The Prodigal Wife (26 page)

She turned, dazed, but Cordelia was busy making coffee, taking no notice, and she quickly wiped her cheeks and licked her salty lips and frowned into the brilliance, holding on to the stone wall.

‘Is it warm enough to have coffee outside?' Cordelia was coming out, followed by the great hound that went to sit against the wall. ‘I often sit here swathed in shawls and rugs simply because I love it so much. After all these years I can never get enough of it. Yes, I think it will be. There's no wind, is there? The chairs will be wet, though. Don't sit on them until I've wiped them with a cloth.'

The business of wiping the chairs and setting out the coffee helped to get her over her first reaction, although her gaze was drawn over and over again to the vision of infinity beyond the stone wall. Cordelia poured the coffee out and sat down. Maria sat down too. Any need to gush or exclaim seemed to have vanished away. The stark, sheer cliffs and the dazzling expanse of water seemed to have reduced all emotions to one simple requirement: truth.

‘It's extraordinary,' she said, and she noticed that her voice was almost expressionless; no wheedling lilt or determined jolliness; not even the familiar whine of irritation and disappointment. ‘Do you ever get used to it?'

Cordelia shook her head. ‘It's hardly ever the same, you see. And it's always amazing. Having the sea as your neighbour teaches you that you're never in control and, after a while, you accept that and relax into it. It's extraordinarily freeing, if you know what I mean?'

‘Yes, I think I do. Except that it wouldn't last, would it? Not if you couldn't be here all the time.'

Cordelia was watching her thoughtfully. ‘Only so long as any uplifting experience stays with you. You have to make an effort, don't you, to remember what it was like and, well, practise it, I suppose? Like meditation. Or contemplative prayer. You have one brief moment of glorious clarity before you descend again into the vast plains of doubt and anxiety.'

Maria remembered her earlier conversation with Jolyon. ‘Like Paul on the Damascus road?' she asked. She sipped some coffee: the first shock was over and she was able to behave more normally. Even so, she didn't have the usual desire to plunge into speech, to project the image – charming, amusing, winsome – with which she instinctively masked the insecurities and inadequacies that made up her persona. It was surprisingly restful not to have to act, to pretend.

‘The trouble is,' she said, sipping some more coffee, ‘I feel so guilty all the time lately.' She frowned, she hadn't meant to say that, and she felt slightly alarmed, as if she were indeed out of control.

‘Tell me about it,' Cordelia was saying, laughing rather bitterly. ‘Guilt seems to drive us all, doesn't it? I wonder why. There doesn't seem to be anything particularly life-enhancing about guilt, does there, that makes it necessary to the survival of the species?'

‘It's just that Adam dying seems to have opened my eyes to so many things and I blame myself for a lot of mistakes in the past. I always manage to put the responsibility on to other people but I'm beginning to find it difficult to do that any more. I feel so ashamed. I go over and over the past and just tear myself to pieces.' She sighed rather sadly. ‘Well, I suppose humility is good for the soul, at least.'

Cordelia frowned. ‘But self-blame is not necessarily humility, is it? Often it's a form of self-rejection. True humility is something quite different. I think it's rather dangerous to assume that because we're beating ourselves up we're actually addressing the real problem. We can even feel complacent about it instead of asking
why
we feel guilty. Perhaps feeling guilty lets us off actually looking honestly at ourselves, asking why it is we are rejecting ourselves, and then doing something about it.'

Maria felt confused; anxiety nibbled at the fringes of her new peacefulness. ‘How do you mean?'

Cordelia smiled ruefully. ‘Take no notice of me,' she said. ‘It's just a theory I'm working through in an attempt to cure myself of this debilitating guilt. We all make mistakes, and other people suffer because of them, but surely there must be a moment when we can ask forgiveness of them and let it go.'

There was a little silence.

‘And then?' asked Maria tentatively.

Cordelia shrugged, pursed her lips. ‘And then, perhaps, we allow plenty of space all round and start practising true humility. We respect them and ourselves equally, and try to work together for good; not just
our
good, but
their
good, without assuming that we naturally know what that is. How does that sound? Confusing? Pretentious?'

‘It sounds…good,' said Maria cautiously.

Cordelia grinned. ‘Great,' she said. ‘I think I'll write an article about it.'

Maria began to laugh. ‘You make it sound terribly easy.'

‘Writing it might be, though I doubt it; getting it published by a magazine, now that's something else.'

Maria accepted more coffee and gave a sigh of pure pleasure. How good it was to sit here in the autumn sunshine with this odd, likeable woman, feeling no strain or stress.

‘Isn't it odd,' she remarked, ‘that we're going to be comothers-in-law? There's something quite…' She hesitated, seeking for an appropriate word.

‘Random?' suggested Cordelia. ‘Haphazard? I couldn't agree more. Their children will share our genes. Now there's a scary thought.'

‘I've got to move soon,' Maria told her, quite calmly, ‘and I don't know where to go. I can't stay in Penelope's annexe for ever. That's another random thing, isn't it? I could go anywhere – and nobody would stop me.'

Cordelia glanced at her quickly – an odd, penetrating look of compassion – and Maria made a little face as if agreeing with something Cordelia had said aloud.

‘I know it sounds pathetic but I'm not used to making decisions, you see,' she explained. ‘There have always been people, my parents, Hal, Adam, who have done it for me. I'm afraid of getting it wrong, and nobody would care. Nobody would actually stop me from making a terrible mistake. I'm really rather frightened.'

‘Do you have to move just yet?' asked Cordelia gently. ‘Maybe the decision will become clearer if you give it time.'

‘It's getting a bit embarrassing,' she said, ‘just sitting there being dependent. I don't want Pen getting fed up with me, though I think she actually likes having the company, but I'd rather jump than be pushed, if you know what I mean. There's something else. My younger son, Ed, made a terrible business loss and my house was standing security for it. I had to sell up. Nobody knows. Not even Pen and Philip. I simply can't bear the humiliation or the pity. Oh, I'm not destitute, I've got some good investments and enough over to buy something small, but it's been a rather scary experience.'

She looked out over the shining sea, surprised at herself at making such an admission, at not bothering to keep up any kind of pretence. She glanced at Cordelia, who was exhibiting no signs of pity or disdain but merely murmured, ‘Isn't life hell?' and continued to drink her coffee thoughtfully. The relief of having finally told the truth was so exhilarating that Maria took another brave step.

‘I suddenly thought that I might move down here. To be nearer to Jolyon and the Chadwicks.' She grimaced. ‘Jolyon wasn't frightfully keen on the idea – and that's putting it mildly.'

‘It's too early,' Cordelia said – and, turning again to look at her, Maria realized that she was not bothering to pretend either. ‘Don't you think,' Cordelia continued slowly, rather as if she were thinking it through as she talked, ‘that what we see as rejection in other people might simply be their need to protect themselves from our neediness? They might not be capable of supplying all the things we want from them so they withdraw to give themselves a little space. And then we feel hurt. But we don't have to blame ourselves – or them – we just need to accept that we all have limitations. Perhaps Jo needs space at the moment. After all, he's entering a momentous period of his life, isn't he? I think that this engagement is a big step for both of them. This is your chance to show Jo just how much you love him, isn't it?'

‘By keeping out of his way?'

‘By not pressing or pushing,' corrected Cordelia. ‘By allowing him to see that you're thinking about him and his needs, now, not you and yours.'

There was a little silence.

‘It's a bit depressing, isn't it?' Maria said wistfully. ‘Not doing anything, just waiting.'

‘Oh, but tremendous things can happen when everything is lying fallow,' exclaimed Cordelia. ‘Think of the wintertime with the earth sealed and silent, but all that growth going on underneath. And then the spring comes…'

‘You think it will come?'

‘Of course it will come. You've made the first move, which was brave, no matter what your reasons were, and there has been a response. It's begun, the wheels are in motion. You've been invited down for Hal's birthday and the engagement party for the family.'

‘Yes, that's true. Though I'm rather dreading it. I shall feel such an outsider with the whole Chadwick clan there in force, and after all these years. My track record's pretty rubbish, isn't it? I'm rather frightened of Kit. I haven't seen her for years and we were never good friends. Never mind.' She straightened her shoulders as if instinctively bracing herself for battle. ‘It will be good practice for me to show Jo that I really mean to be different. The Chadwicks
en masse
can be quite powerful.'

‘I can imagine that it would be a bit daunting,' admitted Cordelia. ‘Listen, I've had a thought. Would you like to stay here for the weekend? We can go and come to suit ourselves, and we'll invite Jo and Henrietta over for a cup of tea or something. They'll probably be quite glad to get away too.'

Maria stared at her in amazement. ‘Do you really mean it? But that would be wonderful. Are you sure?'

‘Sure I'm sure. We mums-in-law must stick together. We mustn't allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by Chadwicks, delightful though they are.'

‘Thank you very much. I honestly don't know what to say.'

‘No need to say anything.' Cordelia got up. ‘We'll have a drink while I think about lunch. Don't get up. I can't bear people watching me while I prepare food.'

She went into the cottage and Maria sat in absolute happiness, her mind quite still; none of the usual restlessness, no turning the last half-hour into an amusing little scene to be recounted to Philip and Penelope, no anxiety as to whether she'd acquitted herself well; just this amazing peace.

Thick grey mist, blank as a wall, blotted out the valley and the distant hills. Only the very tops of the tall beeches were visible, rising sharp and clear out of the cloud: each naked twig shining, vivid. Jolyon stood on the hill below The Keep wishing that he had the skill to paint this rather surreal scene, glad that the weekend, so long anticipated, was over. He couldn't quite remember at what point the plan for his father's birthday celebrations had tipped over into becoming a much more significant event; he was just relieved that Henrietta had been happy to go along with it and allow their engagement to be the cause of such jollity.

Kit had come down from London, Sam had brought two school friends home – after all, it was also half-term – and the rest of the family had been busy with the preparations for days beforehand. Jackie, from the village, had been called upon again to house-sit and look after the dogs and the ponies, and he'd picked Henrietta up on Saturday morning to drive her to The Keep. She'd been white-faced and tense and he'd felt anxious and guilty that his family had rather taken over.

‘It's really Dad's birthday,' he'd said, so as to alleviate her anxieties, ‘and Kit's, of course, since they're twins, and it's Sam's half-term. Lizzie picked him up yesterday. He's got two friends with him so there's pandemonium but it's always like this at this particular time of the year. It always has been. It was my great-grandmother's birthday too, you see, as well as Dad and Kit's, and since it generally coincided with half-term it became an institution. Us being engaged is not all that important, honestly.'

She'd grinned at him. ‘Thanks for that,' she'd said.

‘You know I didn't mean it like that,' he'd protested. ‘I'm just trying to say that we're celebrating lots of things so you needn't feel too embarrassed,' and she'd given him a hug and they'd both relaxed a bit.

‘It's just a tad overwhelming,' she'd admitted. ‘There are rather a lot of you, you know – Fliss says some of Susanna's family are going to be there – and being an only child I'm just not used to it. I like it, though, and I'll be fine when I've met all these new ones. It's lovely that they're all so pleased about it. I'm being silly, really.'

He knew that part of her difficulty was that Susan had taken the news rather badly and this had upset Henrietta.

‘I was half expecting it,' she'd told him after the telephone call to New Zealand, ‘which is why I kept putting it off, I suppose, but she was almost bitter. It wasn't personal, she says she's very fond of you, but she asked me if I was really sure, and stuff like that. Well, the timing's not too good, is it? She's been really let down so you can't expect her to feel terribly positive about the married state. It was awful, doing it on the phone, but I'm glad it's over now. I told her I'd stay with her until she found a new nanny but she was rather negative about the whole thing and said she didn't know how she'd tell the children that I'd be leaving too.'

Jo turned his back on the cloud-filled valley and began to climb the hill, calling to the dogs whose barks could be heard somewhere below him, echoing in the almost eerie silence. Susan's reaction had affected him too, resurrecting his old fear of commitment, and it had been difficult for either of them to regain the exhilaration of the earlier few weeks.

Luckily, the prospect of the weekend at The Keep had forced them to raise their spirits and, in the end, it had been easy – and fun. Having three lively twelve-year-old boys around had kept the focus away from the newly engaged couple, and it was clear that Hal and Kit had no intention of letting anyone steal too much of their thunder. It was a family celebration and very soon both he and Henrietta had been able to unwind. It had helped, too, that his mother had been staying with Cordelia; it had taken the pressure off him. It was odd, on reflection, that both mothers had been content to behave as if they were very close friends rather than to be in control. It had somehow made it less stressful for him, and for Henrietta, and he'd been aware of a stirring of admiration for his mother. After all, it couldn't have been easy, given the past, to confront such a gathering of Chadwicks, and she'd done it well, with an unusual quietness and self-effacement. It was clear to him that Cordelia was unobtrusively supporting her and giving her confidence.

‘I really like your mum,' he'd said, driving Henrietta back to Somerset on Sunday afternoon after a walk on the cliff and tea with Cordelia and Maria at the coastguard cottage. ‘She's just great.'

‘I thought yours did pretty well,' she'd said. ‘She seemed much more laid-back this time and happy just to be in the background. She seems to have taken on board what you said to her at the White Hart. I got on with her really well.'

After their walk on the cliff, when they'd been having tea, his mother had given Henrietta a pretty bracelet: a delicate chain of silver and coral.

‘My grandmother gave it to me when I was eighteen,' she'd said. ‘I've always adored it but it needs a more delicate wrist than mine now. I'd love you to have it. I just hope that it isn't politically incorrect to wear coral because it's an endangered species.'

As usual Jo had been seized by the instinctive anxiety that manifested itself whenever Henrietta and his mother were together; all his protective instincts were aroused lest she make one of those light hurtful comments that might wound Henrietta as they had once wounded him. But to his relief, Henrietta had slipped the bracelet on at once, and given his mother a kiss, and Cordelia had raised her teacup in a toast to ‘happy families'. And there
had
been an atmosphere of real happiness, a true sense of family amongst the four of them, and the fact that Cordelia had made such a friend of her disposed him towards his mother even more kindly.

The dogs had appeared now out of the curling mist, their coats damp, and barged past him, racing up the hill towards the green door in the wall. He paused in a small homage to other dogs who were buried here, under the wall, then he opened the door and they all passed inside.

 

Hal was just leaving the office when Jolyon appeared.

‘I've got a few phone calls to make,' he said to his father. ‘See you later on.'

Hal left him to it and made his way back to the house, hunching his shoulders slightly against the encroaching mist. He was still filled with a pleasurable satisfaction at the memory of the birthday weekend, and he wanted to get an email off to Ed telling him all about it, but there was a tiny edge of discomfort; something that he didn't particularly want to think about, that nevertheless continued to nag at his consciousness. It had been a terrific success, he told himself; everyone had enjoyed it. Even old Maria had behaved incredibly well. Hal grimaced to himself; that sounded a bit patronizing but, might as well admit it, they'd all been a bit anxious about how it might work out with Maria there. And there was that memory again, all tied up with another great occasion, though he couldn't just put his finger on which one; there had been so many celebrations at The Keep.

There was nobody in the kitchen and he went into the hall. His mother was dozing by the fire, the damp dogs stretched before the flames. Their tails thumped gently in welcome but his mother didn't stir and Hal picked up the newspaper and wondered where Fliss was. She and Lizzie had worked so hard to make the weekend such a special one that she was taking a little while to recover. She'd been so happy, though, once the preparations were over and everything was actually under way, but she was always like that, dear old Flissy: anxious and preoccupied until the first person arrived and then all her fears were swept away and she was like a child again, loving every minute of it. And she'd looked really good, too; once or twice he'd seen her amongst all the family, talking to Kit and Susanna, or joking with young Sam and his friends; coming in to the hall with a tray of glasses for the champagne, her face alight with pleasure…

Hal frowned a little. He was remembering now and he could see it quite clearly: another weekend party at The Keep, one summer thirty years ago; plans for it spiralling out of control so that invitations had been extended to others apart from family members. He and Maria must have been at the quarter in Compton Road in Plymouth by then; oh, how Maria had hated that quarter after the pretty little cottage that had been their first home in Hampshire. And, even then, he'd been aware of how daunting Maria found these big family get-togethers, and he could remember that she'd been so uptight that he'd telephoned his mother and asked her to come to the party to give Maria some moral support. Hal looked across affectionately at his mother, still asleep, her head sliding sideways against the cushion. She'd always been sweet to Maria in those early years, so encouraging and patient.

‘Please come down, Ma,' he'd pleaded. ‘I don't think Maria can face it without you. She's wound up about Fliss being pregnant – you know how she's longing to have a baby – and Kit's inclined to tease her. All in good fun, of course, but Maria's a touch sensitive just at present…'

She'd come by train from Bristol, he recalled, and he and Maria had met her in Plymouth and she'd stayed with them for the weekend. Kit and a group of her friends had travelled down to The Keep from London, and Fliss and Miles had come over from their house in Dartmouth, of course; Miles full of his imminent posting to Hong Kong. And then during the party he'd bumped unexpectedly into Fliss as she was carrying a tray of glasses into the garden and his love for her had suddenly threatened to overwhelm him; he hadn't wanted her to go to Hong Kong, to be so far away from him. He'd put out his hands and covered hers with them so that they held the tray between them – and Maria had seen them, and later there had been a terrible row.

He remembered that he'd denied his love for Fliss and accused Maria of jealousy, turning it back on her, making her feel guilty…

Prue woke suddenly. Hal was sitting opposite, staring at nothing in particular, his face grim. She watched him fearfully for a moment, knowing that he was thinking about something that was causing him a great deal of pain. She stayed quite still, casting her mind over the various things that might be concerning him. After all, it'd been such a happy time, and everyone was still basking in the afterglow of the weekend. Fliss had been so happy, despite the fact that she'd wished that dear Bess and Jamie could have been there with them all. And darling Jo with that sweet girl beside him; oh, how handsome he'd looked, and so much like Hal at that age…And Maria had behaved wonderfully well; not overacting to mask her insecurities as she'd done when she was young…

Prue sat upright, disturbing Hal, who still wore that rather forbidding look as though he wasn't really seeing her properly.

‘Thinking about the past,' she began, uncertainly, hardly knowing what she was saying, ‘can be so unsettling.'

Hal didn't look at her. ‘Opening Pandora's box,' he said. ‘That was what Fliss called it and she was right.'

‘But sometimes,' Prue said, ‘it can be a good thing.'

‘I don't see how it can be particularly good to be aware of all the mistakes you've made when it's too late to do anything about them.'

‘We've all made mistakes,' she said gently, still feeling her way forward. ‘None of us is free from guilt. To be fair, though, we have to try to remember how things were at the time.'

‘Fair to whom?' he asked rather bitterly.

‘To everyone,' she answered. ‘Feeling guilty about someone can do just as much harm as making the mistake did in the first place. It can put pressure on a relationship and throw it out of balance.'

‘Oh, well, that's all right then,' he said flippantly. ‘We can just forget all about it.'

‘I didn't say that nothing should be done,' she said. ‘I was trying to point out that guilt, all on its own, is a singularly destructive emotion. Healing, on the other hand, is a special grace.'

He looked at her with such an odd expression on his face – a mixture of disbelief and hope – that she felt terribly anxious and completely inadequate. ‘And how do we achieve that?' he asked almost derisively.

Prue shook her head helplessly, and then for some reason thought of Theo. ‘By simply wanting it more than anything else,' she answered.

He put the newspaper aside. ‘It's odd,' he said, ‘and rather unsettling, how these little memories keep coming back after all these years.'

She saw with relief that he was looking more like his usual self. ‘It's been an emotional time,' she said. ‘Adam dying and Maria coming back into our lives. Jolyon and Henrietta meeting and falling in love. It's bound to stir up the past. I still think that good will come of it all.'

‘If you say so.' He got up. ‘I think I need a drink.'

‘Now that,' said Prue warmly, ‘is a very good idea. And since you're on your feet, darling, you could put some more logs on the fire.'