The Children's Hour (8 page)

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘I don't need it. You can have it if you want to get out into the country.'

‘I'll see how I feel. With the nights drawing in, I think I'll have to give the Bosun his walk earlier. So where are you off to?'

‘Oh, here and there. I want to see a guy about some advertising in a new local magazine. I have to pop into the bank.' The lifting of the shoulders, the gesture with his hands, mimed boring, necessary tasks. ‘Just things. I'll see you.'

She heard him run lightly down the stairs and a few moments later the front door closed behind him. Lyddie sipped her tea; her concentration was shattered by his brief visit and his kiss had unsettled her. Liam had made several visits to the bank just lately, although he never discussed the outcome with her, and he was a trifle preoccupied. He was loving, affectionate towards her, and was as professional as always when he was on duty, yet she could feel a reservation that even Liam's experience couldn't disguise. His lovemaking had an urgent, needy edge that excited and delighted her, yet she hated to think that he could not confide in her. One of the things that had attracted her to him was that there was nothing of the boy about him. He was attractive, tough, self-contained, and his choosing her from such a wide field had been terrifically good for her ego.

Closing her eyes she recalled the moment at which he'd paused beside her table during that lunch-time at The Place, looking down at her with a flattering concentration.

‘Are you happy?' he'd asked, as if he really wanted to know; really cared.

She'd burst out laughing at such an odd approach.

‘Nearly,' she'd answered with a surprising insouciance –
for she was usually rather shy with strangers – ‘very nearly but not quite.'

His face had lit into a disarming smile and the new look that slid into his brown eyes had caused her heart to bang unevenly.

‘Well, now, and what can we do to make the difference?' he'd asked. ‘Some more coffee? A brandy? It's a terrible thing to be nearly happy but not quite. Better to be entirely miserable.'

She'd pretended to muse over her answer, longing to be witty and original but knowing quite certainly that she would fail. She'd watched him going the rounds, stopping at each table in turn, making the men laugh and the women bridle, and she wanted to be different, unpredictable.

‘Oh, I don't think I agree with you,' she'd responded coolly. ‘And I think, after such a delicious meal, that what I'd like most is a walk.'

Her smile had been very nearly dismissive, although it was a tremendous effort to look away from him, to pick up her bag and casually glance into it for her purse.

‘And I'd say that you were right.' He was watching her thoughtfully. ‘I know exactly the place I'd go on a lovely afternoon and only a short way away. I was just going out myself, and I'd be delighted to show you. Afterwards, you might like to come back for a cup of coffee to set you on your way?'

It had been a moment of pure, magical madness. A hush had fallen on the tables as he'd raised a hand to Joe and they'd gone out together, to walk beside the river.

‘Why do you call it The Place?' she'd asked him.

‘Because it's the best place to be, the only place to be, the place to be seen, where it all happens, why else?' he'd answered, shrugging, and she'd laughed.

‘And are you entirely happy now?' he'd asked later, as they'd paused for a moment in the shadow of the cathedral.

‘Entirely,' she'd answered recklessly – and so it had begun.

‘I've never seen old Liam like this,' Joe had told her. ‘You've really knocked him sideways. Mind you, I can't say I blame him.'

His glance was approving, envious, and she'd felt as if another woman had slipped inside her skin: confident, brave, sexy, clever. Liam loved her and he wanted to marry her; oh yes, she was entirely happy. Later, watching him weaving among the tables, seeing the slack-limbed, almost vacant expressions of the women who desired him, she'd felt the weakening shiver of vulnerability, yet it seemed to her that the real driving force in Liam's life was The Place; separate from his love for her but absolutely necessary to him. He would work for it, fight for it; it was his
raison d'être
. Might it be possible that its future was threatened?

After her visit to the Aunts she'd decided that she would not offer to put her money into the business unless Liam asked for it. If he did, then she would have to reassess her own position. It was horrid, however, to think of him worrying about the loan if she were in a position to help him but, until Roger got his act together with remortgaging the house in Iffley, she didn't have the money anyway. The whole question was, for the moment, academic.

Lyddie finished her tea, picked up her pencil and plunged back into the eighteenth century.

Mina, clearing up the leaves on the lawn, heard the car approaching. It bumped slowly into sight, stopping on the gravel sweep to the side of the house, and she dropped the rake and hurried across the grass with the dogs running
ahead. Georgie was in the passenger seat, Helena driving, and for a moment the two sisters stared at each other through the glass of the window whilst Helena switched off the engine and began to climb out. Georgie sat quite still, her expression stubborn, resentful, almost secretive. Dressed very tidily in a hand-knitted brown jersey with the white collar of her shirt showing at the neck, and a brown plaid kilt, she had the appearance of an elderly – and very cross – child.

Mina thought: She looks just like she did when we were at school in London. Our uniform was that colour, brown jerseys and kilts. Oh dear. She looks so
old
.

She was moved with love and pity at the sight of her older sister's vulnerability and she hastened to open the door.

‘Georgie,' she said warmly. ‘This is such fun. How nice to see you.'

Helena was hurrying round the back of the car, embracing Mina and bending to extend her arm, so as to assist her mother from her seat.

‘There!' she exclaimed brightly. ‘Isn't this nice? We've had
such
a lovely trip across the moor, Aunt Mina, haven't we, Mother?'

Georgie allowed herself to be helped from the car, her glance sliding slyly over Mina's face, watching for a reaction. Mina, who knew that Helena could be intolerably patronizing, grinned briefly at her sister, sending a tiny wink, and, for a moment, the years rolled back, uniting them in that inexplicable partisanship of siblings, of shared history. Georgie stood upright, shook off her daughter's arm and looked about.

‘Where's Nest?' she asked.

Mina suppressed a smile: trust Georgie to require the full welcoming committee.

‘She's probably asleep,' she answered. ‘Poor Nest has bad nights, so she makes up for it by taking a nap after lunch.'

Georgie snorted contemptuously. ‘I've never slept in the day in my life,' she said. ‘Sign of old age and senility.'

‘You haven't been crippled in a road accident,' retorted Mina sharply.

‘If she didn't sleep all afternoon she'd probably sleep better at night.' Georgie ignored the dogs, who scuffled on the gravel for attention, and turned towards the house.

‘It's pain Nest suffers from, not ordinary insomnia.' Mina's feeling of sympathy was rapidly disintegrating into irritation. ‘Do try to use your imagination.'

‘Now, now! No squabbling,' cried Helena gaily, hauling several cases from the car. ‘Of course, Mother's stamina is quite extraordinary. She'll wear you out, you'll see.'

Georgie turned her head away sharply, and Mina glanced at her curiously. It was clear that Georgie was suffering from humiliation; old and helpless, she was being passed round like a parcel, and her prickly pride was being painfully squeezed into the new shape of dull acceptance. A chill struck deep into Mina's heart. How long before she and Nest would be unable to manage – and who would care then?

‘Come and have some tea,' she said.

She saw now that sympathy from her younger sister would be unendurable to Georgie's dignity – such rags of it that remained – and she took pains to keep her voice quite unemotional. Georgie stumped ahead, refusing to accept the role of guest; determined to lay claim to equality.

‘Nothing changes,' she said, looking around the hall with satisfaction. ‘Where have you put me?'

‘In our old room: the one we shared during the war.' Mina watched for a negative reaction. ‘I thought you'd like to be back in it again.'

‘Mmm.' Georgie was non-committal, withholding approval. ‘I need the loo.'

She crossed the hall and disappeared upstairs, rejecting the downstairs cloakroom.

Mina looked at Helena, eyebrows raised. ‘She seems on very good form?'

It was a question – and Helena responded defensively. ‘She looks wonderful, I couldn't agree more. And she sounds perfectly lucid. But,' she shook her head portentously, chin drawn in, lips pursed, ‘you wait. There will be a gradual change. Loss of memory, fumbling for a word, that kind of thing.'

‘Really?' Mina sounded sceptical.

‘Yes, really!' Helena, beginning to lose her patience, suddenly remembered that it would be foolish to over-dramatize Georgie's problems.

Mina watched her, amused by her dilemma, and saw her niece struggling to control her irritation.

‘Look, Aunt Mina, I promise you that we're doing our best for her, as we see it. And our GP agrees with us, if that's any comfort. The home is absolutely lovely and she'll be much happier there than stuck in an extension, with some kind of minder, and me and Rupert out all day. After all,' Helena's face was suddenly pathetically despondent, ‘it's not as if she's ever liked Rupert . . .'

‘I know.' Mina was moved by such genuine hurt to a sudden sympathy. ‘I understand your difficulties.'

‘It
is
difficult.' Helena looked as if she might suddenly burst into tears, her managing, confident exterior abruptly crumbling. ‘To be honest, we spend a great deal of time with her, we rarely get a moment to ourselves, and she's
utterly
ungrateful. She's rude to Rupert and nothing I do is ever right. At the same time I feel dreadfully guilty, putting her
into a home. I know what you're all thinking but I don't know what else to do. We'd never find anyone who'd put up with her full time and I don't see why I should give up my job when she never shows me the
least
affection . . .'

A door closed upstairs and Helena fell silent, biting her lips. Mina touched her niece lightly on the arm, shocked at such an outburst from the well-controlled Helena.

‘I'm sure you're doing the right thing,' she said gently. ‘We aren't judging you. Remember, I know Georgie better than any of you.'

Helena stared at her. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Yes, of course you do. And it won't be for long, honestly.'

‘Don't worry about it,' Mina said. ‘We'll manage somehow.'

Georgie descended the stairs and rejoined them, a secret smile on her lips.

‘It looks very nice,' she said to Mina. ‘Very comfortable. So what was that about some tea?'

‘A quick cup of tea would be wonderful,' said Helena, regaining her poise, ‘and then I must be on my way. I've got a long drive ahead.'

‘Well, we don't want to hold you up,' said Georgie sharply. ‘Do you still have tea in the drawing-room, Mina?'

‘We do,' replied Mina, ‘but since Helena needs to get off we'll keep it simple and have it in the kitchen. You and I can have a proper tea when Nest gets up. That's what we usually do.'

Later, as the sisters waved Helena off, Mina felt panic fluttering under her ribs. Georgie was watching her, an odd expression on her face as the sound of the engine grew fainter, and Mina wondered what she should say to her older sister. Should she say: ‘Welcome back?' or ‘It's good to
have you home again?' Instead, surprising herself, she said something quite different.

‘Do you remember,' she asked, ‘how we used to go to the top of the drive to wait for Papa or Timothy and ride down on the running-board?' In the silence, the sunlit garden was suddenly full of memories and she saw Georgie swallow, her face crumpling. ‘Come on,' Mina said, taking her arm. ‘Let's walk down to the sea.'

After Nest's birth, it is Timothy, rather than Ambrose, who is the most frequent visitor to the house on Exmoor.

‘Another girl,' says Ambrose, almost indifferently. The novelty of having a son is wearing a little thin in the face of his growing affection for the widow in St John's Wood. Well born, well placed in society, she has no children to distract either of them from their needs, and she is clever at choosing the right company to amuse him and further his ambition. Lydia and the children are encouraged to spend more and more time at Ottercombe and Nest's birth gives Ambrose the perfect excuse to send Lydia out of London for the long summer holiday, insisting upon the necessity of peace and rest for her health.

‘We'll call her Ernestina, after my father,' he says – and it is Timmie, not yet two years old, who cannot frame the long word and renames her Nest. Pale-skinned and black-haired like her sisters, Nest grows up as Timmie's shadow: the Tinies. Lydia is content to allow Mina to play a large part in the mothering of the two youngest whilst even six-year-old Josie considers herself grown up in contrast with Timmie and Nest.

Timothy visits, bringing strange toys and delicious sweets, treating the children with a tenderness they have never been shown by their father. These visits are awaited with
impatience and, when they hear the familiar toot-tooting of his horn echoing from the high coastal road, the children toil up the drive to meet him. Clinging like monkeys to the doors, they balance on the running-boards, screaming with excitement as they bump down towards the house. He is dragged from the car, each child importunate in her – or his – demand to show the latest achievement or to hurry him down to the sea. The sea is the natural reward for anyone who has travelled to Ottercombe House and the children like to share in the joy and delight of the visitor who experiences it. But ‘Mama first,' insists Timothy and they wait impatiently whilst he goes to greet Lydia in the morning-room. Timothy is instinctively accorded Papa's privileges and he sees her alone whilst the children squabble in the hall about which should be the first treat on his agenda.