still strangely calm, and when she reached the four of them,
she kissed each in turn, and thanked them again for coming.
‘Come back to the house, won’t you? We shall be a little
while, the — the burial is over there, in the graveyard,
private this time, by Daddy’s request. But we’ll see you
afterwards.’
‘She’s wonderfully composed,’ said Marianne. ‘I’m surprised,
I’d have imagined her to be distraught.’
‘Adrenalin,’ said Felix Miller fiercely. ‘Gets you through
most things.’ Thirty-three years after his wife’s death, he
still found funerals very painful.
‘Come along,’ said Marianne, slipping her arm through
his. ‘Let’s get the car and make our way to the house. Oh,
dear, look at that poor little boy, he looks so lost. I wouldn’t
have brought him if he was — Octavia, are you all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you,’ said Octavia trying to smile, but
she couldn’t, tears suddenly engulfed her, and she started
crying, quite hard. ‘Sorry. So sorry.’
‘Why don’t you come with us?’ said Felix, putting his arm round her. ‘Our car is just over there and I don’t see yours. Tom can collect it and join us later.’
Grateful not to have to be with Tom while she was so
upset, afraid of what raw emotion would do to the gulf
between them, Octavia nodded silently, and allowed
Marianne to take her arm, and lead her away. As they
walked to the car, her father took her other hand; she
looked up at him and managed to smile, trustingly.
‘This was a good idea,’ she said, and pulled off her hat
and rested her head briefly on his arm.
Tom was not the only person watching them to think
how childlike she looked at that moment.
Over at the house, contemplating the odd quasi-cocktail
party mood of the funeral reception, accentuated by the
absence of the chief mourners, and sipping gratefully at a
glass of champagne, Octavia suddenly saw Dickon wandering
out into the garden, all alone. He had been with Janet,
but she was busy, rushing round with trays of canapes, her
eyes red.
‘Dickon,’ she said, going out through the french
windows, ‘Dickon, darling, are you all right?’
He looked at her and nodded, but his mouth was
quivering.
Octavia bent down and put her arms round him. ‘Come
here. You feeling sad about Granny?’
He nodded. ‘Mummy said I shouldn’t. Mummy said it
was wrong to be sad, that Granny was better and with
Juliet. Is she?’
‘Oh, most definitely,’ said Octavia. ‘In heaven with
Juliet, playing with her, I expect. But of course you feel sad,
you’re going to miss Granny. I feel sad, too. No one can
help that. Your mummy is very sad, I know, and—’
‘If she had another baby, would that one die too?’ said
Dickon suddenly.
Octavia stared at him, feeling rather sick. ‘No, of course
not,’ she said finally.
‘Are you sure?’ His little face was working, his dark eyes, Sandy’s eyes, fixed on hers.
‘Well, yes,’ she said, sending a prayer up to the God she
didn’t believe in. ‘It was just a terrible accident, what
happened to Juliet, it wouldn’t happen again.’
‘I think it might,’ he said, and she could feel him
trembling. ‘People keep dying in this family. And she might
have another baby, you see, and that one might die. I’m
frightened now …’ And he started to cry.
Octavia couldn’t see anyone who might be able to
comfort him. The family were all still at the graveyard.
Louise, his father, his grandfather even, all missing. She
stood up suddenly, took his hand and smiled. ‘Dickon,
darling, let’s go for a walk, shall we? Down to the little
bridge. We could play pooh sticks for bit. Just till Mummy
and Daddy get back.’
‘Where’s Octavia?’ said Felix distractedly. ‘She was so upset,
I do hope she hasn’t gone off on her own somewhere.’
‘Felix, if she has, I’m sure it’s because she wants to,’ said
Marianne briskly. ‘She’s not a—’ She stopped herself just in
time. God, how often did she say that to Felix? That
Octavia was not a child. This was not the moment for it.
She took a deep” breath.
‘She’s probably gone to the loo. Shall I try and find her
for you?’
‘Yes. Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m still worried about
that hysteria the other day. It’s not like her. I’m sure there’s
something wrong.’
Octavia wasn’t in any of the loos. She glanced down from
the landing window on to the garden; there were several
people out there now, but no sign of Octavia. Well, it was
probably easier to go on looking for her than return to Felix
without her. She ran downstairs and out of the front door
before Felix could see her and walked quickly down the
drive.
Charles Madison and his sons and one of the wives were walking down the drive, and a car, driven by Sandy, was inching its way behind them. There was no sign of Louise.
In that case, she probably was with Octavia; they would be
talking together, remembering the old days. That was good,
then; that would comfort them both. She could go back
and report to Felix that was what was happening. Or maybe
she should try and warn Octavia anyway. They couldn’t be
far away.
Marianne suddenly decided she needed a cigarette rather
badly. Felix had no idea that she smoked, albeit occasionally;
no one did, certainly not her children. She’d sit in the
car for a minute, with all the windows and doors open, and
indulge herself. She walked down to where it was parked,
about a hundred yards from the house, settled herself in the
driving seat and rummaged in her bag. She kept her
cigarettes in a rigid tampon container, and she smiled at
herself as she pulled one out; really she was just like a
naughty girl at boarding school.
She lit one with the car lighter, and then decided she
really couldn’t risk smoking in the car, Felix’s nose was
extremely sensitive. She got out and walked down to a
gateway leading across a small field. It was actually a short
cut, she realised, to the churchyard; she could see a few of
the graves. They must have walked back that way.
And then she saw Louise. She was unmistakable, even at
the hundred yards’ distance, with her shining fair hair, the
hat removed now, and the black silk dress. Only she wasn’t
with Octavia. She was with Tom. And he was holding her
at arm’s length. And she was hitting him, with both her
fists; and across the field, in the still air, Marianne could hear
their voices, although not what they were saying, and then a
louder sound, Louise crying hysterically, and then she saw
Tom push her almost roughly away and set out across the field.
Marianne stamped out her cigarette and walked, very quickly, back to the house.
Lucilla Sanderson settled herself into the wicker chair - her
wicker chair, as she called it, although several of the other
residents of Battles House didn’t regard it in quite the same way — with a sigh of pleasure. This was the best bit of the
day, especially in the summer; midday, when the aches and
pains of the early morning were easing, when she had had
her coffee and biscuits and a good read of the paper, listened
to the wireless for a bit, and then made her way from her
room — slowly, on her sticks. That was part of the pleasure,
really, pausing to chat to people in the corridor and the big
lobby at the bottom of the stairs, popping her head in
briefly to the large sitting room where the poor old things
who were really well past everything were settled in front
of the television, nodding off already as Richard and Judy well,
it was only Richard at the moment, Judy was in
hospital having some operation or other — as Richard
interviewed yet another celebrity, and that strange Savage
creature talked about its frocks. Lucilla didn’t approve of
watching TV before six in the evening; the day was for the
radio and for reading and writing letters. It was the great
divide between the people like her, still completely in
command of their faculties, and the poor, other ones: going
into the television room, or rather being put into the
television room, in the morning. One of the many
wonderful things, about Bartles House was that it was big
enough to allow for a variation in lifestyle.
Lucilla, who had grown up in a large Queen Anne house
in Wiltshire and had a very real eye for architectural virtue,
had been enchanted by Bartles from the first moment she
had seen it. Of course it was quite ugly outside, with its
ridiculous turrets and mullioned windows, but it had charm
and personality, and the interiors were really very nice; the
high ceilings, the stone fireplaces, the wooden panelling,
and the cornices, although plain, were rather fine. She
wouldn’t even have considered moving into a residential
home if it had been one of those dreadful modern places, or
even the thirties Tudor that seemed so popular in nursing
home culture. But somehow Bartles House had felt it could
—just — be home. And the grounds were so very lovely; the
gardens, neglected, of course, the small sloping meadow leading down to the wood, that charming little wood, were enchanting. Occasionally, when she was feeling very fit and
strong, her daughter would walk her to the edge of the
wood and they would stand looking in at its dusky, leafy
heart. She had several times seen woodpeckers flying out, so
rare these days; and there were jays and thrushes, and in the
summer, she often lay awake at night, soothed by the sweet
throbbing song of the nightingales.
She settled herself in her wicker chair, picked up the Telegraph to do the crossword, and allowed herself five minutes first, just to close her eyes. It was a lovely day and
the sun felt warm on her face; the air was rich with
birdsong, and the sunlight danced on the tips of the trees in
Bartles Wood and across the little valley; she could hear the
rather overgrown lambs bleating, bothering their mothers
still, as adolescent children did …
Lucilla snapped her eyes open with an effort; she would
be nodding off if she wasn’t careful. She reached for her pen
and glanced at her watch - nearly sherry time, only half an
hour to go, good — and before she started on the crossword,
drank in the view in all its lovely, graceful, mellow summer
best. How lucky she was: how privileged, what a truly
lovely place to end her days. They all thought so, she and
her fellow travellers, as they called themselves, often said
that if they had to move, leave Bartles, they would simply
lie down in the drive and let the removal vans drive over
them. Not that it was in the least likely to happen.
There had been this nonsense in the papers, but both Mr
and Mrs Ford had assured them that they were simply silly
rumours and there was absolutely no way they would ever
dream of selling Bartles. ‘This is our home, as it is yours.
Don’t worry about it.’
They didn’t.
In his small neat square pen of an office at the Planning
Inspectorate in Tollgate House, Bristol, John Whitlam was
making out a report on his visit to Bartles House, Bartles
Park, Near Felthamstone, Avon. He had found the place,
he said into his dictaphone, in very bad repair; the house
particularly, cold and draughty, in need of renovation, was
obviously expensive to heat and generally unsuited to its
purpose. Staff had to travel considerable distances, as did the
relatives of the inmates to visit. The inmates would be far
better in every way — as indeed Mr and Mrs Ford had
stressed — housed in a modern, purpose-built establishment
such as they had already earmarked on the other side of
Bath. The house had no architectural merit and it would be
no loss to anyone if it was pulled down.
There were no preservation orders on any of the trees in
the grounds except for one, behind the house, which could
remain, given a small adaptation to the plans.
It was hard to see on what grounds the local council had
turned down the first planning application; the proposed
development was well conceived and visually pleasing and
in keeping with the best of the local architecture in Bath
and Bristol. And of course there was also the added benefit
of the community centre with its facilities for the disabled.
Finally, the construction of the development would bring
much needed employment to the area.
His conclusion was, John Whitlam said, that planning
permission should be granted to Carlton Construction
without very much more delay.
Well, the funeral was over; the very worst was over. Or
maybe it wasn’t. Sandy took a glass of champagne from the
tray, drained it and picked up another. It had been after
Juliet’s funeral that Louise had really fallen apart. That
might happen again. Although she had seemed much better
yesterday; and she had read beautifully in the church today,
and had wept easy, natural tears at the graveside. Her