted, in its battered mahogany frame. In this frame were stuck some photographs. To begin with she had simply forgotten them, although she had taken the silver-framed studio photograph which showed her father with Jamie standing next to him, her mother with Susanna on her knee, Mole leaning against her and Fliss sitting beside her. It was a charming portrait of a happy, normal little family and now it stood on the mahogany chest of drawers in her bedroom in Dartmouth. There, it did not seem out of place. Yet, for some reason, she had left these other photographs, familiar, comforting, important, stuck in the frame. Jamie was there, hands in pocket, smiling out at her; Susanna astride Fliss's old bicycle, beaming proudly; Kit their cousin, kneeling beside the now long-dead dog, Mrs Pooter, an arm about her furry neck, Mole squinting out at her, a blurred Fox behind him.

Fliss bent to look at the snapshot of her parents at Nairobi's Ngong Racecourse; her father tall, confident, handsome, and her mother with a look which was almost censorious. Fliss bent closer. Did she resemble her mother? That look on her mother's face had kept her and Jamie on their toes. Alison had expected great things of her children, and living up to her expectations had been something of a strain. Fliss was certain that her mother would not sympathise with her present fears. Had she not gone to Kenya with Fliss only seven and Mole barely a year old? Susanna had been born in Africa. Alison had been efficient, calm, competent; had she ever been frightened?

Another photograph caught her attention. It was of her own wedding but not taken by the official photographer; those she kept in the smart album bought for her by Miles. This one had simply been stuck in the frame with the others. Fliss took it from the mahogany frame and studied it closely. It had been taken in the courtyard on the central rectangle of grass. She was holding Mole's arm and they were laughing together. Susanna crouched beside them fiddling with her shoe, her bouquet of sweet peas flung down beside her on the grass. Miles was in the background, smart in his uniform, one arm raised, a finger pointing at some unseen companion. It was what her cousin Kit called his ‘. . . and furthermore . . .' stance.

For a brief moment Fliss was transported back to the June day, two years before; she could almost feel the sun on her back, smell the scent of the roses. The whole family had risen to the occasion, giving of their utmost, determined to make it her happiest day, showing their pride and love in different, special ways. Since Miles was a widower she had decided to keep the whole thing simple and quiet, just family and close friends, and it had worked very well. Susanna had looked so pretty in that strange dark, dusky pink; she'd been thrilled with the bracelet of delicately wrought silver and coral which Miles had given her. Fliss's own dress was made of thick, cream, cotton lace, ankle-length, slender and faintly Victorian in style. She loved it and often wore it to Ladies' Nights and formal parties. Mole, in his best Sunday suit, had given her away and later, the champagne having gone to his head, he'd given a most amusing and rather touching speech without a trace of his stammer. She'd been so proud of him . . .

Fliss turned away from the washstand and sat on the edge of the narrow iron bed, her fingers unconsciously brushing the patchwork quilt, another of her talismans which had not quite fitted into the house at Dartmouth. The quilt was a history of the family, her family. Oh, how could she bear to leave them and go so far away? How could she endure it that she and her baby would miss such vital contact? No Grandmother to give her that private smile of approval, no Uncle Theo with his immense inner strength, no Ellen to cluck with joy and pride, no Fox to tell her that the baby was a proper Chadwick, no Caroline with her good sense nor Kit to think up fantastic names for the newest member of the family. No Aunt Prue with her motherly warmth, no Susanna or Mole, the baby's aunt and uncle. No Hal . . .

She stood up quickly as the knock at the door was followed by the appearance of Caroline. It was years now since Caroline had ceased to be her nanny and become her friend but Fliss smiled at her automatically, assuming the mantle of bright cheerfulness which she had adopted from the moment she'd arrived at The Keep the evening before.

‘Come down to the kitchen for a chat while I do the vegetables for dinner,' suggested Caroline. ‘We're all longing to hear about Hong Kong. It's wonderful about the baby, isn't it? Are you as happy as you look or are you being brave? I should be terrified at the thought of going out to Hong Kong to have my first baby.'

Fliss looked at her quickly. What a fool she'd been to think she could hide anything from Caroline.

‘Have the others guessed?' she asked anxiously. ‘I don't want anyone worrying about me.'

Caroline reached out and gave Fliss's arm an affectionate little squeeze.

‘You're probably overdoing it,' she admitted gently. ‘Just a touch. We can't
quite
believe that you're so delighted at the idea of being so far away from us. We have our pride, you know. We want to think that you'll miss us. Just a bit.'

‘Of course I shall miss you,' said Fliss wretchedly. ‘Of course I'm frightened – but what can I do? I don't want Grandmother worrying. It's not so much the idea of going to Hong Kong – that's quite exciting – it's just the thought of having my baby so far from home. And what if something should happen to any of you while I'm there . . .'

She turned away, staring out of the window, unwilling to let Caroline see the tears in her eyes.

Caroline watched her compassionately. She had come to The Keep soon after the arrival of the children when it had been decided that help was needed. Mrs Chadwick had been sixty-two, Ellen sixty, Fox sixty-five; an old household for such young children. So Caroline, had come to look after them and never, in all her jobs as a nanny, had she been so happy as at The Keep. It had been a mutual decision that, when the children no longer needed her care, she should stay on, gradually shouldering the tasks which for fifty years had belonged to Ellen and Fox. Ellen was still fairly active but crippling arthritis prevented Fox from carrying out most of his former duties. There was no question, however, that he should be pensioned off. He remained in his quarters in the gatehouse, pottering about at smaller tasks, content to let the responsibility pass to Caroline and young Josh, who came up from the village to do the heavy work about the grounds.