Holding On (38 page)

For a brief moment Maria aligned herself with Hal but remembered in time that it was at her own wish that her mother had confronted him.

‘He always gets very defensive about anything to do with his damned family,' she observed, reaching for her handbag which hung by its strap on the chair back and rooting in it for her cigarettes. Elaine watched her disapprovingly.

‘I wish you hadn't started up that awful habit again, darling,' she complained. ‘You were so good giving it up as soon as you were pregnant. It's such a pity to start all over again.'

Maria lit her cigarette, pulled the ashtray closer and stared narrowly at her mother through the plume of smoke.

‘It helps me relax,' she said shortly.

‘Well, I can quite understand that.' Her mother assumed a self-righteous expression. ‘I think you have quite enough to cope with, I must say. Thank God, at least, that the wretched dog has gone.'

Maria cast a quick look through the open door to the playroom. The boys were murmuring together, immersed in their game, oblivious of their elders.

‘Don't speak too loud,' warned Maria. ‘Jolyon really misses him. Edward's a bit too young to understand but it's been really tricky explaining it to Jolyon.'

‘Well, it's not as if you had him put down or anything.' Elaine shrugged the matter aside. ‘He's still in the family. Jolyon will see him again before too long.'

‘Of course it's another good mark for The Keep,' said Maria bitterly, tapping ash from her cigarette. ‘Naturally, the wonderful Caroline can deal with him. Apparently Hal had a brilliant weekend. Fliss was there for the twins' birthday and a good time was had by all.'

There was a silence. Elaine studied her daughter covertly, making up her mind to speak.

‘Do you really want to live there, darling?' Her voice now was soothing and gentle, and Maria visibly relaxed a little. ‘We've simply got to decide what's best for you, haven't we? We can't let you be swept along by the Chadwicks. You have your own life to consider. If The Keep is to be left under those conditions perhaps we should have a rethink. Hal tells me that even if he overturned the Trust it wouldn't help either of you. Apparently it was Fliss's father who was the eldest and she would then inherit. Really,' she shook her head, ‘I've never heard of such a stupid thing.'

‘Well, I can tell you one thing. I'm not being an hotel-keeper. If Hal thinks I'm going to move in and be an unpaid housekeeper to his family he can think again.'

Elaine took a deep breath. Her eyes were thoughtful as she weighed the facts and looked ahead to the future.

‘I have to say that your father and I would be most unhappy to think that all our . . .' She hesitated a little as she fumbled for the right expression and then changed direction slightly. ‘You know that everything we have is yours, Maria. We don't want it to disappear into some melting pot for the benefit of the Chadwick family,' she said at last.

Maria stared at her. ‘Nor do I,' she said with a certain amount of aggression. ‘No way.'

‘It might prove difficult to prevent it.' Her mother, now certain that Maria was in full sympathy with her own views, sighed deeply and then smiled, as though recalling happier times. ‘Oh dear. I can't help wishing that you'd married Adam Wishart after all. He's done so well, junior partner now, you know, and Daddy's all set to pass the practice over to him when the time comes.'

‘Yes, well that's fine,' said Maria crossly, ‘but you weren't quite so keen at the time, were you? Not when he was just starting his pupillage and neither of you were too sure how he might turn out. If I remember you were terribly pleased when Hal turned up on the scene and put Adam's nose out of joint.'

Elaine was silenced, biting her lip, cudgelling her brain. It was quite true that she and Frank had considered Hal to be the better proposition at the time and had done everything they could to encourage him.

‘I can't deny it,' she said regretfully at last, ‘but I think we misjudged Adam. And you did rather fall for Hal, darling, you must admit. It wasn't as if we had to force you into it.'

‘I know, I know,' said Maria impatiently. ‘Don't rub it in. The trouble was that Hal was so much more sophisticated. He made Adam look so . . . well,
raw
beside him. He was that much older, too.'

‘At that age it makes such a difference,' agreed Elaine. ‘Adam is only a year older than you, isn't he? You were both still children but at twenty-six Hal was already an adult, taking command, making decisions. The Navy does rather grow them up quick. Now, of course, there's nothing to choose between them, is there? I thought you were getting on so well together when you were home last. Quite like old times.'

There was another silence whilst Maria remembered the dinner party at her parents' home with Adam Wishart seated beside her. She'd enjoyed flirting with him despite – or perhaps because of – the presence of his wife further down the table. Of course, Hal had been away . . .

‘He was saying that he's never got over you.' Her mother was watching her. ‘His marriage isn't happy, you know. She's a rather trying girl, very prickly, I always find, and not particularly friendly. I think it's true that he still has a
tendresse
for you so it probably accounts for her attitude towards us, although when I think how much your father has done for Adam I think she could be a little more grateful.'

‘Well, I don't see that it's going to do any of us much good.' Maria stubbed out her cigarette and swallowed the last of her coffee. ‘It doesn't really get us any further, does it?'

‘If The Keep can never be yours and Hal's then I don't see much point in your living in it. I agree with you there.' Elaine decided to make her point. ‘Why should you run a family hotel? On the other hand, it might be sensible for you and Hal to buy a house instead of renting one. It would be wise to have something behind you of your own, if you see what I mean?'

Mother and daughter looked at one another for a long moment.

‘You mean in case . . .?' Maria hesitated.

‘Things can change,' said Elaine, deliberately vague, ‘when children grow up. I've seen it happen so many times. One should always be prepared.'

‘Perhaps you're right,' said Maria thoughtfully.

‘Think it over,' advised her mother, finishing her coffee. ‘How about a little jaunt into Winchester?' She laughed a little, as if she were about to make a joke. ‘Perhaps we should have a look in at some of the estate agents so as to give us an idea of what's on the market. Just for a bit of fun, of course.'

‘Yes,' said Maria slowly. ‘Why not? I think that's a brilliant idea. Come on. Let's get the boys organised and we might just make it in time for some lunch.'

 

The studio was in its usual pleasant state of busy, friendly activity. Gus was hunched in a chair talking to a client on the telephone about a brochure; Susanna was standing at the light box ‘spotting' negatives. They both looked up as Mole came in. Gus raised a hand, gesturing at the telephone, making faces at him. Susanna laid down her brush, carefully put the lid back on the spotting medium and beamed at him cheerfully.

‘We'll go up and have coffee,' she told him. ‘Gus has a client coming so we'll be in the way down here. He's got a mug just made so he's OK.'

Mole followed his sister up the stairs to the flat. He looked about appreciatively as she disappeared behind the rattan screens to fill the kettle. All of their earnings had gone into the barn out at Dartington and the flat had remained in much the same state for the three and a half years that they'd been married.

‘You'll miss this,' he told her, bending to read the title on the musical score lying on the low table beside one of the saggy armchairs. ‘You won't know what to do with all that space at the barn.' He saw that the fire had been kept in – probably in his honour – which accounted for the warm cosiness. ‘Are you allowed to sublet it?' It was rather horrid to think of a stranger in this homely place amongst their things, although their special belongings would be going off to the barn with them. Even so . . .

‘Something rather good has happened.' Susanna's voice floated out above the tall screens. ‘Well, it's partly good and partly rather sad, actually. Janie's split up with her boyfriend and she's feeling pretty miserable so I've suggested to Gus that she comes down here and works with him when the baby comes. I shall still be able to do a bit but it won't be terribly easy once the baby's mobile. There are too many dangerous things in the studio to be able to have a baby about.'

‘It would be nicer if it's someone you know,' agreed Mole, wandering back towards the kitchen end of the big room. ‘Is she experienced enough to be useful?'

‘Oh, yes. We trained together and she's often been down to stay and given us a hand.' Susanna appeared with the coffee and put the tray down on the gate-leg table under the window. ‘Then she could live here, you see. It would be perfect. I've got to check with the landlord but I don't think there will be a problem. Poor old Janie. She's really fed up.'

Mole sat in one of the chairs at the table and looked down into the courtyard. It was still very cold but the wallflower plants in their wooden tub were green and flourishing, and the yellow flowers of the winter jasmine made a cheerful splash of colour against the grey stone walls. He felt a sudden terrible sadness at the thought of this little haven being passed even to Janie. Susanna and Gus had made it so much their own, imprinted their personalities so strongly upon it. Behind the courtyard walls there was the same feeling of safety which defined The Keep. The Barn, open to the surrounding countryside, seemed vulnerable compared to this small haven. He would have been happier knowing that Susanna was safe here when the baby came, assuming that she survived the ordeal. The old childish terror gripped him; the fear that something might happen to her, this very dear companion of his youth . . .

She was watching him, gauging his mood, guessing at his thoughts, aware of his fears. So it had been through all their lives together. She instinctively knew of his ongoing nightmare vision: sudden death striking out of a bright day; the utter finality of such a loss; the frustrating impotence of being unable to prevent it.

‘I can't tell you how I long for the barn,' she said, ladling sugar into her coffee. ‘This has been perfect until now but it will be heaven to have more space and I'm looking forward to being all on one level. I'm so clumsy going up and down steps, you know, and it will be worse as I get bigger. And then again, the barn will be so much safer for a baby.'

He looked at her quickly. ‘Will it?'

‘Oh yes. Imagine this place when he starts crawling. Open fire. Screens to be pulled down. Stone steps outside the door and the stairs down to the studio. I shouldn't have a moment's peace.'

She saw that he was taking it all in. ‘But the barn is very open,' he ventured at last. ‘Won't you miss the privacy of the courtyard?'

Susanna chuckled. ‘If you call it privacy when every client walks through it, not to mention passing friends. Gus is going to make me a courtyard at the barn, at the L-shaped end where we've already got the two walls for it. It's a really good idea and it'll be properly private. I'll show you his drawing for it. It'll be just as good as this when we've finished it.'

‘That's OK then.' Mole sipped his coffee, wondering whether it had been worse worrying about Fliss so far away in Hong Kong or having Susanna close at hand. He'd been almost relieved that Miles had been so against having any more children. Each time he saw the twinnies or Hal's boys his heart contracted at their weakness and vulnerability and although he adored these small people he was quite glad to see them growing stronger and larger. He had a suspicion that Susanna and Gus might decide to have a huge family . . .

‘It would be nice to have Janie here,' she was saying idly – but her eyes were bright.

He grinned at her, his fears receding somewhat, well aware of the implications. ‘Very nice,' he agreed amiably. ‘Sweet girl, Janie.'

‘She's still got a thing about you,' pronounced Susanna.

‘So you say.' Mole was unmoved by this recurring theme. ‘And I've got a thing about her. A thing that tells me that we're not cut out to be man and wife.'

‘You're a misogynist,' she grumbled.

‘I certainly am not,' he protested indignantly. ‘I love women. Some more than others. I simply don't want to be committed to just one of them, that's all.'

‘You sound like Sin,' she observed.

‘Do I?' He poured himself some more coffee and refilled her cup. ‘Well, she and Kit are agreed on that subject, anyway.'

She was silent, wondering as she often did, whether he had a private passion for Sin, hoping he hadn't. She suspected that he spoke the truth when he talked about commitment, knowing how hard it would be for someone with his ingrained fears to leave a deeply loved wife and children to fend for themselves whilst he was at sea.

‘How's Grandmother today?' She changed the subject and saw his brow contract.

‘Not too good. She barely leaves her bed these days.'

Susanna thought: At least he has had time to prepare himself for her death and she is very old. He will be able to cope with this.

She said aloud, ‘Perhaps I'll come back with you this afternoon and see her. We'll stop off at the barn and I'll show you the latest progress. You're staying to lunch, aren't you?'

‘I'd like that,' he said. ‘Yes, come back for tea and I'll run you back in to Totnes later. That's if Gus can spare you for that long.'