reactions had seemed much more normal than — well, than
then. And when she had said she wanted to stay on her own
for a moment, after the burial, with her mother, she had
sounded quite calm. Not the hysterical, taut creature he was
so afraid of.
‘Please, Sandy,’ she had said, managing to smile at him, holding one of the white roses loosely in her hand, tears standing in her eyes, ‘I want to say goodbye. By myself.
Please. You go and look after Dickon. All right? Take the
car, I’ll walk across the field.’
‘All right,’ he had said, and indeed he did want to get
back to Dickon, he was worried about him, and then
Rosemary, Giles Madison’s wife, said she wouldn’t mind a
lift back, so he drove her, and then went to find Dickon.
Only Dickon was not to be found.
Worried, he ran upstairs and checked the little room that
was his in the house, then Anna’s room, even the loft room
where Charles had set up a railway layout for him. He asked
Janet, who said she’d last seen him in the garden, and then a
few other people, and then finally Derek said he’d gone off
with Octavia, down towards the stream.
That was all right, then; Dickon adored Octavia. He’d be
all right with her. Sandy liked Octavia; she was a bit tense,
not entirely comfortable to be with, but she was very
attractive and interesting to talk to. He admired her drive,
the success she had made of her life. And she had always
been such a good friend to Louise. Well, they were good to
each other — very loyal. Rather like an army friendship; you
went through hell together and nothing could break that
bond. Sandy had a brief chat with a few people, most of
them complete strangers, and then saw Octavia and Dickon
coming back across the lawn. Dickon was holding Octavia’s
hand, and waved at him happily.
‘Daddy, we’ve been playing pooh sticks!’
‘How very nice,’ said Sandy, smiling at him. ‘And did
you thank Octavia for looking after you?’
‘No. Thank you, Octavia.’ His hand stole into Sandy’s.
‘Where were you?’
‘Finding the car. Driving Auntie Rosemary back.’
‘Where’s Mummy?’
‘She’s just coming. Won’t be long.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, she’s fine.’
‘Sandy,’ said Octavia, in a low voice. ‘Sandy, I wonder if I could have a word?’
‘What? Yes, of course. Now?’
‘If possible, but—’ Her eyes gestured downwards
towards Dickon.
‘Oh — right. Dickon, old chap, like to go and find Janet?
She said she’d like some help putting things on plates.
Think you could do that?’
“Course I could. Come and tell me when Mummy gets
back?’
‘Yes, I will.’ He went off
Octavia looked up at Sandy. She was clearly embarrassed.
‘Sandy — oh, dear, this is awfully difficult. I know it’s
nothing to do with me, and you probably don’t want to talk
about it, but I’ve been talking to Dickon. He’s very — well,
worried. He was saying people in the family kept dying.
And that Louise had told him that his granny was better
now, and she was with Juliet. I didn’t want to say this to
Louise today of all days, because it’s such dangerous ground,
so I thought I could tell you.’
‘Yes …’ said Sandy awkwardly.
‘I know she thought it would comfort him, but it’s sort
of misfired. He sees everyone he loves dying, leaving him.
He really is terribly “upset. And terrified it’s going to happen
again. You know?’
‘Happen again? What do you mean, happen again?’
‘Well.’ She hesitated. ‘He said to me, if Louise had
another baby, would that one die too? And go to be with
Juliet. It was so awful. Seeing how frightened he was.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Sandy, ‘poor little chap. Octavia, thank
you for telling me. I’ll have a chat with him. See if I can
reassure him. I think in time he should calm down about it.
It’s not as if there are going to be any more babies. Pity in a
way, but under the circumstances, for him—’ He stopped.
Octavia was looking at him rather oddly. ‘Anything
wrong?’
‘Well, Louise might change her mind. She might decide
she did want another baby.’
‘Er, yes,’ said Sandy. God, he could have done without
this conversation. ‘But it just isn’t going to happen. That’s
the thing.’
‘But, Sandy—’
‘Octavia, I really must be getting back to the guests.
Sorry.’
‘But I thought — well, I wondered …’
‘I know why you were worried, Octavia. The sickness
and so on. But honestly, it was just nerves. I do assure you,
there’s no possible chance Louise can have another baby.’
‘Why?’ said Octavia. Her voice was very low. ‘Why is
that, Sandy?’
‘Because after Juliet she made me have a vasectomy. She
said nothing else would make her feel safe.’
Octavia stood staring up at him; she was very pale, he
noticed, suddenly. Very pale and she looked almost — what?
Frightened.
‘She hadn’t told me that,’ was all she said.
‘What on earth are you doing in here?’
Marianne jumped; Felix was standing in the doorway,
glaring at her.
‘Sorry,’ she said, and then, struggling to sound lighthearted,
‘So sorry, Felix. I wasn’t going to touch anything. I
was just passing, and I looked in. Is that a crime?’
‘No, of course not. I was just - surprised.’ Surprised and
displeased. He hated anyone to go into this room without
him: into Octavia’s bedroom.
The first time, she had seen it, Marianne had been
touched, saddened even: a young girl’s bedroom, patently
waiting for its owner’s return. It was all white and yellow,
very pretty, with flounced curtains and a very prettily ornate brass bedstead, the bed made up with an elaborately embroidered white quilt and pillows, and a heap of lace
cushions, a row of teddies arranged carefully on them in
order of size.
There were fresh flowers on the windowsill, and the
chest of drawers, and the walls were covered with pictures:
a few Victorian watercolours, a lot of rather nice early
photographs, a couple of collages; and there was a battered
old school trunk in the corner of the room, with more
teddies piled on it, and hanging on a bentwood hatstand, an
array of hats, spelling out a life, from a baby’s sunhat to a school panama, a mortar board, and the sort of confection worn to weddings.
‘How sweet,’ she had said, ‘to keep it for her like this.’
‘Well,’ Felix had said, ‘you never know when she might
want it.’
That was before Marianne had realised that Octavia was
already married.
‘Come on down. I’ve had a drink poured for you for ages,’
said Felix now.
‘You want me out of here, don’t you?’ said Marianne,
turning to him, smiling, kissing him lightly. ‘You’re like
some latterday Mrs Danvers or Miss Havisham. You don’t
like it touched, your little girl’s room.’
He scowled at her and turned away, but she put her hand
on his arm, and pulled him back.
‘Felix, don’t be cross. You know I’m only teasing you.’
She closed the door behind her, and, almost involuntarily,
sighed heavily.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘You’ve been odd, ever since we left
that house today.’
‘Oh, nothing. It was a strain, wasn’t it? Funerals always
are.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Poor woman. Octavia was very tense,
I thought. Not herself at all.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Marianne. ‘She was bound to be
upset, she was very fond of Anna. And she’s very close to
Louise.’
‘Yes. I never thought she was a very good influence on
her, you know. Flighty. And a bit unstable.’
‘What do you think of Sandy?’ said Marianne casually.
‘He seems nice enough. A bit stiff necked, maybe not too
bright — here’s your drink.’
‘Thank you. Slightly surprising husband for Louise,
perhaps, wouldn’t you say? He’s so very conventional, so
straight down the middle, and she’s so - well, obviously
very artistic, much more nonconformist, I would have
thought.’
‘God, Marianne, I hardly know either of them. I couldn’t
possibly comment.’
‘So Octavia’s never — well, implied they weren’t happy?’
‘Not really. She didn’t think he was a very suitable
husband for Louise when she first met him, but she’s quite
fond of him now, I think. Tom doesn’t like him much
apparently, but then Tom’s very hard to please when it
comes to people. Nobody’s ever good enough for him.’
‘Does he like Louise, do you think?’ said Marianne
casually.
‘Marianne, what is all this? You’ve never shown any
interest in these people before.’
‘No, because I’ve never had anything much to do with
them. My heart broke for Louise over that poor little baby,
but otherwise—’
‘I don’t believe he does like her, no,’ said Felix suddenly.
‘I remember Octavia saying once or twice that it was
difficult, having Louise to stay or anything, because Tom
disapproved of her.’
‘Why disapproved?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I don’t know,’ said Felix. ‘You’ll
have to ask Octavia.’ He stopped talking suddenly, then said
in quite a different voice, ‘Marianne …’
She looked at him; he was staring at her, sitting very still
suddenly, his eyes under the white brows very fierce, very
dark, and she sat equally still, smiling back at him,
recognising the signal, the thud of desire, extraordinarily
swift and sudden, feeling it in herself, as she always did,
swooping, leaping, leading her into such a longing for
release that she stood up, laughed aloud, held out her hand.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ was all she said.
What followed next was a distraction: a wild, extravagant,
joyful distraction, from her anxiety and her fear. But
afterwards, as he slept briefly and she lay stretching
luxuriously, her body sweetly straightened from its tangles
of pleasure, she remembered the anxiety and the fear, and
wondered what, if anything, she should do. She decided, finally, nothing, nothing at all would be best. Least of all, asking Octavia how Tom might feel about Louise.
If Louise walked into the room now, Octavia thought, she
would have hit her. However distraught she was about her
mother. How could she have deceived her like that;
allowed her to get into the awful situation, where she had
almost given her secret away to Sandy, telling her all that
nonsense about how he wasn’t too keen on the idea of a
baby and no one was to mention it? When all the time it
was someone else’s baby. Her lover’s. A lover she hadn’t
told Octavia about, while listening to Octavia telling her all
about Tom. Seriously, seriously awful. She felt totally
betrayed.
She’d found it very difficult to be polite to her, when
she’d come up to her at the house; she felt sick. She’d
managed it because she’d had to, and anyway, it was hardly the place to make a scene; but she was sure Louise must have noticed that she was being rather cool. To put it
mildly. On the other hand, Louise was probably too busy
playing her part, acting her role, to notice anything — but
maybe that was unfair, Octavia thought, struggling to be
charitable. She clearly was desperately upset, had come back
to the house after the burial looking pale and strained, her
eyes swollen and red, but then she had rallied and moved
round the room almost dutifully, mostly at her father’s side.
She had kissed Octavia when they left, thanked her for
coming again and again. Tom had gone to fetch the car; he
told Octavia he’d wait for her outside.
He had been absolutely silent in the car, said nothing to
her whatsoever until the phone rang, and had then spent
the rest of the journey talking first to Aubrey Cotterill, then
his accountant, then to Aubrey again.
Her anger with Louise had made her feel remorseful
about dragging him down there when he was so busy: in
spite of everything.
‘All right. All right, I give in. I won’t phone you any more.’
‘Thank you,’ said Marianne with cool dignity.
‘Today.’
‘Nico. Not today, not tomorrow, not for a very long
time. I wish you’d understand.’ Guilt, mingled with a sense
of disloyalty at betraying the man with whom her body had
soared with pleasure only twelve hours earlier, made her
irritable.
‘A very long time? Oh, that’s much too open ended. I
won’t phone you until - let us say Saturday. How’s that?
And that is a very long time — forty-eight hours.’
‘Nico—’
‘Mum!’ Zoe’s voice had never been more welcome.
‘Mum, where are you?’
‘Look, Nico, I have to go. I’m extremely busy.’
‘Marianne, oh, all right. I’ll phone you at the weekend.
What a steely-hearted woman you are.’
She put the phone down; it rang again at once.
‘Mrs Muirhead? This is Ritz Franklyn from Choice. We
have some wonderful news for you. Donna Hanson has just
called from Christie’s in New York: they are all agreed she
is absolutely the girl for them. I’m very excited, and I hope
you both will be too.’