Snow and Roses Page 9

  After lunch they all went out to inspect the garden. The wind that had pounded the coast all the week had slackened though there was still enough to drive on the white sea horses that came galloping across the bay towards the shore.

  Dr James, who had clearly taken a fancy to Tom, held him lightly by the elbow, and pointed to his successes in the border that fringed the small lawn. Tom listened with polite attention. Mrs James and Walter were walking up and down the path. Flora went to the gate and leaned on it, hardly seeing the well-kept road, the neat smallish houses spaced out on either side of it, or the glimpses of cliff and sea between them. She was imagining a wilder sea and a much more lonely shore.

  Cecily could never have stood Fordwick. Not for a year. But I could. If I could have gone there with Hugh instead of her I could have stood it for ever.

  “Flora.”

  She found Walter standing at her elbow.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re in trouble, aren’t you? Is there anything I can do?”

  She turned to him a face wild with grief.

  “No: nobody can.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I can’t talk here.”

  “No, I understand. Are you coming to London at all this vac?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to stay with Isobel this week.”

  “You can come up from there easily. Guy comes every day. Come and have lunch with me. Ring me up when you get to Greystones. They’ve got my number.”

  She said listlessly that it would be very nice.

  “Which day are you going to Isobel’s?”

  “Thursday.”

  “All right, I’ll ring you up that evening.” He added, “I saw you getting on very well with Tom.”

  “I should think anybody would. He’s a dear boy.”

  “He is rather a rare chap, isn’t he? I thought you’d like him. He seems to me to have a very special quality, or is that just my partiality?”

  “No, I think he has, very gentle and sincere.”

  “He seemed to be treading water in his last year at school. Adequate in work, reasonably so at games, but not interested in them. His mother and sister were getting on his nerves at home in the holidays. I think he’s happier now we’re on our own.”

  “Yes, he said so. He said how much he liked living with you.”

  “Did he?” Walter looked as though she had given him an enormous prize. “I knew he’d be able to talk to you, Flora. He doesn’t make friends quickly with a lot of people, but I had a hunch you would understand him. We must go now. I’ll be seeing you. On Thursday, I’ll give you a ring in the evening.”

  “I moved my car out,” Isobel said, “so that you could put yours in the garage.”

  “True hospitality.”

  “It doesn’t really matter in the summer, does it, but some people seem to feel happier that way. Anyhow I want mine out now. I’ve got to fetch William and Mary from school. Would you like to unpack while I go?”

  “I can do that afterwards, it will only take me a few minutes. I’ll come to the school with you.”

  “Yes, do. Do you remember when we were small and people came to stay they used to go upstairs and unpack for hours? Sometimes we had to go to bed without knowing if they had brought us anything. What do you suppose they did all that time? They must have had a lot of clothes to unpack.”

  “They had hats and dozens of things that needed ironing. And they rested after the journey, even if it was only three stations.”

  “Not a bad idea. Would you like to do that? You look tired.”

  “No, thanks, I’m not a bit. And I have brought something for William and Mary. I put their presents on top of everything in my suitcase so as not to keep them waiting.”

  “That was sweet of you. William said only the other day, ‘Is everything for that baby now?’ He thinks that if we must have one, he would prefer a brother. Mary wants a sister.”

  “And you?”

  “Either will do for me,” Isobel said with a slow, happy smile.

  They were in the sitting room at Greystones, which had a french window opening onto the garden. Their armchairs were two islands in a sea of toys, books, works of art executed in coloured crayons on brown paper; there was a mug half full of orange juice, a toy bus lying on its side, a small cardigan inside out, one bedroom slipper with rabbit’s ears, and a saucer half full of cat’s food.

  Isobel absently picked up the mug and finished the orange juice. Flora wondered if she was going to finish the cat’s dinner too.

  “I hope you don’t mind all this mess? It upsets Mother.”

  “I don’t mind it, but I’ll clear it up for you.”

  “I shouldn’t bother till they’ve gone to bed. When we get rid of them I just sweep it all into a corner. I wonder if you’ll think they’ve grown since Christmas. You made a great hit then with William. He has been asking ever since when he was going to see you again.”

  I was so happy last Christmas I could have made a hit with anyone.

  The Challens had been going to Switzerland for a fortnight, but on the morning of Christmas Eve Hugh had rung Flora up to tell her that a child who had been to tea with Daisy two days before had developed measles and they had decided not to risk it.

  “So if you feel like coming back to the cottage for a few days before term starts we could have a bonus.”

  Putting the receiver back she had smelled the holly and evergreen on the walls, heard footsteps on the frozen ground outside, her mother humming to herself in the kitchen. Such joy trembled all through her that all these ordinary sights and sounds might have been part of one of the magical Christmases of her childhood. She had gone back to the cottage at the New Year, and Hugh had come over for two long evenings when they made love on the hearthrug in the sitting room in front of a blazing wood fire because it was too cold in the bedroom.

  She hastily dragged herself back to the present.

  “William is my favourite man.”

  “He’s very bright. We’ve always thought so, but then you know, parents … but his teacher says so too. He can almost read, he loves books. We think he must take after you. Guy is very sensible and clear-headed, and I think he’s intelligent, but he’s not book-clever, and I’ve always been a perfect fool at that kind of thing, as you know.”

  Flora, who in her intolerant youth had thought so, protested, “I know nothing of the sort.”

  “Of course you do; but it doesn’t matter.”

  Richly heavy with the coming child Isobel clearly did not think that many other things mattered.

  “We’d better go and fetch the brats now.”

  She stood up ankle deep in disorder; an old cotton smock strained across her full breasts, her hair flapped over eyes that she had not bothered to make up. Flora felt a deep envy stirring; she had never been aware of it before when she had her own secret source of happiness. Now she was out in the cold. Perhaps Isobel felt it for she offered her best.

  “Guy is so looking forward to seeing you. He admires you very much, you know. You and Walter are the two people who wake us up and give us something different to think about. Now we’d better go or we shall find Mary at the school gate howling because she thinks I’m not coming.”

  Surprised to find herself exhausted after the prolonged tea and pre-bedtime rampage with William and Mary, Flora sat in front of the looking glass in her bedroom brushing up her hair, and pushing it into shape. Her movements were mechanical; what she looked like now did not basically matter.

  It was blissfully quiet in her room, which looked out over the garden that Isobel and Guy had not yet found time to put more than half in order. They had come to the house six years ago when William was a baby and Isobel pregnant with Mary. Since then they had not managed to finish decorating it. One wall of the spare room was covered with paper patterned with green leaves. Rolls of paper designed to cover the other three walls were propped in a corner. Guy, Flora reflected, was not in the least
like his half-brother. If it had been Walter’s house the paper would be on the walls by now, and the garden under discipline. Though she had not, come to think of it, been to any house or flat belonging to Walter since she had been old enough to remember it. But Greystones was an easy place to stay in, easier than the parent’s house because there is always least strain with your own generation. Only it was also this time a difficult place because of the teeming life in it which made Flora feel like a plant that had stopped growing.

  When she went downstairs the scene had changed. The sitting room floor had been cleared of the children’s clutter, glasses and bottles were ready on a side table. Isobel in a clean cotton housecoat, her hair and face attended to, was leaning back in a rocking chair with the cat on her knee. Guy greeted Flora affectionately, gave her a drink, and then dropped back into his own chair balancing his glass precariously on the arm; but who would worry if it went over?

  It was Guy, perhaps, whom Tom most resembled, but Tom had a handsome clear young face, and Guy’s was a muddle of indeterminate features, made agreeable by good nature, but partly obscured by heavy-rimmed glasses. Guy was a civil servant who would never rise to near the top of any ministry, but who would be respected for his integrity, and temperately liked by most people as a good-tempered and helpful colleague. Far from intriguing himself to get on he would never see when other people were intriguing.

  “Well,” he said to Flora. “Had a good term?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Walter said he’d seen you in Oxford.”

  “Yes. I had a splendid dinner with him.”

  “We’re going to take you out to dinner at a pub not far from here called the Two Pigeons. It’s been taken over lately by some new people and they really do put on a very good meal, don’t they, Isobel?”

  “Yes, it’s very nice. They give you drinks first in the garden if it’s a fine night.”

  “Of course it depends if we can get a baby sitter. Our Mrs Riley who generally obliges is on holiday with her family in Majorca. It’s difficult to get anybody who can be relied on with William and Mary. They’re such devils you see, Mrs Riley knows their ways.”

  If they were devils where did they get it from?

  “Even if we can’t get anybody for the children, Guy must take you to the Pigeons, Flora. I’m always quite happy here with an egg on a tray. I sometimes get a bit tired at night.”

  Their parents began to talk about William and Mary, contentedly certain that anything about them must be of primary interest to their aunt.

  When Isobel had drifted out, glass in hand, to look at the dinner, Guy asked,

  “Have you any plans for the rest of the vac, Flora? Are you going abroad?”

  “I don’t think so. I think I shall go back to my cottage and do some work on my book while I have plenty of time to go into the libraries in Oxford. And I shall garden, and potter.”

  “Much the nicest kind of holiday. I don’t know why people have to go rushing about all over the place, especially as work hours give them so little time to spend in their own homes. Mind you, we did enjoy that holiday we had in Brittany at Easter. But then a colleague of mine lent us a villa. He has kids too so it was all geared for them, and there is a garden; it was really just like being at home. The nicest holiday we ever had, Isobel and I both thought.”

  The telephone bell rang, and he heaved himself out of his chair to answer it.

  “It’s Walter, Flora, he wants you.”

  “Flora. Are you feeling any better?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “I’m sorry. Can you come up and have lunch with me Thursday of next week? 17th. I’ve got to be away for a few days now.”

  “I expect I can. Thank you. I expect I shall still be here.”

  “If you don’t want to bring your car into London, there’s a train that gets into Charing Cross at 12.15. I’ll meet that.”

  “Thank you, that will be lovely. Do you want to speak to Guy again?”

  “No, I’ve spoken to him. Till the 17th.”

  Isobel came back into the room with a casserole and hot plates on a tray.

  “Who was that telephoning?”

  “Walter. He asked after you and sent his love.”

  “He asked me to go up and have lunch with him on the 17th. If you can keep me till then?”

  “Naturally. And for much longer I hope. Come and eat. It’s sad about Walter and Karen breaking up. When they’d just got to the easy stage where they could have had a bit of peace together. Occasionally when I’m tired I think how nice it will be when all the children are grown up, and I shan’t have to cook everything they eat and wash everything they wear, and Guy and I will go off on our own sometimes for a holiday, and be adored by our grandchildren, when they’re little of course. I shouldn’t expect it when they’re older …”

  “Don’t tell me that Karen ever cooked everything those children ate or washed everything they wore.”

  “Oh no, she didn’t, I know, she always had help, she was what’s called a good manager and I’m not. I think she’s being stupid now. When I was first engaged to Guy and meeting his family I was rather frightened of Walter. He was so sort of prompt and he always seemed to be able to make up his mind at once about anything. But I’ve got to like him more and more each year. He’s a very kind man really.”

  Guy, who was struggling with a disintegrating cork in a bottle of cheap wine, said over his shoulder,

  “Walter’s all right. Karen has always been a pain in the neck. Isobel, I did ask you not to get this kind again.”

  “Did you, darling? I forgot, so sorry. Flora won’t mind a little cork. I’m sure somebody who came here told us that it only mattered if the cork was bad. Oh, you’ve got it out whole; well done!”

  She gave Guy one of those loving looks that made her just pretty face beautiful. “Now then, let’s enjoy ourselves.”

  Five days later Flora pulled up her car in front of her cottage, and slowly, as if they were very heavy, lifted out her suitcase and parcels. She fitted the clumsy key into the lock of the front door.

  She had not been to the cottage since Hugh’s death. Lalage had shut it up for her at the end of term. The garden looked neglected, a crop of chickweed covering many of the plants, fresh tendrils of bindweed beginning maliciously to strangle the roses.

  It was a warm evening, but the cottage felt dank. A tap was dripping in the kitchen sink, the window was splashed with bird droppings. Flora opened her parcels and put away the eggs, butter, bread and fruit she had bought with Isobel that morning.

  “Must you go really?” Isobel said. “You’ll be lonely there.”

  “I think that’s what I’ve got to be. I’m really no good for company, I need to be by myself. I think I’ve got to go through it in the place where it mostly happened.”

  Isobel, who now knew a good deal of the story, looked doubtful.

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to stand it. You’ll make yourself ill. Guy said only last night how pale you are and he hardly ever notices anything like that. I know you’re not sleeping because Mary often wakes in the night just now while she’s a bit fussed about the new baby, and when I get up to go to her I can hear you moving in your room. You’d much better stay here till you’re better. I’ll try and keep the children off you more if they bother you.”

  “Oh, no, they don’t. But you’ve got enough to look after.”

  “I hope you’re not going for such a silly reason as that. I want you too.”

  “You are a darling, Isobel. But I’ve got to go to the cottage. Don’t try to stop me.”

  “I never could stop you doing anything. I gave up trying long ago. Promise that if you get too depressed at the cottage you’ll come back to us.”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  She thought of them now, Isobel heavy and flushed, helping Mary to bath herself, while William capered about in his pyjamas; Guy coming in at the front door, calling to his family upstairs, throwing his brie
fcase and with it the problems of the day onto the hall chair, and running up two steps at a time to see them all.

  I ought to be there. I ought to be helping Isobel in these weeks before the new baby comes. But I can’t. She was fond of them all but from behind the glass that now shut her off even from them. When Lalage comes—but that won’t be until the beginning of September. Lalage’s letters about the household in which she was working were sardonic and amusing. She was clearly enjoying herself in her own way, but even she was remote to Flora wrapped in the egotism of grief.

  She spent a long week-end putting the garden in order. She tired herself out deliberately so that when she lay down in bed at night she fell asleep at once, although she was usually jerked back an hour or two later into wakefulness. But the garden was a help; the hard manual work out of doors did something to soothe her consciousness.

  On the day when she could not find another weed to pull out she was surprised and cheered by a hasty note from Lalage. The tycoon’s family had changed their plans. A friend had offered to lend them a yacht complete with crew; they were going to sail among the Greek islands.

  “They’ve paid me for the full two months they engaged me for. Money is no object; neither is education. Jennifer won’t get many O Levels, but she doesn’t want them so I shan’t break my heart over that. I’ll be down at the cottage next week, and we might go off in one of the cars for a ramble in Dorset and Devon? We’ll use my unearned cash. Hold on till I come.”

  Brightened by the prospect Flora decided to go into Oxford, replenish her store of interesting groceries, and get some books from the Library.

  Hugh had lived in Holywell. Flora wanted and did not want to walk past his house. She found herself approaching it at a lagging pace. She had a fear that she might see Cecily or Daisy, which would be like a drill on an exposed nerve. The house was evidently shut up, the curtains were drawn across the windows. Flora walked slowly past it, so absorbed that she looked up in surprise when a voice said her name. She was almost abreast of Martin Croft, who carried a pile of books under one arm.

  He was not a man who smiled with pleasure when he saw you. Some of his acquaintances found this disconcerting, but Flora was used to him. In her mind he was a figure in Lalage’s landscape.