Postcards from the Past (6 page)

‘But, darling,’ his mother began, half-laughingly so that he would see that he was being rather silly – Ed was always reasonable, and malleable – ‘Tris has to have a bedroom, doesn’t he? You can have some of the things in your own room and some can go down to the drawing-room.’

‘No,’ said Ed again.

It was the room itself, not just the things in it, that mattered. It was there that he and his father talked, read, painted; his shade was there, looking up from the desk, smiling a welcome; standing beside the table where the miniatures sat in their little glass-covered tray, pointing to each one in turn; reaching down a book from the bookshelf: ‘So what shall it be today?’

‘You can’t do that,’ said twelve-year-old Ed. ‘It’s Father’s room as well as mine. It’s all that’s left of him.’

He was tall for twelve, and his resemblance to his father was startling, but he was unaware of the effect he had on his mother. She felt disloyal, belittled, frightened. He could have no idea of the fear that made her heart beat fast as she contemplated the battles yet to come. Still, she was in love and she would fight for her happiness as Ed would for his father’s study.

‘Then,’ she said coldly, ‘Tris will have to share your bedroom.’

She waited for the cry of protest, capitulation – even Billa was silent – but Ed stared back at her.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll share.’

‘How can you?’ Billa demanded later. ‘How can you bear to share with him?’

Ed was silent. During that meeting, once the two adults had left the children to ‘get to know each other’, Tris’s well-behaved mask had slipped a little.

‘Have you got a bike?’ he asked Ed.

Ed nodded. His Raleigh bike – drop handlebars, three-speed – was still very new, a present for his birthday a few weeks earlier.

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘but I’m tall for my age so it’ll be a bit big for you.’

‘I’ll manage,’ said Tris cockily. His light, frosty eyes challenged Ed: summed him up. ‘Where is it?’

Silently Ed led him to the garage his father had converted out of old outbuildings. Billa followed them, glancing back towards the house and wondering if they were being watched. The wooden doors were open. Mother’s Morris Minor Traveller was inside and Andrew’s new Ford Consul drop-head coupé stood behind it. It looked rather flashy and self-conscious beside the station wagon. Carefully Ed wheeled his bicycle out and stood holding it, feeling awkward, not knowing quite what to say. Tris, though wiry and tough, was not very tall and the bike looked much too big for him. Nevertheless he took hold of the handlebars, pushing it further out on to the driveway. Ed let go reluctantly and watched as Tris put his foot experimentally on the pedal and then suddenly pushed off. He didn’t attempt to sit in the saddle, he simply pedalled, hell for leather down the drive, and out into the lane.

Ed and Billa raced after him. When they reached the lane they saw him still pedalling ahead of them and as he reached the bend they saw him jump from the bike, leaving it to wobble and crash, wheels spinning. Ed cried out in dismay, running to pick it up, checking for scratches and damage, whilst Tris stood watching, grinning from the verge.

‘Why did you do that?’ cried Billa in a rage. ‘Why do such a stupid thing?’

‘Do what?’ asked Tris. ‘I fell off. You shouldn’t have dared me to ride it. It’s too big for me.’

They both stared at him in silent amazement.

‘Dare you?’ repeated Ed at last. ‘We did no such thing. I warned you not to ride it.’

‘Prove it,’ said Tris. ‘I’ve hurt my ankle now. Dad said you’d look out for me, seeing that I’m the youngest. He won’t be very pleased.’

He turned and began to limp back towards the old butter factory.

‘But he didn’t hurt himself,’ said Ed apprehensively, watching him go, holding his bike. ‘He jumped clear. We saw him. He wasn’t limping then.’

‘No,’ said Billa. ‘But he is now, the little tick. Come on. Is it OK?’

Ed checked his bike again. There was no real damage apart from a few scratches to the front mudguard. He looked at them distressed, running his finger over them, and then wheeled the bike back along the lane, hurrying to keep up with Billa. When they came into the kitchen they saw Tris perching on the edge of the big slate table, holding an apple, whilst their mother massaged his ankle and his father turned to stare at them with those same light, frosty eyes. He had a lean, tough build and there was an almost menacing air in his quick movement.

‘Not very clever,’ he said sharply. ‘Daring a much smaller boy to ride a bicycle several times too big for him.’

‘Oh, don’t blame Ed, Dad,’ Tris said. ‘I needn’t have done it. And I’m fine. Really I am.’ And he took a big bite out of the apple and smiled sweetly at Ed and Billa over his bulging cheek.

‘That’s a good boy,’ said their mother, putting Tris’s sock back on to his thin, narrow white foot, and touching his russet hair lightly. ‘No harm done.’ She looked mortified, hardly glancing at Ed or Billa, her lips pressed tightly together as she turned away.

‘Well,’ said Andrew, ‘boys will be boys, I suppose. And we ought to be getting back to Bristol. How about a cup of tea before we set off, Elinor?’

‘How can you possibly share a room with him?’ demanded Billa later. ‘How can you bear it? Thank God I’m a girl and he can’t share with me.’

‘It’s better than him having Daddy’s study,’ said Ed. ‘I’ll manage somehow.’

*   *   *

Now, as he looks around him at his father’s beloved possessions, Ed’s mind is still so full of that scene that he is hardly surprised when Billa opens the door with some letters in her hand and says: ‘The post has just come and, guess what, there’s a postcard from Tris.’

He stares at the card, at the cyclist in his blue jersey and shorts bending over the drop handlebars, and his stomach gives a little lurch.

‘But what does he want?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know,’ she answers, watching him. ‘I’ve made coffee. Come down and have some.’

Following her out on to the landing and down the stairs, Ed is filled with apprehension.

‘But why should he care how we are? Why should he want to see us?’

She has put the coffee on the old carved sea chest they use as a table, in front of the hall fire. Bear comes padding out of the kitchen to see if there’s anything going and Billa gives him a small tasty treat, which he crunches with evident enjoyment. He licks his chops and settles down at some distance from the fire.

‘I was remembering,’ Ed says, ‘just then, when you came in. I was remembering the first time we ever met him and how he rode my bike.’ He holds out the card. ‘Do you remember?’

‘I remember everything,’ says Billa bitterly, ‘though I hadn’t made the connection with your bike. That was the first sortie, wasn’t it, and Mother was always on his side. She was so obsessed with Andrew that Tris could do no wrong. It was so bloody unfair.’

Ed watches her. Her sudden anger reminds him of those miserable days and how their lives were turned upside down.

‘Thank God we were away at school,’ he says. He puts the postcard down on the chest and they both read it.

‘A blast from the past. How are you doing? Perhaps I should pay a visit and find out!’

‘We can simply refuse,’ says Ed. ‘If he phones we’ll just say no.’

‘
If
he phones,’ says Billa. ‘He might just turn up.’

‘Even so,’ says Ed, ‘we don’t have to ask him in. He has no rights here.’

Billa is silent for so long that he glances up at her; her face is preoccupied, almost grim.

‘What?’ he says.

She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Drink your coffee.’

‘I expect it’s just one of his silly teases,’ says Ed hopefully, but he can see that Billa doesn’t accept this suggestion. He thinks of how his mother’s second marriage altered his life; of how much he missed his father, and of how he began to fear change; to cling to what was safe and known. He thinks of the odd longing to write and illustrate books for children – magical, enchanting books – which he has always denied for fear of being perceived as inadequate; a laughing stock. He drinks his coffee, which tastes as bitter as missed opportunities, and an old, familiar anxiety settles around him, chill as a damp cloak.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sir Alec’s house is a warren of small rooms and unexpected staircases. He comes to meet Tilly at the front door, which opens directly on to the precipitous village street, and takes her into the first of the small rooms. An elderly yellow Labrador rises creakily from a beanbag to greet her and she stops to smooth the broad head and murmur to him. His tail wags rhythmically, gratefully, and Sir Alec smiles approvingly.

‘I see that you speak dog,’ he says. ‘That’s splendid. Poor Hercules loves to have visitors. He misses my wife dreadfully.’

Tilly has already been briefed.

‘Sir Alec’s wife died quite suddenly last year,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ve already been to see him since he’s just down in the village and he’s an absolute duck in a right old mess, despite the fact that he has a cleaner who goes in twice a week. Remember that you’re there simply to set up a database for all his contacts. His wife used to do the Christmas card list and it came as a terrible shock to him so he wants to mechanize the addressing system. You’re not there to tidy up, Tilly. The database will take ages as it is. He’s got hundreds of friends all over the world and he stays in touch with all of them.’

When Sir Alec leads her through into his study Tilly takes a breath: it is almost as untidy as Billa’s office. There are piles of newspapers, towers of books, heaps of letters.

‘I know,’ he says, glancing at her apprehensively, pulling a humorous face. ‘Pretty chaotic, isn’t it? Shall we manage, d’you think?’

‘Of course we shall manage,’ she replies warmly. ‘And look at that view.’

The long sash window looks out across the uneven, grey-slate roofscape of the village to the coast. Beyond the cliffs, curving away to the west, the sea surges in, strong and muscular, smashing itself against the steep granite walls and pinnacles of rock. A fishing boat, plunging in the swell, chugs on its course for Padstow with a cloud of seagulls screaming in its wake.

‘It’s glorious, isn’t it?’ He comes to stand beside her at the window. ‘Very distracting when I’m trying to work.’

He looks at her. Tilly sees they are much the same height but his erect military bearing makes him seem taller, gives him a presence, and his eyes are friendly.

‘Sarah was rather shocked by the state of the room. She was very polite but I could tell. She said I might find it easier if I were more organized.’

Tilly gives a snort of amusement. ‘I do rather see her point.’

‘It comes of having secretaries, d’you see? I’ve been spoiled. Always someone keeping you up to the mark, reminding you, tidying up after you. And Rose, bless her, was wonderful.’ He sighs, not self-pityingly, just in remembrance of things past. ‘Do you know our curate, Clem Pardoe?’

Tilly is taken aback by this apparent change of subject. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Ah, splendid fellow, Clem. Wonderful with Rose at the end. He still comes to see me just to keep me on my toes. Or perhaps I should say on my knees. It was he who showed me your advertisement. He used to be in IT in London, d’you see? “This is what you need,” he said. “Phone them up and make an appointment.” So I did.’

‘Well, let’s make a start,’ says Tilly, turning away from the window and bracing herself at the prospect before her. ‘Sarah tells me you have a very big address book.’

He chuckles. ‘We lived abroad for most of our lives. Made lots of friends and I like to stay in touch.’

‘We did, too,’ says Tilly. ‘Still do. My father’s a mining engineer. He and Mum are in Canada.’

‘I expect you miss them.’

‘Yes, but I’m used to it. I was at school here and I’ve got lots of friends in Cornwall.’

‘Like Sarah? She said that you were at school together.’

‘Yes, although actually it was her sister that was my best friend. Sarah’s older than I am but she always looked out for me and I often went home with them for exeats if it was too far to travel for Mum just for a weekend.’

‘And where do you live now?’

‘I’m staying with my godfather, Dominic Blake. He was my father’s boss for a while down at Camborne and he’s putting me up until I find another job.’

‘Isn’t this your job?’

‘It’s one of them. We’ve got a bit of a way to go yet before it’s up and running properly.’ She makes a little face. ‘Perhaps it’s a bit ambitious to think that it might work at all.’

‘“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, Or what’s a heaven for?”’ exclaims Sir Alec.

Tilly stares at him. ‘Sorry?’

He smiles. ‘Browning,’ he says. ‘Nobody reads him nowadays. Never mind. Let’s get down to work.’

*   *   *

‘He told me all about the curate and then quoted Browning,’ Tilly says to Sarah later. ‘I utterly love him.’

Sarah rolls her eyes. ‘And talking of the curate,’ she says, ‘I’ve had a phone call from the convent.’

‘The convent?’

‘Chi-Meur. Well, it’s a retreat house now but there is still an Anglican community of Sisters, just three or four of them, but hanging on. Anyway, the retreat house needs someone to organize a new website.’

‘It seems a bit odd. A website for a convent.’

‘It’s not for the convent. It’s for the retreat house, to encourage people to come and stay. You’d have to talk to them to find out exactly what they’d need and what they offer. Quiet days, courses, that kind of thing. The administrator is secular so you won’t actually be dealing with the nuns. I can do it, if you like.’

‘No.’ Tilly shakes her head. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m good with the nutters.’

Sarah is best with small businesses: builders in a muddle with their filing, decorators confused with their accounting, garages needing a system to deal with their VAT returns. She is efficient, firm and – though she fears that Tilly will be inclined to waste time with their clients – Sarah knows that Tilly is the best one to deal with people like Mrs Probus and Sir Alec. They make a good team.

‘You shouldn’t call them nutters,’ says Sarah reprovingly.