The Prodigal Wife (15 page)

It was Hal and Prue who drove into Totnes to meet the train.

‘Does she want us to wait lunch for her?' Fliss had asked when Hal told them at breakfast that Maria would be arriving at one twenty-five.

There was a brittle sharpness about the question, as if it weren't really anything to do with her, that this was Hal's guest and a rather tiresome one at that, and Lizzie glanced up quickly and then looked back at her porridge. The tension she'd noticed earlier in the week was still there, vibrating in the quiet morning warmth of the kitchen.

‘I didn't ask,' Hal answered. ‘And she didn't mention it. I doubt she'll get much on the train, though, and she'll probably be starving. We'll wait for her. It won't be a problem, will it? Nobody will mind a late lunch for once, will they?'

Fliss stood up to make some more toast; her body language said very loudly that it would matter
very much indeed
but her voice was quite calm if chill.

‘I don't imagine so. Just as long as I know.'

Lizzie saw Hal's swift upward look, noted his expression of controlled irritation, and wondered if it would be tactful to finish her porridge quickly, forgo her toast and leave them to it. As if Fliss guessed her thought, she put the toast rack directly in front of Lizzie's plate and refilled her cup from the cafetiere.

‘So who's going to collect her?' asked Hal innocently, stepping even further into the lion's den. ‘I'm probably the best person – ' Fliss raised her eyebrows – ‘or Jo, of course,' he added quickly, ‘but I've got a meeting later on this morning with one of our suppliers and I don't know what Jo's up to. Could you meet her if I get held up, darling?'

Fliss said, rather tightly, that it might be difficult to cook the lunch
and
drive to Totnes, and that to travel at a later time might have been more sensible. She didn't add the word ‘considerate' but it seemed to echo in the silence after she'd spoken.

‘I think there was a later train,' Hal said cheerfully, ‘but it meant that the poor old love had to change at Westbury. Or Exeter. You know how she hates that. Not a great traveller, Maria.'

Lizzie saw Fliss's thin hand clench on the butter knife and hurried into speech.

‘I could fetch her,' she offered. ‘Not a problem.' She looked from one to the other, hoping this was a tactful suggestion. Fliss stared at her toast, Hal stared at Fliss. ‘Or I could cook the lunch,' Lizzie added more cautiously.

‘That might be nicer,' Hal said, still watching Fliss, as if for guidance. ‘After all, she doesn't really know you very well, does she, Lizzie?'

‘How well do you have to know somebody before they qualify for picking you up from the station?' enquired Fliss brightly. ‘Taxi drivers seem to manage,' and Hal smothered an impatient exclamation whilst Fliss bit her lip, as if regretting her sharp remark.

Prue came in, took the temperature (
Unsettled conditions; storm brewing
), kissed them all and sat down. Lizzie smiled at her; sometimes Prue's entrances were so appropriate that Lizzie wondered if she listened at doors.

‘I'm rather late this morning,' she was saying. ‘I woke up thinking about darling Theo and that Collect he loved. Well, he loved so many of them, didn't he? But it was that one about evil thoughts that may assault and hurt the soul. He thought that was so important, didn't he? I was trying to find it. Do you remember which one it is, Fliss?'

Lizzie saw that Fliss looked taken aback, as if Prue had struck a blow below the belt, but she answered rather mechanically: ‘I think it's one of the Collects for Lent,' and began to spread butter on her toast.

‘Of course,' said Prue contentedly. ‘How clever of you, Fliss. Dear old Theo, how we miss him. Thank you, Lizzie. I'd love some porridge if there's some left. So what's the plan for today?'

‘Maria's coming later on. Rather inconvenient because her train gets in at half past one,' Hal said, sounding more certain of himself with his mother present. ‘We're trying to decide which of us should pick her up.'

‘Oh, I think you should, darling,' said Prue at once, receiving her bowl of porridge and sprinkling it lavishly with brown sugar, apparently oblivious of Hal's gratified nod. ‘And I shall come with you. We can just pop into Totnes on the way. I've got one or two things I need to get. Market day, too. That's splendid.'

Even Fliss couldn't control a tiny smile at the change in Hal's expression, and Lizzie grinned openly at Prue, who beamed back at her.

‘Hal's so good at finding a parking space,' she said, ‘and he never minds waiting on a yellow line for a few minutes when I've got held up, do you, darling?'

‘Perhaps you'd better cancel that meeting,' said Fliss to Hal. ‘Looks like you'll need to allow plenty of time.'

He looked resigned but also relieved, and Lizzie noticed that somehow the tension had evaporated; Fliss was deciding what they'd have for lunch and Prue was eating her porridge and making a shopping list. Lizzie finished her breakfast and slipped out to find Jolyon.

 

He was in the office checking emails, the dogs lying beside his desk.

‘Hi,' she said. ‘Are you around today? Not off to Bristol – or anywhere?'

He glanced at her rather suspiciously. ‘Unfortunately, no,' he answered. ‘No, I shall be here. I've got a bit of catching-up to do.'

‘We've just been deciding who shall fetch Maria,' she said casually, sitting at her own desk. ‘Hal's been chosen from a host of applicants and Prue has decided to go with him. Via a shopping trip to Totnes. Just what he needs on market day with a train to meet.'

Even in his glum mood, Jolyon couldn't help smiling. ‘Good old Granny,' he said reflectively. ‘She always manages to keep things just a tad off balance. You never quite know where you are from one minute to the next.'

‘I don't think he was utterly thrilled,' agreed Lizzie, ‘but it successfully distracted everyone's attention from the argument as to who was to be the taxi driver.' She switched on her computer. ‘Is Henrietta coming over this weekend?'

Jolyon scowled at his screen. ‘We haven't decided yet. I don't want her to feel she's being…weighed up.'

Lizzie shrugged. ‘You didn't think of that when she came last Sunday.'

‘I
thought
about it but I knew that…nobody would upset her.'

She looked at him curiously. ‘Do you think Maria would upset her?'

‘I don't know. That's the whole point. You can't trust her not to. I could trust all of you, that's the difference.'

Lizzie was silent for a moment. ‘You might find that bereavement has changed her a little,' she suggested.

Jolyon shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I'm not exposing Henrietta to any bitchy remarks. I'll wait and see.'

‘Fair enough.' The telephone began to ring and she made a little face at him. ‘Here we go.' She lifted the receiver. ‘Keep Organics. Oh, hi, Dave. Did you get your worksheet? Your fax seemed to be playing up a bit…'

Jo stared at his computer screen, partly listening to Lizzie joking with one of the drivers, partly worrying about the day ahead. He glanced at his watch; breakfast would be over and the kitchen would be empty. This was his favourite time to make himself coffee and think about life. He stood up, smiled at Lizzie and, followed by the dogs, went out into the yard. However hard he tried to dismiss them, the old, painful memories came thick and fast and he wondered where he could possibly find the strength to combat them. Coming in through the scullery, a shadow seemed to accompany him; a much younger Jolyon seeking the comfort and silence of the kitchen, trying to come to terms with the fact that his mother didn't love him…

Autumn 1990

Jolyon comes in from the scullery and looks round the empty kitchen. He's been busy since early morning chopping logs from the remains of an oak tree, which was uprooted in the gales during last spring. It formed part of the boundary hedge beyond the orchard and two ancient apple trees were brought down with it, its great weight smashing them into matchwood. During the summer holidays he's gradually filled bags with twigs and the smaller branches for kindling and the huge trunk has been sawed up into manageable pieces, which he is now chopping into logs. This work gives him a great sense of satisfaction as well as a good appetite and, although he had a big breakfast, he's beginning to feel hungry again. He lifts the lid and pushes the kettle over on to the hotplate. Rex sighs deeply and Jolyon bends to stroke him, murmuring to him, glad that he is there. Rex opens one eye whilst his tail thumps once or twice in recognition. Crouching beside him Jolyon remembers Rex as a fluffy puppy, always getting into mischief, and his eyes fill with the ready tears that humiliate him so often lately. He is dreading going back to school, knowing that everyone knows about his parents' separation and that he is often unable to hide these treacherous emotions. Keeping his head low lest anyone should come in, Jolyon strokes Rex's soft ears, trying to come to terms with the bitter knowledge that his mother doesn't love him. Rex settles contentedly, enjoying the attention.

Calmed alike by the mechanical process of stroking and the undemanding company of his old friend, Jolyon reminds himself that Mum hadn't liked Rex much either. She'd shouted at him and locked him in the garage and he, Jo, had been powerless to defend him. He hadn't been able to defend Dad either, or himself, come to that. He and Dad tried hard to make it work, he knows that, but it wasn't enough. The painful truth is that Mum simply doesn't love either of them. Not as much as she loves Ed and Adam Wishart.

He sits right down beside Rex as the pain in his heart doubles him up. It's silly and girly to behave like this but he just can't help himself. He loves her so much and she just doesn't care about him. Try as he might he can't see why she is able to love Ed but not him and Dad. Dad's simply great, much, much nicer than that boring Adam Wishart, who looks as if his hair is sliding off backwards, like a quilt off a bed.

‘I don't like him as much as Daddy,' Ed admitted when he came down to The Keep for a few days at Easter. ‘Of course I don't. But what can I do about it?'

The thing is, he doesn't really know what Ed could do, either, but there is something, well, almost disloyal in the way Ed is so nice to Mummy and Adam. He was really uncomfortable here at The Keep during the Easter holidays.

‘I don't belong here like you do,' he said at last. ‘My home's in Salisbury now, with my friends and school. I don't feel right here, really.'

Jo knows that Dad was really upset by the way Ed behaved and, when he drove him back to Salisbury, Jo insisted on going too. That's when he saw how nice Ed was to Adam. There was a really awful bit with Mum and Adam and Ed all standing together like a proper family, staring at Dad as if he were an unwelcome stranger and he stood beside Dad and held his hand. Dad held it terribly tightly and he was determined that he wouldn't show that it was hurting. He didn't like Adam's house and he knew that Mum was cross because Dad was selling their old house. He overheard them talking when he was packing up some of his things at Easter and she called Dad a dog in the manger.

‘You've got that big place down in Devon,' she said, ‘but you grudge me having this.'

‘I've never grudged you having this house,' Dad answered. ‘But do you seriously suggest that not only should I stand by while Adam Wishart takes my wife and my son but that I should offer him my house as well? He's got a house of his own. You've moved into it, remember?'

‘It's much smaller than this,' she said in a whining sort of voice – and Dad said, ‘Bloody tough!' in a really frightening voice and he, Jo, had hurried into the room just in case they had a row.

She hugged him then, and he wanted her to, although he felt he was being really disloyal to Dad, and she pretended that he had a home with her and Adam and Ed even if there wasn't a bedroom for him. She said that if Dad hadn't wanted to sell the house they could have stayed in it and he could have kept his old bedroom, making it sound as if it was all Dad's fault, but he was really upset at the thought of Adam moving in and taking Dad's place and he said he didn't mind all his stuff going down to The Keep.

‘You can always sleep on a Put-u-up in Ed's bedroom,' she said and he could see that Dad was only just holding on to his temper so he said that he'd like that, just to keep the peace.

‘I've let you down, Jo,' Dad said later, driving down to Devon. ‘I'm sorry, old son. It's not that Mum doesn't love you just as much as Ed but he has to be there because of school…'

‘It doesn't matter,' he said quickly. ‘I'd rather be at The Keep anyway. There's more room and you'll be there too now.'

‘Of course I will,' he said. ‘Every spare minute.'

He was, too. Of course, he had to be at
Dryad
most of the time because he was the Principal Warfare Officer and, when he went to stay with him at
Dryad
for half-term, Dad showed him the room where D-Day was planned and the map of the landings in Normandy, and it was really great. Dad had booked some riding lessons for him at the stables in Southwick and afterwards he took him to The Chairmakers for a pub lunch although he wasn't old enough to have a pint of beer. Dad dropped him off in Salisbury for two days and it was really good to see Ed, even if he did have to sleep on the Put-u-up, but Mum was all over Adam, as if she wanted to make certain that he, Jo, knew just how happy she was. It was as if she were showing off all the time and Adam made a fuss of Ed too, as if to prove that Mum and Ed were happier with him than they'd been with Dad. They certainly didn't need
him
. He hugged Mum tightly the morning he was leaving.