The Prodigal Wife (30 page)

As she drove through the archway she was struck by the oddness of seeing the gatehouse in darkness, though the lights shone out cheerfully from the hall. She put the car away and crossed the courtyard, climbed the steps and opened the door. To her surprise Prue was still up, sitting by the fire, and Hal was standing as if he'd just got to his feet, and was waiting for her. Sam was there too; obviously he'd had special dispensation to stay up late. He beamed at her – looking heart-breakingly like Mole – and she saw that all three of them were watching her in an oddly expectant way, with a kind of suppressed excitement. Puzzled, she shut the door, glancing round to see what it might be that they were so clearly hoping she would notice. From the corner of her eye she saw a figure step out from the shadows just behind her; she turned sharply with a little cry of alarm and Jamie said, ‘Hi, Mum. Surprise! Happy Christmas,' and held out his arms to her.

 

Maria couldn't sleep. She looked at the bedside clock: twenty past twelve. It was Christmas Day; her first without Adam. Quickly she pulled on her dressing gown, slid her feet into her sheepskin slippers and went into the kitchen. Through the archway, in the sitting room, she'd put the tiny, pretty tree, standing it in a corner on a small, solid table. Its coloured lights comforted her on dark winter mornings and beneath its decorated branches she'd made a little pile of her presents. She was glad to be here; glad and grateful. Later she'd have Christmas lunch with Pen and Philip and one or two friends, all very civilized, and tomorrow she would be giving her own little party; her first since Adam had died. So many firsts…including telling Cordelia about Ed's disaster and having to sell the house. During the weekend of Hal's birthday party she and Cordelia had talked about it again, easily and calmly, divesting it of its nightmare proportions and giving her new confidence and a wonderful sense of release, so that soon – she knew the moment was not too far away now – soon, she'd be able to tell Pen the truth…

As the kettle boiled and she made some camomile tea she looked through the archway at the tree and the gaily packed parcels. Ed's was a flat oblong shape – probably a scarf, thought Maria, rather sadly, chosen by Rebecca – and Prue had rather given the game away with her big box of chocolates by writing ‘Don't eat them all at once' on the greeting tag. Hal and Fliss's offering was of an alcoholic shape, though there was another small parcel with their names on the card. It was sweet of them to remember her, that's what mattered, but this year only one was of vital importance to her: Jolyon's large box-shaped present fascinated her.

‘Be careful with it,' he'd warned her as they'd put it under the tree. ‘It's very fragile,' and he'd looked at her, an intent, serious look so that she still wondered exactly what he'd meant. She'd promised she would take care of it and he'd given her a hug; a real hug, just like his schoolboy hugs, and she'd returned it joyfully, thankfully. She'd taken great trouble over her present for him. It had to be something special, something that showed him that she was trying to change, and regretted how she'd behaved to him in the past. Nothing seemed to meet this requirement. Then one morning, quite suddenly, she'd known what it should be. She'd found the little leather box in her large jewellery box and taken it out and opened it: a pair of delicately chased gold cufflinks, old and very valuable. They'd belonged to her grandfather – her mother's father – and once, many years ago, Ed and Jolyon had argued about who should have them.

‘I'm the eldest,' Jolyon had said, ‘they should be mine,' and Ed had protested, and then she'd taken the cufflinks and put them away, saying that they were both too young to wear cufflinks, and Jolyon had watched her with an expression of bitterness on his face. He'd known that Ed was her favourite and that secretly she'd wanted Ed to have them.

She'd found some plain gold paper and wrapped up the cufflinks in their little leather box and had given them to Jolyon, praying that when he opened them he would remember and understand, and would accept them in the new spirit in which she was offering them.

Now, she carried her mug of tea across to the tree and put it on the low table, and kneeled down to look at the box Jolyon had given her. She knew what he'd written on the card; she'd already looked, longing for it to be a special message. It said, ‘Happy Christmas, Mum, love Jo', and there were two kisses. At least he'd written the word ‘Mum' and she knew that even this was a small but crucial step. Gently she lifted the box out from amongst the other presents: it was Christmas morning, and she would open it now. Her heartbeat quickened. Would it be some mindless offering, quickly chosen, hastily wrapped? Or had he really thought about it; about her?

With trembling fingers she removed the card and put it on the table beside her mug, then she tore the paper away. The box was an ordinary, plain, used cardboard box, sealed with Sellotape. Maria ripped the sticky tape off and opened the two flaps. The box was full of bubble wrap and she put both her hands in so as to ease out the contents. It was a solid, rounded object, though not particularly heavy, and she set it down on the rug and pulled the bubble wrap apart so as to reveal it. As the wrapping fell away she sat back on her heels in amazement, gazing at the pretty colours; her fingers lightly touched the delicate patterns, tracing the cracks. Tears slipped down her cheeks and her heart brimmed with grateful joy. It was the ginger jar.