Part of the Furniture (20 page)

‘Don’t want to.’ She kicked off her shoes.

‘Come on, old girl.’

‘Do—not—call—me—old!’

‘Oh, all right. Come on, let me help you get out of that. Hold your arms up.’ Robert helped Priscilla out of her clothes, found her nightdress, lowered it over her head, held the glass, handed the aspirin, watched her swallow. ‘Good girl, there we are, into bed with you.’ He swung her legs up from the floor, arranged the pillows under her head, pulled up the covers, tucked her in. ‘Comfy now?’

‘Bye-bye romance.’

‘Yes.’

‘Leave the light on.’ Priscilla lay with her eyes closed.

‘All right now?’

‘Where’s Mosley? Mosley! Mosley!’

‘He’s here.’

‘My treasure.’ Mosley clambered onto the bed to rest his chin across Priscilla’s ankles.

‘How will you get home?’ She opened an eye.

‘I’ll walk.’ He stood looking down at her. ‘I’ll telephone tomorrow.’

‘Anthony and Hugh—those boys—’

‘Yes?’

‘Would they have noticed I was tiddly?’

‘No, Priss, of course not.’

‘That’s all right, then—goodnight.’ She snuggled into the pillows, turned away.

Robert watched her fall asleep, then left the room, trotted down the stairs and let himself out into the moonlight. He would walk home by the cliff path, sniff the sea, remember walking it with Emma, with Evelyn, with Priss and Priss’s husband, who had been a nice fellow but a bit of a boozer. Robert crossed Priscilla’s garden and set off across the fields. When one was young and making love with Priscilla, one would not have imagined putting her to bed drunk and solo in middle age. Robert chuckled as he walked. He had had a long day, had been tired, but now, getting a second wind, he felt fresh, good for a swim in the cove before bed. He quickened his pace, striding across the fields towards the cliffs.

The night was still; it was hard to imagine war raging in Russia and the Middle East, submarines lurking in this exquisite sea, men and women dying over there out of sight. It was so beautiful here. He reached the cliff path and strode along its springy turf. If he was lucky he would see a fox going about its business, and, ah, an owl on silent patrol. How Evelyn had loved all this; one should be grateful to Priscilla for this excursion. Robert walked on, sniffing the salt air, listening to the suck and roll of the sea at the foot of the cliffs.

Reaching the cove, he paused to look down. The path could be tricky. There was someone down there, a figure walking by the stream as it fanned out across the little beach, a naked girl, Juno.

Robert squatted back on his haunches. What to do?

She looked white in the moonlight and her hair very dark, as was the pubic shadow between her legs. She walked across the sand to the sea, waded out, dived, swam slowly and luxuriously into the moon’s path.

Robert watched. He could not join her; she was naked.

Was she safe? She was swimming far out. Should he stand up? Shout? ‘Come back, do not swim so far, there is a current which is dangerous.’ He had told her all that when he showed her the cove the day he told her she was pregnant. Had she taken it in? He watched the lazy movements of her legs and arms in the clear water, her hair trailing like seaweed. He had been aware that she bathed, but had not taken in that she bathed alone. Fool! He should have warned her. Ah, she was turning back, floating now on her back, looking up at the cliffs. If he moved she might see him, be startled. He froze.

Reaching the shallows she waded ashore, stood squeezing water out of her hair, brushing drops off her arms and legs, smoothing her curved stomach, walking slowly up the beach. He imagined her footprints. In the shade of the cliff, she pulled on knickers, trousers and shirt while he, letting breath out in a long sigh, watched.

He had feared for her swimming alone in the night. What if she had been attacked by cramp? Could he have reached her?

She had her clothes on and was unhitching Millicent. She had ridden here. She put her foot in the stirrup, swung onto Millicent’s back, disappeared, the pony’s hoofbeats diminishing.

Robert felt a fool; he could not tell her he had watched her swim naked. He could not warn her without giving himself away, a voyeur.

She had looked beautiful, and he had lost his wish to swim. He felt very tired and in need of his bed. But reaching the sand after scrambling down the cliff he changed his mind. The line of Juno’s footprints led to the water; soon they would be gone. Robert stripped off his clothes.

Juno’s feet were narrow, he observed. The weight of the child made her heels imprint the sand firmly, the indentations from her toes were slight. Adjusting his stride, Robert paced towards the water and, reaching it, waded in as he had watched the girl do. Waist-deep he dived, as she had done, and swam out.

Floating on his back, he looked up at the cliff from which minutes before he had watched. Resting in the water, he tried to empty his mind of immediate thoughts and all memories past, to let the sea hold him, rock him, soothe him, while he persuaded himself to blank out. But his head was crowded by the minutiae of the day, farm noises, petty irritations, small pleasures, the mass of detail which composed the hay harvest. The day had gone smoothly. Each person had fulfilled his or her task, the young men from London had been willing and helpful; only Priscilla had struck a jarring note. He should not have plied her with rough cider and made her so drunk she had to be put to bed. Floating in the moonlight, Robert remembered there had been another occasion, a similar scene when, discovering her normally ‘steady as a rock’ husband had been unfaithful, she had come to him for consolation. He had plied her with whisky, taken her home and put her to bed, but on that occasion, rather drunk himself, he had joined her in the bed. There had been a brief sexual conjunction.

Out loud Robert said, ‘Whew! Poor old Priss!’ For Priscilla must, he hazily recollected the distant incident, have mentioned it to Ann. Why else would Ann recall a turkey eaten? In spite of himself, Robert chuckled. Juno had looked puzzled. One would not forget an encounter with Juno. This thought struck Robert a stunning blow. He felt suddenly cold and, needing to pee, emptied his bladder, staining the sea, then swam violently out from the land, away from his thoughts until, exhausted, he paddled back to regain the beach where the tide had come up and obliterated all but the last of Juno’s footprints. Robert trod on it hard and, pulling on his trousers and shirt, closed his mind with a resolute snap. But that night in his sleep he ground his teeth and woke, bathed in sweat and shouting for help, as he dreamed of drowning.

J
UNO LEANED OVER THE
low wall and, reaching with a stick, scratched Eleanor’s flank. The stick made a rustling noise as it travelled among the bristles. ‘That’s nice, that’s luxury.’

Eleanor’s amber eye glinted through stiff lashes. Ten piglets nestled along her flank, snouts pointing towards her teats, temporarily sated, asleep.

‘She must like you to allow you to do that.’ She had not heard Robert’s soft-footed approach.

‘I like her.’ Juno continued the rhythmic scratching.

‘You will send her into a trance.’ The sow had closed her visible eye.

‘I admire her.’

‘She is indeed an admirable sow. This is her third litter.’

‘I shall be content with one,’ Juno murmured.

Robert cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that.’ Not since that morning on the cliff had they discussed Juno’s child. ‘If you will allow me,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ Her glance was cautious.

‘I would like you to see a specialist just to make sure that everything is all right with you and your baby. I would, of course, arrange it and pay.’ Robert’s embarrassment was obvious.

‘But Ann, Ann has told me what to expect.’ Juno stopped scratching. Eleanor opened an eye, jerked a trotter.

Ann, one could not leave all responsibility to Ann. Robert had leaned his elbows on the wall. He straightened up and looked down at the girl. ‘I would be happier, it would set my mind at rest,’ he insisted more loudly than he intended.

Juno thought, what about my mind? She did not speak.

‘I do not want you taking any risks.’ Robert forced himself on.

‘I should have thought they had already been taken.’ Juno’s tone was dry.

Robert said, ‘I am thinking of future risks.’

‘I bet she would make a good poker player.’ Juno resumed scratching the pig. ‘That eye gives nothing away.’

‘Nor does yours.’ Deflected, Robert grinned. ‘So you play poker?’

‘I learned.’ (Funnily enough, she had always won; Jonty had complained, ‘You deal her the best cards,’ and Francis said, ‘I believe she cheats.’ They had lost interest, tried to teach her a complicated German game called Scat.)

‘And now you should learn to look after yourself,’ Robert laboured on.

‘I do, I am healthy.’

‘All the same, I would like you checked by a specialist,’ Robert insisted.

‘Ann has taken me to your doctor.’

‘For the child’s sake. I was thinking of a London man.’

‘London?’ Juno switched her eyes from Eleanor, looked at Robert. ‘Why London?’

‘As I say, to make absolutely sure all is well.’

‘I would much rather not.’

‘Tell me why.’

‘I am happy as things are.’

Robert felt frustrated. ‘There are things he would tell you.’

‘Such as?’

‘To ease up, for one thing. You are doing far too much, I know you are. I have asked John’s wife, Lily, and she is going to help until you have had your child and are ready to work again.’

‘You have planned this behind my back.’

‘If that’s how you want to put it, yes.’

‘But I so love what I am doing.’ Juno stopped scratching, Eleanor grunted.

‘Lifting weights isn’t good for you, nor is so much standing about. You can still come and scratch the pigs. I know what I am talking about.’

‘The doctor says I am fine,’ Juno protested.

‘I dare say he does, but I am not having you carrying heavy buckets any more.’ Robert was irritated. ‘From now on you take a leaf from Eleanor’s book, relax, rest.’

‘I shall be bored stiff.’ (And have too much time to think.)

‘You won’t. The house is full of books, you can read, lie in the sun, swim, build up your strength.’

‘Hear that, Eleanor?’ Juno poked the pig. Her grunt woke the piglets who, squealing, hustled towards her teats, scrambling over one another for the best position. ‘I take your point; I am in for a busy time if Eleanor is anything to go by,’ Juno said dryly.

‘Juno.’ He did not often use her name. ‘Juno, listen, I would still like you to see a specialist. It would be sensible, this is a first baby. Be on the safe side.’

‘Did Emma see a specialist?’

‘Actually, no. Things were different then, she didn’t.’

‘So?’

‘Juno, you could go to London. I would make you an appointment. Stay a couple of nights, more if you like, stay with your aunt.’ He must persuade her.

‘My aunt?’ Juno flinched.

‘It would be natural, but stay in an hotel if you’d rather. I only suggested your aunt because she is your family. You could see the specialist, do some shopping, buy things for the baby. You don’t need coupons for baby clothes, Ann has told me—’ Seeing Juno’s expression, Robert paused. ‘What have I said that’s wrong?’

‘The aunt.’

‘Aunt?’

‘She doesn’t know I am pregnant.’

‘Ah.’

‘Nobody does.’

‘Your mother?’

‘Haven’t told her either.’

‘I see.’ Robert assimilated. ‘So they are in for a surprise?’

Juno said, ‘I favour the
fait accompli
.’

‘Yes,’ Robert said, ‘yes, I see your point. I had not realized, not quite, had not thought—’ had been too shy, too fearful of imposing on the girl’s privacy to ask. Fearful, too. ‘So,’ he said, ‘so there we are.’

Juno said, ‘Yes,’ and guided her stick to a point behind Eleanor’s ear. ‘Only Copplestone is aware.’ She traced a circle among Eleanor’s bristles. Robert was probably smiling. She knew better than to ask why he was so kind; he would answer, ‘Because you were a friend of Evelyn’s’, shrug his shoulders, and she would not have anything adequate to say for it was too late now to confess how brief the acquaintance had been.

F
INDING VIOLET WAS NOT
difficult. The telephone directory yielded her address; she was the only Violet among the Marlowes. In London for a few days, Priscilla yielded to curiosity and listened to the telephone ring in Violet’s house. It was answered abruptly, ‘Violet Marlowe here, who is it?’ The tone brooked no nonsense.

‘This is Priscilla Villiers. You would perhaps remember me as Priss Lugard? I was briefly in your team when you were captain of hockey, but you may not remember.’ Already Priscilla regretted her impulse; ringing Violet Marlowe would amount to prying in Robert’s book. She could hear him, ‘You’ve always been a Nosey Parker, what business is it of yours?’

‘Hockey? Lugard? Knock knees, of course I remember you. What do you want?’

‘It was a long time ago—’

‘I seem to remember I dropped you.’

‘It was a big disappointment—’

‘I had to consider the team.’

‘Of course you did.’

‘Well, what can I do for you now? I hardly imagine you rang up to discuss hockey.’ Violet chuckled.

‘I rang up because—well, because your name came up when I was talking to your niece. I remembered you from school and wondered what had become of you—’

‘Did you say niece?’ Violet interrupted.

‘Yes.’

‘Juno Marlowe? You sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve spoken to her?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you know where she is?’

‘Of course.’

‘No of course about it, all I know is that she is working on some farm in the West Country, or so she says.’

‘She is working for a neighbour of mine, Robert Copplestone.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He farms.’

‘Would she be working on a farm if he didn’t?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Do you have the address?’

‘Of course, he is a neighbour. He’s—’