The Prodigal Wife (9 page)

He frowns to himself as the climb becomes steeper, loose scree slipping beneath his feet. It seems impossible that little Fliss should be a woman. She is so small and slight, so dear and familiar. Yet, that evening, she seemed strange to him, alight with some kind of inner mystery known only to herself; a mystery that transformed her. He'd felt oddly shy and rather clumsy, glad that he'd seen Kit change from child to woman and therefore had some sort of experience of this sudden transformation. Kit seems capable of passing back and forward between the two spheres of childhood and womanhood, so that he often becomes quite muddled, but the sight of Fliss made him feel protective – and it made him feel something else too. He isn't sure whether it is wrong to be aroused by the sight of his own cousin and he feels guilty – and confused – at this uncontrollable desire because he has the strange idea that it is what Fliss wants him to feel. Yet how could she? She is so young, so innocent – and his cousin.

‘Hi!' Mole is shouting from somewhere above him and Hal leans back, looking up to the rocks where Mole and Susanna dance, waving. Fliss is panting up behind him and he puts out his hand so as to haul her up beside him. She is laughing, her face flushed, the shining strands of corn-fair hair blowing loose about her face. She wears an old Aertex shirt that had been Kit's, the faded blue reflecting the colour of her eyes and flattering the warm colour of her skin. Hal feels the strange tightening feeling in the pit of his stomach again as he stares down at her, imagining the breasts that are pressing inside the shirt. He sees her face change, though she still clings to him, and suddenly he wants to kiss her, knows that she wants him to kiss her, and he pulls her closer, his heart crashing about, hammering in his ears…

Susanna arrives beside them in a shower of scree, skidding down on her bottom, shrieking with joy and impatience. ‘Come on. Oh, do come
on
,' she cries. ‘Kit's timing us, don't forget. Mole's at the top already.'

They stare at each other for one heart-stopping second longer before following Susanna up the last steep climb to where Mole waits, high in the autumn sunshine.

‘Look,' he says. ‘You can see for miles and miles. Like when the d-devil tempted Jesus in the desert and offered him the kingdoms of the world if he would only worship him. It must have looked like this, don't you think?'

‘Yes,' says Hal, after a moment. ‘Just like.'

He seems to be having difficulty with his breathing, which isn't surprising after that scramble up, and he doesn't look at Fliss, who remains silent.

‘Kit's asleep,' says Susanna sadly. ‘I've been waving and waving. Now she won't have timed us.'

‘Never mind,' consoled Hal. ‘We'll do it again soon.'

‘After tea?' asks Mole hopefully.

‘Perhaps not after tea,' prevaricates Hal. He wishes Fliss would say something. She stands tense and still, staring out over the moor towards Teignmouth, across the blue hazy distances, where the silver sea glints and glitters. ‘Although you and Sooz could, if you like, and I'll time you. I can watch you the whole way.'

They cheer loudly and begin to jog back down the way they've come, slipping and sliding and calling to one another. Mugwump shoots out of dead bracken, where he has been pursuing interesting scents, and races after them. Hal clears his throat.

‘They've got a mania about being timed for things,' he says awkwardly. ‘Everything has to be timed these days, have you noticed? Fox started it with them going round the spinney but now it's getting to be almost anything.'

Fliss nods, still looking away from him, and he wonders if he's got all the signals wrong and she is shocked. Perhaps he's frightened her.

‘Fliss,' he says pleadingly. ‘Fliss…'

She turns to him with a look of such intense love that he is taken aback. So he hasn't got it wrong…She does…Does what?

‘Fliss,' he begins again – but she shakes her head.

‘Come on,' she says – and her voice is light and alive, bubbling like running water. ‘Look. Kit's woken up. She's unpacking the hamper. Mole and Susanna are nearly there. Race you back.'

She's gone, crossing the rocks, scrambling down the slope, laughing back at him, her plait falling across her shoulder. He follows her, confused, as though he has somehow lost control of the situation and Fliss has gained it. Something has happened but he's damned if he knows what and he feels muddled and faintly irritated. He sees the scene below him: his sister kneeling on the rug, the two smaller children running up, the dogs getting in the way as usual and, as a backdrop, the car. The sight of the car restores his confidence as nothing else could have done, giving him back his sense of superiority and dominance in this family group. He is the eldest, in charge of them all.

He strolls up, hands in pockets, wishing he had a cigarette to add to his show of sophistication, smiling paternally upon them all, avoiding Fliss's eye.

‘Tea ready?' he asks. ‘So what's it to be afterwards? A game of rounders? Or are you two going to scale Everest again?'

He stretches out on the rug with his hands behind his head, casual and easy, while the girls fuss round, setting out the tea. Susanna falls across his midriff, resting her head on his chest, singing to herself. He tickles her good-naturedly but pushes her off when Kit offers him a sandwich, rolling on to his side, propped on his elbow. Fliss is sitting back on her heels, frowning as she pours tea from the flask, and he suddenly feels that it is good to be young and strong and just setting out. How terrible to be really old, like Grandmother and Uncle Theo, everything over for them, all passion spent. He'd heard that phrase somewhere and had been struck by the sadness of it. How awful it must be if you could no longer feel passion, not just the sort aroused by pretty girls but passion about driving cars, sailing boats, running, dancing…

Fliss is passing him a cup of tea and he grins at her, winking complicitly, drawing her into a private world of their own. To his delight the colour runs up under her fair skin and she presses her lips together as though she might laugh with that same ebullient joy that he is feeling.

‘So,' he says, confidence absolutely restored, ‘rounders afterwards, I think, and then you two can climb the tor again if there's time. Right. So that's that settled. Where are those sandwiches?'

 

Hal's empty glass rolled from his fingers and he jumped awake. He glanced at his watch and climbed to his feet. Fliss would be in bed by now but not asleep yet. His dream still clung, the forty-odd-year-old memories clear and fresh, and he wanted to put his arms around her and remind her of that long-ago picnic. Hal put the guard around the fire and went upstairs.

Henrietta leaned from the bedroom window watching the sun rising: thick golden sunbeams slipping and sliding swiftly down the steep-sided coombes, probing and chasing dense green shadows that retreated before them. Across the valley a swoop and flutter of birds' wings flickered – now seen, now unseen – between opaque darkness and shafts of brilliant light; and suddenly, as the sun rose above the black rim of the hill, the topmost canopies of the beeches flamed into brilliant, shining colour. The air was cool and fresh, and all around her the Virginia creeper burned crimson on the sandstone walls.

‘I'll pick you up on Sunday,' Jo had said when he'd phoned last evening. ‘It's quite a drive and you simply must bring the dogs. You can't leave them for a whole day.'

‘I'm sure I can manage the drive,' she'd answered. ‘But I'm still worried about bringing the dogs.'

‘Everyone's looking forward to seeing them,' he'd protested. ‘I told you. We can take them out on the hill with ours. Stop worrying.'

‘How many of you will be there?' she'd asked with sudden misgiving.

‘Just the usual,' he'd reassured her. ‘Dad, Fliss and Granny. And Lizzie. Fliss's sister, Susanna, and her husband, Gus, will probably be over for tea. They live near Totnes and have a design and graphics studio in the town. They're really fun. That's all. Not too daunting, is it?'

His voice held a teasing note and she'd laughed suddenly. ‘Of course not. I'm much more worried about my dogs than your family.'

‘I'll be with you about half past nine,' he'd said firmly. ‘That way we can have extra time travelling to and fro together.'

She'd given in gratefully; she hadn't really been looking forward to the hour and a half each way driving Roger's big estate car, but she was still cautious lest Jolyon should take too much for granted too quickly.

‘You're so picky,' Susan had said to her once. ‘This one's too pushy, that one's too reserved. It's no good looking for perfection, you know.'

Henrietta remembered that she'd felt hurt that Susan of all people hadn't understood that it wasn't a need for perfection but the fear of making a mistake that made her cautious; the terror of misjudgement that might lead to problems later.

‘Give and take,' Susan had said confidently, ‘that's what it's all about for me and Iain. You have to take some things on trust.'

She'd often been envious of their relationship; of Susan's ability to organize her family as well as her vintage clothes mail-order business whilst Iain flew to New York and Paris and Brussels. They'd seemed to be able to handle it all – and yet look at what had happened to them.

Henrietta shivered suddenly, rubbing her bare arms and turning back into the room. She'd been so happy with Susan and Iain and the children – life had been so safe and such fun: now it was smashed and nothing would ever be the same again. Yet she couldn't quite despair: a memory, unprompted but sharp, sent her spirits fluttering joyfully upwards. After their pub lunch, up on the hills with the dogs, Jolyon had slipped an arm about her shoulders. They'd been laughing at Tacker, happy and at ease together, and Jo's action had seemed so natural, so comforting – yet exciting, too. After a few moments, she'd put her own arm around his waist – not clutching or clinging but casually – and they'd wandered along, linked like this, until Pan had panted up with a stick and Jolyon had bent to throw it for him. Perhaps it wasn't much, an arm around the shoulders, yet the memory of it warmed her. Henrietta reached for her dressing gown and tying it tightly around her went downstairs to make some tea.

 

Cordelia drove into Kingsbridge, found a space in the car park at the top of Fore Street, bought a parking ticket and locked the car. She came into the town most Fridays; she liked the bustle of market day and often met up with a friend for lunch. This was her fix, she told her friends; her way of reconnecting with the human race after days of solitude. It was difficult to persuade some of them that she was perfectly happy with only the sea for a capricious neighbour, that great temperamental presence that raged or sulked or basked at her doorstep.

Anyway, she thought, where else could I be so successfully anonymous or more private? I'd never have been able to keep up my relationship with Angus if I'd been living in any kind of community.

Even as she thought about him she saw him on the opposite pavement talking to an elderly couple who had their backs to her. She caught his eye, then let her gaze drift as she walked on. She stopped outside the delicatessen and watched their reflections in the plate glass; they were laughing now. She wondered what he was doing in Kingsbridge and hoped he'd come on the off chance of meeting her.

‘We could arrange to meet,' he'd told her just the other day, shaken out of his imperturbability for once. ‘It's crazy. When I
do
come over, if we happen to see each other we have coffee together. What's the difference?'

‘I know I'm crazy,' she'd agreed, placatingly. ‘It's just, if we meet by chance I feel less guilty. My surprise is genuine, I suppose, and I can carry it off more convincingly.'

He'd shaken his head in despair. ‘Look. We're both free now. My boys would love to see more of you. They know how fond of you Anne was, and I'm sure they'd be fine about us spending time together. They'd probably be relieved to know I wasn't on my own so much.'

‘It's Henrietta,' she'd said wretchedly. ‘You know it is. How do I say to her, “Oh, by the way, I'm having an affair with the man your father told you about. Yes, Angus Radcliff, the one who destroyed our marriage”? Each time I see her I tell myself I'll do it, and each time my courage fails me. I know it's pathetic. I'm so afraid she'll think we've been having an affair all these years. And your boys might just think the same. It's too soon.'

‘I know,' he'd said, resigned. ‘It's OK. I'm sure the right moment will come.'

She knew that he hated the subterfuge; it was so out of character for him. She watched his reflection as he bent to say something to the elderly lady, who laughed and put a hand on his arm affectionately – and then a figure came to stand behind her at the window and she could see him no longer.

Cordelia went into Mangetout, smiled at the girls behind the counter and passed through into the narrow café. She ignored the stools at the bar and sat down at a table at the far end, hoping nobody would want to share it with her. A tall woman came in, glanced around and sat on one of the stools, two young women with children crowded on to another table, and a man, immersed and half hidden by a newspaper, was in the corner; then Angus was there, looking round rather vaguely, raising a surprised hand in greeting – ‘Hel
lo
. How are you? May I join you?' – and then they were smiling at each other and Angus was sitting down with his back to the rest of the room and making a small private space for them. Yet she felt oddly uncomfortable, as if they were being watched, though nobody was paying them any attention, and she was almost relieved when Angus got up to go and she was alone again.

After he'd gone, and Cordelia was jostling with the queue at the counter, paying for some cheese and a few other goodies, someone tapped her sharply on the shoulder. She glanced round quickly but there was nobody there, only a man in a navy-blue jersey hurrying out of the shop and disappearing up Fore Street. She turned back to the counter to take her change, puzzled, but with an apologetic smile for the assistant and for the tall woman waiting patiently beside her to pay for her purchases. Cordelia went out into the street, peering after the man in the blue jersey, but there was no sign of him and she turned down the hill towards the chemist.

It wasn't until she'd driven home and was unpacking her shopping that she discovered the small toy koala bear tucked down in her basket. She took it out and stared at it; its black beady eyes stared back at her. It was clearly brand new – the grey fur clean and soft, its black leather hands and feet curled as if it were clinging to some invisible branch – and she felt oddly disquieted by it.

A child must have pushed it into her basket, a toddler, perhaps, playing a game; but wouldn't he – or she – have cried out when it became clear that the toy was being carried away? Of course, the mother might have whisked the child off, not knowing why it was crying, or the child might have been distracted and forgotten it. Cordelia placed the koala bear on the table. Why hadn't she noticed it when she'd put her shopping on top of it? The toy was right at the bottom of her basket, hidden well under the cheese, and she was quite certain it hadn't been there when she'd shopped at the delicatessen.

Cordelia shrugged and began to put the shopping away, but the feeling of unease persisted.

Presently she phoned Angus.

‘Listen,' she said, ‘I know this might sound odd, but you didn't by any chance put anything in my basket earlier?'

‘No.' He sounded puzzled. ‘What kind of thing?'

‘Well, I found this toy, a koala bear, right at the bottom under the shopping when I got home. It's brand new.'

‘Nothing to do with me. Perhaps you knocked it off a shelf with the corner of the basket and it simply fell in?'

‘That's possible.' She tried to believe it. ‘I might have done.'

‘Don't forget that you're coming to supper next Wednesday, Dilly. No cold feet at the last moment.'

‘Oh, darling, I don't know. It'll be so odd.'

‘You must come,' he insisted. ‘You promised. It's just a house-warming thrash. There'll be lots of old friends and it will be a very natural way of getting together publicly. It'll look as if we're just meeting up again after a long time. You promised, Dilly.'

She sighed. ‘I know I did. I will come, honestly I will.'

‘You'd better,' he said grimly.

‘Why didn't you invite Hal and Fliss?' she asked.

He hesitated. ‘Hal was never a very close friend,' he said. ‘He was senior to me, don't forget, and rose to great heights. And I don't know Fliss at all well. Anyway, I'm leaving them to you. You can give a return party and we'll all meet at your place. I promise you, Dilly, this is the right way to start again. Much better than Henrietta finding out from someone else. It's simply asking for trouble. It was rather different when I was living in Hampshire but now I'm just a few miles away it's much more dangerous.'

‘I know. I'm sure you're right. It's just that I'm scared.'

She heard him laugh. ‘You and me both.'

The koala bear seemed to be watching her and she gave a little shiver. ‘I wish you were here.'

‘Well, so do I.' He sounded rather surprised. ‘But you said you had to finish your article and that you were going in for a drink this evening with the people on holiday next door.'

‘I am,' she said quickly. ‘They're so nice, and they're going home tomorrow. It's just that I miss you. Anyway, you've got one of your boys coming for the weekend. I'm fine, honestly. It's just this wretched koala bear has worried me. I can't think where it came from. Anyway. Have a good weekend. I'll see you soon?'

‘Absolutely. And let me know how Henrietta gets on with Jo.'

‘I will. If she phones me, that is.'

‘If she doesn't, I'm sure Fliss will.'

‘I'm sure she will. 'Bye, darling.'

The koala bear's black beady gaze seemed to follow her about, and Cordelia picked it up and put it in a drawer. She forced her mind back into work channels: finish the article – it was very nearly done – and then make a few notes about the idea that was running in her mind.
Are we the first generation to need to be friends with our children?
Wondering how Henrietta was, and if a text or a call might be intrusive, Cordelia poured herself a glass of water and went into the study with McGregor, closing the door behind them.

 

Jolyon was out on the hill with Pooter and Perks. He was following the well-worn sheep paths that led steeply to the river and the spinney, the dogs already far ahead. They'd put up a pheasant, and he could hear its indignant squawking as it rocketed upwards, seeking refuge in the blackthorn hedge. The afternoon was warm, low-slanting sunshine glinting on the bleached stubble of the fields across the river; a gathering of swallows dipped and swerved above his head, twittering sweetly as they headed south.

He couldn't wait to show Henrietta The Keep and to bring her out here on the hill. This was his place, this ancient hill fortress where his ancestors had built The Keep from the stone of the old fort: this was where he belonged, and he wanted to share it with her. Part of him felt strong about that, sure that he'd found the one person with whom he could feel safe within a relationship, but another part warned him that he was taking a huge risk.

‘It's head and heart,' Fliss had said to him once about something else. ‘Your heart says, “Yes! Yes! Go for it!” and your head is saying, “Hang on! Wait a minute. Are you sure?” It's so difficult to know which is right.'

And the problem was that this whole thing about his mother coming back on the scene was really unsettling him. He felt resentful that she was coming for his birthday when really he wanted to be with Henrietta, and cross too, because he knew that he'd given in to it too easily. He couldn't really blame Dad – he was simply trying to be kind – but he was angry that she felt she could simply walk back into his life now that she was on her own. Could she really have forgotten how she'd treated him?

Every emotional storm, with his mother at their centre, stood like a series of signposts stuck into the map of his childhood; each pointing the way to the final rupture, though some more crucial than others. Since meeting Henrietta the memories of them had become more than usually vivid. For years he'd managed to crush them down, but for some reason they'd begun to surface: that time when she'd rubbished his plans for The Keep, for instance; and the terrible row over Rex. And the odd thing was that the memories were so fresh. He'd imagined that he'd dealt with it all, that he'd grown up and away from it, and it was unsettling to find the scenes replaying so vividly in his head.