The Prodigal Wife (20 page)

‘I gave her a present on her birthday,' he says, unperturbed by his sister's aspersions. He slips an arm about Fliss's shoulders and gives her a hug and she smiles up at him. Remembering Kit's words he feels a thrill of fear. How terrible if he should lose her now through procrastination. ‘Play to us?' he suggests. ‘Play to us until dinner's ready,' and they cross the grass together and go through the French doors into the drawing room.

All through the last few days of his leave he waits for an opportunity to follow Kit's advice. Looking at Fliss with new eyes, he sees the lines of strain about her mouth, the tiny frown between her feathery brows. There is a tense, coiled look about her, as if she is waiting, wound as tight as a spring. Anxiety washes through him leaving fear in its wake. Supposing she has ceased to love him? He knows that she was deeply fond of him, no question of that, but supposing her love for him has already begun to go bad on her and she is dreading the question she is expecting him to ask? It might explain her prevarication, her reluctance to discuss the future.

As soon as he's identified his fear he acts upon it and takes her up on to the moor. As he drives through Buckfast, towards Holne, he sees how her thin hands clasp and unclasp on her knees, notes her introspection. He sets himself the task of relaxing her, talking idly, pointing out small indications of spring's arrival: a chiffchaff swinging on a branch of budding crab apple; a clump of early purple orchis on a grassy bank; two painted ladies fluttering above a patch of violets that cling in the crevice of a dry-stone wall. The moor shows a placid, smiling face: fold on fold of blue distant hills, smooth grey stone, wooded valleys misting into a new tender green. Venford Reservoir is a dazzling shield of water, blue as the sky that overarches it; a secret shining jewel set deep within the surrounding ink-black pines.

They walk out to Bench Tor and stand together looking down into White Wood; seeing the gleam of water far below between the branches of the trees that cling to the coombe's steep sides; listening to the river thundering through the narrow rocky chasm. Sheep scramble, sure-footed on the piled granite, watching them with narrow yellow eyes, whilst ponies graze undisturbed on the lower slopes.

Across the valley a cuckoo calls and suddenly they see him, unmistakable with his pointed wings and long tail. They watch his dipping flight as he drops down towards Meltor Wood and disappears from sight. They laugh, delighted, hugging each other.

‘Odd, isn't it?' says Fliss. ‘He's such a rogue and yet we love him.'

Looking down at her, Hal sees that the signs of strain are gone and her face is as carefree as a child's. He pushes back the fair strands of hair that blow about her face and bends to kiss her. Her arms tighten about him and her response tells him all that he needs to know. In his relief he clasps her closely to him but before he can speak there is the sound of yelping and thudding feet. A dog appears over the rocks, sheep scattering before him, and behind him comes a young man, shouting threats, brandishing a lead, gasping for breath.

‘Sorry,' he cries when he sees them. ‘He's only a puppy, really, but I should have kept him on the lead. A sheep broke right in front of him…'

They acknowledge his dilemma, sympathize, agree that the puppy must be controlled, but by the time the fuss is over, the moment has passed. Once or twice, on the journey home, Hal attempts to find appropriate words, to warn her of his intention to tell the family, but each time he opens his mouth, Fliss begins to speak and he is forestalled. Nevertheless, he no longer doubts that Kit's advice is sound; it is simply a matter of timing, of finding the right moment.

It comes on Sunday afternoon, hours before he is due to leave for the station. He's been down in the stable yard with Jolyon, and when he comes back into the hall, Jolyon at his heels, they are sitting by the fire: Caroline and his mother; Fliss and Susanna. Tea is in progress and they are laughing. Fliss glances round at him and he sees that the old expression is back; a kind of patient resignation that is worlds away from the happy face that had laughed into his, up on Bench Tor in the warm spring sunshine. He clenches his fists, pushing them into his pockets and walks into the circle of firelight and warmth. They all look at him now and he smiles at them, swallowing down a ridiculous spasm of terror.

‘There's something I want to say,' he announces. ‘It might come as a shock but it shouldn't, not after all this time.' They are all silent now, watching him. ‘Fliss and I are going to get married. You all know that we've loved each other since we were children and now there's nothing to prevent us being properly together. I think it's best if we have a registry office ceremony as soon as possible and then Fliss and I will have a few days away somewhere. We don't want a huge fuss…'

The echoing surprised silence crashes into a noisy hubbub of words and laughter. Prue is in tears, Caroline is hugging Fliss, and Susanna sits in open-mouthed amazement. Hal stands quite still, feeling almost foolish, undecided as to what he should do next, trying to gauge Fliss's reaction. It is Jolyon who carries him through. Hal feels his arm seized in a fierce grip and then his son is hugging him, thumping him on the back with his free fist, congratulating him. Hal barely has time to register his gratitude before Jo releases him and turns to Fliss, opening both arms to her. Her eyes meet Hal's at last and, in that brief moment before she is engulfed by Jolyon's embrace, he sees that they are bright with pure joy, shining with unutterable relief.

Driving to Bristol on Monday morning, Jolyon covered whole stretches of the familiar road without seeing them; his vision was still filled with other joyful images and though he reminded himself from time to time that he must concentrate on the journey, nevertheless another happy memory would distract him and he would give himself up to this unfamiliar sensation of exhilaration; even his translation from the grower of organic food to popular TV presenter hadn't given him such happiness.

He was loved, desired, wanted, for himself: not as a son or a brother or a cousin but simply for himself. And by such a gorgeous, wonderful girl. Jolyon shook his head and pulled obligingly into the inside lane as a BMW tailgated him, lights flashing. The driver leaned to glare at him as he swept by, fingers raised insultingly. Jolyon beamed blindingly at him and raised his own hand in a kind of benediction. The BMW powered past, baffled, deprived of its victory, and Jolyon was filled with a benign compassion for all poor fellows who were so sad that such actions gave them pleasure. Clearly they had no Henrietta in their lives; clearly they did not know – or had forgotten – what it was like to be exalted by love. And it wasn't just him – the whole family was exalted.

He'd got back to The Keep quite early in the evening to find them all – Fliss, Granny, Lizzie and Cordelia – sitting by the fire in the hall surrounded by the remnants of tea, just as he and Dad had planned. They'd greeted him as usual, Cordelia hardly daring to meet his eyes lest she should give the secret away, and then Dad had appeared and said, ‘Hail, the conquering hero comes,' or some nonsense like that, and they'd smiled and Granny had offered him tea. But Dad had said, ‘Hang on a minute, I think Jo wants to tell us something,' and they'd all – except Cordelia – looked puzzled, turning to him.

He'd felt nervous and a bit silly, but he was still so elated that he'd been able to walk into the little group and stand with his back to the fire so that he could see them all.

‘Yes, I have,' he'd said. ‘It probably won't be too much of a surprise, actually. I've asked Henrietta to marry me and she's said “yes”…' The rest of his little speech was lost in the reaction of his family. Cordelia was beaming at him, tears in her eyes; Lizzie was crying, ‘Wow! Great. Gosh, you clever old thing,' and Granny was sitting quite still, with her hands clasped, and saying, ‘Darling Jo. Oh, how wonderful.' Miraculously, Dad had produced a tray with glasses on it and was opening a bottle of champagne, but it was Fliss who leaped to her feet and came to him, her arms opened wide and her eyes bright and shining with joy. They'd held each other really tightly, her cheek pressed against his as she whispered her happiness into his ear, and then Dad was there, glass in one hand and seizing his, Jo's, free hand with the other, pumping it up and down and congratulating him.

He'd never been so happy, and he'd longed for Henrietta to be there with him – but, at the same time, it had been very special, that little moment with those dearest to him, who had supported and encouraged him for so many years. And then, on Sunday, they'd done it all over again, with Henrietta. He'd driven over and fetched her and the dogs, and they'd had another celebration – ‘This is what The Keep does best,' Dad had said to her. ‘We love celebrations' – and she'd looked so happy and so relaxed, and he'd been so proud…

And now he'd nearly missed his turning; Jo laughed aloud. He glanced at his mobile, lying on the seat beside him. As soon as he could he'd pull in and send a text to Henrietta, who'd asked him to let her know when he was safe at Bristol – and how strange that was; to have someone special waiting to hear from him, caring where he was and what he was feeling. He wondered what she was doing right now.

 

Henrietta was on her knees, clearing up a large pool of sick from the flagstones in the kitchen.

‘And that is what happens,' she was saying severely to the chastened Tacker, ‘when you eat nasty things when I've told you not to.'

Tacker's tail beat feebly, his ears flattened as he watched her. She wrapped the newspaper together into a ball, gave the floor another wipe with a clean sheet of paper and then stood up to fetch the bucket and mop. Juno and Pan watched from their beds, keeping themselves aloof from such behaviour.

‘And it's no good,' Henrietta warned them, ‘looking holier-than-thou. You're just as bad as he is.'

They pricked their ears and looked reproachfully at her, wounded by such an accusation.

Henrietta mopped the floor vigorously whilst Tacker made cautious advances on the sweeping mop, his spirits already rising. She pretended to chase him with it and he turned tail, barking excitedly, but then rushed back to pounce on it again. Henrietta laughed and took the bucket outside to empty it into one of the flowerbeds. Glancing at her watch, she wondered how soon she might hear from Jo; it was too early. Her heart bumped with this exciting new happiness and she wished that she wasn't alone; that she had someone with whom she could share her news. One of her London friends was coming for a few days – and that was great – but she daren't tell Jilly, not until she'd told Susan.

‘I must tell Susan myself,' she'd told Jo. ‘It'll be another shock for her and I shan't want to leave her in the lurch. I'll need to go back to London with her when she gets home until she can sort out a new nanny.'

He'd understood that but they'd decided to go away, just the two of them, for Christmas; she'd always wanted to spend Christmas and the New Year in Scotland, and Jo knew a hotel – an old castle – where they could be together.

‘And perhaps an Easter wedding,' she'd said, ‘if we can get organized that quickly. Where shall we get married?'

He'd been rather diffident when he'd suggested The Keep and the local church, hoping he wasn't being pushy, but she'd been thrilled at the idea: The Keep would be utterly perfect – and, after all, it would be a bit much to expect Mum to do it all from the cottage.

They'd sat together, curled up in front of the fire, talking, making plans, making love…

‘We could live in Bristol,' he'd offered tentatively. ‘You know, to begin with. Until we know how everything would pan out.'

‘But wouldn't it be easier for you to be at The Keep?' she'd asked. ‘Your television work seems rather peripatetic but you need to be at the office quite a lot, don't you?'

‘Well, it would be easier,' he'd agreed, ‘and we'd be in the gatehouse, of course. But I don't know quite how you feel about being there with all the family around. Bristol's got more going for it; your friends could easily come down from London. I could commute down to The Keep.'

‘But I told you I like having people around,' she'd protested. ‘And I want us to be together as much as possible. We could give it a try, at least. Perhaps I could help out with Keep Organics until I reinvent myself. I can't go on being a nanny once we're married. At least, I don't think I'd want to. We want our own children, don't we, Jo?'

She'd looked up at him, pulling his arm more tightly round her shoulders, holding his hand, and she'd seen an odd expression on his face then: shock, wonder, almost disbelief at such a prospect.

‘Yes,' he'd muttered at last. ‘Yes, of course we do,' and he'd looked down at her and kissed her…

The dogs were staring at her expectantly and she gave a great sigh.

‘OK,' she said. ‘Walks time. Where shall we go? Somewhere we can let Tacker play around and you two can have a good run. Come on, then.'

Her mobile rang and she seized it up. ‘Hi. Where are you?'

‘Nearly there,' Jo said. ‘Though I almost missed my exit, thinking about you. What about you?'

‘The usual,' she said. ‘Taking the dogs out for a walk. Then some shopping to get ready for Jilly. It'll be hell not being able to tell her. Wondering what sort of ring I want.'

He laughed. ‘It ought to be a topaz, with your hair. Must dash, I'm going to be late. Love you.'

‘I love you too,' she said rather shyly.

The dogs stood at the door, watching her, and she put the phone in her pocket and grabbed her coat.

‘I love him,' she told them happily. ‘Good, isn't it?'

 

Maria was watching television: Simon King's
Big Cat Diary
. Never in her life had she watched so much television, but then she'd never realized that each day could last so long when there was nobody else to share it. Penelope and Philip were wonderful, simply wonderful, but she had her pride and she couldn't rely on them too heavily for company – and, anyway, they were out this evening.

She took another sip at her gin and tonic: the lioness was watching her four cubs playing in the long grass. How sweet they were; they looked just like golden retriever puppies, just like Rex had looked at a few months old. Maria frowned; the memory irked her: the wretched animal had caused so many problems. Let's face it – and this needn't be a criticism – she wasn't a dog person; mud all over the floor and hairs everywhere, always needing a walk or a feed. No, she could manage nicely without all those demands, thank you very much. She'd blamed Hal for Rex's misdemeanours and finally, after a monumental row, he'd been carted off down to The Keep. Poor Jolyon had been heart-broken…

Now the mother lion was looking about her, scenting danger, and here it came in the form of a large male, and Simon – what a sweetie Simon was – was explaining that the male would kill the cubs if he could get close enough. Maria shivered, holding her glass. He'd kill the babies simply because they weren't his, just for the hell of it: so bloody typical. Sometimes she wondered why she watched these nature programmes: always full of death and destruction; one species eating another; tiny, vulnerable creatures swallowed whole by larger, brutal ones; distraught mothers flapping about helplessly. It was all rather depressing…She took another glop of gin.

Simon was really upset; he really cared. Jo had this same kind of appeal that Simon had; he drew you in, made you want to watch. There was an intimacy about Jo's presentation – and it helped that he was so good-looking, so like Hal. And, oh God, now the lion was coming closer and the cubs were all scattering about, terrified, and he was roaring and pouncing, and suddenly the lioness was attacking him savagely, so savagely, that he was actually turning tail and fleeing, and she was racing after him and seeing him off, and it was so exhilarating that Maria was shouting, ‘Go, girl, go!' and waving her glass and half laughing and half crying.

She got up to pour another drink – was this her second or third? – feeling slightly unsteady on her feet. Once, ages ago, she'd had a bit of a drink problem; well, fair enough, Hal had been at sea for weeks at a time and she'd been lonely. Dear old Jo had worried about her, making her cups of tea, running her bath. He couldn't have been more than seven. Once he'd broken the sugar bowl while he was making the tea and she'd screamed at him…

Maria steadied herself at the kitchen counter. She must simply stop this pointless brooding on the past. It did nobody any good. She sloshed some gin into the glass, poured in some tonic, and went back to her chair. Simon was explaining that only one cub had been saved, two must have been killed, and the fourth was so badly injured that he now simply lay down and refused to move. The mother stood over him, licking him, trying to restore him to life whilst the other cub watched and tears poured down Maria's cheeks.

She reminded herself that her problem was that she was just so soft-hearted, too sensitive; she'd always been the same. Dear old Pen, so stalwart and community-minded, was always trying to persuade her to take up good works, down at the hospice or amongst the elderly. It was OK for Pen; she was tough as old boots, always had been. She and Pen had been at school together, best friends from the first day, and she'd been like it way back: a Brownie and then a Girl Guide, dibbing away, doing good by stealth. Mind, she'd been a rock, had Pen, always looking out for her shyer, gentler best friend.

Maria staunched another flood of tears and stared at the screen. The mother lion wasn't giving up, Simon was telling the viewers. She'd gone back with her remaining cub to the den and now stood amongst the flattened grass, calling for her young. Well, of course she would: she was a mother, wasn't she? But how could they have survived that deadly attack? Honestly, it was simply too heart-rending, and any minute that huge chauvinist lion would come back and do for them both.

‘Run away!' Maria wanted to cry. ‘Run away!'

But wait, now the grasses were stirring and here was a cub, unharmed, running to its mother, and dear old Simon's voice was wavering, and now another cub – oh, good grief, this was so fantastic – another cub was coming out of its hiding place, and the three cubs and their mother were having a reunion. Maria gulped some more gin, and wept, and so did Simon – well, there were tears in his eyes, bless – and by the time she'd mopped her own eyes and looked again they'd all moved on to meerkats, but she'd had enough traumas for one evening and she was perfectly certain that there would be more ahead. A predator who just adored raw meerkat would be hovering somewhere at hand and it would begin all over again.

Maria channel-hopped for a few minutes and then switched the television off. The lioness had made her think about family, about Jo. Family was important, more important than anything else. OK, so she'd got a few things wrong in the past but there was absolutely no reason why things couldn't be put right. She could buy a little cottage, or a flat, in Staverton or Totnes, not too far away from The Keep but not absolutely on the doorstep, and make a new start. Maybe, while she was looking for this little place, Hal might suggest that she should stay at The Keep. That would be so good; give everyone plenty of opportunity to mend fences.